NaNoWriMo - The Story So Far, Parts 29-32
29. Girl
Clutching her faded photograph, my image under her thumb.
Orlando/Kate, PG, 500 words
Kate keeps a picture of Orlando tucked into her wallet. It's a picture of him with that ridiculous Mohawk, his hair standing straight up in the middle like some kind of crazy landing strip in reverse. He's smiling widely, showing off an obscene number of straight, white teeth. He's flashing a peace sign at the camera, and his head is tilted just slightly. He's wearing some kind of crazy orange shirt with a ruffle down the front and white checks, and he's got it buttoned all the way up to his throat so that he could throw on a brown paisley scarf-type-thing over it. He's a sartorial disaster, and he looks so happy.
She's never actually seen Orlando look like that. Not in person, anyway. She's seen it in lots of pictures, most of which were taken before she ever met him, pictures of Orlando with "the Hobbits," with Sean Bean, with Peter Jackson. She's seen it in old interviews, Orlando in pink socks and loafers and some kind of crazy sweater, Orlando with a green scarf tied over his Mohawk, Orlando in a blue version of that crazy orange shirt, paired with black pants and a hideous pair of white tennis shoes. She's seen so many images of Orlando the wide-eyed kid, crazy hair and all, grinning like a loon.
There's one picture, taken shortly after she met him, that sticks in her mind. His hair has grown out just a little too much, and his curls are wild and unruly and a little windblown. He's wearing a white t-shirt with a slogan written on it. He's donned a pair of sunglasses, so she can't see his eyes, but his smile says everything she needs to know-- His mouth is open wide and the grin lights up his entire face. And, of course, he's wrapped around Viggo like a blanket, clinging to the older actor so tightly that his knuckles are just a shade whiter than the rest of his hand.
She doesn't see any of that in the Orlando she knows. Her Orlando always wears his hair in a ponytail, the stray hairs slicked back against his scalp to keep them from slipping out. Her Orlando doesn't show off his teeth much, doesn't grin quite so widely, and even when he does smile, it's usually tight-lipped. Sometimes it doesn't even crinkle the corners of his mouth, much less reach his eyes. The Orlando she knows wears a lot of black because, he says, he doesn't have to worry about matching it to anything. She doubts that he ever worried about that before. But her Orlando doesn't make fashion mistakes and would never wear pink socks.
She keeps the picture of Orlando-that-was tucked in her wallet, between her never-used library card and a sheaf of credit card receipts. Orlando doesn't know she has it, and she intends to keep it that way. But she likes to pull out the picture and pretend she knew him. Pretend she knows him.
*****
30. Glory of the '80s
I had The Story of 'O' in my bucket seat of my wanna-be Mustang.
Billy/Dom, NC-17, 500 words
Billy finds it a little odd that Dom is so damn bent on test-driving cars, especially given that Billy's only in Hawaii for two days and he'd rather spend the time drinking with his friend in a pub, telling old stories and listening to new ones and catching up on each other's lives. But once Dom gets an idea in his head it's not possible to dissuade him, and that's why Billy finds himself driving down a fairly deserted road in a Ford Mustang.
It's not the car that Billy would have picked for Dom, given Dom's obsessive need for fuel economy. That's what drove him to buy that tin can that he putters around in. Although, Billy will confess, he can see the allure in the Ford, especially when Dom opens it up and races down a hillside, clocking somewhere around 90 miles per hour, according to the speedometer.
But of all the strange things that Dom has done that day, the strangest one happens when he pulls the car over to the side of the road, under a grove of shady trees, and kisses Billy hard on the mouth.
"I've been wanting to do that for years," Dom says when he finally leans back.
Billy wonders for a moment if maybe Dom left his brain back at the top of the hill. "You've kissed me before, you daft wanker. In front of cameras, if I may add. There's proof on a hundred websites," he teases.
Dom shakes his head and kisses Billy again, flicking out his tongue to lightly trace the seam of Billy's lip. When he pulls back, the only thing Billy can think is, "Oh." Which is pretty much what he says, and Dom smirks.
"Not like that. Not like this," he finishes, shifting closer to Billy and kissing him for a third time. Billy's lips ease open and Dom slips his tongue inside, teasing it gently against Billy's teeth and the roof of his mouth. But before Billy has a chance to process what's happening and respond, Dom has somehow managed to tilt the seats back and ease his hand up Billy's shirt to stroke his flat belly.
"Not like this," Billy breathes as Dom latches his teeth onto Bill's earlobe and bites down softly.
And then Billy is drowning in sensation when Dom slides his hand down, past the waistband of Billy's pants to gently squeeze the erection that Billy hadn't even been aware of moments before. Billy arches up into Dom's hand, at the same time reaching up and pulling Dom's head down for another kiss. It's Billy's tongue that does the exploring, while Dom's hand works him with increasing speed.
Billy hasn't come in a car since he was a teenager, which is pretty much how he feels when Dom twists his wrist and pulls, and Billy comes with his tongue in Dom's mouth and Dom's erection pressing against his hip.
"Hell of a test drive," Billy breathes, reaching for Dom's zipper.
*****
31. God
God, sometimes you just don't come through.
Billy/Dom, NC-17, 500 words, sequel to Crazy
Dom has always been a Catholic, born and raised. His mother raised him in the church, made sure he made his first communion and attended Sunday School classes. They suffered through Lents together without coffee or soda or sugar, and they celebrated Christmas as a family, the two of them together in their tiny flat, attending midnight Mass and opening the one or two presents they saved for throughout the year. When his mother died, Dominic drifted away from the church. Father Boyd brought him back.
In addition to his duties as a priest, Father Boyd teaches the Adult Education classes on Wednesday, something of a progressive thing that Dom's church has been trying out recently in the midst of a rash of teenage pregnancies and STDs. Dom attends class every Wednesday, taking copious notes, writing down every word that Father Boyd says, jotting down bulleted lists about avoiding temptation and getting closer to Christ. Dom suspects that most of the girls attend the How to Abstain and Live a Christian Life class because Father Boyd teaches it, just as he knows that most of them stay after in the hopes of persuading the young priest away from the cloth.
But Dom always stays the latest, even if it means hiding in the men's restroom and waiting until Father Boyd has rebuffed the most tenacious of would-be seductresses, coming out again only when he knows that the priest is alone.
They fuck in the rectory, every Wednesday night, come Hell or high water. Sometimes it's rough and fast, Father Boyd barely lifting his robe before pushing Dom onto all fours and taking him, fast and hard on the wooden floor, one hand over Dominic's mouth to muffle his cries, the other hand on Dom's cock, jerking him quickly to completion. When he finishes, the Father gives Dom penance to say.
Sometimes it's slow, almost achingly so, and the priest strips Dom naked and kisses every part of him, from his eyebrows to his ankles and back again, lingering on the soft flesh of Dom's thighs and the cool patch of skin next to his belly button. Father Boyd sucks Dom's cock like it's absolution, and Dom calls out his real name when he comes.
Usually, it's all hands and mouths and skin and the soft, slow side of the priest's cock into Dominic's ass, and Dom knows that he should repent, but all he can do is grip the edge of the table and chant "god, oh god, oh god, oh god." It's almost like a prayer, part of his brain tells him. Of course, it's the part of his brain that actually shuts up when Father Boyd reaches around and pulls on Dom's dick as he pushes deeper inside of him, and Dom's litany becomes little more than moans and grunts as he spills himself into the Father's hand.
Dom acknowledges his sin and begs for more, knowing that it will be Father Boyd who offers him forgiveness.
*****
32. Gold Dust
The sun on your face, I'm freezing that frame.
Viggo/Elijah, PG, 500 words
He's taken a lot of pictures since he arrived in New Zealand. He's taken pictures of Orlando, ever the camera hog, cavorting around set in various stages of costume, in pubs with his first (and hopefully only) drink of the night in his hand, in the backseat of a car while pretending to howl at the moon in broad daylight. He's taken pictures of Billy, usually with Dom hanging out somewhere in the background, because where Billy goes, Dom goes. He's got pictures of them playing pool, dancing in Peter's living room, and one particularly memorable snapshot of their faces when they discovered the prank that Bean played on their makeup trailer. And, of course, he's got pictures of Bean, most of which involve a crude gesture and a hand in front of his face, because Bean hates having his picture taken almost as much as he hates flying.
But Viggo doesn't have any pictures of Elijah. Not one. It's not as though he hasn't been trying, of course. He's been trying since the day his plane landed in New Zealand and the diminutive lead Hobbit was the first person Fran introduced him to. He almost snapped a picture when they shook hands, just to capture the moment, but then he realized that the film in his camera was color, and he wanted a shot of the way the shadows played off of Elijah's cheekbones and fair skin and dark hair.
Viggo went back and forth, color or black and white, back and forth, for weeks. Black and white for the contrast, the way Elijah would certainly look like a charcoal sketch on white paper, the blue of his eyes, the pink of his lips. Viggo debated with himself until he couldn't even look at Elijah without seeing a photograph, like he was looking at a still life of the boy instead of the real thing.
Once Viggo decided on a film, he found he couldn't take a picture. He'd spent so long looking at photographs of Elijah in his mind that nothing he could capture through his viewfinder was enough. He wanted the way Elijah's hair sometimes stuck in the corner of his eye. He wanted the way Elijah always smelled like cloves and coffee and the pitch of his voice, a little squeaky in the morning and a little dulled in the afternoon. Viggo wanted that in a photograph, all of that.
And then one day Elijah flat out asked Viggo why he never photographed him. He sounded offended, a little hurt, but like he was trying to laugh it off. "Aren't I enough for you?" he asked. So Viggo brought the camera up to his face, looked through the viewfinder, and snapped a frame, Elijah squatting on a bench, beer bottle in his hand, cheeks pink in the New Zealand winter.
When he develops the picture, watches the image appear slowly in a bath of chemicals, Viggo looks at it and decides, no. It isn't nearly enough.
Clutching her faded photograph, my image under her thumb.
Orlando/Kate, PG, 500 words
Kate keeps a picture of Orlando tucked into her wallet. It's a picture of him with that ridiculous Mohawk, his hair standing straight up in the middle like some kind of crazy landing strip in reverse. He's smiling widely, showing off an obscene number of straight, white teeth. He's flashing a peace sign at the camera, and his head is tilted just slightly. He's wearing some kind of crazy orange shirt with a ruffle down the front and white checks, and he's got it buttoned all the way up to his throat so that he could throw on a brown paisley scarf-type-thing over it. He's a sartorial disaster, and he looks so happy.
She's never actually seen Orlando look like that. Not in person, anyway. She's seen it in lots of pictures, most of which were taken before she ever met him, pictures of Orlando with "the Hobbits," with Sean Bean, with Peter Jackson. She's seen it in old interviews, Orlando in pink socks and loafers and some kind of crazy sweater, Orlando with a green scarf tied over his Mohawk, Orlando in a blue version of that crazy orange shirt, paired with black pants and a hideous pair of white tennis shoes. She's seen so many images of Orlando the wide-eyed kid, crazy hair and all, grinning like a loon.
There's one picture, taken shortly after she met him, that sticks in her mind. His hair has grown out just a little too much, and his curls are wild and unruly and a little windblown. He's wearing a white t-shirt with a slogan written on it. He's donned a pair of sunglasses, so she can't see his eyes, but his smile says everything she needs to know-- His mouth is open wide and the grin lights up his entire face. And, of course, he's wrapped around Viggo like a blanket, clinging to the older actor so tightly that his knuckles are just a shade whiter than the rest of his hand.
She doesn't see any of that in the Orlando she knows. Her Orlando always wears his hair in a ponytail, the stray hairs slicked back against his scalp to keep them from slipping out. Her Orlando doesn't show off his teeth much, doesn't grin quite so widely, and even when he does smile, it's usually tight-lipped. Sometimes it doesn't even crinkle the corners of his mouth, much less reach his eyes. The Orlando she knows wears a lot of black because, he says, he doesn't have to worry about matching it to anything. She doubts that he ever worried about that before. But her Orlando doesn't make fashion mistakes and would never wear pink socks.
She keeps the picture of Orlando-that-was tucked in her wallet, between her never-used library card and a sheaf of credit card receipts. Orlando doesn't know she has it, and she intends to keep it that way. But she likes to pull out the picture and pretend she knew him. Pretend she knows him.
*****
30. Glory of the '80s
I had The Story of 'O' in my bucket seat of my wanna-be Mustang.
Billy/Dom, NC-17, 500 words
Billy finds it a little odd that Dom is so damn bent on test-driving cars, especially given that Billy's only in Hawaii for two days and he'd rather spend the time drinking with his friend in a pub, telling old stories and listening to new ones and catching up on each other's lives. But once Dom gets an idea in his head it's not possible to dissuade him, and that's why Billy finds himself driving down a fairly deserted road in a Ford Mustang.
It's not the car that Billy would have picked for Dom, given Dom's obsessive need for fuel economy. That's what drove him to buy that tin can that he putters around in. Although, Billy will confess, he can see the allure in the Ford, especially when Dom opens it up and races down a hillside, clocking somewhere around 90 miles per hour, according to the speedometer.
But of all the strange things that Dom has done that day, the strangest one happens when he pulls the car over to the side of the road, under a grove of shady trees, and kisses Billy hard on the mouth.
"I've been wanting to do that for years," Dom says when he finally leans back.
Billy wonders for a moment if maybe Dom left his brain back at the top of the hill. "You've kissed me before, you daft wanker. In front of cameras, if I may add. There's proof on a hundred websites," he teases.
Dom shakes his head and kisses Billy again, flicking out his tongue to lightly trace the seam of Billy's lip. When he pulls back, the only thing Billy can think is, "Oh." Which is pretty much what he says, and Dom smirks.
"Not like that. Not like this," he finishes, shifting closer to Billy and kissing him for a third time. Billy's lips ease open and Dom slips his tongue inside, teasing it gently against Billy's teeth and the roof of his mouth. But before Billy has a chance to process what's happening and respond, Dom has somehow managed to tilt the seats back and ease his hand up Billy's shirt to stroke his flat belly.
"Not like this," Billy breathes as Dom latches his teeth onto Bill's earlobe and bites down softly.
And then Billy is drowning in sensation when Dom slides his hand down, past the waistband of Billy's pants to gently squeeze the erection that Billy hadn't even been aware of moments before. Billy arches up into Dom's hand, at the same time reaching up and pulling Dom's head down for another kiss. It's Billy's tongue that does the exploring, while Dom's hand works him with increasing speed.
Billy hasn't come in a car since he was a teenager, which is pretty much how he feels when Dom twists his wrist and pulls, and Billy comes with his tongue in Dom's mouth and Dom's erection pressing against his hip.
"Hell of a test drive," Billy breathes, reaching for Dom's zipper.
*****
31. God
God, sometimes you just don't come through.
Billy/Dom, NC-17, 500 words, sequel to Crazy
Dom has always been a Catholic, born and raised. His mother raised him in the church, made sure he made his first communion and attended Sunday School classes. They suffered through Lents together without coffee or soda or sugar, and they celebrated Christmas as a family, the two of them together in their tiny flat, attending midnight Mass and opening the one or two presents they saved for throughout the year. When his mother died, Dominic drifted away from the church. Father Boyd brought him back.
In addition to his duties as a priest, Father Boyd teaches the Adult Education classes on Wednesday, something of a progressive thing that Dom's church has been trying out recently in the midst of a rash of teenage pregnancies and STDs. Dom attends class every Wednesday, taking copious notes, writing down every word that Father Boyd says, jotting down bulleted lists about avoiding temptation and getting closer to Christ. Dom suspects that most of the girls attend the How to Abstain and Live a Christian Life class because Father Boyd teaches it, just as he knows that most of them stay after in the hopes of persuading the young priest away from the cloth.
But Dom always stays the latest, even if it means hiding in the men's restroom and waiting until Father Boyd has rebuffed the most tenacious of would-be seductresses, coming out again only when he knows that the priest is alone.
They fuck in the rectory, every Wednesday night, come Hell or high water. Sometimes it's rough and fast, Father Boyd barely lifting his robe before pushing Dom onto all fours and taking him, fast and hard on the wooden floor, one hand over Dominic's mouth to muffle his cries, the other hand on Dom's cock, jerking him quickly to completion. When he finishes, the Father gives Dom penance to say.
Sometimes it's slow, almost achingly so, and the priest strips Dom naked and kisses every part of him, from his eyebrows to his ankles and back again, lingering on the soft flesh of Dom's thighs and the cool patch of skin next to his belly button. Father Boyd sucks Dom's cock like it's absolution, and Dom calls out his real name when he comes.
Usually, it's all hands and mouths and skin and the soft, slow side of the priest's cock into Dominic's ass, and Dom knows that he should repent, but all he can do is grip the edge of the table and chant "god, oh god, oh god, oh god." It's almost like a prayer, part of his brain tells him. Of course, it's the part of his brain that actually shuts up when Father Boyd reaches around and pulls on Dom's dick as he pushes deeper inside of him, and Dom's litany becomes little more than moans and grunts as he spills himself into the Father's hand.
Dom acknowledges his sin and begs for more, knowing that it will be Father Boyd who offers him forgiveness.
*****
32. Gold Dust
The sun on your face, I'm freezing that frame.
Viggo/Elijah, PG, 500 words
He's taken a lot of pictures since he arrived in New Zealand. He's taken pictures of Orlando, ever the camera hog, cavorting around set in various stages of costume, in pubs with his first (and hopefully only) drink of the night in his hand, in the backseat of a car while pretending to howl at the moon in broad daylight. He's taken pictures of Billy, usually with Dom hanging out somewhere in the background, because where Billy goes, Dom goes. He's got pictures of them playing pool, dancing in Peter's living room, and one particularly memorable snapshot of their faces when they discovered the prank that Bean played on their makeup trailer. And, of course, he's got pictures of Bean, most of which involve a crude gesture and a hand in front of his face, because Bean hates having his picture taken almost as much as he hates flying.
But Viggo doesn't have any pictures of Elijah. Not one. It's not as though he hasn't been trying, of course. He's been trying since the day his plane landed in New Zealand and the diminutive lead Hobbit was the first person Fran introduced him to. He almost snapped a picture when they shook hands, just to capture the moment, but then he realized that the film in his camera was color, and he wanted a shot of the way the shadows played off of Elijah's cheekbones and fair skin and dark hair.
Viggo went back and forth, color or black and white, back and forth, for weeks. Black and white for the contrast, the way Elijah would certainly look like a charcoal sketch on white paper, the blue of his eyes, the pink of his lips. Viggo debated with himself until he couldn't even look at Elijah without seeing a photograph, like he was looking at a still life of the boy instead of the real thing.
Once Viggo decided on a film, he found he couldn't take a picture. He'd spent so long looking at photographs of Elijah in his mind that nothing he could capture through his viewfinder was enough. He wanted the way Elijah's hair sometimes stuck in the corner of his eye. He wanted the way Elijah always smelled like cloves and coffee and the pitch of his voice, a little squeaky in the morning and a little dulled in the afternoon. Viggo wanted that in a photograph, all of that.
And then one day Elijah flat out asked Viggo why he never photographed him. He sounded offended, a little hurt, but like he was trying to laugh it off. "Aren't I enough for you?" he asked. So Viggo brought the camera up to his face, looked through the viewfinder, and snapped a frame, Elijah squatting on a bench, beer bottle in his hand, cheeks pink in the New Zealand winter.
When he develops the picture, watches the image appear slowly in a bath of chemicals, Viggo looks at it and decides, no. It isn't nearly enough.