more Elijah/Viggo AU
Elijah wakes up so slowly it's like surfacing in stages, like a deep-sea diver, coming up bit by bit to allow his body to become reacquainted with the lack of tons of pressure.
He feels heavy and a little achey, but otherwise pretty good. Which is weird. Another one of the reasons that he doesn't pop uppers like there's no tomorrow is that there always is a tomorrow, and it's not a very pretty one after he pushes himself past the edges of exhaustion. Usually the insides of his eyelids feel grainy and itchy, and his brain feels sunburned, like it's suffering from overexposure to the elements or like the inside of his skull is lined with razor wire.
None of that is currently apparent. His muscles feel like warm taffy and there's a gentle-good ache in his groin that makes him huff out a breath of satisfaction laced with amusement.
"Best. Dream. Ever." he asserts, his voice coming sludgy and groggy, and he's tempted to just go back to sleep, see if he can recapture it, or at least put off the moment when he has to admit that it's over and it'll probably be a one-shot deal. Dreams that good... Elijah doubts he'll get a repeat performance. God, he's so warm, so tempted to just roll over and bury his head under his pillow.
He doesn't, of course. He never does. He's not built like that, has never been able to drop back into sleep just because he doesn't want to emerge into the harsh-bright day. He's awake so it's time to get up, time to get to work. Time to leave behind the heavy-warm feeling of well-being pressing on his chest.
He lifts one hand to shove the comforter off of him -- thinking vaguely that if he weren't so warm and cozy, he'd be more inclined to get up -- and the backs of his knuckles skate lightly over an expanse of smooth, silky skin that most definitely doesn't belong to him.
Elijah's eyes snap open, but he doesn't look. He isn't sure he wants to see. Or wants not to see. He stares at the ceiling for several long seconds, and ponders the weight on his chest. Not just warm well-being. No. An actual weight. The weight of something.
He moves his hand, lets his knuckles skim across it again, and there is something tight and fearful and hopeful in his chest.
Real, he thinks, not quite a statement or a question either one. He turns his palm down and rests it on top of the weight, and his fingers curl comfortably around the bulk of a relatively thick tentacle, which in turn shifts slightly and curls around Elijah's hand and up his wrist. His pent up breath leaks slowly from his chest, a very quiet sigh, and the fluttering in his belly escalates to something less like hope and more like excitement. Steeling himself, he forces his gaze down from the ceiling.
"Oh," he hears himself breathe quietly, a softly exultant exclamation. Several of Pet's appendages lift up from where they're sprawled against Elijah's chest and belly and sort of quiver in his direction. Elijah feels a laugh bubbling up in his throat, and his eyes are burning suspiciously. His other hand slides up to cradle the creature, and he feels it shift more decisively, tentacles against Elijah's hips and thighs curling up and bunching to push itself up higher on his chest. It takes him several seconds to relate the feeling to the understanding that he's naked, and his head is abruptly filled with the last things he remembers from the night before, the feel of Pet wound all around him and the crushing orgasm and the irresistable langour that had followed it.
"Oh, shit," he whispers, paralyzed with dread. "Viggo." He turns his head before he thinks about doing it, and for a moment he's so shocked at the sight of another guy sleeping beside him in bed that his mind is completely empty of thought. Elijah isn't sure how long he just lays there and stares, but Pet makes a soft squeal and Elijah comes back to himself, realizing he's unconsciously tightened his grip on the creature. He forces his hands to relax, strokes loosely curled fists up a couple of tentacles in apology, and stares at Viggo in his bed.
Elijah has no memory of Viggo coming back. He has no memory of anything after... well, after, but he's naked and in bed, and he definitely hadn't got here under his own power. Oh, man, he thinks, dismayed and uncertain. Last night, Elijah had definitely, um, done things to Viggo's pet, had definitely "played" with it in a thoroughly inappropriate manner, and he doesn't see how Viggo could not know. He has to have come back and found Elijah asleep on the floor with his-- God, his sweats were around his knees, he remembers abruptly, and the blood rushes to his face in a hot flood of wickedly sharp embarassment and shame.
He's still here, the rational part of Elijah's mind observes, but something like panic is roiling in Elijah's belly, and he's not sure what to do. Yeah, Viggo's still here for now, but maybe he'd just been too tired to go last night or maybe he hadn't been able to disentangle his pet from around Elijah's limbs (oh God, would he be angry?) or maybe he'd only stayed so he could scream at Elijah in person this morning.
Elijah wants to scramble out of bed, retreat to someplace that he can think, the bathroom maybe, but he's still got a double armful of smooth, supple limbs, several of which have wound themselves around Elijah's arms and waist, but a couple of which are wrapped around Viggo's sleeping wrist, and Elijah is unwilling to let it go and uncertain of how to get it to let go of Viggo.
"Okay, okay," he mutters, and then bites down on his bottom lip to shut himself up. He talks to himself, he knows it -- he doesn't have anyone else to talk to -- but this is just not a good time. He slowly, by increments, pushes himself upright, trying to hold Pet steady against him. Pet helpfully winds bits of itself (himself? herself? hrm.) up around Elijah's shoulders and neck, anchoring, but it doesn't let go of Viggo's wrist either. Elijah turns his shoulders away from Viggo -- trying to judge how firm Pet's grip is on him -- and notices for the first time that Pet is... well, bigger. Heavier, maybe, it's hard to tell. Elijah hadn't exactly been taking exact specifications on its weight last night, but definitely bigger, yeah, because it had fit comfortably sprawled on Elijah's belly last night, after (he remembers the feel of it rippling against his skin, and has to hastily banish that from his mind lest it cause more than just the semi he's currently sporting, which he's going to blame on having to piss if Viggo wakes up and asks), and now it's overspilling even the expanse of his chest, which admitedly isn't that much broader than his waist, but it is somewhat broader, and besides that, one of it's thickest tentacles is around Viggo's wrist, and Elijah is sure that it's at least as thick as Viggo's wrist, and it definitely hadn't been last night.
Impossible, he thinks, and then chokes out a little snorting sound, because this whole damn thing is impossible, isn't it?
He needs to get out of this bed and somewhere he can think, somewhere he doesn't have to worry about Viggo waking up and catching Elijah naked with Viggo's creature. Elijah slides his hand around the appendage around Viggo's wrist and slides it down until it's fairly close to Viggo's arm, and then carefully, gently tugs.
Viggo shifts on his back, and gives a soft, moaning sigh, and Elijah freezes, holding his breath, not even blinking. When Viggo settles again, Elijah carefully, carefully gives another tug. "C'mon, Pet," he whispers, stroking the tentacle coaxingly with the tips of his fingers, and he feels a little dizzy with relief when it loosens -- Viggo's wrist rolls to one side so that it's resting against his flat, naked belly, and Elijah quickly averts his eyes, blushing, feeling guilty for even looking, which is stupid of course -- and slides itself backward through Elijah's loose fist -- Viggo shifts again, huffs out a breath, and Elijah nearly has a heart attack -- and then upward to curl around Elijah's arm from his elbow to his wrist.
Jesus, he thinks shakily, and eases off the bed slowly so as not to jounce it.
His thundering heartbeat eases a little when he turns into the short hall leading to the bathroom, and he finally feels like he can breathe again when he gets the door shut behind him.
He doesn't know if the creature can sense his agitation, but it seems as good an explanation as any for the way it's rubbing one smooth tentacle (this one is kind of orangish, but not really, Elijah sees in the mirror, it's like the color isn't quite stable, and he's sure once he settles down and figures out what's going on he'll be a lot more curious about that) against Elijah's cheek and making that same crooning sound from last night, except it's sort of intermittent instead of one long sound, so it almost sounds like it's chirping. Elijah smiles in spite of the anxious churning in his belly, and pets at a bundle of tentacles that's slung over his shoulder like the carry strap of some unlikely luggage.
Looking at in in the mirror is weird. Looking at it clinging to Elijah's chest, all curves and smooth lines and rippling color and the pressure of it's limbs locked around Elijah's arms and neck and waist and one thigh...
"Fucking impossible," he says to his reflection, but his reflection doesn't look like it believes it any more than Elijah does. Impossible or not, it is. Incontrivertibly, it exists, pressed warmly to Elijah's chest and smelling so damn good, spice and... a little sweet, he thinks he smells something sweetly familiar about it now, or maybe he's just getting used to it. "Fucking impossible," he repeats, but it's barely a whisper this time.
It is fucking impossible, but Elijah believes.
Eventually, he stops staring at it (in his arms and in the spotty, clouded mirror in the bathroom) and digs around in a pile of laundry until he finds a pair of jeans. Pet is helpfully cooperative while Elijah's getting into them, clinging firmly so Elijah has no problem using both hands. He can't quite bring himself to detach it so he can put a shirt on. Pet covers most of his chest anyhow, he reasons.
And as far as Viggo goes...
Well, there isn't anything Elijah can do about that, is there? Either the guy knows what happened (more or less, anyway, and Elijah hopes less, as thinking of anyone knowing the details makes his face burn), or he doesn't.
Elijah just has to think of a way to calm him down, if it turns out he's pissed. There has to be some way Elijah can convince him not to take Pet and leave.
He can't take Pet.
Eventually, he goes to make coffee because he can't think of anything else he can do.
He feels heavy and a little achey, but otherwise pretty good. Which is weird. Another one of the reasons that he doesn't pop uppers like there's no tomorrow is that there always is a tomorrow, and it's not a very pretty one after he pushes himself past the edges of exhaustion. Usually the insides of his eyelids feel grainy and itchy, and his brain feels sunburned, like it's suffering from overexposure to the elements or like the inside of his skull is lined with razor wire.
None of that is currently apparent. His muscles feel like warm taffy and there's a gentle-good ache in his groin that makes him huff out a breath of satisfaction laced with amusement.
"Best. Dream. Ever." he asserts, his voice coming sludgy and groggy, and he's tempted to just go back to sleep, see if he can recapture it, or at least put off the moment when he has to admit that it's over and it'll probably be a one-shot deal. Dreams that good... Elijah doubts he'll get a repeat performance. God, he's so warm, so tempted to just roll over and bury his head under his pillow.
He doesn't, of course. He never does. He's not built like that, has never been able to drop back into sleep just because he doesn't want to emerge into the harsh-bright day. He's awake so it's time to get up, time to get to work. Time to leave behind the heavy-warm feeling of well-being pressing on his chest.
He lifts one hand to shove the comforter off of him -- thinking vaguely that if he weren't so warm and cozy, he'd be more inclined to get up -- and the backs of his knuckles skate lightly over an expanse of smooth, silky skin that most definitely doesn't belong to him.
Elijah's eyes snap open, but he doesn't look. He isn't sure he wants to see. Or wants not to see. He stares at the ceiling for several long seconds, and ponders the weight on his chest. Not just warm well-being. No. An actual weight. The weight of something.
He moves his hand, lets his knuckles skim across it again, and there is something tight and fearful and hopeful in his chest.
Real, he thinks, not quite a statement or a question either one. He turns his palm down and rests it on top of the weight, and his fingers curl comfortably around the bulk of a relatively thick tentacle, which in turn shifts slightly and curls around Elijah's hand and up his wrist. His pent up breath leaks slowly from his chest, a very quiet sigh, and the fluttering in his belly escalates to something less like hope and more like excitement. Steeling himself, he forces his gaze down from the ceiling.
"Oh," he hears himself breathe quietly, a softly exultant exclamation. Several of Pet's appendages lift up from where they're sprawled against Elijah's chest and belly and sort of quiver in his direction. Elijah feels a laugh bubbling up in his throat, and his eyes are burning suspiciously. His other hand slides up to cradle the creature, and he feels it shift more decisively, tentacles against Elijah's hips and thighs curling up and bunching to push itself up higher on his chest. It takes him several seconds to relate the feeling to the understanding that he's naked, and his head is abruptly filled with the last things he remembers from the night before, the feel of Pet wound all around him and the crushing orgasm and the irresistable langour that had followed it.
"Oh, shit," he whispers, paralyzed with dread. "Viggo." He turns his head before he thinks about doing it, and for a moment he's so shocked at the sight of another guy sleeping beside him in bed that his mind is completely empty of thought. Elijah isn't sure how long he just lays there and stares, but Pet makes a soft squeal and Elijah comes back to himself, realizing he's unconsciously tightened his grip on the creature. He forces his hands to relax, strokes loosely curled fists up a couple of tentacles in apology, and stares at Viggo in his bed.
Elijah has no memory of Viggo coming back. He has no memory of anything after... well, after, but he's naked and in bed, and he definitely hadn't got here under his own power. Oh, man, he thinks, dismayed and uncertain. Last night, Elijah had definitely, um, done things to Viggo's pet, had definitely "played" with it in a thoroughly inappropriate manner, and he doesn't see how Viggo could not know. He has to have come back and found Elijah asleep on the floor with his-- God, his sweats were around his knees, he remembers abruptly, and the blood rushes to his face in a hot flood of wickedly sharp embarassment and shame.
He's still here, the rational part of Elijah's mind observes, but something like panic is roiling in Elijah's belly, and he's not sure what to do. Yeah, Viggo's still here for now, but maybe he'd just been too tired to go last night or maybe he hadn't been able to disentangle his pet from around Elijah's limbs (oh God, would he be angry?) or maybe he'd only stayed so he could scream at Elijah in person this morning.
Elijah wants to scramble out of bed, retreat to someplace that he can think, the bathroom maybe, but he's still got a double armful of smooth, supple limbs, several of which have wound themselves around Elijah's arms and waist, but a couple of which are wrapped around Viggo's sleeping wrist, and Elijah is unwilling to let it go and uncertain of how to get it to let go of Viggo.
"Okay, okay," he mutters, and then bites down on his bottom lip to shut himself up. He talks to himself, he knows it -- he doesn't have anyone else to talk to -- but this is just not a good time. He slowly, by increments, pushes himself upright, trying to hold Pet steady against him. Pet helpfully winds bits of itself (himself? herself? hrm.) up around Elijah's shoulders and neck, anchoring, but it doesn't let go of Viggo's wrist either. Elijah turns his shoulders away from Viggo -- trying to judge how firm Pet's grip is on him -- and notices for the first time that Pet is... well, bigger. Heavier, maybe, it's hard to tell. Elijah hadn't exactly been taking exact specifications on its weight last night, but definitely bigger, yeah, because it had fit comfortably sprawled on Elijah's belly last night, after (he remembers the feel of it rippling against his skin, and has to hastily banish that from his mind lest it cause more than just the semi he's currently sporting, which he's going to blame on having to piss if Viggo wakes up and asks), and now it's overspilling even the expanse of his chest, which admitedly isn't that much broader than his waist, but it is somewhat broader, and besides that, one of it's thickest tentacles is around Viggo's wrist, and Elijah is sure that it's at least as thick as Viggo's wrist, and it definitely hadn't been last night.
Impossible, he thinks, and then chokes out a little snorting sound, because this whole damn thing is impossible, isn't it?
He needs to get out of this bed and somewhere he can think, somewhere he doesn't have to worry about Viggo waking up and catching Elijah naked with Viggo's creature. Elijah slides his hand around the appendage around Viggo's wrist and slides it down until it's fairly close to Viggo's arm, and then carefully, gently tugs.
Viggo shifts on his back, and gives a soft, moaning sigh, and Elijah freezes, holding his breath, not even blinking. When Viggo settles again, Elijah carefully, carefully gives another tug. "C'mon, Pet," he whispers, stroking the tentacle coaxingly with the tips of his fingers, and he feels a little dizzy with relief when it loosens -- Viggo's wrist rolls to one side so that it's resting against his flat, naked belly, and Elijah quickly averts his eyes, blushing, feeling guilty for even looking, which is stupid of course -- and slides itself backward through Elijah's loose fist -- Viggo shifts again, huffs out a breath, and Elijah nearly has a heart attack -- and then upward to curl around Elijah's arm from his elbow to his wrist.
Jesus, he thinks shakily, and eases off the bed slowly so as not to jounce it.
His thundering heartbeat eases a little when he turns into the short hall leading to the bathroom, and he finally feels like he can breathe again when he gets the door shut behind him.
He doesn't know if the creature can sense his agitation, but it seems as good an explanation as any for the way it's rubbing one smooth tentacle (this one is kind of orangish, but not really, Elijah sees in the mirror, it's like the color isn't quite stable, and he's sure once he settles down and figures out what's going on he'll be a lot more curious about that) against Elijah's cheek and making that same crooning sound from last night, except it's sort of intermittent instead of one long sound, so it almost sounds like it's chirping. Elijah smiles in spite of the anxious churning in his belly, and pets at a bundle of tentacles that's slung over his shoulder like the carry strap of some unlikely luggage.
Looking at in in the mirror is weird. Looking at it clinging to Elijah's chest, all curves and smooth lines and rippling color and the pressure of it's limbs locked around Elijah's arms and neck and waist and one thigh...
"Fucking impossible," he says to his reflection, but his reflection doesn't look like it believes it any more than Elijah does. Impossible or not, it is. Incontrivertibly, it exists, pressed warmly to Elijah's chest and smelling so damn good, spice and... a little sweet, he thinks he smells something sweetly familiar about it now, or maybe he's just getting used to it. "Fucking impossible," he repeats, but it's barely a whisper this time.
It is fucking impossible, but Elijah believes.
Eventually, he stops staring at it (in his arms and in the spotty, clouded mirror in the bathroom) and digs around in a pile of laundry until he finds a pair of jeans. Pet is helpfully cooperative while Elijah's getting into them, clinging firmly so Elijah has no problem using both hands. He can't quite bring himself to detach it so he can put a shirt on. Pet covers most of his chest anyhow, he reasons.
And as far as Viggo goes...
Well, there isn't anything Elijah can do about that, is there? Either the guy knows what happened (more or less, anyway, and Elijah hopes less, as thinking of anyone knowing the details makes his face burn), or he doesn't.
Elijah just has to think of a way to calm him down, if it turns out he's pissed. There has to be some way Elijah can convince him not to take Pet and leave.
He can't take Pet.
Eventually, he goes to make coffee because he can't think of anything else he can do.