unautremonde: (nc17)
[personal profile] unautremonde
In answer to that writing meme, lotrips shorts.

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When cloudy was the weather. NC-17, Dom/Ian McKellen for [livejournal.com profile] seraphinhunter. (396 words) This one is also dedicated to [livejournal.com profile] sparktastic because she asked (and she squirmed!), and because she gave me the title for it.

The song of the rain against the roof of the car is relentless and lulling, almost like a lullaby. Ian is lounging back against the rough fabric of the backseat, waiting for the fog to lift and the weather to be less gloomy and more appropriate for filming. There are no trailers, here, nothing much except a bunch of cars and trucks, and if it was hard enough to find somewhere to hide away from the storm, it was even harder to get some privacy.

He opens his eyes and stretches his fingers against the window, tracing wet trails through the condensation. It's getting dark, darker, clouds heavier and stormier and something tells him there won't be anything else done today. Any minute now, someone will come up to the car and break through his warm cocoon. He smiles lazily then pushes his hips down and closer to the edge of the seat.

There's a muffled moan, a surprised little whimper that shoots another pleasurable thrill up Ian's spine. He reaches down, pushes his hand against Dominic's face. His fingers graze Dominic's lips and push in, right at the corner of Dominic's stretched mouth, reaching inside delicately to touch Dominic's tongue wrapped around his cock. Warmth, tight and slick and delightful. Ian pushes a bit more, wraps two fingers around his own dick, pushes it harder into Dominic's mouth and shudders when Dominic whimpers again. He sighs and comes with a low moan, fingers and cock still buried inside Dominic's mouth as he swallows.

He lets himself float down from the pleasurable high—taking a moment to catch his breath—and opens his eyes , listening to the sound of his blood rushing in his ears and trying to pick out the sound of the rain again. Dominic is still kneeling between his legs, cramped uncomfortably in the small space between the front and back seats. He's looking up at Ian, defiant and dishevelled, his mouth obscenely red and swollen, still wet with spit and come. His voice rings petulantly through the car as he finally speaks.

"I asked for shelter."

Ian smiles, then, amused and relaxed. "Indeed, you did. But you could have just as well gone with your hobbit friends. You didn't, and you and I both knew what that meant."

Dominic's scowl eases and smoothes over with his usual smirk. "That you'll reciprocate?"

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Le Téléphone Pleure. G, Dom/Viggo for [livejournal.com profile] silme711. (264 words)

Dom calls Viggo because it’s been months, maybe even years, and with everything that didn’t happen between them, he feels bad for letting things go. Viggo picks up on the ninth ring, just as Dom is getting ready to hang up.

“Viggo? Hi, it’s Dom.”

There’s a pause after that, silence stretching uncomfortably between old friends who haven’t spoken in too long, and don’t quite know what to say to break the awkwardness that’s settled. Dom hears the static on the line, distance breathing through the phone like a reminder of things past and lost. Viggo speaks first, voice soft and heavy with things unsaid.

“Dom. Where do you live, now?”

Dom hesitates briefly, thinks about the small flat in London, thinks about going home and meeting Viggo there, and thinks about rattling off the address like he would to any close friend.

“Oh, you know, here and there.”

They talk a bit longer after that, trading platitudes and stale news. Viggo tells Dom about moving in three days, about selling the ranch and going to Europe for a while. “Maybe I could call you” he says, tone hopeful, and Dom says “yes, you could, you should,” and there’s something there, a note of eagerness; a promise, even, maybe…

When Dom hangs up, it’s with a heart full of hope. He goes through the motions of filming, of packing and going home with a constant thrill at the thought of the future, and it’s not before he’s on a plane three weeks later that he remembers.

He never even gave Viggo his phone number.
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