Lotrips Drabbles by Kay Deluca
Black and white photography is really Viggo's favorite, and sometimes he wishes he had been the one to take that picture of Sean.
When he looks at it, he always wonders what was happening at the exact moment the shutter clicked. What did the photographer say to coax that smile out of Sean? What was going on, what was Sean thinking? Was it one of those happy times, when a simple smile can only express even a fraction of the joy felt?
Viggo hopes so. He hates that a smile doesn't have to be genuine to look that way, and he doesn't think Sean should ever have to fake being that happy. He hopes Sean can't fake being that happy. Because what would that say about all those secret smiles Viggo treasures, the ones that he captured in his mind, in full living color?
He wasn't there, but he can imagine how it went. Dom would have been shining, nothing fake about his smile. He probably laughed at every flashbulb, thrilled with each autograph, loved every iota of attention. Was born for it, ate it up and licked the sticky sweetness from his lips, dark and candy-flavored.
He wonders how Dom would have tasted then, if he'd been there to slide his tongue across an already-slick bottom lip. Grape? Blueberry, maybe?
"Can I, Daddy?" Sean's daughter points to the lollipop stand.
"No, sweetie." He pulls her away by the hand. "You'll spoil your dinner."
It’s impossible to look away from Orlando sometimes, even when Billy knows carnal hunger is bare in his gaze. He doesn’t feel guilty when Orlando catches him looking; that’s just what people do when Orlando’s around. Not admiring something so beautiful is like a starving man ignoring a banquet hall full of food; it would be absurd.
He’s surprised when Orlando doesn’t look away, though, dark eyes reflecting the same intense desire while pupils blend seamlessly with irises. It’s an expression Billy’s never seen directed so intensely back. Orlando’s offering, and Billy won’t refuse. After all, it would be absurd.
He's usually too smart for this, so he gets sufficiently pissed before picking up the phone. No answer. He keeps calling until he's memorized the answering machine message, slurs with it and knows he's babbling after the beep. Drinking must have made his voice hoarse. He wonders what happens when the tape gets full. Hopes it goes back and records over old messages. He calls and hangs up a lot after that, just in case.
He misses Elijah's voice, that silly little American accent. Wants to hear it, even flinging insults and accusations. Billy wouldn't mind; he's feeling masochistic tonight.
The man in his arms moves frantically, moans (whimpers) spilling from his lips, and Sean can’t tell if he’s struggling to escape overwhelming sensation or straining to feel more; he never knows when they’re this far gone.
He gasps when Sean bites exposed throat sharply. Soon, movements slow, body shuddering as Sean swallows warm, thick liquid, sucking voraciously, wanting everything. Taking everything. He laps up the last gleaming drops and releases the limp body. Watching it fall lifelessly to the pavement, Sean licks his lips, savoring the metallic tang of blood. It’s not enough--never enough--but it must suffice.
He’s not going to apologize. It wasn’t his fault, so it’s not his responsibility. If Billy really cares, he’ll be the one to say he’s sorry.
But Billy just watches him with disappointed eyes, making him even angrier. He has nothing to be sorry about, and even if he did, he’s not the apologizing type. Groveling is for other people, those who make fucking mistakes and say things they don’t mean.
Why is it so damn hard for Billy to just say it? "I’m sorry." Two words. Dom could say it easily, if it were his fault. But it’s not.
Interviews come easily to Dom. He's everything he is in person (witty, charming, sarcastic), but somehow multiplied. People will remember him because he makes sure he's unforgettable.
Orlando tries. He can't do impressions, has never been very sarcastic, but he would like to be effortlessly clever and charismatic. Somehow the words "wow" and "like" keep creeping into his speech, though. He gets too excited when he talks about his work, can't be glib when the subject arises. But he's pretty.
Dom makes a crack about Dildo Baggins, and everybody laughs. Orlando says "like" again, and smiles to cover it up.
Orlando’s jacket is soft, thick, and warm, and it still smells like him when Elijah slides into it.
He inhales deeply, scent flooding his senses and surging through his soul in ebbs and flows: it’s chocolate and aftershave, rain and sunshine. It’s Orlando at work and rest and play; it’s pervading, intense, ensnaring, and Elijah wants to capture it forever. But it’s intangible and impossible to contain.
That’s what makes the aroma so absolutely Orlando, though: it can be experienced for a moment, but never claimed and kept.
So Elijah just breathes and takes the fleeting moment that is his.
Elijah thinks that maybe if he closes his eyes, it will feel the same. So his eyelids flutter shut, and he relies on his other senses.
But it's still different; the mouth on his cock has familiar wet heat, but the hand wrapped around the base is bigger, more callused. The chest brushing his is hard and peppered with crinkly hair, not smooth and soft. The kiss tastes different, even under the bitter saltiness of his come.
"Open your eyes," and the voice is deeper, more demanding.
Elijah obeys, and Sean stares back. There’s no denying he’s not with Dom.