Explicit, slash Dom/Elijah story, remix of Sophrosyne's C-series (treated as one story in 8 sections).
Many thanks for their encouragements to Undone, Jenn, and Dutch_Eowyn; for precious beta comments to Sumbitch, Princessofg, Bunnie, and especially Kyuuketsukirui. In hopes that Soph. can find it in her to not keep this savage... compression, I guess, against me. :)
Summary: Enter Dom.
Elijah's rotting away doing nothing. He's grown damp and weak inside, at the core, and meanwhile all sorts of toughening-ups bruised his outside. "Loneliness," they say, and try to draw him out more, barbecues and brunches and festivals for work and festivals for fun. Music is still cool but he's kinda looping the same loud sad songs at home.
He goes, manages, schmoozes, smiles for any and all cameras. He even has fun sometimes. And comes back to slump down. His skin covers up scales, rubbing against each other with a white noise he hears in his dreams.
Elijah's stuck rigid, like an old wooden trunk on his couch, heavy, waterlogged. When the porn tapes play more static than flesh he doesn't replace them with shiny new DVDs. The phone doesn't ring much and—even when that happens he doesn't often feel like picking it up. There's no more chocolate or cereals in the house after only a week of being there, and scripts gather dust on second-hand shelves.
Moving changed nothing but the where; the flare of enthusiasm Elijah felt watching the truck carry all his stuff away faded to an ashen taste in his mouth as the movers unloaded said truck here. How could he have been excited when he's barely three miles away? Same old same old, except there's nothing on the walls yet. It's a yet that lasts.
The empty house could feel uncluttered, bright and new; instead it feels naked and abandoned. Elijah scrapes vertical lines on a piece of plaster that's still a little soft behind the kitchen door, like a prisoner in a cell. It's reassuring. Viggo's too busy for a visit; and anyway Elijah feels vaguely threatened by the greeting on Viggo's voicemail, an odd tam-tam song and the crazy sounds of Vig's whispers. Enter Dom.
Telling Dom the pathetic truth is easy, in so many words (I miss you, and though the sentence never forms in his mind the meaning is crystal-clear); there's only to laugh along and Dom thinks it's a joke. If Elijah hides that this—Dom—is what he's been waiting for, that's because he isn't convinced it really is.
He dislikes the cold-blooded creature he thinks he's become, that prehistorical snake with its hidden thickness, but talking to Dom already something is uncoiling in him. There's genuine humor trickling back, mixing with the padding of verbal fucking around Elijah uses to keep the world at bay.
Dom comes close, moving in his faded jeans with a pleasant swish; Dom touches and kisses; Dom's bold—he's Dom.
Elijah kisses and touches back and finds that Dom responds just right to truth and jokes alike; he's so amazed his hand thrashes around for something to hang onto. It finds Dom's own tempting snake naturally enough.
Together they make porn, all right. Just the way Elijah remembers, the thing he missed—this joyous purposeful flailing and that manly competition all healthy like, their own private physical metaphor for sport, almost.
It used to be like that: weather too rotten for a surf, why not fuck? Pornographic, up close but maybe not so personal, when you get down to it. Glossing over the times when it was more for comfort than hygiene... home away from home, yes. Surely if they managed to hide it from themselves then, Elijah can pick it up in the same way now. He tries and then succeeds, driven out of memory and strategy altogether by Dom's cock drilling into him, shoving curses out of his mouth.
The scales underneath shift, a tremor deep and unforeseen like tectonic plates rearranging. His blood's warmed up, currents of lava pushing at them from within, his breath volcanic like a dragon's.
When sleep's current carries him away Dom's still there in bed with him, snuffling against his shoulder. They didn't even drink to the new house nor to seeing each other again; Dom's stone-sober and staying. He's dug a groove for himself in the mattress, adopted a pillow. Elijah's too breathless to note it aloud but he sinks with his mouth curved into a smile.
Something happens to him in the night, something big.
All Elijah remembers is a metallic glimmer, cool spreading after a brazen flame, peace. The dragon lying down happily over his golden treasure, all laid out in a fresh new cave... It's not what he dreamt of, he knows; the impression lingers all the same. He's warm in his bones, warm in his guts. He'd forgotten the world contains warmth like this one.
Elijah thinks Dom, and blinks in the new day; treasure, he thinks. He feels softer than he's been in ages, his chapped hide more supple this morning. Then the sleepy haze dissolves and the images vanish, forgotten like sloughed skin. He scratches his balls and finds his dick, still small but growing steadily, soft and glued to the sheet with dried jizz that wasn't there before. Oh.
Next to him Dom pants as he works his morning erection and Elijah smiles, rolls over to play again.
The imagery knocking in his head earlier comes back as Dom slithers against him, and smirks, and something on Dom's face challenges him. Elijah pushes, for the first time maybe in this way, laying his hands on him to press, and Dom yields wide open.
In his own mouth Elijah feels alligator teeth, larger and sharper, more eager, stretching his face open just as wide to wrestle with him for more, more. They have sex, not porn; there's a definite distinction in Elijah's mind.
They lie still in their own puddles afterward, the climate inside the room African with heat and the scent of sweat. Elijah blinks heavily, his blood unsettled, stirred, his heart pounding like a great drum. This new thing—this difference—they talk about it some, with veiled layered words both revealing and vulnerable, with new jokes. Why didn't we earlier?
It doesn't make sense but it does, and then they do it again, half for checking perhaps, half-unable to help it once their eyes lock and their bodies slick against each other again.
Elijah gives Dom venomous bites and shoves inside him, spreads and stretches the boundaries of the golden body smoothed and shined for television first, all his now. He fills up on it, the whispers of acceptance and the mirrored greed; he tests the quality of their skins by rubbing them both raw, spends precious moisture licking Dom clean.
Whichever creature they make together, two-headed and mystical, it wields more power than each of them could ever dream of alone. The entire day gets devoted to it, their strengths mingling and sacrificed on the mattress for a filthy animal baptism in spunk and slurps. Endless kissing, twisty fingers trailing bruises, stuttered and grunted pleas; the more control Elijah uses to bend Dom the more he receives of willingness in exchange. Depletion, repletion, completion, both caught in a positive feedback loop that can't be made of anything but love. He thinks.
He doesn't say it out loud.
Elijah drags himself to a shower finally, smiling on the way to disguise a faint anguish; their skins don't unstick easily.
No need to worry; Dom joins him in the bathroom before he's done towelling off. There's enough joy in Elijah to fly. It's not an issue for them to mix clean and gruff, same as this morning when Dom took Elijah's mouth with its bitter wake-up taste.
Do animals ever worry about their mates' cleanliness? Elijah wonders, and more faintly underneath, Do snakes mate forever?
But the truth is he feels more bird-like now, risen and reborn covered in smooth down, a phoenix—that would match the heat, yeah—and the kissing goes on way longer than the vague line of thought.
They step in the kitchen nearly a full twenty-four hours later and the dry dusty heat is nothing like the slick furnace fire their bodies made in bed, nothing like the dampness of fresh kissing in the bathroom either. It's desertic heat, caked in the corners of the shelves and around the feet of the table; an aphid would love to live here.
Elijah's grateful and resentful at once for the boxers protecting his skin—thinner and unguarded under the cloth, unmistakably yearning too. Their arms slither against each other; he moves to futz around with food and coffee with a bit of difficulty.
Dom's watching him, doing nothing else but that, he feels it, and there's a thrilling little prickle centered between Elijah's shoulder blades from it. It's like Dom can see the newborn wings Elijah imagined in the mirror and is looking at them unfold, a glorious feast of feathers; surely Dom knows that Elijah went from bile-filled adder to—which, buzzard, eagle? But Dom's no jettisoned carcass, and Elijah's as small as before...
Red-shouldered hawk, he decides, grinning secretly at the coffee machine, remembering the flush on his own where Dom's fingers rubbed and rubbed with a feverish supplicant's grip to pull him in deeper.
He's nearly dizzy just remembering, remembering with Dom watching, remembering with Dom watching knowing Dom remembers too. And then he's dizzy and smiling and hard, talking and watching Dom in return, and they can't stop this, powerless, it's all very much beyond them, how oddly magic—Elijah curls his tongue around this new peculiar ineptitude and savors its taste.
Dom comes closer, moving in his fashionably clingy shorts; Dom touches him softly; Elijah kisses him this time.
He finds the same taste in Dom's mouth, and that of want, and the song of sex and surrender and desire and more—he has Dom; the boldness is his.