There's an Elf in the shower, and he's naked and wet.
And there's a Hobbit leaning up against the bathroom door, his eyes shut tight.
The Hobbit's seeing, in his mind's eye, rivulets of water coursing down smooth golden skin, sleek
shoulders and firm belly, dribbling down the enticing cleft between tight buttocks and...oh...shit.
You press your forehead against the unyielding wood and groan your frustration.
The bear-hug at the airport had been nice, but nothing special.
It had been more on the order of, ...god, glad that bloody flight's over, so glad to see ya, mate.
Laughing cocoa eyes, smile like a sunrise, but no fucking electric charge, no answering spark -
'cause that current has to run both ways, dontcha know?
Two weeks 'til the inevitable premieres begin. It's been almost a full year now since shooting
ended - since everything ended. New Zealand had never seemed this far away before.
Your relationship had been pretty intense, but somehow, no commitments had been made.
It hadn't been casual, but you hadn't made any promises either.
You were both aware of the transitory nature of your chosen professions - he was too new to it, you
were too experienced. Oh, you'd kept in touch - Cannes and re-shoots had been ripples in the flow
of the busy year.
Telephone sex hadn't been an option.
You were both too tactile, touch was too important to both of you.
So it had faded...
Your heart had leaped when he had phoned to ask if you wouldn't mind a houseguest for a couple
of weeks. Thinking of re-locating to L.A. - need a base for house-hunting, he had said.
Sure, mate. No problem. Fuck, he'll be living HERE. Are we gonna take up where we left off?
Face it - he still turns you on. You're fully hard already - no foreplay required.
How sure are you that he still feels the same?
Why do you feel so uncertain, so reluctant?
Something's changed - what the FUCK do you want now?
He can't catch you mooning in the hallway like a groupie. You walk down to the guest bedroom.
You've put him there 'cause you weren't sure of anything, least of all yourself. His suitcase is open
on the bed and you glance in casually. You see a familiar texture, glimpse a remembered color and
you can't help yourself.
You have to know.
It's partly concealed by a folded shirt, and you slip it out carefully. You sit cross-legged on the bed
and turn it over in your hands. Nothing's changed---it's still as it was, a year and a half ago, and a
reminiscent grin curves your lips.
You remember how it was...how it started.
~~~~~
It's a late winter afternoon in Wellington, brisk but not too cold. You walk over to his house to bum
a ride to the pub tonight---one car's better than two driven drunk. The place is empty, and you make
yourself at home. He'll be back from the gym soon---you know his schedule well enough. You're
lying on the bed, on your belly, reading from his stash of playboy mags, when he gets back. He
stands in the doorway, smiling, a towel slung around his neck, his sweatpants riding low and his
torso bare. You talk about the day's filming while he roots around in the closet for clean clothes.
He curses as he realizes that laundry day has come and gone without him noticing, and all his snug
jeans are overdue for a wash. With a sigh of resignation, he tosses a pair of pants on the bed
beside you. They're different from the tight ones he usually wears, soft, baggy, grayish-brown cords.
Then you feel fingers ghosting across the skin of your back, where your shirt has ridden up, and
your skin erupts in goosebumps. You look up sharply, just in time to see the bathroom door swing
shut.
You roll over on your back with a frown. He's been teasing you like that for weeks now.
His hugs last a little too long, his kisses are coming dangerously closer to your lips and you often
feel his fingers on your body. He's not copping a feel, nothing as tawdry as that. He's not even
there after - he never stays to see your reaction to his touch.
If it's a game he's playing, well, you're good at games too.
And if there's a winner to this game, let's just say - you don't intend to lose.
Your eyes fall on the pair of trousers lying on the bed and your lips curve in a wicked grin.
Perhaps it's time to make the game more interesting.
~~~~~
Your favorite English pub is warm and welcoming, full of shadow. He claims his usual seat, at the
back of your usual booth, with you beside him and Bill and Dom across the table. The barmaid
takes orders and you grope for your lighter, but you can't find it. You ask to borrow his and say, no,
it's okay, you know which pocket it's in and you'll get it yourself. The pocket is warm with heat from
his thigh. You palm the lighter and as you withdraw, you release the safety pin you've placed there
earlier. You light your cigarette, sip at your beer and wait for your chance.
There's a lull in the conversation and he lifts his tankard to his lips.
Now's your chance.
You press close against him and your right hand finds the slit in his pocket where you'd released
the seams. It's just wide enough and you push through to pull his briefs out of the way and lay your
hand on his warm cock. He jerks upright in shock and a spray of warm beer arcs through the air to
drench the two at the other end of the table. Billy and Dom are not amused. They growl at you
both, and you try to keep from tensing up. What will he do? What will he say?
His voice is choked, rusty. He mumbles about something going the wrong way down and they give
him the bird and go to clean up.
He turns to look at you and a faint smile lights his face.
He's growing hard, fast.
Your hand starts moving on his velvet shaft, from his balls to the head of his swollen cock, and
your thumb flicks the web of skin beneath his slit as you reach the apex of your stroke.
His head drops back and his eyes flutter shut, soft moans overlaid by the swell of pub music.
You mouth the t-shirt-covered shoulder you're pressed against, dampening the cloth, sucking at the
skin beneath it, savoring the taste of laundry soap, sweat and him.
His cock is wet with the dew of arousal, and you add it to the sheen of sweat that you're using for
lubrication. You lean into the stroke, merge with the rhythm, and you feel his taut thighs quiver as
his orgasm builds. You clamp your left hand over his open mouth as his body convulses and he
spends himself into your cupped hand with a muffled scream. Then he slumps back against you,
gasping for breath as you withdraw your hand and wipe it off on a convenient napkin.
You're still painfully hard, but you can let it go. This was all for him. He regards you silently, his
eyebrow quirked, a question in his eyes. He must've seen an answer he liked, 'cause you're both
out of there in the blink of an eye, money thrown on the table, excuses made. Outside, he starts to
pocket his wallet, hesitates, and transfers it to his back pocket, glancing at you with a quizzical
grin. You smile back and hold up the safety pin - and suddenly you're both laughing so hard it's
impossible to stop.
You laugh all the way to the car, you giggle all the way to his house - and then you're through the
door, and the laughter dies away.
His hand on the light switch is barring your way, and you're backed against the door. Warm
chocolate-brown eyes fill your vision, and you fucking drown in them. Then his mouth comes down
on yours, wet, hot and demanding, sucking your essence out of you, stealing your soul.
He tastes of beer and honey, and you drink him down, your tongue exploring the intimate recesses
of his mouth, the beautiful curve of his lips. You feel his hardness hot against your belly, your
hands cup the curve of his warm ass and you try your damnedest to melt into his body.
This isn't enough for you.
He mouths a question against your lips - and you answer with your body and your tongue.
The bedroom seems miles away and by the time you reach the bed, you're both naked.
You love his body; you ache for it - foreplay started too long ago. You worry that you won't last.
This isn't the first time for either of you - no fumbling with condom and lube here - everything's a
dance. Then he's inside you, deeper than the first and only encounter you've ever had, and you
shrug off the momentary burn of pain. He starts moving, rocking against you, opening you up to
pleasure you've never imagined. His eyes never leave yours, his lips place light kisses on the
tender inside of your thigh and you're fucking lost. You hear yourself babbling, little disjointed
phrases of encouragement, and your hands strain toward him. Your throbbing cock is trapped
between your bodies as he leans toward you on the stroke, to capture your mouth for one last kiss.
And your orgasm builds, from the top of your head and the tips of your toes, tingling waves of
ecstasy converging on your aching groin.
The earth heaves and fractures.
And you scream as you spurt and you come and it seems like you'll never, ever stop.
His gaze is intent on you, watching you climax. And you squeeze him, deep inside you, and his body
jerks and his mouth is open in surprise as he fills you with his seed.
You lie tangled in each other, sodden with exhaustion, and you sleepily ask him to remind you to
mend the hole in his pants. His laugh catches, in that funny way he has, and he tells you not to
bother - he likes it fine the way it is.
You don't know if you've won, or even if you've played the game - and you don't care, 'cause win or
lose, you're lost anyway.
~~~~~
You're braced against the shower wall, cooling water sluicing over your shoulders, your body still
aching with the effort of control. Seeing him across the arrival area, eyes impossibly blue even at
this distance, you steel yourself for the shock of contact. Then he's in your arms, your nostrils fill
with the familiar scent and god it's so damned hard not to respond. But you can't, because you still
don't know what you want and you're full of fears that you can't put names to.
Fears that are rooted in who he is, and who you are.
You laugh a little at the image of you, cowering in the shower, scared to come out, scared to face
him or life without him. Yeah, the guy who did six bungee jumps in rapid succession, the idiot who's
unafraid of death, is now afraid of living. The water's really cold now, and you're starting to shiver.
You've got to do it, face him and ask him the question that's been on your mind all year.
Ask it, and then go from there.
You walk down the hallway in your bare feet, towel slung around your hips, and stop short at the
open door. He's sitting cross-legged on the bed, his head bent over something on his lap.
Your eyes linger on the sweet curve of his bare neck and your fingers ache to touch the soft, pale
skin. He stirs, his head comes up, his eyes close and he lifts his hand to press something against
his cheek, nuzzling and sniffing at it. You stare at the absurd pair of pants that you can't even
wear, and suddenly you realize why you've been carting them all over the world with you.
You must've made a sound, 'cause he opens his eyes and lift them to yours and you're pierced by a
shaft of blinding blue.
The question is forgotten, the fears fade away like mist, and you cross the room with all your elvish
grace, to kneel and cup his face in both your hands.
"Lij? I... love you..." You hold your breath. The question may not matter anymore, but fuck, the
answer does. His eyes sheen over, pools of limpid blue, and he draws a deep, shuddering breath.
"Yeah. I love you too, you know. I just realized how much..." he smiles, and your heart stops
beating. "I guess you won't be house-hunting after all, huh?"
"Not a chance, Elwood. I've got better things to do."
His grin lights up the room and roses of color bloom in his pale cheeks.
His fingers graze your hips, and your towel falls to the floor.
"Is that so?" he breathes. "Show me..."
END
And there's a Hobbit leaning up against the bathroom door, his eyes shut tight.
The Hobbit's seeing, in his mind's eye, rivulets of water coursing down smooth golden skin, sleek
shoulders and firm belly, dribbling down the enticing cleft between tight buttocks and...oh...shit.
You press your forehead against the unyielding wood and groan your frustration.
The bear-hug at the airport had been nice, but nothing special.
It had been more on the order of, ...god, glad that bloody flight's over, so glad to see ya, mate.
Laughing cocoa eyes, smile like a sunrise, but no fucking electric charge, no answering spark -
'cause that current has to run both ways, dontcha know?
Two weeks 'til the inevitable premieres begin. It's been almost a full year now since shooting
ended - since everything ended. New Zealand had never seemed this far away before.
Your relationship had been pretty intense, but somehow, no commitments had been made.
It hadn't been casual, but you hadn't made any promises either.
You were both aware of the transitory nature of your chosen professions - he was too new to it, you
were too experienced. Oh, you'd kept in touch - Cannes and re-shoots had been ripples in the flow
of the busy year.
Telephone sex hadn't been an option.
You were both too tactile, touch was too important to both of you.
So it had faded...
Your heart had leaped when he had phoned to ask if you wouldn't mind a houseguest for a couple
of weeks. Thinking of re-locating to L.A. - need a base for house-hunting, he had said.
Sure, mate. No problem. Fuck, he'll be living HERE. Are we gonna take up where we left off?
Face it - he still turns you on. You're fully hard already - no foreplay required.
How sure are you that he still feels the same?
Why do you feel so uncertain, so reluctant?
Something's changed - what the FUCK do you want now?
He can't catch you mooning in the hallway like a groupie. You walk down to the guest bedroom.
You've put him there 'cause you weren't sure of anything, least of all yourself. His suitcase is open
on the bed and you glance in casually. You see a familiar texture, glimpse a remembered color and
you can't help yourself.
You have to know.
It's partly concealed by a folded shirt, and you slip it out carefully. You sit cross-legged on the bed
and turn it over in your hands. Nothing's changed---it's still as it was, a year and a half ago, and a
reminiscent grin curves your lips.
You remember how it was...how it started.
~~~~~
It's a late winter afternoon in Wellington, brisk but not too cold. You walk over to his house to bum
a ride to the pub tonight---one car's better than two driven drunk. The place is empty, and you make
yourself at home. He'll be back from the gym soon---you know his schedule well enough. You're
lying on the bed, on your belly, reading from his stash of playboy mags, when he gets back. He
stands in the doorway, smiling, a towel slung around his neck, his sweatpants riding low and his
torso bare. You talk about the day's filming while he roots around in the closet for clean clothes.
He curses as he realizes that laundry day has come and gone without him noticing, and all his snug
jeans are overdue for a wash. With a sigh of resignation, he tosses a pair of pants on the bed
beside you. They're different from the tight ones he usually wears, soft, baggy, grayish-brown cords.
Then you feel fingers ghosting across the skin of your back, where your shirt has ridden up, and
your skin erupts in goosebumps. You look up sharply, just in time to see the bathroom door swing
shut.
You roll over on your back with a frown. He's been teasing you like that for weeks now.
His hugs last a little too long, his kisses are coming dangerously closer to your lips and you often
feel his fingers on your body. He's not copping a feel, nothing as tawdry as that. He's not even
there after - he never stays to see your reaction to his touch.
If it's a game he's playing, well, you're good at games too.
And if there's a winner to this game, let's just say - you don't intend to lose.
Your eyes fall on the pair of trousers lying on the bed and your lips curve in a wicked grin.
Perhaps it's time to make the game more interesting.
~~~~~
Your favorite English pub is warm and welcoming, full of shadow. He claims his usual seat, at the
back of your usual booth, with you beside him and Bill and Dom across the table. The barmaid
takes orders and you grope for your lighter, but you can't find it. You ask to borrow his and say, no,
it's okay, you know which pocket it's in and you'll get it yourself. The pocket is warm with heat from
his thigh. You palm the lighter and as you withdraw, you release the safety pin you've placed there
earlier. You light your cigarette, sip at your beer and wait for your chance.
There's a lull in the conversation and he lifts his tankard to his lips.
Now's your chance.
You press close against him and your right hand finds the slit in his pocket where you'd released
the seams. It's just wide enough and you push through to pull his briefs out of the way and lay your
hand on his warm cock. He jerks upright in shock and a spray of warm beer arcs through the air to
drench the two at the other end of the table. Billy and Dom are not amused. They growl at you
both, and you try to keep from tensing up. What will he do? What will he say?
His voice is choked, rusty. He mumbles about something going the wrong way down and they give
him the bird and go to clean up.
He turns to look at you and a faint smile lights his face.
He's growing hard, fast.
Your hand starts moving on his velvet shaft, from his balls to the head of his swollen cock, and
your thumb flicks the web of skin beneath his slit as you reach the apex of your stroke.
His head drops back and his eyes flutter shut, soft moans overlaid by the swell of pub music.
You mouth the t-shirt-covered shoulder you're pressed against, dampening the cloth, sucking at the
skin beneath it, savoring the taste of laundry soap, sweat and him.
His cock is wet with the dew of arousal, and you add it to the sheen of sweat that you're using for
lubrication. You lean into the stroke, merge with the rhythm, and you feel his taut thighs quiver as
his orgasm builds. You clamp your left hand over his open mouth as his body convulses and he
spends himself into your cupped hand with a muffled scream. Then he slumps back against you,
gasping for breath as you withdraw your hand and wipe it off on a convenient napkin.
You're still painfully hard, but you can let it go. This was all for him. He regards you silently, his
eyebrow quirked, a question in his eyes. He must've seen an answer he liked, 'cause you're both
out of there in the blink of an eye, money thrown on the table, excuses made. Outside, he starts to
pocket his wallet, hesitates, and transfers it to his back pocket, glancing at you with a quizzical
grin. You smile back and hold up the safety pin - and suddenly you're both laughing so hard it's
impossible to stop.
You laugh all the way to the car, you giggle all the way to his house - and then you're through the
door, and the laughter dies away.
His hand on the light switch is barring your way, and you're backed against the door. Warm
chocolate-brown eyes fill your vision, and you fucking drown in them. Then his mouth comes down
on yours, wet, hot and demanding, sucking your essence out of you, stealing your soul.
He tastes of beer and honey, and you drink him down, your tongue exploring the intimate recesses
of his mouth, the beautiful curve of his lips. You feel his hardness hot against your belly, your
hands cup the curve of his warm ass and you try your damnedest to melt into his body.
This isn't enough for you.
He mouths a question against your lips - and you answer with your body and your tongue.
The bedroom seems miles away and by the time you reach the bed, you're both naked.
You love his body; you ache for it - foreplay started too long ago. You worry that you won't last.
This isn't the first time for either of you - no fumbling with condom and lube here - everything's a
dance. Then he's inside you, deeper than the first and only encounter you've ever had, and you
shrug off the momentary burn of pain. He starts moving, rocking against you, opening you up to
pleasure you've never imagined. His eyes never leave yours, his lips place light kisses on the
tender inside of your thigh and you're fucking lost. You hear yourself babbling, little disjointed
phrases of encouragement, and your hands strain toward him. Your throbbing cock is trapped
between your bodies as he leans toward you on the stroke, to capture your mouth for one last kiss.
And your orgasm builds, from the top of your head and the tips of your toes, tingling waves of
ecstasy converging on your aching groin.
The earth heaves and fractures.
And you scream as you spurt and you come and it seems like you'll never, ever stop.
His gaze is intent on you, watching you climax. And you squeeze him, deep inside you, and his body
jerks and his mouth is open in surprise as he fills you with his seed.
You lie tangled in each other, sodden with exhaustion, and you sleepily ask him to remind you to
mend the hole in his pants. His laugh catches, in that funny way he has, and he tells you not to
bother - he likes it fine the way it is.
You don't know if you've won, or even if you've played the game - and you don't care, 'cause win or
lose, you're lost anyway.
~~~~~
You're braced against the shower wall, cooling water sluicing over your shoulders, your body still
aching with the effort of control. Seeing him across the arrival area, eyes impossibly blue even at
this distance, you steel yourself for the shock of contact. Then he's in your arms, your nostrils fill
with the familiar scent and god it's so damned hard not to respond. But you can't, because you still
don't know what you want and you're full of fears that you can't put names to.
Fears that are rooted in who he is, and who you are.
You laugh a little at the image of you, cowering in the shower, scared to come out, scared to face
him or life without him. Yeah, the guy who did six bungee jumps in rapid succession, the idiot who's
unafraid of death, is now afraid of living. The water's really cold now, and you're starting to shiver.
You've got to do it, face him and ask him the question that's been on your mind all year.
Ask it, and then go from there.
You walk down the hallway in your bare feet, towel slung around your hips, and stop short at the
open door. He's sitting cross-legged on the bed, his head bent over something on his lap.
Your eyes linger on the sweet curve of his bare neck and your fingers ache to touch the soft, pale
skin. He stirs, his head comes up, his eyes close and he lifts his hand to press something against
his cheek, nuzzling and sniffing at it. You stare at the absurd pair of pants that you can't even
wear, and suddenly you realize why you've been carting them all over the world with you.
You must've made a sound, 'cause he opens his eyes and lift them to yours and you're pierced by a
shaft of blinding blue.
The question is forgotten, the fears fade away like mist, and you cross the room with all your elvish
grace, to kneel and cup his face in both your hands.
"Lij? I... love you..." You hold your breath. The question may not matter anymore, but fuck, the
answer does. His eyes sheen over, pools of limpid blue, and he draws a deep, shuddering breath.
"Yeah. I love you too, you know. I just realized how much..." he smiles, and your heart stops
beating. "I guess you won't be house-hunting after all, huh?"
"Not a chance, Elwood. I've got better things to do."
His grin lights up the room and roses of color bloom in his pale cheeks.
His fingers graze your hips, and your towel falls to the floor.
"Is that so?" he breathes. "Show me..."
END
| A Love Remembered |