Title: Turnabout
Author: Jill ([email protected])
Summary: All in the name of fair play.
Pairing: Orlando/Elijah
Disclaimer: ESP tests came back negative. This is not true, nor am I trying to imply that it is, nor am I making any profit from spinning my web of lies. All real people contained within belong solely to themselves.
Feedback, good or bad, is always highly appreciated.
Rating: R

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Elijah is laughing, nearly choking on small gasps of tortured giggles. "Orlando, st. Stop," he gets out.

"Sorry," Orlando murmurs. He thinks that Elijah might not hear, what with his mouth being tucked against the concave dip just below Elijah's ribcage, grazing small tickles of tongue across flesh. Elijah tastes like sweat there, but smells like the hard, firm scent of strong soap. Orlando offered to share his once, when Elijah forgot his own on a short trip to the beach, and Elijah had laughed at the soft smell and the bold statements of "Extra Hydrating Cocoa Butter" on the label. Said he preferred a more... manly soap, and insisted they stop at the first convenience store to buy a bar of Lava.

That bar is still in the trunk of Orlando's car, he's pretty sure, most likely melted all over the place. He had laughed long and hard that night when Elijah grinned and grabbed Orlando's soap on his way to the bathroom. It was just the once, and Orlando was glad because Elijah hadn't smelled right after that shower, not quite himself. Didn't matter anyway -- Elijah's skin didn't really need additives to keep it soft and slick and perfect to the touch, to the tongue.

And now he smells like himself, like -- like Dial, Orlando thinks it's called, like that light blue bar sitting in the bathroom with a dried hair stuck to it, curling off, deep brown and a long because Elijah keeps neglecting to go get a haircut.. Orlando licks, a long swipe of his tongue, and Elijah sucks in a breath and squirms but there's nowhere to go. Orlando has a firm grip on him, one arm around his waist and the other holding one knee, and there's nowhere to go but back and down.

Elijah's head hits the edge of a plate; strands of hair slide through the sticky remnants of syrup and Orlando looks up just in time to see them fall back into place. He'll take care of that later, he thinks, imagining himself pulling a chunk of hair between his lips, sucking every last trace of sugary sweetness off. But for now --

-- for now he has to control Elijah, who's squirming under him and twitching with laughter. "Orlando," he yelps. He pokes hard at Orlando's shoulder. Pointy little finger he has there. "Would you just, could you maybe --"

"Could I maybe what?" Orlando asks, lifting his head to stare down at Elijah in amusement.

"Could you like, get around to sucking my dick sometime this century? Or just, just let me up so I can fucking kill you already?"

"Kill me? You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?"

"Nope," Orlando says cheerfully. "You like me too much."

"Do not."

"You do." He flicks his thumbnail over one of Elijah's nipples, laughs softly at the noticeable tension in Elijah's muscles. All pale, taut skin against the dark gleam of the table, and Orlando finally relents -- a little -- and rests his hand on the buckle of Elijah's belt. "You like me, and my hands, and my mouth, and what I do... Admit it."

Elijah -- Elijah sniggers at him, is the only word for it. "Never. Can't stand you."

"Well then." Orlando starts to back away, hoping it works because no way will he be able to force himself to get very far. "Too bad for you. Don't suck liar dick."

"Hey!" and Orlando finds himself yanked back down by a quick hand clutching his shirt, hauling him back against Elijah's warmth. "I love you, I adore you, I worship at your feet you fucking god now will you please get on with it before I'm forced tokillyouyoubastard?" His words are somehow both slurred and clipped behind progressively wild giggles.

Orlando purrs. "Better. Now, what do I get in return?"

"Undying devotion, you pig-faced loser."

"Hmm... not good enough, nope." But he starts undoing -- slowly* undoing -- Elijah's belt, grazing teasing fingers across the flesh just under Elijah's navel. "Try again."

Elijah digs his fingers into Orlando's hair, gets several chunks in a secure grip and tugs lightly, warningly. "How's this -- I swear not to tell Dom about you and Laurie."

"Hey, s'not fair. I never met her. How was I to know she was that Laurie?"

"I'm just saying. You can keep talking and take your chances with Dom's reaction, or you can get. the. fuck. on. with. it."

"Such a friend," Orlando mutters. "Not so sure I want much to do with you now. And 'specially not your dick."

"You fucking... fuck!" The sound of Elijah growling is really quite funny, in a nice way, a change from the high-pitched sounds that slip out when he's laughing.

"I'm a fucking fuck, am I?" Orlando is enjoying this, at least he is until Elijah wrestles himself off the table and twists, shoving Orlando back against it. "Hey! That's -- what the hell?"

"You're being useless," Elijah says with a malicious grin, flipping open the buttons on Orlando's jeans with a quick, deft motions. "I'm not."

"But, wai -- oh." Something quite distracting about the cool pressure of Elijah's hand curling around his dick, giving a few tugs before moving away. "Hey!"

"Quit your whining and turn around already." Elijah's hands are prying at Orlando's hips, cold skin warming quickly against his own, pressing in and moving him around, and he keeps grumbling but he likes it, loves it when Elijah gets fed up and pushy. "Don't have -- oh."

Orlando hears the rustling of Elijah's pants, the click of the metal belt buckle on the floor, then sees a hand reach out next to him and sink into the dish of butter, left out and softened after waffles and tea and fresh blueberries from the market on the corner. He keeps his eyes on the smeary indentations left behind but focuses on the slick sensations, the carefully intentional motions on him, in him. "Elijah..."

Elijah laughs, the tiny squeaks coming back as he laughs. "Quiet. I'm concentrating here, you wanker."

"Fuck you."

"I think I'd rather fuck you, thanks," Elijah mumbles, leaning down and pressing his mouth to the sweat-slick back of Orlando's neck, pressing into him and groaning softly.

Butter dish, butter dish. Orlando stares at it and wonders if he's seeing light glimmering on melted butter or if sweat has just rolled into his vision. It could be either. He tries to brace himself on his forearms but sweat and skin and highly polished wood don't make for traction, and he finally settles down onto his chest and just --

-- just goes with it, lets Elijah's rocking motions take him along and hopes, hopes, hopes that this table has very sturdy legs. He can only hope for so long, though, before the tension in his legs and the heat against his back and the tightening in his balls succeeds in removing everything from his mind but Elijah, the word fuck, a sensation of quivering, and the butter.

Always the butter. Orlando is loving the butter, slick and warm and allowing just the right friction and, and -- and fuck. "Fuuuck," he hears, recognizes his voice somehow, and puts a small note in the back of his mind to crawl under the table later with bleach and a sponge. Then he just sighs and relaxes under Elijah's weight, revels in the steady rhythm of Elijah moving with each gradually slowing breath. "Well, then," he says softly.

"Fucking fuck," Elijah answers, and laughs against his neck.

"Told you you like me."

"Nah. I just think you're kind of okay."

"S'good enough." Orlando lifts his head, bumps it back lightly against Elijah's. "You get to do the dishes."

Elijah just sighs and shifts away. "After all your teasing? No way."

There's no energy left to press it. Orlando straightens up, stretches carefully, and grins. "I think teasing you works out quite well for me, actually."

"Manipulative bastard," Elijah accuses. But he smiles, and moves to kiss Orlando, and the dishes can definitely wait.

fin