Underneath The Itch
In Middle-earth, it's Springtime. In the real fucking world, specifically New Zealand, it's definitely not. Winter. Frost. Ballfreezing cold. They're dressed for a fictionally warm climate and Dom's blanket slips to fall in a puddle of machine-melted snow.
"Balls," he growls.
Elijah, comfortably wrapped in his own bundle of heavy wool, chuckles at Dom's mishap. Dom returns the ill favor with a scowl that comes off as a crooked pout. Elijah grins. Dom grimaces. Arched brow. Reluctant sigh. The war of expressions ends with Elijah lifting the clutched edge of his blanket, opening an invitational wool wing to his friend.
With a wolfish smirk and no hesitation, Dom moves into the warmth of Elijah's embrace. They huddle under the blanket, watching Peter fuss about the set. The chilled wind ruffles Elijah's wig into Dom's eyes. But they're wrapped so tight, so close; Dom can't bring himself to disrupt the lack of distance to brush off the tickling strands of fake hair. So he just turns his face and blinks away the discomfort.
The arrangement beneath the blanket should be awkward. Elijah's right arm is sandwiched between the thick wool and Dom's shoulders, their bodies meeting at the hip. Not even the silence is awkward. Everything fits.
In the distance, Peter curses heavenward. Outside their heated cocoon, the sky is graying with snow-filled clouds, but there's the lick of sunshine under blanket and hobbit clothing. Dom's hands, fingers mostly, twitch with ideas. He makes to shift himself more towards Elijah, pretending that his tightening grip on Elijah's abdomen is necessary for stability. Elijah's muscles harden under his touch and Dom inwardly hopes that rule applies in general.
After properly turning himself, now near spooning Elijah's side, Dom devilishly whispers into the accessible ear, "You're getting goosepimples on your legs, mate."
Elijah stiffens even more at this and tries to shrug it off. "It's cold." His gaze follows a far-off Peter, as if he really cares about the scene resuming any time soon.
Before Dom can call Elijah on it, Viggo circles from behind and into view, startling both boys. Dom's hand flinches and falters in pause and Elijah gasps.
Viggo's brow arcs suspiciously. "Cozy, are we?"
"Jealous, are we?" sniggers Dom, hand gleefully resuming its playful perch on Elijah's stomach.
"So there is something to be jealous of," says Viggo, smirk intact, eyes on Dom. Dom shoots him an expression of false innocence.
"It's. Just. Cold," Elijah grits out in defense. He chokes on any other potential words as Dom's hand unexpectedly slides down, trading the exterior of costume shirt for the skin under hobbit trousers.
With one of Elijah's arms around Dom's shoulders, and his opposite hand holding the blanket closed, Dom rejoices in knowing that Elijah wouldn't, and couldn't, sacrifice them to exposure to stop Dom's roaming fingers. All Elijah can do is dig his nails into the softness of Dom's upper arm and guiltily pull the wool edges tighter. Both efforts only further encouraging Dom's actions.
Viggo's grin is replaced with a tired groan as his gaze settles some distance behind them. "Look, if anyone asks... you haven't seen me." One more glance to them and he quickly departs with a smile.
Elijah lets out a little sigh of relief before clawing Dom's arm in further protest. "You're so evil," he hisses.
"Nah, you're just easy," chuckles Dom, maintaining a safe yet teasing distance from Elijah's earlobe.
Again they are interrupted by a presence coming from behind, yet this time Dom's intent fingers are unfazed. Elijah manages a nervous swallow as Orlando looms before them, paying more mind to his wig than the cuddling boys in front of him.
"This is completely fucked," Orlando states. His pointedly expectant stare is met with Elijah's frightened gaze.
"What's fucked?" Dom's walking his middle and index digits over Elijah's flesh. Down down down, the fingertips casually frolic to a most hardened protrusion in their path; much to Dom's delight.
A low whimper from Elijah.
"You can't tell then?" Orlando looks relieved. He fidgets with his hair some more and then continues, "I thought it was painfully obvious."
When Elijah's silent gaping is the only reply, Orlando's forehead creases. "My hair," he explains. "Vig stepped on it during our last take. Nearly ripped my bloody scalp off. Hair and Make-Up patched it, but it hasn't felt right since."
One palm resting flat on the small of Elijah's back, Dom's other hand encircles the hard cock within grasp. Dom bites his bottom lip, staving off a smirk, at the look on Elijah's face which Orlando is too preoccupied to take notice of.
Elijah tries to console the worried elf, taking his own stab at casual innocence. "Your hair is, oh GOD, so good!" And fails miserably. His tone becomes ecstatic midway as Dom gives a long, light upwards stroke with his full fist.
Dom ceases the ever growing curiosity on Orlando's face. "So, you're looking for Viggo then?"
As planned, Orlando is all pointy ears at this. "Why? Was he looking for me?" he asks, sniffing indignantly.
Only Dom can hear the soft noises that are caught in Elijah's throat. Hiding his excitement, Dom is all nonchalance as he carries on. "Yeah, mentioned something about apologizing. Said he felt real bad, too."
"I knew that annoyed thing was just an act." Orlando's aglow with self-satisfaction. "Which way'd he go?"
"Thataway," says Dom with a toss of his head in the direction where an escaping Aragorn had previously vanished. Dom maintains his slow, methodical petting of Elijah as Orlando leaves.
"See? Evil." It's all that Elijah can breathe out between muted grunts.
"But you're all just so fun to play with," Dom purrs into Elijah's neck. The hand that had been content on Elijah's spine goes southbound and squeezes a generous amount of arse cheek. "Your lips are looking dry. Want I should lick them?" he teases.
Elijah moans; his breath is quick and becoming shallow. "Oh fuck, fuck," he whispers angrily, ecstatically, dutifully quiet. Like a ventriloquist, his lips barely parting as he speaks, the words are clear enough for Dom. "I'm going to," gasp, "kill you when," groan, "this is, oh jesus, done!"
"I probably should never stop then." Dom's palm picks up the pace, lightly pulling his thumb over the tip of Elijah's erection. "For my own best interest."
Elijah nearly chokes on a sharp inhale.
Dom obliges his own personal tickle by gently pressing into Elijah's hip. Just so Elijah can feel how turned on Dom is, how it's not just a game, though it is mostly a game. So Elijah can know how goddamn arousing the sound of his frantic breath and voice can be.
What with the secret jerking and the stealthy rocking and Dom's hand and Elijah's thigh, the world is a spinning blur of bustling extras and shouting crew and there's one last pump and two final exhalations and the clouds release and it's finally, finally snowing. Light at first, but growing heavy.
Everything out of the blanket is being touched by little bits of baby snowflakes. Too wrapped up in the fading burn of sensations between them, neither Dom nor Elijah can be bothered in the least by any drastic temperature swirling around them.
Dom, chin on Elijah's shoulder, panting, "You said something about killing me?"
Elijah's cheeks are flushed and his hair is sprinkled with a light, white powder of fallen snow. He sighs, "To hell with it. I won't have to after Wardrobe is done with us."