[lotrips] pinch


::::

“Ow, you fuck! What the fuck did you do that for?”

Dom pinches him again on the other side of his ribs and it’s hard, really fucking hard and stings, and Orlando turns around on the sandy slope up to the car only to have Dom duck behind him again. That fucker’s pissing him off. Orlando feels the surge of irritation blow redhot through him and spins and slaps out a backhand over the top of Dom’s loony grinning face.

It’s fiercer than it should be. Saltwater sprays out from Dom’s hair at the impact but Orlando is nine sorts of fucked off at Dom since last night, and even before then with his snarky comments. And now this pinching spree, in the water and first directed at Elijah but then Dom just sortof fixed on Orlando and why was that? Doesn’t matter, really, Orlando supposes, ducking the return swipe, because he’s figured Dom out.

You just have to keep an eye on his hands.

Like last night at Astin’s under the pretense of amusing Ali, Dom had been throwing olives across the room. After he’d sucked on them for a bit, licking the drippy brine. Aiming them at Orlando – what was he like, a six-year old? And that thing Dom did when he was tired of waiting around: he’d clench his fists hard and then flick out his fingers, little to pointer, against his thumb. Did it in the water too, irritating little spiky drops when you were scanning for breaks. It usually meant trouble.

So then up at the car when Orlando has stripped off the suit, he sits gingerly on the burning car hood. Carefully watches Dom’s fingers. Laughs when he fumbles for the pull tag on the zipper. Dom concentrates on peeling the neoprene off and huffs a sigh when he can fling the wetsuit on the grass, and at that, Orlando's banking front of irritation seems to retreat.

But you do have to keep an eye on his hands.

The scorching friction of stickysalty skin over the car bonnet is pretty damn near excruciating, but Dom’s got his ankles firmly and is pulling him over and down with a swift pull.

“Fucking asshole!” Orlando yelps as he lands on the ground – on his arse! – with a thud.

Dom thuds down on Orlando’s lap. So much for watching his hands, Orlando thinks wanly, glancing at his own hands trapped under Dom’s sandy feet. Sandy and gritty and bloody hell does he have to crunch down like he’s stubbing out a cigarette?

“Get the fuck off me, Dom,” Orlando spits and the whole biting exasperation starts turning into unreasonable rage as Dom, eyes narrowed, starts pinching him in earnest, and hard, and everywhere. Orlando shoves up hard but somehow that short fucker is stronger than him and keeps him trapped against the fender.

“Orliiiii,” Dom singsongs, “you know you like it.” The pinching becomes less sharp, more firm, Dom’s fingers twisting on Orlando’s sunny skin and thumbs brushing sweetly when he lets a pinch go.

Orlando can keep an eye on Dom’s fingers now. He watches them wander, the pressure translating up Dom’s wrists and forearms, pivoting on the tips of his fingers, disappearing underneath an armpit or in Orlando’s belly button. One hand spiderwalks up his chest with small scratches and tangles in Orlando’s wet hair, twisting and pulling, the irregular rhythm like Dom’s breathing and somehow Orlando’s red haze subsides too.

Dom pinches again in the crook of Orlando’s neck. Orlando can feel the little red marks starting to blossom and sting with the salt from the surf, and they’re mixing with the scrapeburn from the car and the hot glass feeling of the sand mashed between Dom’s feet and his hands. After the pounding surf, it seems necessary to have sensation this strong.

Mischief and lust on his face, Dom trickles his fingers around Orlando’s throat, bunching them in the hollow, resting delicately while Orlando swallows and feels his larynx jolt. Then Dom pinches, hard and sharp at the shy skin and Orlando gasps loud as Dom bites at the same spot and grinds his feet down and pushes his thumbs into Orlando’s shoulder muscles and squirms his hips, rocking hard and hard against him.

That, Orlando thinks, is pretty much unbearable, but Dom’s tongue lapping at his abused throat is somewhat unbearable as well. Dom’s fingers – fingers that he really should keep an eye on - are in Orlando’s mouth now, and buggered if he can see them there, but he can taste them and they taste sweet like surf wax and salty, of course, and if he sucks hard, drawing blood to the surface, Dom moves his other hand down and around him. If he bites, Dom grasp is firmer and slides easy and slick and delightful, and if Orlando lets Dom push three fingers in his mouth then the payback swirls hot and stark inside his belly and rolls pulsing bright out of him, groan meeting desperate intake of breath meeting Dom’s slick wet fingers, glistening as he smears spit and come with lazy strokes.

Orlando watches Dom’s fingers very carefully, and grins up in the sunshine.