Crack!fic: Rover and Dom
Dec. 4th, 2002 01:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lobelia321Um, I slashed Dominic with a soft toy. Couldn't help it. Had to be done.
Title: Rover and Dom
Author: Lobelia; lobelia321@aol.com
Pairing: Rover/Dominic
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Dominic finds a dog.
Feedback: Yes, please, that would be lovely.
Content/Warnings: RPS. Interspecies (sort of). Um, kinky wanking.
Archive Rights: My niche only. Anyone else, please ask.
Disclaimers: This is a work of amateur fiction. I do not know these people. I am not making money. The events described in this story did not happen. The novella "Roverandom" was written by John Ronald Reuel Tolkien and no copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
badgermonkey, housemouse and viva_gloria for alerting me to the founts of inspiration for this mad march hare of a plot bunny.
Inspired by this perverse little pic (courtesy ofmsallegro) and this novella synopsis.
------
Filey Beach, Yorkshire, 1925.
A little boy runs along the water's edge, crying. "Daddy, Daddy, where is he? Where is he?"
"Where is who, Michael?"
"Rover, Daddy. Where's Rover?"
The little boy's face is red with crying. The father looks at a loss. He swivels his head from side to side, takes off his spectacles, swivels his head again. Gulls shriek. Waves roar. There is a lot of sand but no sign of Rover, the little toy puppy.
"Daddy, where is he?" shrieks the little boy, quite hysterical now.
The father watches the waves rush into shore and slurp back out to sea in a foamy gurgle. Is there something dancing on the crests? Or is it just a trick of the eye?
"Michael," he says and puts his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Let me tell you a story about a toy dog who was turned into a real dog by a magic wizard..."
They walk off up the beach together. The boy's wails rise and fall, then they subside into hiccups. By the time they've reached the breakwater, he's laughing.
A woman's voice carries faintly over the sound of the wind: "John Ronald Reuel! How often have I told you not to fill that boy's head with nonsense and stuff?"
Nonsense and stuff?
We shall see.
------
Otaki Beach, North Island, 2000.
The sky is blue, the sun is yellow, the waves are azure. Flotsam is washed ashore and Dominic Monaghan bends to pick it up.
"Look here," he says. "A toy puppy."
"Well, what do you know?" says Billy Boyd and peers over Dominic's shoulder.
The puppy is heavy with water. It has floppy ears, two button eyes and a round snout. It's just big enough to fit between Dominic's palms.
"Cute," says Billy. "I wonder how that got here and who lost it."
"I'm going to keep him," says Dominic. "I'm going to call him Rover."
He's already decided it's a boy-puppy although there is nothing in the dog's anatomical make-up to suggest this. Its belly is a smooth expanse of plush.
At home, Dominic puts Rover out on the patio roof, in the corner that gets sun all day round. It takes two days before the dog is fully dried out. Dominic takes him down and looks at him.
Rover doesn't look too bad. Considering. He's a little worse for wear, a little scuffed around the paws, a little pale and streaked along his back, and his fur could be softer. He has the texture of a tumble-dried flannel. His eyes are smooth: two black round pebbles. The stitches along his nose have come a bit undone.
"And what are you trying to tell me, eh?" says Dominic to the dog. "Eh? Eh?"
"You're going soft in the head," says Billy who's walking past with a cricket bat.
"No, I'm not," says Dominic without looking up. He gives the dog a kiss on his forehead. "Who's a little smoochie-poo, then? Eh? Who's a good little smoochie-poo doggie?"
Rover sleeps on the pillow next to Dominic's head. It's been thirteen years since Dominic last slept with a soft toy. Dominic buries his nose in the pup's rough fur and inhales the smell of straw and algae. That night, he dreams of Yorkshire summer holidays.
The next day, the dog accompanies Dominic to work and sits under his make-up mirror, next to the phials and vials filled with mysterious liquids.
"Can I borrow your toy dog for a bit?" says Orlando. "He reminds me of my own dog, back home."
Orlando is allowed to hold Rover for all of two minutes, then Dominic wants him back.
"You sure it won't give you some disease or other?" asks Sean Astin. "You have no idea where that thing's been."
"He, not it," says Dominic. "Dog, not thing."
When nobody's looking, he gives Rover a lick across his snout. "Lick my hand, smoochie," he whispers. "Go on, lick my hand."
The dog becomes a fixture. Dominic takes to carrying Rover about with him everywhere. During the day, Rover lives in the make-up trailer, on Dominic's shoulder, in Merry's coat pocket, tucked into the saddle bags of Rohan and stuffed down the front of Dominic's T-shirt with only the ears and eyes poking out.
At night, the dog sleeps on Dominic's pillow.
Once, Dominic wakes up sometime in the early hours. It's a full moon. Dominic has forgotten to draw the curtains and a moonbeam illuminates the bed. The dog's black eyes glint white. The shadows of some branches twitch across Rover's face, and he looks, for a moment, almost alive.
"Rover," whispers Dominic.
Is he imagining it? Or can he really hear a tiny growl?
Dominic takes Rover under the covers with him and tucks him into the inside of his button-up pyjama shirt. The dog is scratchy against Dominic's chest. When Dominic breathes in and out, Rover seems to breathe in and out with him.
Dominic runs his hand over Rover's snout. He pinches Rover's paws between thumb and forefinger. He makes Rover's paws wiggle as if Rover really were a playful puppy.
Hush! Was that a yelp?
From that night onwards, Rover always sleeps tucked up against Dominic's chest. Sometimes Dominic rolls onto his stomach in sleep, and then he wakes up with a sore tummy and a red imprint of dog on his skin.
One night, the dog slips down all the way into Dominic's pyjama trousers. Dominic wakes up and feels strangely aroused.
"What is it, smooch?" he whispers. "Rubbing up against my leg? On heat? Well, poochie, what are we going to do about that, eh? What are we going to do about that then, eh?"
The dog says nothing. How could he?
After that, the nights become rather fraught. Dominic goes to bed earlier than usual. He turns the light out. He lies there, clasping Rover to his breast. He breathes in and out. Sometimes Rover says, "Woof." Sometimes Rover wags his stub of a tail. Sometimes, all too rarely, Rover licks Dominic's chest and nipples with his slobbery little tongue.
It's come to this. The dog has become that real.
And finally, one Thursday night, when it's so hot that the windows have to stay open to let in the hope of a breeze and the heavy perfume of jacaranda blossom, when fitful clouds obscure the moon, when banshees howl on the mountain tops and werewolves dig through the garbage cans of Wellington -- one Thursday night in February, Dominic lifts the elastic waistband of his pyjama trousers and pushes Rover down between his legs.
He lies quite still. He remembers the last time he did this. He thinks of Pookie who was bigger and pinker and fluffier than Rover, who was a teddy and not a dog, but who did the trick for a fevered ten-year-old.
Dominic moves his thighs around Rover's small soft body. He reaches down and adjusts the pup's legs. He lifts his legs and curls Rover -- who is bendy and biddable like a circus acrobat -- around the bottom of his balls. Rover's snout pokes into the cleft between Dominic's nether cheeks. Rover's belly presses against Dominic's testicles. Rover's pert plush bottom snuggles up against the root of Dominic's erection.
"Do you like this, poochie?" whispers Dominic as he moves his thighs and his pelvis. "Is this good, smooch? Is this good, my little Rover? My little rascal?"
Rover doesn't answer.
Dominic curls in on himself, better to reach Rover, better to press Rover against himself. Rover who has been dry for so long is getting damp again. Rover's ears flopp against Dominic's legs. Rover's paws slipp around Dominic's balls. Dominic breathes in and out. Dominic pulls Rover up onto his dick. He rubs Rover along his dick as if he were a washcloth. He rubs him and rubs him, faster and faster. Rover's belly rasps against Dominic's dick like furry sandpaper. Rover's ears dangle wildly.
Then Rover gets very wet. Very sticky and wet.
Oh dear. Naughty Rover. Bad dog. Bad.
Sit. Down, dog. Down.
Down.
Dominic breathes in and breathes out, in long gulps. His hands are still clasped around the toy dog's body.
He sits up slowly and feels around for a towel. He puts Rover against his cheek and feels the sticky warmth of him. Rover feels like a real dog who's been running out in the park and rolled in something he shouldn't have rolled in. He feels all warm. He feels alive.
Rover gives a very small, very short bark.
Dominic screams.
"You all right, Dom?" comes a voice. It's Billy, at the door. He switches on the light. Dominic blinks and pulls up the bedclothes in haste.
"Fine," he stutters. "Nightmare. I think."
"What's happened to that dog?" says Billy. "It looks..."
"What?" says Dominic. "What?" He snatches up Rover and thrusts him under the blanket. Under the blanket, next to his skin.
"It looks debauched," says Billy.
"He, not it," says Dominic.
Billy says nothing. He looks at Dominic strangely.
"Could I borrow that dog sometime?" he says.
"No," says Dominic. "You couldn't."
"Okay, okay," says Billy. He still looks at Dominic strangely. "I'll be going back to bed then, okay?. Are you sure you'll be all right?"
"Oh yes," says Dominic.
Oh no.
No sooner has the light gone out and the door been closed, than there comes a grunt from the bed. A grunt and a yap.
This time Dominic bites his tongue until his teeth hurt but he doesn't yell out.
Rover scrabbles at Dominic's hand with his claws. He grazes the back of Dominic's hand with his teeth. He pants and dribbles all over Dominic's pyjama shirt. The bed smells of dog and sex.
"Rover," whispers Dominic. "What's got into you, Rover?"
He stares at the wiggling warm bundle between his hands. He runs his finger through the pup's pelt. He sniffs his finger, he licks his finger. He shivers.
Was that all it took? A sprinkling of fairy dust? A dose of semen magic? The unlikeliest of wizards with the unlikeliest of wands?
In the dim light, Rover looks bigger. He changes and expands. His fangs grow sharp. He bares his gums and snarls. Somewhere, far away, a werewolf wails. Twin paws pin Dominic to the bed. Saliva drips onto Dominic's face.
Against his belly, Dominic feels the hound's big sleek penis.
Suddenly he wishes, he'd made Rover a girl-dog after all.
In the morning, the dog is made of plush again. His black eyes stare at Dominic blankly. He's on all fours, doggie-style. His ears flop. His tail droops. His rump points at the ceiling.
Rover looks abused.
But not as abused as Dominic.
The dog never comes along to work after that. When Billy asks Dominic, "Where's your pet?", Dominic flinches. Orlando asks after Rover as well, and Sean Astin says, "Thank god you're not bringing that filthy cur in here anymore."
Dominic flinches every time. One might almost suppose he were afraid.
But afraid of what?
------
The End.
3 November 2002
If you enjoyed this story, please email lobelia321@aol.com
Title: Rover and Dom
Author: Lobelia; lobelia321@aol.com
Pairing: Rover/Dominic
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Dominic finds a dog.
Feedback: Yes, please, that would be lovely.
Content/Warnings: RPS. Interspecies (sort of). Um, kinky wanking.
Archive Rights: My niche only. Anyone else, please ask.
Disclaimers: This is a work of amateur fiction. I do not know these people. I am not making money. The events described in this story did not happen. The novella "Roverandom" was written by John Ronald Reuel Tolkien and no copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: Thanks to
badgermonkey, housemouse and viva_gloria for alerting me to the founts of inspiration for this mad march hare of a plot bunny.Inspired by this perverse little pic (courtesy of
msallegro) and this novella synopsis.------
Filey Beach, Yorkshire, 1925.
A little boy runs along the water's edge, crying. "Daddy, Daddy, where is he? Where is he?"
"Where is who, Michael?"
"Rover, Daddy. Where's Rover?"
The little boy's face is red with crying. The father looks at a loss. He swivels his head from side to side, takes off his spectacles, swivels his head again. Gulls shriek. Waves roar. There is a lot of sand but no sign of Rover, the little toy puppy.
"Daddy, where is he?" shrieks the little boy, quite hysterical now.
The father watches the waves rush into shore and slurp back out to sea in a foamy gurgle. Is there something dancing on the crests? Or is it just a trick of the eye?
"Michael," he says and puts his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Let me tell you a story about a toy dog who was turned into a real dog by a magic wizard..."
They walk off up the beach together. The boy's wails rise and fall, then they subside into hiccups. By the time they've reached the breakwater, he's laughing.
A woman's voice carries faintly over the sound of the wind: "John Ronald Reuel! How often have I told you not to fill that boy's head with nonsense and stuff?"
Nonsense and stuff?
We shall see.
------
Otaki Beach, North Island, 2000.
The sky is blue, the sun is yellow, the waves are azure. Flotsam is washed ashore and Dominic Monaghan bends to pick it up.
"Look here," he says. "A toy puppy."
"Well, what do you know?" says Billy Boyd and peers over Dominic's shoulder.
The puppy is heavy with water. It has floppy ears, two button eyes and a round snout. It's just big enough to fit between Dominic's palms.
"Cute," says Billy. "I wonder how that got here and who lost it."
"I'm going to keep him," says Dominic. "I'm going to call him Rover."
He's already decided it's a boy-puppy although there is nothing in the dog's anatomical make-up to suggest this. Its belly is a smooth expanse of plush.
At home, Dominic puts Rover out on the patio roof, in the corner that gets sun all day round. It takes two days before the dog is fully dried out. Dominic takes him down and looks at him.
Rover doesn't look too bad. Considering. He's a little worse for wear, a little scuffed around the paws, a little pale and streaked along his back, and his fur could be softer. He has the texture of a tumble-dried flannel. His eyes are smooth: two black round pebbles. The stitches along his nose have come a bit undone.
"And what are you trying to tell me, eh?" says Dominic to the dog. "Eh? Eh?"
"You're going soft in the head," says Billy who's walking past with a cricket bat.
"No, I'm not," says Dominic without looking up. He gives the dog a kiss on his forehead. "Who's a little smoochie-poo, then? Eh? Who's a good little smoochie-poo doggie?"
Rover sleeps on the pillow next to Dominic's head. It's been thirteen years since Dominic last slept with a soft toy. Dominic buries his nose in the pup's rough fur and inhales the smell of straw and algae. That night, he dreams of Yorkshire summer holidays.
The next day, the dog accompanies Dominic to work and sits under his make-up mirror, next to the phials and vials filled with mysterious liquids.
"Can I borrow your toy dog for a bit?" says Orlando. "He reminds me of my own dog, back home."
Orlando is allowed to hold Rover for all of two minutes, then Dominic wants him back.
"You sure it won't give you some disease or other?" asks Sean Astin. "You have no idea where that thing's been."
"He, not it," says Dominic. "Dog, not thing."
When nobody's looking, he gives Rover a lick across his snout. "Lick my hand, smoochie," he whispers. "Go on, lick my hand."
The dog becomes a fixture. Dominic takes to carrying Rover about with him everywhere. During the day, Rover lives in the make-up trailer, on Dominic's shoulder, in Merry's coat pocket, tucked into the saddle bags of Rohan and stuffed down the front of Dominic's T-shirt with only the ears and eyes poking out.
At night, the dog sleeps on Dominic's pillow.
Once, Dominic wakes up sometime in the early hours. It's a full moon. Dominic has forgotten to draw the curtains and a moonbeam illuminates the bed. The dog's black eyes glint white. The shadows of some branches twitch across Rover's face, and he looks, for a moment, almost alive.
"Rover," whispers Dominic.
Is he imagining it? Or can he really hear a tiny growl?
Dominic takes Rover under the covers with him and tucks him into the inside of his button-up pyjama shirt. The dog is scratchy against Dominic's chest. When Dominic breathes in and out, Rover seems to breathe in and out with him.
Dominic runs his hand over Rover's snout. He pinches Rover's paws between thumb and forefinger. He makes Rover's paws wiggle as if Rover really were a playful puppy.
Hush! Was that a yelp?
From that night onwards, Rover always sleeps tucked up against Dominic's chest. Sometimes Dominic rolls onto his stomach in sleep, and then he wakes up with a sore tummy and a red imprint of dog on his skin.
One night, the dog slips down all the way into Dominic's pyjama trousers. Dominic wakes up and feels strangely aroused.
"What is it, smooch?" he whispers. "Rubbing up against my leg? On heat? Well, poochie, what are we going to do about that, eh? What are we going to do about that then, eh?"
The dog says nothing. How could he?
After that, the nights become rather fraught. Dominic goes to bed earlier than usual. He turns the light out. He lies there, clasping Rover to his breast. He breathes in and out. Sometimes Rover says, "Woof." Sometimes Rover wags his stub of a tail. Sometimes, all too rarely, Rover licks Dominic's chest and nipples with his slobbery little tongue.
It's come to this. The dog has become that real.
And finally, one Thursday night, when it's so hot that the windows have to stay open to let in the hope of a breeze and the heavy perfume of jacaranda blossom, when fitful clouds obscure the moon, when banshees howl on the mountain tops and werewolves dig through the garbage cans of Wellington -- one Thursday night in February, Dominic lifts the elastic waistband of his pyjama trousers and pushes Rover down between his legs.
He lies quite still. He remembers the last time he did this. He thinks of Pookie who was bigger and pinker and fluffier than Rover, who was a teddy and not a dog, but who did the trick for a fevered ten-year-old.
Dominic moves his thighs around Rover's small soft body. He reaches down and adjusts the pup's legs. He lifts his legs and curls Rover -- who is bendy and biddable like a circus acrobat -- around the bottom of his balls. Rover's snout pokes into the cleft between Dominic's nether cheeks. Rover's belly presses against Dominic's testicles. Rover's pert plush bottom snuggles up against the root of Dominic's erection.
"Do you like this, poochie?" whispers Dominic as he moves his thighs and his pelvis. "Is this good, smooch? Is this good, my little Rover? My little rascal?"
Rover doesn't answer.
Dominic curls in on himself, better to reach Rover, better to press Rover against himself. Rover who has been dry for so long is getting damp again. Rover's ears flopp against Dominic's legs. Rover's paws slipp around Dominic's balls. Dominic breathes in and out. Dominic pulls Rover up onto his dick. He rubs Rover along his dick as if he were a washcloth. He rubs him and rubs him, faster and faster. Rover's belly rasps against Dominic's dick like furry sandpaper. Rover's ears dangle wildly.
Then Rover gets very wet. Very sticky and wet.
Oh dear. Naughty Rover. Bad dog. Bad.
Sit. Down, dog. Down.
Down.
Dominic breathes in and breathes out, in long gulps. His hands are still clasped around the toy dog's body.
He sits up slowly and feels around for a towel. He puts Rover against his cheek and feels the sticky warmth of him. Rover feels like a real dog who's been running out in the park and rolled in something he shouldn't have rolled in. He feels all warm. He feels alive.
Rover gives a very small, very short bark.
Dominic screams.
"You all right, Dom?" comes a voice. It's Billy, at the door. He switches on the light. Dominic blinks and pulls up the bedclothes in haste.
"Fine," he stutters. "Nightmare. I think."
"What's happened to that dog?" says Billy. "It looks..."
"What?" says Dominic. "What?" He snatches up Rover and thrusts him under the blanket. Under the blanket, next to his skin.
"It looks debauched," says Billy.
"He, not it," says Dominic.
Billy says nothing. He looks at Dominic strangely.
"Could I borrow that dog sometime?" he says.
"No," says Dominic. "You couldn't."
"Okay, okay," says Billy. He still looks at Dominic strangely. "I'll be going back to bed then, okay?. Are you sure you'll be all right?"
"Oh yes," says Dominic.
Oh no.
No sooner has the light gone out and the door been closed, than there comes a grunt from the bed. A grunt and a yap.
This time Dominic bites his tongue until his teeth hurt but he doesn't yell out.
Rover scrabbles at Dominic's hand with his claws. He grazes the back of Dominic's hand with his teeth. He pants and dribbles all over Dominic's pyjama shirt. The bed smells of dog and sex.
"Rover," whispers Dominic. "What's got into you, Rover?"
He stares at the wiggling warm bundle between his hands. He runs his finger through the pup's pelt. He sniffs his finger, he licks his finger. He shivers.
Was that all it took? A sprinkling of fairy dust? A dose of semen magic? The unlikeliest of wizards with the unlikeliest of wands?
In the dim light, Rover looks bigger. He changes and expands. His fangs grow sharp. He bares his gums and snarls. Somewhere, far away, a werewolf wails. Twin paws pin Dominic to the bed. Saliva drips onto Dominic's face.
Against his belly, Dominic feels the hound's big sleek penis.
Suddenly he wishes, he'd made Rover a girl-dog after all.
In the morning, the dog is made of plush again. His black eyes stare at Dominic blankly. He's on all fours, doggie-style. His ears flop. His tail droops. His rump points at the ceiling.
Rover looks abused.
But not as abused as Dominic.
The dog never comes along to work after that. When Billy asks Dominic, "Where's your pet?", Dominic flinches. Orlando asks after Rover as well, and Sean Astin says, "Thank god you're not bringing that filthy cur in here anymore."
Dominic flinches every time. One might almost suppose he were afraid.
But afraid of what?
------
The End.
3 November 2002
If you enjoyed this story, please email lobelia321@aol.com
