Improv: Two of a Kind
Mar. 1st, 2003 10:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lobelia321Title: Two of a Kind
Author: Lobelia; lobelia40@yahoo.com
Category: Improv. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
contrelamontre. Challenge: Opening line must be 'Even watching him felt like being a voyeur.' (Which sentence, by the way, I have grammatical problems with but then, I'm a pedant...)
Fandom: LotR RPS
Part: 1/1
Pairing: Brett Beattie / Richard Taylor
Rating: R
Summary: Even watching him felt like being a voyeur.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Spoilers: None
Archive Rights: My niche. Anyone else, please just 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.
Author's Notes: Time allowed: 45 minutes. Finished in 42.
Who is Brett Beattie? Gimli's stunt double. Watch the extended DVD!
-----
Even watching him felt like being a voyeur.
Well, this would be because in watching him, he was in fact being a voyeur. It felt like this because it was this. What else could you call it if you wedged yourself inside Edoras at the back of Warehouse Three, legs folded in a deckchair cross, elbows rasping the concrete wall, eyes glued to a crack in the board, breath clogging lungs?
Trousers tight and getting tighter by the minute.
At the far end of the hall, visible through a thicket of miniature minarets and artificial tree limbs, was Richard. He stood on a chair. He stretched upwards, towards the top of Barad-Dur. He adjusted something. Something clanked, something else creaked. A fly zoomed along an invisible trail into the wall behind. Dust flocked down the concrete.
Brett sneezed.
"Hello?" Richard turned around. "Is there anybody there?"
The neon tubes hummed.
Richard would never suspect there could be anyone inside this bigature. Nobody could fit in. Only a child would be small enough to crawl through the opening. A child. Or a stunt double.
Or a lustlorn dwarf.
Brett pinched his nose shut and waited. He knew what was coming next. It always came next. First came the waiting and the cramping and the sneezing. Next came the turning and the "Helloing" and the cautious glances around the circumference of emergency exit lights. And last, always last, came the coming.
Richard liked Orthanc best, although Brett had seen him try Minas Tirith and once even an ent. But Orthanc was Richard's favourite. So Orthanc was Brett's favourite, too. Orthanc's dark shiny flanks. Orthanc's crisp crest of spikes. Orthanc's smooth, waxen sides, like a candle, like skin. Richard's skin.
There he was, wrapped up against Saruman's lair. One arm stretched around its girth, the other pressed between polyfill and belly, its hand around a different girth. Richard's cheek pale against black flutings. Richard's tongue pink and long.
Brett knew what that tongue tasted. He'd gone himself to get a flavour. He'd got himself a crate to reach the right height and had laid his own tongue along the glistening spoors of Richard's.
Richard moved faster. Not just his hand, his whole torso now, thrusting up against the tower. And Brett, too, synchronising himself, squashed between wood beams, his elbows grazing the Golden Hall's columns. Horse heads bumped against his temples.
Faster. And faster. Head knocking against timber. Richard flattened against the black wall. And, "Oh, oh", not caring who heard. Not caring what models were splashed.
Richard whirled round. "Hello?" He did himself up. He tiptoed towards Edoras.
"Is someone here?"
No. Noone at all.
Both held their breath. Richard cocked his head. Then he gave a deep sigh. Out of his pocket, he drew a handkerchief, neatly folded as always, and wiped it carefully along the traces he'd left.
Brett drew his own handkerchief.
Now came the wait. For Richard to do his rounds, turn off the lights, lock all the doors. Brett had a key, of course. And a torch, stuffed into the eaves.
On his way to Orthanc, Brett's foot got caught in something. He picked it up. It was the sodden handkerchief. Strange.
Not like Richard to be careless. Richard was never careless.
Brett turned the hankie around. He shone his torch at it. The cloth square looked strangely familiar. He peered closely at its edges.
Shit.
It looked strangely familiar because it was his own hankie. This was Brett's hankie. Hastily used inside the confines of the bigature. Hastily forgotten and left to be found by late-night roamers.
And now left on purpose to be retrieved by its owner.
Brett's hands shook. Watching Richard always felt like being a voyeur.
Perhaps because being watched felt like being an exhibitionist.
-----
1 March 2003, 1:45 am
Author: Lobelia; lobelia40@yahoo.com
Category: Improv. Written for
contrelamontre. Challenge: Opening line must be 'Even watching him felt like being a voyeur.' (Which sentence, by the way, I have grammatical problems with but then, I'm a pedant...)Fandom: LotR RPS
Part: 1/1
Pairing: Brett Beattie / Richard Taylor
Rating: R
Summary: Even watching him felt like being a voyeur.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Spoilers: None
Archive Rights: My niche. Anyone else, please just 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.
Author's Notes: Time allowed: 45 minutes. Finished in 42.
Who is Brett Beattie? Gimli's stunt double. Watch the extended DVD!
-----
Even watching him felt like being a voyeur.
Well, this would be because in watching him, he was in fact being a voyeur. It felt like this because it was this. What else could you call it if you wedged yourself inside Edoras at the back of Warehouse Three, legs folded in a deckchair cross, elbows rasping the concrete wall, eyes glued to a crack in the board, breath clogging lungs?
Trousers tight and getting tighter by the minute.
At the far end of the hall, visible through a thicket of miniature minarets and artificial tree limbs, was Richard. He stood on a chair. He stretched upwards, towards the top of Barad-Dur. He adjusted something. Something clanked, something else creaked. A fly zoomed along an invisible trail into the wall behind. Dust flocked down the concrete.
Brett sneezed.
"Hello?" Richard turned around. "Is there anybody there?"
The neon tubes hummed.
Richard would never suspect there could be anyone inside this bigature. Nobody could fit in. Only a child would be small enough to crawl through the opening. A child. Or a stunt double.
Or a lustlorn dwarf.
Brett pinched his nose shut and waited. He knew what was coming next. It always came next. First came the waiting and the cramping and the sneezing. Next came the turning and the "Helloing" and the cautious glances around the circumference of emergency exit lights. And last, always last, came the coming.
Richard liked Orthanc best, although Brett had seen him try Minas Tirith and once even an ent. But Orthanc was Richard's favourite. So Orthanc was Brett's favourite, too. Orthanc's dark shiny flanks. Orthanc's crisp crest of spikes. Orthanc's smooth, waxen sides, like a candle, like skin. Richard's skin.
There he was, wrapped up against Saruman's lair. One arm stretched around its girth, the other pressed between polyfill and belly, its hand around a different girth. Richard's cheek pale against black flutings. Richard's tongue pink and long.
Brett knew what that tongue tasted. He'd gone himself to get a flavour. He'd got himself a crate to reach the right height and had laid his own tongue along the glistening spoors of Richard's.
Richard moved faster. Not just his hand, his whole torso now, thrusting up against the tower. And Brett, too, synchronising himself, squashed between wood beams, his elbows grazing the Golden Hall's columns. Horse heads bumped against his temples.
Faster. And faster. Head knocking against timber. Richard flattened against the black wall. And, "Oh, oh", not caring who heard. Not caring what models were splashed.
Richard whirled round. "Hello?" He did himself up. He tiptoed towards Edoras.
"Is someone here?"
No. Noone at all.
Both held their breath. Richard cocked his head. Then he gave a deep sigh. Out of his pocket, he drew a handkerchief, neatly folded as always, and wiped it carefully along the traces he'd left.
Brett drew his own handkerchief.
Now came the wait. For Richard to do his rounds, turn off the lights, lock all the doors. Brett had a key, of course. And a torch, stuffed into the eaves.
On his way to Orthanc, Brett's foot got caught in something. He picked it up. It was the sodden handkerchief. Strange.
Not like Richard to be careless. Richard was never careless.
Brett turned the hankie around. He shone his torch at it. The cloth square looked strangely familiar. He peered closely at its edges.
Shit.
It looked strangely familiar because it was his own hankie. This was Brett's hankie. Hastily used inside the confines of the bigature. Hastily forgotten and left to be found by late-night roamers.
And now left on purpose to be retrieved by its owner.
Brett's hands shook. Watching Richard always felt like being a voyeur.
Perhaps because being watched felt like being an exhibitionist.
-----
1 March 2003, 1:45 am