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Title: Grappling
Author: Jo (
Original story: "Dealt" by Maidenvixen.
Pairing: Orlando Bloom/Dominic Monaghan
Rating: R
Summary: Dealing.
Disclaimer: Didn't happen. I made the whole thing up. However, this IS a rewritten version of another story.
Archive: Faded Ink, the Remix site, others ask please.
Author's Notes: Written for the 2004 Remix challenge.
Back-up author


"Yeah, come on, come on now take the chance
That's right
Let's dance"

- Metallica

The first time Dom says no, Orlando doesn't believe it. After all, it's not like he's asking for anything he's never had before. So he pushes a bit, and Dom pushes back. Literally. He shoves Orlando away, and stalks off, quickly attaching himself to a conversation between Viggo and Bean.

When Viggo glances over, Orlando just shrugs and walks off. Dom doesn't follow.

But Orlando expected him to. Sort of.

The second time Dom says no, Orlando's stunned. He hadn't meant anything by it, but Dom's taken it the wrong way, and now he's storming back into the house. Orlando's not sure what to think.

Should he follow Dom? Should he just leave it alone for now and force the issue later? Should he pretend it never happened?

All good questions. Shame Orlando doesn't have an answer for them.

Again, Viggo watches as Orlando makes his way across the yard with slow steps. Another shrug. But this time, additional eyes follow him. Billy, Lij, Karl, Sala. All avidly watching. All curious as to what and why. All wondering as to when bending won't be enough and, with a snap, Dom will break.

Dom's flexible, but he's not that flexible. Shame Orlando can't see it.

The third time…. Well, the third time, Orlando registers the muttered "no" somewhere in the split second between the meaty tthhhhwack of fist hitting bone and the flashfire of pain that rips up the side of his head. He doesn't have time to register what's happened, doesn't even have time to get out a muffled "ow" before Dom's on him, fists flying.

And the world around them watches. And waits. And then walks away. "They'll settle it somehow," is all that's said, along with "Hard-headed fuckers," but Orlando doesn't hear any of it.

All he hears is Dom yelling. And swearing. And his own pleas for Dom to stop as Orlando tries to catch hold before another blow lands.

And then Orlando's on the ground. And he's pissed. Dom stands over him, breathing heavy, fists clenched by his sides, eyes snapping with fury.


When Orlando comes up, he comes up swinging.

The first shot lands perfectly, taking Dom's breath with a soft "oof." The second's not so lucky. Dom manages to dodge - though it might be closer to a partial collapse because he's still trying to catch his breath - and Orlando's fist grazes his shoulder.

It's enough to throw Orlando off-balance. That's all the opening Dom needs. He wades back in, arms swinging, head down. Idiot. Never look down in a fight.

Orlando manages to land a few more decent blows, but not enough. He's always one shy of taking Dom down. They're too evenly matched. What Dom gives up in reach, he makes up for with speed. Orlando should have known that.

He knows it now. Knows it with every punch that lands, every solid thunk that will leave bruises. They're both going to have plenty of bruises. But right now, Orlando's too hopped up on adrenaline to feel much. So he keeps swinging, keeps landing blows. Keeps taking them, too.

He can't seem to duck and weave fast enough.

Then, before he's quite sure how he got there, he's on the ground again. Only this time, Dom's with him. They're rolling and grappling, grappling and rolling. And some dim part of Orlando's mind is trying to figure out just how the hell they got there. Of course, that same part is also fast coming to the realization that, whoa, this is sorta hot.

Down, boy.

This is fighting, not fucking.

Odd how sometimes they seem so alike.

Another blow lands, causing stars to dance in front of Orlando's eyes. Ooh, pretty. He shakes his head, strikes back.

From inside the house, Karl peeks through curtains. Seconds later, protesting the entire time, he's dragged off by Viggo. The world doesn't need to see this.

They're rolling again, clutching at anything that will give them an advantage. Orlando hears the rough riiiiiiiiiiiiiiip when Dom's shirt parts under his hands. It's matched, barely a minute later, by the identical sound of Orlando's own shirt ripping. And still the fists fly.

Only they're not quite flying now. They're still moving, but it's slower. Exhaustion's setting in. Or perhaps it's just lack of heart in the fight. They're friends and lovers. So why are they hitting each other?

Orlando's clueless as he sits on Dom, pinning him to the ground. Brilliant red material hangs in tatters from Orlando's torso, jerking with each ragged pull of air into his lungs.

Dom's clothes aren't in any better shape. Dirt stains taint his jeans, and his shirt may as well not even be on his body. Dom himself looks just as bad, with a rapidly darkening bruise high on one cheekbone and blood coloring the corner of his mouth.

Orlando can only imagine how he looks. He can feel blood trickling from his nose, tastes the sharp bite of copper when he licks his lips. They're a damn sorry sight. Both of them.

So he laughs. He can't help it. Can't stop the bubble of mirth that wells up, even though it's killing his ribs.

The laughter just seems to piss Dom off again.

With a grunt and a heave and a startled yelp from Orlando, Dom reverses their positions. Split second. Seems the whole thing's happened that fast.

And now Orlando's face down, spitting grass from his mouth, cursing and struggling. No use. Dom's got a secure grip, using his weight to hold Orlando in place.

"Gedoffmefucker" mingles with a soft "I'm sorry." Silence. Then a faintly surprised "What?"

Quiet apologies. Gentle hands sliding over battered muscles. Lips form words and whispers pass.

The world misses it. None of its business.

Cool air and a warm tongue send a shiver up Orlando's spine. There's more skin on skin, only this time it's not knuckles on bone. It's softer, but not by much. Not by much at all. Shifting and moving. Straining. Arching.

A pink tongue darts out, licks beads of salty sweat from golden skin. Another shiver, then a low moan. Tthhhhwack's of a different sort follow.

It's settled.

It always has been.

The world would see that if it just looked out the window again. It doesn't. Probably for the best. There are some things the world never needs to know.

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