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fellowshippers2003-07-20 08:50 pm
shellies.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2003-07-20 08:50 pm
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Title: Dancing, Dances and All Things Dance-Related
Author: Shelly
Pairing: Billy/Dom
Rating: R
Summary: Wherein Dom doesn’t like clubs and then he does.
Archive: Little Things.
Disclaimer: I don’t know ‘em and I made it all up.
Notes: For the Lotrips ClubFic Challenge. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
andrealyn and captnobvious for the betas and suggestions. I also had to resist every urge to call this fic "Lord of the Dance." Also, apologies for my sucktastic title and summary.
Manchester, England, 1989
Dominic stood nervously at the entrance of the hall, shuffling his feet back and forth along the tile. He wasn’t much for these events, and had managed to avoid them until this night when his mum had prodded him out the door, straightening his blazer and tie and blowing him a kiss.
His first real dance. He knew the second the shiny envelope had come in the post that he was done for. His mother had seen it (and why he had not gotten to the post first he was still unsure, though he greatly regretted it) and she had begun to prepare him for this night of humiliation. Her little boy, just on his way to becoming a man, and it was a natural step in this process known as adolescence for him to attend.
But standing at the entranceway, Dominic bemoaned his mother’s enthusiasm once more. The first thing he noticed was that he was overdressed. None of the other boys were wearing blazers, and his navy blue stood out against the sea of white polo shirts, just another reminder that he hadn’t quite found his place yet in England.
He looked around and was startled by a shove against his right shoulder. He watched as a pair of his classmates walked into the hall, the girl (Kate?) throwing an apology over her shoulder as she was pulled onto the dance floor by her date.
This was another noteworthy difference between him and the other attendees. He was lacking a dance partner. This, of course, was because he hadn’t asked anyone, in hopes that he could still weasel his way out of this. By the time he had come to accept his fate, all the pretty girls had been taken.
As he made his way into the hall, he wondered if that had made any difference. His ears were too big, his chin too defined. He had moved into town too late to try out for the local football league, so he wouldn’t even have that going for him until next year. Shrugging off his blazer and loosening his tie to remove it, Dominic found a row of folding chairs set up next to the long refreshment table. He found an empty seat and plopped down into it.
Glancing to his left, then right, he realized he was sitting with the rest of the dateless—the girls who weren’t quite as pretty, the boys who still wore braces on their teeth. Resigning himself to a lonely night (quick glance at the clock, only three hours till his father would be there to pick him up), Dominic pulled his pocket sketchpad and pencil from his trousers and began to write.
“I hate dances and dancing and all things dance-related.”
Wellington, New Zealand, 2000
Dom took another sip from his pint glass, scanning the crowd. He really hated places like this. He wondered once more why he had agreed to let Orlando pick the destination. He’d take a crowded pub, with its comforting rumble of voices and free-flowing beer, to this any day.
The club was called Infectious. Dom had laughed when Orlando suggested it, said that maybe relating a club to communicable diseases wasn’t the best method of drawing a crowd, but Orli had sworn that it was the place to be in Wellington. Apparently he was right. The floor was packed, so tightly that Dom’s back was pressed against the bar counter, and every few minutes some overly exuberant dancer would push his or her ass against him, causing his spine to press painfully into the fake wood. He mumbled something to himself about hating dancing, and was reminded yet again of why he disliked places like this.
He felt out of place.
Every time he was dragged off to one of these nightclubs, he did the same thing—he sat or stood with his beer, watching the crowd, and occasionally talked with his mates when they stopped to take a break or refill their glass. He usually stayed long enough to not be pestered the next day, but left with enough time to maintain that he hadn’t been a complete wanker.
Every once in a while, he would be dragged out onto the dance floor by Elijah or Billy or Orlando, and he would dance awkwardly with them until he feigned a cramp or something equally ludicrous, and then make his way back to his refuge at the bar.
He generally avoided the dancing for two reasons, the first being that he couldn’t dance to save his life. He swayed with the rhythm well enough, but when it came to that body-grinding, hip-thrusting, simulated-sex bit, he always felt silly. The second reason tied into the first—Dom’s chances of going home with someone increased by leaps and bounds if he simply avoided the dancing and relied on good old charm and wit.
This second part was the focus of his mission tonight. He was tired, frankly, of going home alone and it was a lot harder to convince oneself that one was not a wanker when one went home and had a wank.
A flash of silver, illuminated briefly by the flashing green and yellow lights, caught his eye, and he followed it, realizing that it was attached to Billy. He was dancing, if one could call it that, near the outskirts of the crowd and Dom was able to get a clear view of his friend. Billy didn’t dance so much as he glided, moving lithely across the floor. He watched as small arms, female arms, wrapped around Billy’s waist. Positive he couldn’t be seen by Billy, Dom settled onto a barstool, completing his voyeuristic tendencies by scooting the stool a little to the left to better see the sweat gleam on Billy’s chest from under his open shirt. This was the only part about clubbing that Dom truly enjoyed.
He was addicted to the way Billy moved.
Dom took another sip of his beer, feeling suddenly parched as Billy’s head fell back onto a slender shoulder, his hips grinding backwards into the small frame. He said something to the girl, who then moved to Billy’s front, wrapping her arms around his neck and slipping a barely-clothed leg between his thighs. Billy’s eyes closed briefly, but when they opened, they seemed to lock with Dom’s. Shit.
Billy leaned to say something else to the girl and kissed her cheek, then made his way over to Dom’s spot at the counter. “Like what you see, Dom?” he asked, all flashes of teeth and cheeky grin. Dom sputtered mid-sip and watched stupidly as Billy took the glass from his hand, downing the beer before setting it on the bar. He grabbed Dom’s hand and led him back out to the floor.
“No, Billy, I’m not much for dancing,” Dom tried to protest, but Billy shushed him with a look. He leaned forward, whispered in Dom’s ear, “You’ve had sex, haven’t you, Dom?”
“Yes,” he replied, a little too loudly, seeing as how he was practically yelling into Billy’s ear.
“It’s the same thing, love,” Billy smiled. “Just with trousers.” He pulled Dom close to him, close enough that Dom could now feel the sweat on Billy’s chest through his own thin t-shirt, and this thought only began to register as Billy’s hand found its way down his back, settling comfortably on Dom’s ass. Speaking of trousers, Dom’s were…tighter than he recalled.
The music picked up and Billy began a fast grind into Dom’s hips. Dom moved back against him, allowing himself to stop thinking for once and just feel. And feeling was doing plenty to occupy him, as his senses were on overload. The smell of sweat, Billy’s fading cologne, the wet heat of their chests against each other. The throbbing beat, pulsating through Dom’s body, the equally rhythmic pounding of Dom’s pulse. The hardness against Billy’s thigh, matching the one pressing against his own.
The lips on his neck were unexpected but welcome, and Billy ran his tongue over Dom’s leather strap of a necklace, up to the shell of his ear. He bit lightly at the lobe before working his mouth up Dom’s face, feeling the stubble scratch against his own cheek. Their lips met in a frenzy, and Dom definitely knew what to do in this situation.
Their teeth clashed a bit before they found a good rhythm, tongues moving enthusiastically over one another. When Billy’s left hand snuck between their bodies, fingers pressing into hard heat, Dom gasped, breaking the kiss.
“Was that too bold?” Billy asked, his smile faltering a bit with the concern of having gone too far.
Dom shook his head, pressed his lips against Billy’s once more before responding. “Would it be too bold to say ‘let’s get the fuck out of here’?”
Billy laughed, took his hand, and guided him off the floor and toward the door.
Dom stopped at the entranceway, watching Billy tell Orlando that they were leaving. He had a feeling that going out dancing would no longer be an unappealing thought.
End.
Author: Shelly
Pairing: Billy/Dom
Rating: R
Summary: Wherein Dom doesn’t like clubs and then he does.
Archive: Little Things.
Disclaimer: I don’t know ‘em and I made it all up.
Notes: For the Lotrips ClubFic Challenge. Thanks to
andrealyn and captnobvious for the betas and suggestions. I also had to resist every urge to call this fic "Lord of the Dance." Also, apologies for my sucktastic title and summary.Dancing, Dances and All Things Dance-Related
Manchester, England, 1989
Dominic stood nervously at the entrance of the hall, shuffling his feet back and forth along the tile. He wasn’t much for these events, and had managed to avoid them until this night when his mum had prodded him out the door, straightening his blazer and tie and blowing him a kiss.
His first real dance. He knew the second the shiny envelope had come in the post that he was done for. His mother had seen it (and why he had not gotten to the post first he was still unsure, though he greatly regretted it) and she had begun to prepare him for this night of humiliation. Her little boy, just on his way to becoming a man, and it was a natural step in this process known as adolescence for him to attend.
But standing at the entranceway, Dominic bemoaned his mother’s enthusiasm once more. The first thing he noticed was that he was overdressed. None of the other boys were wearing blazers, and his navy blue stood out against the sea of white polo shirts, just another reminder that he hadn’t quite found his place yet in England.
He looked around and was startled by a shove against his right shoulder. He watched as a pair of his classmates walked into the hall, the girl (Kate?) throwing an apology over her shoulder as she was pulled onto the dance floor by her date.
This was another noteworthy difference between him and the other attendees. He was lacking a dance partner. This, of course, was because he hadn’t asked anyone, in hopes that he could still weasel his way out of this. By the time he had come to accept his fate, all the pretty girls had been taken.
As he made his way into the hall, he wondered if that had made any difference. His ears were too big, his chin too defined. He had moved into town too late to try out for the local football league, so he wouldn’t even have that going for him until next year. Shrugging off his blazer and loosening his tie to remove it, Dominic found a row of folding chairs set up next to the long refreshment table. He found an empty seat and plopped down into it.
Glancing to his left, then right, he realized he was sitting with the rest of the dateless—the girls who weren’t quite as pretty, the boys who still wore braces on their teeth. Resigning himself to a lonely night (quick glance at the clock, only three hours till his father would be there to pick him up), Dominic pulled his pocket sketchpad and pencil from his trousers and began to write.
“I hate dances and dancing and all things dance-related.”
Wellington, New Zealand, 2000
Dom took another sip from his pint glass, scanning the crowd. He really hated places like this. He wondered once more why he had agreed to let Orlando pick the destination. He’d take a crowded pub, with its comforting rumble of voices and free-flowing beer, to this any day.
The club was called Infectious. Dom had laughed when Orlando suggested it, said that maybe relating a club to communicable diseases wasn’t the best method of drawing a crowd, but Orli had sworn that it was the place to be in Wellington. Apparently he was right. The floor was packed, so tightly that Dom’s back was pressed against the bar counter, and every few minutes some overly exuberant dancer would push his or her ass against him, causing his spine to press painfully into the fake wood. He mumbled something to himself about hating dancing, and was reminded yet again of why he disliked places like this.
He felt out of place.
Every time he was dragged off to one of these nightclubs, he did the same thing—he sat or stood with his beer, watching the crowd, and occasionally talked with his mates when they stopped to take a break or refill their glass. He usually stayed long enough to not be pestered the next day, but left with enough time to maintain that he hadn’t been a complete wanker.
Every once in a while, he would be dragged out onto the dance floor by Elijah or Billy or Orlando, and he would dance awkwardly with them until he feigned a cramp or something equally ludicrous, and then make his way back to his refuge at the bar.
He generally avoided the dancing for two reasons, the first being that he couldn’t dance to save his life. He swayed with the rhythm well enough, but when it came to that body-grinding, hip-thrusting, simulated-sex bit, he always felt silly. The second reason tied into the first—Dom’s chances of going home with someone increased by leaps and bounds if he simply avoided the dancing and relied on good old charm and wit.
This second part was the focus of his mission tonight. He was tired, frankly, of going home alone and it was a lot harder to convince oneself that one was not a wanker when one went home and had a wank.
A flash of silver, illuminated briefly by the flashing green and yellow lights, caught his eye, and he followed it, realizing that it was attached to Billy. He was dancing, if one could call it that, near the outskirts of the crowd and Dom was able to get a clear view of his friend. Billy didn’t dance so much as he glided, moving lithely across the floor. He watched as small arms, female arms, wrapped around Billy’s waist. Positive he couldn’t be seen by Billy, Dom settled onto a barstool, completing his voyeuristic tendencies by scooting the stool a little to the left to better see the sweat gleam on Billy’s chest from under his open shirt. This was the only part about clubbing that Dom truly enjoyed.
He was addicted to the way Billy moved.
Dom took another sip of his beer, feeling suddenly parched as Billy’s head fell back onto a slender shoulder, his hips grinding backwards into the small frame. He said something to the girl, who then moved to Billy’s front, wrapping her arms around his neck and slipping a barely-clothed leg between his thighs. Billy’s eyes closed briefly, but when they opened, they seemed to lock with Dom’s. Shit.
Billy leaned to say something else to the girl and kissed her cheek, then made his way over to Dom’s spot at the counter. “Like what you see, Dom?” he asked, all flashes of teeth and cheeky grin. Dom sputtered mid-sip and watched stupidly as Billy took the glass from his hand, downing the beer before setting it on the bar. He grabbed Dom’s hand and led him back out to the floor.
“No, Billy, I’m not much for dancing,” Dom tried to protest, but Billy shushed him with a look. He leaned forward, whispered in Dom’s ear, “You’ve had sex, haven’t you, Dom?”
“Yes,” he replied, a little too loudly, seeing as how he was practically yelling into Billy’s ear.
“It’s the same thing, love,” Billy smiled. “Just with trousers.” He pulled Dom close to him, close enough that Dom could now feel the sweat on Billy’s chest through his own thin t-shirt, and this thought only began to register as Billy’s hand found its way down his back, settling comfortably on Dom’s ass. Speaking of trousers, Dom’s were…tighter than he recalled.
The music picked up and Billy began a fast grind into Dom’s hips. Dom moved back against him, allowing himself to stop thinking for once and just feel. And feeling was doing plenty to occupy him, as his senses were on overload. The smell of sweat, Billy’s fading cologne, the wet heat of their chests against each other. The throbbing beat, pulsating through Dom’s body, the equally rhythmic pounding of Dom’s pulse. The hardness against Billy’s thigh, matching the one pressing against his own.
The lips on his neck were unexpected but welcome, and Billy ran his tongue over Dom’s leather strap of a necklace, up to the shell of his ear. He bit lightly at the lobe before working his mouth up Dom’s face, feeling the stubble scratch against his own cheek. Their lips met in a frenzy, and Dom definitely knew what to do in this situation.
Their teeth clashed a bit before they found a good rhythm, tongues moving enthusiastically over one another. When Billy’s left hand snuck between their bodies, fingers pressing into hard heat, Dom gasped, breaking the kiss.
“Was that too bold?” Billy asked, his smile faltering a bit with the concern of having gone too far.
Dom shook his head, pressed his lips against Billy’s once more before responding. “Would it be too bold to say ‘let’s get the fuck out of here’?”
Billy laughed, took his hand, and guided him off the floor and toward the door.
Dom stopped at the entranceway, watching Billy tell Orlando that they were leaving. He had a feeling that going out dancing would no longer be an unappealing thought.
End.