ext_12700 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
amaltheagray.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2004-02-02 11:01 pm
amaltheagray.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-02-02 11:01 pm
Refraction
Title: Refraction
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
amaltheagray
Pairing: Dom, Billy
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This did not really happen. Nothing like this probably ever even remotely happened. This is entirely a figment of my twisted imagination. The real Dom and Billy are the boys who belong to themselves. Believe nothing else.
Summary: 626 words. Globe!smut. Billy watches Dom on the Golden Globes. Inspired in part bycirce_tigana's special hell thread, in part by me wondering why Dom kept making that face. Here there be angst.
Author's notes: Worlds of thank you tocincodemaygirl, aka the fastest!beta!evah. This is my first attempt at rps of any kind. But don't worry about being gentle; I can take it.
Crossposted:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
monaboyd, fellow_shippers
Refraction
Dom made that face whenever he thought of Billy. Nostrils flared, lips pursed, eyes focused on something beyond the camera’s reach.
Billy called him a camera whore. Billy also called him an everyday whore, and a slut, and a fucking poseur who wouldn’t know punk rock if it bit him in the balls. So Dom just sneered when he knew the cameras were rolling, when that botoxed old bat asked if there was going to be a fourth part of the trilogy. Bills was watching and he had dared him.
*
“Make that face at the Globes, Dommie. I want to see you like that in front of everybody.”
Dom was pressed up against the counter and the tile was biting into his stomach. The cold ceramic chilled his entire body, making him catch his breath. Billy was crashing into him from behind and every push banged Dom’s thighs against the hard metallic knobs on the cabinets. He was being compressed, he was tiny, with his eyes closed he could imagine himself fallen into the space between the cabinets and the floor, somewhere in front of Billy’s right foot.
Billy said, “Are you going to do it?” Dom’s eyes flew open and he was staring at the knife rack hanging directly in front of him. He could see them there, reflected. Billy’s face was impassive, his eyes were empty. Dom said nothing. He turned his head and snarled.
*
Billy watched Dom on TV, alone, sitting cross-legged on the couch. And he was doing it, right there on the red carpet, like a fucking rock star. That smirk refracted through millions of cameras, to everywhere in the world. “That suit is bloody awful,” Billy murmured, “looks like someone skinned a rat.” He toyed with the fringes of a chenille throw rug; he stroked his feet idly and felt the thin ridges created by veins and bone. Then Howard won, and Fran went up, and finally there was Peter. And on screen Elijah, the fucking golden boy, biting his lower lip as his eyes welled up and Billy could hear the girls swoon. And suddenly, for one fraction of a moment, there was Dominic.
He looked all of twelve years old, he looked like a painting in lowlight. There was a night when he had looked like that. They had done tequila shots, thrown toasts into the air, toasts to dead lovers and buried friends. Dom had broken, all of a sudden. It was as if Billy let go for a second and Dom shattered into a million shiny pieces on the floor. There had been a broom, and a dustbin, and a night spent huddled on the carpet next to the bed, forehead to forehead, just breathing. Until Billy had whispered, “It’s okay Dom, love. Let it out. I can see you.”
*
“Oh, fuck no. Bill,” Dom thought later when they were all on stage and he and Lij collided so hard their hips must have left bruises. He was too aware of the soft skin under his eyes, the rest of his face felt like something unfamiliar. He rubbed at his wrists and remembered Billy, remembered the way he had looked reflected in the steel knives, remembered being tiny. Dom panicked then, knowing that Bill would be taking the piss at that very moment, knowing how Billy had wanted to be fucked tonight. So he shot a mug at the camera, could smell exactly where it was.
But Bill, on the other side of the world, was not throwing things at the TV or losing the rhythm of a good fuck. He was clutching the phone. He needed to tell Dom that he was sorry, he had already forgiven him. And he was smiling.
Author:
amaltheagrayPairing: Dom, Billy
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This did not really happen. Nothing like this probably ever even remotely happened. This is entirely a figment of my twisted imagination. The real Dom and Billy are the boys who belong to themselves. Believe nothing else.
Summary: 626 words. Globe!smut. Billy watches Dom on the Golden Globes. Inspired in part by
circe_tigana's special hell thread, in part by me wondering why Dom kept making that face. Here there be angst.Author's notes: Worlds of thank you to
cincodemaygirl, aka the fastest!beta!evah. This is my first attempt at rps of any kind. But don't worry about being gentle; I can take it.Crossposted:
monaboyd, fellow_shippersRefraction
Dom made that face whenever he thought of Billy. Nostrils flared, lips pursed, eyes focused on something beyond the camera’s reach.
Billy called him a camera whore. Billy also called him an everyday whore, and a slut, and a fucking poseur who wouldn’t know punk rock if it bit him in the balls. So Dom just sneered when he knew the cameras were rolling, when that botoxed old bat asked if there was going to be a fourth part of the trilogy. Bills was watching and he had dared him.
*
“Make that face at the Globes, Dommie. I want to see you like that in front of everybody.”
Dom was pressed up against the counter and the tile was biting into his stomach. The cold ceramic chilled his entire body, making him catch his breath. Billy was crashing into him from behind and every push banged Dom’s thighs against the hard metallic knobs on the cabinets. He was being compressed, he was tiny, with his eyes closed he could imagine himself fallen into the space between the cabinets and the floor, somewhere in front of Billy’s right foot.
Billy said, “Are you going to do it?” Dom’s eyes flew open and he was staring at the knife rack hanging directly in front of him. He could see them there, reflected. Billy’s face was impassive, his eyes were empty. Dom said nothing. He turned his head and snarled.
*
Billy watched Dom on TV, alone, sitting cross-legged on the couch. And he was doing it, right there on the red carpet, like a fucking rock star. That smirk refracted through millions of cameras, to everywhere in the world. “That suit is bloody awful,” Billy murmured, “looks like someone skinned a rat.” He toyed with the fringes of a chenille throw rug; he stroked his feet idly and felt the thin ridges created by veins and bone. Then Howard won, and Fran went up, and finally there was Peter. And on screen Elijah, the fucking golden boy, biting his lower lip as his eyes welled up and Billy could hear the girls swoon. And suddenly, for one fraction of a moment, there was Dominic.
He looked all of twelve years old, he looked like a painting in lowlight. There was a night when he had looked like that. They had done tequila shots, thrown toasts into the air, toasts to dead lovers and buried friends. Dom had broken, all of a sudden. It was as if Billy let go for a second and Dom shattered into a million shiny pieces on the floor. There had been a broom, and a dustbin, and a night spent huddled on the carpet next to the bed, forehead to forehead, just breathing. Until Billy had whispered, “It’s okay Dom, love. Let it out. I can see you.”
*
“Oh, fuck no. Bill,” Dom thought later when they were all on stage and he and Lij collided so hard their hips must have left bruises. He was too aware of the soft skin under his eyes, the rest of his face felt like something unfamiliar. He rubbed at his wrists and remembered Billy, remembered the way he had looked reflected in the steel knives, remembered being tiny. Dom panicked then, knowing that Bill would be taking the piss at that very moment, knowing how Billy had wanted to be fucked tonight. So he shot a mug at the camera, could smell exactly where it was.
But Bill, on the other side of the world, was not throwing things at the TV or losing the rhythm of a good fuck. He was clutching the phone. He needed to tell Dom that he was sorry, he had already forgiven him. And he was smiling.