(no subject)
Myopia
Billy Boyd/Dom Monaghan
NC-17
Summary: Movement in miniature. Nearsighted smut.
Disclaimer: The usual onslaught of lies.
Feedback: Love it! Will feed it with cookies.
Notes: This was originally written over a year ago (May 2005), but-like many fics-sat around unposted and neglected. Until now. *cue ominous music*
Thank you to themoononastick for looking over this in its original form eons ago. And thank you to raynemaiden for assisting with the updated version. <33
Myopia
And it’s back to Los Angeles, where the sun splinters the clouds like a headache right between the eyes. It’s better at night, when the neon whines under the storm and stress of cars’ stereos and screeching brakes.
But it’s better still in a curtained room, with Dom on his knees again, on the floor, where Billy paces.
Everyone, everything blurs on the edges, softened, now round. Person plus person functions instrumentally, under the microscope. This is the nearsighted lens that reduces human to tongue, teeth, fingers and thumbs, places to touch, places to hide. Billy meets Dom skin to skin. Yet it is the rough, red, thick inside skin of his tongue against the smooth, pale, tender outside skin over Dom’s spine. An adaptable fit, concave forming to convex. Circles giving in to lines, Dom arches his back and drops his stomach slowly to the pace of Billy’s open kiss. Breathe out, and lips surround a knob of vertebrae; breathe in, and a tongue-tip draws a thin line of saliva up the gully of a bowed back.
One man on his knees plus another man on his knees does not result in equals. And sex does not equal love. You could study a thousand kisses in the dark, and not one of them would be more than an exercise in selfish want. I’ll touch you if you touch me. Who will lick the other open first?
Then there will be the thousandth plus one, allied against time and the coming of the light. Matching cell for cell, they fuse. Love at the molecular level, recalling the first charge of electrons as the universe ignited billions of years before.
Dom’s eyes spark, headlights stealing through a gap in the crooked blinds. The drone of the engine is no greater than the hum in Billy’s throat. Dom wants to turn around and taste the notes resting in Billy’s lungs. If he bites down on the center of Billy’s neck, will they spill out into Dom’s waiting mouth?
Western music has twelve notes, but Billy thinks there are more. They can’t be transposed into music as we know it. They must be whispered into flesh, held in the crevices where joints meet, not hummed nor chanted nor spoken aloud. Dead languages resurrected by the living. Old stories that cannot be told; they must be felt.
And this is Billy storying Dom. Singing him too, because both are the same, both required to remind us we’re alive, to keep us alive. He licks one freckle on Dom’s left thigh, covers it with his thumb and presses down. A chapter, a verse kept here. And here, volumes to be felt as Billy drags his fingertips over the rounds of Dom’s backside, thumbs pushing toward each other, then pulling Dom apart. His right thumb strokes firmly between Dom’s arse while his left hand returns to Dom’s hip, fingering the little freckle upon which he’s wished: a star in the only constellation in the entire universe that he would care to know.
Trembling, Dom focuses on the floor, the threads of carpet between his forearms where he rests his brow. He counts the shades of muted black, knowing they are different colors when the lights are on. But this room only holds shadow. So that they may hold each other, he thinks. If he turned around now, cupped Billy’s small jaw in his hands, looked into his eyes, he would not find verdant green in there but forest black framed in heavy lids and ginger lashes turned bark brown, thin as the legs of spiders. He counts the grays in the carpet, imagining the hues of the specks in Billy’s eyes (a dozen for the different kinds of gold), and holds his breath.
Inside Dom, Billy swivels his thumb. Dom exhales. Billy pushes in farther, imprinting folds of muscle. He drags his fingernails up the back of Dom’s balls. Dom cries out, head rocking forward onto his arms then settling back, a whine rolling down his throat, falling into a breathy groan, rattling his chest. Billy bends and blows soft air along the crease of Dom’s arse. He blows harder, hotter, but it’s cool against the sweat between his legs.
The hairs of Dom’s body ripple upward. Billy sees them rise above the gooseflesh stippling Dom’s skin.
Between Dom’s legs, the hairs are dark and coarse, crimped, only curling slightly. But they catch the faint light, less ashy and thus less shadowy than the bleached fringe against Dom’s forehead. Below Dom’s navel, under a narrow trail of sparse hairs, Billy knows there is a thick thatch surrounding Dom’s cock. He slides his hand around Dom’s thigh and plunges his fingers into the dense hair there, gripping to feel the movement of muscle under his pads, then combing upward. Root to tip, then back again, Billy feels the moisture of each hair, maps the spaces of skin between each one.
Dom shivers again, and Billy presses his mouth over Dom’s tailbone to breath Dom in through his pores. He sucks in, the minutia of musk and salt and heated breath filling him. This is how Dom enters Billy, as Billy retracts his thumb and replaces it with his cock.
Slow drive: Billy sinks in, his body on idle, his heart and head accelerating.
The tightness pushes back on Billy’s foreskin, opens him to Dom as he slips inside. And they meet. Wet muscle and skin, alert and raw within seconds, within a handful of hard thrusts. Back and forward. Meeting here, and here, and here.
Dom’s eyes squint shut and he spots pinpoints of white-like starlight-behind his lids, head reeling. The blood in his cock throbs, and the stars in his eyes blink in and out with his pulse.
“Touch me,” Dom moans. If I can’t touch you, he thinks.
And Billy’s hand is on him, fingers clenching into a mean fist, pumping fiercely. He jerks Dom off as if he’s pulling himself through the other side, pushing in and in, rocking Dom on his knees. The floor creaks with each push-pull, their ragged breath punctuating the silences between, their rushing heartbeats thrumming over the sound of everything else.
Here, breath plus blood equals timelessness, desire crashing the spaces together.
Billy curls forward, forehead in the curve of Dom’s back. Dom’s back curls down into the curve of his neck, which is arched over his arms, forehead pressed and rolling sweat-slick in his open hands. He can feel his lashes wet against his fingers and the folded skin of his palms moist against his cheeks. But what he feels most his Billy in him and around him, burning and burning.
Billy grips him so hard Dom’s biting the heel of his hand, tasting salt and something metallic, and he’s coming, over Billy, onto himself. Dom rolls his hips backward, feels the head of his cock smear smooth and hot against his stomach. He flexes his muscles against Billy and hears a choked cough. Nails dig into his thigh as if they would pierce through. Billy’s jaw grinds into Dom’s ribs when he comes; it feels like bone meeting bone.
They are done, but Dom swears Billy is still in his marrow. And, when he unfolds and rolls onto his back, he sees Billy rubbing his chin, thinks he’s rubbing microscopic bits of Dom into him. To hold.
When dawn kicks through the dust of the Los Angeles sky, it starts the cars on streets and the cacophonous human voices that take the place of birdsong.
But it’s better in a closed room, where the light can be filtered by drawn curtains. And the sound of sleep-heavy breathing recalls a rhythm older than any drums, maybe older than the ocean.
Beyond time, Dom dreams in color. And Billy wakes first to watch the movement beneath Dom’s eyelids. He shifts onto his side, props his temple against his palm, and traces Dom lengthwise with his finger. Down Dom’s upturned cheek, along his creased neck, round the hunch of his shoulder, over the undulating muscle of his upper arm before it disappears beneath the pillow, back up and dipping into the light hair under his arm, then down his side, rib over rib, into the concave of his hips, over the convex of his thigh. He stops. Four pink crescents mark Dom’s skin, one of them over the small brown freckle like a bird’s eye. Tracing the arc of the semicircle, he pivots his fingers to complete the shape, circling it again, then once more.
Billy kisses his finger. He returns his finger to that spot on Dom’s thigh. And he holds it there, hopes it will stay.
Further note: A “hold” or sustention of a tone in written music is often referred to as a “bird’s eye” for it is symbolized via an arch over a dot.
Billy Boyd/Dom Monaghan
NC-17
Summary: Movement in miniature. Nearsighted smut.
Disclaimer: The usual onslaught of lies.
Feedback: Love it! Will feed it with cookies.
Notes: This was originally written over a year ago (May 2005), but-like many fics-sat around unposted and neglected. Until now. *cue ominous music*
Thank you to themoononastick for looking over this in its original form eons ago. And thank you to raynemaiden for assisting with the updated version. <33
Myopia
And it’s back to Los Angeles, where the sun splinters the clouds like a headache right between the eyes. It’s better at night, when the neon whines under the storm and stress of cars’ stereos and screeching brakes.
But it’s better still in a curtained room, with Dom on his knees again, on the floor, where Billy paces.
Everyone, everything blurs on the edges, softened, now round. Person plus person functions instrumentally, under the microscope. This is the nearsighted lens that reduces human to tongue, teeth, fingers and thumbs, places to touch, places to hide. Billy meets Dom skin to skin. Yet it is the rough, red, thick inside skin of his tongue against the smooth, pale, tender outside skin over Dom’s spine. An adaptable fit, concave forming to convex. Circles giving in to lines, Dom arches his back and drops his stomach slowly to the pace of Billy’s open kiss. Breathe out, and lips surround a knob of vertebrae; breathe in, and a tongue-tip draws a thin line of saliva up the gully of a bowed back.
One man on his knees plus another man on his knees does not result in equals. And sex does not equal love. You could study a thousand kisses in the dark, and not one of them would be more than an exercise in selfish want. I’ll touch you if you touch me. Who will lick the other open first?
Then there will be the thousandth plus one, allied against time and the coming of the light. Matching cell for cell, they fuse. Love at the molecular level, recalling the first charge of electrons as the universe ignited billions of years before.
Dom’s eyes spark, headlights stealing through a gap in the crooked blinds. The drone of the engine is no greater than the hum in Billy’s throat. Dom wants to turn around and taste the notes resting in Billy’s lungs. If he bites down on the center of Billy’s neck, will they spill out into Dom’s waiting mouth?
Western music has twelve notes, but Billy thinks there are more. They can’t be transposed into music as we know it. They must be whispered into flesh, held in the crevices where joints meet, not hummed nor chanted nor spoken aloud. Dead languages resurrected by the living. Old stories that cannot be told; they must be felt.
And this is Billy storying Dom. Singing him too, because both are the same, both required to remind us we’re alive, to keep us alive. He licks one freckle on Dom’s left thigh, covers it with his thumb and presses down. A chapter, a verse kept here. And here, volumes to be felt as Billy drags his fingertips over the rounds of Dom’s backside, thumbs pushing toward each other, then pulling Dom apart. His right thumb strokes firmly between Dom’s arse while his left hand returns to Dom’s hip, fingering the little freckle upon which he’s wished: a star in the only constellation in the entire universe that he would care to know.
Trembling, Dom focuses on the floor, the threads of carpet between his forearms where he rests his brow. He counts the shades of muted black, knowing they are different colors when the lights are on. But this room only holds shadow. So that they may hold each other, he thinks. If he turned around now, cupped Billy’s small jaw in his hands, looked into his eyes, he would not find verdant green in there but forest black framed in heavy lids and ginger lashes turned bark brown, thin as the legs of spiders. He counts the grays in the carpet, imagining the hues of the specks in Billy’s eyes (a dozen for the different kinds of gold), and holds his breath.
Inside Dom, Billy swivels his thumb. Dom exhales. Billy pushes in farther, imprinting folds of muscle. He drags his fingernails up the back of Dom’s balls. Dom cries out, head rocking forward onto his arms then settling back, a whine rolling down his throat, falling into a breathy groan, rattling his chest. Billy bends and blows soft air along the crease of Dom’s arse. He blows harder, hotter, but it’s cool against the sweat between his legs.
The hairs of Dom’s body ripple upward. Billy sees them rise above the gooseflesh stippling Dom’s skin.
Between Dom’s legs, the hairs are dark and coarse, crimped, only curling slightly. But they catch the faint light, less ashy and thus less shadowy than the bleached fringe against Dom’s forehead. Below Dom’s navel, under a narrow trail of sparse hairs, Billy knows there is a thick thatch surrounding Dom’s cock. He slides his hand around Dom’s thigh and plunges his fingers into the dense hair there, gripping to feel the movement of muscle under his pads, then combing upward. Root to tip, then back again, Billy feels the moisture of each hair, maps the spaces of skin between each one.
Dom shivers again, and Billy presses his mouth over Dom’s tailbone to breath Dom in through his pores. He sucks in, the minutia of musk and salt and heated breath filling him. This is how Dom enters Billy, as Billy retracts his thumb and replaces it with his cock.
Slow drive: Billy sinks in, his body on idle, his heart and head accelerating.
The tightness pushes back on Billy’s foreskin, opens him to Dom as he slips inside. And they meet. Wet muscle and skin, alert and raw within seconds, within a handful of hard thrusts. Back and forward. Meeting here, and here, and here.
Dom’s eyes squint shut and he spots pinpoints of white-like starlight-behind his lids, head reeling. The blood in his cock throbs, and the stars in his eyes blink in and out with his pulse.
“Touch me,” Dom moans. If I can’t touch you, he thinks.
And Billy’s hand is on him, fingers clenching into a mean fist, pumping fiercely. He jerks Dom off as if he’s pulling himself through the other side, pushing in and in, rocking Dom on his knees. The floor creaks with each push-pull, their ragged breath punctuating the silences between, their rushing heartbeats thrumming over the sound of everything else.
Here, breath plus blood equals timelessness, desire crashing the spaces together.
Billy curls forward, forehead in the curve of Dom’s back. Dom’s back curls down into the curve of his neck, which is arched over his arms, forehead pressed and rolling sweat-slick in his open hands. He can feel his lashes wet against his fingers and the folded skin of his palms moist against his cheeks. But what he feels most his Billy in him and around him, burning and burning.
Billy grips him so hard Dom’s biting the heel of his hand, tasting salt and something metallic, and he’s coming, over Billy, onto himself. Dom rolls his hips backward, feels the head of his cock smear smooth and hot against his stomach. He flexes his muscles against Billy and hears a choked cough. Nails dig into his thigh as if they would pierce through. Billy’s jaw grinds into Dom’s ribs when he comes; it feels like bone meeting bone.
They are done, but Dom swears Billy is still in his marrow. And, when he unfolds and rolls onto his back, he sees Billy rubbing his chin, thinks he’s rubbing microscopic bits of Dom into him. To hold.
When dawn kicks through the dust of the Los Angeles sky, it starts the cars on streets and the cacophonous human voices that take the place of birdsong.
But it’s better in a closed room, where the light can be filtered by drawn curtains. And the sound of sleep-heavy breathing recalls a rhythm older than any drums, maybe older than the ocean.
Beyond time, Dom dreams in color. And Billy wakes first to watch the movement beneath Dom’s eyelids. He shifts onto his side, props his temple against his palm, and traces Dom lengthwise with his finger. Down Dom’s upturned cheek, along his creased neck, round the hunch of his shoulder, over the undulating muscle of his upper arm before it disappears beneath the pillow, back up and dipping into the light hair under his arm, then down his side, rib over rib, into the concave of his hips, over the convex of his thigh. He stops. Four pink crescents mark Dom’s skin, one of them over the small brown freckle like a bird’s eye. Tracing the arc of the semicircle, he pivots his fingers to complete the shape, circling it again, then once more.
Billy kisses his finger. He returns his finger to that spot on Dom’s thigh. And he holds it there, hopes it will stay.
Further note: A “hold” or sustention of a tone in written music is often referred to as a “bird’s eye” for it is symbolized via an arch over a dot.