focus 1 (lotrips au, dom/elijah, others)
Title: Focus (1/3; part two here.)
Fandom: Lotrips (AU)
Summary: A while back I had this vivid dream, with a very particular mental image of Elijah as a fetish model and Dom as a photographer. So.
Ratings/Warnings: Fetish gear and swearing.
Notes: I'm not a professional photographer, so if there are errors in the photography techniques in this piece, that's why. Just let me know.
More notes: This is a little short. I was wait and post the story as a one-shot, but it has an easy breaking point here, and I wanted to have fic up in time to welcome anatsuno home from the hospital! :-)
*
Dominic and Rupert arrive at the location promptly on time, but in this business, no one's all that keen on virtue, punctuality or otherwise.
Rupert fidgets, shifting the gear in his arms, while Dom knocks again, and then again. "I'm sick of these irresponsible twats," Dom mutters. "Why is it no one who owns a St. Andrew's Cross can keep to a schedule?"
"Are we shooting action today?" Rupert asks, sounding a trifle nervous.
"Nah, just poses. We'll have to strap him up onto it though. Bet when you asked for an internship you never expected to handle whips and chains as much as lenses and film." Dom raps again, forcefully enough to make his knuckles ache. "Come on, come on."
The door finally swings open, framing a dark-haired, terribly fit man in a pristine white terrycloth dressing gown. "Sorry for the wait," he says. "I'm running late today. But the room's all ready for you, come in."
"Thanks," says Dom, "appreciate that. Marton, yeah? Dominic, and this is Rupert."
"Good to meet you," Marton shakes his hand. "Bernard said you'd need the place for a while. I'll be going out. You can ring me when you're starting to clear up. I'll come back. Or if I'm not free, I'll send someone to lock up after you go."
"That's brilliant, thanks."
"You need help bringing things in? I'll be dressed in a second."
"It'll go faster if we could have a hand, yeah, cheers."
"All right. It's this way," Marton leads them through a tidy, impeccably kitted-out lounge, down a corridor, and lets them in to the bedroom. Thank God, Bernard was right, it's on the first floor.
"Blimey," says Rupert as the door opens. He shuts his face fast at Dom's irritated look.
The room spreads tall and wide, all high ceilings and polished floors. The dark wood furnishings look concise and efficient. The bed, the X-shaped cross, the spanking horse, the stand-up cage: they're all made of the same deeply stained wood, or made to look like it.
Everything glows with a deep subdued sheen. It's amazing, though predictably, the light is fucking awful.
"Gorgeous place," Dom says. "It'll be a pleasure to shoot here. Thanks."
Marton waves it off. "Anything for Bernard," he says. "He told me you'd need space for the makeup people as well. You can put them in the den across the hall, we've had a couple of mirrors moved in there. Hang on a tick, I'll be back," and he's already tugging at the belt of his dressing down as he turns and leaves the room. With some small effort Dom doesn't peer around the doorjamb to gawp after him. He's a professional, after all.
Rupert peers round. "Look at this place. What're we going to do if we scratch something up?"
"We're not going to scratch anything up."
Someone has to live in places like this, Dom supposes, and at least Marton seems to be less twatty than most. Loads of them hit on Dom the moment he walks in the door, and then they hang about waiting to stalk the models. It's a ridiculous business, but it pays. Not as much as Marton makes doing whatever he does to splash out on this place, clearly. But it's not bad.
"All right, let's park that over here for now," he motions to Rupert. They unload the stands and poles. Dom picks out the widest, most stable surface in the room, the top of a bureau, to rest the hard case with his camera inside, and even then he has to peel his hands away.
Marton returns, looking far more put together than he did when he answered the door. Dom's interest in him dies off. He sees so many men buffed and polished for the camera that he's lost the taste for ultra-fit blokes, salon tans, the latest styles. These days skinny anoraks turn his head, gawky young men with poky elbows, the more awkward and stumbly the better. Possibly he's been in this business too long.
Another fellow joins them, not as cheekbone-handsome as Marton; this man's face is more narrow and canny, with a sharp nose and very nice eyelashes. Dom appreciates good lashes, though they can be fucking maddening to photograph well. Any road, a good-looking man. It's clear enough why he had Marton running late.
"Craig, this is Dominic and Rupert, the photographers. Bernard sent them over. They're going to be doing a shoot in there with Kitty. Bernard got very excited about using the X-cross."
"Really? I can't wait to see how they turn out. Is he going to be in your bed?"
"Is he?" Marton asks Dom.
"Maybe. Though if there's anything in the room off-limits, don't hesitate to say, we can work around it."
"Nothing," Marton assures him promptly. "He's welcome to the bed, believe me." Craig elbows him.
*
The two of them are well game, helping Rupert and Dom lug in one heavy light after another.
"This is great! I won't have to work out today!" says Craig.
It doesn't take too long; Marton looks as if he could eat a dozen kliegs for breakfast. They're just unloading the last when two cars pull up and people begin piling out. Some Dom's worked with before, some are strangers.
A striking blonde woman leads the way, followed by a runtish sort of fellow with thick spectacles, long scraggly sideburns and a sulky scowl. His hair's a dark scrambled ruff, divided by the shiny band of a huge pair of headphones. Dom's head turns and turns as he walks by.
Liv, Mir and Daisy follow along, trading cheerful waves with Dominic as they pass.
"Was that him?" Marton asks a bit doubtfully.
"Dunno who else it would be. S'pose we'd better find out!" Dom hefts one more compact and carries it in.
"You lot can set up in here in the den," he hears Rupert telling them as he hauls the light down the corridor.
"Dom!" Daisy grins. "Don't you rush, now. You can take your time putting things together. Look at all the work we have to do!" He grips the shorter bloke's shoulders and turns him round to face Dom. So that is Kitty, then. He looks quizzically at Daisy; his headphones must be blasting too loud to hear a word.
"Looks good to me," Dom says with perfect honesty. "Let's put him in front of the lens."
"He doesn't quite go with the outfit yet," says Miranda, unzipping a garment bag. It's a sort of modified schoolboy uniform: a tailored black blazer, a tie, and a starched white cotton shirt with little black plus signs embroidered on the points of the collar. Liv helps Mir free the clothes from the bag. There are no trousers as such, just a tiny black rectangle that Dom realizes is a comically small pair of vinyl hot pants.
Kitty, meanwhile, wears a zippered red sweatshirt open over a Ramones t-shirt, and a pair of ragged jeans with gaping holes all down the legs. He tilts his head and casts wide blue eyes askance at the schoolboy outfit, quite like one of those Felix the Cat clocks. As far as Dom's concerned, putting him in makeup and short shorts would just be gilding the lily. But ultimately this shoot is meant to sell bondage boots and gloves and things, and even Dom has to admit Kitty doesn't currently look the part.
"Come on then," Daisy lifts the headphones off Kitty's ears. "I can't do your hair while you're wearing those!"
Kitty quirks his mouth and answers in a startlingly flat and nasal Yank accent, "How do you know? You didn't even try."
Dom decides he's in love. But never mind that. He has work to do.
*
Go on to part two.
Fandom: Lotrips (AU)
Summary: A while back I had this vivid dream, with a very particular mental image of Elijah as a fetish model and Dom as a photographer. So.
Ratings/Warnings: Fetish gear and swearing.
Notes: I'm not a professional photographer, so if there are errors in the photography techniques in this piece, that's why. Just let me know.
More notes: This is a little short. I was wait and post the story as a one-shot, but it has an easy breaking point here, and I wanted to have fic up in time to welcome anatsuno home from the hospital! :-)
*
Dominic and Rupert arrive at the location promptly on time, but in this business, no one's all that keen on virtue, punctuality or otherwise.
Rupert fidgets, shifting the gear in his arms, while Dom knocks again, and then again. "I'm sick of these irresponsible twats," Dom mutters. "Why is it no one who owns a St. Andrew's Cross can keep to a schedule?"
"Are we shooting action today?" Rupert asks, sounding a trifle nervous.
"Nah, just poses. We'll have to strap him up onto it though. Bet when you asked for an internship you never expected to handle whips and chains as much as lenses and film." Dom raps again, forcefully enough to make his knuckles ache. "Come on, come on."
The door finally swings open, framing a dark-haired, terribly fit man in a pristine white terrycloth dressing gown. "Sorry for the wait," he says. "I'm running late today. But the room's all ready for you, come in."
"Thanks," says Dom, "appreciate that. Marton, yeah? Dominic, and this is Rupert."
"Good to meet you," Marton shakes his hand. "Bernard said you'd need the place for a while. I'll be going out. You can ring me when you're starting to clear up. I'll come back. Or if I'm not free, I'll send someone to lock up after you go."
"That's brilliant, thanks."
"You need help bringing things in? I'll be dressed in a second."
"It'll go faster if we could have a hand, yeah, cheers."
"All right. It's this way," Marton leads them through a tidy, impeccably kitted-out lounge, down a corridor, and lets them in to the bedroom. Thank God, Bernard was right, it's on the first floor.
"Blimey," says Rupert as the door opens. He shuts his face fast at Dom's irritated look.
The room spreads tall and wide, all high ceilings and polished floors. The dark wood furnishings look concise and efficient. The bed, the X-shaped cross, the spanking horse, the stand-up cage: they're all made of the same deeply stained wood, or made to look like it.
Everything glows with a deep subdued sheen. It's amazing, though predictably, the light is fucking awful.
"Gorgeous place," Dom says. "It'll be a pleasure to shoot here. Thanks."
Marton waves it off. "Anything for Bernard," he says. "He told me you'd need space for the makeup people as well. You can put them in the den across the hall, we've had a couple of mirrors moved in there. Hang on a tick, I'll be back," and he's already tugging at the belt of his dressing down as he turns and leaves the room. With some small effort Dom doesn't peer around the doorjamb to gawp after him. He's a professional, after all.
Rupert peers round. "Look at this place. What're we going to do if we scratch something up?"
"We're not going to scratch anything up."
Someone has to live in places like this, Dom supposes, and at least Marton seems to be less twatty than most. Loads of them hit on Dom the moment he walks in the door, and then they hang about waiting to stalk the models. It's a ridiculous business, but it pays. Not as much as Marton makes doing whatever he does to splash out on this place, clearly. But it's not bad.
"All right, let's park that over here for now," he motions to Rupert. They unload the stands and poles. Dom picks out the widest, most stable surface in the room, the top of a bureau, to rest the hard case with his camera inside, and even then he has to peel his hands away.
Marton returns, looking far more put together than he did when he answered the door. Dom's interest in him dies off. He sees so many men buffed and polished for the camera that he's lost the taste for ultra-fit blokes, salon tans, the latest styles. These days skinny anoraks turn his head, gawky young men with poky elbows, the more awkward and stumbly the better. Possibly he's been in this business too long.
Another fellow joins them, not as cheekbone-handsome as Marton; this man's face is more narrow and canny, with a sharp nose and very nice eyelashes. Dom appreciates good lashes, though they can be fucking maddening to photograph well. Any road, a good-looking man. It's clear enough why he had Marton running late.
"Craig, this is Dominic and Rupert, the photographers. Bernard sent them over. They're going to be doing a shoot in there with Kitty. Bernard got very excited about using the X-cross."
"Really? I can't wait to see how they turn out. Is he going to be in your bed?"
"Is he?" Marton asks Dom.
"Maybe. Though if there's anything in the room off-limits, don't hesitate to say, we can work around it."
"Nothing," Marton assures him promptly. "He's welcome to the bed, believe me." Craig elbows him.
*
The two of them are well game, helping Rupert and Dom lug in one heavy light after another.
"This is great! I won't have to work out today!" says Craig.
It doesn't take too long; Marton looks as if he could eat a dozen kliegs for breakfast. They're just unloading the last when two cars pull up and people begin piling out. Some Dom's worked with before, some are strangers.
A striking blonde woman leads the way, followed by a runtish sort of fellow with thick spectacles, long scraggly sideburns and a sulky scowl. His hair's a dark scrambled ruff, divided by the shiny band of a huge pair of headphones. Dom's head turns and turns as he walks by.
Liv, Mir and Daisy follow along, trading cheerful waves with Dominic as they pass.
"Was that him?" Marton asks a bit doubtfully.
"Dunno who else it would be. S'pose we'd better find out!" Dom hefts one more compact and carries it in.
"You lot can set up in here in the den," he hears Rupert telling them as he hauls the light down the corridor.
"Dom!" Daisy grins. "Don't you rush, now. You can take your time putting things together. Look at all the work we have to do!" He grips the shorter bloke's shoulders and turns him round to face Dom. So that is Kitty, then. He looks quizzically at Daisy; his headphones must be blasting too loud to hear a word.
"Looks good to me," Dom says with perfect honesty. "Let's put him in front of the lens."
"He doesn't quite go with the outfit yet," says Miranda, unzipping a garment bag. It's a sort of modified schoolboy uniform: a tailored black blazer, a tie, and a starched white cotton shirt with little black plus signs embroidered on the points of the collar. Liv helps Mir free the clothes from the bag. There are no trousers as such, just a tiny black rectangle that Dom realizes is a comically small pair of vinyl hot pants.
Kitty, meanwhile, wears a zippered red sweatshirt open over a Ramones t-shirt, and a pair of ragged jeans with gaping holes all down the legs. He tilts his head and casts wide blue eyes askance at the schoolboy outfit, quite like one of those Felix the Cat clocks. As far as Dom's concerned, putting him in makeup and short shorts would just be gilding the lily. But ultimately this shoot is meant to sell bondage boots and gloves and things, and even Dom has to admit Kitty doesn't currently look the part.
"Come on then," Daisy lifts the headphones off Kitty's ears. "I can't do your hair while you're wearing those!"
Kitty quirks his mouth and answers in a startlingly flat and nasal Yank accent, "How do you know? You didn't even try."
Dom decides he's in love. But never mind that. He has work to do.
*
Go on to part two.