REPOST: queen's gambit 1 (dom/billy)
Title: Queen's Gambit
Authors: algernon_mouse and tarteaucitron
Rating: Mature
Disclaimer: Fiction
Beta: secrethappiness, generous and conscientious friend to authors, who put up with much pushiness with only a modicum of arsiness in return ;)
Here is: old-school fic - kilts, cigarettes, nightclubs, lollies, a decent pinch of good old fashioned NC-17. Oh, and some largely extended metaphors.
A/N: This tig was long in the making and saw us through exams, holidays, tears, laughter. It's a big bugger (c.11,500 words), so posted in 2 parts. Part 2 is linked at the bottom of Part 1.
The problem with Billy, and Dom feels he's somewhat of an authority on the subject, isn't that he's straight (confused, perhaps, but definitely not straight) or even that he's Scottish, which yes, Dom will admit he does hold against him - but that he takes so long to make a move.
"Are you going to go anytime soon?" Dom sighs. It's already been three minutes by Dom's calculations and his tailbone is starting to ache from the plastic seat. He shifts a little, trying to work it out, but it doesn't seem to help.
"I'm thinking," Billy says. "Don't rush me."
"You can only castle when the king's not in check," Dom says. He's rewarded by Billy's sharp glare at him over the board. "What?" Dom asks. "I'm just pointing that out."
Billy goes back to knuckling his chin and staring at the board. He doesn't say anything. Dom blows one of Merry's curls off his forehead and starts kicking his toes against the craft table next to them.
"Don't do that," Billy snaps. "Don't fidget. I don't do that when you're making a move."
"I don't take six hours!" Dom whines. "Fuck."
Billy smirks and leans forward. "Check," he says.
"You little fucker!" says Dom, craning over the table and staring at the board. "How the hell did you do that?"
There's a rustle from a deckchair nearby, where Ian is sitting, robed and bearded, shaking out a week-old copy of The Guardian, his desert-island luxury.
"Queen's Gambit," Ian announces sharply. "Always pays off in the end."
Dom starts and goggles at Ian, who doesn't bother to look up, but tosses his long white hair cryptically. Underneath the gum and gelatin, Dom's ears spike with heat. He looks back anxiously across the chessboard, but Billy's eyes are wide, green and innocent, despite the provocative twist of his fringe.
"Come on, then. Let's be having you." Billy's chin nods downwards to the board.
Dom glances down, up, and back down again, shaking his head a little. He cracks his knuckles and wiggles his fingers. Chess. Come on. Just as he's picking up his rook for a killer move, Ian saunters past, paper under his arm, and without even looking at the board, announces, "Mate in two moves. You're buggered, Dominic."
The killer move is lost to posterity and a rook hovers uncertainly in mid-air, as Dom stares open-mouthed at the retreating wizard.
Billy snorts. "Are you going to be going any time soon?" He mimics Dom in a slightly falsetto voice as Elijah runs shrieking by their table. Both Billy and Dom look up at Elijah's quickly retreating figure, watching as he dodges his way through a maze of loose chairs and people. Billy cocks his head at Dom. Dom shrugs and goes back to staring down at the board between them.
"Never a good sign when Elijah's running around screaming like a little girl," Billy remarks mildly.
"Mmm-hm," Dom nods his agreement.
"You cunt!" Orlando is shouting after him, with only one Elvish ear intact. "You'd better be running - to fucking Mordor!"
"There," Dom concedes finally, sliding his piece across the board. "Finish me."
"Don't feel bad, Dommie," Billy says, closing in for the kill, "You almost had me. Play again?"
Dom shakes his head, and stands up. "Fucking back is killing me," he says, stretching. There is a low series of cracks and pops as Dom stands there twisting out the kinks and working his shoulders in large circles. "Think they'll be ready for us soon?"
"Don't know," Billy shrugs, then yawns and settles back in his seat. "Wake me up when they call," he says.
Dom nods and wanders over to the service table to get a drink. "What's taking so long? Have you heard?" The orc beside him grabs the last bagel and Dom watches him as he splits it open and spreads it thick with cream cheese. "Don't know," he says. Dom sighs and takes his cup back to where Billy is dozing.
"Hate waiting around," Dom grumbles as he sits back down in his chair next to Billy. The tent is full of people milling about, orcs sitting with their elbows on the tables, playing cards, elves drinking tea. There is a lazy, bored vibe that's settled over everything and Dom doesn't like it. He hates the lull between scenes, and hates even more they're delayed.
Viggo nods curtly at Dom as he strides by. He walks like a king, Dom thinks, and it's not the first time that he's noticed. Dom likes to think that the elves are really elves: lean and ethereal-looking, the orcs tell crude jokes and laugh loudly, and well, Viggo is King. "Hobbits," he throws over his shoulder, "we're rolling."
"Bill." Dom elbows Billy sharply. "Time to fall in. Let's go."
Billy is on his feet surprisingly quickly for someone who was apparently asleep. Together they march back to Balin's tomb, where a new door has been put together to re-shoot the orcs breaking through. There's another wait while Orlando has his left ear reapplied. Dom, Billy, Sean and Elijah stand around, hunched in their long grey robes, looking like a coffee morning in an old folks' home. Dom glares at Elijah.
"It's brass fucking monkeys in here. Why can't you keep your hands in your pockets for once, instead of tormenting the elf?"
"Brass whatters?" It’s water off a duck's back. Dom sighs.
Orlando finally returns, all ears and hair as usual, and they strip off the robes and their plastic foot bags, and stand shivering in full hobbit get-up in Balin's drafty commandeered warehouse.
By the time the orcs have broken through the door for a second time, and a couple of fight sequences have been filmed, Dom is bone-chilled. Peter gives the order and Dom and Billy creak uncomfortably to their knees next to Ian. This is worse: the cold hard floor bites into Dom's kneecaps and a painful chill stabs up his thighs. He moans, frustrated, as the camera crew stops setting up to check lighting angles.
"Visualise, Dom," says Billy. "Close your eyes, relax and pretend you're hugging a hot water bottle."
Dom closes his eyes and pictures a Fozzie Bear-covered bottle, and Superman duvet. He imagines crawling in under the covers. For a moment nothing happens, then ever so slowly he feels slight warmth in the region of his backside, radiating out a little.
Hey, it's working. There's definitely warmth there, and a little - pressure? And by pressure he means - cupping. Then the cupping becomes a short sharp squeeze.
Dom's eyes click open, startled, and if he wasn't on his knees he would jump forward an inch or two.
"What the fuck-?"
"Queen's Gambit," hisses Billy.
They both stare straight ahead.
The marker snaps shut, and Gandalf's voice booms loudly over their heads. When the cameras are rolling, Dom doesn't exist anymore, but the second Pete yells, “That's it everyone”, Dom is on his feet again and shouldering Billy off to the side, roughly.
"What the fuck was that?" Dom growls at him, as though it wasn’t two hours after the fact.
Billy looks a little surprised, and Dom can feel him shrug under the grip of his fingers. "You're hurting my arms," Billy says finally, and Dom lets him go with a shake. He wants to punch Billy, slap him, anything to wipe the innocent smile off of his face.
"Hey!" Elijah says, crashing into Dom's side and knocking him forward into Billy, "We're going out tonight. Orli says there's a band playing, you wanna come with?"
"Huh?" Dom says, turning to look at Elijah.
Elijah sighs. "Earth to Dom. Bar. Drinking. Band. Tonight. Do you want to come?"
"Sure," Billy says easily, and he side-steps around Dom, merging back into the flow of people milling about the set. "Love to, Doodle. Who's playing? Do you know?" They've already started to walk away and Dom is left clenching his jaw painfully.
"Dom?" Billy calls out, now that he's a safe three metres away. "You coming?"
Dom knuckles his fists deep into his pockets and falls into step beside Orlando, who is already picking at his ears. "Did Lij tell you about tonight? One of those shit little bands that you and him are always going on about. Should be fun."
Dom nods, eyeing Billy and Elijah walking ahead of them. "Yeah, mate. Should be fun."
*
Dom's an easy-going chap, anyone will tell you that. He likes a laugh. Remember tig? That was Dom. Dom had started that off, and Dom had kept it going, had gleefully cranked it up, even when Sean silently begged him to show a little mercy. That was a joke and a half. That was humour. Of course he likes a laugh. What Dom doesn't like is the suspicion that's worming around in the pit of his stomach, a whispering feeling that this particular joke's on him. And it feels like a nasty dark little joke.
Dom's back in his flat, pulling a tight red t-shirt over his pale winter chest. He looks at himself in the mirror. The face that looks back is scowling, brows drawn down and together, mouth a sullen lop-sided line. Normally he'd strike a pose, examine his teeth, colour in his eyes. Tonight, he rips off the red t-shirt and tugs on an old grey jumper instead. His hair goes momentarily static and bounces around his head. He looks speculatively at the leather cuffs lying on the table. No, fuck it.
He goes to the kitchen and pulls a bottle of beer from the freezer. He screws the cap off, and stands against the sink for a moment or two, slugging from the bottle, enjoying the first warm seep of alcohol into his blood through the thin vessels of his mouth.
A thought occurs to him and then he's poking around the kitchen, lifting magazines and opening cupboards. He finds what he's looking for in the drawer under the cutlery. Marlboro Reds. He gives the packet a shake, then opens it. Two left. Billy and Elijah will be there in ten minutes. These should keep him going till then. Another hunt ensues for a lighter. Matches? Nothing. Dom fashions a taper from an old envelope and lights the cigarette from the gas stove, scattering glowing paper embers on the kitchen floor. Spikes are smoothed as the first of the smoke hits his lungs, and by the time his ten minutes are up, Dom feels armed and ready - a sniper, rifle cocked.
There is the knock.
"It's open."
There are footsteps in the hall. Elijah strolls in, smirking but uncharacteristically silent. Dom's eyes narrow, he looks through his sights. Billy follows. Billy - what the fuck? Billy in a kilt.
Never mind his puny little rifle, Dom feels like he's staring down the barrel of a great fucking phallic AK-47. Someone is seriously taking the piss. It takes a second or two of staring in disbelief before his brain grinds back into action. He breathes out a last twisting thread of smoke, stubs out the cigarette in an ashtray next to the sink, and pushes away from the worktop.
"I knew we were going to some sort of club. Didn't realize it was a fucking ceilidh."
Elijah laughs. "That's what I said," he says. "Well. That's probably what I meant, anyway. I dunno." Elijah shoves off the counter and opens the refrigerator door.
"What?" He turns and scowls at Dom. "You tell us to come by here first and you don't have any beer. The fuck?"
"Up top, you stupid cunt." Dom's feeling as though he's managed to find his balance again, but it's a shaky go. It's like walking across ice, and he figures that it's probably best not to lift his feet up, better to just slide along a little and listen for the crack. Dom's bare toes curl into the tiled floor of the kitchen and he flexes them a little. There, see, Dom thinks, no ice.
"Grab me one too, Lij," Billy says. Dom glances up from the floor, spies Billy's hiking boots, socks slouched down, the black of his kilt brushing against his knee, and feels the ice crack and split right under him.
Elijah hands Billy the beer and then settles back against the counter beside Dom. "You're wearing that?"
"It's better than that dress that Bills has got on."
"I don't know about that," Orlando says from the doorway. "He looks good enough to shag from this angle. You," Orlando pauses, and passes a critical eye over Dom, "look like you've been ridden hard and put away wet."
Elijah snorts.
"Fuck off," Dom scowls. "Lemme get my trainers, and we'll go."
In the bedroom Dom eyes the red t-shirt lying inside out on the edge of the bed. He's not fucking changing. He's not. He's just going to wear it under the jumper. That's all. Or at least that's what Dom tells himself, tossing a quick look over his shoulder to the open door as he strips the jumper off quickly.
Elijah has changed the music three times by the time Dom finally yanks the jumper back down over his head. Before grabbing his socks, Dom drains the last of his beer and drops the empty bottle back down onto the bedside table.
"I thought you looked fine," Billy says from the doorway.
Dom jerks his head up. Billy is leaning on the doorframe, his arms crossed easily over his chest.
"It's not funny," Dom says.
"I didn't say it to be funny. You look fine." Billy shrugs and Dom can feel him watching him as he jerks his socks over his toes. There’s a tightness that has settled in Dom's chest, the kind you get when you've been running from ringwraiths all day, like trying to breathe around a brick.
"Not that. This. Whatever you're doing, Bill. It's not funny, so fuck off."
Dom shoves his feet into his trainers without untying the laces, wiggling and wedging his heels down against the leather. He looks up at Billy standing in the doorway, arms folded, one eyebrow cocked and a small smile pulling at his lips.
"Ach, Dom. I'm not doing anything. Why would I be doing anything? Get your coat, you mardy git."
Billy looks down, innocently pursing his lips. He sticks one foot out, resting it on its heel and rocking it from side to side, as if admiring his boot. His kilt is drawn up, just a little, and swaying back and forth. Just for a second or two Dom imagines that it creates a cool little breeze around Billy's legs, tiny dust motes eddying around in the darkness beneath the warm prickly wool.
Yep. Pretty fucking far from funny.
"C'mon, guys!" Elijah bursts in with such force that the open door flies back and hits the wall, the handle reverberating from the impact There's already a small cluster of golf-ball sized dents in the cream plaster. If Dom loses his deposit, he'll be coming after Elijah for compensation. "Jesus, quit fannying around - we're gonna miss the band." He disappears again.
"Fannying?" Billy cranes his head back out into the hallway, gazing after Elijah, bemused.
"It's his word of the week," Dom explains. He stands up from the bed, grabs his parka from behind the still-shuddering door and pushes out of the room, shouldering his way past Billy.
Billy staggers sideways a little. "Careful, Dom."
"I am being careful," Dom says, ignoring the warning note in Billy's voice.
Dom stalks down the hallway towards the door. As he crosses the threshold, his eyes are tightly closed, clearing his mind, laying down some 'careful' ground rules. He feels a tugging on the sole of his trainer and suddenly there's a white flash of alarm behind his eyelids and the world tilts. Dom's eyes fly open and his hands grab frantically at nothing. He sways on the edge of one foot for a split second, then lands with a whump and a cracking sound on his backside.
Dom sits by the kerb, shocked to stillness, legs half bent and arms held out; his hands are fisted as if he's riding an invisible Harley. He's still jangling with the impact when Billy strolls out, all smugly swishing wool and raised eyebrow.
Elijah's laugh echoes in the empty streets while Dom scowls and ignores Orlando's outstretched hand as he fumbles his way to his feet. Elijah is sagging against the side of a car, the ember of his cigarette glowing in the dark. "You okay?" he finally manages to wheeze.
"Fine," Dom bites off, brushing his hands briskly over his backside. There is a dull hot ache building in his side and Dom tries to shake it off without being noticed. It's hard to be invisible, though, when everyone is turned and staring at you with curious eyes. "Said I'm fine. Let's just go."
Dom strides ahead without looking back to see if they’re following.
*
At the club it's even darker inside than it is outside, and it's crowded. The air around them feels moist and hot, and Dom can feel Orlando's chest pressing warmly against his back. He can feel the vibration of Orli talking against his shoulder blades but he can't actually make out what's being said above the loud, thumping bass filling the room.
Dom turns and looks back at him over his shoulder, scrunching his face up. Orlando's head bobs and he smiles, pointing to the bar. He mimes a drink, and cocks his head at Dom. Dom nods and sticks up two fingers. Orlando grins and then he's off, worming his way through the crowd.
It's not a large club, at least not compared to the New York clubs that Elijah always talks about, and certainly not compared to the club in Germany where Dom let some random hand jack him off on the dance floor. But is it large enough to get lost in and right now that's all he really cares about. He just needs to get out from microscope that Billy's pinned him under.
Dom refuses to look up when the fine hairs on his neck start to bristle. Instead he stalks forwards after Orlando, letting himself get lost in the sea of bodies pressing and grinding against each other. He's always liked the anonymous crush that comes with going out to bars and it's easy for Dom to shake off the hair shirt he feels like he's been wearing ever since Billy decided it was okay to just walk in and flip his whole goddamn world upside down.
By the time he and Orlando finally wind their way back to the table Billy and Elijah have claimed along the side wall, Dom's sweaty and his insides are glowing from the three shots he slammed back at the bar. Elijah's bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes closed slightly, head nodding to the rhythmic beat that's covering everything like a fine coating of dust. Billy's leaning casually against the pillar next to the table, his drink held loosely in his hands.
The glow in Dom's chest fizzles out, and he suddenly feels too sober. Billy's eyes meet him over the table and he raises his drink slightly at Dom before draining the rest of his glass.
Dom's eyebrows rise involuntarily and he stares back, but despite the anxious prickling in his face, he raises his bottle coolly and takes a swig. The beer lingers for a second or two at the back of Dom's throat before he forces a swallow and looks away.
"Got any smokes, Lij?" he shouts, his mouth an inch from Elijah's ear.
Elijah opens his eyes and pantomimes 'what?'
"Smokes," mouths Dom, putting two fingers to his lips.
Elijah shakes his head and points through the crowd to a wall on Dom's left. A cigarette machine. Dom elbows back past Billy and into the sea of limbs. Drinks brim precariously to left and right, but he reaches the cigarette machine dry and unscathed. It's only when the packet plops into the tray that Dom remembers the lack of matches. He looks back to the table. Elijah and Orlando are now face to face, gyrating and mouthing the words to the chorus that's just kicked in through the speakers. Billy's disappeared. Dom decides to hold off on going back to the table for a while - he feels safer here.
As Dom looks around hopefully, patting his pockets, a man steps forward out of the sea, holding up a metal Zippo. Dom raises his eyebrows and nods slightly in acknowledgement. He leans in a little, chin first, and the man flicks the lighter open and sparks a flame. As the cigarette takes, Dom looks at the man's face, uplit and flickering in the light from the flame. He's young, maybe twenty-five and quite pretty. Nice brown eyes, a sweet smile, a mole on his upper lip. The flame drops and Dom takes the cigarette out of his mouth and waves it, smiling in thanks. The pretty man hesitates. He looks like he'd like to stay around, chat for a bit, maybe go into the back for a kiss and a suck. He's smiling and Dom smiles back a little half-heartedly. Dom's too wired and too preoccupied to offer encouragement and it's too loud for small talk. After about half a minute, the man shrugs, still smiling, and walks away.
Dom leans back against the wall, takes a deep drag and thinks it over. He's spooked. Truth be told he's been expecting some sort of backlash. It's not many friendships that can survive one friend walking in on the other standing over the toilet, cock in hand, pointing up not down. Dom closes his eyes. He'd stood there for what now seems like much too long - must have been at least a second or so. He'd been stunned, rooted, open-mouthed, when Billy's head had suddenly turned and his hand had shot out, slamming the door in Dom's face.
That's probably the last time Billy will ever leave a hotel bathroom unlocked, Dom thinks grimly. It had been tough on both of them. After he'd scrambled back to his own room, Dom had lain face down on his bed, cheeks burning into the cool linen pillowcases, too humiliated even to touch his own cock, which had pressed hard and angry into the mattress.
Dom grimaces. He imagines it will be one of those excruciating moments that ends up paying for all the good memories. The one that pops up uninvited to douse whatever little flame of self-esteem you may have burning. He breathes out hard, pushing the memory away, willing the blood back down from his neck and cheeks. Well, it's some backlash. Dom had been expecting embarrassment and awkwardness, avoidance even. Trust Billy to bounce back and think of something a hundred times worse.
Dom raises his cigarette again, but just as the filter is approaching his lips, it's pulled from between his fingers. For a minute he's convinced that when he opens his eyes, Billy's going to be standing there with that goddamned smirk on his face. Instead, it's Orli and while the smirk is still there, at least Dom's heart can start beating again.
"Cunt!" Dom scowls.
Orli laughs, slow and easy because everything about Orli is like silk. "Now, hobbit. That's no way for you to greet an elf."
Dom cranes his head past Orlando's shoulder, and then darts another uneasy glance at him. "You're a little jumpy this evening." Orli's smile is sly, like he's in on some joke and all of a sudden that makes Dom nervous all over again. Or it would, if he'd actually had a chance to calm down in the first place.
"Looking for someone?" Billy slides up beside Orlando and the two exchange a glance, the knowing kind that makes Dom's skin crawl as though someone has let loose a thousand wetas.
Normally, Dom would be okay with that. He'd probably just sit there and coo for a bit, might even bother to give them all names. Good solid Christian ones with a few razzle-dazzle names thrown in just for spice. Except that Dom's not really in the mood for centipedes, or wetas, or whatever the hell is crawling across his skin. All he wants to do is jump up and stamp them all off.
"N-no," Dom stammers.
Dom stops breathing entirely when Orlando leans forward and bites the lobe of his ear.
"That'll be enough, Orli," Billy says coolly. "I can take over from here, thanks."
Dom doesn't even look round. It's a good thing he's leaning against the wall, because it feels like the floor's just tilted under his feet. Before he's grappled back his balance, Orlando plants a smacking kiss on his lips, causing Dom's head to jerk back reflexively, hitting hard against the concrete wall.
Then Orlando's gone and Dom turns to look at Billy. His body feels stiff and awkward and there's a chilly thrill of anger behind his ribs. There will be a bruise on the back of his head tomorrow. It makes Dom think of the dents in his bedroom wall.
"What the fuck kind of move is that?" Dom's jaw is stiff and his back teeth press together. His voice comes out lisped and muffled.
Billy's quiet for a moment, then there's a sharp little smile.
"Castling."
The floor seems to shift again, but Dom manages not to stagger. This is beyond belief. There's hooting and applause over the other side of the club to welcome the band back on stage. As the guitarist strums a few warm-up chords, Dom's stiff fingers fumble at his pocket for another cigarette. He puts it to his lips and groans, remembering that he doesn't have any matches, and hits a balled-up fist backwards against the wall, but it seems Billy's come prepared.
Billy takes out a matchbook and strikes a flame just in front of Dom's face. Dom tries his hardest not to look, but his gaze involuntarily flicks up and he gets a glimpse of eyes sparking green and orange and a beating pulse at Billy's temple. Dom's sucking down the first of the smoke when someone pushes past them on the way to the front of the club and Billy stumbles forwards. They don't collide, but Dom's eyebrows almost receive a singeing and he feels the flat front of Billy's kilt flap heavily against his jeans.
Billy rights himself and drops the match to the floor. The band has struck up for real now and the bass vibrations are humming through Dom's legs and chest. Billy's mouth is moving, but Dom can't make out a word. He looks at Billy, confused and cross, eyebrows drawn thickly together. Billy leans forward.
"Will we go somewhere a bit quieter, eh Dommie?"
It's an odd sensation - the combination of the tickle of Billy's breath and the punch of his voice against Dom's eardrum. He doesn't like the words. Particularly that 'Dommie'. It sounds insinuating and threatening.
Dom takes a deep drag on his cigarette, then looks at Billy and shakes his head, blowing the smoke from the side of his mouth. He pushes away from his wall and starts back towards the stage. He catches the briefest glimpse of Orlando and Elijah, not talking, not dancing, still and staring - two pairs of eyes fixed on them - then his hand is caught in a firm grasp.
"That wasn't really a question, Dominic." Billy's voice is ringing hot against his ear and Dom tamps down the urge to panic and run. "Let's go outside."
As soon as they're out the door, Dom's rage bubbles up. He's tired of feeling on edge, tired of Billy and his fucking games, his fucking looks. Dom is about to say that, and unleash more, when Billy spins on him and presses him against the brick wall of the club. His cheekbone rasps against it and Dom can already feel the sandpaper welt blossoming up on his skin. Billy leans forward, his chest pressing tight against Dom's back and hisses against the side of his face.
"Wanna fuck you, Dom."
Billy's voice sounds slightly dark and dangerous, and it sends a cold shiver through Dom. "Bill?"
"I've wanted to fuck you for weeks."
Billy's hands slip down Dom’s side, skimming over his ribs. They're quick to snake around once they reach his hips, undoing the buckle of his belt and thumbing open the button of his jeans. Dom shivers when Billy's tongue licks the back of his neck and his eyes flash wide open when Billy grabs the back pocket of his jeans and shakes him enough to loosen his jeans. Dom can feel a blade of cool air cutting across his skin as Billy pulls his jeans down low over the top of his arse.
"Wanna fuck you right now, Dom."
Billy's leg nudges between his thighs, and he kicks against the inside of Dom's foot twice with his boot. Dom lets his legs be nudged further apart and another wave of goosebumps pimple up on his skin as his jeans slip lower. The rough fabric of Billy's kilt whispers across his arse as Billy presses close. His lips are warm and he's caught Dom's ear lobe with them.
"Dom?" Billy says quietly. Dom turns his head to the side, feels the cold press of the brick against the side of his face, feels his heart pounding in his chest and the vibration of Billy's voice against his back. Billy's hand is jacking his cock slowly and Dom pushes forward into his fist before he can stop himself. Billy's fingers drop lower and he rolls Dom's balls in the palm of his hand.
"Do you want me to fuck you?"
Dom swallows hard. God help him, he does.
Dom braces himself against the wall then pushes back hard, spinning out of Billy's grip. His fingers are shaking and his breathing feels forced. Dom drops his head and sniffs as his pulls up his zipper and threads the tongue of his belt back through the buckle.
"Fuck you, Boyd," he manages finally, jerking open the door to the club.
Part 2
Authors: algernon_mouse and tarteaucitron
Rating: Mature
Disclaimer: Fiction
Beta: secrethappiness, generous and conscientious friend to authors, who put up with much pushiness with only a modicum of arsiness in return ;)
Here is: old-school fic - kilts, cigarettes, nightclubs, lollies, a decent pinch of good old fashioned NC-17. Oh, and some largely extended metaphors.
A/N: This tig was long in the making and saw us through exams, holidays, tears, laughter. It's a big bugger (c.11,500 words), so posted in 2 parts. Part 2 is linked at the bottom of Part 1.
The problem with Billy, and Dom feels he's somewhat of an authority on the subject, isn't that he's straight (confused, perhaps, but definitely not straight) or even that he's Scottish, which yes, Dom will admit he does hold against him - but that he takes so long to make a move.
"Are you going to go anytime soon?" Dom sighs. It's already been three minutes by Dom's calculations and his tailbone is starting to ache from the plastic seat. He shifts a little, trying to work it out, but it doesn't seem to help.
"I'm thinking," Billy says. "Don't rush me."
"You can only castle when the king's not in check," Dom says. He's rewarded by Billy's sharp glare at him over the board. "What?" Dom asks. "I'm just pointing that out."
Billy goes back to knuckling his chin and staring at the board. He doesn't say anything. Dom blows one of Merry's curls off his forehead and starts kicking his toes against the craft table next to them.
"Don't do that," Billy snaps. "Don't fidget. I don't do that when you're making a move."
"I don't take six hours!" Dom whines. "Fuck."
Billy smirks and leans forward. "Check," he says.
"You little fucker!" says Dom, craning over the table and staring at the board. "How the hell did you do that?"
There's a rustle from a deckchair nearby, where Ian is sitting, robed and bearded, shaking out a week-old copy of The Guardian, his desert-island luxury.
"Queen's Gambit," Ian announces sharply. "Always pays off in the end."
Dom starts and goggles at Ian, who doesn't bother to look up, but tosses his long white hair cryptically. Underneath the gum and gelatin, Dom's ears spike with heat. He looks back anxiously across the chessboard, but Billy's eyes are wide, green and innocent, despite the provocative twist of his fringe.
"Come on, then. Let's be having you." Billy's chin nods downwards to the board.
Dom glances down, up, and back down again, shaking his head a little. He cracks his knuckles and wiggles his fingers. Chess. Come on. Just as he's picking up his rook for a killer move, Ian saunters past, paper under his arm, and without even looking at the board, announces, "Mate in two moves. You're buggered, Dominic."
The killer move is lost to posterity and a rook hovers uncertainly in mid-air, as Dom stares open-mouthed at the retreating wizard.
Billy snorts. "Are you going to be going any time soon?" He mimics Dom in a slightly falsetto voice as Elijah runs shrieking by their table. Both Billy and Dom look up at Elijah's quickly retreating figure, watching as he dodges his way through a maze of loose chairs and people. Billy cocks his head at Dom. Dom shrugs and goes back to staring down at the board between them.
"Never a good sign when Elijah's running around screaming like a little girl," Billy remarks mildly.
"Mmm-hm," Dom nods his agreement.
"You cunt!" Orlando is shouting after him, with only one Elvish ear intact. "You'd better be running - to fucking Mordor!"
"There," Dom concedes finally, sliding his piece across the board. "Finish me."
"Don't feel bad, Dommie," Billy says, closing in for the kill, "You almost had me. Play again?"
Dom shakes his head, and stands up. "Fucking back is killing me," he says, stretching. There is a low series of cracks and pops as Dom stands there twisting out the kinks and working his shoulders in large circles. "Think they'll be ready for us soon?"
"Don't know," Billy shrugs, then yawns and settles back in his seat. "Wake me up when they call," he says.
Dom nods and wanders over to the service table to get a drink. "What's taking so long? Have you heard?" The orc beside him grabs the last bagel and Dom watches him as he splits it open and spreads it thick with cream cheese. "Don't know," he says. Dom sighs and takes his cup back to where Billy is dozing.
"Hate waiting around," Dom grumbles as he sits back down in his chair next to Billy. The tent is full of people milling about, orcs sitting with their elbows on the tables, playing cards, elves drinking tea. There is a lazy, bored vibe that's settled over everything and Dom doesn't like it. He hates the lull between scenes, and hates even more they're delayed.
Viggo nods curtly at Dom as he strides by. He walks like a king, Dom thinks, and it's not the first time that he's noticed. Dom likes to think that the elves are really elves: lean and ethereal-looking, the orcs tell crude jokes and laugh loudly, and well, Viggo is King. "Hobbits," he throws over his shoulder, "we're rolling."
"Bill." Dom elbows Billy sharply. "Time to fall in. Let's go."
Billy is on his feet surprisingly quickly for someone who was apparently asleep. Together they march back to Balin's tomb, where a new door has been put together to re-shoot the orcs breaking through. There's another wait while Orlando has his left ear reapplied. Dom, Billy, Sean and Elijah stand around, hunched in their long grey robes, looking like a coffee morning in an old folks' home. Dom glares at Elijah.
"It's brass fucking monkeys in here. Why can't you keep your hands in your pockets for once, instead of tormenting the elf?"
"Brass whatters?" It’s water off a duck's back. Dom sighs.
Orlando finally returns, all ears and hair as usual, and they strip off the robes and their plastic foot bags, and stand shivering in full hobbit get-up in Balin's drafty commandeered warehouse.
By the time the orcs have broken through the door for a second time, and a couple of fight sequences have been filmed, Dom is bone-chilled. Peter gives the order and Dom and Billy creak uncomfortably to their knees next to Ian. This is worse: the cold hard floor bites into Dom's kneecaps and a painful chill stabs up his thighs. He moans, frustrated, as the camera crew stops setting up to check lighting angles.
"Visualise, Dom," says Billy. "Close your eyes, relax and pretend you're hugging a hot water bottle."
Dom closes his eyes and pictures a Fozzie Bear-covered bottle, and Superman duvet. He imagines crawling in under the covers. For a moment nothing happens, then ever so slowly he feels slight warmth in the region of his backside, radiating out a little.
Hey, it's working. There's definitely warmth there, and a little - pressure? And by pressure he means - cupping. Then the cupping becomes a short sharp squeeze.
Dom's eyes click open, startled, and if he wasn't on his knees he would jump forward an inch or two.
"What the fuck-?"
"Queen's Gambit," hisses Billy.
They both stare straight ahead.
The marker snaps shut, and Gandalf's voice booms loudly over their heads. When the cameras are rolling, Dom doesn't exist anymore, but the second Pete yells, “That's it everyone”, Dom is on his feet again and shouldering Billy off to the side, roughly.
"What the fuck was that?" Dom growls at him, as though it wasn’t two hours after the fact.
Billy looks a little surprised, and Dom can feel him shrug under the grip of his fingers. "You're hurting my arms," Billy says finally, and Dom lets him go with a shake. He wants to punch Billy, slap him, anything to wipe the innocent smile off of his face.
"Hey!" Elijah says, crashing into Dom's side and knocking him forward into Billy, "We're going out tonight. Orli says there's a band playing, you wanna come with?"
"Huh?" Dom says, turning to look at Elijah.
Elijah sighs. "Earth to Dom. Bar. Drinking. Band. Tonight. Do you want to come?"
"Sure," Billy says easily, and he side-steps around Dom, merging back into the flow of people milling about the set. "Love to, Doodle. Who's playing? Do you know?" They've already started to walk away and Dom is left clenching his jaw painfully.
"Dom?" Billy calls out, now that he's a safe three metres away. "You coming?"
Dom knuckles his fists deep into his pockets and falls into step beside Orlando, who is already picking at his ears. "Did Lij tell you about tonight? One of those shit little bands that you and him are always going on about. Should be fun."
Dom nods, eyeing Billy and Elijah walking ahead of them. "Yeah, mate. Should be fun."
*
Dom's an easy-going chap, anyone will tell you that. He likes a laugh. Remember tig? That was Dom. Dom had started that off, and Dom had kept it going, had gleefully cranked it up, even when Sean silently begged him to show a little mercy. That was a joke and a half. That was humour. Of course he likes a laugh. What Dom doesn't like is the suspicion that's worming around in the pit of his stomach, a whispering feeling that this particular joke's on him. And it feels like a nasty dark little joke.
Dom's back in his flat, pulling a tight red t-shirt over his pale winter chest. He looks at himself in the mirror. The face that looks back is scowling, brows drawn down and together, mouth a sullen lop-sided line. Normally he'd strike a pose, examine his teeth, colour in his eyes. Tonight, he rips off the red t-shirt and tugs on an old grey jumper instead. His hair goes momentarily static and bounces around his head. He looks speculatively at the leather cuffs lying on the table. No, fuck it.
He goes to the kitchen and pulls a bottle of beer from the freezer. He screws the cap off, and stands against the sink for a moment or two, slugging from the bottle, enjoying the first warm seep of alcohol into his blood through the thin vessels of his mouth.
A thought occurs to him and then he's poking around the kitchen, lifting magazines and opening cupboards. He finds what he's looking for in the drawer under the cutlery. Marlboro Reds. He gives the packet a shake, then opens it. Two left. Billy and Elijah will be there in ten minutes. These should keep him going till then. Another hunt ensues for a lighter. Matches? Nothing. Dom fashions a taper from an old envelope and lights the cigarette from the gas stove, scattering glowing paper embers on the kitchen floor. Spikes are smoothed as the first of the smoke hits his lungs, and by the time his ten minutes are up, Dom feels armed and ready - a sniper, rifle cocked.
There is the knock.
"It's open."
There are footsteps in the hall. Elijah strolls in, smirking but uncharacteristically silent. Dom's eyes narrow, he looks through his sights. Billy follows. Billy - what the fuck? Billy in a kilt.
Never mind his puny little rifle, Dom feels like he's staring down the barrel of a great fucking phallic AK-47. Someone is seriously taking the piss. It takes a second or two of staring in disbelief before his brain grinds back into action. He breathes out a last twisting thread of smoke, stubs out the cigarette in an ashtray next to the sink, and pushes away from the worktop.
"I knew we were going to some sort of club. Didn't realize it was a fucking ceilidh."
Elijah laughs. "That's what I said," he says. "Well. That's probably what I meant, anyway. I dunno." Elijah shoves off the counter and opens the refrigerator door.
"What?" He turns and scowls at Dom. "You tell us to come by here first and you don't have any beer. The fuck?"
"Up top, you stupid cunt." Dom's feeling as though he's managed to find his balance again, but it's a shaky go. It's like walking across ice, and he figures that it's probably best not to lift his feet up, better to just slide along a little and listen for the crack. Dom's bare toes curl into the tiled floor of the kitchen and he flexes them a little. There, see, Dom thinks, no ice.
"Grab me one too, Lij," Billy says. Dom glances up from the floor, spies Billy's hiking boots, socks slouched down, the black of his kilt brushing against his knee, and feels the ice crack and split right under him.
Elijah hands Billy the beer and then settles back against the counter beside Dom. "You're wearing that?"
"It's better than that dress that Bills has got on."
"I don't know about that," Orlando says from the doorway. "He looks good enough to shag from this angle. You," Orlando pauses, and passes a critical eye over Dom, "look like you've been ridden hard and put away wet."
Elijah snorts.
"Fuck off," Dom scowls. "Lemme get my trainers, and we'll go."
In the bedroom Dom eyes the red t-shirt lying inside out on the edge of the bed. He's not fucking changing. He's not. He's just going to wear it under the jumper. That's all. Or at least that's what Dom tells himself, tossing a quick look over his shoulder to the open door as he strips the jumper off quickly.
Elijah has changed the music three times by the time Dom finally yanks the jumper back down over his head. Before grabbing his socks, Dom drains the last of his beer and drops the empty bottle back down onto the bedside table.
"I thought you looked fine," Billy says from the doorway.
Dom jerks his head up. Billy is leaning on the doorframe, his arms crossed easily over his chest.
"It's not funny," Dom says.
"I didn't say it to be funny. You look fine." Billy shrugs and Dom can feel him watching him as he jerks his socks over his toes. There’s a tightness that has settled in Dom's chest, the kind you get when you've been running from ringwraiths all day, like trying to breathe around a brick.
"Not that. This. Whatever you're doing, Bill. It's not funny, so fuck off."
Dom shoves his feet into his trainers without untying the laces, wiggling and wedging his heels down against the leather. He looks up at Billy standing in the doorway, arms folded, one eyebrow cocked and a small smile pulling at his lips.
"Ach, Dom. I'm not doing anything. Why would I be doing anything? Get your coat, you mardy git."
Billy looks down, innocently pursing his lips. He sticks one foot out, resting it on its heel and rocking it from side to side, as if admiring his boot. His kilt is drawn up, just a little, and swaying back and forth. Just for a second or two Dom imagines that it creates a cool little breeze around Billy's legs, tiny dust motes eddying around in the darkness beneath the warm prickly wool.
Yep. Pretty fucking far from funny.
"C'mon, guys!" Elijah bursts in with such force that the open door flies back and hits the wall, the handle reverberating from the impact There's already a small cluster of golf-ball sized dents in the cream plaster. If Dom loses his deposit, he'll be coming after Elijah for compensation. "Jesus, quit fannying around - we're gonna miss the band." He disappears again.
"Fannying?" Billy cranes his head back out into the hallway, gazing after Elijah, bemused.
"It's his word of the week," Dom explains. He stands up from the bed, grabs his parka from behind the still-shuddering door and pushes out of the room, shouldering his way past Billy.
Billy staggers sideways a little. "Careful, Dom."
"I am being careful," Dom says, ignoring the warning note in Billy's voice.
Dom stalks down the hallway towards the door. As he crosses the threshold, his eyes are tightly closed, clearing his mind, laying down some 'careful' ground rules. He feels a tugging on the sole of his trainer and suddenly there's a white flash of alarm behind his eyelids and the world tilts. Dom's eyes fly open and his hands grab frantically at nothing. He sways on the edge of one foot for a split second, then lands with a whump and a cracking sound on his backside.
Dom sits by the kerb, shocked to stillness, legs half bent and arms held out; his hands are fisted as if he's riding an invisible Harley. He's still jangling with the impact when Billy strolls out, all smugly swishing wool and raised eyebrow.
Elijah's laugh echoes in the empty streets while Dom scowls and ignores Orlando's outstretched hand as he fumbles his way to his feet. Elijah is sagging against the side of a car, the ember of his cigarette glowing in the dark. "You okay?" he finally manages to wheeze.
"Fine," Dom bites off, brushing his hands briskly over his backside. There is a dull hot ache building in his side and Dom tries to shake it off without being noticed. It's hard to be invisible, though, when everyone is turned and staring at you with curious eyes. "Said I'm fine. Let's just go."
Dom strides ahead without looking back to see if they’re following.
*
At the club it's even darker inside than it is outside, and it's crowded. The air around them feels moist and hot, and Dom can feel Orlando's chest pressing warmly against his back. He can feel the vibration of Orli talking against his shoulder blades but he can't actually make out what's being said above the loud, thumping bass filling the room.
Dom turns and looks back at him over his shoulder, scrunching his face up. Orlando's head bobs and he smiles, pointing to the bar. He mimes a drink, and cocks his head at Dom. Dom nods and sticks up two fingers. Orlando grins and then he's off, worming his way through the crowd.
It's not a large club, at least not compared to the New York clubs that Elijah always talks about, and certainly not compared to the club in Germany where Dom let some random hand jack him off on the dance floor. But is it large enough to get lost in and right now that's all he really cares about. He just needs to get out from microscope that Billy's pinned him under.
Dom refuses to look up when the fine hairs on his neck start to bristle. Instead he stalks forwards after Orlando, letting himself get lost in the sea of bodies pressing and grinding against each other. He's always liked the anonymous crush that comes with going out to bars and it's easy for Dom to shake off the hair shirt he feels like he's been wearing ever since Billy decided it was okay to just walk in and flip his whole goddamn world upside down.
By the time he and Orlando finally wind their way back to the table Billy and Elijah have claimed along the side wall, Dom's sweaty and his insides are glowing from the three shots he slammed back at the bar. Elijah's bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes closed slightly, head nodding to the rhythmic beat that's covering everything like a fine coating of dust. Billy's leaning casually against the pillar next to the table, his drink held loosely in his hands.
The glow in Dom's chest fizzles out, and he suddenly feels too sober. Billy's eyes meet him over the table and he raises his drink slightly at Dom before draining the rest of his glass.
Dom's eyebrows rise involuntarily and he stares back, but despite the anxious prickling in his face, he raises his bottle coolly and takes a swig. The beer lingers for a second or two at the back of Dom's throat before he forces a swallow and looks away.
"Got any smokes, Lij?" he shouts, his mouth an inch from Elijah's ear.
Elijah opens his eyes and pantomimes 'what?'
"Smokes," mouths Dom, putting two fingers to his lips.
Elijah shakes his head and points through the crowd to a wall on Dom's left. A cigarette machine. Dom elbows back past Billy and into the sea of limbs. Drinks brim precariously to left and right, but he reaches the cigarette machine dry and unscathed. It's only when the packet plops into the tray that Dom remembers the lack of matches. He looks back to the table. Elijah and Orlando are now face to face, gyrating and mouthing the words to the chorus that's just kicked in through the speakers. Billy's disappeared. Dom decides to hold off on going back to the table for a while - he feels safer here.
As Dom looks around hopefully, patting his pockets, a man steps forward out of the sea, holding up a metal Zippo. Dom raises his eyebrows and nods slightly in acknowledgement. He leans in a little, chin first, and the man flicks the lighter open and sparks a flame. As the cigarette takes, Dom looks at the man's face, uplit and flickering in the light from the flame. He's young, maybe twenty-five and quite pretty. Nice brown eyes, a sweet smile, a mole on his upper lip. The flame drops and Dom takes the cigarette out of his mouth and waves it, smiling in thanks. The pretty man hesitates. He looks like he'd like to stay around, chat for a bit, maybe go into the back for a kiss and a suck. He's smiling and Dom smiles back a little half-heartedly. Dom's too wired and too preoccupied to offer encouragement and it's too loud for small talk. After about half a minute, the man shrugs, still smiling, and walks away.
Dom leans back against the wall, takes a deep drag and thinks it over. He's spooked. Truth be told he's been expecting some sort of backlash. It's not many friendships that can survive one friend walking in on the other standing over the toilet, cock in hand, pointing up not down. Dom closes his eyes. He'd stood there for what now seems like much too long - must have been at least a second or so. He'd been stunned, rooted, open-mouthed, when Billy's head had suddenly turned and his hand had shot out, slamming the door in Dom's face.
That's probably the last time Billy will ever leave a hotel bathroom unlocked, Dom thinks grimly. It had been tough on both of them. After he'd scrambled back to his own room, Dom had lain face down on his bed, cheeks burning into the cool linen pillowcases, too humiliated even to touch his own cock, which had pressed hard and angry into the mattress.
Dom grimaces. He imagines it will be one of those excruciating moments that ends up paying for all the good memories. The one that pops up uninvited to douse whatever little flame of self-esteem you may have burning. He breathes out hard, pushing the memory away, willing the blood back down from his neck and cheeks. Well, it's some backlash. Dom had been expecting embarrassment and awkwardness, avoidance even. Trust Billy to bounce back and think of something a hundred times worse.
Dom raises his cigarette again, but just as the filter is approaching his lips, it's pulled from between his fingers. For a minute he's convinced that when he opens his eyes, Billy's going to be standing there with that goddamned smirk on his face. Instead, it's Orli and while the smirk is still there, at least Dom's heart can start beating again.
"Cunt!" Dom scowls.
Orli laughs, slow and easy because everything about Orli is like silk. "Now, hobbit. That's no way for you to greet an elf."
Dom cranes his head past Orlando's shoulder, and then darts another uneasy glance at him. "You're a little jumpy this evening." Orli's smile is sly, like he's in on some joke and all of a sudden that makes Dom nervous all over again. Or it would, if he'd actually had a chance to calm down in the first place.
"Looking for someone?" Billy slides up beside Orlando and the two exchange a glance, the knowing kind that makes Dom's skin crawl as though someone has let loose a thousand wetas.
Normally, Dom would be okay with that. He'd probably just sit there and coo for a bit, might even bother to give them all names. Good solid Christian ones with a few razzle-dazzle names thrown in just for spice. Except that Dom's not really in the mood for centipedes, or wetas, or whatever the hell is crawling across his skin. All he wants to do is jump up and stamp them all off.
"N-no," Dom stammers.
Dom stops breathing entirely when Orlando leans forward and bites the lobe of his ear.
"That'll be enough, Orli," Billy says coolly. "I can take over from here, thanks."
Dom doesn't even look round. It's a good thing he's leaning against the wall, because it feels like the floor's just tilted under his feet. Before he's grappled back his balance, Orlando plants a smacking kiss on his lips, causing Dom's head to jerk back reflexively, hitting hard against the concrete wall.
Then Orlando's gone and Dom turns to look at Billy. His body feels stiff and awkward and there's a chilly thrill of anger behind his ribs. There will be a bruise on the back of his head tomorrow. It makes Dom think of the dents in his bedroom wall.
"What the fuck kind of move is that?" Dom's jaw is stiff and his back teeth press together. His voice comes out lisped and muffled.
Billy's quiet for a moment, then there's a sharp little smile.
"Castling."
The floor seems to shift again, but Dom manages not to stagger. This is beyond belief. There's hooting and applause over the other side of the club to welcome the band back on stage. As the guitarist strums a few warm-up chords, Dom's stiff fingers fumble at his pocket for another cigarette. He puts it to his lips and groans, remembering that he doesn't have any matches, and hits a balled-up fist backwards against the wall, but it seems Billy's come prepared.
Billy takes out a matchbook and strikes a flame just in front of Dom's face. Dom tries his hardest not to look, but his gaze involuntarily flicks up and he gets a glimpse of eyes sparking green and orange and a beating pulse at Billy's temple. Dom's sucking down the first of the smoke when someone pushes past them on the way to the front of the club and Billy stumbles forwards. They don't collide, but Dom's eyebrows almost receive a singeing and he feels the flat front of Billy's kilt flap heavily against his jeans.
Billy rights himself and drops the match to the floor. The band has struck up for real now and the bass vibrations are humming through Dom's legs and chest. Billy's mouth is moving, but Dom can't make out a word. He looks at Billy, confused and cross, eyebrows drawn thickly together. Billy leans forward.
"Will we go somewhere a bit quieter, eh Dommie?"
It's an odd sensation - the combination of the tickle of Billy's breath and the punch of his voice against Dom's eardrum. He doesn't like the words. Particularly that 'Dommie'. It sounds insinuating and threatening.
Dom takes a deep drag on his cigarette, then looks at Billy and shakes his head, blowing the smoke from the side of his mouth. He pushes away from his wall and starts back towards the stage. He catches the briefest glimpse of Orlando and Elijah, not talking, not dancing, still and staring - two pairs of eyes fixed on them - then his hand is caught in a firm grasp.
"That wasn't really a question, Dominic." Billy's voice is ringing hot against his ear and Dom tamps down the urge to panic and run. "Let's go outside."
As soon as they're out the door, Dom's rage bubbles up. He's tired of feeling on edge, tired of Billy and his fucking games, his fucking looks. Dom is about to say that, and unleash more, when Billy spins on him and presses him against the brick wall of the club. His cheekbone rasps against it and Dom can already feel the sandpaper welt blossoming up on his skin. Billy leans forward, his chest pressing tight against Dom's back and hisses against the side of his face.
"Wanna fuck you, Dom."
Billy's voice sounds slightly dark and dangerous, and it sends a cold shiver through Dom. "Bill?"
"I've wanted to fuck you for weeks."
Billy's hands slip down Dom’s side, skimming over his ribs. They're quick to snake around once they reach his hips, undoing the buckle of his belt and thumbing open the button of his jeans. Dom shivers when Billy's tongue licks the back of his neck and his eyes flash wide open when Billy grabs the back pocket of his jeans and shakes him enough to loosen his jeans. Dom can feel a blade of cool air cutting across his skin as Billy pulls his jeans down low over the top of his arse.
"Wanna fuck you right now, Dom."
Billy's leg nudges between his thighs, and he kicks against the inside of Dom's foot twice with his boot. Dom lets his legs be nudged further apart and another wave of goosebumps pimple up on his skin as his jeans slip lower. The rough fabric of Billy's kilt whispers across his arse as Billy presses close. His lips are warm and he's caught Dom's ear lobe with them.
"Dom?" Billy says quietly. Dom turns his head to the side, feels the cold press of the brick against the side of his face, feels his heart pounding in his chest and the vibration of Billy's voice against his back. Billy's hand is jacking his cock slowly and Dom pushes forward into his fist before he can stop himself. Billy's fingers drop lower and he rolls Dom's balls in the palm of his hand.
"Do you want me to fuck you?"
Dom swallows hard. God help him, he does.
Dom braces himself against the wall then pushes back hard, spinning out of Billy's grip. His fingers are shaking and his breathing feels forced. Dom drops his head and sniffs as his pulls up his zipper and threads the tongue of his belt back through the buckle.
"Fuck you, Boyd," he manages finally, jerking open the door to the club.
Part 2