Just variations on a theme.
Hi.
My participation in LJ can be summed up in three words: The. Big. Suck.
BUT... I know how to clean a catheter and perform oral care on a comatose individual now.
Um. ...Yay?
*whine*
Think I saw this first by vensre but I'm not exactly positive:
Extracting short clips of current WIPs.
1) Dom will lay in the semi darkness, breathe in the lingering smell of high tree boughs and Scottish mornings; all things Billy. His eyes will tick over Billy-touched things and his heart will swell and surge but remember to keep its place in his chest.
2) "Gonna make you cry for me, Billy. Gonna see you cum, gonna feel it. Fuck yes, gonna taste it, too. Gonna taste you, Billy. Gonna take you for my own, gonna make this so good for you, Billy, you'll never want it from anyone else. No one can give it to you like I'm going to. Gonna suck you off, Billy. Gonna suck you and you're going to love it."
3) Merry was a clever boy. Brilliant, actually, if Dominic had anything to say about it. (They knew each other intimately, y'know.)
Just how brilliant a boy Merry proved to be came as a surprise-- to some extent-- to Dom, who was watching his favored lad chat up Billy-cum-Pippin in the achingly lovely woods of Paradise Farm. The younger cousin (older man) was ferreting his fingers through leaves and moss for a few fat, slick rocks to throw.
4) In the prepubescent dawn, Dominic's ring adorned hand will sweep out over rumpled, patterned sheets to find them still warm with the memory of Scottish curves.
5) Billy is resting on his side, head propped up in his nymph's hand while sunshine sifts through vague strands of cloud, bright and friendly but not obtrusively so.
"Elijah..." He starts with this sort of timid, curling thing that passes for a smile. "Can I... tell you something?"
6) The house. But not me. Dominic thinks, but doesn't speak. He hasn't. Never will. Sometimes in the dark where sleep should be, he wonders how he lives with that. Knows he'll die with that. Knows he hates himself for it. Knows Billy should not be at his deathbed or else he won't die with it. And that won't do.
Choking on words he can't say. Angry at Billy for never answering a question Dom never asked.
7) Billy breathes, papers flutter.
"Want it," he croaks, eyes closed, red-faced. "I want it..."
Billy's bound wrists rub when he wriggles his fingers. He twists, shifting, pressing himself between the V of his own tethered hands and closing damp supple fingers about his own leaking cock for a few brief seconds of achingly sweet friction before Dom shoves his fingers into the knots of the scarf and yanks them away with a snarl.
8) All is quiet on the front. Carefully now... as quietly as one can manage. Tip-toe. Shift. Clearing his throat. Stare. Watch. Come a bit closer. Oh, but not TOO much closer. One foot reaches out. Carefully now... no, better not. One foot withdraws. Side-step. Moving about the supposed dead. Eyeing him critically. Billy is oddly struck by the idea that there is FAR too much stillness here. Breathing is a clue, though. Silence brings bravery. There's a gigglesqueal just beneath the surface, caught just in the makings in Billy's throat... and one hobbit toe pokes experimentally in Dominic's side.
9) "Do you fuck him?" Satin wrapped stones turned into the grate and splintering of wood on wood. Like it hurt just as much to say as to think it.
Ian is all rain swept mornings and fog shrouded Manchester streets to Dom's eyes. Cool. Collected. Words like scapel strokes. "I give him what he wants."
10) Dom kisses the outline of his name on pleasantly damp, freckle-dappled shoulders. Thinks up new and inventive ways to say "mine."
Half, if not most, of these will never see completion. -_-;
*stares at screen and blatantly ignores the pile of homework* Not looking at you. Nope. Nuh-uh. You do not exist to me.
...
Fic recs, anyone? =\
My participation in LJ can be summed up in three words: The. Big. Suck.
BUT... I know how to clean a catheter and perform oral care on a comatose individual now.
Um. ...Yay?
*whine*
Think I saw this first by vensre but I'm not exactly positive:
Extracting short clips of current WIPs.
1) Dom will lay in the semi darkness, breathe in the lingering smell of high tree boughs and Scottish mornings; all things Billy. His eyes will tick over Billy-touched things and his heart will swell and surge but remember to keep its place in his chest.
2) "Gonna make you cry for me, Billy. Gonna see you cum, gonna feel it. Fuck yes, gonna taste it, too. Gonna taste you, Billy. Gonna take you for my own, gonna make this so good for you, Billy, you'll never want it from anyone else. No one can give it to you like I'm going to. Gonna suck you off, Billy. Gonna suck you and you're going to love it."
3) Merry was a clever boy. Brilliant, actually, if Dominic had anything to say about it. (They knew each other intimately, y'know.)
Just how brilliant a boy Merry proved to be came as a surprise-- to some extent-- to Dom, who was watching his favored lad chat up Billy-cum-Pippin in the achingly lovely woods of Paradise Farm. The younger cousin (older man) was ferreting his fingers through leaves and moss for a few fat, slick rocks to throw.
4) In the prepubescent dawn, Dominic's ring adorned hand will sweep out over rumpled, patterned sheets to find them still warm with the memory of Scottish curves.
5) Billy is resting on his side, head propped up in his nymph's hand while sunshine sifts through vague strands of cloud, bright and friendly but not obtrusively so.
"Elijah..." He starts with this sort of timid, curling thing that passes for a smile. "Can I... tell you something?"
6) The house. But not me. Dominic thinks, but doesn't speak. He hasn't. Never will. Sometimes in the dark where sleep should be, he wonders how he lives with that. Knows he'll die with that. Knows he hates himself for it. Knows Billy should not be at his deathbed or else he won't die with it. And that won't do.
Choking on words he can't say. Angry at Billy for never answering a question Dom never asked.
7) Billy breathes, papers flutter.
"Want it," he croaks, eyes closed, red-faced. "I want it..."
Billy's bound wrists rub when he wriggles his fingers. He twists, shifting, pressing himself between the V of his own tethered hands and closing damp supple fingers about his own leaking cock for a few brief seconds of achingly sweet friction before Dom shoves his fingers into the knots of the scarf and yanks them away with a snarl.
8) All is quiet on the front. Carefully now... as quietly as one can manage. Tip-toe. Shift. Clearing his throat. Stare. Watch. Come a bit closer. Oh, but not TOO much closer. One foot reaches out. Carefully now... no, better not. One foot withdraws. Side-step. Moving about the supposed dead. Eyeing him critically. Billy is oddly struck by the idea that there is FAR too much stillness here. Breathing is a clue, though. Silence brings bravery. There's a gigglesqueal just beneath the surface, caught just in the makings in Billy's throat... and one hobbit toe pokes experimentally in Dominic's side.
9) "Do you fuck him?" Satin wrapped stones turned into the grate and splintering of wood on wood. Like it hurt just as much to say as to think it.
Ian is all rain swept mornings and fog shrouded Manchester streets to Dom's eyes. Cool. Collected. Words like scapel strokes. "I give him what he wants."
10) Dom kisses the outline of his name on pleasantly damp, freckle-dappled shoulders. Thinks up new and inventive ways to say "mine."
Half, if not most, of these will never see completion. -_-;
*stares at screen and blatantly ignores the pile of homework* Not looking at you. Nope. Nuh-uh. You do not exist to me.
...
Fic recs, anyone? =\