FIC: Recidivism, lotrips, Dominic/Billy
TITLE: Recidivism
AUTHOR: veuki
RATING: NC-17
FANDOM: lotrips
PAIRING: Dominic Monaghan/Billy Boyd
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. I don't own anyone. This never happened.
WARNING: Graphic slash.
NOTES: My slashababy story.
SUMMARY: Dom is a hardcore Christmas kid.
Dom is a hardcore Christmas kid. This, of course, means all of the Hobbits and Orli have to participate by the time December rolls around, despite the fact that the rest of New Zealand couldn’t give a toss about the regular yuletide.
After a night of heavy drinking and watching the Solomon Islands footy team pummel Australia, Billy awakes to the sound of rattling boxes and a rather irritating rustling. “Christ, Dom,” he says, cracking one eye open, “what are you doing?”
“You’re up!” Dom says cheerfully, popping his head in the living room, “I picked up tea on my way back. It’s still hot.” His cheeks are flushed red from exertion. “I have a few sweatshirts in the closet,” he adds, noting Billy’s shiver.
Reluctantly, Billy sits up. He wishes he hadn’t the moment his feet hit the floor. “This is unusual,” he calls to Dom after checking his watch. “You’re usually never awake this early.” His head is throbbing painfully. Padding into Dom’s bedroom, he opens his closet. Billy considers the selection before choosing an oversize grey Oxford sweatshirt.
“Yeah, well, I’m getting ready.”
“For?” Throwing the shirt on, he makes his way into the kitchen. He is immediately bombarded with the scent of pine.
“I love evergreen,” Dom announces. Pine needles stick to his crazily mussed hair. “And Christmas.”
“So I noticed,” Billy says, glancing around, “and figured out on my own, thanks. I feel like I’ve wandered into a forest.”
“Isn’t it fantastic?” Dom wraps a strand of evergreen garland around his neck like a boa and holds up a wreath with a crimson ribbon. “I haven’t even gotten a tree yet.”
“A tree?” Billy pops the Styrofoam lid on the tea and takes a large swallow. Pro; peppermint. Con; boiling. Billy’s mouth balloons as he frantically gulps, and he looks up to find Dom smirking.
“Greedy little bugger.”
“Shut it.” Billy tongues the roof of his mouth and winces. “I’m going to have to suffer with a burnt tongue all day.”
“Would you like some cheese with your whine?” Dom asks helpfully.
Billy flips him the bird and Dom laughs. Billy blows on his tea this time before taking a sip. “Why a tree?” Billy repeats. “Saint Nick’s doesn’t roll around ‘till summer.”
“Hey,” Dom says, “I fully advocate a white, December Christmas. Best things ever, mate. I had my first snowy one when I was five.” He pins a wreath above a small, framed picture of his family and turns to Billy. “Will you come help me get a tree? I really want to do it today.”
“Dom-”
“Oh, please, Billy? Come on. Orlando’s going surfing with Elijah, Astin’s off spending quality time with Christine, and everyone else is busy.” He reaches underneath the counter and pulls out a bag, dangling it in front of Billy’s face. “Scones.”
“Give me those.”
“They’re still warm,” Dom taunts. Billy makes a grab for them and Dom promptly yanks them out of reach. “Say you’ll help me get a tree.”
“Fuck you.”
“Please?”
Billy is silent and finally nods, albeit rather grudgingly. Dom extends his arm and Billy snatches the bag of scones from him, extracting one from the paper sack. “I still don’t see why on earth do we have to do this,” Billy complains around a mouthful of blueberry-and true to Dom’s word-still warm scone.
“‘Cause it’s Christmas,” Dom says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “‘Tis the season, Billy.”
*
“How does this look?” Dom asks, his voice muffled by a plethora of branches. “Are the bulbs good?”
“If you mean they light up when you plug them in, then I reckon so, yes,” Billy says tiredly, wiping his sticky hands on his knees. His palms are covered with pinesap and he’s desperately trying to rub it off. He lazily watches Dom setting up his tree, sprawled blob-like on Dom’s corduroy recliner.
“About how many bulbs work?”
“Um,” Billy says stupidly, squinting and rolling his head, “sixty percent, maybe?”
“Cripes. Hand me another string of lights, will you?”
“I meant to say ninety-nine, whoops. I can’t calculate anything for shit at this time of day.”
“What are you talking about?” Dom steps out from behind the tree, brows knit into a frown and arms akimbo. “You can’t calculate anything for shit at any time of day, Billy. Hand me another string of lights.”
Billy shoots him a mock-glare as he tosses him a wrapped bundle of Christmas lights. “Watch it!” Dom says warningly. “you can’t throw those things around.”
“Sorry,” Billy says sincerely. He brings Dom the next string of lights delicately balanced on a pillow, making girlish noises under his breath. Dom cuffs him upside the head (only after he’s snatched the lights from Billy) and a mini-wrestling match ensues near the half-lit tree.
An hour and a half and two empty boxes of ornaments later, Dom stands back and gazes at the golden tree with beaming pride. Billy finishes hanging a silver trumpet on a stout little branch (he finally caved in and after fifteen minutes of Dom’s relentless begging) and surveys the tree with a kind of quiet thoughtfulness.
“Well,” says Dom, “you go ahead.”
“Sorry?”
Dom places a large, gleaming gold star into Billy’s palm. “You put the star on the tree,” Dom says graciously.
“Oh, no-” Billy tries to give it back. “Dom, really, I couldn’t. It’s your tree.”
“Do it,” Dom insists stubbornly, clamping Billy’s fingers over the star. Its sharp points dig into Billy’s palm. Billy decides to stop resisting.
Climbing on top of a stool set near the tree, he wobbles precariously. “Okay, where should I put this?” Billy scrabbles at the seat with his fingers and finally stands, swiping blindly at the air.
“On the uppermost branch,” Dom says slowly, carefully enunciating each word.
“Don’t be a prick,” says Billy, “any specific branch in mind?”
Dom considers the tree for a moment, eyes roving around the top. “That one,” he says finally, pointing. “The slightly crooked one.”
“Right then,” Billy mutters, and carefully presses the star on to the tip of the branch. When he’s sure that the star is secure, he leans back slowly, holding his breath.
“That looks great!” Dom enthuses.
Billy, without realizing it, has been clenching his toes around the edge of the stool. He feels his balance slipping, like melting ice fast deteriorating. “Help me down,” he says blandly. Dom reaches forward and gently tickles the sensitive part of his foot, right above his heel. “Oh, no-Dom, you twat, no-”
With a shriek, Billy teeters and falls spectacularly onto the couch, tailbone smashing against the sofa arm. Dom laughs hysterically and can’t stop, even when Billy hurls a pillow across the room and tackles him.
*
The kitchen is warm, the spicy aroma of cinnamon hanging in the air. Cloves and nutmeg are scattered across the counter. Elijah is boozing it up (Yuletide cheer, he calls it) and watching Dom bake with interest. Billy observes Dom quietly and even offers to help, but Dom just smiles brilliantly and refuses.
“Where are you going with this baking shebang, Martha Stewart?” Elijah asks, taking a healthy slug of whiskey.
“You,” says Dom, pointing with a gingham, oven mitten-clad hand, “shut your fucking mouth, or Billy’s gonna get to taste before you do.”
“I feel a shadow growing deep within my heart,” Elijah says tearfully, pressing a hand to his chest for emphasis, “I have to watch Billy die. It’s every best friend’s nightmare.”
Dom calmly fills a spoon with pumpkin pie filling, bends it back, and flings the spoonful at Elijah. It whizzes by his ear, missing him by a few centimeters at best. Elijah jumps up with a yell. “Jesus!”
Dom beams at Billy, ignoring Elijah. “If these two come out well, I’m going to do mince next.” The microwave timer chirps loudly. “That’s apple!” Dom announces, shutting off the timer. Opening the oven, Dom squints through the shimmering heat and extracts a golden apple pie. “Watch it, watch it,” he warns as he brings it quickly over to the counter, setting it down on a folded dishtowel. “It’s hot.”
“No shit,” Elijah says, brandishing a fork as if it’s a weapon, “that thing’s been in there for a half-hour.”
Dom cuts the pie and gingerly puts a thin slice on the plate, using the flat of the knife as a lever. Steam rises up from the pie.
“You’re supposed to wait until the pie cools before you cut it, I think,” Elijah says helpfully.
“Oh, yeah?” Dom retorts, slicing a second piece.
“Yeah.” Elijah snags the cookbook and glances at the apple pie recipe. “‘The pie cuts best if it is cooled ten minutes before serving,’” he reads.
“Not for me. How did you know that, anyway?”
“Whoa, man,” Elijah says defensively, “I used to watch my mom cook. I’m not all fuckin’ domesticated like you.”
Dom gives Elijah the finger and hands them both the plates. “Try it. And blow on it before you do.”
Billy cuts off the edge of his pie with his fork. He cools it down with a soft stream of air and lifts it to his lips. Elijah, however, ignores the fork, bombards the small slice with an enormous gust of air, and takes half the piece into his mouth with his fingers.
“Well?” Dom asks eagerly, eyes shifting from Elijah to Billy.
Billy barely registers Dom’s question. He must have forgotten the sugar, Billy thinks, because at the moment sour and salty are absolutely flooding his taste buds. Saliva builds in the back of his throat, and after a few moments he forces himself to swallow. “It’s good,” Billy says, offering Dom a weak smile.
Elijah chews for only a few seconds before he begins gagging, and a huge smile spreads across his face. It makes for an odd combination. “Christ on a crutch,” Elijah howls once he’s swallowed, “you can’t cook for fucking shit!”
“It isn’t that bad,” Billy says on behalf of Dom, glaring at Elijah.
“Oh, yes it is!” Elijah pauses halfway through a fit of hysterics. “Oh, Dom. If I ever need to fix my leaking roof, remind me to plug it up with your pie filling.”
Dom looks thoughtfully, almost sadly at the apple pie. “So much for sending Aunt Bridget something homemade.”
“Will you be buying her a fruitcake?” Billy asks politely.
“Same as every year,” Dom answers.
*
Billy wanders into Dom’s kitchen with a half-eaten sandwich to find him sitting on the carpet, bits of wrapping paper and ribbon strewn around him.
Dom looks up. “Hiya,” he says brightly. “What’re you eating?”
“Turkey,” Billy mumbles around a mouthful of crust. He swallows. “What’re you doing?”
“Wrapping a present for my mum,” Dom says, holding up two rolls of paper. “Cornucopias or Santa?”
“Cornucopias,” Billy immediately answers. “It’s more elegant.”
Dom tries to rip scotch tape with his teeth and winds up with five twisted inches stuck to his lower lip. “Fuck,” he says indistinctly. “I suck at wrapping presents.”
“Here,” Billy says, handing Dom the half-eaten sandwich and motioning for the wrapping supplies. “I can do it.”
“Thanks,” Dom says gratefully. “Can I have your sandwich?”
“Sure.” Billy sits cross-legged beside him. “What am I wrapping?”
“This,” Dom says, handing Billy a slender black gift box.
Billy measures a length of cornucopia gift paper and neatly cuts it. “What are you getting her?”
“A diamond bracelet,” Dom answers anxiously, motioning for Billy to take a look. “What do you think?”
Billy opens the box and gently touches the bracelet, resting on a bed of cotton. His eyes take on an almost distant appearance. “Yeah,” he says, and as quickly as the faraway expression appears it vanishes. He smiles genuinely. “It’s beautiful, Dom. I’m sure she’ll like it.”
The anxious expression is quickly replaced by a wide grin. “Really?”
“Yes,” Billy answers with a smile. He sets to work and quickly but efficiently wraps the box. He ties a few ribbons around it, too, and uses the edge of the scissors to curl each ribbon. Dom watches him while he polishes off Billy’s sandwich.
“That looks great,” Dom says appraisingly.
“Hold on just… a second,” Billy says, and tapes the folds over one more time to make sure they stay. “There you go.” He hands Dom the wrapped gift and stands up. “I think I’m gonna go make myself another sandwich.”
“Wait,” says Dom, fingers encircling Billy’s wrist. He tugs Billy down and kisses him on the mouth, for only a second. Dom smiles and pulls back. “Thanks, Billy,” and Dom smiles again. Billy stares at dumbly at Dom, saying nothing. He still can’t find anything to say as Dom stands and ambles into the kitchen.
He isn’t sure if that was a kiss. Dom is a bit of an idiot, so that’s got to count for something (despite the fact that Billy truly adores him, at least when he’s not being a twat). Billy reckons it was just Dom being his usual, psychotic, crazy Hobbit self. He wets his lips and tastes the spicy mustard that Dom left behind with his pseudo, quasi, ‘not really a kiss’ kiss. Blinks.
“Want a drink?” Dom calls from the kitchen.
“Yeah,” Billy says, unfolding his legs and standing up. He has a cramp in his right foot and rolls it against the carpet, from the ball of his heel to his toes. “Yeah, sure.”
*
“Wake up, Billy! C’mon, get up, get up, get up!”
Billy feels vestiges of sleep (which are rapidly fading with each enthusiastic bounce of the bed) fighting to stay potent and deep within him. He grunts, words running and slurring into one long stream of consonants. “What the fuck for?”
“It’s Christmas morning! I’ve got you a present, come on. You’ve got to open it.”
Billy sleepily cracks one eye and looks at his watch. Five fifty-two. Motherfuck.
“No,” Billy says pathetically, his voice muffled into his pillow as he buries deeper into the warmth beneath the covers. “Let me sleep, Dommie.” Sighing, he turns over and comes into startlingly pleasurable contact with Dom’s thigh. He might’ve pressed into it, but no thanks to Dom, he is gradually becoming more and more aware of things. “Sorry,” he mumbles, eyes still closed.
“That’s okay! But man, I wasn’t expecting to get pricked with Hobbit morning wood on Christmas Day,” Dom says. “No pun intended.”
Billy, whose eyes remain closed, blushes only a little. “It’s your fucking fault,” he grates, though he’s not really angry. He makes a little monster growl sound in the back of his throat and bares his teeth. “You should know not to get that close to a guy in the morning.”
Billy expects Dom to get up and leave, to let Billy alone to wake up or finish himself off. He’s so sure in this respect, which is why it totally uproots his sense of balance and tears a surprised squeak from him when Dom yanks his sweatpants down to his thighs. “Dom, what the-” His breath hitches when he feels Dom pull aside his boxers, as well, and wrap a ring-covered hand around his cock. Dom’s fingers are tapered, callused, and his many rings make Billy squirm and almost (almost) wriggle away.
Dom’s hand skates up Billy’s flesh slowly and deliberately, and squeezes hard at the tip. His expression looks almost lazy, relaxed, yet his movements are hot and designed to set Billy on fire. Billy gasps loudly when Dom gathers the wetness at the tip, smears it around the velvety head with the pad of his thumb. “Dom, what are you-”
“We’re all out of eggnog,” Dom says easily.
Billy can’t swallow the choked sob of laughter that rips from his chest. “Fuck-Dom, you’re fucking sick…”
Whatever else Billy plans to say dies in the back of his throat. Dom continues to jerk him off, with the same unchanging, maddening pace and pressure. Billy’s forehead presses into the warm curve of Dom’s bicep, feels it flexing in synchrony with his strokes. “Dom,” he moans, hips pushing up into the circle of Dom’s fist, “Dom, god.” Heat breaks out across his face when the fingers of Dom’s other hand lightly stroke his balls. Billy gasps, instinctively twisting closer to the touch. “Yes-”
The fingers leave Billy’s bollocks. A pathetic, bereaving sort of noise flies free from Billy, but the sudden heat of Dom’s mouth quickly swallows it. He kisses Billy, tongue pushing past his lips and tracing over the ridge of his teeth. Billy is sure that Dom can be pliant and unresisting if he wants to be, but right now he’s relentless. Billy works Dom’s tongue, sucking on wet flesh. Dom angles his head and presses Billy’s own back into the pillow as his mouth smashes against Billy’s. He thinks back for only a hazy second to the mustard pseudo-kiss, which seems to have taken place years ago. No contest. Billy’s fingers scrabble against Dom’s shoulders, nails digging into his collarbones. Dom simply screws him down with his lips, jerks him harder, faster.
“C’mon,” Dom gasps against Billy’s flushed lips, “c’mon, Billy.” Billy lets out a strangled moan, fire sizzling through his veins. His toes push against the wrinkled sheets, hands tightening around Dom. The final wave crests and Billy spills into the sheets, crying out in staccato bursts. Dom stiffens almost painfully against him. Billy sinks back into the mattress, breathing unsteadily.
Before Billy’s fully come down from his high, Dom frames Billy’s face with his damp hands. Rolling them over, Dom’s hard cock sliding against Billy’s thigh, Dom kisses him thoroughly. Billy cups the back of Dom’s neck, lets soft sandy hair slip through his fingers, and kisses him back. Dom finally breaks contact, but lets his forehead rest against Billy’s and breathes in deeply, slowly.
“Dom,” Billy whispers, eyes gleaming, “is this what you meant when you said ‘hardcore Christmas’?”
Dom laughs. “Yes,” he says, “that’s exactly what I meant,” and kisses him again.
AUTHOR: veuki
RATING: NC-17
FANDOM: lotrips
PAIRING: Dominic Monaghan/Billy Boyd
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. I don't own anyone. This never happened.
WARNING: Graphic slash.
NOTES: My slashababy story.
SUMMARY: Dom is a hardcore Christmas kid.
Dom is a hardcore Christmas kid. This, of course, means all of the Hobbits and Orli have to participate by the time December rolls around, despite the fact that the rest of New Zealand couldn’t give a toss about the regular yuletide.
After a night of heavy drinking and watching the Solomon Islands footy team pummel Australia, Billy awakes to the sound of rattling boxes and a rather irritating rustling. “Christ, Dom,” he says, cracking one eye open, “what are you doing?”
“You’re up!” Dom says cheerfully, popping his head in the living room, “I picked up tea on my way back. It’s still hot.” His cheeks are flushed red from exertion. “I have a few sweatshirts in the closet,” he adds, noting Billy’s shiver.
Reluctantly, Billy sits up. He wishes he hadn’t the moment his feet hit the floor. “This is unusual,” he calls to Dom after checking his watch. “You’re usually never awake this early.” His head is throbbing painfully. Padding into Dom’s bedroom, he opens his closet. Billy considers the selection before choosing an oversize grey Oxford sweatshirt.
“Yeah, well, I’m getting ready.”
“For?” Throwing the shirt on, he makes his way into the kitchen. He is immediately bombarded with the scent of pine.
“I love evergreen,” Dom announces. Pine needles stick to his crazily mussed hair. “And Christmas.”
“So I noticed,” Billy says, glancing around, “and figured out on my own, thanks. I feel like I’ve wandered into a forest.”
“Isn’t it fantastic?” Dom wraps a strand of evergreen garland around his neck like a boa and holds up a wreath with a crimson ribbon. “I haven’t even gotten a tree yet.”
“A tree?” Billy pops the Styrofoam lid on the tea and takes a large swallow. Pro; peppermint. Con; boiling. Billy’s mouth balloons as he frantically gulps, and he looks up to find Dom smirking.
“Greedy little bugger.”
“Shut it.” Billy tongues the roof of his mouth and winces. “I’m going to have to suffer with a burnt tongue all day.”
“Would you like some cheese with your whine?” Dom asks helpfully.
Billy flips him the bird and Dom laughs. Billy blows on his tea this time before taking a sip. “Why a tree?” Billy repeats. “Saint Nick’s doesn’t roll around ‘till summer.”
“Hey,” Dom says, “I fully advocate a white, December Christmas. Best things ever, mate. I had my first snowy one when I was five.” He pins a wreath above a small, framed picture of his family and turns to Billy. “Will you come help me get a tree? I really want to do it today.”
“Dom-”
“Oh, please, Billy? Come on. Orlando’s going surfing with Elijah, Astin’s off spending quality time with Christine, and everyone else is busy.” He reaches underneath the counter and pulls out a bag, dangling it in front of Billy’s face. “Scones.”
“Give me those.”
“They’re still warm,” Dom taunts. Billy makes a grab for them and Dom promptly yanks them out of reach. “Say you’ll help me get a tree.”
“Fuck you.”
“Please?”
Billy is silent and finally nods, albeit rather grudgingly. Dom extends his arm and Billy snatches the bag of scones from him, extracting one from the paper sack. “I still don’t see why on earth do we have to do this,” Billy complains around a mouthful of blueberry-and true to Dom’s word-still warm scone.
“‘Cause it’s Christmas,” Dom says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “‘Tis the season, Billy.”
*
“How does this look?” Dom asks, his voice muffled by a plethora of branches. “Are the bulbs good?”
“If you mean they light up when you plug them in, then I reckon so, yes,” Billy says tiredly, wiping his sticky hands on his knees. His palms are covered with pinesap and he’s desperately trying to rub it off. He lazily watches Dom setting up his tree, sprawled blob-like on Dom’s corduroy recliner.
“About how many bulbs work?”
“Um,” Billy says stupidly, squinting and rolling his head, “sixty percent, maybe?”
“Cripes. Hand me another string of lights, will you?”
“I meant to say ninety-nine, whoops. I can’t calculate anything for shit at this time of day.”
“What are you talking about?” Dom steps out from behind the tree, brows knit into a frown and arms akimbo. “You can’t calculate anything for shit at any time of day, Billy. Hand me another string of lights.”
Billy shoots him a mock-glare as he tosses him a wrapped bundle of Christmas lights. “Watch it!” Dom says warningly. “you can’t throw those things around.”
“Sorry,” Billy says sincerely. He brings Dom the next string of lights delicately balanced on a pillow, making girlish noises under his breath. Dom cuffs him upside the head (only after he’s snatched the lights from Billy) and a mini-wrestling match ensues near the half-lit tree.
An hour and a half and two empty boxes of ornaments later, Dom stands back and gazes at the golden tree with beaming pride. Billy finishes hanging a silver trumpet on a stout little branch (he finally caved in and after fifteen minutes of Dom’s relentless begging) and surveys the tree with a kind of quiet thoughtfulness.
“Well,” says Dom, “you go ahead.”
“Sorry?”
Dom places a large, gleaming gold star into Billy’s palm. “You put the star on the tree,” Dom says graciously.
“Oh, no-” Billy tries to give it back. “Dom, really, I couldn’t. It’s your tree.”
“Do it,” Dom insists stubbornly, clamping Billy’s fingers over the star. Its sharp points dig into Billy’s palm. Billy decides to stop resisting.
Climbing on top of a stool set near the tree, he wobbles precariously. “Okay, where should I put this?” Billy scrabbles at the seat with his fingers and finally stands, swiping blindly at the air.
“On the uppermost branch,” Dom says slowly, carefully enunciating each word.
“Don’t be a prick,” says Billy, “any specific branch in mind?”
Dom considers the tree for a moment, eyes roving around the top. “That one,” he says finally, pointing. “The slightly crooked one.”
“Right then,” Billy mutters, and carefully presses the star on to the tip of the branch. When he’s sure that the star is secure, he leans back slowly, holding his breath.
“That looks great!” Dom enthuses.
Billy, without realizing it, has been clenching his toes around the edge of the stool. He feels his balance slipping, like melting ice fast deteriorating. “Help me down,” he says blandly. Dom reaches forward and gently tickles the sensitive part of his foot, right above his heel. “Oh, no-Dom, you twat, no-”
With a shriek, Billy teeters and falls spectacularly onto the couch, tailbone smashing against the sofa arm. Dom laughs hysterically and can’t stop, even when Billy hurls a pillow across the room and tackles him.
*
The kitchen is warm, the spicy aroma of cinnamon hanging in the air. Cloves and nutmeg are scattered across the counter. Elijah is boozing it up (Yuletide cheer, he calls it) and watching Dom bake with interest. Billy observes Dom quietly and even offers to help, but Dom just smiles brilliantly and refuses.
“Where are you going with this baking shebang, Martha Stewart?” Elijah asks, taking a healthy slug of whiskey.
“You,” says Dom, pointing with a gingham, oven mitten-clad hand, “shut your fucking mouth, or Billy’s gonna get to taste before you do.”
“I feel a shadow growing deep within my heart,” Elijah says tearfully, pressing a hand to his chest for emphasis, “I have to watch Billy die. It’s every best friend’s nightmare.”
Dom calmly fills a spoon with pumpkin pie filling, bends it back, and flings the spoonful at Elijah. It whizzes by his ear, missing him by a few centimeters at best. Elijah jumps up with a yell. “Jesus!”
Dom beams at Billy, ignoring Elijah. “If these two come out well, I’m going to do mince next.” The microwave timer chirps loudly. “That’s apple!” Dom announces, shutting off the timer. Opening the oven, Dom squints through the shimmering heat and extracts a golden apple pie. “Watch it, watch it,” he warns as he brings it quickly over to the counter, setting it down on a folded dishtowel. “It’s hot.”
“No shit,” Elijah says, brandishing a fork as if it’s a weapon, “that thing’s been in there for a half-hour.”
Dom cuts the pie and gingerly puts a thin slice on the plate, using the flat of the knife as a lever. Steam rises up from the pie.
“You’re supposed to wait until the pie cools before you cut it, I think,” Elijah says helpfully.
“Oh, yeah?” Dom retorts, slicing a second piece.
“Yeah.” Elijah snags the cookbook and glances at the apple pie recipe. “‘The pie cuts best if it is cooled ten minutes before serving,’” he reads.
“Not for me. How did you know that, anyway?”
“Whoa, man,” Elijah says defensively, “I used to watch my mom cook. I’m not all fuckin’ domesticated like you.”
Dom gives Elijah the finger and hands them both the plates. “Try it. And blow on it before you do.”
Billy cuts off the edge of his pie with his fork. He cools it down with a soft stream of air and lifts it to his lips. Elijah, however, ignores the fork, bombards the small slice with an enormous gust of air, and takes half the piece into his mouth with his fingers.
“Well?” Dom asks eagerly, eyes shifting from Elijah to Billy.
Billy barely registers Dom’s question. He must have forgotten the sugar, Billy thinks, because at the moment sour and salty are absolutely flooding his taste buds. Saliva builds in the back of his throat, and after a few moments he forces himself to swallow. “It’s good,” Billy says, offering Dom a weak smile.
Elijah chews for only a few seconds before he begins gagging, and a huge smile spreads across his face. It makes for an odd combination. “Christ on a crutch,” Elijah howls once he’s swallowed, “you can’t cook for fucking shit!”
“It isn’t that bad,” Billy says on behalf of Dom, glaring at Elijah.
“Oh, yes it is!” Elijah pauses halfway through a fit of hysterics. “Oh, Dom. If I ever need to fix my leaking roof, remind me to plug it up with your pie filling.”
Dom looks thoughtfully, almost sadly at the apple pie. “So much for sending Aunt Bridget something homemade.”
“Will you be buying her a fruitcake?” Billy asks politely.
“Same as every year,” Dom answers.
*
Billy wanders into Dom’s kitchen with a half-eaten sandwich to find him sitting on the carpet, bits of wrapping paper and ribbon strewn around him.
Dom looks up. “Hiya,” he says brightly. “What’re you eating?”
“Turkey,” Billy mumbles around a mouthful of crust. He swallows. “What’re you doing?”
“Wrapping a present for my mum,” Dom says, holding up two rolls of paper. “Cornucopias or Santa?”
“Cornucopias,” Billy immediately answers. “It’s more elegant.”
Dom tries to rip scotch tape with his teeth and winds up with five twisted inches stuck to his lower lip. “Fuck,” he says indistinctly. “I suck at wrapping presents.”
“Here,” Billy says, handing Dom the half-eaten sandwich and motioning for the wrapping supplies. “I can do it.”
“Thanks,” Dom says gratefully. “Can I have your sandwich?”
“Sure.” Billy sits cross-legged beside him. “What am I wrapping?”
“This,” Dom says, handing Billy a slender black gift box.
Billy measures a length of cornucopia gift paper and neatly cuts it. “What are you getting her?”
“A diamond bracelet,” Dom answers anxiously, motioning for Billy to take a look. “What do you think?”
Billy opens the box and gently touches the bracelet, resting on a bed of cotton. His eyes take on an almost distant appearance. “Yeah,” he says, and as quickly as the faraway expression appears it vanishes. He smiles genuinely. “It’s beautiful, Dom. I’m sure she’ll like it.”
The anxious expression is quickly replaced by a wide grin. “Really?”
“Yes,” Billy answers with a smile. He sets to work and quickly but efficiently wraps the box. He ties a few ribbons around it, too, and uses the edge of the scissors to curl each ribbon. Dom watches him while he polishes off Billy’s sandwich.
“That looks great,” Dom says appraisingly.
“Hold on just… a second,” Billy says, and tapes the folds over one more time to make sure they stay. “There you go.” He hands Dom the wrapped gift and stands up. “I think I’m gonna go make myself another sandwich.”
“Wait,” says Dom, fingers encircling Billy’s wrist. He tugs Billy down and kisses him on the mouth, for only a second. Dom smiles and pulls back. “Thanks, Billy,” and Dom smiles again. Billy stares at dumbly at Dom, saying nothing. He still can’t find anything to say as Dom stands and ambles into the kitchen.
He isn’t sure if that was a kiss. Dom is a bit of an idiot, so that’s got to count for something (despite the fact that Billy truly adores him, at least when he’s not being a twat). Billy reckons it was just Dom being his usual, psychotic, crazy Hobbit self. He wets his lips and tastes the spicy mustard that Dom left behind with his pseudo, quasi, ‘not really a kiss’ kiss. Blinks.
“Want a drink?” Dom calls from the kitchen.
“Yeah,” Billy says, unfolding his legs and standing up. He has a cramp in his right foot and rolls it against the carpet, from the ball of his heel to his toes. “Yeah, sure.”
*
“Wake up, Billy! C’mon, get up, get up, get up!”
Billy feels vestiges of sleep (which are rapidly fading with each enthusiastic bounce of the bed) fighting to stay potent and deep within him. He grunts, words running and slurring into one long stream of consonants. “What the fuck for?”
“It’s Christmas morning! I’ve got you a present, come on. You’ve got to open it.”
Billy sleepily cracks one eye and looks at his watch. Five fifty-two. Motherfuck.
“No,” Billy says pathetically, his voice muffled into his pillow as he buries deeper into the warmth beneath the covers. “Let me sleep, Dommie.” Sighing, he turns over and comes into startlingly pleasurable contact with Dom’s thigh. He might’ve pressed into it, but no thanks to Dom, he is gradually becoming more and more aware of things. “Sorry,” he mumbles, eyes still closed.
“That’s okay! But man, I wasn’t expecting to get pricked with Hobbit morning wood on Christmas Day,” Dom says. “No pun intended.”
Billy, whose eyes remain closed, blushes only a little. “It’s your fucking fault,” he grates, though he’s not really angry. He makes a little monster growl sound in the back of his throat and bares his teeth. “You should know not to get that close to a guy in the morning.”
Billy expects Dom to get up and leave, to let Billy alone to wake up or finish himself off. He’s so sure in this respect, which is why it totally uproots his sense of balance and tears a surprised squeak from him when Dom yanks his sweatpants down to his thighs. “Dom, what the-” His breath hitches when he feels Dom pull aside his boxers, as well, and wrap a ring-covered hand around his cock. Dom’s fingers are tapered, callused, and his many rings make Billy squirm and almost (almost) wriggle away.
Dom’s hand skates up Billy’s flesh slowly and deliberately, and squeezes hard at the tip. His expression looks almost lazy, relaxed, yet his movements are hot and designed to set Billy on fire. Billy gasps loudly when Dom gathers the wetness at the tip, smears it around the velvety head with the pad of his thumb. “Dom, what are you-”
“We’re all out of eggnog,” Dom says easily.
Billy can’t swallow the choked sob of laughter that rips from his chest. “Fuck-Dom, you’re fucking sick…”
Whatever else Billy plans to say dies in the back of his throat. Dom continues to jerk him off, with the same unchanging, maddening pace and pressure. Billy’s forehead presses into the warm curve of Dom’s bicep, feels it flexing in synchrony with his strokes. “Dom,” he moans, hips pushing up into the circle of Dom’s fist, “Dom, god.” Heat breaks out across his face when the fingers of Dom’s other hand lightly stroke his balls. Billy gasps, instinctively twisting closer to the touch. “Yes-”
The fingers leave Billy’s bollocks. A pathetic, bereaving sort of noise flies free from Billy, but the sudden heat of Dom’s mouth quickly swallows it. He kisses Billy, tongue pushing past his lips and tracing over the ridge of his teeth. Billy is sure that Dom can be pliant and unresisting if he wants to be, but right now he’s relentless. Billy works Dom’s tongue, sucking on wet flesh. Dom angles his head and presses Billy’s own back into the pillow as his mouth smashes against Billy’s. He thinks back for only a hazy second to the mustard pseudo-kiss, which seems to have taken place years ago. No contest. Billy’s fingers scrabble against Dom’s shoulders, nails digging into his collarbones. Dom simply screws him down with his lips, jerks him harder, faster.
“C’mon,” Dom gasps against Billy’s flushed lips, “c’mon, Billy.” Billy lets out a strangled moan, fire sizzling through his veins. His toes push against the wrinkled sheets, hands tightening around Dom. The final wave crests and Billy spills into the sheets, crying out in staccato bursts. Dom stiffens almost painfully against him. Billy sinks back into the mattress, breathing unsteadily.
Before Billy’s fully come down from his high, Dom frames Billy’s face with his damp hands. Rolling them over, Dom’s hard cock sliding against Billy’s thigh, Dom kisses him thoroughly. Billy cups the back of Dom’s neck, lets soft sandy hair slip through his fingers, and kisses him back. Dom finally breaks contact, but lets his forehead rest against Billy’s and breathes in deeply, slowly.
“Dom,” Billy whispers, eyes gleaming, “is this what you meant when you said ‘hardcore Christmas’?”
Dom laughs. “Yes,” he says, “that’s exactly what I meant,” and kisses him again.