Burn/NC17

[kronette.livejournal.com]

Title: Burn (1/1)
Pairing: Monaboyd
Rating: NC17 for just about everything
Disclaimer: Didn’t happen. Wasn’t there. Didn’t see a thing.
Summary: (I suck at summaries). Inside Dom’s head is not a nice place to be. 
Notes: This was my first RPS. I posted my second here first. Inspired by the picture from St. Patrick's Day 2004 found here.

"Burn"
Copyright April 2004 by Hazel Thicket (hazelthicket”@”kcnet.com)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It burns.
 
The tips of his fingers feel it first. He doesn't choose those pansy-assed thin matches; he goes for the thick, real-wood matchsticks. Ones that burn slow and hot, the blue-white flame edging closer to his freshly-manicured index finger.
 
The burn is quick; a bright-hot pain that echoes what he feels inside. The only thing he feels inside. The spark flutters and dies, and he drops the blackened ash into an empty glass. He draws another match from the little box he carries with him - though he doesn't smoke - slides the box closed, and makes to strike.
 
Fingers curl around his wrist, stilling his movement. He doesn't look up; doesn't have to. The calluses on the pads of the fingers reveal the owner of the hand interrupting his meditations.
 
"G'way," he murmurs, reclaiming his hand and completing the connection of match-head on the striker.
 
"Dom," the voice recriminates softly, gently, making him wish he had a flamethrower instead of the two-inch match. Soft and gentle, concerned as only a close mate can be. Only a close mate. A close mate, only. His lip curled in a sardonic, self-depreciative sneer. He should take a crack at the script again; seems the words were flowing easily now that he forced himself to stop thinking.
 
He can sense the disapproving assessment of the empty glasses littering the table. Only two of them are his; the rest belong to Lij, lost somewhere amid the glitterama of the night. He doesn't bother enlightening his accuser. He continues to stare at the blue heat, willing it to move faster, to deepen its mark.
 
"You're drinking too much again, Dom," the voice murmurs, disappointment and concern thickening the accent.
 
The barest hiss escapes his lips as the flame touches skin; the sting curls his toes and flares heat in his stomach. He pushes open the end of the box again, but this time, determined hands steal it away.
 
"Dom." Harsh. Accusatory. Pained.
 
His eyes flick up into the concerned expression of his best mate, knowing that there will be the brightest flame; the deepest hurt. Stomach churning, heart tripping, he falls again into eyes the color of lush Scottish hills, darkened to almost black in the dim light. Wishes he could hit bottom; wishes the pain would just end. But he just keeps falling, keeps flailing, keeps coming back for more.
 
He has no more words. Words dried like ash and were carried away on the wind long ago, leaving only a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He looks down, looks away from that bright flame, only to be tossed back into the center as a hand clamps vice-like around his wrist, wrenching his attention fully to the man before him.
 
Green eyes glitter at him through the darkness, cold and knowing. Spiteful, resentful, accepting. Another twist of the hand, and he's being dragged outside the bar at a quick pace, having to dodge people and tables and other obstacles. He bangs his knee on the doorjamb and delights in the throb of pain. He stands quiet as a cab is hailed, every pore on every inch of his skin remembering the ghost of touches from just the hand around his wrist.
 
It burns.
 
Before he can linger over memories, before he can fall again, a cab stops and he's pushed inside, crowded to the other door, sweat beginning to form. Not just a hand anymore; thigh and hip are touching his and he bites his lower lip not to ask, not to beg, not now. Not here.
 
Not yet.
 
They share the same hotel, the same floor, and it's a matter of minutes through the light traffic at this extremely late hour before they're getting out of the cab. He stands again quiet as the fare is paid, a generous tip given to ensure privacy, though they did nothing to require it.
 
He walks close beside Billy, concealing the hand that still grips his wrist. His fingers are sparking with the need for better circulation, and it's another trill up his spine. He can feel Billy's energy flowing over him in heated waves, agony and desperation and loathing bathing him in its glory. The lift arrives, the space empty but cramped, full of them and anticipation and it.
 
Their floor, and he's turned to the left, away from his room. He doesn't know whether to be grateful or angry. To have this, but not be able to savor it, to linger until the scent is faded to memory, is cruel, and he supposes, just.
 
The card slips through the reader easily, and he's shoved inside just as easily, but with more force. He stumbles and catches himself on the arm of the couch, barely missing a tumble to the floor. The clack of the deadbolt echoes like a shot, sharpening his nerves to a fine point. He watches with dry lips as the sliding lock is engaged, ensuring their privacy - no tip needed.
 
He stands tall as Billy approaches, unable to stop the hitch in his breath as he senses Billy's hand move in his peripheral vision. It hovers in the air for a second, just at the edge of his vision, then clamps around the back of his neck. Pressure enough to hurt and he hisses, though his stomach is twisting and his hands twitch with need. His head is forced back and teeth close along the skin at the base of his throat, biting sharply, and he chokes on a groan. Billy's free hand grabs his hip and jerks him forward, bending his body awkwardly, leaving him off-balance and dizzy. Mouth closes over his throat again, sucking at his Adam's apple, nipping the skin hard enough to bruise. A thigh pushes between his slightly parted legs and he falls: head-first into the abyss, back onto the couch, knees onto the floor. His neck is still held in the same vice-like grip his wrist had been, and his nose almost brushes the zipper of Billy's fly.
 
The hand pushes him forward and he flicks his tongue out, searching for the tab and pulling it down with his teeth. Rough denim scratches his cheek as he nuzzles closer, quickly using his hands to undo the lone button and push the well-worn jeans and dark blue boxers down to Billy's ankles. He starts to inch forward but is stopped by fingers digging deeply into his neck.
 
He's held there, breathing in the thick scent of Billy-musk, the full cock framed by the flaps of the button-down shirt, the center of his fucking universe laid out before him, and he's held firm. Waiting. Knowing it will come. It always comes.
 
The word, the treacherous, traitorous word escapes before he can swallow it down: "Please". His eyes close as the fingers loosen on his neck. He can feel shameful heat on his neck and chest even as his mouth opens, tongue seeking contact with the equally heated flesh of Billy's skin.
 
Smooth, sliding to the back of his mouth on the first go, only five strokes more to get it in his throat. He opens and accepts, mouth painfully stretched open, nose buried in the thick curls, hands gripping the backs of Billy's thighs for support and to urge him deeper, to use him, to give him everything. To take everything.
 
Billy's thick, and deep, and he fucking can't breathe, and that's it: he locks his arms and Billy can only give these little thrusts. Part of him now, and this is how it should be, how it always is, dizzy-happy and floating and everything is touchtastesmellBilly...his hands slip on the slick skin, then he digs his nails in, pulling Billy deeper, holding him in...
 
His head bounces off the couch cushion as he's shoved back, involuntarily drawing in great lungfuls of air. His eyes snap to Billy, hunched down on one knee. One shaky hand grips the arm of the chair; the other half-cradles his stomach. One foot is flat on the carpet, though the leg is trembling.
 
"What the fuck did you think you were doing?" Billy gasps, wincing as he shifts.
 
He rubs his sore throat and doesn't answer. Doesn't need to. Billy can see it in his eyes. A green flash of anger is his only warning before he's caught by the wrists and dragged into the bedroom. He bounces face-first on the mattress once, then Billy's heavy weight covers him, forcing his wrists above his head.
 
Harsh breath pants against the back of his neck as Billy's knee grinds into his lower back. He shudders beneath Billy even as he stifles a pained moan. His erection, which until now he'd given little thought to, is being jammed against the inside of his zipper. The biting pain washes over him, coiling every muscle, and he shifts his hips to spike the pain up that much higher.
 
A low, guttural growl whispers past his ear as he's released. Before he can draw another breath, he's tossed onto his back, and Billy's hands are yanking his jeans down and off. Shoes and one sock make it to the floor before he's pushed and pulled again, onto his knees at the edge of the bed. His shirt is rucked over his head but not off his arms. Instead, Billy shoves him forward and his elbows lock to keep him from falling.
 
He slides his hands further apart until he's more balanced, automatically spreading his knees as far as they'll go. The tops of his feet rest on the edge of the bed, and Billy is standing near him; he can feel the body heat swaying his vision.
 
The crinkle of foil joins the sound of their ragged gasps. His fingers curl into the bedcover, trying to find purchase, trying to find his center. Breathe, in and out, anticipation coiling so tight...
 
He jerks at the first rough touch, the blunt finger shoving inside without preamble. A groan slips out as his hips thrust back. The finger is removed immediately, but he's unable to follow as a firm hand pushes against his tailbone. He's manhandled into position, hips tilted and suddenly it's there, it's happening.
 
Billy pulls out and thrusts back in, hard, and he bites his tongue so he doesn't scream. A muffled sound escapes anyway, and it's enough to start a punishing rhythm that jostles his bones. The burning, stretching ache intensifies instead of lessens as friction warms him from the inside out. Nails cut deep into the flesh of his hips as he's forced back with every thrust forward, trapped between Billy-hands and Billy-cock.
 
His world becomes a dizzying canopy of sound and light and feeling, and he lets out an anguished moan as blinding white pleasure sears him. His body's on fire: Billy's the match-head, and he's the striker that's being scraped raw. He can feel the blue-white flame edging closer, burning brighter, determined to consume him.
 
His muscles spasm in his thighs, leaving him barely able to choke out a sob. Tears of frustration and pain slip from his tightly squeezed eyes as the pounding abuse continues, his body bent forward, Billy's weight pushing his shoulders to the mattress. His throat's constricting, his vision blackening around the edges, and still it's not enough. More, he needs more, demands more.
 
Teeth close on his shoulder as sporadic thrusts torment his body, Billy's climax ripping through them both. The wave rolls over and over, grunts and cries filling his ears. Too soon, Billy collapses on top of him, sliding on their mingled sweat.
 
His body is cramped and vibrating with coiled tension, his cock is screaming for release, his lungs are screaming for air, but he denies them all, content for the moment to be surrounded by Billy. Prickles of sensation start at his numb feet, spreading upward to his outstretched arms, outlining and memorizing everywhere Billy-skin touches him.
 
He can only manage choked, desperate sounds as Billy regains his strength and pushes off his back. He clenches his ass, trying to hold him inside, but Billy slides out and off the bed.
 
He removes his arms from the shirt first, so he can peel himself off the bedcover. His cock is an angry red, and feels about as pissed off. He stretches his right leg out so he's exposed, letting the air cool his overheated flesh. He watches Billy with a measured gaze, as the Scot ties off the condom and tosses it in the trash.
 
Muscles protest as he raises his head, tracking Billy's walk into the main area of the room. He returns with their clothes, rooting through the back pocket of his pants - no, Dom's pants. He pulls out the keycard to Dom's room and flips his own onto the bed.
 
The blue-white spark flutters and dies, as it always does, and he drops his head back to the bed. "Finish myself off?" he questions with a throat gone dry.
 
Billy almost - almost - meets his gaze. Billy's eyes hover somewhere near his tattoo, flicker of memories crossing his too-animated features. "Fuck you, Monaghan," Billy says concisely, then pulls on his shirt, buttoning it rapidly, but with shaky fingers.
 
"Been done, thanks," he quips, forcing himself to remain still. He derives little satisfaction from the stutter in Billy's movements. His eyes follow Billy as he gathers socks and shoes, slips them on, and makes to leave.
 
Billy meets his eyes, then, and Dom wishes he didn't. Acceptance is gone, leaving only resentfulness and spite. "Never again, Dom," and it's a statement, not a question. Carved by footsteps, etched in a straight back, set by the closing of the door.
 
He lies still for a minute, then reaches up and snags a pillow with the tips of his numb fingers. He drags it to his chest, clutching it tightly as his free hand wraps around his cock. He strokes brutally, punishing himself, bringing a quick, painful release.
 
He screams, using the pillow to muffle the sound, though it reverberates in his head. Aching, sticky, drained, he curls around the pillow, waiting for the sweat to dry on his skin. The hollow, nothing feeling returns quicker than he expected, and he forces his mind to think of something else. Something that would really hurt. Something that would last.
 
His eyes narrow as he recalls the cigs that Lij handed him at the bar. He eases himself off the bed to get his pants, finding the pack crumpled in the front pocket. He pulls one from the pack, staring at the unlit end until his eyes blur. He rolls to the nightstand and fumbles for the matchbook he knows is there. The flame bursts into life, catching on the fine paper and sending the familiar clove smell into the air. He watches it slowly, oh, so slowly creep up the paper to the butt, letting the ash drop onto his thighs. Still staring at the nub between his fingers, he turns it over and presses down on the back of his left wrist, erasing the feel of callused fingers.
 
It burns.
 
The End