Ficlet: Unspoken 1/1- BB/DM- R-NC17-AU

[dustyirish2003.livejournal.com]

Title: Unspoken

Author: Jen

Pairing: BB/DM (only in Billy's mind)

Rating: R-NC17 (not sure which to go with)

Summary: Billy wishes for a different world. Set circa mid 1800's, a small Scottish village.

Warnings: AU. Angst, angst, and more angst. Brief mention of violence (not main pairing). Slight religious undertones. Mention of m/m sex and masturbation.



Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The author does not know, and is in no way affiliated with the persons mentioned in this work. No disrespect is intended to the persons mentioned in this work. No money is in any way being made from this piece of pure fiction.

Feedback: Would absolutely adore it.

A/N: A/N: This is my first LOTR attempt, and my very first RPS in any forum, not to mention a great deviation from the style in which I usually write. In the past, my fics have consisted mainly of ridiculous, and for the most part indecipherable, humor. I have absolutely no idea where this one came from. Not only have I laid the angst on so thick you could cut it with a knife, I also appear to have turned poor Billy into some kind of latter-day Hester Prynne. This ficlet desperately wants to become a full-blown story, but I'm trying my darndest to go against my very nature and stay curt. I still can't for the
life of me figure out how this drabble morphed from the other LOTR fic I'm working on, in which Orli and Lij are busy playing love-struck cowboys, Dom's pining (albeit humorously) for Billy, and Billy's blissfully unaware of it all. (It's probably best if you just don't ask.) : ) Anyway, thanks so much for reading!




Billy lay in his cold, empty bed, surrounded by the stillness of the Highlands. Nothing moved now, save the wind, and it seemed to carry within it a name, a name whispering of shame and guilt and transgression, but no less beautiful for all that.

Dominic.

The good and gentle man who had done no wrong in his life, except to commit the one unpardonable sin. He had stolen Billy's heart.

He came to the bookseller's each Thursday, bringing with him
sunshine and laughter. He always had a kind word and a cuddle for
the shopkeeper's daughter, the feeble child no one else even
bothered to acknowledge, seamlessly stepping into her world instead of making her feel an imposter in his. He and Billy would chat for hours about all manner of things, often until the sun had sunk far below the horizon. Billy felt truly alive whenever Dominic was near, the musical tone of his laughter brightened even the dreariest day. And each time Dominic departed, a larger piece of Billy's soul went with him.

At first, Billy tried to ignore the strange stirrings throughout his body at the sound of Dominic's voice, the heat that blossomed in his chest whenever Dominic's hand brushed against his. He tried to deny the ache deep within himself, the empty space which he knew only Dominic could fill. But after awhile Billy had been forced to admit to himself that he had become something to be hated and feared, at least in the eyes of most. An abomination, a degradation, an offense.

One of the unspoken.

It simply wasn't done. Not in his small part of the world. And when it was, it was kept as a naughty, nasty secret, to be whispered of only in the dim, smoke-filled back rooms of taverns or tittered about at the market by blushing, self-righteous housewives.

And if one dared to overstep the boundaries, dared to mock
everything considered right and pure?

Gavin MacCready had been rumored to be one of "them", a few years
back. At first there was no proof, but over time he had grown
careless, secure in a love in which he could see no wrong. He had
been spotted one night at the tavern with a farmhand from a
neighboring village, talking a little too softly, touching a wee bit too intimately. Next morning, MacCready was found with a gaping hole where his throat had once been. The farmhand was never found at all. The inquest was a joke, a carefully woven web of lies. The truth was to be found only in the hard, cruel glint of the tavern keeper's eyes.

The townsfolk thought it strange that Billy had never taken a wife, even though he was considered quite the eligible bachelor and received plenty of attention from the lasses. At least when Margaret had been alive, the gossip-mongers were kept at bay. It wasn't so unusual for an unmarried brother and sister to keep house together. But now that she had been gone two years, and he was still alone and seemed perfectly content to remain so, the murmurings were beginning. He felt the townspeople's curious, accusing eyes. Billy had seen MacCready's torn body laid out for display, and could all too easily imagine the terrible cold of the blade against his own neck.

But at night, in the vast loneliness of his bed, the images would
still come to tempt him, and he hadn't the strength nor the heart to stop them. Images of what might be if things were different. The comfort of soft, slow kisses and warm, safe embraces. Strong, yet infinitely gentle hands caressing him; long, elegant fingers trailing a blazing path along every inch of his skin. Searing hardness lovingly moving inside him, filling him, making him cry out with pleasure at the long last soothing of that desperate ache within himself. When these images became too much to bear, when Billy's throbbing flesh finally became impossible to ignore, he would grasp himself with rough, almost savage strokes. And when he came, bucking into one hand and screaming out a forbidden name into the other, it was with not a feeling of relief, but one of damnation. And boundless sorrow.

Even in sleep, there was no respite- the haunting images only grew more distinct. A carefree, beautiful smile; wild, windblown hair; eyes the color of the storm-swept sea, shining with intelligence and humor. Visions of a world in which love and home and family were defined by a single name. Dominic.

Visions of a world which could never be.

Billy closed his eyes on the chill, dark Scottish night and prayed for blindness.


End.