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monaboyd Mar. 7th, 2005 03:33 pm)
light-the-sky76.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Mar. 7th, 2005 03:33 pm)Author: light_the_sky76
Title: Fingerpainting
Pairing: monaboyd
Rating: PG
Summary: Painting fic. Billy decides to try
Disclaimer: All made up. Every last bit of it
Feedback: Pretty please
A/N: Thank you![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
indigo_blind for the faster than a speeding bullet beta-ing
It was mocking him. If pieces of canvas were able to stick out their tongues and sing "Neeeerrrrrrr," this one would be blowing raspberries at him with enthusiasm.
It had seemed like a nice idea to try painting. Dom enjoyed it, Viggo did too. Dom always shone with pleasure as he slapped paint about, creating vibrant swirling pictures with apparent ease.
But now Billy as stood with the paint glistening beside him and a blank sheet before him, he found that inspiration was sadly lacking, and the canvas remained empty.
It was surprisingly overwhelming; there was such a large choice of colours (and that was without mixing them together to make a shade of his own) and an infinite number of shapes and marks he could make with his brush. Once he'd made the first mark on the page the picture would begin, and what if the red stripe along the bottom of the page (for example) was wrong? There would be a bloody great red line at the bottom of his picture just sitting there all out of place and unworkable and you can't rub out paint.
Billy missed pencils.
Particularly the ones with the little pink rubbers at the top.
Billy had enjoyed painting when he was little. His mum would cover the kitchen table with newspaper and wrap one of his dad's old shirts round him to keep his clothes clean and Billy would spend hours making portraits of his world. In his pictures his mum would always have a big smile and lots of chestnut hair, and his dad would be solid and steadfast with big capable hands. He would use the brushes at first, then tire of that and cover his hands and fingers in colour and drip and splash and rub paint onto the paper, and anything else that crossed his path.
Billy gave the paintbrush in his hand a hard stare, then dropped it unceremoniously and dipped his forefinger into the green paint. It was cool and thick and brought back warm memories of standing at the kitchen table up to his elbows in poster paint and childish abandon. (Poster paint washed off easily, so his mum didn't get mad if some of the paint ended up on the wall, or the fridge, or in Billy's hair.)
He raised his hand and drew his finger across the canvas leaving behind what could only be described as a splodge. But it was his splodge, and Billy liked it.
He dipped his fingers into the other colours and smeared the paint on the canvas in thick curves. Round and round, up and down, in waves and swooping lines.
The picture wasn't of anything, not really. It was just colours and movement and Billy found the six year old of his memories smiling as the paint filled the wrinkles in the skin of his knuckles and squeezed through his fingers and under his nails. Those hands, multicoloured and busily creating chaos, belonged to a small boy kneeling on a chair by the kitchen table messy and joyful as him mum baked bread and ginger biscuits behind him.
"That's looking good". Dom was leaning against the doorframe grinning in amusement. "Finger painting. Unusual choice, Bill."
"It's what I used to do when I was little." Billy held his hands up for inspection. "I used to make such a mess."
"Me too. I still do." He came to stand by Billy's shoulder and tilted his head to the side and he considered the picture in front of him. "I like it Bills, it's…" Dom paused, considering his answer, "childish, you know, simple. It's like the kind of fun you used to have as a kid. Innocent and joyful."
"I find it hard to believe you were ever innocent, Dom." Billy knew, really, that Dom would understand what he had been feeling. He was like that, his Dom; he understood things at a visceral level, like he could see the roots of Billy's moods winding deep into the ground where even Billy himself couldn't always find them. So on those days when Billy would be grumpy and barbed Dom would know not to snipe back at him, but would put an arm around Billy to kneed the tense muscles at the back of his neck, lean his forehead against Billy's and whisper "Bad day Bills? Shhhh, s'okay now."
"I was, once, a long time ago." Dom leant his chin on Billy shoulder and Billy could smell the ocean in his hair. "Is it done?"
"Almost," Billy took Dom's hand, covering Dom's finger and palm with the colours from his own. Then pressed their joined hands to the canvas and made a gentle sweep along the bottom leaving behind a blurred stroke. "There, perfect."
"Perfect." Dom agreed. When Billy released his hand Dom slipped it quietly under Billy's shirt and pressed it against his stomach. The paint was cold against Billy's warm skin and the unexpected contact made him gasp.
"That's cold, Dom."
Dom chuckled as he moved his fingers around in circles spreading colours across Billy's skin. "Cold, Bill?" His hand moved lower to work the button on the top of Billy's jeans.
"A little chilly perhaps," Dom had undone the button and had moved his attention to the zip, "frosty even." Dom was past the zip and was nipping at Billy's neck with teasing kisses. "Icy, and um…you know…oh god there Dom…" Words were slipping out of Billy's grasp and he gave up on finishing his sentence. Instead he turned his head to kiss Dom, reaching up with his palm to cup his cheek. When they separated to catch their breath Billy realised he had smeared paint over Dom cheek and jaw and into his ear.
"I told you I make a mess doing this."
"Well," Dom's eyes were dark and his voice low and husky, "we'll just have to clean up."
He backed out of the room quickly pulling Billy with him, across the hall, through the bathroom door and into the shower.
Painting as an adult was different in some ways to when he'd done it as a child. But there was still the same abandon, the same joyful feeling of letting go and enjoying the movement and creation of shapes and textures. The pleasure wasn't so innocent, especially not with Dom hands on his skin and Dom's breathe on his lips and Dom crooning obscenely and sweet in his ear. But the pleasure and joy were still there, just as warm and comforting as Billy remembered.
And paint still did wash off easily.
Title: Fingerpainting
Pairing: monaboyd
Rating: PG
Summary: Painting fic. Billy decides to try
Disclaimer: All made up. Every last bit of it
Feedback: Pretty please
A/N: Thank you
indigo_blind for the faster than a speeding bullet beta-ing It was mocking him. If pieces of canvas were able to stick out their tongues and sing "Neeeerrrrrrr," this one would be blowing raspberries at him with enthusiasm.
It had seemed like a nice idea to try painting. Dom enjoyed it, Viggo did too. Dom always shone with pleasure as he slapped paint about, creating vibrant swirling pictures with apparent ease.
But now Billy as stood with the paint glistening beside him and a blank sheet before him, he found that inspiration was sadly lacking, and the canvas remained empty.
It was surprisingly overwhelming; there was such a large choice of colours (and that was without mixing them together to make a shade of his own) and an infinite number of shapes and marks he could make with his brush. Once he'd made the first mark on the page the picture would begin, and what if the red stripe along the bottom of the page (for example) was wrong? There would be a bloody great red line at the bottom of his picture just sitting there all out of place and unworkable and you can't rub out paint.
Billy missed pencils.
Particularly the ones with the little pink rubbers at the top.
Billy had enjoyed painting when he was little. His mum would cover the kitchen table with newspaper and wrap one of his dad's old shirts round him to keep his clothes clean and Billy would spend hours making portraits of his world. In his pictures his mum would always have a big smile and lots of chestnut hair, and his dad would be solid and steadfast with big capable hands. He would use the brushes at first, then tire of that and cover his hands and fingers in colour and drip and splash and rub paint onto the paper, and anything else that crossed his path.
Billy gave the paintbrush in his hand a hard stare, then dropped it unceremoniously and dipped his forefinger into the green paint. It was cool and thick and brought back warm memories of standing at the kitchen table up to his elbows in poster paint and childish abandon. (Poster paint washed off easily, so his mum didn't get mad if some of the paint ended up on the wall, or the fridge, or in Billy's hair.)
He raised his hand and drew his finger across the canvas leaving behind what could only be described as a splodge. But it was his splodge, and Billy liked it.
He dipped his fingers into the other colours and smeared the paint on the canvas in thick curves. Round and round, up and down, in waves and swooping lines.
The picture wasn't of anything, not really. It was just colours and movement and Billy found the six year old of his memories smiling as the paint filled the wrinkles in the skin of his knuckles and squeezed through his fingers and under his nails. Those hands, multicoloured and busily creating chaos, belonged to a small boy kneeling on a chair by the kitchen table messy and joyful as him mum baked bread and ginger biscuits behind him.
"That's looking good". Dom was leaning against the doorframe grinning in amusement. "Finger painting. Unusual choice, Bill."
"It's what I used to do when I was little." Billy held his hands up for inspection. "I used to make such a mess."
"Me too. I still do." He came to stand by Billy's shoulder and tilted his head to the side and he considered the picture in front of him. "I like it Bills, it's…" Dom paused, considering his answer, "childish, you know, simple. It's like the kind of fun you used to have as a kid. Innocent and joyful."
"I find it hard to believe you were ever innocent, Dom." Billy knew, really, that Dom would understand what he had been feeling. He was like that, his Dom; he understood things at a visceral level, like he could see the roots of Billy's moods winding deep into the ground where even Billy himself couldn't always find them. So on those days when Billy would be grumpy and barbed Dom would know not to snipe back at him, but would put an arm around Billy to kneed the tense muscles at the back of his neck, lean his forehead against Billy's and whisper "Bad day Bills? Shhhh, s'okay now."
"I was, once, a long time ago." Dom leant his chin on Billy shoulder and Billy could smell the ocean in his hair. "Is it done?"
"Almost," Billy took Dom's hand, covering Dom's finger and palm with the colours from his own. Then pressed their joined hands to the canvas and made a gentle sweep along the bottom leaving behind a blurred stroke. "There, perfect."
"Perfect." Dom agreed. When Billy released his hand Dom slipped it quietly under Billy's shirt and pressed it against his stomach. The paint was cold against Billy's warm skin and the unexpected contact made him gasp.
"That's cold, Dom."
Dom chuckled as he moved his fingers around in circles spreading colours across Billy's skin. "Cold, Bill?" His hand moved lower to work the button on the top of Billy's jeans.
"A little chilly perhaps," Dom had undone the button and had moved his attention to the zip, "frosty even." Dom was past the zip and was nipping at Billy's neck with teasing kisses. "Icy, and um…you know…oh god there Dom…" Words were slipping out of Billy's grasp and he gave up on finishing his sentence. Instead he turned his head to kiss Dom, reaching up with his palm to cup his cheek. When they separated to catch their breath Billy realised he had smeared paint over Dom cheek and jaw and into his ear.
"I told you I make a mess doing this."
"Well," Dom's eyes were dark and his voice low and husky, "we'll just have to clean up."
He backed out of the room quickly pulling Billy with him, across the hall, through the bathroom door and into the shower.
Painting as an adult was different in some ways to when he'd done it as a child. But there was still the same abandon, the same joyful feeling of letting go and enjoying the movement and creation of shapes and textures. The pleasure wasn't so innocent, especially not with Dom hands on his skin and Dom's breathe on his lips and Dom crooning obscenely and sweet in his ear. But the pleasure and joy were still there, just as warm and comforting as Billy remembered.
And paint still did wash off easily.
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[woot. first to comment.]
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Go you!! *wink*
Thanks
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ahem. sorry about that. Lovely. *grin* I love the description of the feel of the paint, and the memories it brings back for Billy...very cute.
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I know, it's distracting isn't it?
:)
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*goes to look at Precious picture again*
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thanks
Thanks
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and can't disobey a direct command now, can we? *licks*
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*adds to memories*
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Whoo!
Mmm, paint smeared Dom ^_^
...
Ahem, anyway. Greta work XD
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This was just gorgeous and the description of Billy sitting at the kitchen table painting really brought back some good memories for me, from my own childhood.
Beautifully written.
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Hehe.