Fic: The Part
E-mail: the_smooth_one910@hotmail.com
Rating: R to NC-17ish.
Warnings: Boy on boy, people. Angst as well.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Pairings: Dom/Elijah
Summary: This is the part where you cry.


2:48 a.m.

This is the part where you cry. That’s what Dominic thinks to himself. This is the part where you break down, where you sob, when you ask yourself how you got here, when did you sink so low, when you wonder what happened to you. He closes his eyes tight, opens them again real fast, he expects to feel the tears, spurting from his eyes. He doesn’t feel them. Figures. He can’t even feel tears anymore.

This is the part where you get the fuck out of here. That’s what he thinks to himself. This is the part where you don’t roll over, where you don’t wait for the apology of the man laying next to you, when you ask yourself if he thinks you’re his whore, when you wonder if you expect money thrown down on the sheets for your services, along with a “Good show, mate” for good measure. He crawls out of bed, still woozy after all the alcohol, he expects to feel the bile rise in his throat, spurting out without warning. He doesn’t feel it. Well, what do you know? He can’t even feel vomit anymore.

This is the part where you put your jeans on and walk out the door. That’s what he thinks to himself. This is the part where you slip your jeans on, where you don’t even bother with your shirt, when you ask yourself what you’re going to do tomorrow, when you wonder how everything’s going to be tomorrow. He puts his shoes on, runs his hand through his sweaty hair, he expects to feel the sweat and grime, spurting from his strands. He doesn’t feel it. It just gets more interesting, doesn’t it? He can’t even feel sweat anymore.


2:16 a.m.

This is the part where he grabs you by your shoulders. That’s what Dominic thinks to himself. This is the part where he wraps his hand around your cock, where he strokes you with such carelessness you’re ready to scream to the heavens, when you ask yourself how you got yourself here, when you wonder how such a boy, your best friend, could transcend beyond beauty. They kiss, roughly and very masculine, he expects his friend to pull away, saying no no over and over again. But no one says anything. What a fantastic notion. He can’t even find the words for it anymore.

This is the part where he grinds his hips into yours. That’s what he thinks to himself. This is the part where he grips him by you ass, where he doesn’t wait for lube, when you ask yourself if this is going to hurt too much, when you wonder how long it will take for him to come yelling, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck” for good measure. He lets out a moan, long and appreciative, he expects his friend to pull out, saying I can’t I can’t over and over again. But no one stops what they’re doing. It’s amazing. He can’t even think anymore.

This is the part where he comes and collapses on top of you. That’s what he thinks to himself. This is the part where he lays against you, where he mumbles into your chest how fantastic you are, when you ask yourself what you’re going to do tomorrow, when you wonder how it’s going to be tomorrow. He lays there, quiet and still, he expects his friend to roll over, saying I’ve got to go I’ve got to go over and over again. But no one walks away. It’s heaven. He can’t even deny anymore.


1:41 a.m.

This is the part where you say no. That’s what Dominic thinks to himself. This is the part where you turn the other way, where you shake your head, when you ask yourself how you got here, when you wonder if you’re going to have the strength to turn this opportunity down. He bites his lip, top teeth sinking into his bottom lip, he expects to taste blood, lingering all over his teeth. He feels nothing. Hmm. He can’t taste blood anymore.

This is the part where you try to explain to him why they shouldn’t do this. That’s what he thinks to himself. This is the part where you use the excuse of friendship, where you try to follow through with that idea, when you ask yourself if he thinks you’re easy, when you wonder if he’ll say anything at this point, along with a “It won’t fuck things up” for good measure. He steps off the bar stool, a little dizzy from the drinks and the lights, he expects to taste the vodka, lingering all over his breath. He feels nothing. Strange. He can’t taste alcohol anymore.

This is the part where you try not to follow him out the door. That’s what he thinks to himself. This is the part where you throw a twenty down on the table, where you walk out of the bar, when you ask yourself what you would do tomorrow, when you wonder how it would be tomorrow. He takes careful steps, his hand intertwines with the hand of his best friend, he expects to taste the shame, lingering all over his mouth and body. He feels nothing. Nice. He can’t taste dignity anymore.


How many hobbits can we fit in a bed?
This ain't floating my boat!
Home, Jones!


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