Author: Serpentis lord_alexander
Rating: NC17. So NC17.
Summary: A little story of rough kinky sex and sexual obsessiveness.
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, they'd be on Ebay.
Feedback: is my Britpop. It's my crack. It's my Pulp, Placebo and James.
Author's Notes: It started out as PWP but got a plot somewhere along the line, and first person is fun, I forgot how much I liked it. This is songfic - don't run! It's not obvious! It's based on the brilliant Laid by those Britpop boys James. Best band of the nineties for me, I swear, they're fantastic. Look, it's a song about kinky sex and obsession, how fantastic are they? So, we have *looks* alleys, biting, bondage, bruises, cross-dressing, domination, eyeliner, knife-play (no bleeding, well, not much, teeny bit), obsession, wrestling, other stuff.
This is for kraken_wakes. After all, she loves James and I need to make it up to her as she had Zombiefic nightmares, bless her.
This bed is on fire with passionate love,
The neighbours complain about the noises above -
But he only comes when he's on top.
Sweet mouthed, and hot eyed and he seems too innocent to slam me down on the bed. A twist of nails on wrists, a murmur of pain as fuck, that stings like shit, and Billy likes that, don't you love? Like me crying out with a bit of pain, aye? Just jumping me as I'm through the door, grabbing me by the arm and propelling me upstairs. You're boss, you say what goes. I like it. Small and neat and delicate, but you're still the one who is toppy enough.
Billy, Billy, it's been two weeks of fucking shagging since I said how about it. How about it, Billy, I say, and then a hand grabs me by the hair and we're in some filthy back alley and I'm going down on him like some tuppenny favour. Calling me a wee tart, aye Dom, suck me 'til I come, aye...good lad. Short, neatly kept nails digging into my scalp as my mouth is fucked. I like that, I tell him that around his cock so it comes out as a drooling growl of want, and he's grinning like devils and lust. Glittering eyes, triumphant gazes, as this is what the bastard's planned all along. A cheap little blow job in some tiny, filthy lane, knees of my jeans soaked with fuck knows what, him taking my mouth like he knows what he's doing. A slight sweat that tastes of Glenmorangie and salt, the slow creak of denim as Billy's hips shift.
Two long weeks of not being able to keep me hands off him, especially when he gets bossy. We were watching telly, nothing much, some American shit, and how the fuck do I end up on my knees being screwed like that? It doesn't even register, just a slow drive of that prick and hands wanking me roughly. Then teeth and fuck, I'm coming silent as he's coming screaming. Just that sting, that resonance of nerve ending shaking sets me off like a bastard Exocet. He gives me his hands to lick then retreats to the settee, grinning. Always grinning, like I'm the butt of some cosmic joke that he's carrying out with his cock. Like getting me down there's easy, that I'm a slag.
Love the fucking. Maybe I am a slag? Making me beg for it, nice and hard and please, Billy, please fuck me. Dom Monaghan: Slag.
It's when he's there, holding me down on the sheets. I'm naked, he's fully dressed until he tugs his shirt off without undoing buttons. Hot, that is. Pale skin and rosy nipples, flat belly with that trail tempting into his trousers. It's like it's leading to Golgotha or that garden, not Eden...Gethsemane? Aye, that's the one. The place of skulls, the place of betrayal, and whatever the hell has got me addicted I go back again and again. Hard, under the thick fabric, outlined in tightness and black material, like he wants me to know, and I'm not that thick.
There's a click, handcuffs cold and solid. Around one of the rungs on the bedhead, locked down on my back, legs casually spread by that bastard who knows what this does. Fucker knows this does bad things. Came once from it, as he dripped words in that whisky-ringed voice of his. Tied down, at my mercy aye, Dom? Can't escape, all mine to play with, do things to. Yeah, he gets right in, like splitting your head open and finding all the bits that make what'll make you a slave, and then doing them. Dark kinks. Just there, staring up at him smirking at me, and he don't do a thing. Just there. Watching the effect. I'm hard, and panting, and there's precome dripping down my cock, and the bastard, the fucking beautiful bastard, is cool as ice. It's a show, fuck, I know that, but he's an actor. Billy does acting, he is expression and melancholy and the glimmer of complete amusement as he lubes me up, casual as he pleases.
Fucking good though, bloody great. Some touch at least with probing fingers, legs on shoulders, another slick and I'm not right prepared but he needs it and I do and fuck...smarts a hell of a lot. Buggery does, Even with all the screwing, endless and inventive and kinky as hell. You'd think that with that face Billy would be sweet and innocent, but then it's always the cute ones you got to look out for. He's got dark sides, chasms and abysses that are carved into him with hatchets it seems. Claymores?
Doesn't take long. We're too excited, it's only been two weeks of shagging continually, every day, and he's on top. I switch. He doesn't. Dominating. It's exciting watching skin turn from cream to scarlet, see the climax hit. A shudder, bodily, like he's wiping out on a bloody surfboard of orgasm and he collapses. The pressure takes me, and fuck...fucking hell...there's nothing like that heavy heat and sweating body pressing against you as you come and come and are so silent. And Billy's screech rings in your ears, like an alarm.
My therapist said not to see you no more,
She said you're like a disease without any cure,
She said I'm so obsessed that I'm becoming a bore.
Something makes me feel that this could be unhealthy. We work together, we shag, we socialise together, we shag, we're fucking actors that are on some endless filmset, and we're shagging. Together mostly 24/7, it's hard to get away sometimes. Always an arm over a shoulder, a smouldering look that's got...fuck, it's coming through in the rushes. Pippin and Merry. So everyone thinks they're screwing. Alright, we're good enough actors, but me and Billy are playing them as if they're lads who are mates, not lovers. But then there's the sword, and the way the sweat gleams on his upper lip like crystals, and the wide-eyed innocence, and fuck...
Maybe there's two Billy's? One's the sex maniac, hand down my trousers, wanking me off under the table as we're chatting with the rest of the Fellowship. He's grinning, again, always that sweet, fallen angel grin. Sean Bean's on my other side, fucking Sean Bean. Sharpe, that is. That's Trevelyan. Over there is sodding Elijah Wood. Ian bloody McKellan. We're surrounded by these actors, these brilliant men, and Billy's wanking me under the table like it's some fucking dare. And after I come into his hand, he surreptitiously licks his hands clean.
Viggo's stare is blue steel.
The other one...the one that's addictive like chocolate, rather than the beer of sexy Billy. There's a sweetness, the slightest caress of a touch, and fuck, how can I not obsessed, yeah? Fantastic sex, those rare moments when we're not laughing or acting or screwing. that are like hot water bottles and hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows. Comfort moments. Like when I look and see bruises and bite marks that they're there because they're there for a fucking reason. Not a quick shag, something else, you know? Sometimes I think it might be a bit more, but then I'm a bit more emotional, aren't I? I'm the one who wants more, Christ, sometimes it's being a sex toy that's bloody hard. Like a human dildo with kinky attachments. Cuff marks, and the crescent of teeth, finger tip bruises on my hips where I was bent over and screwed so hard I was half-delirious with the roughness. SO it's stupid, thinking it's more. Just a reaction.
I don't know what the fuck he wants.
Billy's got to me. It's like...he's shown me stuff, and I crave it, and I need more, and if it wasn't there...not obsessed, I swear. Even when he's got me in the armchair, legs looped over the arms, and he's there sucking me off with that impossible mouth of his. All curves, almost womanish, stretching around the glossy flesh as he goes to town. Christ, he's got a mouth on him. Hot, and wet, and how the fuck does he know how to do that? Tongue flickers, along the prominent vein, across the crown, and when he looks into my eyes I come and come and lose my soul
You think you're so pretty.
A smoky slide of silken stocking, a mouth reddened with sucking cock and lipstick, the smeared black eyeliner, and...fuck...
Caught your hand inside a till, slammed your fingers in the door,
Fought with kitchen knives and skewers.
It gets rough, sometimes. I like it and hate it and it confuses and thrills. There's injuries, we went to casualty some times. Bites are hard to explain, especially on arse cheeks and inner thighs, fingers that twisted a bit much when we was wrestling, naked and sweating and slick with oil - massage, fuck, massage is erotic. A drizzle of jasmine oil down my spine, and his hands are everywhere. Too slippery to hold me down, ha! Take that, Boyd, you're not getting me that easily. Twisting over and writhing like a seal to escape, thudding to the floor with twin cries of pain. Beautiful bruises where I get my fucking own back as Billy likes a nip or two. Throat and shoulder and when we fight. Love it when we fight.
Always naked, even when we're going at it a bit too enthusiastically.
Never actually cut me mind, though. Got me hands roped together behind my back with his dressing gown cord and lashed to the door handle. He gets this knife, not some hulking great carving knife, something a bit more subtle. Four inch blade, slim but not like a stiletto. The metal gleams with malevolence, it's just some kitchen knife, you've probably got one - wooden handle warped with use, the blade achingly sharp. Billy smiles. Beatifically, like I deserve this. I do, I want it, and it's chilly. Just the faintest stroke of the knife, not even the full edge but more the flat, over my throat. Taunting. Too fucking hot. Swallowing's not an option. He's touching me with it, like he does with his fingers. Promising and not giving. Down the pale column of the side of my neck and that's my bloody jugular. Sometimes there's more pressure, and it's like the skin has parted and flooded me with heat, but it's not.
Don't quite trust him to not cut, though. Doesn't matter, there's a frisson.
Along a collar bone and I can see that there's the pressure of the blade there. It doesn't feel that heavy but the lines it draws are bone white before filling with blood. No cutting, just the drawing of pressure, down the centre of my chest to stroke over one of those achingly erect nipples of mine, the very tip drawing the faintest bead of blood and bloody hell Billy licks it away with a look that's almost dreaming. There's hunger in his face, a sucking kiss tasting of copper, before he's sliding the knife down. Tracing muscles, like he traces with his hands. We know what'll happen, he'll...fuck...it's cold, that blade. Not really, but the blood sings through my head and the difference in skin temperature and the knife is such that it freezes and chills.
The heat around my cock though, when his tongue laps...and he's counter stroking it with caressing my balls with that knife. Fear and lust and need and terror. Like he's forcing an orgasm that I'm desperate to have, sneaky fucker. Sneaky, brilliant, twisted Billy.
Dressed me up in women's clothes, messed around with gender roles,
Bound my eyes and called me pretty.
I'm not naked, never am when we're playing like this. Knee boots with lacings, a blocky heel, fuck I'm tall in them. Christ. Took me ages to learn how to walk on them. Lacy knickers, sitting on me hips but like shorts really. They're opaque, like the cami vest. It's not kinky. It's not sexy underwear, it's more...fuck, it's more me. I'm not able to pull off corsets and stockings. Billy can, fuck...Billy looks bloody insane in them, makes me come without touching my cock. But he's naked, and I can hear him.
I put on kohl, smudged eyeliner like exhausted debauchery. He likes it. The untidier the better.
Don't know it he's got his own stuff on. Sometimes he's in a corset and satin knickers. Matching gloves. The gloves aren't just for show but for touching. Sometimes suede or kid leather. Like the satin though, slick and heavy. Don't think he is tonight, unless he's learned how to self lace. I usually strap him in to the corset, narrowing his waist to nothingness and rounding his hips. It's an optical illusion, of course. They don't widen, just he seems slimmer at the waist. Any thinner and he'd disappear.
There's a blindfold, leather and thick. Billy likes the surprise, of creeping over.
There's no swish of stockings, the legs between mine as he stands in the splayed v of my thighs - I'm sitting, hands neatly on the arms of the chair and they're not going to move, they're not allowed to though they aren't tied - are naked. A light tickle of hair against aroused warm flesh, a fingertip that's tempting through...suede. No corset then, just the tight fitting chocolate brown suede gloves that are toasty with body heat, smoothing in a leisurely path across where Billy fancies. No pattern, that's the torture. I don't know where he'll go next, when he’ll wank me, whether he will. The rasping of his breathing reflects hungry arousal. There's a note of desperation as he kisses me; it's finished before I even register and try to reply, but those fingertips in maddening hide tease and molest. Torture through mind-blowing pleasure. Everything is heightened. The lightest touch, brushing over tiny hairs and nothing more, makes that thick moaning pleasure stutter from my lips.
Begging never works. It always makes things worse.
Hours, days, forever. It takes forever for the suede to skim over my cock.
He's so good at this sweet torture. I come without him touching me.
Moved out of the house so you moved next door,
I locked you out, you cut a hole in the wall,
I found you sleeping next to me, I thought I was alone.
Drives me bloody insane, he does. Always there, tormenting, in my head. Physically it's fine, I can cope. Mentally...Billy there, Billy here. Close my eyes and there he is. It's usually that look, that says 'you're mine.' It's obsessive, he's worse than me, worse than I could be. Too close, too many touches, or dominating moves. It's fucking worrying sometimes how he does it. How he marches over and drags me off without asking, or he'll glare at those who're talking too long. Possessive, really. Yeah, maybe it does scare me. I'm not afraid to admit that.
Tried dumping him a few days ago. To get back the old Billy? Didn't work, backfired when I was tied to my bed and he was bringing me to the point of orgasm endlessly, not letting me come. I whispered for him to let me go, please, and there was something in it that stopped him. For the first time ever. It was as if he took a step back and examined what had been happening. Just that one moment, really, and he cut the ropes and crawled up and collapsed, sobbing, on my chest. Said he was sorry, said that he was being driven mad, please forgive me Dom, I don't know, you're in my head and I can't stop myself, I get so fucking jealous, you ken...
We had a talk. Long one, while in bed. It was the longest we'd been there without screwing. It was...nice. Nice talking to him, like we hadn't for a long time. Decided that it was a relationship based on lust, and that was bad and unhealthy. That he didn't have to be so obsessed; he's worried I'll run off with fucking Elijah of all people. Right, I said, of course I will. Daft bugger.
He stayed until the morning, kissed me goodbye.
Felt fucking final. Really final. Christ, what the fuck have we done?
Just...don't think it, Monaghan.
You're driving me crazy
In my head, like rabies. Green eyes and that incredible mouth, the way he stands with the weight on one hip, the line of his fucking thigh, and fuckfuckfuck.
You're not supposed to be in my head. Go away, Bills?
The way he laughs. The way you know what he's thinking. How he finishes my sentences. How when he's in the room there's this crackle of electricity between us. That sense of humour, how we mesh...
I can't do this.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. This isn't fair. The entire relationship if you could call it one was supposed to be non-emotional shagging. Not some...whatever the hell this is. Not this sickness to the stomach and a feeling of desolate failure.
When are you coming home?
Cracked, both of us. One look , one sodding touch as Merry and Pippin and we're almost sobbing. Thank Christ it's the 'death scene' with him kneeling over me. Dead Theoden, dead Nazgul, dead Merry? A touch on my cheek, and he's shaking. Can feel his thighs against mine. Takes every ounce of power to stop sitting up and kissing him senseless. Manage to keep that going for about twenty minutes when we're eating. He's keeping his hands to himself, good boy, that's good. Because, fuck. YOu know? This isn't just sexual. This isn't just sexual desire and sexual jealousy, this is...Before. When we weren't. I loved him. The joyous giggle, the accent, the way Billy's eyes softened, the smile tugging his mouth as he is amused at something John says.
Under the table, my hands creeps into his.
A slight squeeze of fingers.
Billy laughs, a shatter of joyous shattered crystals. I start laughing too, and all that tension I didn't know there? Goes. Goes the moment I'm hugging him and the laughter's gotten almost hysterical, even though we're being stared at, and the heat against my throat is from that perfect mouth, and he's stroking the back of my neck in tiny, quite-not-believing circles.
So, doing this properly. We're going on a date this evening. Some restaurant, Indian I think.
I don't put out until the third date.
Right, take two. No getting laid this time, Monaghan.