Gabby Hope

Dom is staring.

It's cool outside, colder than it was yesterday and the day before. Overcast. A little windy. But that's all right, because with the cool comes the slight blush to slim cheeks. And Dom thinks he can handle that.

It's early and Billy already has that flush to the hollow of his cheeks, that slight reddening and a rosy little nose. Pippin's button nose. It's endearing and godfuckitall sexy. Dom wants to nuzzle it with his own nose. Bite down on it. Uh, among other things and such, that is.

And maybe it is because he's staring, but maybe it's also because Billy is his friend (Dom has to keep reminding himself of this little factor... friend, friend), that means he can do such things, but Billy looks up from his breakfast, and his green eyes flash and he's grinning, waving Dom over. Dom is no longer staring but looking down at his own plate of food, considering the two bananas and the grapes and the muffins and the cheese and applesauce... oh, those eyes, that smile... and then he's getting his stubborn legs to move toward Billy and his table, toward Billy and his blushing face.

"Morning, mate." Billy says, and the morning goes on from there. With Dom and Billy and breakfast and Billy's cheeks and nose. With Dom's jiggling leg and fidgeting fingers and eyes that keep darting from Billy's face to Billy's hands to Billy's exposed neck above his costume and just... Billy.

~ ~

No one is ever in this trailer, Dom thinks as he opens the door and slides inside. It's safe. It's a safety net. A little bubble closed off from the outside. He shuts the door behind him. Leans against it heavily. His heart is thudding in his chest, his eyes already half closed. It's dark. Blinds are closed. Space to move around in, what with a counter topped with mechanical things and a table in front of him, but all that matters is that no one is there and that there's enough space to touch himself and that's it. Perfect.

Breath coming in and going out in jagged little wheezy sips, he's fumbling with cold fingers at his buttons, at his zip, and god, yes, there it is. Cold fingers slipping underneath warm cotton and, oh. Thoughts of green eyes and red nose and ringing laughter. Imagining those green eyes glazed over with want, sex eyes, bedroom eyes, on him, for him. Dom's mouth falls open, tongue sweeping over his lips. God, god, Billy...

There is a rustling noise to his right. The clearing of a throat. Dom's breath catches in his wind pipe mid moan. The fuck? A beat. More movement. And then the thought hits home, and he's frantically pulling at his pants with one hand while the other stops its frenzied movement, pulling away quick enough so that he actually smacks himself in the face with it. He catches a brief smell of his sex. Dear god, dear god, he thinks. His widened eyes search the space, a bead of sweat running from his upper lip and to his mouth. He licks at it distractedly. He shoves his hands chastely against the door behind him. There are moving shapes and then...

"Dominic. You took me by surprise."

Ian. Oh shit. Great. Not only did someone catch him wanking in what he thought was a secluded trailer, but that person had to be Ian McKellen. Gandalf himself. Lock him up and throw away the key, stick a fork in him, take him out to a field and shoot him, he's done for.

"I'm dead." Dom mutters to himself. Face burning, ears about ready to turn to ash and crumble to the ground. There is a chuckle as Ian comes into sight. Well, not sight, exactly. Dom can see his outline. His shoulders and his hair and the shadow of his glasses resting on his nose. Long legs, thin torso. He leans against the table in front of Dom. Crosses his ankles, folds his arms in front of his chest. Studies Dom, and Dom can vaguely make out a smile. A fond smile. Not a, "you creepy kid" smile. Good. Okay.

"Nothing to worry about." Ian says. "It's quite normal," and Dom feels giddy in a sort of post-traumatic syndrome type way. There is a slight thrumming in his middle, but he had been so shocked, so terrified, that his erection has become a distant memory; no, don't think about it! Don't even acknowledge its existence. It might come back to haunt him.

Ian's mouth moves, but Dom cannot catch up with the sound to register what is said, and really, what does Ian mean by asking... asking...

Dom's brain kicks in. "What?" Breathless.

Ian's smile is small, delicate. The right corner of his mouth lifts, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. He chuckles softly, running his index finger over his lips as he repeats, to Dom's horror, "Who is it?"

"I. I don't." Act nonchalant, Dom thinks. He stuffs his fists into the pockets of his jeans. His fingers clench and unclench. His mouth works, stumbling over words. He moves back against the door, turning slightly. Gotta go. Gotta get out. "I should... I guess I just..."

"Suppose I ask. Would you be able to answer, then?" Ian questions, and Dom's mouth goes dry. He nods wordlessly. Attempts to swallow. "Ah, good." Ian says, and then he's tapping his index finger against his chin. Tap, tap, tap. "Hmm. Let's see." He stares levelly at Dom, and it's not as uncomfortable as it is eerie. Ian can see through him, Dom thinks. Can see right through him to his beating heart and his circulating blood and even his withered hard-on for you-know-who, but if Ian doesn't guess it, maybe he'll be okay, everything will go back to normal, and they can go back outside and get ready for their night shooting which they will start getting ready for in maybe half an hour and Dom will plaster himself to Billy's side and laugh and joke and fuck around. Just maybe.

"Is it Orlando?" Ian asks. Dom's brow furrows. Orli? Oh, boy. This'll take forever, the thinks. He shakes his head. Ian clicks his tongue, seemingly a bit... disappointed. "Quite a lovely young man. Your age, isn't he?"

"I'm a month older." Dom manages to croak.

Ian smiles another delicate smile. "Of course you are. Well, hmm. Not Orlando, then. Could it be... Elijah? Frodo Baggins, himself? Our little, delicately boned ring-bearer?"

Dom actually chuckles at that. Bizarre, he wants to say. What the hell would he want with Elijah? Elijah's a mate. Elijah can't make him laugh like Billy can. Elijah doesn't know how he ticks. Elijah can't say what Dom wants to say a millisecond before he even opens his mouth. Nothing like Billy, he wants to say. But instead he exclaims, "No!"

"Ahh, you feel that strong about it. You two are so close, I would have thought..." and then he's grinning. Leering, even. Dom's eyes have adjusted in the semi-dark; he can see the light gleam of teeth. He can hear the "ha ha" of Ian's bemused laughter. "I've got it." Ian says, and Dom's throat contracts, because he knows, just knows, that Ian finally has him all figured out, and when Ian opens his mouth, what will come out of it will be...

"You fancy your Peregrin Took."

Which is not exactly the way that Dom thought he'd hear it, but yes. "Yes." His brow knits. His shoulders sag against the door. His body is lax. A large weight lifts from him, though he dreads the outcome. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Yeah. Just like that. Ian sighs.

"You poor boy." He shakes his head. Dom looks at him, feeling wretched, feeling torn apart and left for the vultures. Now what?, he wants to ask. Laugh. Go ahead.

But Ian must recognize the reproachful look on Dom's face, because he says, "Oh, Dominic. I won't make fun of you. I won't tell another soul, if that's what you wish." Dom's stomach lifts somewhat. His shoulders come up a bit. Ian's face softens and Dom even finds himself standing straighter. Returning the smile. "You have nothing to worry about. Well," Ian pauses, his shoulders lifting slightly. "Besides the whole Billy trouble, that is."

Dom's smile falters. "Right." He resists the urge to sigh. To scream. To bury his face in his hands and sink to the ground of the trailer and just stay there until everything closes in around him.

"You do not know if he returns the affection." Not a question, but a statement. Dom shakes his head. Scrubs his palm under his left eye, wiping away sudden moisture. Fuck.

"You do not even know if he's akin to appreciating the beauty of a man." A sniffle from Dom. The trailer is still. Ian makes a "hm" noise. Dom closes his eyes in an attempt to wish himself away. But not because of Ian. Because of the dilemma. The problem that he hasn't even wanted to think about. Because, yes, problem it is. But he had been happy with his fantasies before. Thinking, well, what if Billy did like him? What if Billy felt the same? What if Billy magically appeared at his door-stop at three in the morning buck-naked with a sign around his neck that said, "Dom, can I fuck you?" What if, what if? Now Ian is making him think, why, why? And his heart aches because of it.

"Dom?" Ian's quiet voice perpetrates his thoughts. "Did you hear me?"

"Uh. No, sorry." Dom murmurs. Ian smiles again. Dom feels grateful because of it. He's maybe even glad that Ian is here. Perhaps this chat should have happened sooner.

"Is Billy your first crush on a man?" Ian asks, and Dom's immediate thought is, "CRUSH?"

"Billy's not a crush." Dom says, and his voice only wavers a little. Ian pulls himself away from the table, hands held out in front of him in a gesture of peace, peace, and Dom thinks, ah, that may have been a little more forceful than he had intended. So he says more quietly, "It's more than that."

Ian's hands fall to his sides. He nods. So understanding. "Of course it is." He waits, and Dom knows he is waiting for his answer.

"He's the first man I've... liked. Yes." He says. And his cheeks burn from... something. Not shame. Embarrassment? Maybe a bit of that.

"Ahh. Yes." Ian rubs a palm against his own arm, and Dom follows the motion with his eyes. Ian is looking over Dom's shoulder, concentrating on something very much not Dom, and that is more comforting than a, oh, you're so young and naive! "A difficult ordeal."

"Yes." Dom says, and his hands twitch in his pockets. "Yes."

Ian hums, rocks on his feet. "You can't sleep... can't keep your mind on anything."

"All I see is him." Dom agrees, and his smile matches Ian's. Ian still isn't looking at him, though, and Dom pulls away from the door, finding his footing, finding his balance.

"You eat him, you drink him." Ian chuckles suddenly. The sound bemused. "Or you wish you could."

And this makes Dom laugh; the noise a surprise in the small space, bouncing off of the walls, coming back to haunt them. "Uh. Yeah."

"Oh, but I've forgotten." Ian says, and his sparkling eyes are back on Dom's. "This is your first," stress on the last word, as if it were a curse, and Dom blinks twice in succession, "You don't know anything of all of that." A beat. "Do you?"

"Hey, now!" Dom remarks, his chest puffing out despite himself, his voice sure of itself. "I know more than you think. I'm no blushing virgin."

Ian grins wickedly, and Dom opens his mouth to add no, really! But Ian's already laughing and shaking his head saying, "You know your dreams, I'm sure, Dominic. But there's much more to learn."

Yeah, like what? Dom wants to ask, but that might be just a bit... too much, he thinks. Because it's more comfortable in the trailer, now. There's much more air than there was before. He's able to breathe comfortably and stand up straight and meet Ian's eyes and even think, "If only Billy could hear me now." But knowing that he's talking about this with Ian McKellen is on the sort of creepy side of odd. He doesn't quite know if he wants it to go too... far.

"You think of Billy all of the time, do you not?" Ian is asking. Dom's good nature dampers just a bit. He falters. Nods. "He is a very youthful man. Lovely facial features."

Dom smiles. Proudly, he might even admit. Yeah, he thinks. That's my Billy. "Handsome."

"Perhaps. Yet, not beautiful, I'm afraid." Ian says. "Orlando is beautiful. Elijah may be considered beautiful... in an effeminate way, that is. Billy is merely good looking."

The urge to defend his friend is strong, and so, "But his personality more than makes up for it," pops out of his mouth before he can help it. He can feel his ears redden after.

"Of course." Ian says with a nod. "But it was not his personality you were thinking of when you rushed into this trailer with your hand down your trousers, now, was it?"

Slick as an eel, Dom thinks faintly. His teeth click together as his mouth snaps shut. "No." He barely manages to grind out past his thick tongue.

They are both quiet for a minute. Dom can hear only the beating of his heart. He watches as Ian's right palm moves to hold his own left elbow. His left hand rests against his chin. Comfortable. Dom runs his tongue against the front of his teeth. There is a sharp, bitter taste at the back of his throat. Ian clears his throat. Asks quietly, "What were you thinking of? I mean, when you were..." he smiles, and it might pass for dirtily. "While you were."

Dom is too shocked to play dumb. His mouth opens and he stares dumbly. And then he's muttering, "Several things." It comes back to him in a rush, and he's whispering, "His eyes. How green they are. His laugh... how it rings. Girl-like, y'know? His, uhm. His flushed cheeks. Neck. His, his, uh. Hands. Yeah, his hands are so... small, but he has long fingers, and..." He trails off. His dick is throbbing in his pants once more. Not fully erect, but getting there. He swallows hard.

Ian smiles at him under his fingers. "Do you think of touching him?" And it's not coarse as it is delicate, like Ian's eyes, like Ian's smile. Not dangerous just... friendly, like. Sort of, hello, how are you today? What do you fantasize about? Tell me. Dom sees no use in denying. Ian knows. He knows.

"Yes." Dom says. "But, I. I think of him... touching me. More, I mean."

"With his long fingers." Ian interjects.

Dom says a breathy, "Yes." His right hand within his pocket relaxes. His fingers brush against his groin. His breath hiccups.

"You think of him fucking you."

Fuck, fuck, he said the word fuck. But Dom's heard Ian say fuck before. "Turn that fucking noise down!" He's been known to shout at five in the morning. "Fucking beard. The confounded thing will not let me drink my goddamn coffee!" "Fuck, I cannot find my script, Peter, would you give me a minute?" But not... fuck as in... to fuck, as in, Billy fucking Dom. And. Ohh. Dom bites his lip as his fingers press closer; teasingly so.

"I. I mean. Uh."

"Yes?" Ian raises an eyebrow, and how do people DO that anyway?, but Dom is nodding, throat making a scratchy clicky noise as he swallows, and fingers, his fingers, wishing them to be Billy's fingers... press.


"Well, that is the grand thing." Ian is saying, and he sounds so incredibly calm, that Dom for some reason thinks that his paranoia, his jumpiness, is unfounded. Why be so uptight when Ian is so himself, so normal? But maybe he's used to talking fuck-matters to twenty-three year old know-nothings with a hard-on the size of the South Island for one of his fellow cast mates. Maybe. "Billy is older. He would know what to do and how to do it properly."

Dom's head swims. But he can't help but let a corner of his mouth tilt upward at Ian's remark. "Yeah? I mean, you think so?"

"Oh, yes." Ian winks at him in the semi-dark. His fingers tap his lips. He fidgets weight from one side to the other. Smiles. Dom is dizzy from the motion. "He would come to you. And he would not disappoint."

"Come to..." Dom says under his breath. Uncertain but, nonetheless, intrigued. His breath speeds on its own accord.

"Who wouldn't want a potential lover to seek them out?" Ian asks. His voice drops, becoming an alluring beat beat beat of a drum slightly above a whisper, and Dom's ears strain to catch every syllable. "Claim them? Strip them down? Fuck them into the ground?"

Dom's eyes widen. "God." There's that fuck word again. His fingers push almost to the point of pain to get some sort of sensation. Ian's words are dripping like molasses into his mind, making him think, making him want, and oh, Billy.

"You can touch yourself." Ian says in his strong whisper voice out of nowhere, and Dom stills. "If that's what you need."

Dom stares at him, the both of them standing so still. Then he removes his hands from his pockets. Rests his hands on his zip. He licks his lips. Want. Need.

"Do you imagine it to happen during the night?" Ian whisper-asks. "Him coming up behind you in a secluded room? Kissing you softly, nuzzling your hair?" Dom's hands tremble. "Lowering himself down upon you?" Dom gasps. His dick jumps underneath his fingers as they wrestle for the zip.

"Yes, I think you do." Ian rumbles from within his chest. Dom works the zipper down. His trousers slip down his hips. His right hand pauses in mid-air. His eyes drop down and train on his boxer shorts. "I think you picture it being sweet and long and drawn out. Billy and his longer fingers and his sweet little Scottish mouth. You and your hot center and your hands pressing into his shoulder blades... begging him for more." Dom's shaking hand closes around himself; damp and hard underneath the shorts. He sighs. Bliss. Ian's voice drones in the background. Closer. Closer now. Dom raises his eyes and, yeah, definitely closer, because Ian's moved. Dom lazily watches Ian's mouth and teeth and lips as his hand works. Squeeze. Up. Down.

"He is such a small man. But strong. You fit in the palm of his hand, and he holds onto you, pulling you toward that sweet, delicious end. You mewl in his ear. Kiss him whenever you can." Dom's lips purse even as the last is uttered. Two hands are on his waist, pushing his trousers down. Down to his knees. Dom rests his left hand against the door behind him and toes his trainers off. One after the other. Robotic. He's done it before, of course, uncounted amount of times. He kicks his trousers off, switching his weight from one foot to the other. Hands on his hips move with the motion. One lifts. Moves around Dom's back. Click. The door being locked. Dom hardly hears it. Strong, warm fingers slip underneath the band off his shorts. Dom hums deep within his throat. The shorts are pushed down, catching on his hard flesh, making him hiss. They are kicked off. Dom's hand closes around himself firmly sans anything inbetween. A sigh escapes his lips. Billy.

A hand closes around his wrist. Dom stills. "Slow, slow. He wants to take it slow." Comes a murmur from next to Dom's ear. He does what it asks. The pace lessens. "He leads you toward the bed. Warm and soft and luxurious." The hand on the wrist pulls, and Dom is walking forward. His eyes closed. His feet being led blindly. "His bed, perhaps? It smells like him. He smells like spring; fresh and green. Scotland green." Dom's hip hits something hard. He doesn't open his eyes. Smell and sight and sound filling his senses, but in the background he registers the touch of a hand against his shoulder, and he's being pushed down into a sitting position, and then he's reclining backwards, laying out on a table, but his eyes are still closed. He is still warm in his hand. And the hand is gone from his wrist, so he is free to move.

"So lovely," a puff of air against his ear whispers. Ian's strong whisper is achingly internal. "That is what you are to your Billy. Lovely. And he yearns," A warm hand slips up the front of Dom's T-shirt. Up the smooth muscles of his stomach, chest, up to his collarbone. "Just as you yearn." Fingers brush his nipples.

Dom's hand jerks. "Oh." He whispers. Licks his lips.

"Lift your arms, Dominic." The voice says, and Dom releases himself after a strong squeeze. Something to remember him by. Cold air hits him in all directions as the shirt is pulled over his arms, and since when did it become so cold in the trailer? He is slowly heating up, though. He's free of all binds, one hand wrapped back around himself, the other clutching the edge of the table. Hard wood biting into the soft skin of his palm. But if he closes his eyes tightly enough, there is a white light beating behind his lids, and he can picture himself lying on white sheets, Billy hovering above him, Billy's hand gliding from Dom's heaving chest to his shoulder to his arm to his wrist. And then the hand is lifting Dom's hand. Resting it on Dom's stomach.

"Billy." Dom mutters. A hand lightly trails through the hair covering Dom's upper thigh. Light, feather light. Dom's legs twitch under the touch. His legs spread slightly. Fall open. There is a sigh from above.

A whisper-hum of appreciation, "Yes, yes. That's what he wants," and Dom thinks, mm. My naked body and Billy's naked body and Billy's hand moving over my stomach and threading through my pubes and then, fuck, skipping over my hand that twitches and jerks, and down to my thigh... inner thigh... yes. I want that as well.

"Give me your hand, Dominic." Fingers lightly touch the back of his hand that is resting on his stomach. Dom hums within his throat, offers his hand, lifting it slightly up from his body. A warm hand takes it in its own. Pulls it up, up. It stops in front of Dom's face. He can feel the heat radiating from his sweaty palm. "Open your mouth."

Dom licks his lips. Opens them slowly, smoothly, tongue moving about within against the back of his teeth, wet, wet. His hand moves forward. Fingers leading the way. His index and middle finger rest just within his mouth. A "mm" from above. And then, "Lick them. Make them wet."

He sucks his fingers into his mouth, tasting sweat tangy skin, the taste of his own flesh. He works his tongue around the digits, loosening saliva and working it around within his mouth, lathering with his spit, working it, working it. He's never given a blowjob, but he suspects this is what it must be like. And with that, his mind goes back to Billy. Billy. Blowjob. He moans around his fingers, his tongue hitting and bouncing around them as he pulls them deeper into his mouth. His hand that is wrapped around himself quickens. His heartbeat races. His eyelashes flutter. The hand around his wrist tightens.

"Yes. Yes." Says the voice above him. "Such a tease, you are, young man. Such a rotten tease." The hand holding him tugs. The fingers slip from his mouth, wet, dripping, and he is left swollen lipped and gasping for breath. His lower half throbs.

"Touch yourself. Touch yourself for Billy." And though there is a voice at the back of his mind that says, but I AM touching myself, Dom knows what to do. Knows exactly what to do. Even when the hand releases his wrist, it knows the path it must take.

The hand that is not wrapped around himself slithers down, yes, slithers, because his stomach is now coated lightly with beads of sweat, and it covers his palm, his fingers, his entire body, even the small of his back, which is sticking to the table-top. His saliva drips down from his fingertips to his knuckles to the part of the hand where the wrist meets the back of the palm. The slithering hand curves around, and with fingers outstretched, travels down the inside of his thigh, hard and taut and trembling, and reaching down, behind his balls, to that sensitive stretch of skin that almost tickles. And soon he's touching. Oh.

There is a hum from above him. Dom's eyebrows knit. The other hand comes nearly to a standstill. Everything concentrates on that one little thing of fingers brushing against ass.

Pressure. He can feel the slip of his fingers against his sweaty skin. He thinks that if he's quiet enough, he could hear the sound of his skin rasping, but, no. His breath is coming out in gusts and there is a deep, rhythmic taking in and breathing out of air above him. So much for silence. But he's impatient. Impatient to feel the swell, the burn, the everything. His fingers fold back, and there is only his middle finger, longer than the rest, and strong if one were to get past the shaking motion, but quite capable of pushing forward and slipping down. There. Right in there.

Dom's mouth falls open soundlessly. He takes a shaky breath in. Lets it out in a hiss.

It's tight. It's awkward. His hand is in an uncomfortable position; his arm pointing down but his hand twisted up, almost claw-like. Probing, searching, reaching inside a bit more, ow, stop. Still. Out. Back in, achingly slow. He bites his lip. Sweat runs down from his temples. His hand, slipping from his dick, twitches.

"Quite a sight." The voice from above murmurs, and Dom can hardly restrain himself from jumping. Where is he, what is he doing? His eyes open and they've adjusted more, blinking sweat from the corners of his eyes, his hand moving on its own accord, because it does feel good now that things have relaxed, but it's not easy, not easy to feel so damn good. The figure above him (Billy? Oh, yes, Billy...) is reaching forward to touch his clammysweaty skin, touch, reach underneath his knees, and lift. "But perhaps... this position... will suit us better. Suit you and Billy better." Dom's knees come up. His feet rest on the table-top. His legs open wide, weighted open. And without further thought, Dom's finger withdraws and then pushes forward slickly, wetly. A plunge of sweetness and overwhelming fullness, and right, that's right, that's good.

"Fuck," is all he can say.

And the voice replies, "Indeed."

The sweat pours off of him, now. He cannot find good purchase on his dick because it's slick, he's slick, but he tries all the same, hand moving up and down, stopping to squeeze, rushing over the heated flesh. Noises; slipper and bizarrely loud, as if in stereo. All during this his finger is pushing home, there, yes, there. His wrist begins to ache. Fucking stupid angle, he thinks. But it's okay. Because the heat rolls up from his ass to his groin to his chest, making his heart flutter and weak little moans come from his mouth. It's good. But not enough. And his hips are still, achingly still, on the table, and his head thumps back against the wood underneath, and if only, if only...

A warm hand drops onto his chest. Dom stifles a choked moan. It lingers over a nipple, dry and warm and assuring in stark contrast to Dom's own twitching, tortured body. Billy, Dom thinks faintly. My sweet, dear Billy. But the thought is faint. His finger twists within him. He gasps.

"Let me... just." The voice says. Low. Muddled. Different. The warm, dry hand drifts down to his stomach. His groin. It pushes aside the hand feebly holding his dick. "Let me." And then it closes around him, firm and strong and oh, god. Up and down. Possessive and knowing and so, that's the way it's done, Dom thinks. He fights to match the rhythm. Finger moving in and out. In and out. The muscle has relaxed. It eats him up. Clings for more. Dom feels faint. Can't compete, can't match up... need, just, utter want.

And then another hand is grasping his numbing wrist. Stopping the motion. Pulling it back and away. The fingers are damp and limp and throbbing as it is dropped on the table-top. Dom feels open and exposed and alone sitting there, the hand on his dick momentarily at a stand-still, and just when Dom thinks he may curl into a ball and cry himself into a sexually frustrated stupor, Billy's name on his lips and Billy's eyes in his mind, a hand crawls over his thigh and then two fingers plunge into him.

Dom barely manages to suck in enough breath to bark out a shout in surprise.

The fingers are still within him.

"So tight." Says the whisper from above, still different, not the same. The hand on his dick resumes its motion. Dom's eyes close and flutter. He moans. Billy. Fingers. Billy's fingers? No. Billy's dick. Yes. That's what he wants, he thinks. His mouth forms the name, but no sound comes out. He must have been saying it all along, however, because the voice from above is humming, is saying,

"He is gentle." The fingers -- dick -- withdraw slowly. Delve back in. Faster. A shaky moan tears free from Dom's mouth. Ahh. His heels lift off of the table. His calf muscles tighten. Can't think.

Can't move. There is a breathy sigh from above. The... intruder (yes, that's what he'll call it) pulls away. Moves back in. Faster. Dom can feel it ricochet off of every centimeter of skin. "Achingly gentle. He knows what he's doing. Am I right? Experience. It shows."

Dom licks at the sweat on his upper lip. His eyes screw up, and, mm, he is fuller than before. A feeling of power, a feeling of extreme weightlessness. His heels touch back down on the table-top. The intruder moves deeper. And. Well. It's quite nice. But only nicer than nice once Dom's image of Billy and his long dick and gleaming green eyes comes back to his mind's eye. Nicer than nice, because Billy knows what he's doing. Billy wouldn't hurt him. Billy would make him feel good.

"Oh." Is all Dom can utter, now.

"Yes." Is the reply from above.

It has gotten to the point where Dom is moving his hips back and forth ever so slightly against the, hmm, yes. Hips rocking. Hands moving, massaging, grasping at the edges of the table. Breath coming out in little sippy-sip pants. The intruder delves deeper. Pushes up toward Dom's balls and, yes, there's something there, something not quite reached, but Dom at least knows it's there, and of course, he thinks, Billy would know it was there. When the intruder inside of him twitches and rests, makes to move up to try for that spot once more, Dom rocks his hips down. Hard. And he is left breathless. He fights to keep from twisting off of the table.

"More." He manages to whisper through numb lips.

He gets a hum from above.

Not an intruder. Fingers, Dom has to remind himself. Billy would not hum and press up, up, ohfuckgod, up. Billy would laugh and tease. Billy would lick his neck and maybe even pull away cheekily. But this is different. This is dirty. He's lying on a table in a trailer and... god, yeah. More of that.

Fuck dirty.

The fingers are large and wet, but not moving abandonly blind as his had been. Fingers, Dom thinks, is not as such a sick thing as it may seem. Fingers up your ass. They twist. They turn they, mm, press against the right places. They move back, almost all of the way out, and then suddenly it's all too much to take in, because there's MORE, one more finger added to the bunch, and it's just... just. Jesus.

In and out. In a frenzy. And even the breathing from above isn't calm and collected anymore, but rushed, panting right alongside Dom. But Dom is certainly making enough noise for the entire set and cast and crew by now. Thrashing about on the table. He grunts when the three fingers scissor inside of him. His jaw works soundlessly when the hand around his dick moves up the hard length to fondle the head. Put them all together and he's a mass of goo in sexual bliss without any thought of anything at all but dear god, why hadn't he tried this before?

And it's sort of like when the moon covers the sun and blocks out all light, because it's hard to keep his thought on one thing when it just feels so... yeah. What is that word, anyway? Something. Can't think. The fingers plunge deep and up and BAM, there's that shivery going to fall apart feeling. Dom's body seems to stretch and then he's left gasping on the table, his head lolling to the side, and his eyes open lazily as his hips work, his hands clutch at wood (ha, wood), and he's met face to face with. With a.

With a crotch. Right at eye level.

His eyes feel weighted down, and he has to fight to keep them open, keep them focused. There is an unmistakable bulge sticking out from the crotch. A smell lingering in the air that is not solely himself.

Reaching forward, wanting just as Dom has been wanting. And it's all too easy to reach forward with his trembling hand and cover the bulge with his fingers. The crotch bucks against him, attached to hips, attached to legs. The voice from above (Ian, Dom thinks faintly. This is Ian.) murmurs something ("Oh, yes, yes.") and then the fingers inside of him and the hand on his dick are working together, pushing insistently against that spot, pulling and tugging with no mercy, and Dom is clutching at the jean clad dick in front of him, stroking and pulling, and he's moaning and his back is arching off of the table, and things flash bright white light like the sun breaking free from the clouded moon, and there is a wetness on his stomach and thighs. Panting coming from above and from his own mouth. His eyes screw shut and his hands cling tight and then fuck. Fuck.

His leg muscles relax. His chest heaves. Fingers slip out of him. A hand, no longer warm and dry, abandons him.

It is only after Ian has patted him on the shoulder and handed him his clothes... turned on the lights and fetched them both paper towels... let him dress after they've cleaned off and mumbled something resembling a, "Let us not speak of this," after Dom stumbled over a, "I don't... I've never... I mean"... that the word comes to him. That moon covering the sun thing. Dark blocking out light. Eclipse.

~ ~

Dom is staring.

It's later in the week, and the weather hasn't improved. Dom is in Merry garb, itchy wig and confounded feet and everything. It's still cool outside. Cooler than it was before, even. He holds a mug of coffee in his hands and blows across the surface, inhaling the steam, watching it rise into the air. Behind the wisps he watches the huddled figure across the canteen. Watches long, deft fingers flip through worn pages of a script. Watches the fingers twirl a gray beard. Watches the fingers settle on a thigh.

He doesn't hear it when Billy sneaks up behind him, but he certainly hears it when Billy asks, "What're you staring at?" in his Scottish brogue. Dom jumps, turns around, faces him. Is all smiles. He puts his coffee cup down on the ground next to a chair leg.

"You, you cheeky thing." He retorts. Billy grins and nods toward where Ian sits on his chair, reading aloud his lines for the day.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you've been making eyes at Gandalf the Gray all morning long, Dom." He states.

Dom chuckles, his eyes slipping from Billy's dancing green eyes to the curve of his jaw, the point of his chin, and then back up to the eyes. "It's that staff. It gets me all hot and bothered." A corner of his mouth twists up in a smirk. His stomach flushes with heat and then is gone.

"Ooh, you naughty Hobbit. I'll give you a staff." Billy says in a mocking, school-girlish tone. And then he's leaning forward, brushing his mouth against the artificial point of Dom's ear. "You coming to my trailer again for break?"

Dom smiles wickedly. Nods. He can feel Billy's warm breath fanning against the exposed insides of his ear. "I'm coming, all right." He murmurs. "You just wait."

Billy laughs and reaches out to lightly squeeze Dom's shoulder. "With bated breath." And then the hand releases and he is gone, walking out of the canteen and away. Dom's middle heats up again, but it only stays for a little bit before backing away, only to return at a later time. He leans back in his chair, lifting his arms above his head until he hears the crackity crack of bones.

When he looks back across the canteen his eyes meet Ian's. Ian sends a very deliberate wink his way before turning back to his script. Dom's mouth waters. He re-tastes his coffee and something perhaps more elusive. And then he chuckles to himself and bends at the waist, doubling over his fat belly prosthetic, reaching down for his coffee, as a cloud covers the sun and the light dissipates.