eff_reality: (so ridiculously pretty dom)
[personal profile] eff_reality
Premise: AU. Billy is a PhD. candidate in Cinema Studies at Suffolk University and Dom is a rent boy in Southie.
Rating: PG-13 to NC-17
Feedback: is my anti-drug. Help keep me off the pipe.
Summary: Home again.
Note: If you're familiar with me and my journal, then you'll know who the OMC is based on. If not, this is a good reference. :D


Dominic and Orlando's first night back in town finds them in an all-too-familiar place, but one Dominic hasn't seen in quite a while. They'd discovered The Junction a few years ago, back when they were still getting a handle on how they'd run this operation together—or when Dominic was, more like. A typical Southie bar, The Junction is ample with a divey feel, big enough to accommodate but not impress, perfect for its (mostly) young, (mostly) straight patrons. It had quickly become their go-to bar for situations that call for a little more discretion, for johns who don't want to pick them up near their building or on some street corner but who can't afford a more secretive form of communication.

With a crowd of mainly locals and students, it's the perfect place to get lost and not be remembered. Tonight, as any other night, it's a cacophony of forced girlish laughter, table slamming, and chair screeching. It all dances around Dominic in a blurry, kaleidoscopic rush. He doesn't want to go home, though; he'd forced himself out of their flat on Orlando's heels to beat the sunset, the morning's sickening car ride still heavy in his chest. Billy'd stared at him for the better part of an hour like he was a jigsaw puzzle. He doesn't want to be alone in a dark flat with that image, no.

Dominic orders a second glass of scotch (he's not fucking around tonight) and drains it fast, hoping it'll work quicker than the first. He finds himself getting increasingly frustrated by all these kids who know so much more than he does and yet nothing in comparison. He's tempted to pick a fight with the large undergrad next to him who keeps nudging him in the side with his elbow, but he can't even find the energy to rise from his stool.

"...Dom. Dom." Orlando nudges him from the other side.

It suddenly hits him that Orli's been talking for the past five minutes, something about Angie, but he'd lost the thread about four minutes ago. "Fuck. Sorry."

Orlando gives him a sad, sympathetic smile. "'S alright, mate." He waits, nursing his beer in slow motion as if to make up for Dom's gluttony.

When a third scotch is placed in front of him, Dominic merely stirs it with his finger, watching the ice melt into it. "I can't believe I kept letting myself believe he might change his mind." He turns and watches the guy on his other side move to a table in the back, thankful for the space. "Change his mind is the wrong way of saying it, I guess. He never felt that way about me."

Orlando's tone is gentle but impervious. "What did you expect? Look at what he does for a living. It never would've worked. You're from two different worlds."

We're not though, Dominic thinks with more than a little petulance. He considers snapping back at Orlando about he and Elijah, how that's going, but ultimately decides against it; Orli's taken his share of shit from Dom over the past few weeks—the past few years, really—he doesn't need it or deserve it just now. And the truth is, though he doesn't want to be alone, Dominic's not really keen on confrontation either.

He bounces his leg up and down against the bar stool and looks at his watch. It's only been about half an hour, but he figures Orlando'll be picked up any minute now, if not by a john then by a casual patron who doesn't know any better. Orlando's had his share of "pro bono" cases at The Junction, but Dominic can tell just by the tight set of his shoulders that he's not up for that tonight. Dominic realizes with some alarm that he hasn't even considered what he's going to do if someone approaches him, john or otherwise.

"I can't do this anymore." His quick words startle him as much as they do Orlando.

Orlando swallows, eyeing the bartender. "What?"

"You know what."

Orlando gives him an exasperated look that's just shy of an incredulous head shake.

"Not because of Billy, just." Dominic shifts in his seat, batting his glass back and forth like a cat. "It's been a long time coming. I don't belong in this anymore."

"We've had this conversation before," Orlando scoffs.

Dominic knows not to mistake hurt for dismissive, though, not from Orlando. He turns to him, imploring. "Orli, I mean it. I'm done." He shifts closer so their arms are flush, his voice going low and intense. "We always talk about doing things, doing the things we want to do, and we never do. When is that going to happen? If not now, when?"

Orlando stares into the space behind the bar, silent.

"I'm fucking tired of waiting."

After a long, quiet moment, Orlando drains the rest of his beer. "What are you going to do, then? For money?" It's more a challenge than a question.

"I don't know," Dominic snaps, quickly losing his patience. "Not this."

Orlando stares at him, at a loss and clearly annoyed. He opens his mouth to reply, then thinks better of it. "Need the loo," he mutters, sliding forcefully out of his stool and leaving Dominic a little too alone with his thoughts.

Dominic sighs, looking around, all the noise suddenly coming in clearer and more intrusive. He wishes he hadn't brought all that up just now, but he couldn't have helped it if he tried; between the alcohol and his own self-pity, there isn't a filter to be found for him. He jerks a little in his seat as his mobile vibrates across the surface of the bar like a scared animal, not unlike the many he's photographed. He picks it up and grimaces, completely unsurprised to see a text from Billy, probably something innocuous and not even close to what he wants to hear from him (and never will). He resolutely slams his phone shut, ignoring it, and empties his scotch, motioning for yet another. He props his elbows up on the wood and buries his face in his hands, the heels of his palms digging into his eyelids.

The stool on the other side of him—the one that bull of a kid had abandoned—screeches against the floor as it's occupied by a new body. Dominic is poised for a greeting, and when it doesn't come, he breathes a sigh of gratitude.

"Jameson, straight," comes in loud, clear, and sure from his new neighbor. There's a beat, the sense of the bartender moving away, then: "You alright there?"

Dominic hopes the guy isn't addressing him, but of course that's not the case. When he raises his head from his hands, he meets a pair of amused but sympathetic eyes. Dominic barely gives the guy the once over, so when he burrows into his palms again, he's left only with the faint impression of a suit and dark, neatly trimmed hair. Investment banker. "'F you're looking for Orlando, he's in the loo. Restroom."

A hint of laughter. "I don't know what you're talking about—I just came in here." The guy sounds so genuinely perplexed that Dominic lifts his head again to see him indicate the dusting of snow on his scarf, as if it'll provide some kind of proof that he hasn't been ogling Orlando across the room waiting for the right moment. "I'm David." He extends a hand, confident but not at all pushy. "Park."

Dominic doesn't bother to hide the skepticism in his eyes. "Sounds like a name in a children's book." He's going for an insult, but David Park seems to like it, ducking his head and smiling, and fuck, that's gorgeous. Dominic finds it's contagious, too, as a smile of his own finally works its way across his face, the first of the night. He keeps a drop of that skepticism in it, though, as he takes David's hand and with it, a more lingering look. "Dom."

The first word that pops into Dom's head as he casually examines David is neat. It's not just the black overcoat, suit, and perfectly pressed shirt and tie, either; David's face is the epitome of symmetry and economy, even more so than Billy's. Dominic's never been to Asia, but he assumes David's is the kind of face likely to be found on billboards for men's razors in Tokyo or Hong Kong or something.

"Just Dom?" And there's another variation on that smile, this time something more playful, more of a smirk, and that's gorgeous too.

That's the protocol, Dominic nearly snarks back but bites his tongue in favor of seeing where this is going. They've both had their share of finance guys, he and Orlando (especially Orlando), but there's something just slightly off about this one. He's too young, too attractive, too together, not at all the type. Then again, neither was Billy. Dominic's original idea that maybe David was referred by Angie has to go right out the window, and he finds himself searching his own private arsenal of johns past for possible suspects.

"Okay, fair enough." David raises an eyebrow, hiding the rest of his expression with that first sip.

Dominic watches him sink into his stool with a feeling of sick pleasure. "You look a bit slick for this place, eh? Shouldn't you be at Umbria or something?"

"Have you eaten there?" David suddenly transforms into an excitable kid. "I hear they have eighty-dollar crab legs."

And this reaction is so unexpected, so thoroughly charming, that Dominic laughs, full-on laughs. He has sampled said crab legs, actually, part of a joint venture with Orlando and a couple of VPs last May, but he decides not to share that. It's been two long weeks since he's done this, but it's just like riding a bike, as they say, parsing out just the right amount of information, just the right kind of information.

"Can I buy you a drink?" David's question, again, comes smooth and almost practiced, and for a second, Dominic almost believes he's in the middle of a commercial with him.

"Please," he answers automatically, the combination of a nice buzz, the surprise of David, and other things suddenly putting him in the mood to maybe entertain the thought of working tonight. Maybe.

While David orders another round (a fresh scotch for Dominic and a preemptive second Jameson for himself), Dominic whips his head around, finding Orlando chatting up some bloke just a few tables away. Orlando must have spotted them on his way back and taken the hint, ever the accommodating partner.

"So, David Park," Dominic rumbles, David's alias sounding even more stagey in his own mouth. "What do you do?" As if he has to ask.

David sinks a bit again, looking bashful. "I work for Merrill Lynch."

Dominic gives an exaggerated nod as if that's news to him, all the while giving himself points for calling it. He's pretty sure he can make up the rest of David's backstory, too: just a few years out of school, still closeted, maybe fooled around with a couple of guys in college, but that's it. None of that matters, though, at least not as much as the fact that David's beautiful and talking to him, putting a fine gloss on how this usually goes.

"It's boring," David continues. "Usually. But this week was... incredibly fucking boring," he laughs. "So. Let's not discuss it any further. All discussions of work off the table, as a matter of fact."

Oh, you're good, Dominic thinks with a smile.

"Unless," David raises his eyes, "you like what you do."

Not always. But tonight, I will. "No. That's fine," Dominic says lightly, turning his body more, shifting closer. "No work."

"Work," David mimics his accent, leaning closer, too, watching his mouth move. "That's... I love that."

"It has its perks," Dominic shoots back with a smirk of his own, and David bursts into laughter. "The accent, I mean, not work," Dominic continues, milking it. And just like that, it's happening, Dominic can feel it, can feel them tumbling toward a proposition. Like riding a bike.

The next ten or fifteen minutes (or is it closer to an hour? Dominic can't be sure) are a blur of banter, David's smile, David's scarf, and liquid amber courage that never seems to run dry, punctuated by frequent appearances by the bartender. And even after all Dominic said to Orli earlier, the struggle he's had over the past couple of weeks—and certainly for much, much longer than that—saying yes is the easiest thing in the world. Because David is so humbly magnetic, Dominic doesn't have to think twice about ducking out into the snow and into a cab with him, nor does he have to think about what it means. He doesn't even have to give a backwards glance at Orlando, fuck him.

Fuck Billy. He can still do this, and do it well.

The cab ride downtown is whizzing by almost as fast as the scenery, and David's thigh is flush with his, even though the backseat has all the room in the world. Dominic turns from the window to watch the flecks of snow melt against the black of David's overcoat, feeling a rush. He's pretty sure he'll be amenable to anything David wants to do, short of locking him out in the cold and watching him freeze to death (Dominic's witnessed stranger fetishes in his day). He doubts that's in the cards, though; there's a warmth about David that Dominic's rarely afforded in these meetings. He tries not to think of last year's john, but a memory comes to him anyway, the feeling of being able to curl up full-body in his lap in any number of settings: a bed, a recliner, a desk chair. Those moments were usually accompanied by actual kisses on the mouth, something Dominic insisted upon rather than allowed. He still feels so foolish for that.

They pull up to a massive building right off the Common, all windows, metallic lines, and sleek angles. David fidgets a bit with his keys at the elevator bank, tossing Dominic a nervous smile, and if that isn't the sweetest thing in the world.

There's nothing to be modest about, though, when it comes to David himself or the space he occupies. His loft is modern and probably fashioned to look like every other unit in this high-rise, but there are enough personal touches scattered throughout to make it not so sterile. Dominic tucks his hands in his pockets and gives a low whistle as he strolls across David's living room to the floor-to-ceiling windows there—and the impressive view beyond. "You're doing quite well for yourself, David Park."

He hears David shuffling around in the kitchen behind him: dropping his keys into a bowl, opening and closing the fridge, lining up a pair of glasses on the counter. "Yeah," he sighs, obviously embarrassed. "There are some advantages to working a job you hate."

No shit, Dominic thinks, getting lost in his own reflection in the window, and David laughs—he must've shared the sentiment out loud. He turns just in time to see David approaching with two more glasses, half-full.

"Black Bush," he explains, offering it to Dominic.

"I've never understood why people get so shy about it," Dominic smiles, taking a generous sip. "Being rich. If I had money like this, I'd tattoo it on my forehead."

David actually blushes, ducking his head again. "I'm not used to it. My parents worked twelve hours a day seven days a week just to give me the basics."

Dominic watches David's face, wondering if that's an exaggeration. He decides he doesn't care either way; he likes it all the same. He drains his drink and hands the glass back to David, remembering how well he reacted to bold candor earlier. "Let's get a look at your room."

David blows out a dramatic puff of air. "Okay, then." He slides the empty glass onto the kitchen island, keeps his own, and leads Dominic back through the living room, through a little office alcove, and in the direction of a twisting flight of stairs in the corner.

Dominic looks up, belatedly realizing that there's a whole other level hovering over their heads. He's seen plenty of places like this (and at the other end of the spectrum as well), but it still feels a bit like being in an amusement park. David's room is, thankfully, more modest than the rest of his flat, and much more homey in decor. Dominic is instantly drawn to a bulletin board between the windows. It's relatively sparse, but what is there brings a smile to his face: a photo of David in front of the Eiffel Tower with who Dominic assumes are his parents, a Jay-Z concert ticket, and a graduation cap tassel. Harvard Class of 1994. Dominic's eyes go wide.

"I know, not much on there. I was thinking of taking it down."

"This can't be yours," Dominic points to the tassel. David gives an elaborate shrug. "Fucking hell, that'd make you..."

"Old," David smiles. "Are you disgusted?"

"No." Dominic stares at the tassel, at the year, finding it difficult to do the simple math while three-quarters of the way to sloshed. "I would've never guessed..." His voice trails off. He's had this conversation before. He turns and clears his throat, hoping it'll do something for his mind, too, so he can figure out the best way to bring up rates. David's certainly not going to be much help on that front, inching closer in a way that couldn't be less methodical. Dominic's never understood his own ability to unnerve people so much. But he knows how to use it. "You look nervous," he drawls. "You nervous, love?"

David drums his fingernails on the side of his glass, looking up at him from underneath his lashes. "Sorry. I don't really do this."

Though that admission seems genuine enough, Dominic still gives his stock response: "Heard that before, mate." He steps forward smoothly, takes the scotch from David's hand and downs it, stretching to place the empty glass on the bedside table.

"I don't. Really," David insists, hands flailing in indecision before finding solace in his pants pockets.

"I believe you," Dominic says quietly. It suddenly occurs to him that David probably doesn't get out much; he probably came straight to the bar from work, and Dominic probably mistook his barely lived-in loft for eerily neat. He probably works just as many hours as his parents did, if not more.

There's a long silence before David brings a hand up to Dominic's fringe, pushing it back out of his eyes. Dominic finds himself leaning into the touch, enjoying it. "You're pretty," David murmurs, half compliment and half tease.

"No, I'm not," Dominic responds automatically, the blur of alcohol making him skitter back toward some of those dark feelings from earlier.

David combs his fingertips through his hair again. "Yes, you are."

"No, really, I'm not," Dominic laughs ruefully. "I may not know much, but I know that's not my appeal." Comfortable though he already is with David, he finds himself feeling a little too vulnerable like this. He wants to keep it business, but he can't seem to find the words with David's touch so tentative and his voice so tender.

David's hand moves down to cradle the side of his face, and again, he leans into it. "Your eyes are... just beautiful. And I love your nose." His thumb snakes out to poke at the tip of it. "It's interesting," he smiles.

"You love my nose? Alright, now I know you're really fucking crazy. I might as well tie myself to your bedpost and slit my own throat, save you the trouble, yeah?"

No sooner does Dominic dart his eyes back to David than David's stepping into his space and pressing a firm kiss to his mouth, and Christ, his lips are soft, too (of course). It takes Dominic a moment to collect himself, bring his hand up to press David gently back. "Wait, I don't—"

"What?" David whispers, nervous, his hand light and tentative on the side of Dominic's neck. "I'm sorry, am I moving too fast? We really don't have to—"

With a couple of well-placed words, the entire night flashes before Dominic's eyes, lightning-quick, and it suddenly becomes clear as day what this has all been, what this is right now. And it's yet another pleasant surprise. But now he's nervous. "...No," he bites his lip, bringing his other hand up beside the one that's still laid over David's heart, this time to brace himself. "It's nothing." He gives David what he hopes is a reassuring smile, goes up on the balls of his feet, and kisses him chastely, his fingers now ready and waiting to take flight but suddenly without a map. For someone who makes his living doing just this, he has no fucking idea what he's doing. How do you touch someone when it's not just about them?

David turns the kiss into something more playful, nibbling gently at Dominic's bottom lip, drawing a throaty little moan out of the back of his throat. "That nice?" David whispers, and Dominic merely mms in response, diving up and in for more.

As he's licking along the seam of David's mouth, Dominic thinks of Billy's lips against his cheek, can literally feel his teeth biting down the side of his neck. He trembles, curls his tongue wetly around David's, and starts pulling his necktie apart. He probably is moving too fast, at least from what he remembers, but David doesn't seem to mind, his hands already reaching down to make work of Dominic's belt, and Fuck, Dominic thinks, this is so real.

His hands fumble with the tie, fingertips all but getting caught in the knot at the juncture of David's collar before finally abandoning it in favor of sliding up into the hair at the back of his head, bringing him down almost forcefully to lay further claim to his mouth. Dominic nearly stumbles into him in an effort to bring them flush, and David laughs into his mouth, his own hands losing their place at Dominic's waist. Dominic hardly notices, though; he's feeling greedy, spurred by the tangle of limbs and the intoxicating exchange of breath, his lips and teeth leaving marks on David's chin, along his jaw, and down the elegant column of his neck.

David's skin, his hair, his scent is all wrong, but that's fine. Dominic trades the thick, jet black strands between his fingers for something softer and finer, the sinewy biceps against his middle for something bulkier, meatier, more stable. David's mouth is curvy and almost feminine like Billy's, but the story behind it isn't the same, not at all. Not that Dominic would know, but he's imagined it enough, watched it form words he's committed to memory.

David pulls them apart, hands coming up to cradle Dom's face, his thumbs copping another gentle caress at his cheekbones. "Hold on a second." He presses a distraction of a kiss to Dom's mouth as his palms skate down his neck, his chest, and then his sides to circle around his waist.

Dominic closes his eyes, breathes in and out through his nose, and tries to just give over, clear his mind, let David take them where they both need to go. Before he knows it, he's slowly spinning, falling—no, David's lowering him onto his back, breathing puffs of life into him the whole way down. He tears his mouth away with a sigh and watches David drop out of his line of vision. His eyes drift to the ceiling, his hands restless against David's duvet, and he hears the whisper of his shirt being inched up before he even feels it ride past his navel. A wonderful little mouth chases the hem of his shirt, and an ache twists his heart.


He wonders if Billy'll ever touch him like this again, if he'll ever have the privilege of touching Billy again. God, he'll kill the next person who does.

No. Fuck Billy, remember?

Dominic's shirt is still rucked up underneath his armpits when David stands tall at the foot of the bed, undoing the mess Dominic made of his tie only moments ago. Dominic looks down at him and doesn't have to force a smile, even with his mind reeling and his heart a scramble; David is gorgeous and attentive and perfect and here.

Dominic stretches his arms up over his head and arches his back just so, fingers loose and unconcerned with righting his shirt. It's just so good to feel wanted. His smile turns to a smirk. "Go on, then."



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March 2013


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