by Icebun

When Dominic was a child, his mother collected porcelain dolls. He was always told that he shouldn't touch them, because they were fragile and breakable. Whenever he was on his own, he used to sit cross-legged in front of the fireplace and watch them intently, almost like he was expecting them to move. Like they were real, or something.

They never moved, though.

Dominic was a tactile person, even as a child, and the temptation to touch them was unbelievable. It made his skin prickle and itch. So, one long boring afternoon, he dragged a chair in from the dining room and stood on it, praying as it wobbled that he wouldn't end up falling.

The figurine of the girl sitting on a swing was always his favourite. She was beautiful, with long brown hair. Her face was so pretty and perfect that he wondered if it were possible for someone 'real' to look like that.

She looked like she radiated warmth, but when he touched her, she felt smooth and cold and that was completely unexpected. It shocked him so much that he dropped the figurine and it was horrible, just awful. He could see everything happening in slow motion and all he could do was watch helplessly as it hit the cold tile of the fireplace, breaking into bits.

He pushed the chair away and knelt on the floor, staring at the girl, all broken. He couldn't explain it, but he thought that she looked even more beautiful broken like that.

Like something that perfect needed to be taken apart before you could really appreciate the true magnitude of its beauty.


The first time he saw Orlando, Dominic felt his breath hitch in his throat. Orlando was so beautiful, so flawless that he looked like he was made of porcelain. All sharp edges, but Dominic knew if he touched him, Orlando's skin would be smooth and creamy.

He thought that Orlando must've been like one of his mum's dolls. A thing that shouldn't be touched.

He found himself thinking that after all these years nothing had changed. Dominic was still fixated on something he wasn't supposed to touch, but that he knew in the end he would.


It felt so good to touch him gently at first; that first time. Dominic's fingers touching Orlando's face like Dom was blind and trying to learn what his friend looked like, just by touching him. Fingers gliding upwards over chest and arms, his thumbs mapping the ridges and valleys of Orlando's biceps before his hands moved down, tracing over chest and torso and abdominal muscles.

Orlando's head was thrown back; his eyes open, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

It was then that Dominic realised that what he wanted more than anything was to take Orlando apart, to hurt him.

To see what made him so special.

But Orlando wasn't just some figurine on his mother's mantel that Dominic could drop and watch as it shattered. Orli wasn't an 'it', he was real. Dom felt a huge knot in his stomach that he'd even entertained the thought of hurting him, and he knew then that he couldn't.

He pulled away, and Orlando asked him what was wrong, held him close when he whispered, "Tell me."

Dominic hadn't meant to and it all felt like some bad dream. One of those crazy fucked-up times when what you think in your head just falls out of your mouth and you can't stop it.

So he told him. Told him how Orli was the most perfect creature he'd ever seen and how all he wanted to do was mark him, break him, make him his.

How he wanted to kiss him hard, teeth slicing into Orli's bottom lip and then lap at the blood until there was none left. How he wanted to dig his fingernails into him until there were deep red gashes in his skin. How Dom wanted to fuck him against the wall, his hands gripping Orli's hipbones so hard that he bruised.

It made him sick to hear himself saying those things out loud and he clutched at his stomach, muttering, "I'm sorry, Orli. I'm so fucking sorry," under his breath over and over as he turned to leave.

He flinched as Orlando stopped him, arm wrapped around his waist and pulling him back. "I... want you to. Christ, Dom, I need you to. Please?"

He hadn't ever imagined that perfect things would want to be broken, too.


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