(no subject)
Authors: A Texan and a Welsh girl, aka app1e_pi and lord_alexander, aka Pi and Sal, aka make-believe Billy and Dom.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: A dash of Mona, a pinch of Boyd. (I'll have one of those, ta.)
Warnings: We are mad. In the Britishish sense of the word. Also: Pi has been to the area where this is set, but it's been a few (ten or so) years, so any geographical mistakes are hers and hers alone and frankly she is uninterested in hearing about them.
Contains: AU Billy and AU Dom, along with other assorted AU characters. Horses, some of which fart. Cacti. Whisky and guitars and other fun things. Muscle cramps and oblivious gay men and not-so-oblivious gay men and expensive sunglasses. Leather. Oh yes we did.
This chapter contains: Gay cowboys! And we'd never even heard of Brokeback Mountain when we wrote it. True story.
Chapter Three
Aw, Billy was so cute like that, and Dom scratched his bare stomach, smiling faintly because (a) he could (b) it brought much needed attention to his flat, well-defined belly and (c) he had a smile that rated somewhere among Top Ten Smiles of Manchester. There had to be some sort of competition like that, grinning lads from all over the North East competing to see who was the God of Grins. It probably took place on Canal Street, in some great poofy gay club, with young men in sparkly pink thongs and thigh-length fishing waders. Not that Dom actually knew what happened in gay clubs with fishing waders and sparkly pieces of arse-flossing underwear, or at least if he did he didn't let on that much. It was never good letting Billy see his gay side. Dom's gay side (the dreaded DGS) popped out at inopportune moments, like watching Steel Magnolias or bitching at some tart who really shouldn't go for the linen as it would crease far too much. And when DGS emerged, badger-like, from the underground gay set of Dom's masculinity, it always got pissed on by Billy. Because Billy was like that. Not only was he sexy and hot and cute when he was grumbly about being dragged on insane adventures, he was all... dominant.
'Course, Dom found that knicker-wettingly exciting. Which may have mentioned before.
He didn't let Billy have it all his own way, he kicked over the traces too, of course. Especially when that wee Scot was sleepy and his hair--or what was left of it as Billy was, and Dom put it kindly in his head, fucking losing it--was sticking up at the back, and there was that terrible temptation to wander over, crawl up the bed, and start sucking cock like he was snorkelling in the Red Sea. Well, not actually like he had done, since there was that incident with the submarine, but then Billy wouldn't mind him fiddling with his periscope, maybe. Possibly. Hopefully. Please?
The marvelous, beloved, adored air-conditioning unit thudded like there was a walrus trapped in the box, but at least it made Dom's nipples all pointy. All the better to be bitten on, of course. And well, he'd noticed Billy's eyes lingering when he'd stretched, and of course, Dom being Dom, flaunted himself like a cream cake before the greedy gaze of a starving man. Though speaking of starving, if he didn't eat in ten minutes, Billy was being chewed on.
"It's just a house, Billy. I'm sure no one will mind if we sneak into the kitchen and have a look in the larder." Where the food lived. And this being Texas, Dom was hoping for half a side of ready-cooked cow, enough mustard to sink--or float--the Queen Mary, and maybe some sour-cream dip to smear all over Billy and lick off for afters. If Billy went with him, of course, which was a foregone conclusion because Dom was both hot and persuasive, and he played up to it so perfectly that he was ready to crawl over on his knees giving little whimpering sounds like an abandoned chocolate labrador puppy. It was strange though, not because Dom could do that, but he really wasn't the image of man's best friend. If he was a dog he'd be something like a very well-bred terrier. He looked gorgeous, but underneath he was rough as old arseholes. Billy was one as well, but something a bit more poncy. A wee Scottie dog with a tartan coat, but they were vicious little buggers. But then that was all stupid, as everyone knew that Dom was a leopard and Billy was an otter. In Dom's head, anyway.
"Alright then. What's the worst could happen?"
See! Easy enough to break, and Dom didn't bother putting on his shirt. He did, however, knock his boots out to check for spiders and put on his sunglasses. It was a hell of a bright moon, after all, and there was also the cunning fact that behind the Oakleys Billy wouldn't see him perving. So he lit a fag and rested his back against the wall, like some Levi's model, and pretended to nonchalantly smoke as Billy managed to get out of the One Bed without any more tortured screams of the agonised souls of hell. Really, that bed was sublimated from all of Satan's most tormented souls, with added microphones. It caterwauled better than Christina Aguwhatsherface.
Of course, all that went from his pretty head when Billy was in his boxer shorts and bending over. The fabric caught the lovely rounded arse cheeks just right, like a small-breasted woman in a Wonderbra, though Billy definitely had far superior cleavage. Lovely arse, and lovely legs that were sleek and hard with muscle, though still slender, like the rest of him. Of course, the top half was gorgeous as well, and Dom half-bit through the filter of the Marlboro (he insisted on them, as they were in Marlboro country, though Billy tormented him with True Life Facts about how exactly the Marlboro man died) to stop himself from running his tongue from the dip of Billy's spine up the long curve, and then biting his neck to make sure that people knew the Scot was claimed. After all, Dom wasn't sure about the straightness of the Mexican and Viggo. They'd looked at Billy. They'd touched him. And there had been arm-staring in the jeep which had made Dom sulk quite hideously. Not that the Mancunian was jealous; he just wanted to wipe out anyone who looked at what owned him.
Dom let Billy think that, anyway. In reality they both knew that Dom's hands and Billy's eyes owned both of them in an unholy fetish alliance.
The moment passed, there were clothes in the way of the decent view, and then Dom and his sidekick crept out into the long corridor. It was whitewashed and fairly narrow, all the bedrooms for the guests connecting onto it, floor tiled with glazed terracotta squares, the opposite wall not there. In the moonlight, there were bouganvillia and other flowers that scented the night air like a Turkish brothel, and, inspired, Dom almost turned around to tell Billy that if he wanted his arse, it would cost three pounds ninety-nine pence, and a large ham and pineapple pizza.
They played secret agents for a little while, creeping along with exaggerated care--though Dom had to push the sunglasses up on top of his head after he crashed into three consecutive bedroom doors. Once he did that, Dom bounced more successfully from wall to wall like a hyperactive Charlie's Angel. Indeed, he and Billy came mutually to a slithering, faintly breathless halt by a half-closed door for whispered negotiation.
"I want to be Lucy Liu!" Billy hissed.
"But I want to be her more than you do!"
Billy sighed; they'd had the argument before, and he'd won. Dom was holding out, though, cheerfully optimistic with something he knew about, as opposed to Fucking Texas.
Billy rolled his eyes. "You can't be Lucy Liu, you know you're always Drew Barrymore." They'd gone to a fancy dress party as them once, with one of their friends, who was tall and dark and pretty, as Cameron Diaz. Poor Orlando in his yellow micro-mini and backless top, with the blond wig.
"I want a change!" Dom snarled, hands clenching on Billy's shoulders. "I want to be the cool one rather than the ditzy one, I want to be someone with abilities rather than a giggle and a wiggle and a wink! I want to kick arse!"
"Shush! Look, we can do the Avengers instead?"
There was a slight, quivering pout, Dom making his eyes as liquid and huge and pathetically sweet as he could. It was always surprising that someone as sinful as Dom could look quite so innocent. Really, there were those who wanted to dress him up as a schoolboy and molest him after prep. Somewhere there were, he was sure. "Only if I get to be Emma Peel."
"Does that mean I get you all dressed up in a black-leather catsuit and..."
There suddenly occurred a moment that was pure comedic gold: that perfectly executed double pause, that exaggerated dual eye-widening, their two heads turning in unison toward the half-open door. They were aware of movement, and low murmurings, and they squabbled silently to get the best position to peep around the door. But then it was lucky that Dom, as the slightly taller, was the one who was leaning over Billy as, upon actually seeing the vision, he collapsed like a rubber chicken: he flopped, and limply. Billy managed to keep them both up even though Dom was aware that his erection was stabbing quite sword-thrustily against Billy's hip. But then if anyone looked at what he'd just seen without throwing a stiffy they'd have to be blind, stupid, or ridiculously het, far beyond Billy's het.
Viggo, in leather chaps and nothing else. Being buggered over the kitchen table by the Mexican. With added boots and spurs. It was as if someone, somewhere, had watched all the gay cowboy porn films ever made (and there were a lot of them, usually with names like Raunchy Rancher, Rope Me Brand Me, and Dom's personal favourite, Sexy Southern Stallion Studs Gone WILD!!! Part III: South of the Border! which was the part filmed in Tijuana) and had taken the essential elements (hot Mexican, hot blond, leather, boots, spurs, buggery, masculinity, really nice tablecloth for those who cared for such things) to create a diorama of such sexual delight that it was overwhelming to the senses, especially for one such as Dom, who was in all honesty a collossal voyeur and pervert.
"..." he said to the world in general, rocking himself against Billy, obscenely comfortable on his scrumptious Scottish crashmat and humping pillow.
~*~*~*~
Billy counted it--three--two--one--he braced his knees--yes. There it was, Dom's whole body sagged onto his (including a hard-on like a damn branding iron jabbing into Billy's hip), but he was ready. Which was good, as being ready meant he needn't take his eyes off the scene before them, which was. Well. Very nice, actually, if one liked that sort of muscular-man-thrusting-into-tight-arsed-other-muscular-man sort of thing, which Billy quite did. The chaps and boots were an added bonus, as was the musical chime of the spurs as the Mexican bloke pounded into Hotter John Wayne.
And dammit, was Dom going to continue that obscene (arousing, fucking annoying) half-rub, half-frot against his back and arse? Yes, probably, unless Billy moved, which he didn't want to do until he saw--ah, yes. Excellent. Boot-clad Andy leant over, reached beneath chaps-clad Viggo (chaps-clad chap, Billy's mind said irrepressibly and he wished he could gouge the offending organ from his head) and grasped something--the actual details of the something were lost in the angle and the shadows and the table's edge, but Viggo must have liked it, for he slammed his forehead onto the table rather hard and groaned. Now Andy's bare, muscular arm (looking even better by moonlight than it had by sunlight) was working as fast as his hips, and it was just a moment or two later that Viggo shuddered--his hands, currently clasped together above his head and laid flat along the table, curled into fists, and Billy and Dom could easily hear his low, breathy "Godfuckyes"; apparently Andy heard it as well, because he laughed breathlessly and said "God, yeah," and he came.
And that was when Dom ground himself hard into Billy, and Billy got distracted, and Billy let his knees unlock, and then tried to save himself, but a little late, because with his shift in equilibrium came a larger shift in Dom's equilibrium, and then Dom toppled to the floor, and Billy did, too.
They still might have got away with it, except Dom's fucking sunglasses clattered from his head onto the tile and skittered away.
And at that point there was nothing to do but grab them and run away as fast as they could, giggling loudly (Billy distinctly heard someone in the kitchen say "What the bleeding fuck?"), back down the hallway into their room. Dom tried to slam it, but Billy retained a tiny amount of brain function, and stopped him. He shut the door with a gentle click and then stared at Dom, who stared back at him.
Billy felt the laughter coming, suppressed it as long as he could, gave in. The instant the giggles started spraying from his nose, Dom started laughing too, as silently as he could, sliding onto the floor as Billy leaned back against the door and clutched his stomach. "Fuck, that was close," he moaned at last.
Dom was rolling around on the floor, and Billy kind of wanted to join him, but instead he fought for air and slowed his laughter. "Guess we'll have to wait for breakfast," he said. "I think I'll take a shower."
"But m'still hungreeee," Dom whined, looking piteously up at Billy.
"Look in my carry-on," Billy replied, stepping over him and nimbly avoiding the grab Dom made for his ankles. "I think there are some airline pretzels in there."
"Wanker," Dom called as Billy stepped into the bathroom.
"Give me a few minutes." Billy grinned through the door as he closed it.
Because--he leaned back against the door and unbuttoned his jeans as quick as he could--that was exactly what he was doing. One hand firmly wrapped around his erection (god, felt good), he reached with the other to flip on the water, covering the sound of his hand slapping hastily up and down his cock. "Fuck," he breathed, closing his eyes, picturing the scene again in his head. Picturing, instead of the lithe figure of the American, Dom bent over the table, and himself thrusting into that tight, gorgeous arse--picturing Dom's back in a smooth, naked curve against the wood--picturing Dom's perfect, long fingers reaching back to grip at his hips and himself leaning over to grip Dom's cock--picturing Dom coming all over his hand as he bit into his shoulder. Billy slammed his head back against the bathroom door--"owfuck"--but even that couldn’t stop the next part of the fantasy, which is where it all, always, went spiraling into terribly scary territory. Because now he was picturing himself, collapsed atop Dom's back, still pushing into that beautiful body, whispering words into Dom's ears that had no place in a wank fantasy, but they were the words that always made Billy come--words like "love" and "yes" and "please." And Billy did come--and banged his head on the door again, fuckfuckFUCK--and then he stood there panting, eyes half-shut and staring at nothing.
Well. Billy sighed and reached for a tissue, cleaned himself and the floor. Might as well actually take a shower, since he was in here anyway.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: A dash of Mona, a pinch of Boyd. (I'll have one of those, ta.)
Warnings: We are mad. In the Britishish sense of the word. Also: Pi has been to the area where this is set, but it's been a few (ten or so) years, so any geographical mistakes are hers and hers alone and frankly she is uninterested in hearing about them.
Contains: AU Billy and AU Dom, along with other assorted AU characters. Horses, some of which fart. Cacti. Whisky and guitars and other fun things. Muscle cramps and oblivious gay men and not-so-oblivious gay men and expensive sunglasses. Leather. Oh yes we did.
This chapter contains: Gay cowboys! And we'd never even heard of Brokeback Mountain when we wrote it. True story.
Chapter Three
Aw, Billy was so cute like that, and Dom scratched his bare stomach, smiling faintly because (a) he could (b) it brought much needed attention to his flat, well-defined belly and (c) he had a smile that rated somewhere among Top Ten Smiles of Manchester. There had to be some sort of competition like that, grinning lads from all over the North East competing to see who was the God of Grins. It probably took place on Canal Street, in some great poofy gay club, with young men in sparkly pink thongs and thigh-length fishing waders. Not that Dom actually knew what happened in gay clubs with fishing waders and sparkly pieces of arse-flossing underwear, or at least if he did he didn't let on that much. It was never good letting Billy see his gay side. Dom's gay side (the dreaded DGS) popped out at inopportune moments, like watching Steel Magnolias or bitching at some tart who really shouldn't go for the linen as it would crease far too much. And when DGS emerged, badger-like, from the underground gay set of Dom's masculinity, it always got pissed on by Billy. Because Billy was like that. Not only was he sexy and hot and cute when he was grumbly about being dragged on insane adventures, he was all... dominant.
'Course, Dom found that knicker-wettingly exciting. Which may have mentioned before.
He didn't let Billy have it all his own way, he kicked over the traces too, of course. Especially when that wee Scot was sleepy and his hair--or what was left of it as Billy was, and Dom put it kindly in his head, fucking losing it--was sticking up at the back, and there was that terrible temptation to wander over, crawl up the bed, and start sucking cock like he was snorkelling in the Red Sea. Well, not actually like he had done, since there was that incident with the submarine, but then Billy wouldn't mind him fiddling with his periscope, maybe. Possibly. Hopefully. Please?
The marvelous, beloved, adored air-conditioning unit thudded like there was a walrus trapped in the box, but at least it made Dom's nipples all pointy. All the better to be bitten on, of course. And well, he'd noticed Billy's eyes lingering when he'd stretched, and of course, Dom being Dom, flaunted himself like a cream cake before the greedy gaze of a starving man. Though speaking of starving, if he didn't eat in ten minutes, Billy was being chewed on.
"It's just a house, Billy. I'm sure no one will mind if we sneak into the kitchen and have a look in the larder." Where the food lived. And this being Texas, Dom was hoping for half a side of ready-cooked cow, enough mustard to sink--or float--the Queen Mary, and maybe some sour-cream dip to smear all over Billy and lick off for afters. If Billy went with him, of course, which was a foregone conclusion because Dom was both hot and persuasive, and he played up to it so perfectly that he was ready to crawl over on his knees giving little whimpering sounds like an abandoned chocolate labrador puppy. It was strange though, not because Dom could do that, but he really wasn't the image of man's best friend. If he was a dog he'd be something like a very well-bred terrier. He looked gorgeous, but underneath he was rough as old arseholes. Billy was one as well, but something a bit more poncy. A wee Scottie dog with a tartan coat, but they were vicious little buggers. But then that was all stupid, as everyone knew that Dom was a leopard and Billy was an otter. In Dom's head, anyway.
"Alright then. What's the worst could happen?"
See! Easy enough to break, and Dom didn't bother putting on his shirt. He did, however, knock his boots out to check for spiders and put on his sunglasses. It was a hell of a bright moon, after all, and there was also the cunning fact that behind the Oakleys Billy wouldn't see him perving. So he lit a fag and rested his back against the wall, like some Levi's model, and pretended to nonchalantly smoke as Billy managed to get out of the One Bed without any more tortured screams of the agonised souls of hell. Really, that bed was sublimated from all of Satan's most tormented souls, with added microphones. It caterwauled better than Christina Aguwhatsherface.
Of course, all that went from his pretty head when Billy was in his boxer shorts and bending over. The fabric caught the lovely rounded arse cheeks just right, like a small-breasted woman in a Wonderbra, though Billy definitely had far superior cleavage. Lovely arse, and lovely legs that were sleek and hard with muscle, though still slender, like the rest of him. Of course, the top half was gorgeous as well, and Dom half-bit through the filter of the Marlboro (he insisted on them, as they were in Marlboro country, though Billy tormented him with True Life Facts about how exactly the Marlboro man died) to stop himself from running his tongue from the dip of Billy's spine up the long curve, and then biting his neck to make sure that people knew the Scot was claimed. After all, Dom wasn't sure about the straightness of the Mexican and Viggo. They'd looked at Billy. They'd touched him. And there had been arm-staring in the jeep which had made Dom sulk quite hideously. Not that the Mancunian was jealous; he just wanted to wipe out anyone who looked at what owned him.
Dom let Billy think that, anyway. In reality they both knew that Dom's hands and Billy's eyes owned both of them in an unholy fetish alliance.
The moment passed, there were clothes in the way of the decent view, and then Dom and his sidekick crept out into the long corridor. It was whitewashed and fairly narrow, all the bedrooms for the guests connecting onto it, floor tiled with glazed terracotta squares, the opposite wall not there. In the moonlight, there were bouganvillia and other flowers that scented the night air like a Turkish brothel, and, inspired, Dom almost turned around to tell Billy that if he wanted his arse, it would cost three pounds ninety-nine pence, and a large ham and pineapple pizza.
They played secret agents for a little while, creeping along with exaggerated care--though Dom had to push the sunglasses up on top of his head after he crashed into three consecutive bedroom doors. Once he did that, Dom bounced more successfully from wall to wall like a hyperactive Charlie's Angel. Indeed, he and Billy came mutually to a slithering, faintly breathless halt by a half-closed door for whispered negotiation.
"I want to be Lucy Liu!" Billy hissed.
"But I want to be her more than you do!"
Billy sighed; they'd had the argument before, and he'd won. Dom was holding out, though, cheerfully optimistic with something he knew about, as opposed to Fucking Texas.
Billy rolled his eyes. "You can't be Lucy Liu, you know you're always Drew Barrymore." They'd gone to a fancy dress party as them once, with one of their friends, who was tall and dark and pretty, as Cameron Diaz. Poor Orlando in his yellow micro-mini and backless top, with the blond wig.
"I want a change!" Dom snarled, hands clenching on Billy's shoulders. "I want to be the cool one rather than the ditzy one, I want to be someone with abilities rather than a giggle and a wiggle and a wink! I want to kick arse!"
"Shush! Look, we can do the Avengers instead?"
There was a slight, quivering pout, Dom making his eyes as liquid and huge and pathetically sweet as he could. It was always surprising that someone as sinful as Dom could look quite so innocent. Really, there were those who wanted to dress him up as a schoolboy and molest him after prep. Somewhere there were, he was sure. "Only if I get to be Emma Peel."
"Does that mean I get you all dressed up in a black-leather catsuit and..."
There suddenly occurred a moment that was pure comedic gold: that perfectly executed double pause, that exaggerated dual eye-widening, their two heads turning in unison toward the half-open door. They were aware of movement, and low murmurings, and they squabbled silently to get the best position to peep around the door. But then it was lucky that Dom, as the slightly taller, was the one who was leaning over Billy as, upon actually seeing the vision, he collapsed like a rubber chicken: he flopped, and limply. Billy managed to keep them both up even though Dom was aware that his erection was stabbing quite sword-thrustily against Billy's hip. But then if anyone looked at what he'd just seen without throwing a stiffy they'd have to be blind, stupid, or ridiculously het, far beyond Billy's het.
Viggo, in leather chaps and nothing else. Being buggered over the kitchen table by the Mexican. With added boots and spurs. It was as if someone, somewhere, had watched all the gay cowboy porn films ever made (and there were a lot of them, usually with names like Raunchy Rancher, Rope Me Brand Me, and Dom's personal favourite, Sexy Southern Stallion Studs Gone WILD!!! Part III: South of the Border! which was the part filmed in Tijuana) and had taken the essential elements (hot Mexican, hot blond, leather, boots, spurs, buggery, masculinity, really nice tablecloth for those who cared for such things) to create a diorama of such sexual delight that it was overwhelming to the senses, especially for one such as Dom, who was in all honesty a collossal voyeur and pervert.
"..." he said to the world in general, rocking himself against Billy, obscenely comfortable on his scrumptious Scottish crashmat and humping pillow.
~*~*~*~
Billy counted it--three--two--one--he braced his knees--yes. There it was, Dom's whole body sagged onto his (including a hard-on like a damn branding iron jabbing into Billy's hip), but he was ready. Which was good, as being ready meant he needn't take his eyes off the scene before them, which was. Well. Very nice, actually, if one liked that sort of muscular-man-thrusting-into-tight-arsed-other-muscular-man sort of thing, which Billy quite did. The chaps and boots were an added bonus, as was the musical chime of the spurs as the Mexican bloke pounded into Hotter John Wayne.
And dammit, was Dom going to continue that obscene (arousing, fucking annoying) half-rub, half-frot against his back and arse? Yes, probably, unless Billy moved, which he didn't want to do until he saw--ah, yes. Excellent. Boot-clad Andy leant over, reached beneath chaps-clad Viggo (chaps-clad chap, Billy's mind said irrepressibly and he wished he could gouge the offending organ from his head) and grasped something--the actual details of the something were lost in the angle and the shadows and the table's edge, but Viggo must have liked it, for he slammed his forehead onto the table rather hard and groaned. Now Andy's bare, muscular arm (looking even better by moonlight than it had by sunlight) was working as fast as his hips, and it was just a moment or two later that Viggo shuddered--his hands, currently clasped together above his head and laid flat along the table, curled into fists, and Billy and Dom could easily hear his low, breathy "Godfuckyes"; apparently Andy heard it as well, because he laughed breathlessly and said "God, yeah," and he came.
And that was when Dom ground himself hard into Billy, and Billy got distracted, and Billy let his knees unlock, and then tried to save himself, but a little late, because with his shift in equilibrium came a larger shift in Dom's equilibrium, and then Dom toppled to the floor, and Billy did, too.
They still might have got away with it, except Dom's fucking sunglasses clattered from his head onto the tile and skittered away.
And at that point there was nothing to do but grab them and run away as fast as they could, giggling loudly (Billy distinctly heard someone in the kitchen say "What the bleeding fuck?"), back down the hallway into their room. Dom tried to slam it, but Billy retained a tiny amount of brain function, and stopped him. He shut the door with a gentle click and then stared at Dom, who stared back at him.
Billy felt the laughter coming, suppressed it as long as he could, gave in. The instant the giggles started spraying from his nose, Dom started laughing too, as silently as he could, sliding onto the floor as Billy leaned back against the door and clutched his stomach. "Fuck, that was close," he moaned at last.
Dom was rolling around on the floor, and Billy kind of wanted to join him, but instead he fought for air and slowed his laughter. "Guess we'll have to wait for breakfast," he said. "I think I'll take a shower."
"But m'still hungreeee," Dom whined, looking piteously up at Billy.
"Look in my carry-on," Billy replied, stepping over him and nimbly avoiding the grab Dom made for his ankles. "I think there are some airline pretzels in there."
"Wanker," Dom called as Billy stepped into the bathroom.
"Give me a few minutes." Billy grinned through the door as he closed it.
Because--he leaned back against the door and unbuttoned his jeans as quick as he could--that was exactly what he was doing. One hand firmly wrapped around his erection (god, felt good), he reached with the other to flip on the water, covering the sound of his hand slapping hastily up and down his cock. "Fuck," he breathed, closing his eyes, picturing the scene again in his head. Picturing, instead of the lithe figure of the American, Dom bent over the table, and himself thrusting into that tight, gorgeous arse--picturing Dom's back in a smooth, naked curve against the wood--picturing Dom's perfect, long fingers reaching back to grip at his hips and himself leaning over to grip Dom's cock--picturing Dom coming all over his hand as he bit into his shoulder. Billy slammed his head back against the bathroom door--"owfuck"--but even that couldn’t stop the next part of the fantasy, which is where it all, always, went spiraling into terribly scary territory. Because now he was picturing himself, collapsed atop Dom's back, still pushing into that beautiful body, whispering words into Dom's ears that had no place in a wank fantasy, but they were the words that always made Billy come--words like "love" and "yes" and "please." And Billy did come--and banged his head on the door again, fuckfuckFUCK--and then he stood there panting, eyes half-shut and staring at nothing.
Well. Billy sighed and reached for a tissue, cleaned himself and the floor. Might as well actually take a shower, since he was in here anyway.