anticipation
anticipation
by ink_stain
DM/BB; R
275 words
Disclaimer
A/N: overloved asked for Dom/Billy and the words Starbucks, taste, and ache. I couldn't bring myself to edit it down to 200 words. My rules, I get to break them.
Dom's trash bin is all empty Starbucks cups and takeaway cartons; he can't remember the last time he cooked a meal, or even made a pot of coffee. He makes one now, just for the comfort of the smell and the heat of the mug in his hands.
He swipes a damp sponge along the counters, sweeps the floor, takes the trash outside and wonders, not for the first time, why a visit from Billy makes him feel like he has to clean his entire flat. If nothing else, it passes the time, and he has to admit there's a certain zen to the smell of soap and wood polish, the glint of sunlight off the kitchen floor.
By the time the light turns late-afternoon copper they'll be up in the bedroom, fucking slowly in the dusty sunbeam. Billy will make that low keening sound in the back of his throat, the one that makes Dom ache and slide in deeper, that makes him pull Billy closer, trying to climb inside him.
Billy will wake up first the next morning and make a good strong pot of coffee, and when Dom gets up he'll make French toast with double nutmeg from thick slices of fresh bread.
(No cinnamon, right? Billy'll ask, and Dom will roll his eyes and smile and say,
No cinnamon, Bills, I know, and try not to think how the recipe is never quite right without it.)
Billy will kiss the side of Dom's neck while they clean up, and Dom will turn his head, taste syrup and nutmeg and coffee inside Billy's mouth, and forget to miss the taste of cinnamon.
by ink_stain
DM/BB; R
275 words
Disclaimer
A/N: overloved asked for Dom/Billy and the words Starbucks, taste, and ache. I couldn't bring myself to edit it down to 200 words. My rules, I get to break them.
Dom's trash bin is all empty Starbucks cups and takeaway cartons; he can't remember the last time he cooked a meal, or even made a pot of coffee. He makes one now, just for the comfort of the smell and the heat of the mug in his hands.
He swipes a damp sponge along the counters, sweeps the floor, takes the trash outside and wonders, not for the first time, why a visit from Billy makes him feel like he has to clean his entire flat. If nothing else, it passes the time, and he has to admit there's a certain zen to the smell of soap and wood polish, the glint of sunlight off the kitchen floor.
By the time the light turns late-afternoon copper they'll be up in the bedroom, fucking slowly in the dusty sunbeam. Billy will make that low keening sound in the back of his throat, the one that makes Dom ache and slide in deeper, that makes him pull Billy closer, trying to climb inside him.
Billy will wake up first the next morning and make a good strong pot of coffee, and when Dom gets up he'll make French toast with double nutmeg from thick slices of fresh bread.
(No cinnamon, right? Billy'll ask, and Dom will roll his eyes and smile and say,
No cinnamon, Bills, I know, and try not to think how the recipe is never quite right without it.)
Billy will kiss the side of Dom's neck while they clean up, and Dom will turn his head, taste syrup and nutmeg and coffee inside Billy's mouth, and forget to miss the taste of cinnamon.