I'm Not Writing My Goodbyes [s/a]
Title: I’m Not Writing My Goodbyes
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: William Beckett/Tom Conrad
Summary: Angry sex. Nom.
"They want you out of the band," William says flatly.
Tom stares up at him from the couch, eyes going slowly wide and shocked, while William waits.
“What the fuck,” Tom growls, getting to his feet, standing just a little too close, so William can feel the anger buzzing off him.
“Don’t act like you’re surprised,” William says softly.
“I understand them. But what about you?” Tom spits, his face twisted into a vicious mask of hurt.
“You’ve been acting like a complete bastard to everyone, ever since we started this,” says William. “You know I…I don’t want you to go, and I get it, you’re confused. But I’m not going to hurt the band for us. And I know…” He takes a deep breath. “If this goes on any longer, one of us is going to end up hurt,” he finishes.
There’s no answer, just the sharp crack of Tom’s palm against William’s cheek.
“Asshole,” William whispers, but he’s glad; he has an excuse now when his eyes start filling up with tears.
“Fuck you,” Tom growls.
“I’m gonna miss you, Tommyboy. If that makes any difference,” William forces out past the painful lump in his throat.
“Fuck you,” Tom says again, and he takes the step forward to close the distance between them and crashes their mouths together, sloppy with rage, all teeth and hot wet tongue. William pulls him closer, digging fingers into his hips hard, and hopes to God it’ll leave bruises.
He sucks William’s tongue into his own mouth, rough and careless. William shoves him with all his might, so that Tom goes crashing into the wall, and William’s there a second later to hold him up, to pin him against the cheap sticky plasterboard with his hands on either side of Tom’s head and his hipbones jutting into Tom’s stomach. There’s something fluttering and shaking in William’s stomach, some fierce mix of anger and desperate pain that wants to slap and break and scream, to hurt and be hurt. He bites down hard on Tom’s lip and tastes blood, and Tom gasps into his mouth, fingers clenching into William’s back.
“No, I’m gonna fuck you,” William snarls, forcing a knee between Tom’s thighs and nipping across his jaw, scraping his teeth down the side of Tom’s neck to suck at his pulse point and bite down across the soft tender skin.
He reaches down to grasp Tom’s wrists, gripping them tightly with one hand and pinning them to the wall over his head.
Tom’s eyes are bright and overwhelmed, fiery, defiant and anguished. William stares down at him, his swollen mouth, the bruises already blossoming on his neck, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and feels like something inside him’ll break if he looks too long. So he leans in to tug at Tom’s bottom lip with his teeth, and with the hand that’s not holding Tom’s wrists, he slides a hand behind Tom’s thigh and lifts one leg to wrap around his own waist.
“Do you want me to fuck you, Tommyboy?” he asks, breath harsh against Tom’s ear, and when he rolls his hips against Tom’s, there’s a choked moan instead of an answer.
“Don’t call me that,” Tom grits out, and he rips his wrists from William’s grasp, tugging William’s shirt off roughly.
“I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want, asshole,” but there’s a tightness in William’s chest at the denial of the old pet name.
Tom’s fingernails scrape viciously down the bare skin of his back and he hisses, grinding his hips up till Tom’s breathing raggedly and lifting his arms to make it easier for William to pull off his shirt. William clamps a hand tightly around his wrists again, trails a hand down Tom’s chest, across all-too-familiar freckles, to roll a nipple between two long fingers, and when Tom whimpers into his mouth he does it again, harder, twisting forcefully, and Tom’s hips jerk up against him.
His hips twist in light, torturous figure eights as he licks into Tom’s mouth, letting their teeth clash as their tongues push back and forth. He can feel Tom trying to arch against him, trying to get more, but William just smirks and pulls away from the friction, until Tom lets out a frustrated moan. He shoves, and William’s stumbling backward, off-balance with surprise, and Tom’s following him every step of the way, backing him up with their lips still connected, until William’s knees hit the couch.
Tom growls, low and guttural in the back of his throat as he flips open William’s belt buckle and yanks at his jeans. He sets his fingernails into William’s hips, pulling down, and William sits obediently on the edge of the couch, legs spread so Tom can sink to his knees between them.
“You’re such a closet sub,” Tom sneers, and William’s protest gets drowned out by a moan as Tom takes him into his mouth. He tilts his head back, panting, and twists his hands into Tom’s hair.
“Shit,” he breathes, lightheaded at the swirling patterns of Tom’s tongue. It’s too much, the sight of Tom’s cheeks hollowing around him, the fireworks sparking up his spine and down his thighs. He pulls harder at Tom’s hair, and Tom glares at him and lets his teeth scrape lightly at the sensitive vein on the underside of William’s cock, and William arches back and whimpers.
“I-“ he gasps, but Tom cuts him off, letting William’s dick drop and biting harshly into his inner thigh.
“No,” he says. “No, you’re not going to come right now, you’re going to fuck me first.”
William’s panting, staring down at him with wild eyes, hands still tangled in Tom’s hair.
“I said, fuck me,” Tom hisses, dropping his own pants before crawling onto William’s lap, straddling him, sucking hard on his neck.
“Asshole,” William gasps, but he presses his hands tightly into Tom’s back and tilts forward, standing just long enough to step away from the couch before dropping them both down to the floor.
William rolls his hips, and Tom lets his head fall back against the carpet, arching his back, moaning when their cocks brush, his legs still wrapped tightly around William’s waist. He grasps a handful of William’s hair, pulling back to nip at his neck.
William balances on one elbow to shove his fingers against Tom’s lips, and he sucks them in, coating them as best as he can with spit, eyes blazing, huge blue irises holding William’s stare with an overwhelming force. William hooks one of Tom’s legs over his own shoulder and slides two fingers in without warning, rough and careless, and Tom lets out a ragged cry that’s just a step away from a scream.
“Fucking shit, Bill,” he groans, but William’s far past caring, cock throbbing in time with his heartbeat, back still stinging from Tom’s fingernails. He twists his knuckles up and Tom bites down on his own lip, drawing up a bead of blood. William leans forward to lick it off.
He slips in a third finger, swallowing Tom’s moan into his own mouth. He can feel the heat radiating between them, taste a salty sheen of sweat on Tom’s neck as he licks a trail from his ear to his collarbone, feel the demand in the lines of Tom’s body as he curls his fingers again.
He whimpers as he lines up and slides in, but it’s nothing compared to the ragged, breathy whine from Tom’s lips.
“Hurt too much?” William bites out.
“Yeah. Don’t stop,” Tom gasps, fingers digging hot red streaks into the sweaty expanse of William’s back. William takes a long shuddering breath and rolls his hips to find the spot that makes Tom bite down into his shoulder.
Somewhere around the third rough breathless thrust he realizes this is the last time. There are four days left of tour, sure, but this can’t be anything else but goodbye.
He tries to slow down when he realizes that, but his body has other ideas, caught up in the rhythm, surging forward faster and faster, and Tom’s panting between gritted teeth and William tries to look closely enough that he’ll never forget. He tries to memorize the way Tom feels around him, the hot tight drag that’s unlike anything else he knows, but he can’t help himself, he’s pushing in faster, harder, a moan ripping through his throat, his chest painfully tight even as fire spreads through his limbs.
He realizes he’s crying only when he sees the first tear roll down Tom’s temple and get lost in his hair. He can’t tell anymore what’s a moan and what’s a sob, can’t tell where he ends and Tom begins, it’s all just white-hot skin and anger. Tom’s biting indiscriminately at his neck, his shoulder, his chest, every inch he can reach, and his fingernails must be drawing blood, and William’s practically blinded by the pain and the unbelievable tightness of Tom around him, every sense screaming.
“Tommyboy,” he chokes, and Tom comes just a second after he does, spurting over their stomachs, mouth dropped open in a perfect O.
William rolls off to the side, swiping defiantly at his tears, and the pleasant fuzziness in his head can’t push away the ache in his chest.
“I’m gonna miss you,” he says softly, but Tom’s already pulling himself to his feet. He goes away and comes back a second later, throwing a warm washcloth to William.
“Clean up,” Tom whispers harshly.
William wipes himself off, pulls on his jeans and shirt, smoothes down his hair, small mechanical motions. When he leaves, Tom’s lying on the couch with his book, exactly how William found him except for the tense set of his jaw.
“How’d it go?” Mike asks grimly when he steps out of the bus, and three faces turn to William from the rest station’s picnic table.
“Fine,” William answers dully.
“He took it well?” Mike takes a drag off his cigarette.
“Yeah,” William confirms, and the innuendo sort of makes him want to scream.
“Alright. Well, this should be fun,” Sisky says nervously as they all file back to the bus.
William winces at the sting of his shirt shifting against the bloody scrapes on his back, but he hopes they scar.
Liked it? Check out my other stuff.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: William Beckett/Tom Conrad
Summary: Angry sex. Nom.
"They want you out of the band," William says flatly.
Tom stares up at him from the couch, eyes going slowly wide and shocked, while William waits.
“What the fuck,” Tom growls, getting to his feet, standing just a little too close, so William can feel the anger buzzing off him.
“Don’t act like you’re surprised,” William says softly.
“I understand them. But what about you?” Tom spits, his face twisted into a vicious mask of hurt.
“You’ve been acting like a complete bastard to everyone, ever since we started this,” says William. “You know I…I don’t want you to go, and I get it, you’re confused. But I’m not going to hurt the band for us. And I know…” He takes a deep breath. “If this goes on any longer, one of us is going to end up hurt,” he finishes.
There’s no answer, just the sharp crack of Tom’s palm against William’s cheek.
“Asshole,” William whispers, but he’s glad; he has an excuse now when his eyes start filling up with tears.
“Fuck you,” Tom growls.
“I’m gonna miss you, Tommyboy. If that makes any difference,” William forces out past the painful lump in his throat.
“Fuck you,” Tom says again, and he takes the step forward to close the distance between them and crashes their mouths together, sloppy with rage, all teeth and hot wet tongue. William pulls him closer, digging fingers into his hips hard, and hopes to God it’ll leave bruises.
He sucks William’s tongue into his own mouth, rough and careless. William shoves him with all his might, so that Tom goes crashing into the wall, and William’s there a second later to hold him up, to pin him against the cheap sticky plasterboard with his hands on either side of Tom’s head and his hipbones jutting into Tom’s stomach. There’s something fluttering and shaking in William’s stomach, some fierce mix of anger and desperate pain that wants to slap and break and scream, to hurt and be hurt. He bites down hard on Tom’s lip and tastes blood, and Tom gasps into his mouth, fingers clenching into William’s back.
“No, I’m gonna fuck you,” William snarls, forcing a knee between Tom’s thighs and nipping across his jaw, scraping his teeth down the side of Tom’s neck to suck at his pulse point and bite down across the soft tender skin.
He reaches down to grasp Tom’s wrists, gripping them tightly with one hand and pinning them to the wall over his head.
Tom’s eyes are bright and overwhelmed, fiery, defiant and anguished. William stares down at him, his swollen mouth, the bruises already blossoming on his neck, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and feels like something inside him’ll break if he looks too long. So he leans in to tug at Tom’s bottom lip with his teeth, and with the hand that’s not holding Tom’s wrists, he slides a hand behind Tom’s thigh and lifts one leg to wrap around his own waist.
“Do you want me to fuck you, Tommyboy?” he asks, breath harsh against Tom’s ear, and when he rolls his hips against Tom’s, there’s a choked moan instead of an answer.
“Don’t call me that,” Tom grits out, and he rips his wrists from William’s grasp, tugging William’s shirt off roughly.
“I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want, asshole,” but there’s a tightness in William’s chest at the denial of the old pet name.
Tom’s fingernails scrape viciously down the bare skin of his back and he hisses, grinding his hips up till Tom’s breathing raggedly and lifting his arms to make it easier for William to pull off his shirt. William clamps a hand tightly around his wrists again, trails a hand down Tom’s chest, across all-too-familiar freckles, to roll a nipple between two long fingers, and when Tom whimpers into his mouth he does it again, harder, twisting forcefully, and Tom’s hips jerk up against him.
His hips twist in light, torturous figure eights as he licks into Tom’s mouth, letting their teeth clash as their tongues push back and forth. He can feel Tom trying to arch against him, trying to get more, but William just smirks and pulls away from the friction, until Tom lets out a frustrated moan. He shoves, and William’s stumbling backward, off-balance with surprise, and Tom’s following him every step of the way, backing him up with their lips still connected, until William’s knees hit the couch.
Tom growls, low and guttural in the back of his throat as he flips open William’s belt buckle and yanks at his jeans. He sets his fingernails into William’s hips, pulling down, and William sits obediently on the edge of the couch, legs spread so Tom can sink to his knees between them.
“You’re such a closet sub,” Tom sneers, and William’s protest gets drowned out by a moan as Tom takes him into his mouth. He tilts his head back, panting, and twists his hands into Tom’s hair.
“Shit,” he breathes, lightheaded at the swirling patterns of Tom’s tongue. It’s too much, the sight of Tom’s cheeks hollowing around him, the fireworks sparking up his spine and down his thighs. He pulls harder at Tom’s hair, and Tom glares at him and lets his teeth scrape lightly at the sensitive vein on the underside of William’s cock, and William arches back and whimpers.
“I-“ he gasps, but Tom cuts him off, letting William’s dick drop and biting harshly into his inner thigh.
“No,” he says. “No, you’re not going to come right now, you’re going to fuck me first.”
William’s panting, staring down at him with wild eyes, hands still tangled in Tom’s hair.
“I said, fuck me,” Tom hisses, dropping his own pants before crawling onto William’s lap, straddling him, sucking hard on his neck.
“Asshole,” William gasps, but he presses his hands tightly into Tom’s back and tilts forward, standing just long enough to step away from the couch before dropping them both down to the floor.
William rolls his hips, and Tom lets his head fall back against the carpet, arching his back, moaning when their cocks brush, his legs still wrapped tightly around William’s waist. He grasps a handful of William’s hair, pulling back to nip at his neck.
William balances on one elbow to shove his fingers against Tom’s lips, and he sucks them in, coating them as best as he can with spit, eyes blazing, huge blue irises holding William’s stare with an overwhelming force. William hooks one of Tom’s legs over his own shoulder and slides two fingers in without warning, rough and careless, and Tom lets out a ragged cry that’s just a step away from a scream.
“Fucking shit, Bill,” he groans, but William’s far past caring, cock throbbing in time with his heartbeat, back still stinging from Tom’s fingernails. He twists his knuckles up and Tom bites down on his own lip, drawing up a bead of blood. William leans forward to lick it off.
He slips in a third finger, swallowing Tom’s moan into his own mouth. He can feel the heat radiating between them, taste a salty sheen of sweat on Tom’s neck as he licks a trail from his ear to his collarbone, feel the demand in the lines of Tom’s body as he curls his fingers again.
He whimpers as he lines up and slides in, but it’s nothing compared to the ragged, breathy whine from Tom’s lips.
“Hurt too much?” William bites out.
“Yeah. Don’t stop,” Tom gasps, fingers digging hot red streaks into the sweaty expanse of William’s back. William takes a long shuddering breath and rolls his hips to find the spot that makes Tom bite down into his shoulder.
Somewhere around the third rough breathless thrust he realizes this is the last time. There are four days left of tour, sure, but this can’t be anything else but goodbye.
He tries to slow down when he realizes that, but his body has other ideas, caught up in the rhythm, surging forward faster and faster, and Tom’s panting between gritted teeth and William tries to look closely enough that he’ll never forget. He tries to memorize the way Tom feels around him, the hot tight drag that’s unlike anything else he knows, but he can’t help himself, he’s pushing in faster, harder, a moan ripping through his throat, his chest painfully tight even as fire spreads through his limbs.
He realizes he’s crying only when he sees the first tear roll down Tom’s temple and get lost in his hair. He can’t tell anymore what’s a moan and what’s a sob, can’t tell where he ends and Tom begins, it’s all just white-hot skin and anger. Tom’s biting indiscriminately at his neck, his shoulder, his chest, every inch he can reach, and his fingernails must be drawing blood, and William’s practically blinded by the pain and the unbelievable tightness of Tom around him, every sense screaming.
“Tommyboy,” he chokes, and Tom comes just a second after he does, spurting over their stomachs, mouth dropped open in a perfect O.
William rolls off to the side, swiping defiantly at his tears, and the pleasant fuzziness in his head can’t push away the ache in his chest.
“I’m gonna miss you,” he says softly, but Tom’s already pulling himself to his feet. He goes away and comes back a second later, throwing a warm washcloth to William.
“Clean up,” Tom whispers harshly.
William wipes himself off, pulls on his jeans and shirt, smoothes down his hair, small mechanical motions. When he leaves, Tom’s lying on the couch with his book, exactly how William found him except for the tense set of his jaw.
“How’d it go?” Mike asks grimly when he steps out of the bus, and three faces turn to William from the rest station’s picnic table.
“Fine,” William answers dully.
“He took it well?” Mike takes a drag off his cigarette.
“Yeah,” William confirms, and the innuendo sort of makes him want to scream.
“Alright. Well, this should be fun,” Sisky says nervously as they all file back to the bus.
William winces at the sting of his shirt shifting against the bloody scrapes on his back, but he hopes they scar.
Liked it? Check out my other stuff.