Vanishing - 3
VANISHING.
A serial by verapermendacia and replicating.
Featuring Billie Joe Armstrong of Green Day and Robert Angier from the book/movie "The Prestige." Huge credit is given to its_a_nono, from whose webcomic we borrowed the fantastical city of Rome.
This story is a cross-over. Billie Joe Armstrong is lead singer of the pop-punk band Green Day from the San Francisco Bay area. You can read more about Billie Joe and his bandmates here. Robert Angier is a magician from Victorian-era London, and you can read more about "The Prestige" here (for the book) and here (for the movie). You absolutely do NOT have to know anything about either, or do any reading, in order to make sense of the story, but you are welcome to should you choose to do so. "The Prestige" will be released on DVD on February 20th, 2007. The comic that we stole from shamelessly is here.
Rating: Overall, NC-17 for angst, sex, drama, and more crack than we should probably be allowed to have. This section, NC-17.
Disclaimer: We make ZERO claim on any of the characters, names, or places in this story; only the crack is ours. We're aware that there is really no dignified explanation for this story. It came about because we both found ourselves bored and wanting to put off doing the things we should REALLY have been working on, and then it took on a life of its own. Now it even has the gall to have its own storyline. We hope you enjoy it.
Part One. Part Two.
~ Chapter 3 ~
"Shit, you're right. I need to pee too," Billie giggles, the sound muffling itself against Angier's neck. "Uh, okay... where's the bathroom? Wait, you said there was only chamber pots, didn't you."
Well isn't this a lovely state of affairs? It's not every day that one finds oneself so dreadfully torn between urination and romance, Angier muses, finding solace from the impending awkwardness in a bit of sarcasm. Reluctantly, he peels himself off of Billie, and gets down on his knees, peering under the bed. Sure enough, there's a single tin chamber pot underneath, and Angier pulls it out, sighing. It's rusty and battered, and appears to not have been cleaned nearly enough times since it came into being. "They sure don't spare any expense in this fine establishment, do they," he mutters, standing up again. Eyeing Billie carefully, he nudges the chamber pot toward him with the toe of one leather shoe. "After you," he says, and turns politely to face the wall, ears reddening.
Oh. Sweet. Christ. Billie stares incredulously at the tin hunk of "art" in front of him not quite able to believe that he's actually meant to piss in it. He's giggling before he can even think about it, peering stupidly down to get a better look (like maybe it'll prove something - yup, it's really tin!) only to get a nice hefty whiff of whomever left the most recent, um, deposit. "FUCK! Fuckn'-ahahaha, oh shit, man..." Billie reels back, face twitching at the rank odor, still giggling, and then grabs the tin by the handle and looks around the room for the best place to do his business. It's probably a good thing that he's drunk, because instead of being completely revolted, the only thing he can think of as he lets himself go is, this is amazing.
Angier isn't sure if he's ever been in a situation like this one. Certainly there's nothing that strange about two men at the same chamber pot, but this is a little different. Billie's own discomfort seems to magnify Angier's, and in any case, Angier is mightily embarrassed. All he can think now is how difficult it's going to be to try and take a piss while sporting a cockstand of this magnitude. "Ahem."
"Sorry, sorry, done now." Billie zips himself up, trying to stop giggling like a fuckin' twat as he shuffles off to one side of the room, still taken by the inherent hilarity of the situation. Really, his life is too weird for words right now, and while no one in their right mind will ever believe him when he gets home, it's still pretty fucking cool. Billie chooses to distract himself by flinging himself onto the bed with all the gusto of a twelve year old, oof-ing as he lands on his side on the venerable mattress. It's a graceless, half-assed move, and he winds up with his face smushed in one of the pillows, which smells like old sacking, like you'd find in a barn or something. Fuck yeah.
Angier can feel the heat rising off his face, he's blushing so hard. He moves over to the chamber pot and unbuttons his trousers, willing with all his might for his dick to go even the tiniest bit softer, or this is going to take a horrifyingly long time. Blessedly, it's only a few moments before his wretched body decides to obey, and damned if it doesn't feel good to finally empty his bladder. Sighing with relief, he fastens his pants and stares down at the chamber pot, giving it a quick shove back under the bed. The rest can wait until morning, thank you very much. This small ordeal overwith, he glances back up at Billie, who has since made himself comfortable on the shabby bedclothes.
Billie, noticing that he has Angier's attention once again, chooses this moment to sit up, smiling at the magician. Angier looks mortified enough to sink into the ground, and Billie reflects that he probably isn't as used to peeing in empty beer bottles as Billie Joe was at one point in his life. "C'mere," he says gently, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Billie's not so tipsy or giddy that he can't recognize an uncertain situation when he sees one, especially when Angier is still looking as if he half-expects Billie to turn into a pumpkin. This whole thing has to be almost as weird for the magician as it is for Billie himself.
The simple invitation isn't one that Angier feels he can really resist, though a little of the previous fire seems to have gone out of him. In spite of the alcohol, he moves fluidly over to sit on the bed next to Billie, cupping the back of the singer's neck with one hand, and putting their mouthes back together with that certain reserved elegance present in his every move. Easy, he chides himself, Take it easy...
There, that's better. Angier no longer seems in imminent danger of bolting from the room, and Billie rises up to meet the man's kiss, trying to restrain himself a little now, too. It occurs to him that if they really get into it, he's going to need a condom. Does he have a condom? Do they have the same kind of STDs where Angier is from? Goddammit. "Mmmmn," Billie mumbles, blindly reaching for and finding Angier's shoulder, just wanting something to hold as he swipes his tongue over the other man's mouth.
It's comfortable enough just to kiss Billie, and Angier lets a few of the drunken inhibitions swim back into his brain. The alternating textures of coarse beard growth and smoothness of teeth and tongue are unique and electrifying, and he wants to drink it all in as best he can. Wanting to stall the spinning of the room, Angier lets himself fall back on the bed, pulling Billie with him. The musician's body is smaller and sharper than what he's used to, but Angier likes that. Loves it, even.
Angier is the kind of clean-shaven that tricks you into coming close enough to rub your cheek against, only to discover the almost-painful burn of close-cropped stubble. Billie moans before he can help himself, stretching out long against the magician's larger frame, his head swimming from the assault on his senses. It's so easy to forget about what he's supposed to be doing right now, where he's supposed to be (at home, with his wife and sons) or even who he is, here in this unfamiliar room in a town where no one knows or cares about him. The anonymity is almost as intoxicating as the alcohol still lingering in the back of Angier's kisses. Up comes Billie's hand again, this time encountering the stiff vest still over Angier's shirt. "You should take that off," he mumbles playfully, smiling against Angier's mouth. Vests only get in the way.
"Alright," Angier murmurs against Billie's lips, enjoying the warmth of their mingled breath, still heavy with the familiar scent of stale beer. One hand comes up to undo his buttons, and he continues to move his mouth languidly against Billie's as he works. His erection is back with a vengeance now, and everything feels good. Too good, really. Certainly too good for being a random encounter on a random day, with a man who's background he neither recognizes or understands. But why think about these things? There's no reason to torture himself with regrets at this point. Unfortunately, it's hard, sometimes, to really let go. "Here," Angier says, taking one of Billie's hands, and laying it against his solar plexus. "Is that better?"
"Better," smiles Billie, delighted at how easy that was. He makes a noise like a pleased cat, warm and indistinct, and then rolls onto his back, blinking lazily up at Angier. "Does that make it my turn?" Without waiting for an answer, he's already sliding a hand down to his belt buckle, undoing the leather from the clasp and then raising his hips so he can peel the thing out of its loops and cast it to one side. It's his trademark studded black leather belt, the one he always wears (and has about 3 versions of), and he drops it onto the mattress by his feet before raising his head to renew the kiss, like it's the only thing on his mind.
While Angier had noticed the odd belt before (and wondered what exactly its purpose might have been, outside of holding Billie's pants up), he barely even sees it now, as he watches Billies' hands undo the buckle. Slowly, he reaches over to capture one of those hands, bringing it to his mouth and kissing the inside of Billie's wrist. He traces the prominent tendons with his tongue, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, as he is sure Billie is watching him raptly. With his free hand, he goes to the buttons of his shirt, and begins to slowly undo them.
So much for being a prude. Then again, Angier hasn't so much as a single swear word while in Billie's presence, and he's still managed to capture and hold the little singer's attention completely. "Fuck," Billie breathes, the word sticking in his throat, clotting on his tongue as a shiver slides down his spine at the feel of Angier's mouth on his wrist. Billie's never been much for the hands, not the way he knows Mike is, but the care with which Angier takes Billie's wrist in his hand and turns it over is enough to melt Billie's jeans to his body. Talk about class.
For the first time that night, Angier finds the curse on Billie's lips to be utterly appropriate, and he darts up and swipes his tongue across Billie's mouth, wanting to catch it. He keeps one thumb pressed to the curve of the singer's wrist, however, unwilling to let it escape just yet. From years and years practicing and performing sleight-of-hand, Angier has acquired an unusual strength in his his hands and fingers, and he wonders briefly if Billie finds it as surprising as most of his past lovers have. Shivering a little at this, Angier rolls to the side, draping himself across Billie, and slides one arm underneath Billie's head.
Billie's not just surprised at how strong the stranger in his bed is; he's downright delighted, though maybe he'd be more worried for his own safety if he weren't tipsy. There's a wicked thrill in having his own lack of control made clear to him, and he moans, arching his long neck up in an effort to meet Angier's kiss. He's effectively pinned to the bed, hips caught under Angier's greater weight, and with the part of his feverish brain that's still capable of semi-rational thought, Billie wonders if Angier is this careful and deliberate with everyone he takes into his bed.
Angier is a little surprised at this sudden display of reckless lust from Billie... though he supposes he shouldn't be. Billie seems to be the open, expressive sort, and Angier can't help but wonder what he might do to elicit more of these small noises and gestures from the slight musician. He leans down as though to kiss Billie again, but passes his lips this time, and drags his mouth down to Billie's throat, biting first gently... then not-so-gently. "Take this off," he says, stroking the soft fabric of Billie's t-shirt.
Fuckfuckfuckfuck- "Okay," Billie breathes, the sharp teeth digging into his throat making all his hair stand on end. Fuck, if Angier kept at that long enough Billie swears he could just come in his fucking pants. It takes a couple of seconds of squirming and wedging his hand down in between their bodies, but then Billie has the hem of his t-shirt and is peeling it up and over his head like a second skin to reveal a chest that, if anything, is more colorful than the shirt he just took off. Billie has never once been ashamed of having so many tattoos, but he's maybe a little self-conscious right at the moment, if only because Angier is so very different from Billie himself. Billie can't help but guess that Angier has no tattoos of any kind.
Angier pauses for only a moment as Billie removes his shirt, finding it difficult to halt his attentions to the singer's throat. At first, the noises that Billie was making gave Angier pause, and he briefly wondered if he might have been hurting the smaller man. By now, however, it's quite obvious that the opposite is true, and so Angier fairly maps his way across Billie's neck with teeth and tongue, and is rewarded with more curses. When he reaches Billie's collarbone, he sits up for a second to stare at the colorful tattoos that decorate the singer's chest, wondering if such adornment is common in Billie's dimension. He touches one experimentally, but it's as warm and smooth as the rest of Billie's skin. "Hmm," Angier hums softly, before returning his mouth to Billie's throat.
Billie would like to say, right now, that teeth on his neck feel really good and thus it's totally unfair of Angier to use that against him. Also, he's drunk. Which means that he can't think too well, certainly can't think past the noises falling out of his mouth like little pebbles or the urgent desire to run his hands up Angier's spine, fighting to slide up under his shirt to touch bare skin. Billie's other hand goes automatically to the back of Angier's skull, gasping for air as he arches his neck backwards, the better to give that mouth the access it wants. "Oh my god," he pants, voice wet as his eyes.
Angier has to admit, that Billie is certainly different from any lover he's ever taken before, and that's taking into account not only the singer's foreign speech and attire, but the language of him in its entirety. He's submissive and vocal and wanton, and his expression of all this is unspeakably erotic. So much so that it's disarming, and Angier finds that his hands are trembling as they dip carefully below the waistband of Billie's trousers.
Billie twitches like a puppet on a string as Angier's hand moves down to more sensitive regions, eyes coming sharply into focus as the teeth leave his throat, their gaze shifting to Angier's face now, rather than aimed mindlessly at the ceiling. "You don't need to worry about biting me unless you have rabies," he whispers, the crack only half-delivered, though his smile is real enough. His aching erection throbs as Angier's fingers just brush the base, and Billie's breath hitches in his throat again, the act of thinking getting slowly but surely harder.
On some level, Angier is aware that Billie is trying to joke with him, but the lust behind these words is deep and red and serious, and Angier's cock strains against the front of his trousers in sympathy. His magician's hands splay carefully across the front of Billie's pants, framing his trapped erection, and Angier slides his thumb from the base to the tip, curious to see the smaller mans' reaction, if nothing else.
Angier is treating Billie like he's a strange, alien creature, experimenting with every little touch rather than pinning the singer down and fucking him into the shitty mattress like Billie was halfway hoping he would. It's not disappointing, exactly, but Billie also can't really be blamed if he's starting to go a little bit nuts. "Fuck," he pants, his voice hitching on the half-formed vowel as Angier's big finger draws down along Billie's prick, sending sparks of heat up through Billie's gut even though it's still through his pants.
It's true, the more clothes come off, the more Angier finds himself trapped somewhere between lust and wonder. They've been challenged by their differences since the very moment they met, but suddenly everything has a consequence, and Angier finds himself revisiting that particular challenge. To him, Billie might very well be a strange and alien creature, though at this point, bedding said creature is apparently quite imminent. Returning to the task at hand, he pries open the button at the top of Billie's trousers, pulling away the remaining layers of fabric until no doubt remains to the fact that his partner is as warm and human as he.
Warm, human, and so stupid with booze and horniness that Billie's probably legally handicapped by now. Billie squirms, raising himself up on his elbows on the bed, legs trapped together by the jeans and boxers shoved halfway down his thighs, his legs now stuck under Angier. Billie's head feels heavy, three times its normal weight, no doubt because of the amount of other-world beer Bill's chugged tonight, and in a brief moment of clarity Billie realizes that he's too drunk to really know what he's doing. "Come here," he demands rather petulantly, reaching up with one hand to grab Angier and pull his face down for a kiss, newly bared erection throbbing as soon as warm lips crash against his.
Angier had been thinking that he'd like to kiss Billie again, and this sudden tangling of lips and tongue grants his wish in a flash. It's a blessed distraction, seeing as Angier was beginning to feel awkward, gawping at Billie's penis like he'd never seen one before. In fact, Angier thinks that he might like to replace sight with touch at this point, and he lets his eyes fall closed as he frees his own erection from the confines of woolen trousers. Grasping the aching thing as though to subdue it, he pushes it against Billie's equally turgid prick, unconsciously mirroring the press of their wet and swollen lips.
"Ohhh, oh oh oh oh -" Billie cuts himself off as Angier's teeth clack against his, and his brain shoots off in another direction like a pinball ricocheting off course. Angier, that's fuckin' strange, who has people call them by their last name, really... Then Angier rolls his hips down against the pinned singer, and Billie whines into the stranger's mouth, common sense spinning out like a car on black ice. There was a point between the stairway and the bed itself where Billie had the mental acuity to hope for that nice hard fuck, but at this point he'll be lucky if he even manages to get his pants off completely. Billie strains, rising up on the bed, rubbing himself against the other man's cock, mouth falling open with a groan at the sweet jolt of friction that shivers up his spine.
Wait. Was there a point to this? A purpose? A goal yet to be reached? Had Angier wanted to plant himself inside the smaller man, and rut like a proper libertine? Likely not, seeing as the drink and the stress seem too great an obstacle for coherent thought to break through, and at this point, Angier can do little more than perpetuate their momentum. No longer caring what goes where, he thrusts against Billie, moaning in rather undignified fashion as their cock heads touch. Only a bit more of this, and then his balls are drawing tight, and his movements slow within the their increasingly desperate clench of arms and legs.
A burst of wet, sticky warmth hits Billie's stomach, the sensation just penetrating Billie's booze-shrouded brain that the man on top of him has just come all over him. Billie shivers, arching his hips up, and abandons his hold on Angier's shoulder long enough to shove his hand down between their slick, sweaty bodies so that he can grab his own dick. Other nights he might try to go awhile and see if he could even get Angier to come again, but the thought doesn't even enter his mind, now. A few twists of his hand, kissing frantically over Angier's face (and if he's lucky he catches the magician's mouth a few times) and then he's done, spilling messily all over his own hand.
Angier manages to catch one more glimpse of Billie's face, as the singer's body strains in orgasm... And then it's over. Humors fully expelled now, Angier's limbs tremble and give way, bringing him down on Billie in a messy tangle. He takes a deep breath, coughs once, twice, and tightens his arms around Billie's neck, pulling him close as he rolls off to the side. After a moment, he directs a bleary questioning glance at Billie as though to ask, "what was that?" However, questions are hard and kisses are easy, and he prevents any further verbal exchanges between them by placing his lips against Billie's, and breathing the last of his insecurities into the singer's mouth.
Billie has now been kissed, groped, humped, and jizzed on by a man he'd never seen before in his life until maybe 6 hours ago, and both of them are lying tangled on a bed together with their pants half-on. This is after pissing in a tin can that's supposed to pass for a toilet, in a building that wouldn't know indoor plumbing if a drain pipe came up and smacked it in the face. And all of this, after being dropped on his ass in another world for an indefinite period of time. At least the beer still tastes the same. Billie curls up against Angier's chest as best he can, legs trapped by the jeans around his thighs, and opens his mouth obligingly for more of Angier's wet, needy kisses, his brain going blissfully silent on the very disturbing subjects that just paraded through his conscious thought.
Angier kisses Billie for what feels like a long time, needing reassurance in the vein of, "yes it was unexpected, yes it was clumsy, and yes, it's all right." But eventually his kisses begin to slow, and his consciousness to flake away, piece by piece into the nonsense of dreams. His bad knee throbs painfully, and his hip aches where it no doubt collided with Billie's a bit too hard, but the warmth of the body next to his combats this well enough, and soon he's asleep, lips still pressed softly to the minute growth of beard at the corner of Billie's jaw.
If Billie was awake when Angier fell asleep, he doesn't remember it. He wakes just once, in the middle of the night, still tangled messily up in Angier's arms, his ass ridiculously cold because it's hanging out of his goddamn jeans. Billie grunts, trying to wiggle around enough to yank his jeans up, and finally succeeding in at least covering his bare behind again. Angier makes a noise of distress, groping blindly for Billie's arm, and the singer settles hastily back down, pausing only long enough to grab up the shabby blanket at the foot of the bed and cover him and the magician. Then he slips off again, brain sinking sweetly back into unconsciousness before a full 60 seconds has even passed.
A serial by verapermendacia and replicating.
Featuring Billie Joe Armstrong of Green Day and Robert Angier from the book/movie "The Prestige." Huge credit is given to its_a_nono, from whose webcomic we borrowed the fantastical city of Rome.
This story is a cross-over. Billie Joe Armstrong is lead singer of the pop-punk band Green Day from the San Francisco Bay area. You can read more about Billie Joe and his bandmates here. Robert Angier is a magician from Victorian-era London, and you can read more about "The Prestige" here (for the book) and here (for the movie). You absolutely do NOT have to know anything about either, or do any reading, in order to make sense of the story, but you are welcome to should you choose to do so. "The Prestige" will be released on DVD on February 20th, 2007. The comic that we stole from shamelessly is here.
Rating: Overall, NC-17 for angst, sex, drama, and more crack than we should probably be allowed to have. This section, NC-17.
Disclaimer: We make ZERO claim on any of the characters, names, or places in this story; only the crack is ours. We're aware that there is really no dignified explanation for this story. It came about because we both found ourselves bored and wanting to put off doing the things we should REALLY have been working on, and then it took on a life of its own. Now it even has the gall to have its own storyline. We hope you enjoy it.
Part One. Part Two.
~ Chapter 3 ~
"Shit, you're right. I need to pee too," Billie giggles, the sound muffling itself against Angier's neck. "Uh, okay... where's the bathroom? Wait, you said there was only chamber pots, didn't you."
Well isn't this a lovely state of affairs? It's not every day that one finds oneself so dreadfully torn between urination and romance, Angier muses, finding solace from the impending awkwardness in a bit of sarcasm. Reluctantly, he peels himself off of Billie, and gets down on his knees, peering under the bed. Sure enough, there's a single tin chamber pot underneath, and Angier pulls it out, sighing. It's rusty and battered, and appears to not have been cleaned nearly enough times since it came into being. "They sure don't spare any expense in this fine establishment, do they," he mutters, standing up again. Eyeing Billie carefully, he nudges the chamber pot toward him with the toe of one leather shoe. "After you," he says, and turns politely to face the wall, ears reddening.
Oh. Sweet. Christ. Billie stares incredulously at the tin hunk of "art" in front of him not quite able to believe that he's actually meant to piss in it. He's giggling before he can even think about it, peering stupidly down to get a better look (like maybe it'll prove something - yup, it's really tin!) only to get a nice hefty whiff of whomever left the most recent, um, deposit. "FUCK! Fuckn'-ahahaha, oh shit, man..." Billie reels back, face twitching at the rank odor, still giggling, and then grabs the tin by the handle and looks around the room for the best place to do his business. It's probably a good thing that he's drunk, because instead of being completely revolted, the only thing he can think of as he lets himself go is, this is amazing.
Angier isn't sure if he's ever been in a situation like this one. Certainly there's nothing that strange about two men at the same chamber pot, but this is a little different. Billie's own discomfort seems to magnify Angier's, and in any case, Angier is mightily embarrassed. All he can think now is how difficult it's going to be to try and take a piss while sporting a cockstand of this magnitude. "Ahem."
"Sorry, sorry, done now." Billie zips himself up, trying to stop giggling like a fuckin' twat as he shuffles off to one side of the room, still taken by the inherent hilarity of the situation. Really, his life is too weird for words right now, and while no one in their right mind will ever believe him when he gets home, it's still pretty fucking cool. Billie chooses to distract himself by flinging himself onto the bed with all the gusto of a twelve year old, oof-ing as he lands on his side on the venerable mattress. It's a graceless, half-assed move, and he winds up with his face smushed in one of the pillows, which smells like old sacking, like you'd find in a barn or something. Fuck yeah.
Angier can feel the heat rising off his face, he's blushing so hard. He moves over to the chamber pot and unbuttons his trousers, willing with all his might for his dick to go even the tiniest bit softer, or this is going to take a horrifyingly long time. Blessedly, it's only a few moments before his wretched body decides to obey, and damned if it doesn't feel good to finally empty his bladder. Sighing with relief, he fastens his pants and stares down at the chamber pot, giving it a quick shove back under the bed. The rest can wait until morning, thank you very much. This small ordeal overwith, he glances back up at Billie, who has since made himself comfortable on the shabby bedclothes.
Billie, noticing that he has Angier's attention once again, chooses this moment to sit up, smiling at the magician. Angier looks mortified enough to sink into the ground, and Billie reflects that he probably isn't as used to peeing in empty beer bottles as Billie Joe was at one point in his life. "C'mere," he says gently, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Billie's not so tipsy or giddy that he can't recognize an uncertain situation when he sees one, especially when Angier is still looking as if he half-expects Billie to turn into a pumpkin. This whole thing has to be almost as weird for the magician as it is for Billie himself.
The simple invitation isn't one that Angier feels he can really resist, though a little of the previous fire seems to have gone out of him. In spite of the alcohol, he moves fluidly over to sit on the bed next to Billie, cupping the back of the singer's neck with one hand, and putting their mouthes back together with that certain reserved elegance present in his every move. Easy, he chides himself, Take it easy...
There, that's better. Angier no longer seems in imminent danger of bolting from the room, and Billie rises up to meet the man's kiss, trying to restrain himself a little now, too. It occurs to him that if they really get into it, he's going to need a condom. Does he have a condom? Do they have the same kind of STDs where Angier is from? Goddammit. "Mmmmn," Billie mumbles, blindly reaching for and finding Angier's shoulder, just wanting something to hold as he swipes his tongue over the other man's mouth.
It's comfortable enough just to kiss Billie, and Angier lets a few of the drunken inhibitions swim back into his brain. The alternating textures of coarse beard growth and smoothness of teeth and tongue are unique and electrifying, and he wants to drink it all in as best he can. Wanting to stall the spinning of the room, Angier lets himself fall back on the bed, pulling Billie with him. The musician's body is smaller and sharper than what he's used to, but Angier likes that. Loves it, even.
Angier is the kind of clean-shaven that tricks you into coming close enough to rub your cheek against, only to discover the almost-painful burn of close-cropped stubble. Billie moans before he can help himself, stretching out long against the magician's larger frame, his head swimming from the assault on his senses. It's so easy to forget about what he's supposed to be doing right now, where he's supposed to be (at home, with his wife and sons) or even who he is, here in this unfamiliar room in a town where no one knows or cares about him. The anonymity is almost as intoxicating as the alcohol still lingering in the back of Angier's kisses. Up comes Billie's hand again, this time encountering the stiff vest still over Angier's shirt. "You should take that off," he mumbles playfully, smiling against Angier's mouth. Vests only get in the way.
"Alright," Angier murmurs against Billie's lips, enjoying the warmth of their mingled breath, still heavy with the familiar scent of stale beer. One hand comes up to undo his buttons, and he continues to move his mouth languidly against Billie's as he works. His erection is back with a vengeance now, and everything feels good. Too good, really. Certainly too good for being a random encounter on a random day, with a man who's background he neither recognizes or understands. But why think about these things? There's no reason to torture himself with regrets at this point. Unfortunately, it's hard, sometimes, to really let go. "Here," Angier says, taking one of Billie's hands, and laying it against his solar plexus. "Is that better?"
"Better," smiles Billie, delighted at how easy that was. He makes a noise like a pleased cat, warm and indistinct, and then rolls onto his back, blinking lazily up at Angier. "Does that make it my turn?" Without waiting for an answer, he's already sliding a hand down to his belt buckle, undoing the leather from the clasp and then raising his hips so he can peel the thing out of its loops and cast it to one side. It's his trademark studded black leather belt, the one he always wears (and has about 3 versions of), and he drops it onto the mattress by his feet before raising his head to renew the kiss, like it's the only thing on his mind.
While Angier had noticed the odd belt before (and wondered what exactly its purpose might have been, outside of holding Billie's pants up), he barely even sees it now, as he watches Billies' hands undo the buckle. Slowly, he reaches over to capture one of those hands, bringing it to his mouth and kissing the inside of Billie's wrist. He traces the prominent tendons with his tongue, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, as he is sure Billie is watching him raptly. With his free hand, he goes to the buttons of his shirt, and begins to slowly undo them.
So much for being a prude. Then again, Angier hasn't so much as a single swear word while in Billie's presence, and he's still managed to capture and hold the little singer's attention completely. "Fuck," Billie breathes, the word sticking in his throat, clotting on his tongue as a shiver slides down his spine at the feel of Angier's mouth on his wrist. Billie's never been much for the hands, not the way he knows Mike is, but the care with which Angier takes Billie's wrist in his hand and turns it over is enough to melt Billie's jeans to his body. Talk about class.
For the first time that night, Angier finds the curse on Billie's lips to be utterly appropriate, and he darts up and swipes his tongue across Billie's mouth, wanting to catch it. He keeps one thumb pressed to the curve of the singer's wrist, however, unwilling to let it escape just yet. From years and years practicing and performing sleight-of-hand, Angier has acquired an unusual strength in his his hands and fingers, and he wonders briefly if Billie finds it as surprising as most of his past lovers have. Shivering a little at this, Angier rolls to the side, draping himself across Billie, and slides one arm underneath Billie's head.
Billie's not just surprised at how strong the stranger in his bed is; he's downright delighted, though maybe he'd be more worried for his own safety if he weren't tipsy. There's a wicked thrill in having his own lack of control made clear to him, and he moans, arching his long neck up in an effort to meet Angier's kiss. He's effectively pinned to the bed, hips caught under Angier's greater weight, and with the part of his feverish brain that's still capable of semi-rational thought, Billie wonders if Angier is this careful and deliberate with everyone he takes into his bed.
Angier is a little surprised at this sudden display of reckless lust from Billie... though he supposes he shouldn't be. Billie seems to be the open, expressive sort, and Angier can't help but wonder what he might do to elicit more of these small noises and gestures from the slight musician. He leans down as though to kiss Billie again, but passes his lips this time, and drags his mouth down to Billie's throat, biting first gently... then not-so-gently. "Take this off," he says, stroking the soft fabric of Billie's t-shirt.
Fuckfuckfuckfuck- "Okay," Billie breathes, the sharp teeth digging into his throat making all his hair stand on end. Fuck, if Angier kept at that long enough Billie swears he could just come in his fucking pants. It takes a couple of seconds of squirming and wedging his hand down in between their bodies, but then Billie has the hem of his t-shirt and is peeling it up and over his head like a second skin to reveal a chest that, if anything, is more colorful than the shirt he just took off. Billie has never once been ashamed of having so many tattoos, but he's maybe a little self-conscious right at the moment, if only because Angier is so very different from Billie himself. Billie can't help but guess that Angier has no tattoos of any kind.
Angier pauses for only a moment as Billie removes his shirt, finding it difficult to halt his attentions to the singer's throat. At first, the noises that Billie was making gave Angier pause, and he briefly wondered if he might have been hurting the smaller man. By now, however, it's quite obvious that the opposite is true, and so Angier fairly maps his way across Billie's neck with teeth and tongue, and is rewarded with more curses. When he reaches Billie's collarbone, he sits up for a second to stare at the colorful tattoos that decorate the singer's chest, wondering if such adornment is common in Billie's dimension. He touches one experimentally, but it's as warm and smooth as the rest of Billie's skin. "Hmm," Angier hums softly, before returning his mouth to Billie's throat.
Billie would like to say, right now, that teeth on his neck feel really good and thus it's totally unfair of Angier to use that against him. Also, he's drunk. Which means that he can't think too well, certainly can't think past the noises falling out of his mouth like little pebbles or the urgent desire to run his hands up Angier's spine, fighting to slide up under his shirt to touch bare skin. Billie's other hand goes automatically to the back of Angier's skull, gasping for air as he arches his neck backwards, the better to give that mouth the access it wants. "Oh my god," he pants, voice wet as his eyes.
Angier has to admit, that Billie is certainly different from any lover he's ever taken before, and that's taking into account not only the singer's foreign speech and attire, but the language of him in its entirety. He's submissive and vocal and wanton, and his expression of all this is unspeakably erotic. So much so that it's disarming, and Angier finds that his hands are trembling as they dip carefully below the waistband of Billie's trousers.
Billie twitches like a puppet on a string as Angier's hand moves down to more sensitive regions, eyes coming sharply into focus as the teeth leave his throat, their gaze shifting to Angier's face now, rather than aimed mindlessly at the ceiling. "You don't need to worry about biting me unless you have rabies," he whispers, the crack only half-delivered, though his smile is real enough. His aching erection throbs as Angier's fingers just brush the base, and Billie's breath hitches in his throat again, the act of thinking getting slowly but surely harder.
On some level, Angier is aware that Billie is trying to joke with him, but the lust behind these words is deep and red and serious, and Angier's cock strains against the front of his trousers in sympathy. His magician's hands splay carefully across the front of Billie's pants, framing his trapped erection, and Angier slides his thumb from the base to the tip, curious to see the smaller mans' reaction, if nothing else.
Angier is treating Billie like he's a strange, alien creature, experimenting with every little touch rather than pinning the singer down and fucking him into the shitty mattress like Billie was halfway hoping he would. It's not disappointing, exactly, but Billie also can't really be blamed if he's starting to go a little bit nuts. "Fuck," he pants, his voice hitching on the half-formed vowel as Angier's big finger draws down along Billie's prick, sending sparks of heat up through Billie's gut even though it's still through his pants.
It's true, the more clothes come off, the more Angier finds himself trapped somewhere between lust and wonder. They've been challenged by their differences since the very moment they met, but suddenly everything has a consequence, and Angier finds himself revisiting that particular challenge. To him, Billie might very well be a strange and alien creature, though at this point, bedding said creature is apparently quite imminent. Returning to the task at hand, he pries open the button at the top of Billie's trousers, pulling away the remaining layers of fabric until no doubt remains to the fact that his partner is as warm and human as he.
Warm, human, and so stupid with booze and horniness that Billie's probably legally handicapped by now. Billie squirms, raising himself up on his elbows on the bed, legs trapped together by the jeans and boxers shoved halfway down his thighs, his legs now stuck under Angier. Billie's head feels heavy, three times its normal weight, no doubt because of the amount of other-world beer Bill's chugged tonight, and in a brief moment of clarity Billie realizes that he's too drunk to really know what he's doing. "Come here," he demands rather petulantly, reaching up with one hand to grab Angier and pull his face down for a kiss, newly bared erection throbbing as soon as warm lips crash against his.
Angier had been thinking that he'd like to kiss Billie again, and this sudden tangling of lips and tongue grants his wish in a flash. It's a blessed distraction, seeing as Angier was beginning to feel awkward, gawping at Billie's penis like he'd never seen one before. In fact, Angier thinks that he might like to replace sight with touch at this point, and he lets his eyes fall closed as he frees his own erection from the confines of woolen trousers. Grasping the aching thing as though to subdue it, he pushes it against Billie's equally turgid prick, unconsciously mirroring the press of their wet and swollen lips.
"Ohhh, oh oh oh oh -" Billie cuts himself off as Angier's teeth clack against his, and his brain shoots off in another direction like a pinball ricocheting off course. Angier, that's fuckin' strange, who has people call them by their last name, really... Then Angier rolls his hips down against the pinned singer, and Billie whines into the stranger's mouth, common sense spinning out like a car on black ice. There was a point between the stairway and the bed itself where Billie had the mental acuity to hope for that nice hard fuck, but at this point he'll be lucky if he even manages to get his pants off completely. Billie strains, rising up on the bed, rubbing himself against the other man's cock, mouth falling open with a groan at the sweet jolt of friction that shivers up his spine.
Wait. Was there a point to this? A purpose? A goal yet to be reached? Had Angier wanted to plant himself inside the smaller man, and rut like a proper libertine? Likely not, seeing as the drink and the stress seem too great an obstacle for coherent thought to break through, and at this point, Angier can do little more than perpetuate their momentum. No longer caring what goes where, he thrusts against Billie, moaning in rather undignified fashion as their cock heads touch. Only a bit more of this, and then his balls are drawing tight, and his movements slow within the their increasingly desperate clench of arms and legs.
A burst of wet, sticky warmth hits Billie's stomach, the sensation just penetrating Billie's booze-shrouded brain that the man on top of him has just come all over him. Billie shivers, arching his hips up, and abandons his hold on Angier's shoulder long enough to shove his hand down between their slick, sweaty bodies so that he can grab his own dick. Other nights he might try to go awhile and see if he could even get Angier to come again, but the thought doesn't even enter his mind, now. A few twists of his hand, kissing frantically over Angier's face (and if he's lucky he catches the magician's mouth a few times) and then he's done, spilling messily all over his own hand.
Angier manages to catch one more glimpse of Billie's face, as the singer's body strains in orgasm... And then it's over. Humors fully expelled now, Angier's limbs tremble and give way, bringing him down on Billie in a messy tangle. He takes a deep breath, coughs once, twice, and tightens his arms around Billie's neck, pulling him close as he rolls off to the side. After a moment, he directs a bleary questioning glance at Billie as though to ask, "what was that?" However, questions are hard and kisses are easy, and he prevents any further verbal exchanges between them by placing his lips against Billie's, and breathing the last of his insecurities into the singer's mouth.
Billie has now been kissed, groped, humped, and jizzed on by a man he'd never seen before in his life until maybe 6 hours ago, and both of them are lying tangled on a bed together with their pants half-on. This is after pissing in a tin can that's supposed to pass for a toilet, in a building that wouldn't know indoor plumbing if a drain pipe came up and smacked it in the face. And all of this, after being dropped on his ass in another world for an indefinite period of time. At least the beer still tastes the same. Billie curls up against Angier's chest as best he can, legs trapped by the jeans around his thighs, and opens his mouth obligingly for more of Angier's wet, needy kisses, his brain going blissfully silent on the very disturbing subjects that just paraded through his conscious thought.
Angier kisses Billie for what feels like a long time, needing reassurance in the vein of, "yes it was unexpected, yes it was clumsy, and yes, it's all right." But eventually his kisses begin to slow, and his consciousness to flake away, piece by piece into the nonsense of dreams. His bad knee throbs painfully, and his hip aches where it no doubt collided with Billie's a bit too hard, but the warmth of the body next to his combats this well enough, and soon he's asleep, lips still pressed softly to the minute growth of beard at the corner of Billie's jaw.
If Billie was awake when Angier fell asleep, he doesn't remember it. He wakes just once, in the middle of the night, still tangled messily up in Angier's arms, his ass ridiculously cold because it's hanging out of his goddamn jeans. Billie grunts, trying to wiggle around enough to yank his jeans up, and finally succeeding in at least covering his bare behind again. Angier makes a noise of distress, groping blindly for Billie's arm, and the singer settles hastily back down, pausing only long enough to grab up the shabby blanket at the foot of the bed and cover him and the magician. Then he slips off again, brain sinking sweetly back into unconsciousness before a full 60 seconds has even passed.