I let my music take me where my heart wants to go, B/G, PG13
title: I let my music take me where my heart wants to go
ship: Billy/Goodnight (Magnificent 7)
rating: PG13
summary: Goody nearby, singing low and soft.
wordcount: 343
note:
1) the title is from The wind by Cat Stevens
2) there was a tumblr post about billy in the position of the girl in this extra:
3) there was a picture of billy
Goody nearby, singing low and soft. Billy letting it drift across his mind like fog as he stared into nothing. Not really hearing the words; not trying to. Just the feelings in the voice soaking into him.
Not looking at Goody, ‘cause then he’d stop and talk to Billy, instead of singing.
Sometimes it’s broken pain about the war, but sometimes.. sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it changes to devotion and love and awe. And the part of Billy that would roll his eyes and shrug in discomfort at such feelings spoken, knows what’s happening..
Yet. He’s not looking at Goody. And Goody isn’t speaking to him. It’s just music. Beautiful music. That tells him his lover is happy.
He never could bring himself to do anything but let it burrow into him.
And when Goody fades out, Billy’s not even aware of getting up until he’s standing near enough to recognize Goody’s scent.
Barely keeping himself from offering a hand up. Instead jerking his head towards their room, wherever it be. The second that door closes, he has the man plastered against it, gloved hand driven into hair, their hats fallen wherever. Bodies pressed tight. And yet it’s about as gentle as Billy gets. Slow and tender and he just needs to be as physically close and burrowed into the man as Goody’s love had filled him.
He managed to stretch it out for hours, once. Slow, sweat-slick, tender. Quiet words whispered against salty skin, between kisses more drugging than their cigarettes. Every sliding touch familiar, yet far softer than it ever was, until they were both shaking and almost hypersensitive and they tripped over the edge, barely biting back their moans.
And if Billy not insisting on finding supper was out of character, if his arms holding Goody against his chest as they drifted to sleep were a little tight, well, Goodnight Robicheaux was no fool. He knew Billy didn’t always have words. Didn’t really *like* words.
He knew the language Billy spoke. And he didn’t resist this any more than Billy would have stopped his song.
ship: Billy/Goodnight (Magnificent 7)
rating: PG13
summary: Goody nearby, singing low and soft.
wordcount: 343
note:
1) the title is from The wind by Cat Stevens
2) there was a tumblr post about billy in the position of the girl in this extra:
Click to view3) there was a picture of billy
Goody nearby, singing low and soft. Billy letting it drift across his mind like fog as he stared into nothing. Not really hearing the words; not trying to. Just the feelings in the voice soaking into him.
Not looking at Goody, ‘cause then he’d stop and talk to Billy, instead of singing.
Sometimes it’s broken pain about the war, but sometimes.. sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it changes to devotion and love and awe. And the part of Billy that would roll his eyes and shrug in discomfort at such feelings spoken, knows what’s happening..
Yet. He’s not looking at Goody. And Goody isn’t speaking to him. It’s just music. Beautiful music. That tells him his lover is happy.
He never could bring himself to do anything but let it burrow into him.
And when Goody fades out, Billy’s not even aware of getting up until he’s standing near enough to recognize Goody’s scent.
Barely keeping himself from offering a hand up. Instead jerking his head towards their room, wherever it be. The second that door closes, he has the man plastered against it, gloved hand driven into hair, their hats fallen wherever. Bodies pressed tight. And yet it’s about as gentle as Billy gets. Slow and tender and he just needs to be as physically close and burrowed into the man as Goody’s love had filled him.
He managed to stretch it out for hours, once. Slow, sweat-slick, tender. Quiet words whispered against salty skin, between kisses more drugging than their cigarettes. Every sliding touch familiar, yet far softer than it ever was, until they were both shaking and almost hypersensitive and they tripped over the edge, barely biting back their moans.
And if Billy not insisting on finding supper was out of character, if his arms holding Goody against his chest as they drifted to sleep were a little tight, well, Goodnight Robicheaux was no fool. He knew Billy didn’t always have words. Didn’t really *like* words.
He knew the language Billy spoke. And he didn’t resist this any more than Billy would have stopped his song.