i feel you make love to me slightly--
a returning present. huzzah.
innuendo-laden little drabble
all about the dombilleh love
all inspired by shaenie because i can't get her gorgeoushotsexy dom!billeh out of my head
seriously affected by the fact i've been reading "mrs dalloway"
for hackthis because her dombilleh makes me die, it's so gorgeous
Explication
Dom likes his leather wristcuff.
He likes the way it’s worn smooth on the inside, slides over his wrist like silk. He likes it grinding hard against his wristbone. Sometimes he holds up to his nose and sniffs and he likes the smell, likes the rough bitter farmy-ness of the leather mixed with his cologne mixed with his soap mixed with the warm scent of his sweat. He likes the metal snap, and the way it’s cold when he first puts it on, cold enough to make the hair on his arms stand up, but heats with his skin, with his own heat, turns hot and blistery to the touch by the end of the nightday.
He likes, also, the way it looks in pictures. It makes him look dangerous, he thinks, or maybe just rogue-ish, and he’s probably both without the cuff but it makes it more accented, the dark dark leather against the pale of his skin (pale, so pale, English and pale; and sometimes red, if he’s been in the sun too long, or if Billy’s been a bastard and hid the sunscreen).
He likes to rub his thumb over it. He fancies he can see a slightly-more-worn-out strip over it, just where his thumb is always passing, a nervous habit. He likes the clammy skin underneath it, likes revealing it at night in dull light, comparing the shades of skin, pale to paler, a wristcuff tan. It’s a ridiculous concept, wristcuff tan, but that’s why he likes it, because it’s just stupid, it’s just ridiculous that he wears this leather cuff enough for it to make a difference in the shade of his skin, and he likes being stupid and ridiculous and he likes having different shades.
Mostly he likes the reaction it gets, the arched eyebrows and the little amused glances, the quirk of the lips, updown like lightning, except he catches it every time, no matter who it comes from. He likes correcting people when they say it wrong, when they say bracelet, or wristband, he says no, no, it’s a wristcuff, and of course he leaves unsaid that the operative word is cuff and not wrist, but they understand, of course they do, and he loves that; he loves the careful numbing of the eyes, the measured breaths, the small unsure smiles that say I’m-not-thinking-of-you-cuffed-and-sweatingshiny-and-naked-and-wanting-and-not-getting, but they are, of course they are.
Probably though, probably no matter how many reasons Dom can think of for liking his cuff, his dark leather wristcuff that says things that nobody hears but everyone understands, his beautiful worn-smooth rich-smelling cuff, no matter how many millions of little details Dom can think of that make him likeadore his wristcuff, Billy can think of more.
fin.
innuendo-laden little drabble
all about the dombilleh love
all inspired by shaenie because i can't get her gorgeoushotsexy dom!billeh out of my head
seriously affected by the fact i've been reading "mrs dalloway"
for hackthis because her dombilleh makes me die, it's so gorgeous
Explication
Dom likes his leather wristcuff.
He likes the way it’s worn smooth on the inside, slides over his wrist like silk. He likes it grinding hard against his wristbone. Sometimes he holds up to his nose and sniffs and he likes the smell, likes the rough bitter farmy-ness of the leather mixed with his cologne mixed with his soap mixed with the warm scent of his sweat. He likes the metal snap, and the way it’s cold when he first puts it on, cold enough to make the hair on his arms stand up, but heats with his skin, with his own heat, turns hot and blistery to the touch by the end of the nightday.
He likes, also, the way it looks in pictures. It makes him look dangerous, he thinks, or maybe just rogue-ish, and he’s probably both without the cuff but it makes it more accented, the dark dark leather against the pale of his skin (pale, so pale, English and pale; and sometimes red, if he’s been in the sun too long, or if Billy’s been a bastard and hid the sunscreen).
He likes to rub his thumb over it. He fancies he can see a slightly-more-worn-out strip over it, just where his thumb is always passing, a nervous habit. He likes the clammy skin underneath it, likes revealing it at night in dull light, comparing the shades of skin, pale to paler, a wristcuff tan. It’s a ridiculous concept, wristcuff tan, but that’s why he likes it, because it’s just stupid, it’s just ridiculous that he wears this leather cuff enough for it to make a difference in the shade of his skin, and he likes being stupid and ridiculous and he likes having different shades.
Mostly he likes the reaction it gets, the arched eyebrows and the little amused glances, the quirk of the lips, updown like lightning, except he catches it every time, no matter who it comes from. He likes correcting people when they say it wrong, when they say bracelet, or wristband, he says no, no, it’s a wristcuff, and of course he leaves unsaid that the operative word is cuff and not wrist, but they understand, of course they do, and he loves that; he loves the careful numbing of the eyes, the measured breaths, the small unsure smiles that say I’m-not-thinking-of-you-cuffed-and-sweatingshiny-and-naked-and-wanting-and-not-getting, but they are, of course they are.
Probably though, probably no matter how many reasons Dom can think of for liking his cuff, his dark leather wristcuff that says things that nobody hears but everyone understands, his beautiful worn-smooth rich-smelling cuff, no matter how many millions of little details Dom can think of that make him likeadore his wristcuff, Billy can think of more.
fin.