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monaboyd Jul. 9th, 2004 01:00 am)
semaphore27.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Jul. 9th, 2004 01:00 am)Author: Semaphore
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Rating: NC-17, for sexual content
Feedback: Is longed for and appreciated. Enormous thanks to all who've commented so far! Honestly, I love you all--you inspire me!
Summary:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
moonlight_spike gave me a plot bunny for a haunted house story involving Billy as the head of a team of paranormal investigators, and though it seems to be mutating slightly, the basic premise is still the same. This is 1920’s AU (with extensive flashbacks to WWI) and will also feature Elijah, Sean, Andy and Bernard, at the very least. Chapter 9: Billy's afraid of dreaming, but Dom's awake with him.
Disclaimers: all that’s written here is fiction, and never took place. There's a reference, again, to "The Lake Isle at Innisfree," by W.B. Yeats. Dom's song is by Cole Porter, and was actually written in 1929. Precognition is a beautiful thing (when it lets me cheat).
Previous chapters and other writings can be found at: Caraidean
Haunted, Chapter 9
Western wind, when wilt thou blow,
The small rain down can rain?
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!
- Anonymous, 15th Century, “Western Wind”
Billy slept a long while, and woke with the old, familiar ache in his leg, the familiar winter’s cold hanging the air of his room, making his breath steam in the air. Rain drummed dully on the old slate roof above him and the wind gusted noisily around the eaves, rattling old, dried leaves from out of the gutters, noisy over the stone walls and the windowsills. The sun, what there was of it, had climbed as high already as it would go on a November’s day in Glasgow--which made the time quite late, Billy suspected.
Billy didn’t want to rise. He felt quite stubborn about it, really, preferring to remain abed, swaddled inside his warm cocoon of duvet and sheets, as he clung on to the last, sweet vestiges of his dreams.
He’d dreamed of Dom in the night. He remembered that so clearly it might have been real, and for once the images weren’t tinged with sorrow, with loss or fear. Rather, they’d left him with a tender hurt in his chest, with lips that felt ripened with kisses, with a pleasant ache down between his legs. Such a terrible, lovely thing, to dream so vividly of being loved, a warm body against his own, lithe muscle and hard bone and silken skin, a long, slender hand exploring his face, eyes like a March sky gazing into his, brimming with a heady mix of love and desire.
“Only a little longer, only a little longer,” Billy prayed. “I need this not to slip so quickly away from me.”
Across the room, someone sang, in a voice he didn’t recognize: a little froggy with the early hours, not the most tuneful he’d heard in his life, but with a quality all its own—a man’s voice, full of deep, soft velvet, as if one could run one’s fingers over it, as if one could stroke it, relishing every moment of the touch.
”…when I'm out on a quiet spree,” it sang.
Fighting vainly the old ennui
And I suddenly turn and see
Your fabulous face.
I get no kick from champagne,
Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all,
So tell me why should it be true
That I get a kick out of you?
Billy sat up in bed, hugging the covers tightly to his chest. You’ve not woken, he told himself sternly. You’ve not woken, William. It’s only the dream. There’ll be nothing when you wake, only this empty room and loneliness.
And if that happened to prove true, Billy realized, then today would be the day—a visit to the post office, to send off the books to London, all protected, wrapped up neatly, then a longer walk down to the docksides, where grey water rippled under greyer skies. He could not bear this emptiness. He could not bear to live this way. And the brace on his leg would be quite heavy, too heavy for Billy to fight against.
But if happened to prove false--if by some unexpected providence it should prove be false, and he’d been gifted, suddenly, with a luck that up until this point in his life had been altogether foreign…
Well, then, for the first time in seven years, Billy would truly begin to breathe again, and the heart would beat once more, warmly, in his chest, and all the varied colours would wash back into his world.
Not knowing for certain which it would be, Billy could scarcely catch his breath.
The sunlight, such as it was, had more of silver in it than of gold, so much so that, were it not for the level of brightness in the room, Billy might have taken it instead for moonlight. The singing man stood by the window with not a stitch to cover him, despite the chill, and the watery brightness drew pewter lines along the angles and curves of his body. He looked as if he’d fallen from heaven, as if he ought to fill the corners of the bedroom with vast dark wings that smelt, faintly, both of brimstone and rich, undiscovered spices.
Head bowed, he gazed at something on the ground below, his one hand raised in the air, fingers spread and haloed in the same dull silver that limned the rest of his form.
The muscles shifted beneath his skin as Billy watched, as the young man (who’d no wings after all, though it seemed terribly wrong that he should not have them) stretched, raising his arms toward the low ceiling, the silver shifting madly over his smooth, pale skin. Only it wasn’t arms, it wasn’t, it was one arm, only one long, slender arm, layered with gentle curves of muscle, whilst where the other ought to have been were only dark red scars and a pitifully truncated end, no more than a few inches from his shoulder.
Somehow, the sight of that mutilation dragged Billy from the realm of vision and into reality.
“Dom?” he murmured.
At the sound of Billy’s voice, Dom turned, smiling brightly. “What is it, Bills? Think I was a dream? Or is that a nightmare?”
“I did,” Billy whispered, devastated suddenly by the thought that all this might be true, that the sweet night passed with Dom in his arms was real, it had happened. “I thought I’d dreamt you again. I’ve dreamt you so very many times, you see, and in the morning…” He couldn’t go on to finish the thought, except that Dom, ever perceptive, finished it for him.
“There’s nothing. You’ve gone, and I’m left so bloody lonely.” Dom turned round altogether, his motions smooth and feline, absolutely comfortable in his own skin. On the bed, catlike, he rubbed his face against Billy’s shoulder, up beneath Billy’s chin, Dom’s morning stubble tickling him.
“I want to look at you in daylight,” Dom said. “Make sure you’re real, Bills, not some figment of my imagination.” He shifted, sitting sideways on the bed with one foot tucked beneath him, his hip against Billy’s hip, though they were separated still by the layers of covers.
Dom’s hand moved to pull coverlet and sheet away, but Billy only clutched them closer. “I can’t…” he muttered into the edge of the blanket. “That is, I haven’t…”
“Billy, my Billy.” Dom shook his head, speaking in a tone of loving exasperation. “Do you think I show my arm to just anyone? Don’t think even wee Elijah’s seen it, as it is.” His hand delved down beneath the sheet. “You and me, though, Bills—we have no secrets. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember,” Billy answered, but he still couldn’t look at him, not even when Dom’s hand found his hip, then traced down over his thigh, fingers finding the scars as if by instinct, following their harsh lines. “Only, you see…”
“I do see, Billy,” Dom answered, the velvet in his voice thicker than ever—and then he was pulling back the covers, exposing Billy’s skin to the frigid air, so that the soft fuzz of hair on Billy’s legs and chest stood all on end.
Dom leaned into him and kissed him, his body pressing warmly against Billy’s, rubbing lightly against that hair until Billy shivered, though not with the cold. He lay back on the mattress, shifting to his side, lips running over the scars, trailing warmth with them, his tongue flickering out, now and then, as if each ridge or mark had a flavour all its own, and Dom was intent on tasting each of them, until Billy's shivers took on an increasing violence.
Dom glanced up, his bright eyes meeting Billy’s eyes, his expression playful, almost elfin—Dom has two faces, Billy thought, Where most people only have one. He didn’t mean it in any way that marked Dom as deceptive, it was merely that, in repose, the first face appeared somber, intent, handsome, brushed (beneath those lines) with a distant pain. The one gazing up at him now, however, was Dom's second face: cheeky, rosy, filled with a nearly childish glee.
In an instant, though, that look had gone, replaced by one that smouldered as if it might burn him. Dom’s head bent, and he kissed the widest of the scars, the most knotted, sucking on it gently, his tongue sliding over the hard, slick skin.
Billy raised his hand, meaning to push—however gently (though he wasn’t certain, with this, he could be gentle)—Dom’s face away from him, to stop this action.
Instead, to his wonder, Billy found his fingers curved round the back of Dom’s neck, holding his head down, letting Dom’s mouth and tongue continue to explore him, because the sensation was dreadful and painful and lovely all in the same moment.
Billy had always been ashamed of the scars. Always. Since the doctors and the nurses at Craiglockhart, with their eternally cold hands and prodding fingers, no one had seen them, not even Andy. Billy himself refused to look if he could possibly help it—and yet here he was, with Dom’s head in his lap, his body trembling under Dom’s caresses, and not, either, because he was afraid, or disgusted.
Billy’s hand slipped down between his legs, cupping his own hardness, but then--suddenly--Dom lay between his thighs, parting them gently. “Didn’t hurt you, did I, Bill?” he asked softly, and Billy shook his head no.
“Your pants.” Dom breath swirled hotly against him. “Undo the string. You’ll have to be my hands on this one, Billy.”
Breathless himself, Billy complied, untying the knot, parting the fabric, and then Dom’s mouth was there, blowing gently upon his bare skin. He’d never been like this, not even as a young lad--so hard it hurt him, so filled with need he found his fingers clawing into the mattress, gathering bunches of sheet up in his fists because of his need to hold on to something.
Dom balanced on his one elbow, shoulders hunched. That arm must be very strong, Billy thought, because Dom could hold himself absolutely steady, without the slightest sign of trembling. Dom’s lips traveled lightly over the length of him, from the base all the way out to the head, Dom’s tongue slipping under Billy’s foreskin so that his spine arched away from the mattress. It was too sudden a move, in the wrong direction, and it hurt him—Billy felt the pain of it twist his face suddenly, and read on Dom’s own face his comprehension.
“Didn’t mean to hurt you, Billy,” he murmured. “Never mean to hurt you.” His eyes met Billy’s for a long moment, one of those moments in which it seemed all clocks, everywhere, must surely be frozen. Dom’s eyes went silvery then, the pupils contracting to pinpoints, and Billy could make out his own startled face, reflected in the irises.
It was one of the odder things Billy had ever seen, that sudden change--undeniably eerie. In the next moment, though, Dom smiled at him.
“That’s all right, then,” he said, in the same soft voice. “It’s all right, Billy. I see.” He slipped his shoulder beneath Billy’s bad leg, bearing the weight of it across his shoulders, Billy’s heel resting in the hollow over Dom’s backbone. “Better?” he asked.
Billy expected the position to pain him—it ought to have been awkward, and it wasn't one he had ever found himself in. Billy felt quite uncomfortable with it, up until that moment he realized it was actually comfortable, and in that moment Dom’s lips, and his tongue, returned to him, taking Billy inside the wet warmth of his mouth, that tongue stroking him, pulling on him, Dom’s teeth rubbing gently against him, in a way that combined pain and pleasure.
The sensation was unlike anything Billy had experienced, or ever thought he would experience. He wasn’t certain he could bear it, precisely: it was almost too much, too intimate, except that this was Dom holding him, Dom stroking him, taking Billy so far back into himself it seemed impossible--yet, at the same time, perfect--to be held there in that tight warmth, with the muscles of Dom’s throat working against him, and the feel of Dom’s back beneath his own half-dead leg,
The tremors rippled across Billy’s stomach, chasing one another up and down his legs until Billy arched again. In that moment Dom held both of them, suspended a little above the bed, floating, floating and exploding all in the same moment, like some brilliant firework, a starburst, or a brilliant dragon, because that’s what Billy felt rushing out of him--fire, pure fire, flame that didn’t burn.
And then Dom swallowed, taking in everything Billy gave, still holding him as Billy twisted against the sheets, and exploded again, and then, finally, lay still, panting, the fireworks still bright behind his eyes.
Dom slid up Billy’s body, shrugging out from under Billy’s leg and lowering it gently to the mattress. For a moment all Dom’s weight lay against Billy’s chest, as he shifted his arm to a new position, and then Dom was light again, rising above him, even as he bent down to find Billy’s mouth, to kiss him, the taste of Billy’s own self, on Dom’s tongue, soft and musky, in no way unpleasant.
Billy’s fingers twined in Dom’s hair, then untwined again. His left hand whispered along the length of Dom’s backbone, whilst the right slipped in between them, knuckles brushing his own self, soft now, but still so sensitized small ripples of pleasure continued to thrum through him. He stroked Dom’s hardness, feeling the shape and the weight of him, the burning heat against his hand, the pulse of blood in Dom’s veins.
Dom sighed, and lay against Billy chest again. Only then did Billy realize Dom’s right arm was shaking. Billy’s own hands, though small, were strong from his work, and his fingers kneaded into the tired muscles, soothing them, until Dom sighed with contentment.
“Wish I could touch you with two hands, Bills,” he said softly, voice poignant with regret.
Billy wanted to say it didn’t matter, but of course it did. How could it not, to lose a limb, to lose whatever else it was they’d lost, that kept them from being whole men? Losses their special, painful gifts never could replace.
Perhaps, together, he thought, they might find some sense of completion.
For now, it was good to feel Dom’s breath across his chest, and to breathe in, himself, the scent of Dom’s clean, bright hair. It was good to wake from his dreams to find he’d been granted his wishes, and that here, in the morning light, the world lay still and calm and peaceful around him.
“I’m home now,” Dom said softly, his voice humming against Billy’s skin.
“Yes, you’re home,” Billy agreed. “You’re home at last, my Dommie.”
A silence fell between them that felt in no way awkward, only contented. Billy shut his eyes, drifting contentedly, until Andy’s noisy, distinctive knock upon his door interrupted the blessed silence.
“Go away,” Billy murmured, in too soft a voice, he devoutly hoped, for Andy to hear him.
“Oi! Sweet William!” Andy called, sounding unusually perturbed. “That bloke’s here. Y’know, the old party with the posh voice. What do you want I should do with him?”
Dom laughed again against Billy’s chest. “Probably wants to fetch us tea, and make up the fire, Bills.”
Billy scrambled off the bed, nearly dumping himself onto the floor in the process, having to balance on his good leg because his brace, of course, was off for the night, the crutch he used between-times nowhere to be seen. He steadied himself on the edge of the mattress, wondering where it was he might have left it, uncomfortable, suddenly, that Dom should see him this way, so helpless.
Only Dom had slid off the opposite side and gone fishing under the bed, straightening at last with the crutch in his hand. “You looking for this, Bills?” He grinned.
Billy nodded curtly, still embarrassed. Please understand.” He glanced away, softening his voice. “I only want to be strong for you, Dommie.
But Dom’s stormcloud eyes filled with sympathy. “Bill,” he said, his low tone matching Billy’s. “I can’t do up my own collarstud, or knot a tie for myself. Takes me half an hour sometimes, when my fingers are clumsy, to do up my own flies. Whyever would you think I’d judge you?”
“It’s not that,” Billy answered, but of course it was, and Dom knew it.
“Don’t ever hide yourself from me, Bills,” he said. “Don’t ever. If all the world turned away, still I would never judge you, or think less of you.” He crossed the mattress, quickly, easily, with that grace Billy envied, all the more so because it had been his once, also. Tenderly, with a smile, he slipped the crutch beneath Billy’s shoulder.
“Andrew, is it?” Dom said. “Would you kindly ask Hill to wait for me? Tell him I’ll be with him in a moment, but just now I’m otherwise occupied. Thank him, will you, for his patience?”
“Got it, gov,” Andy answered, with a certain perplexity. “I say, Bill…”
“In a moment, Andrew,” Billy called back, fighting a sudden urge to laugh as Dom’s soft fingers stroked down his belly, as Dom’s thigh slipped between his, making Billy shiver again. “Only give us a bit to let us get ourselves sorted. It’s been a long night.”
“Has it?” Andy asked, dryly. Dom’s eyes sparkled, and he dipped his head to laugh against Billy’s shoulder.
“Aye,” Billy answered, before Dom kissed him yet again, holding onto Billy’s upper lip a moment with his mouth, sucking it gently before releasing him.
Billy touched it after, feeling the lingering heat.
“You will come away with me, then, won’t you, Billy?” Dom asked, the laughter still in his voice. “To Elijah’s hellish estate? It’s not exactly the Lake Isle at Innisfree, I’m certain, but I’ve promised I would, and I can’t bear to be parted from you, Billy. I don’t think I could bear it even for an instant.”
Billy balked a little over saying the words, but his feelings were much the same—having found Dom after so long, the loss of him would be intolerable. Even to let Dom out of his sight seemed unthinkable.
“I will come away,” Billy answered, “wherever you lead me.”
End, Part One
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Rating: NC-17, for sexual content
Feedback: Is longed for and appreciated. Enormous thanks to all who've commented so far! Honestly, I love you all--you inspire me!
Summary:
moonlight_spike gave me a plot bunny for a haunted house story involving Billy as the head of a team of paranormal investigators, and though it seems to be mutating slightly, the basic premise is still the same. This is 1920’s AU (with extensive flashbacks to WWI) and will also feature Elijah, Sean, Andy and Bernard, at the very least. Chapter 9: Billy's afraid of dreaming, but Dom's awake with him.Disclaimers: all that’s written here is fiction, and never took place. There's a reference, again, to "The Lake Isle at Innisfree," by W.B. Yeats. Dom's song is by Cole Porter, and was actually written in 1929. Precognition is a beautiful thing (when it lets me cheat).
Previous chapters and other writings can be found at: Caraidean
Haunted, Chapter 9
Western wind, when wilt thou blow,
The small rain down can rain?
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!
- Anonymous, 15th Century, “Western Wind”
Billy slept a long while, and woke with the old, familiar ache in his leg, the familiar winter’s cold hanging the air of his room, making his breath steam in the air. Rain drummed dully on the old slate roof above him and the wind gusted noisily around the eaves, rattling old, dried leaves from out of the gutters, noisy over the stone walls and the windowsills. The sun, what there was of it, had climbed as high already as it would go on a November’s day in Glasgow--which made the time quite late, Billy suspected.
Billy didn’t want to rise. He felt quite stubborn about it, really, preferring to remain abed, swaddled inside his warm cocoon of duvet and sheets, as he clung on to the last, sweet vestiges of his dreams.
He’d dreamed of Dom in the night. He remembered that so clearly it might have been real, and for once the images weren’t tinged with sorrow, with loss or fear. Rather, they’d left him with a tender hurt in his chest, with lips that felt ripened with kisses, with a pleasant ache down between his legs. Such a terrible, lovely thing, to dream so vividly of being loved, a warm body against his own, lithe muscle and hard bone and silken skin, a long, slender hand exploring his face, eyes like a March sky gazing into his, brimming with a heady mix of love and desire.
“Only a little longer, only a little longer,” Billy prayed. “I need this not to slip so quickly away from me.”
Across the room, someone sang, in a voice he didn’t recognize: a little froggy with the early hours, not the most tuneful he’d heard in his life, but with a quality all its own—a man’s voice, full of deep, soft velvet, as if one could run one’s fingers over it, as if one could stroke it, relishing every moment of the touch.
”…when I'm out on a quiet spree,” it sang.
Fighting vainly the old ennui
And I suddenly turn and see
Your fabulous face.
I get no kick from champagne,
Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all,
So tell me why should it be true
That I get a kick out of you?
Billy sat up in bed, hugging the covers tightly to his chest. You’ve not woken, he told himself sternly. You’ve not woken, William. It’s only the dream. There’ll be nothing when you wake, only this empty room and loneliness.
And if that happened to prove true, Billy realized, then today would be the day—a visit to the post office, to send off the books to London, all protected, wrapped up neatly, then a longer walk down to the docksides, where grey water rippled under greyer skies. He could not bear this emptiness. He could not bear to live this way. And the brace on his leg would be quite heavy, too heavy for Billy to fight against.
But if happened to prove false--if by some unexpected providence it should prove be false, and he’d been gifted, suddenly, with a luck that up until this point in his life had been altogether foreign…
Well, then, for the first time in seven years, Billy would truly begin to breathe again, and the heart would beat once more, warmly, in his chest, and all the varied colours would wash back into his world.
Not knowing for certain which it would be, Billy could scarcely catch his breath.
The sunlight, such as it was, had more of silver in it than of gold, so much so that, were it not for the level of brightness in the room, Billy might have taken it instead for moonlight. The singing man stood by the window with not a stitch to cover him, despite the chill, and the watery brightness drew pewter lines along the angles and curves of his body. He looked as if he’d fallen from heaven, as if he ought to fill the corners of the bedroom with vast dark wings that smelt, faintly, both of brimstone and rich, undiscovered spices.
Head bowed, he gazed at something on the ground below, his one hand raised in the air, fingers spread and haloed in the same dull silver that limned the rest of his form.
The muscles shifted beneath his skin as Billy watched, as the young man (who’d no wings after all, though it seemed terribly wrong that he should not have them) stretched, raising his arms toward the low ceiling, the silver shifting madly over his smooth, pale skin. Only it wasn’t arms, it wasn’t, it was one arm, only one long, slender arm, layered with gentle curves of muscle, whilst where the other ought to have been were only dark red scars and a pitifully truncated end, no more than a few inches from his shoulder.
Somehow, the sight of that mutilation dragged Billy from the realm of vision and into reality.
“Dom?” he murmured.
At the sound of Billy’s voice, Dom turned, smiling brightly. “What is it, Bills? Think I was a dream? Or is that a nightmare?”
“I did,” Billy whispered, devastated suddenly by the thought that all this might be true, that the sweet night passed with Dom in his arms was real, it had happened. “I thought I’d dreamt you again. I’ve dreamt you so very many times, you see, and in the morning…” He couldn’t go on to finish the thought, except that Dom, ever perceptive, finished it for him.
“There’s nothing. You’ve gone, and I’m left so bloody lonely.” Dom turned round altogether, his motions smooth and feline, absolutely comfortable in his own skin. On the bed, catlike, he rubbed his face against Billy’s shoulder, up beneath Billy’s chin, Dom’s morning stubble tickling him.
“I want to look at you in daylight,” Dom said. “Make sure you’re real, Bills, not some figment of my imagination.” He shifted, sitting sideways on the bed with one foot tucked beneath him, his hip against Billy’s hip, though they were separated still by the layers of covers.
Dom’s hand moved to pull coverlet and sheet away, but Billy only clutched them closer. “I can’t…” he muttered into the edge of the blanket. “That is, I haven’t…”
“Billy, my Billy.” Dom shook his head, speaking in a tone of loving exasperation. “Do you think I show my arm to just anyone? Don’t think even wee Elijah’s seen it, as it is.” His hand delved down beneath the sheet. “You and me, though, Bills—we have no secrets. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember,” Billy answered, but he still couldn’t look at him, not even when Dom’s hand found his hip, then traced down over his thigh, fingers finding the scars as if by instinct, following their harsh lines. “Only, you see…”
“I do see, Billy,” Dom answered, the velvet in his voice thicker than ever—and then he was pulling back the covers, exposing Billy’s skin to the frigid air, so that the soft fuzz of hair on Billy’s legs and chest stood all on end.
Dom leaned into him and kissed him, his body pressing warmly against Billy’s, rubbing lightly against that hair until Billy shivered, though not with the cold. He lay back on the mattress, shifting to his side, lips running over the scars, trailing warmth with them, his tongue flickering out, now and then, as if each ridge or mark had a flavour all its own, and Dom was intent on tasting each of them, until Billy's shivers took on an increasing violence.
Dom glanced up, his bright eyes meeting Billy’s eyes, his expression playful, almost elfin—Dom has two faces, Billy thought, Where most people only have one. He didn’t mean it in any way that marked Dom as deceptive, it was merely that, in repose, the first face appeared somber, intent, handsome, brushed (beneath those lines) with a distant pain. The one gazing up at him now, however, was Dom's second face: cheeky, rosy, filled with a nearly childish glee.
In an instant, though, that look had gone, replaced by one that smouldered as if it might burn him. Dom’s head bent, and he kissed the widest of the scars, the most knotted, sucking on it gently, his tongue sliding over the hard, slick skin.
Billy raised his hand, meaning to push—however gently (though he wasn’t certain, with this, he could be gentle)—Dom’s face away from him, to stop this action.
Instead, to his wonder, Billy found his fingers curved round the back of Dom’s neck, holding his head down, letting Dom’s mouth and tongue continue to explore him, because the sensation was dreadful and painful and lovely all in the same moment.
Billy had always been ashamed of the scars. Always. Since the doctors and the nurses at Craiglockhart, with their eternally cold hands and prodding fingers, no one had seen them, not even Andy. Billy himself refused to look if he could possibly help it—and yet here he was, with Dom’s head in his lap, his body trembling under Dom’s caresses, and not, either, because he was afraid, or disgusted.
Billy’s hand slipped down between his legs, cupping his own hardness, but then--suddenly--Dom lay between his thighs, parting them gently. “Didn’t hurt you, did I, Bill?” he asked softly, and Billy shook his head no.
“Your pants.” Dom breath swirled hotly against him. “Undo the string. You’ll have to be my hands on this one, Billy.”
Breathless himself, Billy complied, untying the knot, parting the fabric, and then Dom’s mouth was there, blowing gently upon his bare skin. He’d never been like this, not even as a young lad--so hard it hurt him, so filled with need he found his fingers clawing into the mattress, gathering bunches of sheet up in his fists because of his need to hold on to something.
Dom balanced on his one elbow, shoulders hunched. That arm must be very strong, Billy thought, because Dom could hold himself absolutely steady, without the slightest sign of trembling. Dom’s lips traveled lightly over the length of him, from the base all the way out to the head, Dom’s tongue slipping under Billy’s foreskin so that his spine arched away from the mattress. It was too sudden a move, in the wrong direction, and it hurt him—Billy felt the pain of it twist his face suddenly, and read on Dom’s own face his comprehension.
“Didn’t mean to hurt you, Billy,” he murmured. “Never mean to hurt you.” His eyes met Billy’s for a long moment, one of those moments in which it seemed all clocks, everywhere, must surely be frozen. Dom’s eyes went silvery then, the pupils contracting to pinpoints, and Billy could make out his own startled face, reflected in the irises.
It was one of the odder things Billy had ever seen, that sudden change--undeniably eerie. In the next moment, though, Dom smiled at him.
“That’s all right, then,” he said, in the same soft voice. “It’s all right, Billy. I see.” He slipped his shoulder beneath Billy’s bad leg, bearing the weight of it across his shoulders, Billy’s heel resting in the hollow over Dom’s backbone. “Better?” he asked.
Billy expected the position to pain him—it ought to have been awkward, and it wasn't one he had ever found himself in. Billy felt quite uncomfortable with it, up until that moment he realized it was actually comfortable, and in that moment Dom’s lips, and his tongue, returned to him, taking Billy inside the wet warmth of his mouth, that tongue stroking him, pulling on him, Dom’s teeth rubbing gently against him, in a way that combined pain and pleasure.
The sensation was unlike anything Billy had experienced, or ever thought he would experience. He wasn’t certain he could bear it, precisely: it was almost too much, too intimate, except that this was Dom holding him, Dom stroking him, taking Billy so far back into himself it seemed impossible--yet, at the same time, perfect--to be held there in that tight warmth, with the muscles of Dom’s throat working against him, and the feel of Dom’s back beneath his own half-dead leg,
The tremors rippled across Billy’s stomach, chasing one another up and down his legs until Billy arched again. In that moment Dom held both of them, suspended a little above the bed, floating, floating and exploding all in the same moment, like some brilliant firework, a starburst, or a brilliant dragon, because that’s what Billy felt rushing out of him--fire, pure fire, flame that didn’t burn.
And then Dom swallowed, taking in everything Billy gave, still holding him as Billy twisted against the sheets, and exploded again, and then, finally, lay still, panting, the fireworks still bright behind his eyes.
Dom slid up Billy’s body, shrugging out from under Billy’s leg and lowering it gently to the mattress. For a moment all Dom’s weight lay against Billy’s chest, as he shifted his arm to a new position, and then Dom was light again, rising above him, even as he bent down to find Billy’s mouth, to kiss him, the taste of Billy’s own self, on Dom’s tongue, soft and musky, in no way unpleasant.
Billy’s fingers twined in Dom’s hair, then untwined again. His left hand whispered along the length of Dom’s backbone, whilst the right slipped in between them, knuckles brushing his own self, soft now, but still so sensitized small ripples of pleasure continued to thrum through him. He stroked Dom’s hardness, feeling the shape and the weight of him, the burning heat against his hand, the pulse of blood in Dom’s veins.
Dom sighed, and lay against Billy chest again. Only then did Billy realize Dom’s right arm was shaking. Billy’s own hands, though small, were strong from his work, and his fingers kneaded into the tired muscles, soothing them, until Dom sighed with contentment.
“Wish I could touch you with two hands, Bills,” he said softly, voice poignant with regret.
Billy wanted to say it didn’t matter, but of course it did. How could it not, to lose a limb, to lose whatever else it was they’d lost, that kept them from being whole men? Losses their special, painful gifts never could replace.
Perhaps, together, he thought, they might find some sense of completion.
For now, it was good to feel Dom’s breath across his chest, and to breathe in, himself, the scent of Dom’s clean, bright hair. It was good to wake from his dreams to find he’d been granted his wishes, and that here, in the morning light, the world lay still and calm and peaceful around him.
“I’m home now,” Dom said softly, his voice humming against Billy’s skin.
“Yes, you’re home,” Billy agreed. “You’re home at last, my Dommie.”
A silence fell between them that felt in no way awkward, only contented. Billy shut his eyes, drifting contentedly, until Andy’s noisy, distinctive knock upon his door interrupted the blessed silence.
“Go away,” Billy murmured, in too soft a voice, he devoutly hoped, for Andy to hear him.
“Oi! Sweet William!” Andy called, sounding unusually perturbed. “That bloke’s here. Y’know, the old party with the posh voice. What do you want I should do with him?”
Dom laughed again against Billy’s chest. “Probably wants to fetch us tea, and make up the fire, Bills.”
Billy scrambled off the bed, nearly dumping himself onto the floor in the process, having to balance on his good leg because his brace, of course, was off for the night, the crutch he used between-times nowhere to be seen. He steadied himself on the edge of the mattress, wondering where it was he might have left it, uncomfortable, suddenly, that Dom should see him this way, so helpless.
Only Dom had slid off the opposite side and gone fishing under the bed, straightening at last with the crutch in his hand. “You looking for this, Bills?” He grinned.
Billy nodded curtly, still embarrassed. Please understand.” He glanced away, softening his voice. “I only want to be strong for you, Dommie.
But Dom’s stormcloud eyes filled with sympathy. “Bill,” he said, his low tone matching Billy’s. “I can’t do up my own collarstud, or knot a tie for myself. Takes me half an hour sometimes, when my fingers are clumsy, to do up my own flies. Whyever would you think I’d judge you?”
“It’s not that,” Billy answered, but of course it was, and Dom knew it.
“Don’t ever hide yourself from me, Bills,” he said. “Don’t ever. If all the world turned away, still I would never judge you, or think less of you.” He crossed the mattress, quickly, easily, with that grace Billy envied, all the more so because it had been his once, also. Tenderly, with a smile, he slipped the crutch beneath Billy’s shoulder.
“Andrew, is it?” Dom said. “Would you kindly ask Hill to wait for me? Tell him I’ll be with him in a moment, but just now I’m otherwise occupied. Thank him, will you, for his patience?”
“Got it, gov,” Andy answered, with a certain perplexity. “I say, Bill…”
“In a moment, Andrew,” Billy called back, fighting a sudden urge to laugh as Dom’s soft fingers stroked down his belly, as Dom’s thigh slipped between his, making Billy shiver again. “Only give us a bit to let us get ourselves sorted. It’s been a long night.”
“Has it?” Andy asked, dryly. Dom’s eyes sparkled, and he dipped his head to laugh against Billy’s shoulder.
“Aye,” Billy answered, before Dom kissed him yet again, holding onto Billy’s upper lip a moment with his mouth, sucking it gently before releasing him.
Billy touched it after, feeling the lingering heat.
“You will come away with me, then, won’t you, Billy?” Dom asked, the laughter still in his voice. “To Elijah’s hellish estate? It’s not exactly the Lake Isle at Innisfree, I’m certain, but I’ve promised I would, and I can’t bear to be parted from you, Billy. I don’t think I could bear it even for an instant.”
Billy balked a little over saying the words, but his feelings were much the same—having found Dom after so long, the loss of him would be intolerable. Even to let Dom out of his sight seemed unthinkable.
“I will come away,” Billy answered, “wherever you lead me.”
End, Part One
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From: (Anonymous)
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You're also a genius of epic proportions