eff_reality: (billeh con cafe)
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Octaves
Dom/Billy, backstage at a Beecake concert.
*Really not sure where this came from or how I feel about it.




Octaves

There is nothing but room tone when Billy closes the door behind them, and it's jarring for Dominic after having had Billy's voice pierce him from the inside out for the past hour or so.

He makes a beeline for the makeshift bar backstage, playing it cool, though the truth is he can't get under Billy's hands fast enough. His hands shake with effort as he pours them both a scotch, speaking words of praise that have never mattered half as much as what's about to happen, what he can't wait to happen. He can feel his body wiry, taut, and twisted at the ends with waiting, just poised for that first touch all night, he's been.

And then it comes, before Billy can even respond to whatever's come out of his mouth. Dominic has to stop himself from pitching forward, over the counter and toward the mirror, it's so unexpected and still so good, those familiar, masterful hands still a bit overheated where they plucked at guitar strings and cradled the neck of a mic stand. The moment they settle themselves under the waistband of his denims, pads of fingers hugging his hipbones and thumbs on standby around his back, Dominic spins, takes Billy by the tie, and kisses him. Billy releases a startled moan into his mouth that turns into a laugh, a surprised Wait wait wait kind of thing that doesn't slow Dominic down in the slightest.

His shoes make ridiculous scuffling sounds on the linoleum floor as he backs Billy up against the nearest surface—the back of a worn, over-loved couch—and pins him to it. It's not a kiss so much as Dominic chasing after Billy's flavor, or maybe an attempt to crawl past his soft palate. Dominic's own mouth isn't rough or impatient, though; it still manages to maintain a reverence that surprises even Dominic, teeth more playful than vicious as they scrape over Billy's sensual lower lip. But it's the rest of Dominic that has Billy practically bent over backwards, hard hips and thighs keeping his lower half locked while big square palms rush over his chest, shoulders, biceps, and forearms. He can't decide where to start: there's the skinny black necktie and little white buttons and—God—that thick emblem of a belt to relish working through. Dominic's eyes played ping-pong between the three of them for the better part of the set. Between his teeth, his tongue, and his fingers, can he work all three at the same time? He wonders. He'll have to try.

As he makes messy work of the tie, shimmying it from side to side so he can pull Billy's first three buttons free, he works a steady bruising suction along the white tendon of Billy's neck, causing the most gorgeously filthy of laughs to get caught in the back of Billy's throat and lose itself in a heavy exhale. Billy's voice is versatile; it can wail and charge and ooze and growl and vibrate out into the air in pixellated molecules that Dominic tries to catch on his tongue like snowflakes. It rumbles in waiting beneath Billy's skin as Dominic works his mouth over it, so he has to tamp down the urge to sink his teeth in and draw it out.

There is nothing—no one—in his life that feels like this. There never was before Billy, and there never will be, from his sharp slope of a nose nestled in the crook of Dominic's neck to his fucking maddening rosebud mouth to that extra bit of meat at his sides that Dominic loves to feel under his hands, without which they always seem empty.

Dominic drops to his knees in gratitude, letting the denim of Billy's jeans fill in his fingerprints and watching with fascination as his own breath leaves clouds of exhalation on the metal of Billy's belt buckle. His teeth fasten onto the seam covering Billy's fly and pull, and Billy's deft little fingers tug on the hair at the crown of his head in counter-rhythm.

"Love this," he hears Billy send in prayer up to the ceiling. "Missed it."

Oh, you've no idea, he silently replies.

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