November 6th, 2005
|apple_pi||04:06 pm - Texas Two-step, Chapter 2|
Authors: A Texan and a Welsh girl, aka apple_pi and lord_alexander, aka Pi and Sal, aka make-believe Billy and Dom.
Rating: Let's just be honest and say NC-17, shall we? We'll get there soonish, I promise.
Pairing: A dash of Mona, a pinch of Boyd. (I'll have one of those, ta.)
Warnings: We are mad. In the Britishish sense of the word. Also: Pi has been to the area where this is set, but it's been a few (ten or so) years, so any geographical mistakes are hers and hers alone and frankly she is uninterested in hearing about them.
Contains: AU Billy and AU Dom, along with other assorted AU characters. Horses, some of which fart. Cacti. Whisky and guitars and other fun things. Muscle cramps and oblivious gay men and not-so-oblivious gay men and expensive sunglasses. Leather. Oh yes we did.
This chapter contains: The squeakiest bed in history and arctic-style air conditioning.
One bed. One sodding bed. It looked a perfectly reasonable, comfortable bed, but that still left the unassailable fact that there Could Be Only One. Bed, that was, not Chosen One, though sometimes Dom wondered if he was the One, and he'd contemplated hacking the heads off other potential Chosen Ones with various kitchen implements and pieces of cutlery. The bed, yeah. It was one of those high, old fashioned beds that would look at home in Little House on the Prairie, possibly with some swollen tart birthing another brat on it. Presumably after that she'd get up and go and make an apple pie. Useful brass rails on that bed though. Mmm. Handcuffs. If only Dom had handcuffs, but they'd been taken away by customs with much upset and kerfuffle; Dom had pointed out to the brutish (tall, muscled, sexy, uniformed to high heaven) security guard that cuffs with neon pink fake fur weren't cool enough to be used in hijack situations, but the man hadn't seemed interested. Not that Dom used them, no, not like Billy would put out or anything after all, but then it was useful having them around. Dom had planned to cuff himself to George W. Bush and proclaim a gay USA with free love and hot Scottish accents as the voice-overs on TV.
The Mexican had brought in their stuff, and Dom wondered for the seventeenth time why Billy had insisted on bringing a suitcase. It didn't really read Rugged Man of Adventure; more like Yuppie Does Dallas. Dom had chosen his knackered old rucksack that looked so studentish he'd wondered if anyone would try to shove hard drugs into it to use him as a pack mule, but as hard as Dom searched and prayed, no one attempted to seduce him with sex and cash, and there never were any little bags of Columbian marching powder to be found. Once he'd thought he hit paydirt, but oral investigation revealed he was trying to get high on talcum powder.
Viggo (what the fuck? Weird Americans, he had to be American, it wasn't as if he was normal now, was it) of the fair amount of hotness smirked at Dom's protestations. Smirked in a smirkily smirkish way that read You're in the last outpost of civilisation. You've been screwed. Sucks to be you, you Limey tosser, you've got to sleep with that hot Scottish piece of arse.
"Sorry about that. This is all I have for a few days, until some other guests leave," he said, smirking. In reflection, when Dom thought about it, he'd have been smirking if that sexy Mexican packing that monster taco in his Levis had pinched his arse too. Prime Mexican beef, in shrink wrap. Oh yes. But then, Viggo himself was quite pretty in that Texas Ranger way, all decent jawline (which sparked jealous as Dom's was wonky as a Man U supporter after a match where they'd buggered City six-nil and then retired to the pub for seven hours of good, honest drunkenness) and jeans that weren't so much shrink wrapping as an actual sexual display they were so tight, and the sort of face that looked noble while holding a dying foal and being photographed for National Geographic.
He was sickeningly Zen. And smug. Don't ever forget the smug.
"Alright then, mate, just take the charge for two rooms off the card, right?" Dom managed to say. He also managed not to spring an erection right there at the thought of Andy and Viggo screwing each other senseless, all hot and dusty and without taking their clothes off apart from ripping shirts open to molester nipples with their teeth.
So that was sorted, and Billy was cuddling his guitar like Dom wouldn't mind being cuddled, but then that bloody Scot always loved that guitar more than he loved his best friend. Really, if making a(nother) hole in the body of the thing wouldn't have ruined the sound, Billy would have consummated their six-string relationship eons ago. There was still probably a lot of rubbing. Naked rubbing. Slick skin leaving sticky trails of pleasure on polished wood, the musical groaning and fruuuumph of strings melding, Billy smiling over and asking if Dom wanted to help, and...
In those few moments Viggo and the Mexican (sounded like a gay porn film, they had to be shagging, it was practically law now) had fucked off to do manly things like cook beans and rope horses and sodomise each other, and Billy had placed the guitar case in the corner. So gentle. So loving. So frotting that damned thing. But then Billy was good on the guitar, and Dom loved watching his pretty hands ripple along the strings, and had been in love with the tenor for so long… Billy sang love songs, usually, and none of them featured the guitar as Object of Affection, so Dom tried not to be jealous of the guitar. After all, guitars didn't give head, did they? Guitars didn't have sparkling conversation and amusing Mancunian asides. Guitars certainly didn'e steal clothes, though they did probably--like certain stupid sodding people--lay there all quiet and paralysed with horniness and fright when certain drunk Scots climbed very nakedly into the beds of certain drunk Lancastrians, didn't they? Maybe not the horny and paralysed part, though Dom couldn’t be sure.
In the bathroom, where Billy had disappeared, there was a sound like the lower reaches of Niagara Falls.
Unlike his touchy-bladdered best friend, Dom was the human equivalent of a camel. He joked that he never needed to piss, he just naturally evaporated every so often, and therefore any going to bathrooms was just a chance for chatting up and taunting the cottagers. That was Dom's only real similarity to camels--the storage thing, not the chatting up of males. Dom was sure that there had to be something such as a homosexual camel, but then as they didn't have bathrooms, they couldn't really cottage. And since they had no ability to voice their horny lusts, they jumped on and hoped for the best rather than entering delicate negotiations that often included discussion of glory holes.
Anyway. Knackered. Sleep.
Dusty and sweaty from the ridiculous heat of the desert, the particles of dirt had managed to glue themselves to his skin rather than sensibly settling lightly to be brushed away with fingers later on, and Dom really needed a shower. But then Someone had annexed the bathroom in that vaguely Germany-entering-Austria-for-Anschluss-in-1936 way, and therefore Billy and the bathroom had become As One. That meant Dom, a bit of a preener--and not even quietly, he flaunted his need to look damned hot--was relegated to stripping off and wiping himself all over with baby wipes. Billy had stockpiled the lemon ones, and it took exactly thirteen of them to remove the worst of the dust.
Prettily scented around the face and hands, and leaving his clothes in a pile of crumpled expensive fabrics in the middle of the room, Dom climbed onto the bed. Which creaked. It creaked as if it was the sort of bed that was shown in films where young (straight, always straight) couples wanted to shag, but the screaming torment of a bed under pressure, a prudish sort of bed, served as an early warning system for worried parental types. And this bed was the mother of all creakers. One tiny involuntary muscle movement, such as breathing, and it was crying out in surrender.
There was also the air conditioning system.
Now Dom was used to British temperatures: warm summers, mild winters, sensible and stolidly Empire in the damp drabness of all seasons. He wasn't used to one-hundred-degree heat and then walking into a room where the air conditioning was cranked up so high it was freezing the sweat on his arse cheeks. He poked at the cunting thing with absolutely no result, shivering in its icy blast and finally giving up with a roar of irritation.
It was a measure of his frustration that he actually kicked the bloody thing with bare toes; it took around two-point-six-nine seconds for his brain to register, and Billy shot out of the bathroom like a scalded cat to find Dom whimpering pathetically as he hopped around the bedroom.
"Fucking fuck fuck! FUCK! Bastard bollocking FUCKWADS! ARGH!"
And in his hopping, he promptly stumbled over his clothes and ended up staring at the ceiling, spread-eagled.
Billy hove into view like a small pleasure yacht.
"Dom, you're not supposed to kick things, we talked about that with your therapist." Dom had decided he was so achingly cool he needed a pet shrink; said shrink had told him that he should stop obsessing over Billy and fuck him. In those precise words. It wasn't that his best friend had gone to see the psychiatrist with him, though, because otherwise he'd know that Dom wanted some backdoor pleasure; Billy was just babying Dom slightly. He always did it when the Mancunian was riled, possibly because he knew his dulcet tones made Dom even more angrier. It showed.
"Fuck the shrink! Fuck this place! Fuck the air conditioning! Fuck... fuck you!"
Dom ignored him. Again.
"We've come on holiday by mistake," the Mancunian announced in dread tones, staring into rather amused green eyes that were actually, if Dom thought about it, rather drunk around the eyelids. Bastard. Bastard bastard of bastard illegitimate bastardness. Billy was drunk, and he wasn't, and that wasn't fair at all. After all, Dom needed whisky more than that Scottish bugger because he was in pain, generally more depressed, sexier (though he knew that was a complete fabrication) and just needed it more. Because.
Growling like an irate Jack Russell, Dom heaved himself up onto the bed again, making sure Billy got a decent view of his arse.
"Why did you persuade me this was a good idea?"
"You booked it..."
"You're so obsessed with trivialities! Look at what happened in China!"
"Dom," soothed Billy, though the exasperation was showing. "Dom, if you'd tried to reinact the Tiannamen Square massacre with a passing tank and the Chinese flag, you'd have caused an international incident. Like when you managed to have the Russian Mafia try and assassinate you after you tried to pull the Godfather's son, and when you accidentally told an entire tribe of Masai warriors--with spears--that you wanted to overthrow their culture and sell them into slavery."
"That was an accident of translation," Dom asserted, almost nobly. He was one of that particular breed of humans who attracted trouble, usually political and sexual, inevitably on vacation. Part of the reason for coming to America was that if he did cock up again, a well-placed extradition order would see him returned home.
There was a pause of a few heartbeats, and then he gave a slight smile, looking thoughtful. "If you want to pull Johnny Cash, I'll pull the Mexican?"
After all, it wasn't as if he was going to get much arse action with Billy, was it?
"It's cold in here," Billy said, eying Dom's naked lap, which apparently wasn't too terribly affected by the subarctic chill. He ignored Dom's expression of disbelief at his denseness, as well as the "pulling a bloke" comment. The only suitable response he could think of involved tying Dom to the (mmm, brass) bed frame and showing him why he needed to shut the fuck up about pulling anyone except cute Scottish men with heretofore carefully hidden penchants for rope and restraints and being very, very toppy. And also unsuspected leanings toward jealousy, because as far as Billy was concerned Dom wasn't fucking anyone unless it was (a) him, or (b) in front of him, and furthermore, if (b), then (c) Billy would be acting as director, and (b) could only happen after (a) had occurred at least 589 times. And with (c) there might or might not be cameras. Billy liked cameras, liked pictures, but so far the only hard-copy (he giggled to himself) naked pictures of Dom he possessed involved drunken office Christmas parties and the photo copier. On the other hand, he had plenty of mental pictures of Dom buck naked (mmm, Dom. Naked. Bucking.) because the lad had about as much modesty as the average housecat.
Billy crossed to the air conditioner and eyed it warily; it was a monstrous metal thing bolted into the window, blasting meat-locker-appropriate air into the room at about 20 mph with gusts up to 40. He bent over and peered at the controls. "Mebbe if I…" he poked nervously at a button and then leapt back as the machine clanked ominously and began howling out even colder air. At hurricane speed. (Or tornado speed, maybe? This being Texas and all…)
"Fuck!" Dom whined, and Billy shrugged and turned away.
"I'm going to unpack," he said. And did so, watched disbelievingly by Dom, who spent scads of money on clothing and then perversely insisted that it thrived on benign neglect, with the result that his apartment was strewn at all times by £80 silk shirts and £200 leather pants in various states of dirt and distress. Billy stepped over Dom's small pile of clothing in the middle of the floor several times on his trips across the room as he filled the old-fashioned wardrobe.
"Oi, where'm I supposed to put my things?" Dom said, peering out from the fortress of blankets he had built around himself.
Billy picked up his duffle and emptied it onto his head. "Wherever you'd like, mate." He grinned at Dom and then stripped to his boxers, hanging his jeans and shirt neatly over a chairback. "Now shove over, I've got to have a kip before I actually die." He mounded the clothes further onto Dom's side of the bed and curled up under a small corner of unappropriated quilts.
Huh. The cold wasn't much affecting his… ahem… manliness, either. Interesting, that.
Scotch and jetlag killed any further musings on the subject and he was out and snoring about ten seconds later.
"Billy." Something was poking him uncomfortably in the back. "Billy, wake up." Something pointy and hard and uncomfortable, though Billy didn't want to get his hopes up. "Biiiiiiilllllllll," and now his sleep-addled brain processed the voice as belonging to Dom. He could assume, therefore, that the pointy hard thing was also Dom's.
"Mmmph," he replied.
"Billy, wake up." The pointy hard thing slid up his back and curled round his ear, which meant it probably wasn't Dom's dick (unless it was as talented as Dom claimed, which it wasn't, Billy was reasonably sure) which was just a crying fucking shame.
"Gerroff," he slurred. "Sleeping."
"M'hungry, Bills." Dom's finger--for so Billy assumed it to be, since it wasn't wet enough to be his tongue--poked inside his ear; Billy made an irritated face, all scrunched up, and heaved himself over to beat the shit out of Dom with something heavy. His fist would do. Yes.
But as he shifted the bed gave a massive scream of agony and he sat galvanically up, hair on end (to the accompaniment of more screams, groans and squeaks from the Bed of Doom) and eyes as round as marbles. "What the fuck is that?"
Dom was lying on his back with his eyes squeezed shut and face completely red, laughing so hard there was absolutely no sound (though the bed did wheeze along with him every time he took a gulp of air). It was pitch dark outside, but there was enough light for Billy to see him clearly. Moonlight, was it? Amazing.
"Jesus fucking Christ, this bed is--" Billy bounced experimentally, rewarded by a symphony of creaks, shrieks, and moans-- "fucking amazing. It could do a duet with m'guitar. Billy and the Amazing Bed of Doom. We could tour." He seemed faintly enamoured of the bed. Not so enamoured of Dom, who he cuffed. "What time is it, you twat?"
Dom groped on the night table and then threw Billy's watch at him. "You tell me, I can't make it light up."
Billy pressed the little button (one of only two, how incompetent was Dom with time-pieces?) and squinted disbelievingly at the display. "It's four-thirty a.m." He looked at Dom. "You woke me up at four-thirty a.m.?" Murder glinted in his eyes.
"Butit'stenthirtyintheUK!" Dom squeaked. "Andwehaven'teateninhoursandhoursand--" he sat up and crawled over to Billy-- "I'm hungry!" he blinked big blue eyes at Billy and breathed warmly into his face.
Billy stomach gave an audible growl. "Well. Yeah, me too." He scritched his fingers through his hair and yawned. "Probably too early to expect the kitchen is open." He sighed and switched on the (fringy Tiffany-style knock-off) bedside lamp.
Dom bounced off the bed--the bed commented loudly--and stretched. Billy watched appreciatively, green eyes wandering from Dom's arms--muscular, gorgeous, sinewy, high in the air behind his head--down his back--smooth, brown, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips--to his arse--tight and young and it was probably dangerous to his sanity to let his eyes linger there for too long but hell, who could help it--and finally a quick check of Dom's legs--lightly furry, well-built (he bicycled back and forth from work when he couldn’t cadge a ride off Billy) and lanky, before the younger man turned around. Billy averted his gaze quickly. It wouldn't do to be caught staring at Dom's naughty bits.
"It's just a house, Billy. I'm sure no one will mind if we sneak into the kitchen and have a look in the larder." He was pulling up his jeans, and Billy decided it was safe to look again.
"Well." He wasn't so sure, but then his stomach gave another loud complaint, so he shrugged. "Alright then. What's the worst could happen?"
What's the worst could happen?
In a Pi and Sal fic? OMG anything :-) :-) :-)
I once wrote a creaky bed, but it wasn't nearly as good as your creaky bed. Wow I love your writing.
The cold wasn't much affecting his… ahem… manliness, either. Interesting, that.
Very interesting. I wouldn't mind hearing more about Billy's ... ahem ... manliness. Or Dom's manliness. Or anything at all about the adventures of said aforementioned manlinesses.
Do you think there might be a possibility of this sort of thing in forthcoming chapters?
"We've come on holiday by mistake,"
Withnail and Bill!
I was thinking exactly the same thing as juniper200
That being said, I LOVE the way you two write. The way the guys both want the same thing (such as shagging each other senseless) but can't see past their own noses for it is hysterically rendered. So few writers can combine humor and smut well and virtually no one does it as well as you two. Quoting my favorite lines would be senseless since I'd juct end up reposting everything. I can't wait for the next part.
|Date:||November 8th, 2005 12:34 am (UTC)|| |
:o) I really like this so far. Your writing blends well together and also is written in such a way that it creates a picture in the readers' minds... which I think is a great accomplishment for any writer - let alone two. So, rock on with your bad selves! Am looking forward to the following chapters. (No pressure to rush, though)
|Date:||November 9th, 2005 07:31 pm (UTC)|| |
I think I may have peed myself a little imagining the look on Billy's face with the squeeky bed.
Poor Dom, in competition with that six-string tart.
Jeez, I can't believe I didn't comment on this yet. *headdesk* erm...I love it. And I want more. There will be more soon, right? *bounces up and down on squeeaky bed*
More please! *loves you both*
This is awesome so far - what happened to the rest of it, though? It's been a week. *makes pleading puppy-ish noises and is generally adorable*
|Date:||November 14th, 2005 09:54 am (UTC)|| |
Shall post more this afternoon. :-)