(no subject)
Title: How to say Yes in German.
Author: Razzle
Pairing: Bill/Tom
Summary: A means to an end. A smutty end.
Rating: NC17
A/N: Das ist fur cynical_terror, die beta!
they're probably not doing it. Probably. Also, TWINCEST.
It was just a means to an end. Just a way around the obvious.
It was Tom’s idea, really, and they both knew it. But they had wordlessly and mutually let Bill accept the credit. Or, rather, the responsibility.
Tom had let his bandanna slip down around his eyes, pretending to sleep beneath it. Once he looped one around his wrist, pulling it around and around his fingers like a restraint. He waited for Bill to ask, as Bill always did, how he looked and pulled it down across his eyes.
“I can't see you. I don't want to see you.”
All convincingly innocent. Just gentle, pleasant laughter. Just play.
But it was a joke with a hole in it. Some gaping, wide disease of inevitability. And only a little stoned, only a little drunk, Bill finds the courage to take the idea that was clearly Tom’s and claim it as his own.
The giggling duet have destroyed a hotel room, leaving it enough of a mess to be ‘rock and roll’. But the damage is only cosmetic, because they’ve been brought up right.
Sniggering, they have collapsed on a hotel bed, surveying the fallout of their naughty little fiesta. Bill approaches his brother, unwinding a long piece of fabric from around his wrist.
“So,” he says, leaning over his laughing twin and wrapping the black scarf around his eyes. Twice “You can't see me.”
“Yeah,” Tom agrees. “And… So?” And that’s little more than a whisper.
“So.”
Bill crawls down Tom’s body. And no, Tom can’t see him. But Bill smiles anyway, his naughty smile, the cheeky one that makes the girls think they’re on for something. The one that lets the boys know they’re on for something. It’s not an act; it’s just a smile.
It’s a prelude to…something. It’s a prelude to the click-click of a belt buckle undoing.
Tom lets out the shakiest sigh, catching himself and trying to pretend to clear his throat. But Bill is digging away under Tom’s zip and his old, scratty, lucky boxer shorts. Bill’s second day manicured, double-coated black fingernails are carefully, tentatively skirting the curve of Tom’s growing cock.
Bill leans down, fascinated, ignoring the twist in Tom’s spine as he pulls the scarf tighter over his eyes. Bill blows, ever so gently, over the warm, thick flesh.
Tom lifts his hips and the head of his cock bumps against Bill’s chin. Bill giggles. Tom grits his teeth.
Bill considers Tom’s cock. He’s seen a few in his young life, but this one is remarkably familiar. Tom’s cock looks rather like his own. It’s not identical, thank goodness, but the size, the shape, it’s close enough. Bill runs a finger slowly along its length, from the swollen head to the purple-red balls at its base.
Bill has a scar there, a centimetre or two from the base of his own cock, where he first tried to shave his crotch with his mother’s electric shaver. He’d caught his skin in the dull blades and it had bled like a bastard.
From then on, he had someone do it for him. The same way he could get someone else to wank for him, if he chose.
But this, reversing the path his finger had taken with his tongue, is a bit like licking his own cock. It’s a bit like he’s closing his lips around his own head, sucking gently, pressing his tongue into the slit of his own cock.
But Tom makes different noises, or at least he does when he’s trying not to sound like he’s completely consumed by the ecstasy of being blown by his own brother.
Tom’s all half-gasps and hisses. Bill, being one to command as much attention as he can, tends toward squeals, swearing and whatever else comes to his lips.
Tom’s got good hands, a little stronger than Bill’s, but Bill has the kind of hair Tom can grab hold of, twist his fingers around, pushing Bill’s head down so his mouth moves lower. Bill chose this day for a little lipstick the colour of blood, so it’s blood-colour that’s pulled off on the creases of Tom’s cock.
Tom throws his head back into the pillows. It’s not like he can see anyway. It makes it okay, makes it acceptable, but he can’t see the streaks he leaves when he wipes the sweat through Bill’s mascara. He can’t see Bill struggling to smile around his welcome mouthful.
He can hear, though. He can hear the frankly sinful sound of Bill’s lips releasing him, sucking him back in. He can hear the terrifyingly visceral click of Bill’s throat being ever-so-slightly penetrated. He can hear the sound of a second zip, and the slick slapping sound of Bill dragging his palm across his own cock. He can hear that Bill’s jerking himself off slowly, and he feels the warm gusts of air from Bill’s nose, each breath in time with one of his strokes.
But he can’t see. And that makes it okay, that makes it acceptable to jerk and buck and come in his brother’s mouth. He hears Bill grunt with a little surprise, and the proud, contented hum that follows.
He can’t see the thick drop of come that slides down Bill’s cheek, pulling broken lipstick with it.
But he feels Bill’s breath still hot against his cock, hears Bill as he jerks in climax, and recognises the wetness on his naked thigh as Bill’s come.
And if he doesn’t take the scarf off yet, it’s acceptable to let Bill crawl up and kiss him, to taste himself on the unseen man’s lips.
And if Bill turns the lights off, if Tom makes sure he’s close to being asleep, won’t have to open his eyes too much before he passes out, if the door’s securely locked, maybe it’s okay to let Bill stay the night.
The End.
Author: Razzle
Pairing: Bill/Tom
Summary: A means to an end. A smutty end.
Rating: NC17
A/N: Das ist fur cynical_terror, die beta!
they're probably not doing it. Probably. Also, TWINCEST.
It was just a means to an end. Just a way around the obvious.
It was Tom’s idea, really, and they both knew it. But they had wordlessly and mutually let Bill accept the credit. Or, rather, the responsibility.
Tom had let his bandanna slip down around his eyes, pretending to sleep beneath it. Once he looped one around his wrist, pulling it around and around his fingers like a restraint. He waited for Bill to ask, as Bill always did, how he looked and pulled it down across his eyes.
“I can't see you. I don't want to see you.”
All convincingly innocent. Just gentle, pleasant laughter. Just play.
But it was a joke with a hole in it. Some gaping, wide disease of inevitability. And only a little stoned, only a little drunk, Bill finds the courage to take the idea that was clearly Tom’s and claim it as his own.
The giggling duet have destroyed a hotel room, leaving it enough of a mess to be ‘rock and roll’. But the damage is only cosmetic, because they’ve been brought up right.
Sniggering, they have collapsed on a hotel bed, surveying the fallout of their naughty little fiesta. Bill approaches his brother, unwinding a long piece of fabric from around his wrist.
“So,” he says, leaning over his laughing twin and wrapping the black scarf around his eyes. Twice “You can't see me.”
“Yeah,” Tom agrees. “And… So?” And that’s little more than a whisper.
“So.”
Bill crawls down Tom’s body. And no, Tom can’t see him. But Bill smiles anyway, his naughty smile, the cheeky one that makes the girls think they’re on for something. The one that lets the boys know they’re on for something. It’s not an act; it’s just a smile.
It’s a prelude to…something. It’s a prelude to the click-click of a belt buckle undoing.
Tom lets out the shakiest sigh, catching himself and trying to pretend to clear his throat. But Bill is digging away under Tom’s zip and his old, scratty, lucky boxer shorts. Bill’s second day manicured, double-coated black fingernails are carefully, tentatively skirting the curve of Tom’s growing cock.
Bill leans down, fascinated, ignoring the twist in Tom’s spine as he pulls the scarf tighter over his eyes. Bill blows, ever so gently, over the warm, thick flesh.
Tom lifts his hips and the head of his cock bumps against Bill’s chin. Bill giggles. Tom grits his teeth.
Bill considers Tom’s cock. He’s seen a few in his young life, but this one is remarkably familiar. Tom’s cock looks rather like his own. It’s not identical, thank goodness, but the size, the shape, it’s close enough. Bill runs a finger slowly along its length, from the swollen head to the purple-red balls at its base.
Bill has a scar there, a centimetre or two from the base of his own cock, where he first tried to shave his crotch with his mother’s electric shaver. He’d caught his skin in the dull blades and it had bled like a bastard.
From then on, he had someone do it for him. The same way he could get someone else to wank for him, if he chose.
But this, reversing the path his finger had taken with his tongue, is a bit like licking his own cock. It’s a bit like he’s closing his lips around his own head, sucking gently, pressing his tongue into the slit of his own cock.
But Tom makes different noises, or at least he does when he’s trying not to sound like he’s completely consumed by the ecstasy of being blown by his own brother.
Tom’s all half-gasps and hisses. Bill, being one to command as much attention as he can, tends toward squeals, swearing and whatever else comes to his lips.
Tom’s got good hands, a little stronger than Bill’s, but Bill has the kind of hair Tom can grab hold of, twist his fingers around, pushing Bill’s head down so his mouth moves lower. Bill chose this day for a little lipstick the colour of blood, so it’s blood-colour that’s pulled off on the creases of Tom’s cock.
Tom throws his head back into the pillows. It’s not like he can see anyway. It makes it okay, makes it acceptable, but he can’t see the streaks he leaves when he wipes the sweat through Bill’s mascara. He can’t see Bill struggling to smile around his welcome mouthful.
He can hear, though. He can hear the frankly sinful sound of Bill’s lips releasing him, sucking him back in. He can hear the terrifyingly visceral click of Bill’s throat being ever-so-slightly penetrated. He can hear the sound of a second zip, and the slick slapping sound of Bill dragging his palm across his own cock. He can hear that Bill’s jerking himself off slowly, and he feels the warm gusts of air from Bill’s nose, each breath in time with one of his strokes.
But he can’t see. And that makes it okay, that makes it acceptable to jerk and buck and come in his brother’s mouth. He hears Bill grunt with a little surprise, and the proud, contented hum that follows.
He can’t see the thick drop of come that slides down Bill’s cheek, pulling broken lipstick with it.
But he feels Bill’s breath still hot against his cock, hears Bill as he jerks in climax, and recognises the wetness on his naked thigh as Bill’s come.
And if he doesn’t take the scarf off yet, it’s acceptable to let Bill crawl up and kiss him, to taste himself on the unseen man’s lips.
And if Bill turns the lights off, if Tom makes sure he’s close to being asleep, won’t have to open his eyes too much before he passes out, if the door’s securely locked, maybe it’s okay to let Bill stay the night.
The End.