[lotrips] the good chair


There's a note.

Dom,
Out back, you sulky fuck.
B.

Dom crumples up the note, opens the door and lobs the
ball down the dark hallway. At the end, there's a
faint glow from the living room - out back, Billy
calls it, says he's still unsure if he's going to keep
renting this place. Dom likes it, hopes Billy will
keep it. He shucks off his shoes - hot feet, standing
all night - and pads to the living room, where the
door is open.

Am not sulking, Dom opens his mouth to say, but
his jaw stops halfway, and he just wants to *look*,
has to fucking *stare* at Billy, Billy who is
perfectly, casually, lord-of-the-frickin'-manor draped
across the chair. Perfectly casual but with his eyes
closed and his head back and his mouth open and oh
christ he can see Billy's tongue flickering behind
his top teeth. Like he's thinking something filthy.
Dom's gaze darts in a panic; there's so much to see,
Billy's dress shirt from this evening mostly open and
his chest. His fingers gripped around a glass
of something. Dom tenses, wants to burn this image on
his brain because there's one bare Billy foot swinging
off the chair, the other digging into the leather
armrest and oh fuck it's that chair.

That chair. Where Dom had looked down -

- and saw his fingers digging so hard into the
armrests that he'd scratched the leather. Where the
sun streaming in through the windows had prickled on
his scalp, brightness whiting out his vision when he
looked directly ahead through the glass. Where the
remnants of the truly fucking excellent ecstacy he'd
coaxed Billy into taking with him the night before had
buzzed all over his skin and made him stretch and
shine with liquid warmth, warmth which made him gasp
and shake when Billy took him in his mouth. That chair
where Billy had been on his knees. Fuck yes, on his
knees, in front of him, surrounded by the morning
sun with his head bowed over Dom's cock and his palms
pressing and lifting and -

Billy is looking at him, eyes clearly amused, little
measured smile in place. He shakes his glass and it
makes the lush sound of ice and glass and liquid
colliding. Dom jolts at the thrill, thinks Jesus
how does he do it, his Billy, how does he turn small
gestures into assault with a sexy weapon and he
feels the blood rise to the top layer of his skin, hot
and confusing and oh fuck it's that chair.

"Is that," Dom croaks, he has to know, "that chair?"

Billy just nods, and the nodding flashes Dom back to
the sunshine -

- and Billy kneeling, his mouth hot and his tongue
rasping and the humming murmurs in his throat that
made Dom push his hips helplessly *up* from the chair
and forwards, Billy, please, let me, and even *then*,
even when he was mindlessly pleading, Billy held his
thighs apart and forced them back down with strong
fingers, skin sweat-slick against the leather -

Dom doesn't even realise that he's stripped, doesn't
recall how he got naked, just kicks the new black suit
into the corner and all the time Billy has done
nothing except place his glass on the floor and
stroked his thumb along the top of the chair where his
fingers are flickering and *looked* at Dom. Billy
observes, direct and predatory. Dom feels like he's
already been *had*, been tasted and plundered just by
that gaze, and the sharp adrenalin bites all over his
skin and makes his muscles twitch.

And then Billy points at the floor, at his feet, and
Dom flushes and blanches and wants to say something
funny, or matey, something to get his head back around
to buddyfuck, but he's just fixated by playboy Billy
and his calm smile. Billy who has just watched him
sink to his knees. Billy who is shifting in front of
him, sliding his belt from trouser loops and oh my
fucking god winding it around Dom's neck to tilt
his head up.

Dom feels his eyes go wide and there's a shocky rasp
from the leather that goes straight to his groin and
he bites down hard on his lip to try and contain
everything. Dom clutches at the air when Billy leans
forward and whispers, "You and I. Are going christen
this chair. Properly."

Then it's okay because Billy slides the belt away and
Dom doesn't know what to think about *that*, but he
can't think about it now, because Billy has grappled
him up into the armchair and that's enough, really,
because it's about time there was some *contact* here,
and he hooks his knees over to straddle Billy's lap
and more importantly *push*. Dom hisses and his hips
seek friction, hard friction and he finds it, closes
his eyes and grips Billy's shoulders and shudders,
digs his fingers in and doesn't care if he's hurting
him because he. just. wants. this. now.

"You're so fuckin' impatient," Billy spits out and
wrenches Dom's hands away from where they're pinning
him but Dom just grabs Billy on either side of the
head and it's hotwetsloppy kissing time, Dom thinks,
jolting at Billy's teeth on his tongue, sliding his
hands delightedly through Billy's hair and tugging
hard like they *both* like.

Billy pulls away and around and down and sucks a rough
scraping trail down Dom's throat that makes Dom - it
can't be helped - whimper and arch up and hiss but
fuck, enough, please, just fuck me already! Dom
thinks or he says, he doesn't know, but Billy seems to
have got the message enough to have wrangled his own
trousers off. Dom grasps for him, just as hard as he
is and really, Billy is just as needy even though he
tries to hide it, making those noises in the back of
his throat that make Dom want to dig his fingers under
Billy's skin until he yowls and crumbles.

Dom kneels up and grasps the back of the chair and
Billy is magic, fucking superbly brilliantly organised
with the essentials and Dom is thankful, eternally
grateful for the slide of Billy's one-two-uh-three
yessssss fingers inside him that make him want to
throw everything open, legs, arms, mouth, and stretch
and contract and *clench*. And then that hot pressure
that turns into raw aching want is there, and Dom is
taking faltering breaths already so he gasps out a now
and a please and a whimper and then the please is
almost a sob because yes. Billy is there, his hands
rough on Dom's hips and pulling.

There isn't a wait-oh-yes-okay pause because Dom is
too far gone for that and so he rocks forward, muscles
tense and tight and straining underneath Billy's
insistent grasp, insisting yes, Dom, yes like
that, insisting down *hard* and up *slow*. Billy
reaches up to circle Dom's wrists above their heads,
crushed into the back of the chair, Dom's panicky
sighs out of time with thrusts until now when there
isn't a rhythm anymore, just possession and frantic,
glorious friction. Dom loses his hold for a second and
feels the crazy sensation of sunshine in the middle of
the night and looks down at Billy, his eyes wide, wide
open and green and beautiful when he comes. Then it's
all hurried and frenzied and spiked and splintering
and Dom doesn't cry out or groan but he slurs
something fond and filthy in Billy's ear.

"Chair. good." Dom says.