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Title: Sundown (You'd Better Take Care)
Author: kiltsandlollies
Pairing: BB/DM, of course.
Rating: NC–17
Disclaimer: Didn't happen. La.
Summary: Billy's not too much a fan of American summer heat.
Author's Note: Complete and utter PWP. Written on the fly, and likely full of mistakes. Oopsie.


I.
It’s not as if Billy’s never experienced heat before. He filmed in Mexico, for the love of all things sticky and searing, and he’s spent weeks, months in absurdly warm weather all over the world now. He’s even had the dubious pleasure of spending an entire summer in the United States, ostensibly on holiday but in truth wearing himself down to a hard nub waiting for the call from the drama school—the call that would decide whether or not it was the best idea chucking that job at the bindery.

But this particular brand of American heat is something altogether extraordinary. Something otherwordly. Billy’s never felt so miserable, never been so bloody paralyzed by weather. Sweat pours off his body, and he’s taken to standing—sitting, lying down, whatever—perfectly still, so as not to encourage any further progress toward dehydration and, Billy imagines, eventual death in this fucking heat.

This is, of course, Dominic’s fault.

Dominic could talk the veneer off a piece of glazed pottery if left alone to do so, Billy thinks. It took the bastard less than a hour’s whinge to convince Billy that spending a long weekend at a remote cabin in the American South was a brilliant idea, yeah? And now Dominic is glowing, his skin turning a deeper caramel in the sun and his laughter carrying across the grass to where Billy stands—perfectly still—on the porch.

“It’s not that hot,” Dominic smirks, kicking a football between his feet. “Not really.”

But it is. Really. And that it’s not bothering Dominic is becoming a source of extreme irritation for Billy. He stares at Dominic with narrowed eyes, watching the air around Dominic’s body ripple in the heat. If Billy remembers nothing else from reading Tennessee Williams’ plays, it’s that this sort of temperature is supposed to make people slow, languid, listless—even their speech is meant to slur. But Dominic, as is his wont, defies all such conventions. He’s restless as ever, eager to go for long runs, to play footie, to practice his yoga in the succulent garden behind the cabin, to have marathon shags in the stifling, spartan bedroom—all the while Billy tries to remain still, to keep from exploding under the threat of heatstroke or worse.

Even now, the only parts of his body Billy dares move are his fingers, wrapping around the sweating, silver cup that holds his third mint julep of the afternoon. “Southern tradition,” Dominic had declared with all the certainty of one who spends too much watching travel and foodie programming. Billy watched in fascination as Dominic mixed bourbon, sugar, ice cubes and an alarming quantity of mint in a shaker before pouring out the drinks. Two sips in, Billy had decided that if he was being forced to stay in this tenth circle of hell, then he was damned if he’d do so stone sober, and told Dominic in no uncertain terms that the drinks had sodding well keep coming, or there would be repercussions.

And Dominic has been obliging in this, at least.

II.

Billy doesn’t know exactly how long he’s been distracted by the blessed, temporary chill of the julep cup in his hands. He’s not even sure when the cup was refilled, or why it tastes even better now than it did—when? Ten minutes ago? Twenty?

What Billy does know—is absolutely certain of, would testify before Saints Peter, Paul and Pauli Girl—is that Dominic is again out in the front yard, again smirking, again basking in the heat. But it’s different now, because the sun is finally, finally fading behind the trees, and Dominic’s long since given up on the football, preferring to watch the sunset and take long draws from a bottle of Corona in which, Billy can see, he’s pushed two quarters of lime.

Dominic’s turned almost completely profile to Billy, and Billy’s eyes move lazily up and down Dominic’s body, savouring the sight just as much as he does the sugary bourbon on his lips. Dominic’s legs are not terribly long, but they are fit, strong, muscled. His calves alone make Billy blink slowly, as if he’s never seen them before. And Dominic’s thighs, well—they’re more than half–hidden at the moment by a pair of shorts Billy can only charitably call interesting, but once wrapped around Billy’s waist, they become weapons almost as formidable as Dominic’s mouth, his hands, his cock.

Billy’s beginning to understand how easily he became distracted however many minutes ago.

It is, of course, Dominic’s fault.

Dominic knows this. That’s apparent from the way he turns his head just like that and returns Billy’s lusty, overheated gaze from thirty paces with all the practiced ease Billy should expect by now. Billy doesn’t break the stare—cannot, actually, because that would mean losing his precious stillness and maybe, just maybe, his grip on the julep cup, and that would be a sin, really.

But Dominic doesn’t break it either, not even as he runs one hand across his stomach and inside his tee shirt, lifting the thin material midway up his chest and scratching at what Billy imagines has to be some imaginary itch. Dominic’s chest is everything Billy’s is not—smooth, but for the perfect, soft line of dusty brown–black hair that leads Billy’s tongue down Dominic’s body like a beacon in the darkness of bedrooms both stifling and serene, and hard, sculpted where Billy’s is growing soft from months unsupervised by trainers and the cold, clear eyes of photographers.

Billy’s growing distracted again, and that has got to stop, because Dominic’s hand is travelling again, higher, and then suddenly it’s joined by its mate, pulling, tugging on the shirt and dragging it up and off Dominic’s chest slowly, agonizingly slowly, slow like this heavy, hot afternoon’s passing. It’s obscene—ridiculous, too, come to think of it—but Billy cannot tear himself away from the slowburn tease occurring at the blurred edge of his vision. Dominic stretches hard, his arms shooting up in the air and reaching, reaching tall and taut and making the muscles of Dominic’s stomach clench and ripple just like the air a few minutes—hours, yeah, has to have been hours—ago.

At first it seems that Dominic’s holding on to the last vestiges of sunlight, of suffocating heat. And when he rises on his toes, the stretch pulling him off the ground, off this earth, Billy swallows hard, tasting something stronger than bourbon in his throat. Dominic extends his hands to the sky, extends the stretch to its limit, and Billy’s eyes follow the long line of Dominic’s entire body, from pointed toes to outstretched fingers, to reach the actual truth here: Dominic’s not trying to trap the sun and keep it close. He’s calling down the twilight, begging for the smallest breeze to race across the little patch of land he and Billy are calling home for another two days, all in the sweet hope that Billy will come out of the shade and into the heat of Dominic’s arms. In exchange for that natural compassion, the earth and sun and sky demand nothing less than this display, this exhibition and worship.

And Dominic, as ever, will oblige.

III.

Billy can’t quite get his head around the fact that his julep cup, sweating just as profusely as Billy himself now, is still more than half–full. But it’s not as if he’s going to argue the point, not while Dominic still holds nine–tenths (nine and three–quarters, if Billy’s being honest with himself) of his attention. Billy can only just feel his hand sliding down the side of the cup, gathering the moisture there and letting it seep between his fingers, cool and wet against blistering dry skin. He’s almost done it, almost moved that crucial few inches that would bring the cup to his lips, when Dominic begins to relax, to lower himself back down to where Billy remains, here on the hot ground.

And again, Billy cannot look away.

Dominic’s shoulders roll, tense and relax before he turns to Billy once more. His daring smile has vanished, replaced by the most peaceful, open expression Billy’s ever seen cross that usually animated, cheeky face. It only lasts for a moment, though, because Dominic is moving again, this time giving Billy his back, allowing him a new and different view of tanned strength, of the gift that is Dominic’s body when he chooses to share it this way.

Billy could get lost in the sharp lines of Dominic’s shoulder blades. Could, if Dominic stayed just how he is for a few seconds longer. But Dominic knows as well as Billy that there’s so much more on offer here, and the twilight, however flattering, is also fleeting. Soon the cicadas will disturb this peace, and Dominic and Billy will be forced to retreat indoors, stifled just as Billy’s begun to appreciate their open seclusion, as it were. Billy draws in a little breath between his teeth, and the sound carries louder than Dominic’s laughter, all the way across the grass to where Dominic stands.

Billy moves across the porch—arms and legs protesting quietly and mind overruling them both—to where he can better see Dominic. He’s suddenly grateful that the julep cup is indeed silver and not some piece of plastic his grip would have dimpled and bruised like a late summer peach by now. Because Dominic’s hands are drifting up from his sides, skating up his chest again but not stopping, no, not when one hand can rise higher and reach behind him to slide over the back of his thick, perfect neck and skate across and into the sweat there before kneading the muscle hard and slow and deep. Again, this is something Billy could watch forever, but Dominic, knowing this as well as he knows everything else about Billy, which is to say very well indeed, takes another breath and lets his hand fall to his waist, to the twisted, knotted drawstring of his shorts.

It’s a real, undeniable comfort to Billy that he can now hear Dominic’s breaths, their shallow, raspy in–out rhythm, because Billy thinks he might stop breathing entirely himself any second now. Dominic’s fingers fly at the drawstring, untying the knot Billy made early in the morning—before it got too hot to put on clothes at all. Billy’s enforced his own private rule of always putting on at least some clothing, regardless of their isolation, but now Billy’s feeling more than a little overdressed. More than a little foolish. More than a little in hot, racing agony.

And this is without a doubt Dominic’s fault.

IV.

The shorts fall, this time without the eager shhhhtttt sound of cheap fabric over skin Billy’s learned to listen for. Billy imagines that Dominic’s skin must be far too hot and damp for the fabric to slide easily down his body, and that thought is enough to make Billy finally move for real now, raising the julep cup and draining it like the last old Southern belle at the canasta table. And when he lowers it again, Dominic is naked before him, that hard–worn, hard–won body glowing now with a mixture of sweat and joy. Dominic meets Billy’s eyes and extends his hand, this time only for Billy, calling him down from the porch like he called down this sudden early evening breeze. Billy doesn’t dare ask for the same display of adoration Dominic granted the departing sun, but he can feel just from the weight of Dominic’s gaze that he is going to receive it anyway.

He wants it to be slow. He wants to worship Dominic’s body, to run hands and lips over every ridge of muscle, to bite down lightly on veins and tendons that jump up to meet his tongue and teeth. But it is so terribly hot, still, and whatever adrenaline has gathered in Billy’s own bloodstream is not going to last. Dominic knows this, too, and at the first touch of his hand to Billy’s neck, the first brush of warm thumb against warm jaw, Billy surrenders, prepared to let Dominic’s energy—no doubt drawn from that fading sun—get them through this.

Dominic’s laugh is throaty, made raw by too many bottles over the past two days, but gentle, too; the smirk has not returned, and Billy’s grateful for that as much as anything else. And Dominic’s kiss is everything Billy’s is not—salty and dry where Billy’s is sweet and wet, demanding and hard where Billy’s is yielding and soft. Dominic refuses to pull away, allowing Billy breath only when Billy pushes hard and begs for it, gasps for it, and then he is back, looming over Billy and pressing, pressing until Billy feels the edge of the porch slam into his back. His eyes fly open more in surprise than pain, and he can see nothing but Dominic’s eyes, his lips, his teeth—bared and ready to sink into Billy somewhere, anywhere.

Billy breathes hard, waits for Dominic to attack again, and of course he does, and of course the buttons of Billy’s shirt—white, cotton, not exactly cheap, but then Dominic’s always considered clothes unworthy of over–tender care—are torn away, falling into the grass at their feet. Dominic murmurs something low and still not quite snarky about the insanity of wearing such a shirt in this weather, but Billy ignores him, choosing instead to press his fingertips against Dominic’s hips, bringing him closer. Billy’s denim shorts rushrubburn against Dominic’s cock, and Dominic hisses, arching into it and ceasing his torrent of quiet attack on Billy’s personal style.

Billy’s thumbs settle hard in the wells of Dominic’s hipbones, pushing and pulling, dragging Dominic up and down his own body more by the power of suggestion than strength. Dominic moves eagerly against Billy, a smile playing at the corners of his lips, until he catches his breath. And then it’s as if Dominic’s regrouped entirely, and Billy allows himself a little groan when Dominic’s hands begin to tear at his fly.

Dominic is greedy, having waited forever just to get Billy off the porch and now too far gone to draw Billy’s shorts away gently. He yanks, pulls and drags, laughing softly again at Billy’s little noises of mock displeasure. Billy doesn’t quite have the heart or any other resources to get angry enough to stop this, and of course Dominic knows this, too. And seconds later Billy is just as naked as Dominic, almost ashamed to be so pale next to Dominic’s skin. There is not an untanned inch on Dominic’s body, and Billy regrets violently that he has not been able to watch Dominic turn this colour with each passing day over each passing year. He’s had neither choice nor chance to see Dominic fired like clay by this kiln of a country, and while he’s grateful to have known Dominic before, in his unpolished, unfinished state, he cannot help believing that he’s lost something more significant than time with Dominic.

Dominic pulls Billy back from this, though, his lips just barely brushing over Billy’s. “You stay with me,” Dominic whispers, and Billy understands that he’s meant to stop thinking now, stop regretting, stop everything. Dominic’s hands fall to Billy’s chest, caressing, kneading and gentling Billy so thoroughly that Billy can barely keep himself standing. Dominic purrs, hums approvingly in Billy’s ear when Billy gasps at the touch of Dominic’s hand around his cock. Dominic waits him out, waits for Billy to grind down into his hand, before he pulls Billy closer, their bodies sticky and hot and hard. Billy feels Dominic’s cock sliding against his own, and it takes everything Billy has not to almost climb Dominic, to feel him even closer, deeper.

And so Dominic presses his own hand into Billy’s hip, nudging him to open, there, yes. Billy lets his feet slide forward over the grass, spreading his legs and panting softly as he feels Dominic press just slightly inside. Dominic hums again, his eyes falling closed, and Billy grits his teeth, his toes curling in the grass and his forehead beading up with fresh, new sweat. Dominic pushes, gently at first, then harder, and Billy’s fingers clench in the skin of Dominic’s back, the fingernails scratching harder than Billy will remember hours from now. Dominic does not seem to notice, too busy at his own work now and deep inside Billy’s body. He steadies Billy with one hand while the other reaches high, stretching again, but this time for Billy’s julep cup, perched precariously on the porch rail and still miraculously cool and wet on the sides. Dominic can only just run his fingers over the moisture, but it’s enough for what he needs and wants.

Billy’s eyes are closed now, his head tilted back and his legs tightening around Dominic’s hips and waist. Dominic picks up the rhythm again after having allowed Billy his turn, and watches intently as he slides his now dampened, chilled hand into the sweat–soaked blond curls at Billy’s neck. Billy gasps, bucks hard against Dominic, and cries out, surprised by Dominic’s touch and its gentleness alike. Dominic slows his thrusts just when Billy wants them faster, harder, and massages his fingers into Billy’s hair, soothing him, shushing him until Billy certain he’s going to collapse.

Which would indeed be Dominic’s fault.

Billy’s only source of relief is that Dominic’s thighs have begun to shake, the first sign that Dominic is not going to last much longer. And indeed, it’s only half a second before Dominic is thrusting again, so deep and full that Billy rises on his toes to meet him. A new stream of lusty babble falls from Dominic’s mouth, too low for even Billy to understand, and then Dominic’s knees buckle slightly, changing the angle and making Billy shudder violently in his grip. Billy feels the burn and chill in his stomach first, then his back and then suddenly, wildly all over himself and Dominic’s chest. He cannot breathe, cannot find air in this suffocating heat, but it doesn’t matter, because Dominic is coming too, his choked, frightened sounds releasing into the air like nightbird calls.

They fall, then, neither able to take the other’s weight for any longer than it takes to pull away slowly, regretfully. Billy adds the soft grass to his long list of things to be grateful for, and Dominic coos as if he cannot imagine a better, more comfortable place to spend the rest of this night. Billy’s not convinced just yet—the cicadas and other potential irritants racing to the front of his mind—but the idea of arguing with Dominic right now seems rather petty, to say the least.

“Need ... something,” Billy murmurs finally. “Blankets. Something.”

“Mmm ...” Dominic sighs. “Off you go, then.”

“This was your idea, you lazy fuck,” Billy giggles. “You go.”

Dominic rolls his eyes in the threatening darkness and rises, climbing the porch in two easy strides. And Billy does not have time to even consider any further pros and cons about sleeping outside before a storm of sheets and pillows falls upon him. He makes the requisite noises of disapproval, but clutches his pillow like a child, watching as Dominic arranges their little sleeping space. Billy sinks down on the sheet and beckons Dominic closer, frowning when Dominic shakes his head. Dominic laughs—again, so quietly, so gently Billy knows it is not meant to tease—and stands one last time for one last stretch, high up to the darkened heavens. It’s a beautiful sight, one Billy will treasure forever though he’s only able to view it through half–closed eyes.

Dominic joins him at last, curling into Billy’s side and giggling when Billy tries to squirm away.

“Dom, it’s too hot—”

“It’s not that hot,” Dominic smirks, his hand travelling to Billy’s waist. “Not really.”


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