I let my music take me where my heart wants
to go
Author: wanderingsmith
update dec 30, 2016
Summary: Goody nearby, singing low
and soft.
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I ain't got no money, and
nobody'd be daft enough to pay me for this. As
it is thought, so let it be said; you make the
toys, I play with 'em..
AN: not proper fic format... but I
can't seem to get the other to reshuffle its
words into something someone other than myself
can follow...
Goody nearby, singing low and soft. Billy letting
it drift across his mind like fog as he stared
into nothing. Not really hearing the words; not
trying to. Just the feelings in the voice soaking
into him.
Not looking at Goody, ‘cause then he’d stop and
talk to Billy, instead of singing.
Sometimes it’s broken pain about the war, but
sometimes.. sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it
changes to devotion and love and awe. And the part
of Billy that would roll his eyes and shrug in
discomfort at such feelings spoken, knows what’s
happening..
Yet. He’s not looking at Goody. And Goody isn’t
speaking to him. It’s just music. Beautiful music.
That tells him his lover is happy.
He never could bring himself to do anything but
let it burrow into him.
And when Goody fades out, Billy’s not even aware
of getting up until he’s standing near enough to
recognize Goody’s scent.
Barely keeping himself from offering a hand up.
Instead jerking his head toward their room,
wherever it be. The second that door closes, he
has the man plastered against it, gloved hand
driven into hair, their hats fallen wherever.
Bodies pressed tight. And yet it’s about as gentle
as Billy gets. Slow and tender and he just needs
to be as physically close and burrowed into the
man as Goody’s love had filled him.
He managed to stretch it out for hours, once.
Slow, sweat-slick, tender. Quiet words whispered
against salty skin, between kisses more drugging
than their cigarettes. Every sliding touch
familiar, yet far softer than it ever was, until
they were both shaking and almost hypersensitive
and they tripped over the edge, barely biting back
their moans.
And if Billy not insisting on finding supper was
out of character, if his arms holding Goody
against his chest as they drifted to sleep were a
little tight, well, Goodnight Robicheaux was no
fool. He knew Billy didn’t always have words.
Didn’t really *like* words.
He knew the language Billy spoke. And he didn’t
resist this any more than Billy would have stopped
his song.
AN:
1) the title is from The wind by Cat Stevens
2) there was a
tumblr post about billy in the position
of the girl in this
deleted scene of Goody
singing at a piano
3) there was a picture of billy
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