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Bill’s almost done assembling guitar stands for the Wyld Stallyns' Practice Dojo, otherwise known as the apartment's downstairs garage, when Ted comes scooting in the back door.
The term is literal; he’s holding his hands behind his back, awkwardly tip-toeing in his frayed sneakers. Wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead, Bill looks over his shoulder and gives his bodacious boyfriend a relieved smile. “Ted! You done restringing already? Cool, I need the help. I’m two steps away from making a guitar instead of a stand."
Ted’s perturbed expression fades into mild confusion. "Guitars are assembly required, dude?”
Bill scratches his scalp, looking from Ted to the crumpled instructions tossed haphazardly to the floor. “Huh. That's a good question, babe. Where’d your hands go?”
Ted’s arms are still crossed awkwardly behind him, and he tugs at something to demonstrate his immobility. Curious, Bill pushes himself up on overworked palms and idly steps around to inspect the situation. He lets out a surprised whistle when he sees Ted’s wrists messily tied together, layers of string winding up to his elbow. He swallows a giggle when Ted hobbles to face him, a sheepish grin on his own flushed face. “I fell,” he offers.
Bill pats Ted's shoulder empathetically. "At least you're working with the nylons. The bronzes would’ve sliced you up like Judith Myers, dude.”
They try to air guitar to salute the reference, but Ted lets out a hiss of pain, so Bill gently nudges him to sit on the floor. “Try not to move,” he hums, stooping down for a kiss. “I’ll go get some scissors.”
Their mouths meet lightly, and Bill’s about to pull away to free his most compromised partner, when a noise comes from the back of Ted's throat he's never heard before. It’s something of a low, strangled whine, something most people might not have noticed, if they weren’t Ted’s superb soulmate and they hadn’t heard every sound he has the capacity to make.
Bill tugs backwards, cocking his head to the side with an interested smile, and Ted exhales sharply. “Cut these off so I can kiss you better, babe,” he huffs, wiggling his arms for emphasis. Bill’s struck by how similar he sounds to when he insists band practice has gone on too long, or when the hour’s late and he’s trying to herd them into bed. He means what he’s saying, but if Bill were to launch into the first riff of a song, or shove him to the mattress for a few more minutes of substantial petting, well, he wouldn’t push the man away.
Instead of listening, Bill kisses him again, sinking into a crouch so Ted knows he’s not going anywhere for awhile. Ted hums in question, but doesn’t waste time sucking on his lip and getting more comfortable in his position. After a moment, Bill sits back on his haunches, surveying the scene before him. “I don’t think so,” he adds after a moment's thought.
Blinking with wide, sparkling eyes, Ted seems to be taking in every shift and every movement Bill makes. He seems most anticipatory, and Bill hasn’t even done anything yet. “Why not?” Ted asks, voice tilting towards a higher pitch.
Bill runs his fingers through Ted’s hair, smiling crookedly everytime he gets stuck on an unbrushed knot. “Because I think I like you all tied up, dude,” he says nonchalantly, and before Ted can respond, he gently tugs his head up and starts leaving soft kisses on the underside of his jaw.
Ted chokes, a more common sound and yet still quite rewarding. “Bill…” he mumbles, and Bill can see his shoulders shifting, as if he were trying desperately to reach out and touch him, and he can't. This delights Bill, more than he thought it would.
“You’re so pretty, Ted,” Bill lays it on, nuzzling his throat as he nips at the smooth skin lying there. “Do I tell you that enough?”
After a second, Bill peeks up at Ted underneath heavy lashes, and Ted’s flushed a discriminate shade of red. “Yeah,” he manages most eloquently, and Bill beams as he gives him another kiss on the mouth. He can’t help it.
“No way,” he counters, slowly laying a hand on Ted’s outstretched thigh and practically melting into the way he ducks his head. “I could tell you every second and it wouldn’t be enough, dude.”
As he caresses the worn fabric of his jeans and slips a little higher, a sweet, warm thought finds its way into his head. It isn’t from a porno, which might make it even weirder; but it’s coming from his heart, and he has the feeling Ted will be as pleased to hear it as he is to say it.
So, while Ted’s trying to come up with a deflection to his most accurate of praises, Bill rests the tips of his fingers on the half-hard bulge behind his zipper and grins, “You’re being so good right now.”
Ted doesn’t give him time to doubt his actions, because he whimpers loudly and parts his legs as far as they'll go. Bill wants to celebrate the glazed look settling over Ted’s pupils, but he’ll wait until whatever this beautiful moment is to be over to do so. He rocks his wrist down, and Ted’s arms start shaking behind him. So softly do his words come out that Bill almost misses them, but he’d never miss something Ted comes up with, especially not now.
“I am?” he whispers, and Bill has to award such outstanding adorability with a squeeze.
“You are.” He might be having too much fun with this, Ted unable to resist his overbearing affections and himself relishing in his squirms and preens on their practice floor. Then again, when has Ted ever been ceaselessly bombarded with the truth of his own perfection? Never, Bill concludes most egregiously. If he has to take the gauntlet in the form of guitar string handcuffs, he’ll down the whole glass. That’s what a gauntlet is, right?
Ted’s thigh crossing over his knuckles is enough reminder of where he is and what he’s been destined to do. He tuts softly, using one hand to pry Ted's knee away and the other to start fidgeting with his button. “Stop moving,” he mumbles, and Ted stills immediately. He’s watching Bill as if for instruction, as if Bill alone commands his responses and his reactions. Bill will examine the atypical enjoyment that blossoms at this on a later date. He gives Ted another violent kiss, another bright, encouraging smile. “Good boy.”
Ted groans, visibly forcing himself not to buck or twist against him, and Bill could implode with pride. Instead, he tugs Ted's jeans open, dragging them down his thighs along with the printed underwear he can’t remember which one of them actually purchased. As soon as Ted’s exposed to the warm air of the garage, Bill takes him in his hand, shifting so he’s pressed as close to him as possible. “Such a good boy,” he starts rambling, co-piloting whatever thoughts might try to deter him from making Ted feel like a fucking princess. He won’t think about that just yet, either, and opts to circle his thumb over the damp head of his cock. Ted sighs, strained, leaning his gaping face against Bill’s sweaty mop. “And sexy, and smart, and a total rock god. How’d I get so lucky, huh? What’d I do to deserve you?”
Past the precipice for cognitive words, Ted whines incoherently, and Bill’s sure he’s trying to turn the compliments back to him. “Oh, no, you don’t,” he chides, sliding his hand down slowly.
This earns him a wail, and one of Ted's knobby knees slam against his. He doesn’t mind at all, resuming his barrage against his throat and gaining a careful, steady rhythm. Ted, the bodacious, unrivaled, resplendent angel, doesn’t move a muscle; if his hips flick unwittingly when Bill treats him a little rougher than he should, he doesn’t say a word.
After what feels like eternities of intensities, Ted starts whimpering, his forehead bumping against the crown of Bill’s head. “Bill, please,” he whispers, and Bill meets his eyes without stopping his movements. “Baby, please, please, Bill…”
“What, babe?” Bill gradually speeds up, leaning to kiss his flushed nose. “You’re doing so good, just tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you, okay? Tell me."
It takes him a disjointed second, but Ted manages to meet him for a sloppy kiss and murmur into his mouth, “L’mme come, please, please? Bill, please, I've been good—"
This nearly startles Bill from his aroused haze. Being in charge of the sexy going-on’s is one thing to wrap his brain around; now he’s being given the responsibility of allowing Ted to...Bill feels the sweat trickle underneath his shirt, the straining in his boxers growing exponentially, and before he comes in his own pants, he starts pumping him in earnest and moans under his breath, “Yeah, baby, ‘course. Come for me, good boy, c'mon.”
With a stellarly beautiful cry, Ted finally lets himself twitch as he spills over Bill’s fist, those wild eyes slammed shut and his poor, tangled arms pressed tight to his spine. Bill carries the belief that Ted is the most handsome, most stunning, most attractive individual on the planet, and that belief has been uprooted and uplifted at this picture of him, his Ted. The Ted he reduced to this spent, ethereal creature. He feels like he just wrote Immigrant Song. He bit a bat’s head clean off. He’s touring with Stevie Nicks and they just kicked Lindsey out of the band.
He dives in for a kiss, feeling Ted’s dizzy smile against his own as he winds his arms around his waist. All Bill wants is to stay here forever, but the left part of his brain is urging him to make sure Ted’s okay, so he gets up on his heels and murmurs, “Let me get a towel, babe. You’re so beautiful. I love you.”
Blinking slowly, Ted squints at Bill with a contented grin. “Love you. You leavin’?” A faint trace of is worry hidden behind his post-coital relaxation, and Bill pats the top of his head.
“I’ll be right back,” he promises, and sprints to the bathroom. When he returns nanoseconds later, he hovers in the doorway when he really gets the full view of Ted. Hands locked behind his back, head stooped low, his cock is still out and he’s unable to do a thing about it; not until Bill allows him. His own dick is throbbing, but he swallows the rush to step in and clean Ted off. He tugs up his jeans and easily bends him forwards so he can cut through the most appreciated guitar strings. His forearms are covered in thin, red lines, but nothing seems to be bleeding, so Bill can take a deep breath.
He’s helping Ted stand when the blissed-out dude mumbles, “Wh’bout you?”
“I’m good, babe,” Bill tries, but Ted easily nudges him against the wall and sticks his hand down his pants. Bill hisses past clenched teeth, and Ted presses his sweaty face to his cheek as he tiredly stars to stroke him. “You really like being called all that stuff, huh?” he teases, trying not to lose it right here; but that thought is thwarted when Ted stoops low to sink his sharp teeth into his collarbone, gripping the head of his clothed cock tightly.
"Nah,” he answers breathily, “I just like bein’ good for you, dude.”
Without warning, Bill grips Ted’s hair and curses as he comes, grinding into him with no pattern or thought. That simple phrase makes his brain short circuit, makes him grip Ted’s shirt and ramble until he’s able to nudge him backwards and lick his lips. Ted makes a disgruntled sound, and they somehow manage to tromp up the apartment stairs and into their room without incident. They flop onto their bed, clothes quickly abandoned as they tangle their sluggish limbs and lean as close as physically possible.
Ted kisses Bill’s forehead, a most precious role reversal, and Bill sighs happily into his neck. “Talk about it tomorrow?” he mumbles, sleep overriding his etiquette.
Ted snores in response. Bill follows a little later, if only to tuck his hair behind his ears and watch him sleep for a few more minutes.
His Ted.
Woah.
Excellent.