(c) Ich Liebe Dich [NC-17]

by **gloria-** Tue 18 Aug 2009, 1:27 am

Title: Ich Liebe Dich
Author: me, carmen.
Rating: NC-17 for language and...sex!
Fandom/Pairing: Green Day; Billie Joe/Tre
Type: Oneshot/complete
Notes: pwp. : D

-

Billie Joe looked up from the guitar that he was polishing, tilting his head to listen to the hard grinding sound of a key in the lock at the front door. He got up, knowing that this could only mean one thing: his man was home. Hiking up his too-big dark-wash jeans, he shuffled in the direction of the sound like a camel heads for water in the desert, need already pumping its way, heavy and light at once, through his veins.

Tré was kicking off his shoes when the guitarist caught his first glimpse, moving the suitcase he'd taken to Germany to one side so he could get to the closet to put away his jacket. He grinned, that lazy come-hither smile that Billie loved and hated in equal parts, when he saw his lover standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “Hey there, Bee,” he drawled, always the manly man even when gearing up to jump his boytoy. “Didja have a nice time while I was away?”

“I missed you,” the older man said blandly, chewing on the cuff of his hoodie.

The drummer hummed in understanding and moved his bags once more. “Well, are you gonna come here and gimme a kiss, or what?” His boyfriend giggled and came forward to press their bodies and lips right together, his shy demeanour melting as the kiss deepened and tongues became involved.

“I got you a present,” he murmured, green eyes staring in excitement tinged with want. “But you'll have to unwrap it.” He pressed his body closer against Tré's, hinting.

The stockier man raised one eyebrow and pressed right back, giving off an 'ooh' straight out of a bad porno flick. “Did you get a new tattoo? Is it on your...” he paused momentarily to nuzzle his nose into Billie's hair, and continued heatedly, “...tight little ass?” He squeezed the body part in question, and the smaller squealed and his hips jerked forward.

“Not quite,” he mumbled breathlessly, and took two steps back. “Like I said, you'll have to unwrap it, by which I mean me, to find out.”

“I like the sounds of that,” Tré commented, already grabbing his green-eyed partner's sweatshirt and dragging it over his head. He giggled girlishly through the thick material, and, once it was free of his torso, came shoving right back to his lover, brain going fuzzy as it dropped straight into his groin. He tore at Tré's shirt, yanking it off so he could plaster himself back up against the man.

“Undress me,” he whispered hotly, tongue making trails up his neck. “And fuck me. And never leave me alone for that long again.”

“Bee, I wasn't even gone for a week,” the blue-eyed gay man chuckled, pressing his lover in the direction of their bedroom.

“I don't care.” The ink-haired man ground his hips against his dominant's and sifted his hand through his hair. “I need you inside of me.”

And with those words, nothing was said for a few long moments as they went back to their paused game of tonsil hockey and touched each other in places that never saw the sun (except that, in Billie Joe's case, they did, because he hated tan lines). This all abruptly stopped, though, when Tré, exploring the boy's chest after throwing his shirt across the hall, found his homecoming present.

“Oh, good sweet Jesus,” he muttered, staring at the stud glittering in his lover's navel. “Billie Joe, Bee, sweetheart, you are a class act.”

“No I'm not.” He squirmed, wanting to be touched some more. “I'm a slut. Say it. Tell me I'm a slut.” He wriggled wantonly, wrapping one leg around the brown-haired man's waist and grabbing his still-clothed crotch. “I'm a slut, baby, and I want you to touch it and fucking do me because I am fucking in love with you and I am fucking horny and you have been away all fucking week.” Laying his hand flat against his lover's belly, he slid his palm downwards and into his pants. He shuddered as he realized that Tré wasn't wearing any underwear, even though he practically never did, and pushed at the waistband of his jeans until his cock, still with Billie's hand wrapped tightly around it, was exposed. “Bed.” He led the way, dragging his man along behind him and listening to the sound of denim hitting the floor with glee.

Suddenly, there were hands on his hips, turning him around for another kiss and a quick grind before he was lifted and tossed back onto the bed. Then Tré was on top of him, warm strong hands holding him down as he ground his naked body against Billie Joe's clothed crotch. The smaller man whined and bucked up in response, back arching as he rubbed against the inside of his own jeans. He forced his eyes open when he heard his man moaning, and watched in fascination as he made to unbutton his fly.

“Oh yes,” the older gasped, pushing his own pants partway down his thighs. He felt his hard-on throbbing violently as it broke free from its denim prison, and grabbed Tré's hands as he made to finish removing the clothing. “Don't,” he ordered. “Just fuck me. Hard.” His hand closed on his own cock as he was suddenly penetrated, eyes on his lover whose lip was between his teeth in an effort to hold back the sound escaping his throat. He picked up the drummer's rhythm quickly, translating it to his fist and garbling his vowels as he tried to swear.

The blue-eyed man's mouth came down somewhere near his under's neck, which he began ferociously marking with teeth and tongue. “Say my name,” he growled, pulling most of the way out and aiming for a different spot before slamming back in. “Scream it, slut.” Billie did as he was told, voice rising as he sped up the motion of his hand, nearing his peak. He came, head thrown back, yelling aloud as his spunk ricocheted off his in-the-way pants and spurted in all directions. Tré, hot on his tail (no pun intended), collapsed down against his lover once he had finished, for the moment utterly spent.

He waited for his breath to become even again before trying to speak. “Ich liebe dich.”

Billie Joe opened his eyes, caterpillar eyebrows drawing together in confusion as he looked at his recently-returned lover. “Excuse me?”

“Ich liebe dich,” Tre repeated, “it means I love you in German.”

The ink-haired man sat up, whimpering as he did as though the act hurt, and began shuffling around the blankets. “Well, that's definitely better than what I thought you said.”

“What did you think I – ”

“I thought you said 'I club a dick.'” The guitarist lay back down, pressing his back up against his boyfriend's side and shuffling around to get comfortable. “Which, I mean, we both know you do, but it's not something one just announces after great welcome home sex.”

fin.