Is It Me...
1/4/05 12:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxy...or is LJ acting like a bitch again? Oh well--*shrug*
Soooo, remember that RDPS I kept threatening ya'll with? Well, I think I have something here for you, or I mean, I do have something her and I think it works.
Ladies, it's Real Dead People Slash--ready?
Title: A Secret
Fandom: Beatles Slash
Pairing: N/A
Rating: nc-17
It was hot, and it stank like beer and smoke and piss in the narrow tunnel of a hallway that was the only way to get back to the dressing grooms. The old cellar was more like a cave out of a horror film—bowels of the earth type of thing, rather than something man-made, all dripping walls and splashing wet floor and smelling of shit as well. He tried not to touch the dank, damp walls, fucking horrible they were and he swore bats were going to drop out of the ceiling and tangle themselves in his hair. He fought the desire to crouch and cover his head and made himself keep moving at a leisurely, unconcerned swagger. Not fuckin’ afraid of flying rats….
He could hear the pounding bass of the other band on stage and hear the crowd howling and grinned. It was damn good to bring that out of the crowd, wake up that beast. It made him feel—strong, older—just… bigger somehow. Like he had control of some monster that only listened to him. He grinned wider—He had the power to make girls wet their pants, who needed more?
Someone was coming towards him up the hallway, hard to tell who in the dim light, and he thought he heard snuffling—Closer now and he could see that it was Stu, without the trademark sunshades that made him look so sexy and mysterious and James Dean-like—or so everyone said--he just saw pretentious old art school fucker, twat.
Stu stopped, bent over at the waist, sucked in air and blew it out—scrubbed his hands over his face and groaned quietly.
It was weird… how different, smaller-- younger he looked when Stu lifted his head-- his face was soft, and broken and he looked pretty… devastated. At least until he realized he was being watched. He jerked upright and then… Stu growled. Actually growled like a fuckin’ dog, teeth and all, what a freak, he thought. John did something to him again, probably knocked him about some—those two couldn’t be together an hour without a row. They were that obnoxious. And they couldn’t be kept apart either, and he scowled at Stu.
What the fuck are you lookin’ at? He snapped, and he could see Stu had a fat lip; blood was caught in the corner of his mouth and up close, he could see it was in his teeth too. Stu saw he was staring at his lips, grimaced and he wiped them with the heel of his hand and he could see Stu’s knuckles were scraped too, hell of a fight with someone he’d had and the back of his hand was scrapped too and he had bruises around his wrist.
Idiot. He shook his head. Stu couldn’t fight for shit, why was he always taking someone on, always mouthing off to someone bigger and meaner? To impress fuckin’ John, a little voice whispered. Why else?
When Stu shrugged his jacket back into place, his shirt collar gaped a bit and he had—a bite, a lot of bites—a fuckin’ necklace of bites around his neck that looked—poisonous. Bruises so dark they were almost black and blood was right under the surface in bright pinpoints and livid blooms of red. Stu yanked the collar closed and buttoned the top and sneered at him. Piss off you little prick, but his voice was dull, and low—no real heart, it was kind of an automatic reflex sort of thing, he guessed. He looked kind of beaten—girlfriend trouble? But no, the art school bird was crazy about him—and if she did that to him, just plain fuckin’ crazy, maybe…what did they get up to in bed, bloody hell…poor fella—it wouldn’t surprise him in the least if the bitch treated him as bad as John, he was made for it, sorry fuck.
He shoved Stu harder than he meant to against the wall to cover his sudden stab of sympathy and the rough surface of the rock wall scraped a furrow along Stu’s chin--Fuck, now he’s gonna think--- Stu cut off his words and licked at his lips again, and stared at him, eyes dark and...dark.
Think what? Who thinks? He asked, shook his head and reached out and slapped Stu—not hard, kind of friendly, more of a tap really, just hard enough to push his head back a little. Stu swung back and connected with the arm he’d thrown up to cover his face and he had to laugh. You hit like a girl. You’re so fuckin’ predictable, you are. He grinned at him and ducked another loosely thrown punch. He knew Stu wasn’t even trying, could do him a real damage if he put his mind to it. So—what the fuck was up? Another bloody fight with John most like.
Stu stormed past him, the sound of his heels bouncing all over the walls and he grinned watching him go—suddenly cocked his head. He really heard a sob that time. John was always messing with the poor guy’s mind. He almost felt sorry for him sometimes. And then sometimes John was too fuckin’ nice, like insisting Stu stay on in the band—he couldn’t play for shit, he was bloody useless-- they were constantly having to cover for him, and then John would get all pissy if they said anything and then turn around and rip the shit out of Stu because it made him mad to defend him. Christ.
John sure didn’t worry about his feeling like he did Stu’s and they’d been friends longer. Just ‘cause Stu was older—fuck it wasn’t like he was a baby, so what if he was younger—he knew about shit. He wasn’t some wet little virgin school boy. He’d been with lots of women, he knew his way around, he did. Fuckin’ John.
He was at the dressing room they all shared and wasn’t that a fuckin’ hardship too, in each other’s arses day in and day out,—he pounded on the door and Johns voice called out come in-so he strode in and yelled out what the hell is up with Stu, some bitch almost chewed his neck through—and stopped. Oh.
John had some little rocker girl bent over and her panties hanging off one leg and his dick buried in her—god. And he looked at him, surprised for a moment and then his eyes narrowed and he almost smiled, never stopped sliding in, slow, slow strokes and the girl started to say something, tried to move and he said calmly shut up, it’s just one of the boys, and gently pushed her head down.
He couldn’t take his eyes away. He wanted to but John wouldn’t let him. He could see his dick, all wet and purple, sliding in and out of her, and John’s eyes never left his face—and she was groaning, begging for him to fuck her harder—he could feel his dick twitch. John looked down at the bulge in his jeans and his eyes narrowed again and he licked a slow wet swipe over his lip and god—John kept looking and groaned, fucked up into the faceless girl, some groupie—some nobody and he didn’t spare her a look because it was John’s face--the important thing was--it was John. He heard the wet slap and slide of skin against skin, John’s dick churned into her pussy and he didn’t care- he wanted to leave, to get out of there right now and he backed slowly to the door—he was too scared to move faster.
John just looked, panting harder and harder, his cheeks were red, and sweat gathered at his hairline, gluing stray strands against his forehead, damn-- he could feel sweat too, he felt it roll down his back, his ribs, roll down his crack, he watched sweat roll down John’s ass as little fingers of sweat tickled his own—sweat rolled down John’s legs, he could see muscles in his ass jump and tremble with the strain of standing with his knees slightly bent, and keeping up that slow steady rhythm and –god--god—where was the doorknob.
He searched behind him with one hand and scrabbled all over the door trying to find it-- leaning back pressed his erection against the zipper seam painfully, he put his hand between his legs and tried to shift his dick. When he touched himself, John hissed and his eyes nearly closed. John’s rhythm faltered and he moaned, Don’t go—and a bolt of electricity tore through him and he pressed himself, touched himself because it felt too good and John nodded his head, Please… and he opened his pants and loosed his painful erection, dug his thumb into the wet spot on the denim where he’d been leaking into the material, and John bit his lip and grunted as he watched…felt good, the way his dick slid through his fingers, felt better when he tightened his grip… John stroked harder, deeper and the rocker gaped and gasped and began keening softly and John moaned out, Come, come for me --- come now and never took his eyes off him.
His dick jumped, jumped, and he choked as everything in the world narrowed down to the fire in his gut and spine and heat as come flowed over and filled his hand and dripped onto the floor, never once did John let him drop his eyes, the little anonymous girl shrieked as she came and still John was silent- his teeth bared in a silent scream. He pumped into her, hard and sharp and it lifted her, each thrust--she lifted to her toes and dropped, lifted and dropped and then John whispered his name and his eyes finally closed, when John came, he felt it himself, in his ass his gut his dick like he was coming again and he groaned with the pain of it, the perfect pain.
John laughed and panted and swayed as aftershocks rode him. After a moment he straightened, dick still heavy as he pulled out and it dropped between his legs and Paul didn’t look at it--Go on, get out he said, but gently, kind... Go on now. And the girl yelped, Hey you bastard and Not you John hissed and pulled her shirt over her head, laughed as the girl twisted about and cursed at him.
He wiped his hands quickly on the bunk blanket nearest him and tucked himself hurriedly away, trying not to meet John’s eyes.
He turned the knob to get out, and the door swung open. Thank god he thought, he felt weird, dirty—I didn’t want to know all this….
John called softy, He can come back if he wants.
He was sitting on his heels right outside the door, his hands clasped around his knees and Paul thought Stu looked too young. He stared up over the edge of his glasses at him as he came out, stone faced and silent.
Paul wiped his hand self-consciously again on his t-shirt. He jerked his head toward the door and started to tell him what John said but Stu cut him off with a lifted hand and a smile more like a snarl. He hauled himself to his feet and went in, shut the door behind him and Paul started walking fast down the tunnel into darkness, faster and faster and it wasn’t fear of bats that made him run.
Fin
1-03-2005
Soooo, remember that RDPS I kept threatening ya'll with? Well, I think I have something here for you, or I mean, I do have something her and I think it works.
Ladies, it's Real Dead People Slash--ready?
Title: A Secret
Fandom: Beatles Slash
Pairing: N/A
Rating: nc-17
It was hot, and it stank like beer and smoke and piss in the narrow tunnel of a hallway that was the only way to get back to the dressing grooms. The old cellar was more like a cave out of a horror film—bowels of the earth type of thing, rather than something man-made, all dripping walls and splashing wet floor and smelling of shit as well. He tried not to touch the dank, damp walls, fucking horrible they were and he swore bats were going to drop out of the ceiling and tangle themselves in his hair. He fought the desire to crouch and cover his head and made himself keep moving at a leisurely, unconcerned swagger. Not fuckin’ afraid of flying rats….
He could hear the pounding bass of the other band on stage and hear the crowd howling and grinned. It was damn good to bring that out of the crowd, wake up that beast. It made him feel—strong, older—just… bigger somehow. Like he had control of some monster that only listened to him. He grinned wider—He had the power to make girls wet their pants, who needed more?
Someone was coming towards him up the hallway, hard to tell who in the dim light, and he thought he heard snuffling—Closer now and he could see that it was Stu, without the trademark sunshades that made him look so sexy and mysterious and James Dean-like—or so everyone said--he just saw pretentious old art school fucker, twat.
Stu stopped, bent over at the waist, sucked in air and blew it out—scrubbed his hands over his face and groaned quietly.
It was weird… how different, smaller-- younger he looked when Stu lifted his head-- his face was soft, and broken and he looked pretty… devastated. At least until he realized he was being watched. He jerked upright and then… Stu growled. Actually growled like a fuckin’ dog, teeth and all, what a freak, he thought. John did something to him again, probably knocked him about some—those two couldn’t be together an hour without a row. They were that obnoxious. And they couldn’t be kept apart either, and he scowled at Stu.
What the fuck are you lookin’ at? He snapped, and he could see Stu had a fat lip; blood was caught in the corner of his mouth and up close, he could see it was in his teeth too. Stu saw he was staring at his lips, grimaced and he wiped them with the heel of his hand and he could see Stu’s knuckles were scraped too, hell of a fight with someone he’d had and the back of his hand was scrapped too and he had bruises around his wrist.
Idiot. He shook his head. Stu couldn’t fight for shit, why was he always taking someone on, always mouthing off to someone bigger and meaner? To impress fuckin’ John, a little voice whispered. Why else?
When Stu shrugged his jacket back into place, his shirt collar gaped a bit and he had—a bite, a lot of bites—a fuckin’ necklace of bites around his neck that looked—poisonous. Bruises so dark they were almost black and blood was right under the surface in bright pinpoints and livid blooms of red. Stu yanked the collar closed and buttoned the top and sneered at him. Piss off you little prick, but his voice was dull, and low—no real heart, it was kind of an automatic reflex sort of thing, he guessed. He looked kind of beaten—girlfriend trouble? But no, the art school bird was crazy about him—and if she did that to him, just plain fuckin’ crazy, maybe…what did they get up to in bed, bloody hell…poor fella—it wouldn’t surprise him in the least if the bitch treated him as bad as John, he was made for it, sorry fuck.
He shoved Stu harder than he meant to against the wall to cover his sudden stab of sympathy and the rough surface of the rock wall scraped a furrow along Stu’s chin--Fuck, now he’s gonna think--- Stu cut off his words and licked at his lips again, and stared at him, eyes dark and...dark.
Think what? Who thinks? He asked, shook his head and reached out and slapped Stu—not hard, kind of friendly, more of a tap really, just hard enough to push his head back a little. Stu swung back and connected with the arm he’d thrown up to cover his face and he had to laugh. You hit like a girl. You’re so fuckin’ predictable, you are. He grinned at him and ducked another loosely thrown punch. He knew Stu wasn’t even trying, could do him a real damage if he put his mind to it. So—what the fuck was up? Another bloody fight with John most like.
Stu stormed past him, the sound of his heels bouncing all over the walls and he grinned watching him go—suddenly cocked his head. He really heard a sob that time. John was always messing with the poor guy’s mind. He almost felt sorry for him sometimes. And then sometimes John was too fuckin’ nice, like insisting Stu stay on in the band—he couldn’t play for shit, he was bloody useless-- they were constantly having to cover for him, and then John would get all pissy if they said anything and then turn around and rip the shit out of Stu because it made him mad to defend him. Christ.
John sure didn’t worry about his feeling like he did Stu’s and they’d been friends longer. Just ‘cause Stu was older—fuck it wasn’t like he was a baby, so what if he was younger—he knew about shit. He wasn’t some wet little virgin school boy. He’d been with lots of women, he knew his way around, he did. Fuckin’ John.
He was at the dressing room they all shared and wasn’t that a fuckin’ hardship too, in each other’s arses day in and day out,—he pounded on the door and Johns voice called out come in-so he strode in and yelled out what the hell is up with Stu, some bitch almost chewed his neck through—and stopped. Oh.
John had some little rocker girl bent over and her panties hanging off one leg and his dick buried in her—god. And he looked at him, surprised for a moment and then his eyes narrowed and he almost smiled, never stopped sliding in, slow, slow strokes and the girl started to say something, tried to move and he said calmly shut up, it’s just one of the boys, and gently pushed her head down.
He couldn’t take his eyes away. He wanted to but John wouldn’t let him. He could see his dick, all wet and purple, sliding in and out of her, and John’s eyes never left his face—and she was groaning, begging for him to fuck her harder—he could feel his dick twitch. John looked down at the bulge in his jeans and his eyes narrowed again and he licked a slow wet swipe over his lip and god—John kept looking and groaned, fucked up into the faceless girl, some groupie—some nobody and he didn’t spare her a look because it was John’s face--the important thing was--it was John. He heard the wet slap and slide of skin against skin, John’s dick churned into her pussy and he didn’t care- he wanted to leave, to get out of there right now and he backed slowly to the door—he was too scared to move faster.
John just looked, panting harder and harder, his cheeks were red, and sweat gathered at his hairline, gluing stray strands against his forehead, damn-- he could feel sweat too, he felt it roll down his back, his ribs, roll down his crack, he watched sweat roll down John’s ass as little fingers of sweat tickled his own—sweat rolled down John’s legs, he could see muscles in his ass jump and tremble with the strain of standing with his knees slightly bent, and keeping up that slow steady rhythm and –god--god—where was the doorknob.
He searched behind him with one hand and scrabbled all over the door trying to find it-- leaning back pressed his erection against the zipper seam painfully, he put his hand between his legs and tried to shift his dick. When he touched himself, John hissed and his eyes nearly closed. John’s rhythm faltered and he moaned, Don’t go—and a bolt of electricity tore through him and he pressed himself, touched himself because it felt too good and John nodded his head, Please… and he opened his pants and loosed his painful erection, dug his thumb into the wet spot on the denim where he’d been leaking into the material, and John bit his lip and grunted as he watched…felt good, the way his dick slid through his fingers, felt better when he tightened his grip… John stroked harder, deeper and the rocker gaped and gasped and began keening softly and John moaned out, Come, come for me --- come now and never took his eyes off him.
His dick jumped, jumped, and he choked as everything in the world narrowed down to the fire in his gut and spine and heat as come flowed over and filled his hand and dripped onto the floor, never once did John let him drop his eyes, the little anonymous girl shrieked as she came and still John was silent- his teeth bared in a silent scream. He pumped into her, hard and sharp and it lifted her, each thrust--she lifted to her toes and dropped, lifted and dropped and then John whispered his name and his eyes finally closed, when John came, he felt it himself, in his ass his gut his dick like he was coming again and he groaned with the pain of it, the perfect pain.
John laughed and panted and swayed as aftershocks rode him. After a moment he straightened, dick still heavy as he pulled out and it dropped between his legs and Paul didn’t look at it--Go on, get out he said, but gently, kind... Go on now. And the girl yelped, Hey you bastard and Not you John hissed and pulled her shirt over her head, laughed as the girl twisted about and cursed at him.
He wiped his hands quickly on the bunk blanket nearest him and tucked himself hurriedly away, trying not to meet John’s eyes.
He turned the knob to get out, and the door swung open. Thank god he thought, he felt weird, dirty—I didn’t want to know all this….
John called softy, He can come back if he wants.
He was sitting on his heels right outside the door, his hands clasped around his knees and Paul thought Stu looked too young. He stared up over the edge of his glasses at him as he came out, stone faced and silent.
Paul wiped his hand self-consciously again on his t-shirt. He jerked his head toward the door and started to tell him what John said but Stu cut him off with a lifted hand and a smile more like a snarl. He hauled himself to his feet and went in, shut the door behind him and Paul started walking fast down the tunnel into darkness, faster and faster and it wasn’t fear of bats that made him run.
Fin
1-03-2005
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