verushka70: S4E1 Walt alone silhouette wearing hat and holding shotgun (CKR's hand)
I had this weird feeling there was something in my LJ I forgot to do for like the last few weeks but I couldn't put my finger on what it was. Well, I realized I forgot to put here some snippets I originally wrote for [livejournal.com profile] ds_snippets. (I like to keep my own copies in my own LJS of stuff submitted on other comms.) It's all slash. ETA: When I first posted this, I myself forgot the last two were DC/HCL, not DC/DS. *headdesk* Not firing on all cylinders. And this is BEFORE any Xanax today. *sigh* OTOH, maybe it's just my subconscious telling me to write DC/DS Mike Sweeney/RayK. Like I didn't have enough going on with [livejournal.com profile] ficfinishing!

Snippet 1:
Title: Necessary Velocity
Fandom and Pairing: HCL, Joe/Billy
Rating: NC-17
Length: 283 words
Prompt: One hundred-eight – momentum, velocity, gravity, inertia, torsion

. . .when he's exhausted like this, Joe rolls with just about anything. )

Snippet 2:
Title: Zero to Sixty in Half a Sec
Fandom and Pairing: HCL/Durham County, Billy Tallent/Mike Sweeney
Rating: R
Length: 294 words
Prompt: along the brittle treacherous bright streets
of memory comes my heart, singing like
an idiot,whispering like a drunken man

(e.e. cummings)

Jenifur, collectively, prefer individual rooms. This suits Billy just fine. )
Snippet 3:
Title: All Bite
Fandom and Pairing: HCL/Durham County, Billy Tallent/Mike Sweeney
Rating: NC-17
Length: 300 words
Prompt: along the brittle treacherous bright streets
of memory comes my heart, singing like
an idiot,whispering like a drunken man

(e.e. cummings)

He just nods, dazed, feeling drugged, though he's years clean and sober. )
verushka70: S4E1 Walt alone silhouette wearing hat and holding shotgun (Billy's hand on Joe)
So [livejournal.com profile] ficfinishing is helping me finish my big Joe Dick/Jerry Bines HCL/FTWHTWD fic. I posted, as instructed (I'm trying to do all the suggested daily tasks) an excerpt from it over there. Um, if you read my stuff, you know there's always angst before the calm. ETA: As [livejournal.com profile] rubberbutton pointed out (duh, V!), [livejournal.com profile] ficfinishing is f-locked and you shouldn't have to join just to read it... so I'm pasting it here.

Any encouragement would be greatly appreciated at this time...

Edited scene from the middle of a Joe/Jerry sex scene. Joe freaks and bails.

They stare at each other across the short distance, Bines impassive but panting, Joe’s stomach still heaving. Breath snorts through their flaring nostrils like horses. Joe squirms out of Bines’ grasp, almost falling out of the bed. He jumps up, yanks up his pants. Slams out of the cabin. Stomps off into the woods. Leaves crunch beneath his boots. Read more... )
verushka70: S4E1 Walt alone silhouette wearing hat and holding shotgun (Billy's hand on Joe)
I meant to get these in on time for the [livejournal.com profile] ds_snippets amnesty challenge, but for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, that didn't happen. So... bummer. So... they're here instead. Made possible by [livejournal.com profile] akamine_chan, who graciously beta-ed.

they stood together--DS, G, gen, 265 words )




a huntress--DS, G, gen, 257 words )




return the favor/bitter reward--HCL/FTWHTWD, Joe/Jerry, NC-17, 277 words )
verushka70: CKR's hands are just so damn sexy. (hand porn)
[ Man Speaking German ] Das ist Tonrolle nummer siebzehn, sind vier und zwanzigsten Oktober (24th of October) neunzehn hundert neun unf funfzig (1959, obviously an error). Die Produktion ist Ed Festus, ist aufgenommen auf einem? ?(unintelligible)??, die Geschwindigkeit is seiben in halb es wird ein? ?(unintelligible)?? Test Ton folgen. Der Direktor ist Bruce McDonald. Der Film ist Hard Core Logo.

[ Bruce ] Hey, Joe, what does the name Hard Core Logo mean?

Logo's a Greek word. It means symbol or -- [ farts ] sign. The punk rock Hard Core Logo... means direct action, means question authority, means anarchy. You don't like the world you're livin' in, you don't like the answers you're gettin'. It's like, Fuck you. And that's exactly what we were all about. Fuck you. Anything else, Bruce, that we need to cover, to finish? Read more... )
verushka70: S4E1 Walt alone silhouette wearing hat and holding shotgun (headstones)
Well, as they are wont to do, the characters have sort of gone off in a weird direction I wasn't expecting in my HCL/FTWHTWD Joe/Jerry story. I suppose it's not all that unexpected to others, given the stories I've written in the past.

I wasn't intending to go there. I really wasn't. And I'm not sure if it works or not. I guess I'll need a beta soon. Or at least a couple fresh pairs o' eyes to look at it as it is currently, and tell me if this latest infliction of pain on a self-destructive Joe Dick fits in with the rest of the story, doesn't fit in, or could fit in with the appropriate amount of work.

It think it fits with the Joe who just stood there smoking with his cap on backwards, watching Billy shake everyone's hands after he arrived for the Rock Against Guns HCL re-union gig, I think. But I'm not sure if it fits with the rest of what we see of Joe.

Except maybe it fits with the tired Joe silhouetted in the setting (or is it rising? I think it's rising) sun who "get[s] a few things in the open" at the side of the road -- the Joe who is the recipient of Billy's "You're a major fuck-up! You fucked up last night, got our money ripped off; you fucked up four years ago! You go out of your fucking way to fuck me!" rant.

I think the jury's out on whether it fits with Jerry. Jerry seems a very unknowable creature, to me. Hard to write. If I thought it was hard to write inner Joe/denial Joe (vs. Joe's outer, cultivated exterior), Jerry's that much harder.

blahblah on fic writing & other stuff )
Fortunately, I graduated, I went to commencement and the pinning ceremony last weekend, so I'm well on the way to being "a real nurse" -- just gotta pass the NCLEX-RN when I take it. Don't know when that will happen -- hope to get the ATT (Authorization To Test) in the next couple/few weeks, so I can register for it. Yikes! more blahblah on upcoming test and my small party in Greektown )
I was going to go to like three different graduation parties that night (last Saturday). Instead, I took a nap, got a wonderful full body massage with relaxing lavendar scented oil from my bf, watched Volver in bed w/him, and then had raucous sex with him. It's all been a bit of an . . anti-climax, I guess because I feel it's not over until it's OVER (when I pass the NCLEX licensing exam). But at least the dosing down on Cymbalta has resulted in the return of orgasmia. Because that anorgasmia (not to mention the 6-feet-under libido of the past winter) was awful. I know my bf wasn't happy about it, but really, he has no idea -- you know it's bad when you can't even do yourself properly! or you lose interest before you're done! Christ, that was awful! And it went on for months and months -- or so it seemed to me (and probably to my bf, too!). But, like, yay to the addition of Buspar and the slow elimination of Cymbalta. In another month or so I should be completely off it. Yay.

ETA: I really, really, really never thought I'd like Hugh Dillon with his head entirely shaved. But now that I've started watching the Hugh interview on The Hour posted to [livejournal.com profile] hughdillon by [livejournal.com profile] eisakay, I may have to rethink that! Because, like, his face is so expressive -- and that smile is like a million bucks. And dammit, he's still cute. And trim! Wtf, did the man slim down or what? I kinda like his chubbier self. But, whatever, the lean, mean, bald Hugh is definitely not bad, either. Not at all. And it seems along the way some time he had his teeth bleached or something. Not that that's bad (I've done it; smoking and coffee take a serious yellowing toll on the teeth). Just... different from Hugh before. Well, anyway. Bald, he's still a hottie. And I have shocked myself for thinking so!
verushka70: S4E1 Walt alone silhouette wearing hat and holding shotgun (Default)

Again, thanks go to malnpudl for the beta-ing. This was the 2nd story I wrote for the fic challenge, but again didn't quite think it met my recipient's wish list. But I got beta comments for it and edited it into present shape anyway.


A Better Angle
By Verushka
HCL, Pre-movie, Billy/female, Joe/female, Joe/Billy, NC-17
 
 
Billy stood at the window with his back to the room, smoking. His gaze moved across the empty parking lot. Bluish illumination from the lights over the lot silhouetted him and filtered through the smoking rising from the cigarette tucked between his fingers. 
 
Deadmonton. 4am. Not quite dawn, yet not full night anymore.
 
Joe rolled over on the bed. This was their first really big tour. Motels, now – no more sleeping in the van. For now, anyway.
 
So: motel. Two beds. Two king sized beds.
 
If both got used it was just because they both didn’t want to sleep in the sweaty, spunky sheets they’d messed up. So they’d mess up one bed, move to the other to sleep. . . then mess it up later, too.
 
“The fuck are you doin’?” Joe asked, stretching his arms in a controlled full body yawn.
 
“Nothin,’” Billy replied.
 
Read more... )
 
This was Sleepy Joe. Post-coital Sleepy Joe. Maybe the easiest Joe of all to take, although Billy didn’t really have a problem with the other Joes; you just had to watch your step around Pissy Joe or Enraged Joe. But you had to do that with pissy or enraged anyone.
 
Before Post-coital Sleepy Joe tonight, it was Lusty Joe he’d been dealing with. Everyone would assume the fading bite marks on Billy’s neck were from the punk girl from the student newspaper. No one would know they were actually from Joe. Billy thought back to earlier that night.
 
. . . . 
 
They’d been the second band on a bill that featured Evil Beaver opening and Drugged On Arrival last. But almost everyone left the pit for the bar after Hard Core Logo finished their set. Coming up in the world: people had come to see them.  From backstage, Billy looked out at the sparsely populated pit, dripping sweat from his nose and down his cheeks, drenched T-shirt clinging to him. He smiled to himself. They might have opened for Drugged On Arrival, but the crowd had come for Hard Core Logo, and left when the Hard Cores finished their last encore.
 
Joe stood at the table of booze reserved just for Hard Core (now that they had it on the legal rider, it was like Van Halen’s M&Ms: something that just magically appeared, or they didn’t have to play). Some black-haired, mohawked punk girl in a very short skirt and knee high combat boots was talking to him. Billy looked from Joe’s offhand conversation with the girl back to the stage where Drugged On Arrival was going into their second number, noting that the pit still had few slamdancers pounding into each other.
 
Satisfied, grinning to himself, Billy met Joe at the booze table.
 
“Billy. This is Jeanette. She writes for –” Joe raised his eyebrows at her while he mixed something horrible with a lot of hard liquor “– the student paper at U Alberta, Edmonton.”
 
“Hi.” Billy smiled that special grin at Joe, but Joe didn’t catch it, focused on mixing something hard.
 
“She wants to interview us.” Billy caught the tone of his voice then. Joe couldn’t help the pride creeping in, even as he acted unaffected and uncaring. 
 
“Us the band? Or you and me?” Billy asked Joe, but looked Jeanette full in the face. Her spiky hair was just like Joe’s. Her eyes were big and brown and full of adoration.
 
“Just you two,” she purred, barely audible over the thrashy sounds outside in the club.
 
Satisfied with his drink, Joe came over behind Jeanette, put an arm around her neck, pushed roughly up against her, and sandwiched her between himself and Billy with a thrust of his pelvis.
 
Billy almost stumbled back at the impact of Jeanette’s breasts against his ribs, but he held his ground. The top of her head came to about Billy’s nose, so she had to look up at him, Joe’s forearm curled possessively around her throat.
 
Joe cocked his head at Billy over hers. Let’s have a go, his mischievous expression said.
 
“Yeah?” Billy smiled down at Jeanette, then met Joe’s eyes. “Just where is this interview taking place?”
 
Their hotel room, as it turned out. She asked questions and actually managed to write a number of things on her little note pad while Joe peeled her clothes slowly off her. Billy, shirtless, watched from one of the beds. She had a portable cassette recorder going on the small table between the two beds, too, so Billy didn’t know what she was writing. Maybe how they looked.
 
Billy shook his head. When Joe Dick wanted to, he could be very charming. He could get any girl to buy them drinks, hand over her pot, give them her blow, take off her pants. 
 
When he wanted to. But sometimes Joe just wanted a rag doll.  Looked like it might be one of those nights. And the more popular the Hard Cores became, the more rag dolls there were to choose from.
 
She sat on the bed, between Joe’s legs, his lips on the back of her neck, his shirt already off, head cocked so he could watch Billy watch him put the moves on her. Joe dipped into her skirt with one hand, into her front-hook bra with the other. His eyes said, This is all for you, y’know.
 
Billy answered all her questions offhandedly, didn’t even really think about them or about what he was saying. Joe put it all out there for him, getting her all hot, while she giggled and got her interview and jotted her notes.
 
“Okay, and when will you guys be back here to play again?” was her final question, spoken through shivers as Joe’s lips moved slowly up and down the side of her neck, both of his hands now cupping her breasts, then unhooking her bra and slipping it off her. 
 
Billy’s jeans felt tighter.
 
“I dunno. Six months, maybe,” Billy replied. 
 
“Four,” Joe corrected, his voice muffled in her neck.
 
“Four?” Billy asked, raising his eyebrows.
 
“Mulligan booked us for the next four months. We’re back here in September,” Joe said, lifting his head to look Billy in the eyes.
 
“Okay. . .” she jotted furiously, black spikes quivering.
 
“Sweetheart, whaddaya say,” Joe murmured into her ear while cupping and squeezing handfuls of breasts. “Whaddaya say about Billiam over there?”
 
She cocked her head sideways, still trying to write. But her eyes shifted from her paper pad to Billy. 
 
“What about him?” she said, half-turning in Joe’s arms. 
 
Joe’s one hand trailed down from her tits to grasp the moving pen and pad of paper in the other. He kissed her then, and took the paper and pen from her and tossed them in the general direction of the nightstand. The pen hit the floor. The pad hit the cassette recorder, knocked it off the bed side table. It clicked off.
 
“Hey,” she protested into Joe’s mouth. Billy bent over and picked it up, rewound just enough to replay Joe saying “whaddaya say about Billiam over there” and hit Stop. Joe sounded almost proud. Proud of Billy. 
 
“Recorder’s fine,” Billy said and placed it back on the bed side table. He lay back on the bed and propped his head up with a hand. Needed to stretch his legs out straight in his jeans to ease the pressure on his cock.
 
“That doesn’t make it into the paper, right?” Joe whispered to her, and then kissed her more.
 
“Mmm. . .” she said into Joe’s mouth, their tongues smacking wetly. He drew back for her answer. “No,” she affirmed, “that won’t be in the paper.”
 
Joe kissed the side and back of her neck again, and slid both hands down to unzip her skirt.
 
“Billy really likes you,” Joe murmured into her neck, sharply eyeing Billy.
 
Billy’s eyes met Joe’s and he felt his cock stiffen further. How the fuck Joe did this to him, he didn’t really know.
 
Or care.
 
“He does?” she seemed genuinely surprised. Joe liked to pull this switcheroo on girls sometimes.
 
“Can’t you tell? Look at him. He’s getting stiff just thinking about you,” Joe whispered, loud enough for Billy to hear.
 
“Wow,” she said thickly, glancing down at the Billy’s swollen jeans. A slow gear change of arousal crossed her face. 
 
Joe shoved her onto her feet by her hips, stood behind her, and slid her skirt down to her knees. He pushed it down to her combat boots with his own boot from behind, and put his lips back on her neck, crouching down to her height to do so.
 
Billy looked up at them. Jeanette looked down at him, smiling happily.  She had a cat-who-got-the-cream look on her face.  She’d clearly thought she was just getting Joe, but now understood it was two for the price of one.
 
“Billy,” she breathed.
 
“Unzip, Billy,” came Joe’s low command, spoken around her neck. Her spikes and Joe’s mohawk melded in some weird way.  Her skin was a creamier and hairless version of Joe’s paleness, with firm young breasts.
 
Billy looked down at his now-much-tighter jeans from where he lay with his head propped on his hand, and started to unzip.
 
Joe’s cool and cocky gaze met his from slightly above and behind Jeannette’s expectant expression.
 
“Doesn’t he look good enough to eat?” Joe murmured in her ear.
 
Billy knew everything that would happen before it happened, knew how it would all go down. He watched it all happen in a strange, slow-motion way. She was a good sport. They’d probably do this again in four months – she would remember this.
 
Even if Joe pretended he didn’t, she’d show up and insist, and Billy would remember, and Joe would go along for the ride, and would whisper, “Anything for my Billy” sarcastically at Billy in the taxi back to the hotel. Billy could see it happening as if it were a memory and not imagining the future. They had done this before. . .
 
“Go on, sweetheart. He’s hot and hard and waiting for you,” Joe said in her ear, still eyeing Billy sharply.
 
Billy leaned back then, and got to work, shoving his jeans and ratty briefs down to what he always thought of as his skinny thighs, nothing like Joe’s self-described “meatier hams.”
 
With a gentle nudge from behind from Joe, Jeanette leaned forward towards Billy, then stepped delicately out of the skirt pooled around her combat boots. 
 
“Help her out, Billy,” Joe ordered, voice husky.
 
Billy sat up and swung his legs down just as Jeanette bent at the waist and slid her mouth clumsily across his lips. Joe’s hands curved around her hips and her black cotton panties. He sat down on the bed behind her and peeled her panties down to kiss one round, full buttock. Joe kept his face cocked to the side, so he could watch Jeanette take Billy’s mouth. 
 
Billy’s hands went reflexively to her shoulders as she kissed him. Her hands encircled his cock, and Joe kissed and stroked her buttocks. Finally Jeanette sighed into Billy’s mouth and folded down to her knees on the rug. Joe let her slip out of his grasp, then watched closely as she pulled Billy’s jeans down to his ankles to give her more room to work. 
 
She dipped her head down, and Billy looked down the expanse of spiky black hair, pale shoulders and back. Except for the obvious differences in size, muscle, breasts and hips, with her face down on his cock, spiky hair moving up and down on him, competent and eager . . .she looked a lot like Joe.
 
But she felt nothing like Joe. 
 
Joe unbuttoned the top button of his jeans, then reached for the cigarettes at the edge of the night stand.
 
Jeanette’s more than adequate sucking made Billy inhale sharply and lean back on his hands. He involuntarily arched his back and thrust his pelvis at her, and she swallowed him, coming up and going back down again and again. 
 
It was porno-head. Looked great, but didn’t feel as good as the down-to-business fast stroking with heavy suction that Joe did, that felt amazing and mind-blowing and wouldn’t look like much on camera. . . unless you’d ever been sucked that way. 
 
Billy wasn’t complaining. But the icing on the cake always came later, after the booze and the girls and the rest of the world was gone, when it was just Joe and Billy.
 
Jeanette was a trouper, though. Billy was involuntarily reaching that maximum point of arousal. He felt Joe’s gaze even as he looked down at Jeanette.
 
Billy glanced up from her now sloppier and more effective head. His hand on the back of her neck probably had something to do with it, but he couldn’t help it – his hand went there automatically. Joe had lit a cigarette, and exhaled through his nostrils, watching Billy lose control.
 
Billy met Joe’s hungry, intense gaze, knowing Joe could see his jaw clench, see his posture change, his muscles tense, his hips thrust involuntarily. . . knowing Joe could see every sign that he was about to come.
 
And come he did. Jeanette started to sputter a little – Billy had forgotten to warn her (not intentionally, just distracted by Joe). But then Joe was on his knees behind her, muttering quietly. 
 
“Don’t swallow it,” he whispered in her ear. Joe looked up at Billy while coaching her, watching Billy’s face.
 
“Just let it hit your tongue, the back of your throat, and keep it there,” he murmured in her ear. His look was smoky and calculating, judging just when Billy’s last spurt would be. 
 
And then it was Billy’s last spurt, with a few more helpless thrusts into her mouth. Joe’s hand slipped under Billy’s, slid up the back of Jeanette’s mohawk into her spikes, and tipped her head back to settle his mouth on hers for a deep kiss full of Joetongue.
 
Joe pulled her back almost as if to dip her in the midst of dancing. It wasn’t that at all. He just needed a better, deeper angle to lick as much of Billy out of her mouth as possible. 
 
(Billy envied the uncaring way Joe did whatever he felt like doing, without much thought. He had wondered if it bothered Joe to know there were chicks out there who knew Joe liked to lick Billy’s come out of their mouths. You tell a girl exactly how to hold the come in her mouth and not choke or swallow, she’s gonna wonder how you know, Billy thought.
 
Working girls might assume Joe’d done some porn –very punk. But the happy groupies in every town wouldn’t know that. They’d wonder, Billy thought, wonder how Joe knew how to hold come in the back of your mouth without gagging, choking, or swallowing it. So he’d asked Joe once if he cared if the girls knew.
 
Joe had quizzically asked, “Why would I care? I fuck them, too.” He’d shrugged, genuinely unconcerned. Joe was much better at the fuck-you-just-watch-me than Billy.)
 
Joe stumbled up from the floor to half-stand. He fumbled with his jeans and pulled Jeanette up to her feet. He got his jeans off, got his hard cock out, and yanked Jeanette’s panties aside from her crotch. She didn’t protest, although she gasped for air when his mouth went from her lips down to the soft spot where her neck met her collar bones, and Joe’s fingers slid inside her. Billy swung his legs up on the bed, leaving his jeans pooled on the floor where his feet had been. He lay back to watch the show.
 
Joe twisted himself and Jeanette around and sat down on the bed facing Billy. Joe yanked her panties off her, picked her up, pulled her legs open around him (rag doll), and sat her down on his cock. 
 
After a few minutes of Jeanette happily riding Joe with increasing enthusiasm, Joe shoved her off him. He glanced at Billy, half-sexy, half-surly – the fuck? – and tumbled her back onto the bed to really fuck her.
 
It was balls-out, do-it-‘til-you-come fucking now. With Billy, Joe often controlled his arousal, milked it, held out for so long. He never wanted to come too fast with Billy. But sometimes, with chicks, Joe couldn’t help himself.
 
With chicks, past a certain point of arousal and performance for Billy, Joe became perfunctory. It was almost like a nature show: mammals mating. Very utilitarian. Very let-me-get-my-seed-up-in-you-and-then-we’re-good. Joe slipped an arm under one of Jeanette’s legs and pushed her knee up over his shoulder.
 
“Good. Yeah,” Joe panted at the improved angle of penetration.
 
Jeanette squirmed happily under Joe, with no idea Billy was getting a live sex show of Joe moving in and out of her. Billy knew this was for him, so he watched, helplessly getting aroused again. Joe came quickly, thrusting into her hard and deep, grunting with each spurt. Jeanette moaned.
 
Billy wondered idly if she would actually come or would fake it or would be faintly disappointed but not say anything because she was just so happy to be with him and Joe. Anything was possible in these scenarios; Billy had seen all options occur at one point or another.
 
She seemed to be digging it, though. She came to her own orgasm a little behind Joe, clutching him by the ass, pulling him deeper into her and thrusting up at him just as Billy could tell Joe was about to stop grinding into her. But Joe was a good sport – sometimes. He let her have her way until she was satisfied and slid her hands up his back. Then she threw them over her head, panting, eyes closed, a little smile on her face.
 
Billy smiled.  He’d come, Joe came, and she came. Three for three: everybody happy.
 
Joe’s cock softened and slipped out of her just as he was rolling off her to the side. Their heads were at the foot of the bed, and their feet at the head. They hadn’t even gotten under the coverlet.
 
“That was great,” Joe panted. He pushed himself up, still breathing hard, and turned back to the nightstand, then to the floor where his cigarettes had fallen.
 
Jeanette sat up with that voluptuous post-orgasmic look women got sometimes.
 
Joe lit a cigarette, passed it to Billy; lit another, passed it to Jeanette. Lit another, smoked it himself.
 
“We’re good, eh?” Joe asked her, just a hint of leer in his smile. “Got everything you needed?”

“Yeah!” she nodded enthusiastically, smiling and smoking.
 
“You let us know if you need any clarifications or whatever,” Joe said, sliding back down to lie next to her. He propped his head up on an elbow.
 
She handed him her cigarette; started to put her clothes on. 
 
“You guys coming ‘round in September again?” she asked casually.
 
“Yep,” Joe agreed, and gave Billy an I-told-you-so expression.
 
“Great!”
 
“Call Mulligan in Vancouver, he’ll tell you how to get in touch with us to get on the list.”
 
“Okay.” Her punk rock heroes had solidified into godhood tonight.
 
“Now, me and Billy got some stuff to discuss, so. . .”
 
“Sure, right,” she said. “I gotta get going too.”
 
To tell all my friends I fucked Joe and Billy! Billy thought.
 
“ ‘S all right. We’re good.”
 
She’d never taken the combat boots off, Billy realized as she slid her skirt up and zipped it. She bent over to take her cigarette back from Joe for a hard drag. Her breasts hung down, then, so Joe reached up and playfully cupped one.   She smiled, then stood up, pulling her breast out of Joe’s light grasp. Cigarette in one hand, bra in the other, she tucked the smoke in the corner of her mouth like a truck driver. She put the bra on and hooked it in the front.
 
“This was . . .great,” she whispered excitedly, smiling at them both.
 
“Let’s do it again,” Joe replied, with mostly fake enthusiasm she didn’t catch.
 
“Yeah!” She dragged her T-shirt over her head.
 
“See ya in four months,” Joe smiled up at her. 
 
“Yeah. . . thanks!”
 
“No problem.”
 
She prodded her spikes in the hotel room mirror over the battered dresser, threw on her motorcycle jacket, and exhaled smoke over Billy as she winked at him. Joe patted her on the thigh as she stood between the beds.  
 
“Run along, now, ‘kay sweetie?”
 
In one stride she was at the bedside table for her pen, pad and recorder, stuffing them in her jacket pockets. Then she twirled, smiling – all infectious, youthful energy – strode to the door, and slammed out.
 
“Joe.” Billy smiled. Couldn’t help it.
 
“Fantastic!”
 
They reached across the gap between the beds, and smacked their first two finger tips together.
 
“We’re gonna have to go to the clinic again for antibiotics, you keep this up the way you have been,” Billy smiled.
 
“What? She loved it. You loved it. So we shared some germs. So we get some antibiotics.”
 
“Goofball.”
 
‘Win-win’ Billiam, right?” Joe grinned wickedly.
 
“You sound like a corporate fuck.” Billy looked away.
 
“Thought you liked the corporate fucks.” Joe said, ducking his head to examine Billy’s expression more thoughtfully.
 
“Not all of them.”
 
“Lotta them, though.”
 
“Some of them actually like the music,” Billy said, thinking guiltily of a conversation he’d had with someone from IRS. 
 
“Failed musicians, all of ‘em.” Joe shook his head.
 
“Shut up.”
 
“Make me,” Joe said, and looked at Billy with that gleam in his eye.
 
Seconds later, cigarette mashed out in the foil ashtray, Joe was on him.
 
“Get off,” Billy muttered, not really meaning it. Joe’s lips and five o’clock shadow nuzzled his neck. “Or take my smoke. We’ll fuckin’ set the place on fire, you mess with me with a lit cigarette in my hand.”
 
“She was into it, wasn’t she, Billiam?” came the soft words at his throat. Joe’s hands gripped Billy’s shoulders. A little too hard.  Billy’s cock thumped to life again in the rhythm of his heartbeat.
 
“You mean you were into it,” Billy replied in a whisper.
 
“ ‘Course. Nice thing about punk girls—”
 
“—You don’t have to hold their hair up to watch them blow you,” Billy finished for him. 
 
Joe pulled back, straddling Billy’s thighs, looking down on him. He took Billy’s cigarette from his hand, inhaled a deep drag. Then he leaned up and across Billy to jam it out in the flimsy foil ashtray. His hardening cock swung inches from Billy’s face as he did so – no accident, Billy knew.
 
“Ya up for it again?” Joe said, sitting back down on Billy. “Ready to go?”
 
“Could be,” Billy murmured, looking up at Joe. “Maybe not.”
 
“Liar. You are too,” Joe said. As if Joe had commanded it, Billy felt himself fully harden into good wood against the inside of Joe’s straddling thigh. Joe’s squeezed his legs together, crunching Billy affectionately between them before leaning down to take his mouth.
 
There, faintly, was the taste of himself in Joe’s cool, smoke flavoured mouth.
 
“Ow. . .” Billy muttered into Joe’s mouth, and Joe relaxed the vise of his thighs around Billy’s.
 
“Fuckin’ baby. Whiner.” Joe slid down and lay fully on Billy.
 
“Fucker,” Billy whispered as Joe’s mouth trailed down his chest and worked each nipple in turn. Then Joe slid sideways off Billy and dragged himself heavily down until he was face to face with Billy’s cock. He leaned up on one elbow, then engulfed it with his mouth.
 
Billy gritted his teeth, the sudden pleasure almost too much.
 
Joe got down to it quick: business-like, efficient sucking got Billy to that certain point of arousal faster than he would have thought so soon after Jeanette. Pretty soon, Joe wasn’t languidly leaning against Billy’s hip. He was hunched over Billy’s cock, between Billy’s legs, using hands and mouth.
 
As he frequently did, once Joe got Billy to neargasm, he kept him there with gentle suction and slower, lighter strokes – a hovering kind of attention to pleasure just this side of exploding. He alternated that with sudden bursts of fast, tight sucking that spiraled Billy up farther. Joe kept him maddeningly close to the edge that way, backing down when Billy’s fingers flexed involuntarily in his hair, when Billy’s stomach tightened and his thighs hardened.
 
“Joe. . . c’mon,” Billy finally gasped, fingers pulling fruitlessly against Joe’s neck muscles, which refused to move at a pace any faster than Joe wanted. “Lemme come.”
 
“In good time,” Joe murmured, momentarily off Billy’s cock, breath tickling Billy’s pubic hair.
 
“Fuck. . . er. . .”
 
Just that breath, that tickle, through his hair, pushed Billy closer to the edge, and his hand on the back of Joe’s neck shoved involuntarily again. 
 
This time Joe let him, and Joe’s mouth slammed down on him. He sucked Billy in his throat and let Billy finally take control. He held Billy’s hip; he let Billy piston in and then almost entirely out of his mouth. Joe slid his other spit-covered hand down to encircle Billy’s balls, and tugged them just as the inevitable spurts began.
 
Billy bucked up, pulled Joe’s head down, and came hard. Less come this time, but each spurt more excruciating and seeming to take forever to come up from his balls and out into the back of Joe’s throat. Joe took it all, swallowed convulsively around Billy’s cock, and never lost pace, never missed a drop.
 
That was the thing about Joe. He knew how to rag-doll girls because he could go with the rag-dolling himself.
 
“Fuck!” Billy hoarsely shouted, the last spurt achingly sweet, almost too much, Joe’s hot, wet mouth slowly sliding back off his cock. He grunted helplessly when the final suction of Joe’s retreating mouth tightly slipped off the head, too much stimulation.
 
“That was beautiful. Good, deep-down-in-your-balls come.” 
 
“Freak.” Billy panted. “Fuck.”
 
“Any time,” Joe whispered, catching his breath. He clutched Billy’s hips and thrust his hard cock against Billy’s ankle.
 
“Get up here.”
 
“Bitch, bitch, bitch. . .” Joe slid up in bed, and rolled Billy over onto his stomach. Settled on Billy from behind.  Joe ground against Billy, sliding his cock into the crack, but not getting very far.
 
“Open your legs,” Joe murmured as he slid one leg between Billy’s.
 
Billy did as he was told. “Ya like?”
 
“I like. Now shuddup,” Joe panted, settling heavily back on Billy, thrusting his erection against Billy’s buttock, not into the cleft.
 
“Dink.” Billy smiled to himself, cheek flat against the bed.
 
“You love it. . .” Joe whispered, sliding his arm under Billy, around Billy’s neck from behind. His other arm encircled Billy’s waist, then slid down to his hip.
 
The cock on Billy’s buttock was insistent, but Billy was tired and blissed out enough not to care.
 
“Lick it.”
 
“You’re such a bitch.”
 
“Last time ya ripped me.  I was fuckin’ sore. That’s not buddies. Just lick it.”
 
“You can dish it out, but you can’t take it, eh?” Joe snickered. But Billy felt him slide down, felt Joe’s breath on his ass. 
 
Joe half-sat up, grabbed the other pillow, and shoved it under Billy’s spent cock and pelvis. “Help me out,” he ordered, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice.
 
Billy mashed the pillow into a higher mound under his cock, hiked up his ass, and spread his legs, feeling simultaneously slutty and giddy.
 
“Door locked?” 
 
“They lock automatically behind them.”
 
“You sure?”
 
“I’m sure,” Joe said, and Billy knew he was lying. Still, it was almost 4am. Pipe and John were probably long since passed out from dope and booze.
 
Lock automatically. That was only in the good motels – not these shitty motels. Still. . . whatever. Billy was too comfortably post-coital and waiting for Joe to ramp it up still farther. He mostly didn’t give a fuck about the door, now.
 
Joe’s hot breath was back there, now.
 
And then Joe’s tongue, cool and smooth, licked over his taint and ass, and Billy’s cock twitched.
 
“Billy,” Joe breathed. Then the gentle point of Joe’s tongue pressed into Billy’s hole. It didn’t go far, but Billy’s cock twitched again.
 
“Joe,” Billy whispered. “Damn.”
 
“Yeah,” Joe whispered. Billy heard him gather spit in his mouth, felt the spit hit his asshole dead-on seconds later. It was their private joke that Joe spit on everyone, like he wanted to fuck them, but his best aim was only for Billy.
 
Joe had solemnly sworn never to let anyone know what they did alone after the groupies were gone and the drugs were gone or they were bored with them but they weren’t bored with each other and the door was locked. . .
 
Had sworn, and had kept his word. Joe didn’t care who knew, but since Billy did, Joe kept it to himself.
 
So Billy was mostly okay with the door maybe not being locked…
 
It was their secret, a secret that had grown over the years from mutual jackoffs to scoring chicks for each other to blowing each other to watching each other fuck chicks to the ass fucking which had only happened because that one time that one girl had been sucking Billy while Joe watched. This was before Joe started coaching them how to hold Billy’s come in their mouths. 
 
Without him asking, this girl just shoved her finger up Billy’s ass. He came like fireworks, uncontrolled and spasming, and suddenly filled with panic and pissed off. Billy smacked her reflexively, unintentionally but with frightened adrenaline suddenly in his veins and her finger still in his ass. She knew. Somehow she knew and he panicked. He thought she could read all the sex with Joe in him somehow, thought she could tell by something in the blowjob that he was a fag. 
 
She started to yell, and pulled her own hand back to smack Billy. Joe pulled them away from each other and she pouted, “I just thought you’d like it ‘cause my boyfriend likes it!”
 
Billy had internally heaved a great sigh of relief while Joe shook his head at Billy behind her.   Joe’s expression told Billy that Billy was about to give himself away far more from overreaction than Joe ever could from talking about what they did together. 
 
“He didn’t mean it, did ya, Billy? You just didn’t give him any warning, that’s all. . . he’s not used to that. Gotta give a guy some warning before ya do that, honey.” Joe covered for him. “Say you’re sorry, Billy.”
 
Billy forced himself to relax, made himself smile and apologize. At Joe’s urging – more like insistence -- Billy let her go down on him again, and let her shove her finger in his ass again, and hot damn if he didn’t come again superquick, like she was pressing a button inside him.
 
Then Joe took her, soundly fucked her like she wanted, let her caterwaul ‘til Pipe and John pounded on the wall between their rooms. And then he got rid of her “We gotta talk band shit now, sweetheart, sorry—” the ready excuse Joe always used from then on. “Come by after our show tomorrow night.”
 
No sooner had Joe gotten the door locked and chained behind her than he tackled Billy from behind and bit his neck. He shoved Billy down the rest of the way,  then pressed his hard cock into the cleft between Billy’s buttocks and – this might have been the only time Joe begged for anything – said, “Lemme, Billy, she already softened you up – lemme in.”
 
Before Billy could stop him, Joe shoved the tip of his cock in, and damn if Billy hadn’t started to stiffen again, despite the wincing pain.
 
“No, Joe,” Billy squirmed under Joe, despite the hardening of his cock, the sensation of Joe partway in him both painful and excruciatingly arousing.
 
“You do it to me next,” Joe offered, breathing hard on the back of Billy’s neck.
 
Billy relaxed then, though Joe was probably lying, probably had no intention of following through, like with so many other things. Joe worked gently back and forth with shallow thrusts until he got the whole head in and damn that felt good even though it hurt and Billy moaned from pleasure and pain.
 
Joe nuzzled the back of his neck and dripped sweat on him and said, “Good boy,” and worked it back and forth more. He slowly worked himself all the way in up to the hilt, wetting Billy’s back with his sweat.
 
And Billy felt so fucking turned on but ashamed and horny again; he finally just said, “Do it.”
 
Joe ripped in and out of him, then: hard and fast, painful and amazing.  And Billy helplessly came again, hard; it racked his body like sexual dry heaves. His ass clenched around Joe’s cock and brought Joe off, too. 
 
Then Joe rolled off him and they both lay there saying nothing, breathing hard, breathing so hard. Billy tried to think of something to say, something casual precisely because they’d crossed over into true faggot territory now.
 
He still hadn’t quite wrapped his head around the fact that he liked girls, he fucked girls, girls sucked him, and that was good. But he loved Joe. And that was somehow part of – and totally separate from – the fact that he sucked Joe and Joe sucked him. And now Joe had fucked him, fucked him up the ass. . .  And that was pretty fuckin’ gay. . .  So what was he supposed to do with himself?
 
Joe finally spoke, so casual.
 
“Fuck, that was amazing. Always liked your skinny ass. Like it even better now.” And slapped Billy on the ass, then reached across Billy for the cigarettes and lit one.
 
It made Billy laugh, an almost hysterical laugh he choked off. 
 
Joe just looked at him, calmly, almost serenely. He took a long smooth drag off his cigarette, then handed it to Billy to share it.
 
“Fuck me, too, if you want,” Joe said. He shrugged and looked Billy right in the eye and added, “I heard it feels really good.”
 
Billy wondered for a moment if Joe was making fun of him. But Joe looked serious. Billy filed that away. (Jealous wonder: just how had Joe heard ass fucking felt good to the assfuckee? Were there other guys? Had Joe done this before? With who?)
 
 But the fact that Joe was game, would take it like he gave it. . .
 
It was as simple – and not as simple – as that.
 
Billy said quietly, “Don’t tell anyone.”
 
“Okay,” Joe simply said, taking his cigarette back and shrugging.
 
“Mean it. Say it.” 
 
“I won’t tell anyone,” Joe enunciated carefully, his cool gaze meeting Billy’s.
 
Joe, the fucker, was perfectly capable of using secrets as leverage in the increasingly complex interrelationships among the band and Mulligan. But Billy sensed this was not leverage, was not something to hold over his head.
 
And then Joe shrugged.
 
“You do me, and then you could tell, too. Then it’s Mutually Assured Destruction, right? Don’t want that.”
 
Joe handed his cigarette back to Billy, drawled “Finish it,” and then rolled over on his stomach and shoved the pillow under his cock.
 
It couldn’t be MAD, though. Joe never cared what people thought. Why would he start now?
 
Billy crushed out the cigarette, jacked himself into hardness again, and just as he was holding Joe’s buttocks apart, trying to find the hole, Joe looked over a tattooed shoulder at him.
 
“Use more spit. I shoulda done that with you, but. . . I wanted your ass for so long, I got greedy. Sorry.”
 
And meant it, the fucker. Meant every word, held Billy’s gaze, ‘til Billy nodded dumbly. He spit on Joe’s ass a few times until it seemed like there was enough saliva.
 
It seemed to take hours to get his cock in, though he knew it wasn’t that long. Joe grunted and sweated and Billy tried to be careful. Finally his head was in. Joe’s ass was hot and almost painfully tight and this was starting to seem like it was a lot more effort than it was worth.
 
Then Joe took a deep breath, and exhaled, and said, “Go.”
 
The tight ring of hard muscle around Billy relaxed a little, and he shoved in deeper. 
 
Joe clenched and unclenched and again gritted “Go,” through his teeth.
 
Billy thrust again, too shallowly.
 
Joe snapped, “Billy, get the fuck in there.” So Billy shoved all the way in, hard. Joe groaned and slammed a fist into the bed. Then he gritted, “More.”
 
Billy pulled back out and Joe clenched his fist again, but said nothing.
 
Billy started fucking Joe hard and Joe took it, no more fist slams, until finally Billy pulled out and pulled Joe’s hips back and Joe got up on all fours and let Billy fuck him doggie style.
 
Joe’s cock drooled all over the bed under them until Billy started jacking it. But jacking Joe off messed up his fucking rhythm, so Joe took over jacking himself off. Although it took a while, because he’d already come a few times, Billy finally came in Joe’s ass, wondering if he’d permanently damaged Joe’s ass and sort of not caring but caring. Joe hammered himself harder and faster. Seconds after Billy, he came, gasping hoarsely.
 
They fell exhausted against one another and passed out that way, to awaken to pounding on the door in the morning.
 
Joe jumped awake first, yawned, yelled, “What?” and slid to the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face and flattened mohawk.
 
“Hurry up,” Pipefitter called. “We gotta get rolling soon.”
 
“In a minute,” Joe yelled back. He stood, casting his eyes about for his jeans.
 
Billy grabbed Joe’s wrist. Joe’s piercing gaze met his.
 
“What?”
 
“Remember what I said last night?”
 
“Yeah. Remember what I said? Just you ‘n me, Billy, nobody else will know. Lemme go, I gotta find my pants.”
 
The rest of the day it was as if it had never happened. But that night, after the girls were gone, in the dark, the blowjob Joe gave Billy changed and he rolled Billy onto his stomach, and fucked Billy hard until he came, pulling Billy onto all fours at the last moment.
 
They both collapsed down onto the bed, Joe heavy on Billy but not uncomfortably so. Joe’s cock softened, and he pulled out, saying nothing. He slid to the side next to Billy. Then he rolled over onto his stomach, still panting, and just lay there, looking Billy meaningfully in the eye while he caught his breath. Staring at Billy.
 
Billy finally realized what Joe wanted and climbed on Joe. They hardly ever talked about it after that. It was always on the menu.
 
Billy came back to the moment, to Joe smearing the spit around with his tongue, and then repositioning himself above Billy. He felt the head of Joe’s cock pushing into him, felt the familiar faint pain and sweet piercing. He relaxed and let Joe have his way. 
 
Soon sweat dripped off Joe’s chest onto Billy’s back, and Joe grunted involuntarily, panting hoarsely. The only coherent words that occasionally came out of him were “Bill. . . Billy. . .”
 
Billy felt the sweet sensations build inside him, restless without knowing why, closing in on his own orgasm, feeling how close Joe was. Pretty soon Joe would. . .
 
“Up,” Joe panted. He pulled out all the way, sat back on his knees, and tried to tug Billy up onto all fours by his hips. “It’s a better angle.”
 
“Yeah,” Billy said. And then, without really knowing why, he sat up, and turned around and faced Joe.
 
“What,” Joe said, looking down at Billy’s hardened cock, stroking one of his slim thighs absently. Tired lines were etched by his eyes, but his gaze was feverishly bright when it met Billy’s.
 
Billy said nothing. He slid down and lay on his back and looked up at Joe kneeling between his legs. He bent his knees, spread his legs wider around Joe.
 
Joe paused, still breathing hard, and scrutinized Billy’s expression.
 
“Better angle,” Billy said, looking up at Joe.
 
Joe paused, strangely uncertain – not an expression often seen on his face. Then he slid his hands down the insides of Billy’s thighs, stopping just short of his cock, and leaned down for some sucking.
 
Billy relaxed into the languid head. Just as he started to get into it, Joe stretched back up to lay full on him. His body covered Billy’s; he leaned his head between Billy’s neck and shoulder.
 
Joe just bit his neck and slid up for a real kiss, not at all punishing or demanding. Just slow, exploratory kissing. Billy responded, warmth rising to the surface of his face, his chest. . .
 
He encircled Joe with his arms and legs. . . something they never did. If one of them held the other, it was usually to hold him down. Not that there was anything wrong with that – Billy liked that just fine – but this was different and good. Maybe better, in a weird way. 
 
Joe started rocking his pelvis. Billy’s hard cock hadn’t let him forget about it, grinding their two cocks together side by side. The friction got Billy restless again. 
 
Just as he was about to push Joe off him and say, “Come on,” Joe pulled up and then sat back on his knees.
 
He paused, looking at Billy, one of those indefinable stares. 
 
Then Joe grabbed Billy’s ankles and put them on his shoulders. He slid down between Billy’s legs, then put his shoulders into the backs of Billy’s knees. He looked down to position his cock, and then plunged back in, no preamble, no playing around, just jammed himself back as deep as he could go.
 
Billy felt Joe slide past that spot inside him. Knew Joe was going to give it to him hard and fast, whether Billy liked it or not. 
 
He liked it.
 
Sure enough, Joe did. Billy soon panted and grunted as Joe slammed into him. It was amazing and Billy was so close, so close, so close. . . Then Joe doubled his speed but shortened his depth, hitting that spot inside Billy, over and over, fast and furious. Billy began to jerk and come, and Joe started to grunt too. He held himself above Billy and pounded them together until Billy’s moans were incoherent and grateful. Then Joe slowed down, dragging out his last few spurts, Billy twitching on sensory overload with each one.
 
Finally Joe collapsed on Billy’s chest and stomach, Billy’s legs still crooked up around Joe’s big arms. Billy slid his sweaty legs down around Joe, who lay like dead weight on him now. Billy didn’t mind. 
 
He felt Joe soften and slip out of him. Joe shifted his weight slightly, grunted, and tucked his head farther into the space between Billy’s neck and shoulder. He breathed heavily on Billy until he’d caught his breath. Then he slid off Billy without looking at him. On his way off to the side, Joe grabbed Billy’s hand in his and squeezed it hard, so hard, crushing hard.
 
And then he was out. Typical Joe.
 
. . .
 
Billy stood at the window, remembering it all, and smoked, and gazed out at the parking lot. Joe started to stir. Billy expected some flip comment or grumble for cigarettes or something to drink. But all Joe did was yawn, slide out of bed naked and stumble off to the bathroom.
 
Billy heard him take a long piss, fart, and flush the toilet.
 
Then Joe wandered sleepily across the carpet to slide up behind Billy. Joe hung his arms around Billy’s shoulders and neck from behind. Billy turned his head slightly, not looking over his shoulder, just acknowledging Joe. He felt the hair of Joe’s chest against his back, sleep warm and animal like. Joe pressed his lips to Billy’s neck, then bit Billy there.
 
“Gimme a drag,” he murmured after his teeth let go, and jutted his chin past Billy’s ear. Billy held the cigarette up to Joe’s mouth, and Joe took a long drag, then nodded. Billy removed the cigarette and took a drag for himself as Joe exhaled smoke towards the window.
 
They stood there, looking out at the dead parking lot, Billy’s arms propped on the edge of the window. Billy felt the comfortable weight of Joe’s arms around his shoulders. Then he felt the whistle of air behind his ear as Joe put his nose there and inhaled deeply.
verushka70: S4E1 Walt alone silhouette wearing hat and holding shotgun (Default)
Great thanks for the beta-ing go to malnpudl. This was originally written for the HCL fic exchange, but it didn't quite fit my recipient's criteria to my satisfaction.  So I fixed it up anyway and here it is. About 6200 words.

HCL, Joe/Billy, pre-movie, graphic (NC-17)  
 
 
More Spit



 
The phone woke him out of a dead sleep. He started awake at the shrill ring — old phone, black melamine, tough as nails — and dragged the earpiece off the receiver and into bed as the rest of the phone went crashing to the floor. Far from the first time, and wouldn’t be the last.
 
“Hullo.”
 
“Joe.” Billy. Voice husky. Sounds of… yelling, screaming, small crashing sounds.
 
“Yeah.” He struggled to open his eyes, wake up. It was Billy. Never mind the ludes from a couple hours earlier. He groped with his other hand for the clock, brought it to his face. Plastic, slight hum, glow in the dark tips on the long and short hands. About quarter to four AM. Dark, cold fucking quarter to four.
 
“I need a ride.”
 
“You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” Joe yawned. “I just went to bed like an hour ago.”

Another crash; shrill female screaming close to the phone. Close to Billy. Too close to Billy.
 
Read more... )
 
Then Billy was back.
 
“Joe.”
 
“What.”
 
“I really need a ride.”
 
“The fuck are you?”
 
“Outside the city. Way rich suburbs.”
 
“Fuck, Billy. What am I supposed to do about it? I don’t even have a fuckin’ car right now.”
 
“Just do something. Shit’s getting insane here.”
 
“Dorene?”
 
“No.”
 
“Not Dorene?” Joe couldn’t keep up with the girls Billy tried and tossed aside.
 
“No.”
 
Joe paused to consider, then mentally shrugged. Sure, it was warm and cozy under the covers. Sure, he’d be risking his own life to get up and try to drive now, after the downers. Not to mention the fact that he had no wheels. But…
 
It was Billy. 
 
“Call me back in ten minutes.” How long would it take for the reds to take effect, and for him to gulp down some cold coffee or warm beer?
 
“Hurry it up.”
 
“Bitch, bitch, bitch…” Joe hung up the phone, swung his legs out of bed into the cold, damp, basement air, and fumbled for the light switch on the chipped porcelain lamp he’d gotten from his cousins when they moved east. 
 
Billy knew the drill, Joe thought, as he fumbled in his jeans pockets for the uppers he was sure he’d stashed there way earlier in the evening. Call me back in ten meant call me back in twenty. By the time Billy called, Joe would’ve made some phone calls of his own. Maybe found some wheels he could borrow (or steal, if there was no answer but he knew the fucker was home).
 
Fuck, no reds. Where were they? He stood and grabbed his leather jacket off the floor at the foot of the bed. There they were — inside pocket. Fingering three of them out of the pocket, he tossed them back and then looked around for an open beer to swallow them.
 
No beer. Damn. He dragged on his jeans and last night’s smoky-smelling T-shirt.  Shivered because the clothes were cold. Stumbled to the kitchen.
 
There was some coffee left in the Mr. Coffee. He drank it cold out of the pot to swallow the speeders that were now sticking to the roof of his dry mouth.  Pretty soon he’d be all wired; there’d be nothing to do but ride it out. 
 
Joe scratched his balls through the thinning denim of his jeans and slipped back to the bedroom. He found the phone under the bedclothes he’d cast off when he hung up.
 
First number: Pipe.
 
No answer. Probably over at John’s anyway or with the latest girlfuck.
 
Next number: John.
 
“Johnny.”
 
“Joe? What’s wrong? It’s four o’clock.”
 
“John. Need your wheels.”
 
“They’re not my wheels, they’re my girlfriend’s. And she’s at work.”
 
“Fuck.” He’d forgotten Johnny’s girl worked night shift at a downtown diner.
 
“Joe?”
 
“I need wheels, man.”
 
“What’s wrong?”
 
“Billy.”
 
“Yeah?”
 
“Got his ass stuck somewhere, gotta go pick him up.”
 
“He can’t take transit?”
 
“If he could, he would be. Who’s got wheels at home right now?”
 
“Joe…”
 
* * *
 
There Billy was, standing on the corner by a fat old tree. In front of a big Victorian in this quiet, posh little neighborhood, he looked skinny and cold in his jeans and leather jacket. 
 
Joe pulled up and leaned over to unlock the passenger door.
 
Billy yanked it open, got in.
 
Wrapped his arms around himself.
 
“A Renault?” was all he said for twenty minutes.
 
Joe said nothing, just smoked, lit another cig off his own, handed it over to Billy. He knew Billy in these moods. These “I dunno what happened, she just went apeshit” moods.
 
Course girls went apeshit. ‘Cause they weren’t stupid. Just like Joe wasn’t stupid. Billy was always, always, always going to play around.  Nothing serious, nothing major. But he never could keep it in his pants once he figured out how to use it. 
 
Never mind that it was Joe who taught him.
 
He sighed, cranked the heater up higher, exhaled more smoke into the already smoky interior of the car.
 
“So,” Billy began.
 
Joe said nothing.
 
“So, Joe,” Billy started again, and hesitated.
 
How did Joe know what Billy was gonna say before he said it?
 
“Yeah, yeah, you can crash at my place. But you better not get me kicked out again. I got no money, ‘til the next few gigs, and they’re over two months away.”
 
“Joe.” Just that one word, sad and sorry and a little affectionate.
 
Joe looked at Billy, really looked at him for the first time since he’d gotten in the car. “Yeah?”
 
Billy met his gaze, then looked away. “Nothin’.”
 
“Look Billy, the doctor said to just give it time. Just give it a rest. Down time. No guitar. And it’ll all be okay.”
 
“Joe, what the fuck!” Billy slammed his fist against the dash board, then winced and stuck his hand into his armpit like it really hurt.
 
“That’s really gonna help,” Joe said, eyes on the road, but slipping to the right periodically, gauging just how bad Billy was. 
 
He jammed out the butt of his cigarette in the now-overflowing ashtray.  Good thing he’d brought two packs. Obviously, Billy had shit on him — no smokes, no money, no nothin’.
 
And he was more depressed than Joe had ever seen him. This explained all the girl probs, a new girlfuck every weekend — hell, every three days. Hanging out at the record store too much, meeting new chicks: way to escape the negative.
 
“You’ll be fine, Billy.”
 
“Joe, what if—”
 
“You’ll be fine, Billy—”
 
“Joe—”
 
Joe wrenched the wheel hard right, pulled over abruptly, rims hitting the kerb. He slammed on the brakes and jammed the car into park so fast that they both jerked forward and back.
 
“Stop freaking out,” he said, slowly grabbing Billy by the skinny lapels of his leather jacket with all the zippers. “Stop it now,” he enunciated clearly, looking Billy over carefully.
 
Misery in his cold, blue eyes, mouth a grim line, jaw clenched — this was Billy about as bad as he could ever get. None of the bounce, none of the sly smiles, none of the attitude. Dejection, head to toe, far as Joe could see. Later it would become anger and frustration, and he’d take it out on Joe and Pipe and John. Mostly Joe. But right now Billy was down deep.
 
“What if I don’t get it back? What if this, this tendonitis or whatever—”
 
“You do what the doc said, right? Ice? Half hour on, hour off? No guitar? No nothing? No writing? Nothing that overdoes it?” He let go of the lapels and Billy slumped back against the seat.
 
“Yeah.”
 
“That’s not what I wanna hear.”
 
“I said, Yeah.”
 
“Didn’t sound convincing, Billy.”
 
“I said, Yeah.”
 
“Are you really doing it? The ice? The not playing?”
 
“Yeah.” Pause. Billy shivered, closed his eyes. “No.” Veins at his temple stood out in tiredness. 
 
“Dammit, Billy.” Now it was Joe’s turn to slam his fist on the dash.
 
“Fuck you, Dick. I’m just the guitarist for the band to you.”
 
Better than a Jewish mom, Joe thought.
 
“Listen, you pity party stupid fuck,” he began, “it’s not that. You know, and I know, that you were born to play. And you will. You will have the rest of your short fuckin’ life to play, if you keep pissin’ me off and make me kill you young. But give it a rest. You’ve got time. You’re overdoin’ it, that’s what the doc said. You’re playin’ too much, too long, every day, no rest.”
 
“But—”
 
“No buts, Billy. No jamming, no strumming, no nothing. If you want it to come back you gotta lay off for a while. We got over two months ‘til the next gigs. We can—”
 
“I gotta practice, Joe—”
 
“Dammit, Billy, you can play our shit in your sleep. Ya don’t need to practice. We all don’t need to practice.”
 
“That’s what you said when the head of ThinkWank Records came to see us play, and we sucked.”
 
Jewish mom Billy wasn’t bad enough. There was elephant-memory Billy too.
 
“That corporate fuck was supposed to come see us play four times and didn’t show. How the fuck was I supposed to—look, that’s not the point. The point is, lay off. You got the rest of your life to play guitar. Right now you need to take it easy, cut it out, give your arm a rest.”  
 
Billy slumped down farther in the seat. “He was not a corporate fuck,” he muttered.
 
Joe put the car in drive, lit another smoke, and said nothing more. This was that rare appearance of the inconsolable Bill Boisy, not Billy Tallent. Joe knew that boy—knew him like he knew Joey Mulgrew—and knew there was no point talking.
 
After a while, driving from one side of Vancouver to the other, Joe said, “It’ll get better if you give it time.”
 
“What if two months isn’t enough time?”
 
“Keep breaking the doctor’s orders, it won’t be.”
 
“Even if I do—”
 
“Shut the fuck up, Billy. And listen to me. You’re the guitarist. Ya need six months off? You got it. A year? You got it.”
 
“You can’t replace me.”
 
“We won’t. We just won’t play.”
 
“We can’t afford not to.”
 
“We can’t afford you fucking up your arm worse so you can never play again. And neither can you.”
 
Billy went silent. Turned away. Looked out the window.
 
Joe pulled up down the street from his apartment. Place to ditch the car, but the cops would probably figure it was him anyway: Joe Dick: Usual Suspect. But these days the upswing in crime meant the cops had little time to waste on punks like him who just moved durable consumer goods from one place to another, and left ‘em in good shape, though reeking of cigarettes. Joe’s thefts never wound up in chop shops. 
 
“We’re here,” Joe said flatly.
 
“Can’t even jack off,” Billy mumbled, his forehead against the passenger window glass. “Hurts like a bitch. I can’t finish before my arm hurts so bad I gotta stop.”
 
A warm twinge hit Joe in his belly, but he said nothing. 
 
He ripped the twisted wires apart under the steering column and the engine died. Joe got out of the car, then, and shut the door without slamming it, for once. The steam of his exhalation made clouds in front of him until Billy dragged himself out of the car.
 
Billy slammed the door, hard. And loudly. A dog started barking. 
 
Joe looked at the sky above him for patience, drew a deep breath, and then exhaled, taking another drag off his smoke.
 
“Hungry?” he asked.
 
“No,” Billy mumbled.
 
Good, Joe thought, because there’s nothing in the fridge, anyway.
 
“Come on,” he said, turning to trudge down the street, not even looking back at Billy. He’d follow.
 
Soon they were at Joe’s basement apartment. The dog finally stopped barking.
 
The best way to get Billy closer to you was to push him away. And that took every ounce of control Joe had, sometimes. Much more than he had, lotta times. It would help if he remembered this point, in his most fiery moments of anger and lust, but he usually didn’t. Only when Billy really was down and out, only when it wasn’t about Joe, did Joe remember how to get to Billy… for Billy’s own good.
 
Joe turned on the chipped porcelain lamp.
 
“Chesterfield. Blanket.” He gestured at the worn sofa, and grabbed a blanket off his bed and threw it at the listless Billy.
 
The look of shock was almost priceless.
 
“Chesterfield?” Billy said, mouth open, brows narrowing.
 
“I’m gonna be awake for a while,” Joe said dryly. “I hadda take some uppers to straighten up and come get your ass. You wanna get some sleep, take the chesterfield.”
 
Billy turned away, kicked off his mostly unlaced combat boots and threw himself petulantly on the couch. 
 
Joe dropped his jacket on the floor, toed off his battered boots, and lay down. He had two stashes in the bedside table: Heavy Metal magazine and porn. He opened the drawer without looking, grabbed a magazine at random, and brought it to his face while opening it simultaneously.
 
Blue skinned alien chicks with eight breasts having sex. All right. 
 
“It’s fucking cold down here,” Billy mumbled from the chesterfield.
 
“I don’t control the heat.” Joe didn’t look away from the magazine, knowing that not to would further piss off poor Billy.
 
“Too bright in here.”
 
Joe ignored that.
 
Finally Billy said,
 
“Lemme have a porn mag.”
 
“No. If you can’t play guitar with that hand, you better not jack off with it, either.”
 
“The doctor didn’t say that.”
 
“He said not to do anything that aggravates it. Jacking off was implied. If you don’t look at the porn, you won’t want to.”
 
“I always want to,” Billy grumbled.
 
“Christ, you’re a whiny fuck. Whaddaya want, Billiam?”
 
Billy just jerked his chin in the direction of Joe and Joe’s bed.
 
Joe shrugged and turned his eyes back to the multi-breasted alien chicks. Except he didn’t see them, wasn’t paying any attention to them at all.
 
He sensed Billy. Sensed his mood, his moves. Felt Billy get up before he did it, knew he’d drag the blanket on the floor like a little boy. Like he always did. 
 
Felt the mattress sag to his left when Billy sat down. Then Billy turned his spiky head away from Joe, literally giving him the cold shoulder.
 
Joe could wait.
 
* * *
 
“Let me see,” Billy whispered. He rolled over onto his back and slid closer to Joe.
 
“Fine,” Joe replied. He moved closer to Billy and they lay on the bed. Their heads touched at the spikiest points of their hair as they read Joe’s Heavy Metal. Joe’s foot kept jiggling, courtesy of the reds still in his system.
 
“Turn the page,” Billy said after a couple minutes.
 
“I’m not done reading it yet.”
 
“Slow reader, eh, Joe?”
 
“Fuck you. I take my time; I get a good look at the pictures.”
 
There it was, and this was all he ever wanted sometimes. Small, quiet moments with Billy— just to lie in bed, sharing a comic like they had all those years ago. Before the band. Before everything that came later. Even if, right now, the uppers were still a jittery feeling in his limbs, it was like it used to be for a moment.
 
Billy grinned at him when Joe looked over. Grinned the way he had at fifteen when they’d lay on the floor reading Joe’s comic books (or his dad’s porn), and Joe had felt that warmth, that twinge. Not just in his groin, where he felt it so often with Billy and for Billy… in his chest. That feeling that maybe they had something with each other that neither could ever have with anyone else.
 
Few ever saw these moments. Even on tour. Touring was a lot of punk attitude. Joe’s preferred mode for public life.
 
Billy slid closer. 
 
Said the one word Joe knew he would say to make it all even better.
 
Whispered it.
 
“Joey.”
 
The magazine landed flat on Joe’s chest with a smack.
 
He slid it quickly off his chest and swept it into the open drawer in the bedside table. Leaned away briefly to twist up and over, and turn off the light.
 
Then he burrowed under the covers Billy had brought from the chesterfield.Peeled layers back, peeled clothes open: his own jeans, Billy’s jacket (fucker still had it on). His mouth watered in the few seconds before his hand made its way up from Billy’s zipper to his chin, to turn his mouth towards Joe’s for a wet, rough kiss. 
 
His hand slid from Billy’s chin, slid down Billy’s chest, then slipped under his Clash T-shirt.
 
With girls Joe was rough. He took what he wanted, did whatever he could get away with.
 
But with Billy, Joe had finesse.
 
He pulled back from the lips under his, the tongue that had begun to dart into his mouth. He stroked his fingers round Billy’s navel, occasionally stroked farther down the happy trail.
 
“Joey—”
 
“Yeah…”
 
“C’mon.”
 
“You c’mon.” Joe pushed the T-shirt all the way up, bent his face down and sucked in one nipple. Billy arched under him.
 
“C’mon.”
 
“You still got your clothes on,” Joe murmured, the vibration of his voice against Billy’s chest.
 
“So?”
 
“So let’s…”Joe half sat up, pushed and prodded Billy to get him out of the leather. He pulled Billy’s T-shirt over his head, shoved his jeans down to mid-thigh. A sticky spot grew where Billy’s erect cockhead tented the briefs up.
 
“Joe…”
 
“Yeah,” Joe breathed.
 
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a statement. 
 
It was a benediction, a prayer, a mantra.
 
Up on his knees, he took Billy’s jeans all the way off, but left the briefs on.
 
Took off his own clothes, except for his thin, holey boxers.
 
Joe swept his eyes across the expanse of Billy, from tufted spikes, past the hard cock poking up the briefs, to Billy’s thin, muscular thighs.  He felt the twin twinges again, the one at the root of his cock… and the one in his chest.
 
He lay down on Billy and took his eager mouth roughly. Ground their cocks together, thrusting down at Billy as he thrust up at Joe.
 
Joe slid his mouth down Billy’s jaw to his jugular and bit him lightly there. Then he slid down farther to first one nipple and then the other. Slid down farther to lick around Billy’s navel.
 
He grasped the edges of Billy’s waistband, and ever so slowly drew Billy’s briefs down and pushed them to his knees. The hot, hard cock nudged Joe’s neck as his tongue swept near Billy’s navel. He felt the damp stickiness of the head behind his ear as he moved his mouth.
 
Then Joe finally sucked the velvet head in slowly and wetly across his teeth. When he heard the sharp intake of breath he’d been seeking — Billy liked it just this side of rough —  Joe got down to work.
 
Billy was not hard to suck off. Not too big, and not too small either. Joe had figured out, as he’d pushed them both farther over the years, that Billy’s cock was the perfect size for ass-fucking. And actually, Joe was almost the same size. Maybe a bit shorter, but a bit more girth. 
 
But the only fucking was Billy fucking Joe. He’d never let Joe fuck him.
 
So Joe worked Billy like a pro, sucked up and down, slower, then faster, pulling up and back for occasional tongue twirls around the head. Billy gripped Joe’s shoulders, tighter and tighter. Finally he reflexively gripped Joe’s head, fingers slipping through the unruly Mohawk, palms resting hotly on naked, sweaty scalp.
 
“Joey—”
 
And here it comes, thought Joe, just as those hot palms pushed his face up and off. Billy swiftly sat up and tumbled Joe onto his back. Wiry strong fucker. He ripped Joe’s boxers down, tore his own briefs the rest of the way down and off, then roughly shoved Joe over onto his stomach by the shoulder. 
 
Joe let him. 
 
Then Billy was on him, rubbing his slippery cock all over Joe’s ass. Joe sighed, figuring it might as well be his own spit slicking him up for Billy. Better his own than none, like when Billy occasionally threw him up against a wall.
 
“Get up,” Billy whispered, sitting back on his haunches between Joe’s legs. 
 
Joe got up on all fours, head hanging down. Waiting.
 
Took Billy a minute to position himself. Joe steeled himself. It had been a while. Maybe a month, six weeks, eight. Billy had been occupied with girls.
 
Girls who never let him do this.
 
Finally Joe felt Billy there, the cockhead at his ass, ready to enter.
 
“More spit,” he growled to Billy, just in case. 
 
Billy pulled his sweet warmth back, spit in his hand, slicked himself up, then spit on Joe’s ass. Joe felt Billy breathing hard all down his back, huffs of horniness and need. 
 
Then Billy repositioned himself, and Joe felt the heat between them, the cold around them in the basement. Billy thrust the head in. Joe winced, more out of habit than actual pain. They’d done this too often for it to be that painful anymore.
 
He felt Billy’s hands on his hips, and knew what was coming — drew in a deep breath, preparing.
 
Billy thrust all the rest of the way in up to the hilt. He felt big and Joe felt full up and it was just like every time and it was like no other time.
 
After only a few rough, long, in-out strokes, Joe moaned and pressed his forehead against his bicep. His hands fisted around the bed clothes.
 
The thrusting stopped. One hand slipped off Joe’s hip.
 
“What?” Joe whispered, already panting. He looked back at Billy.
 
“Can’t hold your hip,” Billy replied tersely, breathing heavily. “Hurts.”
 
Joe paused. Then he put a hand behind them both, on Billy’s ass to keep Billy inside. He slid down flat onto his stomach, bringing Billy, still in him.
 
“I can’t…”
 
“Use your good elbow,” Joe murmured.
 
“No leverage—”
 
“Here,” Joe whispered and dragged a pillow down to shove it roughly under his pelvis. He bunched it up and took a moment to rearrange his leaking cock over and around the lump. And Billy was still inside him, still connected to him. God he loved Billiam for these moments.
 
Then Joe lay back down flat on the bed, Billy still joined to him, and pulled Billy’s bad arm up under his armpit.
 
“Lean on this elbow. Use the other hand if you need to,” Joe whispered. He tugged Billy’s hand under his chest to place the open palm against the twinge in his chest.
 
“No leverage,” Billy whispered.
 
“Just get to it, ya whiny fuck.”
 
Billy began shallow thrusts, and Joe relaxed into it.  He felt Billy’s bad hand against his chest, palm slipping from sweat. Felt the wiry heat and motion behind him. Felt twinges in his heart and ass and cock, darker and more twisted and somehow better and worse with Billy holding him, holding them together, instead of detached doggie style.
 
The shallow fucking deepened. Joe spread his thighs farther apart, arched his lower back a little. The piercing rushes of Billy moving in and out of him made Joe shiver. Gooseflesh pricked over the muscles on his shoulders.
 
“Joe—” 
 
Heavy breaths tickled his ear. Billy’s bad hand slipped out from under Joe, for the last couple minutes of harder and deeper. He held himself up over Joe; went all out in mindless animalistic pursuit of orgasm, hyperventilating and grunting.
 
Billy came, hard, on an in-thrust, and moaned roughly. Joe could tell Billy was drawing out the pleasure on shallower thrusts, and it heightened his own arousal. To be used roughly for Billy’s pleasure was deeply exciting, even if the uppers blunted it. Joe felt this only with Billy; doubted he would ever feel this way with anyone else.
 
Billy’s forearm shook, quivering, probably in pain; he still held himself up as he shivered through the last orgasmic thrusts into Joe.
 
To feel he was the lock, and Billy his only key, provoked a fierce – and intolerable – tenderness in Joe. It twisted together his need to crush Billy in a hug with his desire to punch Billy for taking such a long, cool time to come back to him. To this.
 
Joe drew Billy’s bad arm gently under him again. Billy collapsed on him, their sweat-slick bodies finally skin to skin again.
 
Billy’s arms slid around Joe while they both tried to catch their breath. It made Joe swallow hard. So much was never said. But he felt it, he knew it was there.
 
Billy stayed on him longer this time than maybe ever before. They both panted.
 
Joe felt Billy’s cock shrink inside him until it slipped out. His own cock was swollen and aching. Sometimes he came from Billy in his ass, but sometimes he didn’t. This was one of those times. Reds didn’t help. Too jittery. But, damn, everything felt so good.
 
Billy slid off him and to the side. Suddenly the cold basement air on Joe’s sweat-wet back was too much. He yanked the pillow out from under his cock and rolled onto his back. He half sat up, grabbing the sheet and blanket and pulling them over both himself and Billy.
 
“Fuck,” Billy said, catching his breath and yawning.
 
“Yeah.” Joe replied. 
 
He leaned over to the bedside table, found the cigarettes, lit one, passed it to Billy without comment. Joe lit another, took a deep hit, and closed his eyes, suddenly very tired. He was wired, knew he’d never really sleep, but suddenly felt exhausted. Which was funny, because he hadn’t done much work, fucking-wise.
 
“Here,” Billy said, and reached down under the covers to stroke Joe’s still half-hard cock.
 
“Not with your strumming hand,” Joe said, eyes closed.
 
“It’s not,” Billy whispered. 
 
“That explains why it sucks,” Joe chuckled, and Billy chuckled too.
 
But then Billy moved down under the sheet and blanket, careful to keep Joe covered, not exposed to the cool air. Joe felt the tickle of breath on his cock and the sudden suction and wetness of Billy’s hot little mouth. Joe inhaled sharply, almost dropping cigarette ash on the bed. Stretched and twisted slightly to stub out the cigarette in the ashtray on the floor.
 
Billy knew what he was doing. Joe tried not to think about how many times they’d done stuff like this. How many years, how many “that’s over, we’re not doing that anymore” gaps there’d been when Billy the boytoy went off and played with the girls. 
 
Yet it always came back to this. Because who else would come get Billy in the dark near dawn, way the fuck in the middle of nowhere? Who else would be the Great Wall of It’s Over to girls when they couldn’t get it through their heads — or, more likely, when cowardly Billy hadn’t even told them it was over, he just stopped calling? Who else would hassle and harass Billy into taking care of the tendonitis before it got worse? Who would force him to obey doctors’ orders?  
 
Joe, Joe, and Joe. Everyone else was too laissez-faire to bother. He’d get Billy to ice it before he left that afternoon.
 
But forget that for now. Billy’s sweet mouth tightly sucked him, with long, excruciating, slow up and down strokes. Joe held the blanket and sheet up to watch, then got tired of holding it. He was warm again, so he ripped them off and exposed Billy’s bobbing head. Billy sped up the sucking.
 
Joe lay back and propped his hands behind his head. He watched his cock flash in and out of Billy’s tight lips. Watched the hollows of Billy’s cheeks expand and deflate with cock, motion, and accumulated saliva. Saw the concentration in the wrinkle between Billy’s tightly shut eyes.
 
But then Billy reached up on autopilot to jack Joe off while sucking the head. Joe snapped a hand out to grab Billy’s wrist like a viper striking.
 
“Wha—?” Billy let Joe’s cock flop out of his mouth and smack against his stomach. His eyes got very big as they met Joe’s, blue and blue, ice and ice.
 
“Not with that hand,” Joe barked, louder than he’d meant to. “Give it a rest,” he said more softly, and let Billy’s wrist slide slowly out of his grasp. “I’m probably not gonna come, anyway. Too many uppers.” He propped both hands behind his head again, shrugged, then smiled wickedly. “But you can keep trying.”
 
“Fuck. Er,” Billy enunciated clearly. But he closed his eyes, a secret smile on his face, and went down on Joe again.
 
After a few frustrating near-gasms, when Joe involuntarily furrowed his fingers through Billy’s spikes, it became languid, pointless sucking. Joe was wired and tired and never going to come. Billy stretched out almost perpendicular to Joe’s pelvis, the two of them making a slanted T on the rumpled bed. 
 
If Billy moved his ass just a little closer, they’d be close enough for 69. But he was getting sleepy. He finally lay his cheek down on the happy trail between Joe’s cock and navel, Joe’s still-half-stiff cock tucked behind his head.
 
Billy looked at Joe with those crystal clear eyes, looking at Joe, looking through Joe.
 
Joe was never the first to look away. Let Billy see whatever he saw. Joe slowly reached out, as he almost never did — rarely could — and stroked Billy’s shoulder. The spikes of Billy’s hair were smashed flat now, mostly, thanks to Joe’s occasional grasping of Billy by the head. 
 
It was full daylight now, though you’d never know it from the dim and dappled light coming into the basement. Joe stroked down Billy’s back to his slim hips, his buttocks. Billy turned his head the other way, lay his other cheek on Joe’s stomach, facing down towards Joe’s deflated cock and legs.
 
It was a kind of permission. As much as Joe was ever likely to get. He stroked the slender buttocks, ran his fingers lightly through the furrow. Billy bucked his ass up a bit, like a cat seeking a caress.
 
Teasing bitch. He’d never actually give it up to Joe. Never let Joe’s cock to close to his ass. Yet.
 
There’d been plenty of denim on denim, Billy up against a wall or bent over a table or bed, Joe grinding his hardness against Billy’s slim, clothed ass.
 
Joe was surprised Billy let him do this much, now. But then, Billy owed him for having stolen wheels and driven way crosstown and beyond. Just to get his ass from some psychotic rich girl’s house.
 
Billy slid his arms around Joe’s thigh and slid his cheek down into the crease between Joe’s pelvis and thigh. Joe felt the slow breathing ripple through his leg hair and sighed inwardly.
 
“I hear a beat,” Billy said quietly.
 
“Femoral artery. Way to kill a guy quick.” Joe’d fucked a medical illustration major for a while. She was full of interesting anatomical facts.
 
He delved deeper between Billy’s slowly spreading thighs and caressed Billy’s balls from behind and between his legs.
 
“One of these days,” Billy sighed sleepily, “we’re gonna make it big and get the hell outta here.”
 
Joe felt the vibration of Billy’s voice in his thigh. His deflated cock twitched. He felt the familiar twinges, at the root of him, and in his chest. He said nothing for a moment, just continued caressing Billy’s balls, stroking them, tugging gently, fingering the loose skin between them.
 
“Whaddaya talkin’ about. Here’s great,” Joe finally murmured.
 
“Here sucks,” Billy whispered. “This sucks.”
 
Joe paused in response and with his hands. Billy lay quietly, expectantly, but tightened his arms around Joe’s thigh.
 
“This sucks? Or the tendonitis and not playing sucks?” Joe finally asked, and stroked Billy’s balls again.
 
“Tendonitis, dink,” came the faintly amused reply. “God, you’re such a bitch sometimes.”
 
Backstage, in front of Pipe and John, he might have punched Billy for that.
 
But here, now, wired and tired yet smiling, Joe admitted to himself that he was like a chick — like a bitch — for Billy.
 
Joe said nothing, but changed his caress. He stroked two fingers over Billy’s tight little hole.
 
Billy sighed, pushing his ass back against Joe’s hand in that slutty way. It killed Joe sometimes. 
 
“Just fingers, Joe,” was all Billy said.
 
Joe wanted to say all the things he would’ve said to convince a girl or a hooker to do something kinky or not on the menu. You could throw money or drugs at them to bolster the persuasion. But none of that worked with Billy.

Joe could wait. Times like this stored up in his brain. He wanted to say, You’re killin’ me, all slutty and needy and come-get-me-I’m-stranded last-minute bullshit. You put me off, and put me off, and it won’t be forever.
 
But he was tired, even if he knew sleep wouldn’t come 'til noon or later. He wasn’t in the mood to fight or argue.
 
He was just enough in that no-man’s-land between frustrated and satisfied to push it a little farther. Who knew the next time Billy would let him do this. There’d be more blowjobs and handjobs and groping and humping and grinding—there was always that, after Billy got over himself and got tired of girls. But it wasn’t often Billy let Joe touch him like this.
 
For right now, Joe would bide his time and not take a mile when Billy was giving inches like they were free. As if he did it all the time. Which he definitely did not. Joe would take the inches given now, and spin them later into leverage for the miles and miles Billy would owe him by then.
 
Sometimes when Billy was sleepy and post-horny, like now, he let Joe really push things. Before the back-tracking he inevitably did later, as if none of it had happened, as if it would never happen again. 
 
As if. 
 
Joe drew his hand up and licked his first two fingers, then slipped them back between Billy’s slim buttocks and stroked them over Billy’s tight little hole. He felt it twitch and relax a little.
 
Joe never pressed Billy publicly. Only privately, when it was angry and lusty and mean and dirty, times when it was nothing like now. Times when Joe’s fingers clenched bruising tight around Billy’s biceps, and his other hand was in Billy’s pants, clutching his cock. Then with teeth in the neck flesh below and behind the blond spikes, and his erection ground against Billy’s clothed ass, Joe growled a monologue low in Billy’s ear, designed to both excite and enrage. 
 
Times like that, he didn’t care how he got under Billy’s skin. He just wanted in
 
For now Joe kept stroking, moved his hand down to tug Billy’s balls, then back up to tickle the tight little hole.
 
But those times, unseen and unheard by everyone else, Joe never let Billy forget how far it got the last time. How much farther it went each time. How good it felt. How Billy loved it. How much his cocktease moves made Joe think Billy deserved to get what was coming to him. How one of these days. . .
 
He could be this Joe, the patient, soothing Joe he was now. . . if Billy only let him. Billy used to, years back – more then than now. But this wasn’t kid stuff anymore. Wasn’t just two teenage boys jacking off to Joe’s dad’s porn. Now, the gaps between their times together lengthened… yet each encounter was more intense than the last. 
 
Felt like a toreador and a bull sometimes, warily circling each other. Joe didn’t know whether he was the bullfighter or the bull. He just knew he saw red more often, felt stabbed, and wanted to stab Billy. Even as each intensifying, infrequent rendezvous came to mean more and more to him, Joe felt Billy slipping away. Imagined the bull, tired and bloody and moving slowly, froth dripping from its weary muzzle. Waiting for the killing stroke.
 
Billy moaned faintly. Joe felt the ring of muscle twitch under his touch, noted the throb of Billy’s taint as his cock hardened slightly.
 
“Don’t get any ideas,” Billy warned, defiantly jutting his chin up in the air from where it rested on Joe’s thigh.
 
You mixed-message little motherfucker, Joe thought. The balls on you to say that, when I’m doing this. What else would I be thinking. . . ?
 
But then Billy moaned again, and tucked his cheek back down to Joe’s leg. He tightened his arms around Joe’s thigh, spread his skinny legs farther apart, and bucked his ass up a little higher for more Joe-touch.
 
“More spit,” Billy whispered, his breath tickling the hair on Joe’s leg. 

In Joe’s chest, the twinge twisted and burned. He swallowed hard, throat tightening.
 
Then he worked his cheeks for more saliva.
verushka70: S4E1 Walt alone silhouette wearing hat and holding shotgun (Default)
Just for my own use, a link to the story I submitted for the HCL fic exchange. I don't have it anywhere else online.

(hang on) Tightly, (let go) Lightly
verushka70: S4E1 Walt alone silhouette wearing hat and holding shotgun (Default)
For escapism, cuz I need it, shortaneous (a new word I invented just now!) HCL fic below. Totally spur of the moment, unbeta-ed, fuck it. 'Bout 1000 words. Later: Made (~3:30pm) very minor edits.





As Usual

As he leaned back against the building in the dark alley, Billy flicked the cigarette away from him hard. He watched the sparks burst and cascade down as the lit cherry hit the opposite wall. Fireworks.

Like Joe. Fuckin' Joe. Who Billy waited for. Like a fool.

And speak of -- or think of -- the devil.

Around the corner at the mouth of the alley, here came Joe. He coughed roughly, flicked his own cigarette away from him, coat open and flapping as he strode down the alley.

"Billy," Joe said, stopping short before him. The closest alley light was half a block away, leaving them in dimness.

"Why here, Joe," Billy replied. No greeting, no preamble. Getting to the point.

"Why not here, Billy?" Sounding like he meant to be difficult.

Billy looked down and shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, though he wasn't cold.

"Whatever."

"Billy, listen..." Joe leaned in, put a hand alongside Billy's cheek.

"What?" He looked Joe full in the eye, seeing Joe's pupils darkly dilated, knowing his own must also be.

Joe said nothing, just leaned in swiftly and took his mouth, wet and rough but strangely slow and thorough. Not rushed, not hurried like he often was. Joe's other hand was up under his jacket, at his belt buckle... and then, giving up, unzipping his jacket, the better to attack the buckle from the front rather than under bunched-up-jacket.

Reflexively Billy's hands held onto Joe's shoulders, and his head bumped back against the brick wall. This was insane, as usual. And there was no stopping Joe, as usual. And that was both good and bad.

Good... rough hand on his cheek, now his neck, now slipping up under the collar of his jacket to keep their mouths sealed together. Joe was awkwardly unzipping him now, with his left and less dexterous hand. Bad... Billy's cock was already beating to life, rising in anticipation of Joe's tight, sure grip. Pavlov's fucking dog, Billy thought, I'm the dog and the zipper is the bell, and I don't salivate, I harden...
Read more... )
verushka70: S4E1 Walt alone silhouette wearing hat and holding shotgun (Default)
Here is a Joe/Billy sexual history, written in a semi-chronological series of escalating vignettes, intended to lead up to the Joe/Billy encounter that so unsettled Mary The Fan.

WIP, currently unfinished, hope to be finished by 1/17, but a little stuck, in need of concrit.

Tentatively titled Never. Countless.

Additional note: Although I've written a lot of DS fic, I've never before written HCL fic. So, please be gentle but constructive. Also if anyone can point me to a web site of notes and references for HCL canon, or a transcript, that would be a huge help. I've been waiting for the Hard Core edition of the DVD since July from Amazon.ca, so my VHS copy is getting unhappy with all the pausing and rewinding... If I had the DVD I'd just check the subtitles, although subtitles frequently lie...
--Surfgirl

Read more... )

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