verushka70 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
verushka70) wrote2006-04-04 01:07 pm
verushka70) wrote2006-04-04 01:07 pm
As Usual: HCL fic, Joe/Billy, NC-17, ~1000 words
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...
And Joe's mouth slid off his, slid down his neck, lips and tongue and teeth, always the teeth. Two simultaneous tight grips: Somehow the teeth always connected with Billy's neck right about the same time that the tight grip of Joe's hand grasped and pulled Billy's cock. And, as usual, he gasped quietly, unable to contain or mask his eagerness to have Joe do it, take him, give him what for, in every way he shouldn't want or like or need, but did.
"Billy, my boy..." Joe murmured, releasing the grip of his teeth and purring and panting into Billy's neck. From anyone else -- managers, bookers, record company dickheads -- "my boy" would be irritating, condescending, arrogant.
From Joe it was possessive. Lustful. Longing.
Aphrodisiac.
Joe's fast and sure strokes had Billy's hips bucking now, and Joe's mouth was back on his, slow and wet and Billy knew this move, too. But knowing had no bearing on his response. The slowness and wetness only whetted his appetite for the next part. Helpless as a dog drooling after a bell, Billy's hips jerked up into Joe's tight grip, wanting, wanting more.
The hand was off him now, sudden ache and need left in its absence. Joe pressed himself fully against Billy -- hard, rough, chest to chest, cock to cock. The edges of the bricks in Billy's back came through in a detached way; he barely felt the rest of himself.
Pressed hard against him, Joe slid. Slid down. A slow, grinding slide down to his knees. Joe's coat buttons caught on Billy's jacket, his necklace scraped Billy's neck, slightly tore Billy's T-shirt. His hands, fingers curled, slid from Billy's collar bones down his chest, digging slightly into Billy's shirt and flesh. Joe's half-serious scratches from his chest to his cock would fade in a day or two, Billy knew.
There it was, hot breath on his cock, hands on his hips. He bucked, but Joe held his hips against the wall, hesitated -- fucking tease, he was... Then, when Billy was about to say "what the fuck" in frustration, Joe inhaled him, down to the root, sucked him in fully.
And Billy gasped.
Hard, down-to-business sucking, fierce and demanding -- and Billy knew this touch, too, the Joe-means-business suck, the I'm-gonna-make-you-come-NOW suck. And it was, and he did. It felt like seconds later, but most likely it was minutes that flew by in ecstatic bliss. He could only take so much heavy, hard, tight, fast; could only take the stroking sucks so long before that was it. He jerked and bucked and groaned, his ejaculation a euphoric reflex, sucked out of him by Joe's voracious mouth and throat.
And, as usual, immediately after the very last spasm, Joe shoved against and slid up his body, wiping a trail of the saliva and come from around his mouth up Billy's T-shirt -- appearances be damned -- and landing hard on his mouth for more plunder. As usual, Joe's mouth said -- without speaking -- taste yourself, taste how good you are to me... whether you want to or not.
He wanted to. Good. And bad. Yeah.
There'd be finger shaped bruises on his hips tomorrow, as usual. There'd be small tears or threads pulled loose on his T-shirt along with a trail of sperm and spit, to be thrown in the wash or at the end of the bed and found two weeks later when he had nothing else to wear.
Joe's hands slid around his back under his shirt, arms slid under Billy's jacket. Crushed them together. Picked Billy up slightly, shoved him up against the brick wall, buried his face in Billy's neck. Hot naked scalp and mohawk pressed Billy's cheek as his feet left the ground. Eyes closed, Billy smiled as he spoke.
"Put me down. Freak."
But Joe didn't, not right away, never one to obey until he damn well felt like it.
As usual.
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...
And Joe's mouth slid off his, slid down his neck, lips and tongue and teeth, always the teeth. Two simultaneous tight grips: Somehow the teeth always connected with Billy's neck right about the same time that the tight grip of Joe's hand grasped and pulled Billy's cock. And, as usual, he gasped quietly, unable to contain or mask his eagerness to have Joe do it, take him, give him what for, in every way he shouldn't want or like or need, but did.
"Billy, my boy..." Joe murmured, releasing the grip of his teeth and purring and panting into Billy's neck. From anyone else -- managers, bookers, record company dickheads -- "my boy" would be irritating, condescending, arrogant.
From Joe it was possessive. Lustful. Longing.
Aphrodisiac.
Joe's fast and sure strokes had Billy's hips bucking now, and Joe's mouth was back on his, slow and wet and Billy knew this move, too. But knowing had no bearing on his response. The slowness and wetness only whetted his appetite for the next part. Helpless as a dog drooling after a bell, Billy's hips jerked up into Joe's tight grip, wanting, wanting more.
The hand was off him now, sudden ache and need left in its absence. Joe pressed himself fully against Billy -- hard, rough, chest to chest, cock to cock. The edges of the bricks in Billy's back came through in a detached way; he barely felt the rest of himself.
Pressed hard against him, Joe slid. Slid down. A slow, grinding slide down to his knees. Joe's coat buttons caught on Billy's jacket, his necklace scraped Billy's neck, slightly tore Billy's T-shirt. His hands, fingers curled, slid from Billy's collar bones down his chest, digging slightly into Billy's shirt and flesh. Joe's half-serious scratches from his chest to his cock would fade in a day or two, Billy knew.
There it was, hot breath on his cock, hands on his hips. He bucked, but Joe held his hips against the wall, hesitated -- fucking tease, he was... Then, when Billy was about to say "what the fuck" in frustration, Joe inhaled him, down to the root, sucked him in fully.
And Billy gasped.
Hard, down-to-business sucking, fierce and demanding -- and Billy knew this touch, too, the Joe-means-business suck, the I'm-gonna-make-you-come-NOW suck. And it was, and he did. It felt like seconds later, but most likely it was minutes that flew by in ecstatic bliss. He could only take so much heavy, hard, tight, fast; could only take the stroking sucks so long before that was it. He jerked and bucked and groaned, his ejaculation a euphoric reflex, sucked out of him by Joe's voracious mouth and throat.
And, as usual, immediately after the very last spasm, Joe shoved against and slid up his body, wiping a trail of the saliva and come from around his mouth up Billy's T-shirt -- appearances be damned -- and landing hard on his mouth for more plunder. As usual, Joe's mouth said -- without speaking -- taste yourself, taste how good you are to me... whether you want to or not.
He wanted to. Good. And bad. Yeah.
There'd be finger shaped bruises on his hips tomorrow, as usual. There'd be small tears or threads pulled loose on his T-shirt along with a trail of sperm and spit, to be thrown in the wash or at the end of the bed and found two weeks later when he had nothing else to wear.
Joe's hands slid around his back under his shirt, arms slid under Billy's jacket. Crushed them together. Picked Billy up slightly, shoved him up against the brick wall, buried his face in Billy's neck. Hot naked scalp and mohawk pressed Billy's cheek as his feet left the ground. Eyes closed, Billy smiled as he spoke.
"Put me down. Freak."
But Joe didn't, not right away, never one to obey until he damn well felt like it.
As usual.