Disclaimer: The boys belong to a whole lot of people and corporate entities that are not us. Used and abused without permission.
Notes: Thanks to Nicole, and the Women of The Craft, for clever and resourceful beta wonderfulness! This is another spin on The Night That Changed Everything--John said, "Maybe it was a bet or a competition they had..."
Author's Notes: (Mairead): I'd just like to acknowledge Amy for taking the HCL plunge and dragging so many of us along behind her, and to thank her for letting me kibitz on this story-- the original conception and execution is all hers, baby, and I just wheedled myself into the process. (Amy): Mairead gives me *way* too much credit. I don't have the time or space to say how completely she rocks.
Feedback: Please Support Your Local Budding Fandom! Email to: jb7811@comcast.net and mtriste@hotmail.com
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First Come, First Served
By Amy B. and Mairead Triste
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Billy's face is hot and that's bad-- that's just not cool, not now, not here. His ears are burning, and it's impossible to tell right now whether he wants to have heard correctly or not. "What?? The usual bet is a bottle of whiskey!"
"That's getting boring. Time to up the ante."
Joe's on *something*, who knows what-- maybe just this, this after-show glow thing, this just-the-two-of-them-crashed-out-on-the-couch-in-the-band-room thing. Whatever it is, his eyes are too bright, too spectacular. Billy feels like if he closes his own eyes he'll see streaks of color fading away, blindspots caused by too-brilliant lights.
He takes a breath, groping past everything. "Joe...this is fucked up."
Edgy, tombstone-toothed grin, and *duh*, when the hell has 'fucked up' ever stopped Joe Dick? "You don't think you can win?"
Chin up. There's too much here, too much at stake. He needs to slow down on this but Joe's not slow, Joe's neverever slow... "Maybe I don't want to."
"So does that mean you want to *lose*?"
Aw *shit*. "No! No, of course not!" What he wants, what Joe wants, it's all mixed up in his head, and post-show Joe is dangerously 'up' when the gig was good (which it was, it was good tonight), and post-show Joe is fucking *deadly* when the gig went badly, and in either case he hasn't learned to stay away, has he? And it comes down to this, and it's funny how it's such a shock to be here, to hear this, to see Joe's eyes like this, playful and daring and *pushing* at him when he's expected it, been waiting for it, all along.
Billy watches Joe pull on a cigarette, and stares blankly as Joe squints at him speculatively through ghosts of smoke. Something deep in his stomach flipflops/flutters crazily, and he has to work hard not to squirm. Lots of shocks, here. And not all of them are coming from Joe's direction.
"No, not 'of course not'. Which do you want?" Flat, and uninflected. Frighteningly casual, like Joe would just... give him this. Like this is no big deal.
And maybe it's not, this chasing/running away thing between them, not such a big deal to make it a literal screwing instead of a figurative one. There's a song in there, somewhere. Maybe he'll find it some day. Or maybe not. "Maybe I don't want either one."
"Come on, Billy, don't be a fuckin' baby. It'll be fun..." Joe's eyebrows are eloquent, defiant: nineteen different shades of pussyboy accusations just waiting to let loose on him. Not that that should matter.
Except that it kind of does. "Fun..." He can't help snorting. "Yeah. For one of us, maybe."
A little Joetwinkle, there, something that cuts through the spotlight brightness and makes him look years younger and somehow almost... innocent. "Nah, it'll be good either way. Come on."
Joe crushes the smoke, and suddenly there's a *leap* of sensation and something almost like panic as Joe's thighs fall open, the left one brushing against him. Joe's hands are busy with his own fly, and yeah, they've done this before but not like this, not for these stakes, not with this much tension between them-- this is different. This is *so* different. "Joe..."
"Billy..." Earnest, almost innocent again. That's *got* to be some kind of warning, right there. Gotta be. "Have I ever steered you wrong?"
"Only every fucking day since we met." It is, after all, the only answer. And it's true and the words come out easily, even if most of his attention is focused on Joe's hand, Joe's hand inside his jeans, Joe hanging on to that massive hogleg Billy remembers all-too-clearly right now, Joe hanging on like he's about to try to club someone to death with it.
Billy tries to swallow, but his throat is too dry. He has to *make* himself pull back, see more than that hand, stroking hand.
"That's cold...not that I give a shit." Joe licks his lips after he speaks and Billy sizzles along for the ride, nerves on fire like when the music is pure, burning him down, jacking him up. "So-- are we gonna do this, or are you going to wimp out?"
"Fuck." That's tough enough, distant enough to make the moment endurable but he doesn't *feel* distant, dealing with his own hands that want to shake and he can't let them because Joe's watching this, watching him unbutton, unzip, open. Of course he's hard. Feels like he's been hard for fucking *hours*. Billy feels himself twitch against his own palm, and bites his lip.
"All right, I'll take that as a yes." Such a polite, reasonable fucker, Joe is, when he wants to be. Billy arches his throat a little, because this part, at least, is familiar, and like always he needs to watch Joe follow him. Billy arches, Joe's eyes follow, Billy's eyes flutter closed for one moment, shut off into himself and not willing to speak. It's okay. Joe never shuts up. "Simple rules-- first one who comes lets the other guy fuck him. And don't slack off either. You gotta really work at it."
Despite Joe's words, behind his closed eyes it's easy to just let this be what it is, one of two guys beating off on a sprung, tattered couch, brag and bet and let that tension just roll on out and he feels Joe watching, always watching, and something in him is fed. His dick jerks again in his hand, and he shivers. "This is so fucked up."
"Yeah, but you pulled your dick out anyway-- didn't you, Bill?"
That voice gets him, gets to him, sounds like so much control and cutting and his hips roll, his eyes open before he can go too far. Just the ceiling. Yellowed with years of smoke and he's high now, a contact buzz. Nicely dangerous. "Joe, if you want me to do this...you'll shut the fuck up."
"No, gotta be able to talk. That's half the fun. Besides-- you love it."
Squirming on the couch like a kid, down into an exaggerated sprawl that he hopes like hell looks like part of the act. "Fine...whatever."
"Yeah, that's it...work it, Billy." A little rough, there, a little short of breath, and Billy knows that Joe will be staring at his hands, now; Joe likes his hands, and if he were ever to make up a list of what he'd learned from Joe Dick it would have to feature this-- how to look pretty jerking off. He flicks the tip of his thumb over the head of his cock and Joe's the one who sucks in a breath-- see? He's right. He's got it. And if Joe keeps his fucking mouth shut and lets him concentrate on this, he'll be able to-- "So... you ever fucked another guy up the ass?"
Every muscle suddenly rigid, keeping still, utterly still except for the squeeze and stroke of his hand and the inner squeeze of his throat, swallowing, pushing away the pictures. "No."
"Ever wanted to?" Low and short but calm, Joe taking a fucking *poll* or something, one of his special Billy-polls that always seems to end up hurting, never being enough. And in the face of that there's nothing to say, no words at all about rage or sharp, cold winter air or the heat of the stage, watching Joe sweat, watching Joe pour it out for everyone.
"Ever *wanted* to?"
"...no." Every syllable, every word is on the beat, synchronized, all the words in his blood and that's just fantastic like it always is, but fantastic is just a bit too dangerous right now because his hips are humping up deep into his hand, and if he shifted himself over and bit down on some part of Joe-- nipple, neck-- he'd just fucking lose it--
"Liar. Ever been fucked?" Unknotted, undone. What that voice does to him. Dragged by the scruff of his neck, dragged by his *cock*, nose to nose with something he can only glance at obliquely.
"No." His dick is leaking, wet and sharp and slick and he's *pumping* now, getting it, getting so into it, and Joe is watching. Always watching.
"Ever wanted to?"
"No, dammit." Fuck, this is... fuck fuck *fuck* he needs quiet, needs to think about Joe and what this does to Joe, not about what he himself wants, or doesn't want, or what he's doing here in this smoky, musty room with his dick in his hand, feeling better than he ever has when he's pushed some sweet, stoned thing down on her back and made her moan for him.
"Sure about that?"
"No...I mean, yes, I'm sure. Would you shut up?" His own voice is too hoarse, too desperate, and Billy winces before he can stop himself.
"No. You might like it if you tried it." Joe's voice is dark, dark and insistent, and how in the hell is he supposed to stand against this when Joe can win over an entire audience without even trying?
"Maybe I wouldn't."
"Maybe you would, and that's what you're afraid of."
Oh yeah. Standard Joe Dick accusation, there, and he knows he shouldn't *get off* on having his buttons pushed like this, but... "I'm...I'm not afraid."
"Mmm hm. You ever popped anyone's cherry?"
"What?" Part of him hates Joe for this, for keeping him so endlessly off-balance and for leading him this way, but he has to wonder just how lost he'd feel if Joe ever stopped.
"A fucking *virgin*, Billy... Imagine the tightest, hottest girl you ever fucked and then double it--triple it. That's what it's like to fuck a guy." Slutpoetry, fluent in flesh. Billy shivers hard.
"You've done it...a lot?" Tell me a story, Joe-- that's an old hunger. Such certainty, such *knowledge*, such perspective coming at him, pushing through him, the world viewed through a monstrous lens of truth.
"You know me. I'll try just about anything." Like that. Perfect example. He doesn't dare pull in the air he needs because if he smells Joe he'll come, he won't be able to help it--
"And you liked it?" Stroke, squeeze. Stroke, squeeze. Damn, damn, damn-- back off, Billy, back the fuck *off*...
"Sure, why not? You can be rough with a guy and he won't give you a bunch of shit for it. Girls are great, but you can't beat another guy for a quick hard fuck." A little picture-gift from Joe, and Joe sounds rational and maybe even kinda bored, which can only mean that there's some bad shit that's gonna go down, here, any moment now.
But no, he can't keep his own mouth shut. He should. *Should*. But can't. "You ever...been fucked...by another guy?"
"Sure. It's no big deal." Joe's lies always make him sweat a little, shocked as ever by his own need to believe. His tongue is thick and slow, and he moves it around in his mouth and then knows what he has to ask.
"But did you like it?"
"...yeah..." Panting, Joe panting and hot and that *does* something to him, something unnamable, so he has to pull back, find a refuge, find an angle...
"Guess that makes you a fag." Sharp. He can allow that. That feels *good*-- but it all feels good, there's too much good here, and belatedly he wishes he was drunk so he wouldn't be... where he is.
"No. I still fuck women. You're getting close now, aren't you?"
"Shut up, Joe." Please. Please. No more words. His hand is out of his control now, hard and fast as if Joe were in charge of it, hot and slick and his heart pounding high and hard and he's *rocking* up into it, *throbbing*, and if he doesn't stop he's going to be--
Taken by a hot, callused hand under his chin, turned, and for the first time he really really looks and is *pinned* there, Joe killer-bright and flushed and hungry while he feels his own eyes go slitted and whorish, too-fucking-precious-pet-about-to-lose-it and-- "You can feel it coming, can't you? Let it go, Billy."
"Shut up shut up shut up... No... no....FUCK!" Failure and frustration; rage and ecstasy. Joe's hand slides down to his throat and feels him while he cries out, digging hard for vibration, and heartbeat, and breath, cutting him off from the world and soaking him up like some nightmare vampire that feeds without breaking the skin. Billy's dick spits liquid, desperate heat, and there's triumph in Joe's eyes, and Billy feels his own damnation like a blade against his skin while he comes in shudders, in waves, in pulsing, doomed spurts that he just... can't... stop.
When Joe's hand finally slips away, Billy's neck is cold. He's still shaking his head 'no'. He's still shaking, period.
Joe isn't shaking. Joe is *grinning*. "I guess I win. Roll over."
He could do up his pants now, put at least that one flimsy barrier in place-- but his hands don't move, they don't move at all and that's... dismaying. "This is fucked up."
"You said that already. Now roll your skinny ass over."
"Joe...this is..." Joe starts to move and that's it, he's moving, shifting, wiggling, out of his clothes and over before Joe can invade him with words again.
"Yeah, I know. Don't care, but I know."
The hand that had sucked the pulse out of his throat is fumbling at him, scooping up come in one quick movement that doesn't *quite* involve touching his cock, but his whole body jumps anyway. He tries to speak and has to clear his throat, everything raw. "Just be careful."
"Now *you* can shut up, so I can..."
He's not ready. He's not ready for this. He's not ready at *all* and yet there's that weirdly doubled sense that he'd been *waiting* for it-- because Joe isn't gentle with him, Joe just goes for it with that massive wet prick shoved right into him all in one shot-- and it hurts, but not enough: he's open, just like that. Open and twitching, aching and pulled tight and-- "Ow...dammit Joe..."
"Just a minute..." Hot arms around him, tilting him, pushing his head down and pulling him back and everything *seizes* for a second and it's... it's... "There."
"Oh! ...ohhh...." He shuts that up quick before it gets him in any more trouble, but it's probably too late for that anyway because his legs are lax and open, Joe is deep in him and this feels so fucking good it's *terrifying*, and his dick is waking up again already and everything's fusing and melting him down and it's not, *not*, what was supposed to be.
He was *not* supposed to like this.
Billy fights like he's underwater, slow movements half-suppressed, miserly with his breath. Joe has watched him play guitar since he was thirteen years old, Joe has watched him do all manner of things connected with living and now Joe *knows* how to fuck him, slick and fast and hard and *right* where he needs it--
"You're awful quiet down there, Billy." That voice again. The mask of the man, when what he needs is the faceless monster. "Gonna tell me what a fuckin' stud I am? How much you get off on being my cunt? I'm listening--"
High, whistling breath, small frightened sips all he can take because every time he sobs his legs spread wider all by themselves, his body locks into obsessive, helpless churning that makes him want to scream because Joe's fucking him, Joe won't stop fucking him, if Joe stopped fucking him he'd die and yet Joe *has* to stop because Billy's going to come soon if he doesn't.
"Stop." Just a whisper, just a word. Robbed of every elemental power because there's nothing behind it but fear, at once overwhelming and scarily weak. "Please stop..."
"Billy..." No lack of power behind Joe's voice, dark and a little tense and weirdly... affectionate in his ears. "Billy, Billy, Billy, can't believe you fell for this--"
...Billy groans at that, and Joe grunts backup and that one moment is just so *perfect*...
"You can't stop me, I'm gonna make you come, and then... you'll be my bitch, won't you? That's some sweet stuff, you coming your brains out on my cock-- you gonna beg me for it?" Billy shudders, hard, and his nipples tighten and ache along with the rest of him. This bizarre, pornographic monologue is something he should *laugh* at, he knows-- but Joe's strong hands are on his hips now, moving them together and apart, pulling back viciously and every time that happens his head tosses helplessly, every time that happens he wonders if he's going to explode.
Joe is mumbling, some obscene, disjointed utterance of 'cunt' and 'whore' and 'fuck you hard'. But his thrusts are shorter and sharper, now, and the voice is finally losing its edge, going ragged, sliding down some invisible slope into a mess of panted breaths-- because Joe has fallen away from himself, Joe has stripped down to more than naked and Joe is shaking, Joe is *wanting*, Joe is one big open vein of need, need, need, and Joe is *slamming* his ass so hard that it'll be a miracle if the couch doesn't disintegrate underneath them.
"Wish I had... another dick... so I could fuck your mouth at the same time." The rawness of that flickers over Billy's overstimulated nerves just as grimy fingers fumble past his lips, tasting of nicotine and guitar steel and Joe's salty skin. "Just like this, Billy. Just like this. Fuckin' take it, take it, take it..."
No, he doesn't want to come like this but he *does*, fucked hard at both ends and wound tight-tight-tight and *howling* around Joe's hand which muffles him, plumbs him, gags him without mercy thank God because he's giving up everything he's got right now, letting it all go and coming *hard* while Joe grinds his ass-- and mercy would get in the way, would make it impossible just to... fall apart. Like this. Just like this.
Billy falls apart, collapsing under Joe's final greedy thrust onto rough, tattered cushions that are wet from him-- sweat and semen, and one or two hot and hard-fought drops that he hid successfully, almost even from himself. Joe's thumb brushes his bottom lip (mockingly? tenderly?) as it pulls away from his mouth, and Joe's hips lift with a grunt and then Billy's alone in his body again, crushed into musty fabric by what feels like dead weight draped over his back.
"Joe...get off me...I can't breathe...Joe!"
A shift against him, and the crushing is worse but it's actually better because at least Joe is moving. "Whathefu..."
Something returns to him, some essential sense of self that floods in to fill the vacancy that's been left, and even though he can't get a full breath he finds the air to speak, to demand. "Get the fuck off me before I suffocate."
"All RIGHT..." And that's a comfort, that caustic tone that he knows so well. "Quit elbowing me, William."
Billy sighs as Joe pulls away, all too happy for the moment that he can actually breathe, but unable, at least right now, to open his eyes. "I can't believe you just did that."
Sharp, metallic snap. Joe's cigarette lighter. Words carried to him on a satisfied exhale. "What? Why? You liked it."
He has to put himself together now. Inside and outside. He knows this. Has to be done. But he still can't open his eyes. He manages one weak shake of his head. "No...maybe...that's not the point."
"Yeah, it is. It's the whole fucking point. Now shut up and have a drink with me. One last drink."
Clink and slosh of bottle and glass, the smell of liquor sharp enough to cut through the funk of sex and moth-eaten fabric. That gets through to him.
Billy takes one final moment to reflect, to wonder about the answers to questions he can't even fully ask... and then he sighs, and his eyes open. "Yeah, sure, Joe. Anything you say."
The End
Feedback: jb7811@comcast.net, mtriste@hotmail.com