Fic: The Sun Will Rise From Here (Hard Core Logo)
Like most things, I blame sdwolfpup for this.
Title: The Sun Will Rise From Here
Pairing: Joe/Billy
Rating: R/NC-17
Summary: I got my devil machine / Got my electronic dream
Disclaimer: I don't own shit from good chocolate, babies.
A/N: For the ds_aprilfools prompt "helpless." New fandom, still learning my way around. :)
The Sun Will Rise From Here
--i got my devil machine--
One of the fucked-up things about being on the road is that the world is huge and tiny at the same time. Three hours since New York City and the countryside is streaming by in the dark, farmhouses like pinpoints marking nothing and nowhere; even so, Billy's pretty sure that if he threw himself out onto the road beneath them, crawled away and disappeared into all that empty space, Joe would still find him, hours or days later, give him a cigarette-spiked grin and a, "Well, hello, Billiam, nice of you to fuckin' join us," and that would be the end of it.
Running from Joe is like running from gravity.
So when he hears Joe mutter, "Hey, Johnny, get your lazy ass up here," feels their tiny world of a shitty excuse for a tour bus pull over to the side of the road, he knows that, as escape routes go, a bunk at the back is completely fucking inadequate. Joe takes his time, though, whether to make Billy sweat or to psych himself up, Billy doesn't know. All he knows is that the bus is moving again and John is humming in the driver's seat and Pipe is snoring like a freight train by the time Joe throws himself onto Billy's bunk with an exaggerated groan.
"God, this fucking thing is lumpy." Joe shifts, sprawls over him, heat pouring off of him as always. It takes a conscious effort not to press back against him; Billy's blanket had somehow ended up on Pipe's bunk a couple of days ago, so Billy's sure as shit not touching it now, and he's fucking freezing, even through his sweater.
"Fuck off, I'm trying to fuckin' sleep here," he growls instead, shoving hard with his shoulder, keeping his back turned as best he can.
Joe just chuckles, warm and infuriating in his ear, and works one arm underneath Billy's, curls it around his ribs. "Oh, hey, Billy, didn't see you there." A pause, then, "Aww, you're not still pissed off at me, are you?" His voice is gravel, three a.m. and a pack and a half, the sound rumbling against Billy's back. At least he doesn't sound like he's jacked up on anything, which is a motherfucking miracle. The bunks are tiny, too, a tiny subdivision of their tiny world, and Joe's pressed against him from his chin on Billy's shoulder to his knee tucked into the angle of Billy's leg.
"Pissed, yeah, great fuckin' choice of words," Billy shoots back, fury burning in a tight knot behind his sternum.
"Yes, well, I am the songwriter here."
"Writing songs that nobody's gonna hear because you couldn't keep your piss in your dick, you stupid fuck."
Joe laughs. "All publicity is good publicity, baby."
"What the fuck, Joe?" Billy squirms, rolls over, plants a finger in Joe's chest to put at least a few centimeters between them. "What the fuck were you thinking?"
"We don't need Seymour fucking Stein, Bill, OK?" The line of Joe's jaw is hard, clear blue eyes hot in the flickering light from the window. "We don't need some corporate asshole telling us what to do, packaging us up like a fucking… I don't know. Some fucking window display, or something. That's bullshit."
"Bullshit?" Billy snorts. "This isn't bullshit? This piece of shit bus, middle of nowhere, no contract, no money, with a crazy guy driving? This is the good life?"
Joe just stares at him. "Pipe jerks off when he's driving, you really want him behind the wheel? I think the dashboard still has come stains on it from the last time."
Which is, of course, completely not the point, so far from the point that it would take the light from the point a million years to reach the mental image of Pipe jerking off while driving… but it's kind of hilarious anyway, and Billy can feel the corner of his mouth twitching even while he's trying to figure out if he's got enough room get his arm back and pop Joe in the face.
Even the hint of a smile, though, and Joe's moving in for the kill. "You could jerk me off while John's driving," he murmurs, but it's his hand moving, sliding up to cup Billy through his ratty jeans. Billy's hard already, has been since Joe collapsed on top of him, maybe before, and he knows it and Joe knows it and Christ. This is insane, this is not right, Joe fucked them over big-time tonight, just like he always seems to, and Billy should not be anywhere near him.
"You're disgusting," he tells Joe, even as his hips arch into the calloused touch.
Joe bites his ear. "You love it."
Billy kisses him, mainly to shut him up, tongue and enough teeth to get a little of his own back, but Joe just moans and presses harder against him.
"Just you and me," Joe mutters, popping the button on Billy's jeans, and it's true, it's been true for over half Billy's life. Yeah, there's four of them in the band, but Joe knows William Boisy and Billy Tallent and doesn't seem to give a shit about the distinction-Billy's tried giving him the smooth answers before and Joe just looks at him, just fucking stares at him till Billy makes a stupid joke and Joe flips him off and they're them again, they're buddies.
Now Joe's jacking him slowly, expertly, his hand slick with spit and his mouth hot and wet on Billy's ear the whole time, "Yeah, you like that, don't you, like my hand on you, you fucking slut, you need it, don't you, take it, take it, fuck, Billy, fuck fuck fuck," until Billy comes, shuddering, over his own stomach and Joe's hand and wrist. While Billy's still gasping, Joe thrusts hard a few times against his hip, sinks his teeth into the bare skin where Billy's shoulder meets his neck and stiffens, groans a mangled "motherfucker" that Billy can translate mostly because he's heard it a hundred times before.
Afterwards, Joe wipes his hand on his shirt and Billy's sweater, smearing a little on Billy's jeans for good measure.
"You're washing that," Billy informs him. "Freak."
"Shut up and go to sleep," Joe commands, pushing at his shoulder until he's curled on his side again. Pipe sleeps like the fucking dead and John doesn't believe half the shit he sees, so Billy just sighs and closes his eyes and lets himself drift, Joe plastered heavily against his back like an anchor or a millstone, smelling like sweat and whiskey and cigarettes and anything that Billy's ever called home.
Three days later, he's on a bus to Los Angeles.
--got my electronic dream--
"Jesus, Jesus, Christ, fuck, Billy," Joe gasps, cheap paint flaking off the wall against his sweaty T-shirt, and he's sure as hell not complaining, but Billy's hand on his cock seems almost redundant at this point.
Drugs, phantom limbs, even that weird Plato other-half shit that Bucky used to talk about when he was stoned, Joe's thought about it all-he's a fucking songwriter, he knows his way around a goddamn metaphor. He's had five years to chew on it, too, too fucked up to sleep in the middle of the night after some pussy acoustic gig with a faceless washed-up groupie passed out in the wet spot next to him, so you'd think he'd be fucking prepared. But he's been reeling ever since Billy walked into the green room hours ago, shaking hands and giving hugs and fucking bestowing those slick shining Billy Hollywood smiles on everyone like they meant something. Joe'd kept his cool, though, smoked and waited, because there was only one place in the whole fucking building that mattered and it sure as shit wasn't the green room.
Sixteen bars in and he'd known, jacked up to bursting on the crowd and Pipe pounding away behind him and John grinning his angel-devil grin and Billy, Billy Billy Billy like the rhythm thundering in his veins, live wire and closed circuit and Jesus motherfucking Christ, how the fuck had he lived five years without this?
And yeah, Billy had made him sweat a little at the bar, let Joe talk him into it in front of Bruce's nosy little cameras. But as soon as he'd agreed to the tour, everything that had come after-stumbling home with Joe's arm over Billy's shoulders and his own pulse loud in his ears, dragging Billy into his dark shithole of an apartment, the first smash of mouths and tongues and teeth-had been something of a foregone fucking conclusion.
"Joe," Billy's moaning against his neck, low and harsh like it's being dragged out of him, and Joe grins fiercely. Billy the smooth talker, answer for everything, but when he really means it, he barely says anything. Joe grits his teeth, trying to keep his own mouth shut for once, afraid of what he'll say if he doesn't; he tells himself that he got the answer he needed hours ago, soaked in sweat and sound. That's the chorus, the thing they keep coming back to, and this, Billy's skinny body pressed against his, Billy's long fingers working him, this is just another verse, another part of the whole. He thinks maybe he could go the rest of his life without Billy ever touching him again, if they could still play together, face down a crowd side-by-side and leave them flattened and ecstatic when they're done.
Then Billy drops to his knees in front of him, yanks his zipper down, and oh, fuck that, Joe wants the whole fucking thing.
He slams his head back against the wall, his fingers tight on the wiry muscles of Billy's shoulders as Billy's mouth closes warm and wet around him. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck," he chants, or at least he hopes that's what he's chanting, hopes he's keeping all the pansy shit like missed you and need you and love you locked safe in his spinning head. Too long, it's been too fucking long, and he needs needs needs, wants to fuck Billy's mouth but Billy's got him pressed hard against the wall with a hand on Joe's hip, his tongue swirling against Joe's skin, improvising over the rapid thud of Joe's heart. All Joe can do is listen.
Billy's humming around his dick now, grunting and moaning a little. Joe can hear cars sloshing by on the street outside, some guy arguing with some chick in the distance, and Jesus, Billy's mouth, so fucking good, so much better than he'd let himself remember, and he digs his fingers in harder, suddenly terrified he's going to just crack right open, spill all his guts and glory right there on the floor around Billy's knees. But Billy just keeps moving, keeps sucking, pulling everything out of him until Joe stutters "motherfucker" and comes down Billy's throat.
When Joe's vision clears, he looks down and he can see Billy's eyes glittering blue in the faint light from the window, see his smile, his real smile, the one he's had since he was thirteen years old. His mouth and chin are wet, but he doesn’t seem to care. Joe lets his knees go soft, lets Billy cushion him as they both collapse onto the floor.
"Ow. Dink," Billy mutters when they land hard, but inhales sharp and sweet when Joe tongues the tendon in his neck, slides a hand inside Billy's open jeans. Five years. Five fucking years, and now, with Billy's cock curving easily into his fingers, it seems like nothing, but it's everything, five years is a fucking wasteland, and he won't do it again. Fuck Jenifur, fuck Ed fucking Festus, fuck the benefit and fuck Bucky and Pipe and John, too, if that's what it takes-Joe's never going to step on a stage again without Billy next to him, pushing him, breathing his air, pulling him inside out and putting him back together.
Never, he repeats to himself, his hand falling into the rhythm that he's known for all of his life that counts for anything, never never never never never never never in time with Billy's gasping breaths. It's not long before Billy tenses and comes, spilling warm over them both like blood or sweat or whiskey or any of those other nasty messes that shout life. Afterwards, Joe's too exhausted to move, his hand comfortable on Billy's softening cock, Billy's bony shoulder pressing into his collarbone, never never never never still running through his head, but lower now, like a song playing in the next room. And somehow, right as he's drifting off, the melody shifts, changes to always, and that's the thought that follows him down as he falls over the edge into sleep.
END
Title: The Sun Will Rise From Here
Pairing: Joe/Billy
Rating: R/NC-17
Summary: I got my devil machine / Got my electronic dream
Disclaimer: I don't own shit from good chocolate, babies.
A/N: For the ds_aprilfools prompt "helpless." New fandom, still learning my way around. :)
The Sun Will Rise From Here
--i got my devil machine--
One of the fucked-up things about being on the road is that the world is huge and tiny at the same time. Three hours since New York City and the countryside is streaming by in the dark, farmhouses like pinpoints marking nothing and nowhere; even so, Billy's pretty sure that if he threw himself out onto the road beneath them, crawled away and disappeared into all that empty space, Joe would still find him, hours or days later, give him a cigarette-spiked grin and a, "Well, hello, Billiam, nice of you to fuckin' join us," and that would be the end of it.
Running from Joe is like running from gravity.
So when he hears Joe mutter, "Hey, Johnny, get your lazy ass up here," feels their tiny world of a shitty excuse for a tour bus pull over to the side of the road, he knows that, as escape routes go, a bunk at the back is completely fucking inadequate. Joe takes his time, though, whether to make Billy sweat or to psych himself up, Billy doesn't know. All he knows is that the bus is moving again and John is humming in the driver's seat and Pipe is snoring like a freight train by the time Joe throws himself onto Billy's bunk with an exaggerated groan.
"God, this fucking thing is lumpy." Joe shifts, sprawls over him, heat pouring off of him as always. It takes a conscious effort not to press back against him; Billy's blanket had somehow ended up on Pipe's bunk a couple of days ago, so Billy's sure as shit not touching it now, and he's fucking freezing, even through his sweater.
"Fuck off, I'm trying to fuckin' sleep here," he growls instead, shoving hard with his shoulder, keeping his back turned as best he can.
Joe just chuckles, warm and infuriating in his ear, and works one arm underneath Billy's, curls it around his ribs. "Oh, hey, Billy, didn't see you there." A pause, then, "Aww, you're not still pissed off at me, are you?" His voice is gravel, three a.m. and a pack and a half, the sound rumbling against Billy's back. At least he doesn't sound like he's jacked up on anything, which is a motherfucking miracle. The bunks are tiny, too, a tiny subdivision of their tiny world, and Joe's pressed against him from his chin on Billy's shoulder to his knee tucked into the angle of Billy's leg.
"Pissed, yeah, great fuckin' choice of words," Billy shoots back, fury burning in a tight knot behind his sternum.
"Yes, well, I am the songwriter here."
"Writing songs that nobody's gonna hear because you couldn't keep your piss in your dick, you stupid fuck."
Joe laughs. "All publicity is good publicity, baby."
"What the fuck, Joe?" Billy squirms, rolls over, plants a finger in Joe's chest to put at least a few centimeters between them. "What the fuck were you thinking?"
"We don't need Seymour fucking Stein, Bill, OK?" The line of Joe's jaw is hard, clear blue eyes hot in the flickering light from the window. "We don't need some corporate asshole telling us what to do, packaging us up like a fucking… I don't know. Some fucking window display, or something. That's bullshit."
"Bullshit?" Billy snorts. "This isn't bullshit? This piece of shit bus, middle of nowhere, no contract, no money, with a crazy guy driving? This is the good life?"
Joe just stares at him. "Pipe jerks off when he's driving, you really want him behind the wheel? I think the dashboard still has come stains on it from the last time."
Which is, of course, completely not the point, so far from the point that it would take the light from the point a million years to reach the mental image of Pipe jerking off while driving… but it's kind of hilarious anyway, and Billy can feel the corner of his mouth twitching even while he's trying to figure out if he's got enough room get his arm back and pop Joe in the face.
Even the hint of a smile, though, and Joe's moving in for the kill. "You could jerk me off while John's driving," he murmurs, but it's his hand moving, sliding up to cup Billy through his ratty jeans. Billy's hard already, has been since Joe collapsed on top of him, maybe before, and he knows it and Joe knows it and Christ. This is insane, this is not right, Joe fucked them over big-time tonight, just like he always seems to, and Billy should not be anywhere near him.
"You're disgusting," he tells Joe, even as his hips arch into the calloused touch.
Joe bites his ear. "You love it."
Billy kisses him, mainly to shut him up, tongue and enough teeth to get a little of his own back, but Joe just moans and presses harder against him.
"Just you and me," Joe mutters, popping the button on Billy's jeans, and it's true, it's been true for over half Billy's life. Yeah, there's four of them in the band, but Joe knows William Boisy and Billy Tallent and doesn't seem to give a shit about the distinction-Billy's tried giving him the smooth answers before and Joe just looks at him, just fucking stares at him till Billy makes a stupid joke and Joe flips him off and they're them again, they're buddies.
Now Joe's jacking him slowly, expertly, his hand slick with spit and his mouth hot and wet on Billy's ear the whole time, "Yeah, you like that, don't you, like my hand on you, you fucking slut, you need it, don't you, take it, take it, fuck, Billy, fuck fuck fuck," until Billy comes, shuddering, over his own stomach and Joe's hand and wrist. While Billy's still gasping, Joe thrusts hard a few times against his hip, sinks his teeth into the bare skin where Billy's shoulder meets his neck and stiffens, groans a mangled "motherfucker" that Billy can translate mostly because he's heard it a hundred times before.
Afterwards, Joe wipes his hand on his shirt and Billy's sweater, smearing a little on Billy's jeans for good measure.
"You're washing that," Billy informs him. "Freak."
"Shut up and go to sleep," Joe commands, pushing at his shoulder until he's curled on his side again. Pipe sleeps like the fucking dead and John doesn't believe half the shit he sees, so Billy just sighs and closes his eyes and lets himself drift, Joe plastered heavily against his back like an anchor or a millstone, smelling like sweat and whiskey and cigarettes and anything that Billy's ever called home.
Three days later, he's on a bus to Los Angeles.
--got my electronic dream--
"Jesus, Jesus, Christ, fuck, Billy," Joe gasps, cheap paint flaking off the wall against his sweaty T-shirt, and he's sure as hell not complaining, but Billy's hand on his cock seems almost redundant at this point.
Drugs, phantom limbs, even that weird Plato other-half shit that Bucky used to talk about when he was stoned, Joe's thought about it all-he's a fucking songwriter, he knows his way around a goddamn metaphor. He's had five years to chew on it, too, too fucked up to sleep in the middle of the night after some pussy acoustic gig with a faceless washed-up groupie passed out in the wet spot next to him, so you'd think he'd be fucking prepared. But he's been reeling ever since Billy walked into the green room hours ago, shaking hands and giving hugs and fucking bestowing those slick shining Billy Hollywood smiles on everyone like they meant something. Joe'd kept his cool, though, smoked and waited, because there was only one place in the whole fucking building that mattered and it sure as shit wasn't the green room.
Sixteen bars in and he'd known, jacked up to bursting on the crowd and Pipe pounding away behind him and John grinning his angel-devil grin and Billy, Billy Billy Billy like the rhythm thundering in his veins, live wire and closed circuit and Jesus motherfucking Christ, how the fuck had he lived five years without this?
And yeah, Billy had made him sweat a little at the bar, let Joe talk him into it in front of Bruce's nosy little cameras. But as soon as he'd agreed to the tour, everything that had come after-stumbling home with Joe's arm over Billy's shoulders and his own pulse loud in his ears, dragging Billy into his dark shithole of an apartment, the first smash of mouths and tongues and teeth-had been something of a foregone fucking conclusion.
"Joe," Billy's moaning against his neck, low and harsh like it's being dragged out of him, and Joe grins fiercely. Billy the smooth talker, answer for everything, but when he really means it, he barely says anything. Joe grits his teeth, trying to keep his own mouth shut for once, afraid of what he'll say if he doesn't; he tells himself that he got the answer he needed hours ago, soaked in sweat and sound. That's the chorus, the thing they keep coming back to, and this, Billy's skinny body pressed against his, Billy's long fingers working him, this is just another verse, another part of the whole. He thinks maybe he could go the rest of his life without Billy ever touching him again, if they could still play together, face down a crowd side-by-side and leave them flattened and ecstatic when they're done.
Then Billy drops to his knees in front of him, yanks his zipper down, and oh, fuck that, Joe wants the whole fucking thing.
He slams his head back against the wall, his fingers tight on the wiry muscles of Billy's shoulders as Billy's mouth closes warm and wet around him. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck," he chants, or at least he hopes that's what he's chanting, hopes he's keeping all the pansy shit like missed you and need you and love you locked safe in his spinning head. Too long, it's been too fucking long, and he needs needs needs, wants to fuck Billy's mouth but Billy's got him pressed hard against the wall with a hand on Joe's hip, his tongue swirling against Joe's skin, improvising over the rapid thud of Joe's heart. All Joe can do is listen.
Billy's humming around his dick now, grunting and moaning a little. Joe can hear cars sloshing by on the street outside, some guy arguing with some chick in the distance, and Jesus, Billy's mouth, so fucking good, so much better than he'd let himself remember, and he digs his fingers in harder, suddenly terrified he's going to just crack right open, spill all his guts and glory right there on the floor around Billy's knees. But Billy just keeps moving, keeps sucking, pulling everything out of him until Joe stutters "motherfucker" and comes down Billy's throat.
When Joe's vision clears, he looks down and he can see Billy's eyes glittering blue in the faint light from the window, see his smile, his real smile, the one he's had since he was thirteen years old. His mouth and chin are wet, but he doesn’t seem to care. Joe lets his knees go soft, lets Billy cushion him as they both collapse onto the floor.
"Ow. Dink," Billy mutters when they land hard, but inhales sharp and sweet when Joe tongues the tendon in his neck, slides a hand inside Billy's open jeans. Five years. Five fucking years, and now, with Billy's cock curving easily into his fingers, it seems like nothing, but it's everything, five years is a fucking wasteland, and he won't do it again. Fuck Jenifur, fuck Ed fucking Festus, fuck the benefit and fuck Bucky and Pipe and John, too, if that's what it takes-Joe's never going to step on a stage again without Billy next to him, pushing him, breathing his air, pulling him inside out and putting him back together.
Never, he repeats to himself, his hand falling into the rhythm that he's known for all of his life that counts for anything, never never never never never never never in time with Billy's gasping breaths. It's not long before Billy tenses and comes, spilling warm over them both like blood or sweat or whiskey or any of those other nasty messes that shout life. Afterwards, Joe's too exhausted to move, his hand comfortable on Billy's softening cock, Billy's bony shoulder pressing into his collarbone, never never never never still running through his head, but lower now, like a song playing in the next room. And somehow, right as he's drifting off, the melody shifts, changes to always, and that's the thought that follows him down as he falls over the edge into sleep.
END