Fic: Furry Walls (1/1)
Title: Furry Walls
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Aldous Snow, Aaron Green
Word Count: 2,222
Summary: When the world slips you a Geoffrey, stroke the furry wall. For the Kink Bingo Prompt - Plushie or Furry Kink. Spoilers for Get Him to the Greek (2010). Warnings for drug use and auto-erotic sexual situations.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Kink Bingo, you inspire the strangest things. Vulgar, cracky, and absurd, with an absolute abuse and overuse of offensive language, particularly a four letter obscenity brought to you by the letter ‘F.’ I reiterate: this is generally meaningless and makes no sense. It is also on drugs. Other than that, I don’t know what else to tell you.
Furry Walls
Aaron used to pretty much sort his life into two basic categories: fucked up, and not so fucked up. His first hit of acid? Fucked up. His first blow job? Not so fucked up. The first time he slept with a chick who turned out to be a dude? Definitely fucked up.
When he started working for Pinnacle, degrees of fucked-upedness began to emerge, but it was still a basic split: the Carrigan Twins and their cleavage on the day they went double platinum? Not at all fucked up. The camel toe that twelve-year old who Leherman signed likes to sport? Kind of actually fucked up, a little bit. The first time he got blamed for an album tanking? Pretty fucked up, yeah. The first time he had to cancel on Daphne for work? Moderately fucked up. The fact that she doesn’t mind, even if it’s the only time they’ll see each other in a week, given her intern schedule? Blissfully not fucked up.
Getting Aldous Snow from London to L.A. to do a show when he’s fucked off his ass on god only knows what? Just about as fucked up as anything, really, but necessary, and still kind of awesome, all and all.
Meeting Aldous Snow, though; once that happens, the fucked-uped scale generally just goes to shit.
He’s pretty sure that the sex with the blonde -- because it was the blonde, right, not the brunette? -- was fucked up; and he’s pretty sure he has a bruise on his ass shaped like the fucking toilet seat she rode him into, which is also fucked up. Though not as fucked as smuggling Aldous’ stash through security up his goddamn asshole, because that was beyond... just, beyond, man.
And then, of course, there’s the Geoffrey. Or the Jeffery. Or maybe it’s the Jeffry, because fuck only knows; but whatever it is, it’s fucked up like nothing Aaron’s ever even thought about, and he feels it fucking with him almost instantly as his breaths get shorter, as he can start to hear his heart beat like the bass of a track, his blood like a roaring fucking lion, or an engine, or something really fucking scary, pushing, pushing, and fuck, but he’s having a heart attack, isn’t he? Probably. Maybe. Fucking figures.
Probably.
He’s talking, pretty sure he’s talking -- maybe talking, maybe not, fuck only knows at this point, really -- and having a heart attack, and his eyes are blurring and his lungs are burning and everything’s really fucking bright and it’s fucking absurd, the whole thing, and for a moment, all he can think is that they’ll still call Daphne when they find him, and when she IDs the body he’ll be literally fucked up beyond recognition, and that’ll suck a lot, probably. He’s shaking from the elbows out, sprawled on the floor as the air gets sucked from the room, when he actually notices Aldous, actually realizes that, if he is talking, he’s probably talking to that rat bastard at his left, who just so happens to...
Who’s fucking that furry goddamn wall like it’s the slickest pussy he’s ever sang about on any given album that predated African Child and didn’t actually suck balls.
The oddly-exaggerated arch of his half-hard cock is only partially obscured by the reaching hairs of the covered walls, but it’s not like it can hide there: matte and dark against slick and red as he rears back and surges forward against it, fingers clenched in it above his head as he smothers his face in the give, the softness of the wooly tangle, the force of his breath sending the individual threads into fits, and Aaron; he’s seen more fucking that didn’t involve him directly than he’s ever really wanted to, believe it or not, but he’s not sure he’s ever seen someone so blown before, so far away -- and fuck, but it’s a wall.
He collapses just as Aldous comes all over, seed sticking and smearing into the strands, matting them together as it grabs and dries; he’s clasping at his chest and still talking -- pretty sure he’s moved on to just babbling now, with a lot of oh gods thrown in for good measure -- when Aldous finally notices him, starts stumbling around for a first aid kit or something.
When he comes back with a fucking syringe, Aaron’s half-terrified that it’s something a lot less legal than epinephrine.
And he’s really fucking lucky that Aldous Snow’s an idiot, when it counts, because he has absolutely no idea what would have happened if that adrenaline had actually hit his heart -- which is having a seizure in his chest anyway, so it’s not like any of it matters.
Aldous, though; he just takes up with rubbing against that damn shag again, looking to go another round -- fuck recovery -- and Aaron figures, what can it hurt really, at this point?
So he sits up, starts to stands, falls down; tries again, braces against the wall, slides up flush against it, the trail of his chest visible in the slant of the strands. The sting of the puncture where the needle’d gone in burns as it drags before it tingles, and before he can even buck his fucking hips his pulse is shivering, his dick twitching, and if he’s about to have a heart attack, it’s like the good kind now, and so he’s a little less concerned. He doesn’t remember how his tongue gets tangled in the fuzzy tendrils of the shag as he lets the fibers cling at his pubes, tug and slide like fucking silk against him, riding up against him as he strokes, thrusts into the flat surface and moans like a... a cow, or a dying coyote, and he can feel himself start to peak, and it’s harder and swifter and brighter behind his eyes for whatever’s still raging in his veins, busting them open and bleeding all over like a fucking tsunami or something.
Jesus, Aldous murmurs, breaks into Aaron’s high as he rubs circular patterns against the wall, head lolling back against his shoulders with his mouth gaping wide; stretch, stretch, just like that, coming in through the backdoor, bitch, and Aaron only then realizes that the man’s pants are around his ankles, and his fingers are playing at his hole, though given his running commentary, it’s hard to tell whether Aldous thinks he’s opening himself up, or stretching Jackie’s pretty posy.
For a second, Aaron’s far enough gone to consider it, but after that bitch Destiny and his rendezvous with her date-rape dildo, he thinks twice -- he’s pretty sure he’s still leaking her spit and whatever else she’d lubed that fucker up with, and he’d rather not, you know, touch it. More. Ever.
Jesus fuck.
He comes hard, because his mind’s fuzzy and thinking hurts, and the careful, teasing caress of that shaggy fucking carpet hung up right in front of him is more awesome than just about anything, ever.
He doesn’t get much of a chance to enjoy it, though, to revel in the smooth rub as he softens, to stick against the fabric as he collapses, boneless against the wall -- doesn’t get a chance to figure if his pulse’s racing still because of the drugs or the way he just got milked by a rug -- because before he knows it, Sergio’s fucking chasing them like it’s a game of goddamn tag or some shit, and he’s having a heart attack again, because the thumping in his ears is drumming quadruple to the beat of his feet on the ground, and he can’t even catch his breath, and Aldous is grabbing at the sleeve of his jacket and Aaron only realizes as they’re halfway across the lot that not only is his shirt still unbuttoned, but his fly’s down, a bit of the wall tugged off and stuck in the teeth of the zipper.
Fucking sweet.
______________________
When it’s all said and done, most of Aaron just wants to forget the entire ordeal even happened. But he can’t, and there’s also that part of him that doesn’t want to -- and that part of him that actually likes Aldous Snow, or maybe just pities him, and can’t leave him hanging out to dry; doesn’t want to.
So Aaron tells Daph they can start to plan the process of moving north, tells Aldous yes when the fucker has the balls to ask him for help in getting his career back on track, and figures if forgetting isn’t an option, this might be a really great Plan B for the immediate future.
They do, in fact, burn the mattress, and the sheets, and the pillow shams, and pay someone to come in and disinfect the carpet. No one thinks anything of the shaggy rug he buys when they scope out new bedding, and it becomes a kind of unspoken fixture in their entryway before very much time goes by at all.
No one thinks anything of it; Aaron, though -- he gets a kick out of it whenever he pads past it, between the kitchen and the living room, from the bedroom out the door. Makes his fucking day.
As a result, he sometimes has to wear looser slacks to work, but hey -- in the grander scheme of things, it’s not like it actually matters.
______________________
But then sometimes, Aldous gets really depressed. The Greek show did him wonders, sure, but things aren’t bright and awesome in his world just yet. Jackie’s still engaged to fucking Lars Ulrich, and he only gets to see Naples every other weekend, and his father’s still in Vegas being a douche; and Aaron gets it -- Aldous is slowly climbing back into the limelight, but things still kind of fucking suck. So sometimes, he crashes at Aaron’s place.
There’s an all-encompassing taboo on the bed -- because even if they’re moving to Seattle soon, they’re taking the new fucking mattress they bought after they’d burned the old one -- but other than that, Aldous is generally welcome to sleep where he wants. He usually takes the sofa, or else, he usually starts at the sofa, but more and more often, Aaron wakes up to find him on the floor near the front door.
On top of the goddamn furry rug.
Daphne learns to step over him when she leaves at the ass crack of dawn for her shift, uses the light from the kitchen to keep from disturbing him -- and she’s a great woman, Daphne, if Aaron ever needs a reminder -- and Aaron, well, he tries to avoid thinking too much about what Aldous mutters as he rocks; okay, grinds against the thing, rutting into it, his limp dick cushioned in the wooly plush, teeth bit into his lower lip as he moans here and there. Because it’s disturbing.
So Aaron calls IKEA to order a hundred fucking five-by-three shag, GILDÅ FLÖCATI KVÄLL something or other with lots of umlauts and shit, rugs, and makes sure they’re hidden in the corner of the hall closet, stacked on top of themselves like their own little wall of shag; and if Aaron can fucking swear he smells Vegas on the things, he’d never say it out loud, because that’s just stupid -- plus, they’re from Costa Mesa, not Nevada, and he’s pretty sure a few might be from the Burbank store, but that’s neither here nor there.
And if, when Aldous gets up to take a piss, singing “Going Down” to himself with mostly the right lyrics, Aaron gets a pair of latex gloves from the box Daphne nicked from the hospital and quickly rolls up the sullied rug and replaces it when the clean one, Aldous settles on it without comment, fly zipped from the bathroom and content as a kitten until Aaron brews the coffee.
And if the burning barrel in his backyard smokes a sinister black for a few minutes as the fabric goes up in flames, his neighbors never complain, so it seems like everything works out for the best.
He’s pretty sure he would get complaints for the way he sometimes beaks down and rubs the corner of the throw against the crotch of his boxers between the rolling and the burning, imagining the contact on the underside of his cock, soft and fluffy against the vein; and he’s pretty sure the way he pants and groans at just the thought of it would be considered indecent as he stands on his back porch at daybreak -- and he’s absolutely sure that it’d be considered indecent if anyone caught him dragging his bare dick against the stack of clean rugs in the closet -- but it’s a fucking closet, and he never gets caught, so that works out, too.
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Aldous Snow, Aaron Green
Word Count: 2,222
Summary: When the world slips you a Geoffrey, stroke the furry wall. For the Kink Bingo Prompt - Plushie or Furry Kink. Spoilers for Get Him to the Greek (2010). Warnings for drug use and auto-erotic sexual situations.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Kink Bingo, you inspire the strangest things. Vulgar, cracky, and absurd, with an absolute abuse and overuse of offensive language, particularly a four letter obscenity brought to you by the letter ‘F.’ I reiterate: this is generally meaningless and makes no sense. It is also on drugs. Other than that, I don’t know what else to tell you.
Furry Walls
Aaron used to pretty much sort his life into two basic categories: fucked up, and not so fucked up. His first hit of acid? Fucked up. His first blow job? Not so fucked up. The first time he slept with a chick who turned out to be a dude? Definitely fucked up.
When he started working for Pinnacle, degrees of fucked-upedness began to emerge, but it was still a basic split: the Carrigan Twins and their cleavage on the day they went double platinum? Not at all fucked up. The camel toe that twelve-year old who Leherman signed likes to sport? Kind of actually fucked up, a little bit. The first time he got blamed for an album tanking? Pretty fucked up, yeah. The first time he had to cancel on Daphne for work? Moderately fucked up. The fact that she doesn’t mind, even if it’s the only time they’ll see each other in a week, given her intern schedule? Blissfully not fucked up.
Getting Aldous Snow from London to L.A. to do a show when he’s fucked off his ass on god only knows what? Just about as fucked up as anything, really, but necessary, and still kind of awesome, all and all.
Meeting Aldous Snow, though; once that happens, the fucked-uped scale generally just goes to shit.
He’s pretty sure that the sex with the blonde -- because it was the blonde, right, not the brunette? -- was fucked up; and he’s pretty sure he has a bruise on his ass shaped like the fucking toilet seat she rode him into, which is also fucked up. Though not as fucked as smuggling Aldous’ stash through security up his goddamn asshole, because that was beyond... just, beyond, man.
And then, of course, there’s the Geoffrey. Or the Jeffery. Or maybe it’s the Jeffry, because fuck only knows; but whatever it is, it’s fucked up like nothing Aaron’s ever even thought about, and he feels it fucking with him almost instantly as his breaths get shorter, as he can start to hear his heart beat like the bass of a track, his blood like a roaring fucking lion, or an engine, or something really fucking scary, pushing, pushing, and fuck, but he’s having a heart attack, isn’t he? Probably. Maybe. Fucking figures.
Probably.
He’s talking, pretty sure he’s talking -- maybe talking, maybe not, fuck only knows at this point, really -- and having a heart attack, and his eyes are blurring and his lungs are burning and everything’s really fucking bright and it’s fucking absurd, the whole thing, and for a moment, all he can think is that they’ll still call Daphne when they find him, and when she IDs the body he’ll be literally fucked up beyond recognition, and that’ll suck a lot, probably. He’s shaking from the elbows out, sprawled on the floor as the air gets sucked from the room, when he actually notices Aldous, actually realizes that, if he is talking, he’s probably talking to that rat bastard at his left, who just so happens to...
Who’s fucking that furry goddamn wall like it’s the slickest pussy he’s ever sang about on any given album that predated African Child and didn’t actually suck balls.
The oddly-exaggerated arch of his half-hard cock is only partially obscured by the reaching hairs of the covered walls, but it’s not like it can hide there: matte and dark against slick and red as he rears back and surges forward against it, fingers clenched in it above his head as he smothers his face in the give, the softness of the wooly tangle, the force of his breath sending the individual threads into fits, and Aaron; he’s seen more fucking that didn’t involve him directly than he’s ever really wanted to, believe it or not, but he’s not sure he’s ever seen someone so blown before, so far away -- and fuck, but it’s a wall.
He collapses just as Aldous comes all over, seed sticking and smearing into the strands, matting them together as it grabs and dries; he’s clasping at his chest and still talking -- pretty sure he’s moved on to just babbling now, with a lot of oh gods thrown in for good measure -- when Aldous finally notices him, starts stumbling around for a first aid kit or something.
When he comes back with a fucking syringe, Aaron’s half-terrified that it’s something a lot less legal than epinephrine.
And he’s really fucking lucky that Aldous Snow’s an idiot, when it counts, because he has absolutely no idea what would have happened if that adrenaline had actually hit his heart -- which is having a seizure in his chest anyway, so it’s not like any of it matters.
Aldous, though; he just takes up with rubbing against that damn shag again, looking to go another round -- fuck recovery -- and Aaron figures, what can it hurt really, at this point?
So he sits up, starts to stands, falls down; tries again, braces against the wall, slides up flush against it, the trail of his chest visible in the slant of the strands. The sting of the puncture where the needle’d gone in burns as it drags before it tingles, and before he can even buck his fucking hips his pulse is shivering, his dick twitching, and if he’s about to have a heart attack, it’s like the good kind now, and so he’s a little less concerned. He doesn’t remember how his tongue gets tangled in the fuzzy tendrils of the shag as he lets the fibers cling at his pubes, tug and slide like fucking silk against him, riding up against him as he strokes, thrusts into the flat surface and moans like a... a cow, or a dying coyote, and he can feel himself start to peak, and it’s harder and swifter and brighter behind his eyes for whatever’s still raging in his veins, busting them open and bleeding all over like a fucking tsunami or something.
Jesus, Aldous murmurs, breaks into Aaron’s high as he rubs circular patterns against the wall, head lolling back against his shoulders with his mouth gaping wide; stretch, stretch, just like that, coming in through the backdoor, bitch, and Aaron only then realizes that the man’s pants are around his ankles, and his fingers are playing at his hole, though given his running commentary, it’s hard to tell whether Aldous thinks he’s opening himself up, or stretching Jackie’s pretty posy.
For a second, Aaron’s far enough gone to consider it, but after that bitch Destiny and his rendezvous with her date-rape dildo, he thinks twice -- he’s pretty sure he’s still leaking her spit and whatever else she’d lubed that fucker up with, and he’d rather not, you know, touch it. More. Ever.
Jesus fuck.
He comes hard, because his mind’s fuzzy and thinking hurts, and the careful, teasing caress of that shaggy fucking carpet hung up right in front of him is more awesome than just about anything, ever.
He doesn’t get much of a chance to enjoy it, though, to revel in the smooth rub as he softens, to stick against the fabric as he collapses, boneless against the wall -- doesn’t get a chance to figure if his pulse’s racing still because of the drugs or the way he just got milked by a rug -- because before he knows it, Sergio’s fucking chasing them like it’s a game of goddamn tag or some shit, and he’s having a heart attack again, because the thumping in his ears is drumming quadruple to the beat of his feet on the ground, and he can’t even catch his breath, and Aldous is grabbing at the sleeve of his jacket and Aaron only realizes as they’re halfway across the lot that not only is his shirt still unbuttoned, but his fly’s down, a bit of the wall tugged off and stuck in the teeth of the zipper.
Fucking sweet.
______________________
When it’s all said and done, most of Aaron just wants to forget the entire ordeal even happened. But he can’t, and there’s also that part of him that doesn’t want to -- and that part of him that actually likes Aldous Snow, or maybe just pities him, and can’t leave him hanging out to dry; doesn’t want to.
So Aaron tells Daph they can start to plan the process of moving north, tells Aldous yes when the fucker has the balls to ask him for help in getting his career back on track, and figures if forgetting isn’t an option, this might be a really great Plan B for the immediate future.
They do, in fact, burn the mattress, and the sheets, and the pillow shams, and pay someone to come in and disinfect the carpet. No one thinks anything of the shaggy rug he buys when they scope out new bedding, and it becomes a kind of unspoken fixture in their entryway before very much time goes by at all.
No one thinks anything of it; Aaron, though -- he gets a kick out of it whenever he pads past it, between the kitchen and the living room, from the bedroom out the door. Makes his fucking day.
As a result, he sometimes has to wear looser slacks to work, but hey -- in the grander scheme of things, it’s not like it actually matters.
______________________
But then sometimes, Aldous gets really depressed. The Greek show did him wonders, sure, but things aren’t bright and awesome in his world just yet. Jackie’s still engaged to fucking Lars Ulrich, and he only gets to see Naples every other weekend, and his father’s still in Vegas being a douche; and Aaron gets it -- Aldous is slowly climbing back into the limelight, but things still kind of fucking suck. So sometimes, he crashes at Aaron’s place.
There’s an all-encompassing taboo on the bed -- because even if they’re moving to Seattle soon, they’re taking the new fucking mattress they bought after they’d burned the old one -- but other than that, Aldous is generally welcome to sleep where he wants. He usually takes the sofa, or else, he usually starts at the sofa, but more and more often, Aaron wakes up to find him on the floor near the front door.
On top of the goddamn furry rug.
Daphne learns to step over him when she leaves at the ass crack of dawn for her shift, uses the light from the kitchen to keep from disturbing him -- and she’s a great woman, Daphne, if Aaron ever needs a reminder -- and Aaron, well, he tries to avoid thinking too much about what Aldous mutters as he rocks; okay, grinds against the thing, rutting into it, his limp dick cushioned in the wooly plush, teeth bit into his lower lip as he moans here and there. Because it’s disturbing.
So Aaron calls IKEA to order a hundred fucking five-by-three shag, GILDÅ FLÖCATI KVÄLL something or other with lots of umlauts and shit, rugs, and makes sure they’re hidden in the corner of the hall closet, stacked on top of themselves like their own little wall of shag; and if Aaron can fucking swear he smells Vegas on the things, he’d never say it out loud, because that’s just stupid -- plus, they’re from Costa Mesa, not Nevada, and he’s pretty sure a few might be from the Burbank store, but that’s neither here nor there.
And if, when Aldous gets up to take a piss, singing “Going Down” to himself with mostly the right lyrics, Aaron gets a pair of latex gloves from the box Daphne nicked from the hospital and quickly rolls up the sullied rug and replaces it when the clean one, Aldous settles on it without comment, fly zipped from the bathroom and content as a kitten until Aaron brews the coffee.
And if the burning barrel in his backyard smokes a sinister black for a few minutes as the fabric goes up in flames, his neighbors never complain, so it seems like everything works out for the best.
He’s pretty sure he would get complaints for the way he sometimes beaks down and rubs the corner of the throw against the crotch of his boxers between the rolling and the burning, imagining the contact on the underside of his cock, soft and fluffy against the vein; and he’s pretty sure the way he pants and groans at just the thought of it would be considered indecent as he stands on his back porch at daybreak -- and he’s absolutely sure that it’d be considered indecent if anyone caught him dragging his bare dick against the stack of clean rugs in the closet -- but it’s a fucking closet, and he never gets caught, so that works out, too.