(no subject)
Title: Sid
Author: Le Moi
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Mike/Sid vicious
Disclaimer: Yessy, i own Mike Dirnt and Sid Vicious, I keep them next to Tim Armstrong and a newly aquired Lars in my basement. However, Tre adn Billie are still ivading my nifty capturing skills, and seeing as they appear in this mofo of a story, this menas tis sadly, all untrue *le sigh*
Notes: Rightys, notes. Numero Uno: This is a loooooooooooong story, 7,101 words, twas a demon to write! so, if you manage to reach the bottom I promise to be waitng there with cookies and coupons that allow you to be alone either Mike or Tim...for five minutes(subject to availability) Numero Dos: Features blood and Man gunk. Numero Tres: Tis from a slightly drunk, albeit cranky Mikeys POV, meaning there be mucho on the swearingo.
This bundle of sneers be the infamous John Ritchie aka Sid vicious, just in case anyone was wondering.
And this vision of beauty is his Mrs, Nancy Spungen, who he alledgedly stabbed and murdered in a hotel room in london.
I swear to Gord the room is jolting deliberately. It knows I’ve had one too too many of my good ole friend Jack D. The room’s jurst jealous. Jealous coz I love an’ warnna bum JD an’ not it. Stupid-goddamn-room. Who dores it trhink it is anyway? Fucking Sid Vicious? Peh. Mmmpghf. Gay room. And wha’ the furck is it with this furking goddam’ musty smell? Smells like old people sex. Ewww attractive. Jurst like yoou Mike. Mmph, lurk at you, surch a beast of a masculine man. Grrr.Ooo bouncy bed, ha, bounce, bounce, woooah…too…too murccch booze, Mikey…must…sleep and and…hurl.
“Tre geroff!” Goddamn animal, does he not know it’s fuck knows what hour in the morning/night /after-fucking-noon? Does he not know that super hot model was about to go down on me in my drink induced dreams? Does he not know I have a fucking bleeding mother-wanking hangover? Does he not know that when he trails his fingers down my chest like that the temperature rises 1000 bleeding degrees? I wince, since when does Tre bother with the light? What the fuck, since when has Tre looked like that?
I jolt, sitting up, my stomach buzzing like Tre’s Rampant Rabbit, my body rewarded with a bitch slap of a head rush, which causes my vision to blur and dance for a moment. My eyesight returns in time for me to watch as the intruder smirks and lets his icy cold finger linger against my clothed chest. “What in the name of bent fucking beavers, are you doing in my room sweetheart?” I spit out, my eyes trailing over the guy’s slender body. He’s young, yet there are lines on this face that shouldn’t be there, they’re the sort of lines too much drink rewards you with, too much weed etches upon your face, lines that a nasty divorce bestows upon you. I shift, suddenly aware that I wasn’t under the covers, that I’m still fully goddamn clothed. I wince. There’s something about drinking a lake of Jack Daniels that goes straight to your libido, and it’s hornifying effects have just this second kicked in, accompanied by newly woken daze, it’s made me more hot than an hour of sweaty Billie/Tre porn. Fuck I need a fuck.
“What you doin’ in my room?” The guy sneers, repeating my fucking question. Who does this guy think he is? Billie Joe fucking Armstrong? I go to shoot a reply from the loaded barrel that is my mouth. But that sneer. That degrading-ice-bitten-hot-bend-me-over-and-take-me-now sneer. That sneer combined with the effects of last night’s whiskey. It ain’t helping my growing problem downstairs. So I manage a feeble, perplexed. “Yours? I thought…thought it-” Accompanied by an audible gulp. At least The Dirnt manages a quizzical cock of the eyebrow, hopefully showing I’m not just a tornado of baffled -just-woken-up ness, hopefully showing underneath my dazed exterior I’m actually a force to be reckoned with.
“Yeah bitch. Mine” That voice drips off his lips like fag ash from a cigarette butt, fluid, yet jagged, icicles tainted with molten lava, acid tainted silk. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckty fuck. I’ve done a friggin Tre. Tre’s known for finding his way into other guests rooms, god knows how that guy does it, but he does, he somehow manages to bypass the lock, thrust open the door and fall drunk as fuck onto someone else’s bed, regardless of whether they’re in there or not. Seems I’ve subconsciously inherited his talent, maybe it’s from all that tour-bus…ahem…entertainment, maybe what Billie said IS true. Apparently if you spend enough time with a guy, swallow enough bodily fluids then you do start to act like him, and that Mr Dirnt was gross and really shouldn’t ’ve made me lick my lips like that and…. fuck. I’m checking this guy out. Piss flaps. I may be a rookie at this fall-asleep-in-another-guys-room-thing. But damn, I must have beginners luck.
He’s tall, taller than Billie but hey; a dwarf is taller than our Bill; slender, skinny, kinda willowy and pale, deathly pale, porcelain flesh clings smoothly to a well-defined bone structure. He’s wearing a vintage leather jacket that looks like it’s seen too many mosh pits and what looks like a slashed white vest, both cling illegally well to his slim body and goddamn those pants are tight. Clinging like stockings to his calves, his thighs ending at a classic black studded belt. I swear they’re just painted on; they’re that fucking tight. His china neck adorns a padlock and chain .He looks like a doll, the sort that litters my daughter’s room. A life sized ceramic doll, looks like one twist of those bony arms would cause them to snap off in your fingers. Yet that sneer… Come on, back to shitty reality Mike …but…bu-yeesamahooser… that face, that complexion. It’ so…youthful, yet, ancient. Those lines, those lines I noticed earlier, they give him an... Alluring quality, kinda haunting yet enticing all at the same time. Like one of freaky ass ghost-trains, not the shit ones, the proper ones, the sort that makes you shudder and shake when you think about what happened when you clambered on that carriage and went through those doors. His hair is cropped, black and spiky; it’s style in a just-got-into-a-ruck, just-got-fucked-through-a-wall look. It’s the sorta hair, which frankly I wanna wind and tear my fingers through. And that sneer, that godforsaken sneer is going straight to my groin. And shit the little twerp just called me a bitch. Bitch.
“Shouldn’t you be more concerned in finding you’re parents sweetheart? What are you, fucking 19?” I spew venom. Go Mike, piss the immensely hot guy off, yeesh you sure do have a fucking talent don’t you? My chest tightens in both excitement and a slither of angst as my poisonous words receive the undesired effect. The man, boy, bloke, guy whatever, he smirks, and another knot twists in my stomach. “ 22.” He corrects. “What are you? Fucking 70?” Wow. This dick can give as good as he gets. I like it. “Just gone 33 actually.” I sneer, ha who’s sneering now punk? He flips me a distasteful look mingled with…surprise, curiosity…lust? Anyways it’s a look, not a sneer that means it luckily doesn’t shoot straight to my pants .He crosses his scrawny arms over his chest and subconsciously I lick my lips. God Mike, your libido could kill, it was only a couple of hours ago when you were fucking Tre through the fucking bed, and now you’re having dirty images about this guy. Who the fuck is this guy anyway? Ooo yay, dazed-sleep-nastiness is finally wearing the fuck off, all I need is a coffee and I’ll be wide and pissing awake
I’m about to quiz the little shit, but he beats me to it, with his cockney-accented-oddly-seductive voice, adding to the intricate plat forming in my ever tightening stomach. “ ‘S been years since I’ve had a hot blonde in my room…” He drawls, that fucking delicious sneer still adorning those biteable lips. God he looks good and what the fuck, woooooah re-take. Hot blonde? Me? “Last one practically died on me…” He adds, a dark cloud drifting over his eyes momentarily. Okay slightly scared, but was it wrong that that revelation added another knot to my stomach, that it’s causing my dick to strain even more against my damn trousers? “I see peroxide blonde is still in…” He continues in that mocking tone, yeeesh I think I just shuddered. Okay I definitely shuddered, his fingertips have wound their way through my white hair, giving a short vicious tug as my eyes rebel against my will and fucking slip closed. Bastard eyes. My own fault for not fucking resisting. I swear to god I’m gonna sue Jack Daniels ass, your alcohol makes me too goddamn horny dammit!
Right Mike, think. Think quick otherwise I swear you’re gonna mess you’re fucking pants, you’re a 33 year old and a 22 year old punk is threatening to make you repeat that rather embarrassing closet incident at Billie Joe’s all those bleeding years ago. I extended a hand. “M-Mike Dirnt.” I breathe, my voice shaking like an earth tremor. Yeah, that was smooth dude, smooth as fucking shattered glass. Oh and fucking great, there go those candy coloured lips. And this time it’s a pissing smile. Fuck your cock has no hope. “John Ritchie,” He replies, letting his hand slip into mine and grasp my fist firmly, his fingers still winding through my hair like a twilight breeze stabbing through long grass. “Mate’s call me Sid.” He adds, I feel the bed dip as he sits next to me, his hand still pulling, tugging at my hair, all I can do is watch. That name, John Ritchie, it rings a bell, but frankly do I look like I’m in the sort of position to care about pissing bell ringing? So yea, I’m sitting there watching and fucking gawping like a teenage girl, stunned and mute, save for a rebellious groan that I didn’t realise I emitted, as some stranger who for all I know is an axe-murderer, plays with my hair. Turns out my body likes having my hair pulled, turns out it likes the sudden sharp pain that races through the roots of my hair, the top of my scalp. I shudder again Back to the situation Mike, back to Sid.
Yeah, a fucking minor has reduced me to a wordless wreck. Only shattering orgasms ever do this, shattering orgasms and a particularly good brew of coffee. I shudder as his head moves towards mine, penetrating my personal space without a care. “I like you’re tattoos.” He whispers hotly in my ear. His warm ghosting breath sending delicious tingles across my flesh, igniting soft goose bumps, making my veins shudder with need. He’s so fucking close, so fucking near, God I can taste the cigarettes, the alcohol and something else…something…almost malodorous, yet not, like newly rotting grass cuttings…or something equally as comforting yet perverse, but jeez I can taste it on his breath. His tongue flickers out, winding around the long silver bar in my ear, pushing it uuuup an’ dooown, up, down, uuup, dooown, so teasingly, so tantalizingly, spinning it sloooowly between his pouting lips and fuuuuck. I moan again, my eyes rolling as they shudder closed once again, lips parting as that burningly light sensation floods my stomach. Jeez, can’t. Form. Coherent. Words. Tongue. In. Ear. Garh, “They’re so colourful.” He continues in that liquid, fluid scorching tone, his burning breath freezing the damp trail he left on my earlobe, causing me to tremble. That cold, placid finger, that finger that traced down my chest and woke me from my drunken sleep, that finger is sliding down my decorated arm. Lingering on each inked star like melted silk, tracing my daughters name in the same way dew caresses a spider web, eventually dripping, seeping round and over my Fustrators tattoo. My heart is fucking beating like Tre’s bass drum, I can feel it pounding, swelling, throbbing and yeah, I’m no longer talking about my heart. I gasp as he withdraws his hand, both from my arm and from my scalp, annoyed, frustrated, desperately I whine. Yes. Mike Dirnt whines. And it’s’ not even a manly whine. It was as camp as pink fucking fluffy slippers on a body builder.
A peel of dark laughter falls from those edible lips. He sheds that worn, black leather jacket and pulls his vest from his skinny frame. I bite my lip. Jeezeus. Look at that torso. The skin tightens over his prominent ribs as he removes his top, exposing a taut, slim, lickable stomach and scars. Lots of scars. “Not like mine.” He continues, a boyish endearment dashing across his youthful features. “Mine are all bland…” My eyes trace over his body, in the same way his fingertips glided over mine. They punctuate each different shaped scar, each bruise, each carefully crafted letter. And fuck-me if that isn’t the world’s most sexiest thing. Yeah, it’s sadistic, but you just talk to Tre and Billie, they’ll confirm I’m the sadist out of the band.
I have an irrepressible sick urge to trace each laceration, each blemish, to let my finger slice through that torn flesh, to kiss them until…until…hell fuck it, until they bleed again. My hand. My fucking rebellious hand. The one that always finds my cock when I’m in the shower, the one that always makes Billie scream, the one that always makes Tre explode into my palm, that hand, slowly creeps up to a large gashing wound on his side. Hesitantly, I let my finger draw along the ripped skin. I wince as he inhales sharply, his upper teeth sinking into his lower lip. Well I wasn’t fucking expecting that, I was getting ready to duck and fucking flee, not...trace over another one. He gasps. I’m liking this. The Dirnt is in control. Not this punk. Not Sid.
“So,” That satin smooth voice purrs, his eyes flickering closed underneath a veil of sultry eyelashes. “What yer do fer a livin’?” Such a fucking innocent question falling from what I swear are the world’s most sinful strawberry coated lips. “You don’t strike me as a business man…” He adds, grinning, eyes remaining closed as my calloused fingers draw lines between open and closed wounds, healed and weeping scars. “Bassist.” I reply, leaving out the small ‘in a well known punk band’ fact. He sniggers; it’s a heartbeat increasing flutter of a noise. “Me too,” he replies, opening his eyes and ensnaring me in an icy glare. “You like guys?” Fuck, lose the eye contact Dirnt; drop it like a fucking venomous tarantula, like a cup of that shit Tre calls coffee. I’m never good at eye contact. And those eyes accompanied by that question. Three words. Uncomfortable as fucking in box, okay, more than three words, but still. Furrk. See, now I’m pissing stuck. I’d lie. But it’d be so fucking obvious I’m lying, he just as to glance at the fucking bulge in my pants to know I’m being phoney. But, if I answer truthfully, if I say that I really do like guys, the way they taste, the stubble burn, the way they feel underneath me or occasionally on top of me. Fuuuck. The Dirnt has a dilemma. My body’s choosing today to be rebellious, any other day and fuck I wouldn’t have a flying monkey turd. But today, tonight, now. “Sometimes…” I eventually reply, withholding the urge to jump at the sound of my own voice. I register what I said. Yeah, fucking cryptic there Mike, add something, quickly dammit! “Y-you?” Oh yeah, round of applause Mikey. I’m stuttering like a pissing virgin. Something I’m most defiantly defiantly not. The Dirnt’s had thousands of conquests, hell he has two failed marriages to prove it, love bites from Tre, bruises from Billie but the fact of the matter is, I sound damn nervous and I shitting well am, but I haven’t a flaming clue why. Sid shrugs those lightly defined shoulders. “All about girls…” I think I just shat my heart. I was hoping for a fuck…or something along those lines, a grope, a kiss, anything… and nice imagery there Mikey. “But you…”That hot icy tone adds. Maybe I take that shit back. “ Blonde hair, blue eyes, tattoos…” His gravelly voice makes each word sound like an erotic sex position that promises delight from every any angle, that promises hoarse voices in the morning, the inability to sit down for weeks. I swallow audioably. “Me?” I falter as his lips brush against mine.
“Yeah. You bitch.” And then he’s grabbing my head, pulling me ferociously onto his mouth, his tongue stabbing at mine, his teeth clawing at my lips. My gasps are suffocated as his nails scrape viciously against my arms, a sudden rush of strength from his lithe frame pinning me beneath that sylphlike lean body as he growls predatorily down my throat. Goddamn he was good. And his taste. Holyfuckarooney. He tasted like everything and nothing, cigarettes and sex, fire and ice, sugar and death all mingled into one.
It takes me a fucking year to respond. His tongue slides and drags roughly along mine, his hips bucking hard down into my pelvis. I feel a vicious smile sweep across those fucking delicious lips as he swallows my gasp, my groaning pant. His fingertips scrape and graze at my unclothed arms, drawing raw red lines across my richly inked biceps. Making me gasp at the addictive tight rope of a luscious pain-pleasure sensation. He laughs deeply, I can feel it shudder up my chest, shiver over my heart and my gawwd if that isn’t the most incredible feeling in the world, universe... His tongue stabs, plunges into my mouth repeatedly, brutally, raping me of breath. I groan, and shit I’m subbing. I only sub on the rare occasion. The Dirnt likes to be in control, likes to watch as the face underneath him contorts in pleasure, in lust, in delirium. Right. Time to show this little shit The Dirnt isn’t as submissive as he looks.
My tongue wrestles back, jabbing and rolling over his, hips grinding upwards in harsh, firm, grinding movements, didn’t… think… this… through Dirnt did we…Jack Daniels plus denim plus friction equals…equals…sssshit, alright, stop, STOP, do something else...find something else. A fully-fledged Dirnt smirk bleeds across my face. My short nails digging into the flesh on his back, moving down slowly, painfully towards his legs, Bill, Te, they hate it when I do this, they mutter and scold and thrash, I get punished for scratching. And not in a good way, but Sid, he lets me… not only does he let me but he moans into my mouth, arches upwards, accentuating that amazing burning friction that’s building in my groin. I feel a small moment of victory coarse over me before he bites down. Hard. On my tongue. And he fucking doesn’t let go. His teeth sink slowly into my flesh and I whimper. Whimper, man, not a good move Dirnt. He now knows he has the upper hand. That you’re his bitch that…A-rgh. Apologies. That’s my someone’s-just-infiltrated-my-boxers-and-has-just-grabbed-a-handful-of-hard-dick sound. It’s kinda difficult to make sense when a thing like that happens. His cold fingers along my burning hot cock, yeesh, that incredible molten ice sensation, almost made me blow my load there and then. But I didn’t. The Dirnt has self-restraint. The Dirnt has self-control. The Dirnt doesn’t blow first.
I could feel that dirty grin as he thrust his tongue quickly into my mouth, scarping maliciously at my teeth. And boy did it fucking piss me off. My nails dug in well and truly, anchoring myself to his back, penetrating flesh. I smiled sweetly, ripping my mouth from his just before I pushed my nails down, scarping curling the skin either side of his spine. I could feel the warm blood following suit as my fingers drew burning molten lines down his vertebral column. His eyes. His skylight-drowning-pools-of-eyes flickered and I heard a distinct hiss. Or was it a growl? Either way it was a damn nice sound, travelled amazingly down my clothed torso. I decided to make the best of his distraction, fastening my mouth onto the spot where his neck joined his shoulder and biting down, making sure that my teeth sunk in a good two-three millimetres or so. He thrashed and writhed, wormed and twisted all the while keeping his slender body contacted with mine, sending delicious teasing sensations shooting, thrusting to my groin. I let my tongue flicker out and press against his hot salty skin, eliciting more stomach clenching moans, soft groans and the occasional seductive growl. The way he moved, jeez, I dunno how I coped. Everything about this guy, about Sid, was so sensually violent, so lovingly twisted, so romantically warped that I began to question his sanity…and my own. But I didn’t get far; it seemed the euphoria my biting invoked had worn off. His slim fingers had wrapped extremely tightly around my very swollen cock. “Mphhg!” Another whimper. Three in one night Dirnt, it’s not a good thing. Then again, I should let myself off; the guy HAS got my dick in a python grip and hell, that would make any tough guy wrestler whimper like a puppy. His eyes glimmer as he leans back, suddenly removing his hand, letting my cock breathe. He’s got that dirty grin painted on his face again, and before I have a chance to bitchslap it off, he’s thrust his hips down into mine and… jeez… that… feels… sooo…damn…good…My eyes have wielding closed, my head’s tilted back, exposing my throat in that vulnerable manner Billie adores, I can feel the silent curses falling from my lips. “You look goddamn hot underneath me.” He growls insidiously. I can feel those glacier fingertips trailing up my body, feather light over my fabric-covered stomach, skull crushingly hard over my material clad ribs, the softness of butterfly wings over my throat. That tongue, I feel a shudder pulse through me, fucking hell that tongue swipes and sweeps, slices and gashes winds and trawls over my neck like I’m his own personal Dirnt flavoured lollypop.
His tongue presses sharply against a prominent vein on my throat. A fission of lust filled fear floods through me. It’s only just dawned on me, this guy likes pain, this guy likes to cut, this guy likes to bleed, this guys likes to… Gaaarhhhmmmph…give damn good hickeies. I can feel the blood vessels pop and erupt under the pressure of that frozen, rough tongue, from that luscious warm suction, I can feel each nerve end scream, each neuron explode as that knife like tongue slices over each blackening skin cell. I’m shaking, each heartbeat vibrates a thousand times, a trickle of sweat slides inchingly slowly down my flushed face as that demon tongue lashes and whips at my shrieking neck. There’s a sudden drop in temperature, I swear ice crystals start to form on my cheek. My eyes burst open, instantly ensnarling his gaze; those frost bitten irises prickle at my chilled skin, practically deep-freezing that bead of perspiration that’s now welded itself to my face. Those cavernous pupils dilate, the blue tinted ice swirls. I gasp loudly as his mouth tears, fucking rips away from my neck, those goddamn hypnotic eyes stalking the drop of sweat that’s sluggishly making its way down my rose tinged face. Sid’s throaty voice rumbles, it’s kinda like thunder before a bitch of a storm, only three times as sinister. That fucking talented tongue flashes out like lightening, swiftly imbibing the droplet, before expertly trailing up the glistening trail the perspiration left in its lazy wake.
Those snowflake hands are on my hips, bitterly itching and marking the sensitive flesh, that fucking cursed tongue of his sliding along my throat like a graceful knife blade. Then suddenly, those lips are back on mine, shredding and slashing at the inside of my mouth, mugging each tooth, violating each millimetre of flesh, plundering my tongue as if it were nothing but air. His nails drag tediously down my thighs, I emit a combination of what I like to think is a moan, but I’m sure if Tre had been here he would have confirmed my fears. Gleefully stating it was a yelp. But I’m not thinking about Tre at the moment, coz that goddamn evil mouth of his has removed itself from my lips and in my closed eye state I have no fucking clue where it’s gon- And hoollly-fucking-mother-of-billie-joe. This…guy…has…a fu-ck-ing…mouth…like a fu-cking…heavy duty Hoover. I go to moan, to let a throaty growl erupt from my throat. But nothing happens, it’s cut off by that tongue flickering along a vein, swirling over the head. Okay, oxygen is becoming a problem. Distinct lack of breath here Dirnt. But I swear to the mother of god if I breathe I’m gonna fucking choke on it, coz he suddenly changes technique, letting my dick fall slightly from those pouting lips and just using his frozen fingers, tracing and stroking…then my Goooood, he’ll fucking take me back in again, all the way in. I buck. I jerk; I grind upwards into that delicious sinful mouth, until I can feel the back of this hot throat against the tip of my dick. Take. That. You. Arrogant. Hot.Twat. And that folks, I smirk. Was a gag reflex. I’m about to snigger with triumph, when the little shit swallows. The whole of his fucking throat ripples, tightening around my cock like a vice clamp. That tongue is back with fucking hate-filled vengeance and shite! Teeth are in play. I repeat teeth are shitting fucking in play. That blistering tightness in my groin, that taut feeling in my stomach, it’s far, far too much. Teeth, tongue, heat, flesh, my back’s arching a good 6 inches off the bed, my fingers have found their way into his choppy jet black hair, tortuously pulling and yanking, I think words, curses, cusses are slipping from my lips, but hell, I dunno, the rooms starting to get blurry. Thought…fuck what thought? The only thought in my head…on my head running through the slit with a movement so wrong it should be shot, is that tongue, those full lips, that goddamn infuriating sneer…and there I fucking go. The Dirnt never cums first. Never…ever…I hate things that change. Okay Dirnty-boy. Catch your breath. Breathe dammit. Why does it feel like he’s swallowed more than my cum? Why does it feel like he’s taken something more? My meaningful debate is cut short as my eyes glance down to his retching face.
Hahahahahaha! I smile devilishly at the disgust on his face. Loser. I shrug, still smirking. It’s a well known fact the Dirnt has a unique taste. I decide to enlighten the poor punk , my words interjected with deep lungfuls of air as my heartbeat tries to catch up.“ I smoke… more than a chimney… drink…drink enough booze to kill a large deer, and…and down coffee like it’s oxygen…I reckon you’d had it better if I drank battery acid sweetheart.” Pant pant snigger snigger smirk smirk. Okay now I’m pleased with myself. Bill and Tre are used to it, Tre oddly’s taken a warped like to my, ahem, distinctive bitter flavour, but hey it’s Tre, he who has a grandma fetish. That laughter-inducing, distasteful glare has dissolved from Sid’s pale features. And I’m thinking I’m in le shit. It’s been replaced by that now familiar sneer, only, now it not only drips venom. It drips blood. It screams and howls, portraying a thousand and one ways in which he could enact his revenge. And once again The Dirnt finds himself shaking and maybe a teeny bit scared, not much, but the hormone is defiantly active and making its presence felt, slightly…ish.
Like a sudden haunting breeze he’s back on top of me, jaws snapping heavily at my lips which I swear to god are so fucking sore that they’re bleeding. And yes, that’s defiantly my blood on those lips and my cum…jeez, doesn’t this kid know I’m used to this? Yeah I may taste a bit bitter, a bit gag reflexy, but hell I’m the one that eats and drinks all the shit that turns me that flavour. I seriously doubt a franchise of Mike Dirnt flavoured Ice creams would sell well. My mouth feels like it’s been shred to fucking ribbons, gashed and torn by those vicious seductive lips…That fear hormone should be kicking in now, pleading with me to get the fuck outta here. Perversely, I find my spent cock, twitching, getting hard at the sight of those full scarlet painted lips. Man, Mike, you’re turning into a kinky fuck. This cannot be happening…I find myself snarling. He hasn’t kissed me for a good twenty seconds, I need those lips on mine, I can feel my flushed skin shiver, cry and beg for those cold malicious slivers of ice to be pressed against my mouth again. I feel like I felt when I tried giving up cigarettes for the day, the addiction, the need, the want, it eats away at you, whispers maliciously until you find yourself hysterically ripping off your clothes in search of an old faithful nicotine stick. Luckily for me, my hit smacks, slams onto my mouth with the force of a breaking frat-train. If he could, I reckon he’d bite my lips off, those pearly teeth are stained, those full fuckable lips are crimson with my…both our bloods. Seems I did do some damage after all. Go Dirnt. But that spine tingling sneer, mothershitter, has just upgraded to a borderline insane smirk.
That hot tongue is back in my ear, working on that shining bar in hanging from the lobe, making me groan and shudder, buck desperately under his touch. Volcanic hot breath scorches my ear. “ You like pain mister Dirnt?” my body trembles at each word, each letter. Stupid, fucking stupidly I find myself nodding. I think it’s the combination of the crimson metallic taste on my tongue and the lack of blood flowing to my head on my shoulders that makes me do it. Man, I always think with my cock in these situations. Never the shoulder grounded head. He laughs, and it’s haunting. I feel like I’ve just stepped into a creepy graveyard at night, full moon, dog howls, groaning corpses and all. That fucking devilish tongue slides down my earlobe, hovers lightly over the place where my head joins my neck. I’m so distracted by that tongue, by those lips I don’t feel those chilling fingertip push my trousers further off my feet, I don’t feel the snigger of laughter vibrate up his chest. But fuck. I feel it when he breaches me. It burns like nothing I’ve ever fucking felt before. Scowering, scraping, grating, stretching all at fucking once, combusting my insides, scorching my skin. It’s enough to bring fucking tears to my eyes. But hey, I’m Mike Dirnt. And Mike Dirnt doesn’t cry. Save for that one time in pre-school when that fucker stabbed me with a compass. I resort to the macho approach. Bite my lip and close my eyes. Wow, look what I did there. Got a song lyric in. And of all the fucking places to have it, that song’s about masturbation, not having a rock hard beast of an erection suddenly rammed up your arse without any prep. I should so take up romantic poetry. I’d be so fucking good. My lip’s bleeding. I can feel it drip onto my shirt as he thrusts into me, I think I hear it sizzle and hiss against my throat as it edges downwards past the collar of my sleeveless shirt.
My whole body gasps as he pulls out and slams back I, that pain is so intoxicating, so atrocious, so…fucking goddamn…addictive. It’s so addictive, I find myself rising up, meeting each pummelling thrust and…G...a…r…h…right there, right fucking shitting there, he’s sneering, I can feel it. Bastard. I clench around him and he gags. A sheen of sweat has materialised on his pale skin, making him almost glow, glow like my hair does after i've bleached it for the third time, there’s an almost unnatural shine about him. But yeesh, it’s a damn hot sight. He thrashes forwards and ensnares my lower lip in my teeth. My eyes roll in the back of my head as he keeps stabbing that spot that conjures angels and stars, that blinds all my senses but touch, that stops my lungs functioning that…that... “Fuuck” I can feel his laughter as he moves inside of me, his frost tainted fingers ghosting over the head of my forgotten cock, his taut stomach sending shivers of delicious friction shooting up the underside. Abruptly he pushes forward, hard and slow. So fucking slowly and so fucking hard that I begin to choke, that my mouth, blood stained lips fall around soundless words, muted screams. The room’s nothing but a blur, his frame is fuzzy round the edges. That sneer is back on that bloodstained face as he once again slams into me, the bed is defiantly thrashing, jerking up against the wall with each powerful thrust. I’m being fucking fucked through the mattress, through the wall, through…through…that hot breath is back by my ear. “I’m… gonna make …you scream.” The words drip from his lips, sending chills sprinting through my veins. His ice hand is viciously working at my shrieking cock, tugging slowly, then fast, teasing the head, flicking down the one side, then the other. He’s pounding into me so hard I can practically taste him on my tongue. Every pore on my body gasps, every skin cell erupts, and yes. I scream. No point in denying it. I screamed. Loud and deeply, as streaks of white painted that porcelain chest. I clamped around him as those wave of pleasure ripped through me. Seemed that was all he needed, coz less that a fucking second later I feel him cum inside me. His teeth chew at my lips as he pleasure slowly evaporates. The chews become gentle nips, nips becomes soft lappings of the tongue, tongue becomes tender kisses.
He pulls out uncharacteristically softly, but remains on my clothed chest. I wince momentarily at the thought of the stains that are now seeping into the black material, but the moment passes the second that tongue slides into my mouth almost romantically. I find my decorated arms wrapping round the boys panting lithe figure, holding him close, allowing him to control and softly manipulate the kiss. “Told you I’d make yer scream.” He breathes, still keeping that fucking infuriating air about his voice. I smile.
“Bitch.” I laugh. He smiles, his eyes floating up to my hair once more, closely followed by a shaking pale hand. My gaze watches his face as his fingers twist and tug gently through my hair. “I’d look so much nicer black.” He states, his eyes falling down into mine. I shrug, before leaning over and letting my tongue run over a silver scar on the underarm of his shoulder. Personally I love the bleached look. It’s dirty, it’s cool. It’s mine, and I won’t change it. Not for no one. His frozen fingertips run down my neck and I find my eyes slipping closed, leaning into that frozen, frost bitten touch. “Think about it, you’d look even hotter with black.” His voice has lost that malicious tone; it’s like fluid seduction, sensual velvet. He presses his lips against mine and softly whispers “Thanks.” Okay. Confusion. My eyebrow arches in puzzlement. He smirks, straddling my lap and leaning back to stretch. My eyes travel over that almost translucent torso. Hell it’s so pale I reckon I can see the wallpapered wall on the other side. And wait a fucking moment. I fucking can. Panic fills my eyes. “What the fuck?” I exclaim with, yes a huge mouthful of hysteria. My hands reach out to trace those elegant scars, but merely drifts through the air. “I forgot how hot guys with scolding black hair could be.” He grins, before leaning in and practically ripping my lower lip from my face, my eyes fucking rebelliously slip closed at the manic sensation. Fucking ouch ouch ouch, my hand goes to whack the arrogant bastard round the head, to get the little fucker to release my bruised lip. But rather than grab hold of spiky black hair, rather than grab hold of a pale skull. I hit myself in the face. And shit it hurt. I wince before my eyes snap open like a fucking loaded mousetrap. I repeat. What. The fuck?
I’m met with nothing. Just chilling air. No pale skin, no choppy black hair, no bloodstained lips. Nothing but uncomfortable glacier air. The oxygen catches at the back of my throat as I spring bolt up right, naked from the waist down. Disarray, mental fucking combustion skids across my brain, there was no fucking way, it, it couldn’t have been…I’m no pussy when it comes to scary things. I’ll happily sit through any horror film and not wince once; I’ll happily tell ghost stories so creepy they literally scare the shit outta Tre. I’ll happily deal with the gun-wielding, steroid munching, tattoo decorated, Arnold Schwartsnegger spider that Billie refuses to go near in the shower-room. And I’ll happily stay in ‘haunted’ hotel rooms. Coz lets face it, none of that shit is real right? Ghosts and ghouls are all a load of bull made up by parents to scare children, hell, I should know! The amount of times I’ve used the bogey man to get Stell’ to go to sleep at night, I swear it’s totalling up to thousands. I’ve stayed in loads of supposedly haunted rooms. Lain there completely happily and awoke the next day still very much alive. I’ve slept in them with Billie holding me close, real tightly, coz yes, the little Mite believes that shit. I’ve stayed awake all night with Tre, coz he’s convinced that the ghost is a hot old women who wants to fuck him through the ceiling and he wants me to watch for proof. I’ve stayed in enough rooms to ignore the hype, the stories the myths... My tongue flashes out and swipes across my lips. I wince. Blood. I shudder, this, tha, that was fucking real. I…I think my brain snapped, coz the next thing I know I’m bolting off the messed up bed faster than the speed of light, quicker than an ejaculating porn star. My hands grope for my trousers that lie discarded at the bottom of the bed. It feels like it’s fucking snowing in this damn room. Snowing sheets of piercing ice. My ass fucking burns as I yank the jeans on, I swear I can see the condensation of my breath rip out into the thin air in the room. My heartbeat is fucking blasting in my ears as I glance round the tattily decorated room, the wallpaper is peeling from the walls, dust rises and dances in the air above flickering bedside lamps. Woah-to-the-fucking-woah, I’m shuddering, quivering and yes it’s fucking fear. I’m like a bolt of lightening, grabbing for the door and yanking it open. My hair’s mused, my trousers are creased, my shirt has fucking cum stains on it and my lips are bleeding like there’s no tomorrow. But I’m way past giving a fuck. I’m far too fucking creeped out.
“Billie!” I boom, hammering on the door like a madman. “Bill, Billie dude let me the fuck in…” Yes, I’m hysterical, yes I’m practically crying, yes I’m panicky, but fuck a duck I have a hella of a reason to be.
“Where’s the fire sweedheart?” Har-de-fucking-har Armstrong, watch as my sides crumple from the humour, I scowl at him, my fear, confusion momentarily taking a back seat. “What the fuck happened to you’re lip…dude…you look a state…”Concern seeps from those smouldering emeralds.
“Oh thanks Bill, way-ter-make a guy feel better.” I snarl, he shrugs, grass green eyes landing on my hair.
“And woooah Dirnty-boy, nice fro.” What in the name of fuck?
“’Scuse me?” I ask, a faint stutter present on my usually iron-like voice. My nervous, blood covered hand strays up and winds it’s way through the hair those emeralds are staring at.
“I said nice fro Dirnty-boy, you shudda told me you were gunna dye it.” What .In. The. Name. Of. Cunt fucking swans. “I ain’t dyed my hair…”I murmur quietly.
Billie laughs, “Yeah, and you just woke up and it was black.” My hair’s black? My hair. Is black? Shit shit, double, triple fucking shit. My breathing increases faster than a sports car off the start line, my body tenses instantly. I shove the small, richly inked man out of the door way and clamber to find a mirror.
“Dude, where’s the fire...?” Tre groans, I hate the way we pick up each other’s phrases, but I hardly care at the moment. My eyes have landed on my hair. Last time I looked. It was white. Glowingly, gloriously white. No roots, just fluffy whiteness, like clouds or pre-Tre tissues. A set of pale arms wrap themselves round my waste and I flinch. “Someone looks hot with their new hair...very Sid vicious esque…ad is that lipstick I spy?” Tre growls huskily. I just stare. It’s black. Like a bottomless pit in the ground, like raven’s feathers, like dilated purling pupils, like the hair I not merely twenty minutes ago threaded my fingers through.
I’m shaking. “D-dude I fucked a ghost”
“I’m thinking someone had a wittle too much booze did they not?” Tre soothes, rough fingertips gliding over my still clothed torso, pausing quizzically for a moment over the conspicuous white stain. “How bout me and BJ make it alllllll better?” he asks, the epitome of childish innocence as he begins one of his trademark love bites on my shoulder. My eyes are still trained on my hair, sliding over the two figures either side of me. Soft fingers slowly defeat the buttons on my sleeveless shirt, ignoring the promiscuous stains. Then falter. Stop.
“Mike?” Concern drips from that soulful voice but it sounds distant, like when Billie used to be in the basement and me in his-our room. I’m silent. “Mike.” Tre tries, there’s a hint of disgust. Something only a truly obnoxious fart, a battleship floater, a pair of year old crusty boxers can invoke.
My eyes slowly drift down to my parted shirt, to where two pairs of fingers linger. The slicing breath hits the back of my throat with an icy bite. On my neck sits an extremely angry, deep purple bruise, outlined with a faint taint of red. But that’s not what bites. That’s not what makes the blood in my arteries freeze, my spine shudder, tremble like an earthquake. On my chest, over the pale layer of skin covering my heart, stopping it from spilling onto the floor. There it bleeds. Each letter seeping and oozing, laughing and taunting. ‘SID.’ Ha, it’s funny really, isn’t it? After all, he was a cutter. After all he was into pain and blood. After all he was the legendary Sid vicious. Bassist for the renowned Sex Pistols. Live fast Die faster, all that shit. My laughter falls from my lips and for a second Billie recoils. “I really did fuck a ghost.”
*cracks out the cookies and coupons* See, told you twas a long mofo. I shall pootle off now and go find me some food, all that Mikeyness has made me hungry.