Hard Core Logo story
What He Knows
Pairing: Joe/Billy
Rating: NC-17 for drug abuse, language and sex.
Author's notes: This was written for
Jcjoeyfreak, and was originally posted at the
hcl_fic Sleddog Afterbirth fic exchange. Posted here with a few, minor changes. Many thanks to
bohemian__storm for beta, and for organizing the fic exchange.
What he remembers:
Regina gig. The venue's in a basement, but pretty big - looks like it holds at least five hundred people. The air is damp with steam from the crowd; Joe's hair is plastered to his face, his jeans are sliding reluctantly against his skin. They drove all night to get here, and Joe hasn't slept in more than forty-eight hours; but he's had a little blow and the promoter was clever enough to have a couple of bottles out for them backstage - Jack D, bourbon, a beautiful half gallon bottle of Boris Jelzin.
There's nothing like the taste of cheap vodka. Joe's fucking in love with it; halfway through the set and more than halfway through the bottle. Right now it doesn't take more for him to love the place, love the crowd. Each band member finishes the song ("Rock and roll is fucking ugly!") several seconds apart, but hey, John's high as a kite and Billy's drunk on his knees on the floor, and anyway the crowd's crazy for it.
They launch into Something's Gonna Die and are met by a roar of approval. Joe shows them some teeth, spits a little of his vodka into the faces of some of the girls in front row. One of the perks of the band getting a bigger following is the girl fans. Fucking fanatics, all of them: they'll elbow their way past the biggest, meanest rockers to get right in front of the stage, and then they'll act like they're watching Michael Jackson or whatever, writhing and whimpering, reaching out to touch the band. He can smell them, too: perfume and sweet liquor and girl sweat. He looks down at their red, upturned faces with their pink mouths open, and thinks about sticking his dick in all of them. Imagines that they'd probably let him, too. He laughs and grabs his crotch, gives them a show. To his right Billy moves closer, flushed and glassy-eyed, grinning as well. He spits Joe in the face and Joe just opens his mouth to it, licks it off and chases it down with a swig of Boris J, his throat and mouth numb enough that it goes down like water.
Hazy stuff:
The promoter's booked rooms for them, got them a driver, and they've got roadies by now; so after the concert all they have to do is jump off the stage and right into the crowd. The rest of the band is quickly swallowed up by the mass of people, and Joe hooks up with a couple of girlfriends, dark haired and heavy set, fucking enormous tits on both of them. He lets them buy him a couple of beers, tips their heads back and pours the rest of his vodka into their mouths.
He brings them back to the motel and they blow him while he leans against the wall and finishes his beer, and wonders if every guy given the chance will reenact every tacky porn setups he's ever jacked off to. He wonders what Billy's doing. He looks down at the white partings in the girls' black hair, at their tongues lapping at his cock, at their tits rubbing against each other. He comes too quickly, not caring.
He can't be asked to deal with the girls afterwards, and they don't want to fuck each other, so in the end he just tugs his wet dick back into his jeans and gives them the boot. He gets another beer from the minibar and goes next door to see what Billy's up to.
Fucking a groupie, it turns out. One of those bony, lanky girls Billiam seems to prefer. No hips, no tits, and Joe actually does a double take, but yeah it is a girl. He leaves the door wide open, slouching against the door frame while he finishes his beer, but either Bills doesn't care or he hasn't noticed. Most likely the second, Joe realizes, because it's pretty obvious that both of them are high on something. The girl looks close to comatose. She's lying on her side, dorky expression on her face, mouth slack and eyes rolled back in her head. Her short, blonde hair is flattened and wet, and Billy's behind her, fucking her in slow-motion, brows furrowed; his mouth latched onto her neck like a fucking leech.
He finishes his beer and comes inside to get another one. He stands at the foot of the bed and finishes that one as well, and as soon as Billy comes, he grabs the girl and drags her skinny ass off the bed. She lets out a drugged, drawn-out "heeeyyyyyy", but he's already found her pants and throws them at her. He finds her coat and looks through the pockets, tossing one of her smokes into his mouth and cramming the rest of the packet into his jeans. She's got condoms, lube, a couple of twenties, a pocket knife and a little brown bottle of something liquid - and Joe has to hand it to her, she certainly came prepared. He takes all of it before throwing her out the door and locking it.
He lights the cigarette with his back to the bed, waiting. Billy's on him a couple of seconds later, but he's drugged and slow and Joe shrugs him off easy. He gets him down on the floor and holds his wrists, but Billy's only in jeans and he's a slippery motherfucker. He writhes and swears, and suddenly he's got one arm free and his elbow cracks into Joe's face. They struggle for awhile, both of them getting a couple of good punches in before Billy twists away from under him and sits up, saying "alright, alright, fucking asshole, get me a beer."
Joe gets him a beer and Billy drains half of it and wipes the blood out of the corner of his mouth. Joe moves to sit down against the bed, but he's got that girl's shit in his pockets, and his jeans are too tight. He stands back up and fishes out the pocket knife, throws it on the floor. He gets out the bottle. It looks like cough syrup, or something like it, no label. "What is this shit, anyway, Bills?" Billy fumbles a cigarette into his mouth "fucked if I know…You sniff it," he adds helpfully.
Joe unscrews the lid and takes a whiff, and it turns out to be a pretty good rush. He sits down heavily, takes a couple of deep breaths. Billy smiles around his cigarette, lights it, takes a long drag. He slumps against the wall and lets his legs fall apart - and he's still hard. Fucking show-off. "So what, you've already gone off your Hooters twins?"
Joe laughs, "You saw them?" he cups a pair of imaginary breasts "fucking huge!" Billy shakes his head dismissively and takes the cigarette out of his mouth. He picks a strand of tobacco off his lower lip, and Joe notices that Billy's lips are swollen; from kissing maybe, or from a punch - he can't remember if he hit him in the mouth. A couple of hot waves crash over him, and he's liking this shit, whatever it is. He leans his head back and looks at Billy through half closed eyes, skinny fucking cheetah, shiny patch of sweat in the hollow just below his ribcage.
He only catches the tail-end of what Billy says "… pathetic… your taste in women… fucking infantile…" but he gets the gist of it and flips Billy the finger, relaxing into his high, "Screw you Bills, I'm not the one fucking my twin after every show. You'd fuck yourself, if you could - you sick fuck." He lets his eyes slide closed, he feels like he's falling, or floating, melting, easing into the carpet. His legs are tingling and the sensation is spreading upwards, snaking along the insides of his thighs.
Billy's silent for a long time. When he finally speaks it's in a wry, deliberate voice. "You'd fuck me too, if you could, though… Wouldn't you Joe?"
What the fuck? Joe means to bring his head back up quickly, but it's more of a slow roll; and when he's finally got Billiam in his line of vision, Billy sneers at him and runs the heel of his hand over his own crotch, mocking him.
Yeah, Joe'd fuck him, has always wanted to fuck him. He didn't realise that Billy knew. Fuck it.
Joe's pissed off, and he's turned on; he gets a good grip on Billy's neck and drags him forward. He's clumsy and slow, but he grabs him hard and Billy's clumsy, too, falling forward. He doesn't remember making a decision and his brain is struggling to process it all - it's happening in flashes: Billy's hot tongue in his mouth, his own hand making a fist in Bill's hair, Billy's long fingers on his cock. Fucking flashes, fucking…
Flashbacks:
- Joe's panting hard, his chest aches. He wants to come, but he can't. Billy's sucking him and it's good, too good; it hurts. He looks up at the ceiling, swallows, licks his lips, swallows again. He can't stop thinking that the motherfucker is way too fucking competent with this, that Billy must have done it before. It pisses him off, makes him want to kill the bastard; he moves his hand blindly from Billy's hair to his throat and squeezes, feels Billy's veins throb against his fingers. -
- Billy's strong, Joe has to fight for it - he wrestles Billy onto his stomach on the floor, pushes his head down, pushes his face into the carpet, grunting with the effort. He keeps one hand on the back of Billy's head, keeping him still, while he fumbles with his other hand to pull down his pants. Billy's not helping him, writhing underneath him, pushing his ass up -
- He's got Billy's cock in his hand. His fingers are slick with precum, but Billy is silent as the grave. Joe looks up at him and Bill's avoiding his eyes, biting his lips and breathing out through his nose in hard, quick bursts - and it hits Joe that maybe Billy hates wanting it just as much as Joe does, maybe it fucks him up just as badly. -
- He's gnawing at Billy's shoulder, tasting cigarette smoke and sweat. Clenching his shoulders hard, pushing him down while thrusting up. Sucking blood up under the surface of the skin, feeling muscles move under his mouth. He's not sure if he really remembers this, or if he just thinks he does because of -
What he knows:
Billy has bite marks on his neck, scratch marks, blue and purple bruises strewn across his shoulders.
He's asleep on the floor with his back to Joe. He's curled up around himself and he looks a little like a big dog or a wolf, some kind of animal: every rib is visible, the edge of his ribcage stands out under the skin before tapering into slim hips, narrow ass, long legs. He looks pale and alien in the morning light, his hair flat and dark with grease.
Joe woke up with the mother of all headaches, his stomach hurts from too much booze and too many drugs. His muscles are sore from fighting with Billy, fucking Billy. He gets up to take a piss, washes his face, finds his trousers, his shirt.
Bill is sleeping the sleep of the dead. Joe gets out a beer and rolls the cold bottle across his forehead. Drinks it looking down at Billy. His mouth is slack, his eyelids are twitching. He's shivering slightly. Joe hesitates for a moment before getting the duvet off the bed and throwing it over him.
He goes back to his own room. It looks like the door's been open all night. Joe wonders if Pipefitter and John ever made it back to the motel. He can hear birds singing, the sky is greyish white, there's a couple of inches of thin fog just above the ground - it has to be really fucking early, something like five o'clock. He gets into his room, finds his Valiums in his coat, dry swallows two and lies down on his unused bed.
He knows this is different from the casual hand jobs in their teens, different than the one time they fucked that blonde chick together. He knows that he wants Billy more than he's ever wanted any groupie, or any fucking girl. And he knows that Billy's clever, that if Billy doesn't know that already, he will very soon.
What Joe doesn't know is what the fuck is going to happen then.