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Hello, I'm currently writing a fic which is a bit of a troubled child for me, and doesn't really fit in anywhere, so I thought... it's music slash alright. You won't be disappointed. Providing you like hairy 1980s metal guys. ;)
Title: Ze Flüff (I'm good at writing, but not at titles!)
Fandom: Iron Maiden
Pairing: Bruce/Steven
Rating: NC-17
Genre is roughly humour/fluffsex with a bit of horror. You have to image the situation as such: Bruce wants to join the band as the new singer, and they are testing him for a week before letting him join. This is where the story starts.
Disclaimer: I do not own or know any members of this band. This story is entirely ficitonal, and in exposing it to the public I mean no harm or insult to anybody.
He’s only noticing now that his shirt is way too hot for the room. He’s starting to sweat too much, but he’s only now noticing how unpleasant it is. His knees are shaking, his voice has only now stopped trembling, and he’s sure he’s fucked up royally.
They will never want him. They’ll think he’s absolutely incapable.
And that’s too bad, because this is what he wants to do. This is where he wants to be. He has finally found something he liked. He could stay here.
The song is over, and his hand is shaking to badly that he can hardly find the “off” switch on the microphone.
“Wicked!”
The voice comes from the door. It’s Steve, the bassist, who has arrived late for the rehearsal, and whom he hasn’t talked to yet, only seen for a few minutes, in a medium distance.
“What’s wicked?” he asks weakly.
Steve laughs and strides over. “That song. It’s fitting perfect. Your voice is wicked.”
“Uhm”, he says. There are brown eyes, dark brown, boring right into his, openly, and he’s feeling much too flattered for the performance he just delivered.
Steve smiles warmly, and Bruce’s head is empty like an upturned bucket. Some voices from the others added yes, true, it was really good. Bruce wants to reply, but he has temporarily forgotten how it’s done. He only knows that his heartbeat is thumping in his ears, and his mouth has gone dry suddenly.
He only recovers when Steve walks over to his amp and Dave throws a question in his direction. It’s over as quickly as it has come, but Bruce knows he has to sit down and think about this for a minute, so he sits.
They don’t give him much time, the rehearsal continues, and Steve isn’t giving him any more unusual circulation activities. He shoots Bruce a few friendly glances or encouraging smiles, and they exchange a few words, but nothing happens.
Nothing, for the entire rest of the day.
Haha. This isn’t happening to me agai-
“Hey, don’t do that!”
“What?”
Steve’s fingers come down on his and push them out of the way gently. “You’re shoving my tuner off the amp if you shuffle the papers like that!”
“Sorry”, is all he can manage, before a hot itching starts in his fingertips and dives straight through his arm and into his chest, unleashing a bunch of hormones. His head is swimming.
What the hell was that?
Okay, calm down. Calm down. Leave it as it is, you’re just confused, and your body’s doing silly things, and tomorrow it’s all over.
He nods (at nothing, really) and gets up from the amp. Everybody is packing up. Steve pockets his tuner and turns his attention to the zipper of his gig bag.
Clive pats him on the shoulder. “We’re going to a pub ten minutes down the road. Are you coming too?”
He shakes his head and it’s breaking his heart. He likes these guys. He’d love to go. “Got to go and study. I have an exam on Thursday.”
“Aaaah.” Dave grins. “Bloody students.”
“Ye’re no fun.” Clive knuckles him in the back.
This hurts. It’s not like he doesn’t want to. It’s necessary, can’t they see?
“Next time?” Dave suggests. “If you get some work done today?”
He nods, relieved. They were just kidding him. No harm intended. He still can’t help but see them as seeing him as a clueless book-head who doesn’t know how to behave properly, what to say when, and how things have to go in general. He’s been trying to down-scale his speech all day, not use any words that make him sound like he has a stick up his arse. He doesn’t know if it was any good.
They’ll just have to like him as he is, then, because he won’t change… hopefully they do. He likes them.
Steve floats past him on his way out, smiling sunnily. “See you tomorrow.”
Bruce would like to say something, but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, sticky as a piece of chicken, straight out of the fridge and dabbed dry. His tongue actually feels very much like this piece of chicken right now.
This can’t be healthy.
He checks mentally. Down in his pants, everything is sleepy and calm at the thought of getting into bed with naked Steve.
A social crush, not a sexual one. He can live with that, he thinks, and follows the others out on the street.
----------------
The next two days, things start feeling more familiar. He’s noticing how he has accepted the corner with the least feedback noise as home, even begun to drag little things in there, a pen and the usual red clothes peg to clamp the paper to the microphone.
The practising goes well. He’s growing more self-assured, his voice is steady, and it’s easier to communicate when he doesn’t have to concentrate on the music itself 100 percent any more. He’s learning how to talk to whom, and how to avoid open conflict when one of the others is getting loud about something (because, he feels, holding his head low is his duty as the ‘new guy’). The process of growing into the band has begun.
The Steve thing (as he has started to call it) is under control. Steve still turns his stomach to jelly, not always, but then intensely - but now he knows it’s silly and can be laughed off.
In the evening of day three, they all go to the pub again, and later the evening, when he falls into bed, he’s more convinced than ever that he wants to stay with them, and he is positive that they want him too.
Steve didn’t talk much, it strikes him. Steve never seems to talk much. He’d like to know more about Steve, why he’s being so quiet, if he’s just looking, testing Bruce’s behaviour? Maybe this is another test?
He begins to wish he hadn’t talked so much in the pub, but he was tipsy and there was so much funny stuff to tell.
Bruce is sobered by the thought, and winces and is awake, only to fall back into half-sleep.
He sinks further into the darkness with his hand in his pyjama pants, on his bits. It never fails to make him feel secure and cosy.
He doesn’t know for how long he slept, but suddenly there’s a light in the room.
Bruce blinks, and when he shapes come clear, he sees that the light radiates from two points in the darkness. Bruce tries to focus, are the far away? Where are they coming from?
The distance between them tells it all. They’re eyes.
And in his room, shining these super trooper like eyes right down on Bruce, is…
Eddie.
“Oh, hello Eddie”, Bruce hears himself say. “I never knew you were only eight inches tall.”
Eddie sneers, and answers in the voice of Bruce’s old maths teacher: “I’m taller than I look.”
“So am I”, says Bruce, and Eddie gets mad at him and jumps to claw at his face.
Bruce pulls the cover over his face, but before he can feel these little claws and teeth in his flesh, Eddie squeaks and there is a pop to be heard outside the blankets.
Steve pulls the cover away. “Guess I was here just in time, huh?”
Bruce nods, even though he didn’t feel very much threatened.
“Oh, don’t say that”, says Steve. “He’s venomous. You could get blood poisoning, you sure would.” He lifts up the covers and pushes himself in with Bruce. “You wanted to know why I never talk much, you said?”
Bruce says no, he never said that, but he wants to know anyway, and Steve suddenly plunges down. His kiss feels very much like eating a big bar of soft orange chocolate, but it’s nice. Bruce sighs and surrenders.
“I’d much rather fuck you than say anything at all”, says Steve, and Bruce’s groin begins to throb with need like a steam-train.
“Fuck me?” he squeaks, trying to sound coy.
“Yeah. I know you like to get fingers stuffed up your bum. I can tell just by looking at your face.”
This is embarrassing. He never thought you could tell this from someone’s face.
But he’s not wearing anything under the covers, he notices, and neither does Steve (strange, a minute ago he was wearing a pyjama), and Steve is between his legs and stroking Bruce’s inner thighs, and Bruce feels so needy and horny…
“Do it?” he begs. “Please?”
“Patience, baby. We need to get you aaaaall relaxed.”
Bruce doesn’t see how this thigh-stroking thing is supposed to help, but he holds still like a good boy.
Steve hoists Bruce’s legs up over his forearms, and Bruce thinks this is how a girl must feel at a gynaecologist’s, but for some reason it only makes him more horny.
He closes his eyes, and then it comes… against his arsehole… pushing lightly, shoving its way it, but it’s somewhat invalid, like a half-inflated rubber thing, and every time it presses against Bruce’s body, the air goes somewhere else.
Steve is swearing.
It’s coming in, filling out, but too slow. Bruce could die, this is how horny he is. If someone told him he could get pregnant, he’d risk that too, only to get Steve’s cock properly into him.
Bruce is sobbing with need, and this is the moment when the alarm clock rings.
Bruce sits up, his hair tousled over his face and his face sticky with sweat and morning crumbles.
This is the sort of dream that will make him feel stupid all day, and his fingers are dirty too.
PS: If you need to know what everybody looks like, http://ironmaiden.webvis.net/images/The-Band/Piece-Of-Mind-Lineup1.jpg gives you a clue... Bruce is the guy in the middle, Steve is on the far left.
http://991.com/newgallery/Iron-Maiden-Iron-Maiden-238116.jpg
And this is Eddie, the band mascot, who is really 3 metres tall.
Title: Ze Flüff (I'm good at writing, but not at titles!)
Fandom: Iron Maiden
Pairing: Bruce/Steven
Rating: NC-17
Genre is roughly humour/fluffsex with a bit of horror. You have to image the situation as such: Bruce wants to join the band as the new singer, and they are testing him for a week before letting him join. This is where the story starts.
Disclaimer: I do not own or know any members of this band. This story is entirely ficitonal, and in exposing it to the public I mean no harm or insult to anybody.
He’s only noticing now that his shirt is way too hot for the room. He’s starting to sweat too much, but he’s only now noticing how unpleasant it is. His knees are shaking, his voice has only now stopped trembling, and he’s sure he’s fucked up royally.
They will never want him. They’ll think he’s absolutely incapable.
And that’s too bad, because this is what he wants to do. This is where he wants to be. He has finally found something he liked. He could stay here.
The song is over, and his hand is shaking to badly that he can hardly find the “off” switch on the microphone.
“Wicked!”
The voice comes from the door. It’s Steve, the bassist, who has arrived late for the rehearsal, and whom he hasn’t talked to yet, only seen for a few minutes, in a medium distance.
“What’s wicked?” he asks weakly.
Steve laughs and strides over. “That song. It’s fitting perfect. Your voice is wicked.”
“Uhm”, he says. There are brown eyes, dark brown, boring right into his, openly, and he’s feeling much too flattered for the performance he just delivered.
Steve smiles warmly, and Bruce’s head is empty like an upturned bucket. Some voices from the others added yes, true, it was really good. Bruce wants to reply, but he has temporarily forgotten how it’s done. He only knows that his heartbeat is thumping in his ears, and his mouth has gone dry suddenly.
He only recovers when Steve walks over to his amp and Dave throws a question in his direction. It’s over as quickly as it has come, but Bruce knows he has to sit down and think about this for a minute, so he sits.
They don’t give him much time, the rehearsal continues, and Steve isn’t giving him any more unusual circulation activities. He shoots Bruce a few friendly glances or encouraging smiles, and they exchange a few words, but nothing happens.
Nothing, for the entire rest of the day.
Haha. This isn’t happening to me agai-
“Hey, don’t do that!”
“What?”
Steve’s fingers come down on his and push them out of the way gently. “You’re shoving my tuner off the amp if you shuffle the papers like that!”
“Sorry”, is all he can manage, before a hot itching starts in his fingertips and dives straight through his arm and into his chest, unleashing a bunch of hormones. His head is swimming.
What the hell was that?
Okay, calm down. Calm down. Leave it as it is, you’re just confused, and your body’s doing silly things, and tomorrow it’s all over.
He nods (at nothing, really) and gets up from the amp. Everybody is packing up. Steve pockets his tuner and turns his attention to the zipper of his gig bag.
Clive pats him on the shoulder. “We’re going to a pub ten minutes down the road. Are you coming too?”
He shakes his head and it’s breaking his heart. He likes these guys. He’d love to go. “Got to go and study. I have an exam on Thursday.”
“Aaaah.” Dave grins. “Bloody students.”
“Ye’re no fun.” Clive knuckles him in the back.
This hurts. It’s not like he doesn’t want to. It’s necessary, can’t they see?
“Next time?” Dave suggests. “If you get some work done today?”
He nods, relieved. They were just kidding him. No harm intended. He still can’t help but see them as seeing him as a clueless book-head who doesn’t know how to behave properly, what to say when, and how things have to go in general. He’s been trying to down-scale his speech all day, not use any words that make him sound like he has a stick up his arse. He doesn’t know if it was any good.
They’ll just have to like him as he is, then, because he won’t change… hopefully they do. He likes them.
Steve floats past him on his way out, smiling sunnily. “See you tomorrow.”
Bruce would like to say something, but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, sticky as a piece of chicken, straight out of the fridge and dabbed dry. His tongue actually feels very much like this piece of chicken right now.
This can’t be healthy.
He checks mentally. Down in his pants, everything is sleepy and calm at the thought of getting into bed with naked Steve.
A social crush, not a sexual one. He can live with that, he thinks, and follows the others out on the street.
----------------
The next two days, things start feeling more familiar. He’s noticing how he has accepted the corner with the least feedback noise as home, even begun to drag little things in there, a pen and the usual red clothes peg to clamp the paper to the microphone.
The practising goes well. He’s growing more self-assured, his voice is steady, and it’s easier to communicate when he doesn’t have to concentrate on the music itself 100 percent any more. He’s learning how to talk to whom, and how to avoid open conflict when one of the others is getting loud about something (because, he feels, holding his head low is his duty as the ‘new guy’). The process of growing into the band has begun.
The Steve thing (as he has started to call it) is under control. Steve still turns his stomach to jelly, not always, but then intensely - but now he knows it’s silly and can be laughed off.
In the evening of day three, they all go to the pub again, and later the evening, when he falls into bed, he’s more convinced than ever that he wants to stay with them, and he is positive that they want him too.
Steve didn’t talk much, it strikes him. Steve never seems to talk much. He’d like to know more about Steve, why he’s being so quiet, if he’s just looking, testing Bruce’s behaviour? Maybe this is another test?
He begins to wish he hadn’t talked so much in the pub, but he was tipsy and there was so much funny stuff to tell.
Bruce is sobered by the thought, and winces and is awake, only to fall back into half-sleep.
He sinks further into the darkness with his hand in his pyjama pants, on his bits. It never fails to make him feel secure and cosy.
He doesn’t know for how long he slept, but suddenly there’s a light in the room.
Bruce blinks, and when he shapes come clear, he sees that the light radiates from two points in the darkness. Bruce tries to focus, are the far away? Where are they coming from?
The distance between them tells it all. They’re eyes.
And in his room, shining these super trooper like eyes right down on Bruce, is…
Eddie.
“Oh, hello Eddie”, Bruce hears himself say. “I never knew you were only eight inches tall.”
Eddie sneers, and answers in the voice of Bruce’s old maths teacher: “I’m taller than I look.”
“So am I”, says Bruce, and Eddie gets mad at him and jumps to claw at his face.
Bruce pulls the cover over his face, but before he can feel these little claws and teeth in his flesh, Eddie squeaks and there is a pop to be heard outside the blankets.
Steve pulls the cover away. “Guess I was here just in time, huh?”
Bruce nods, even though he didn’t feel very much threatened.
“Oh, don’t say that”, says Steve. “He’s venomous. You could get blood poisoning, you sure would.” He lifts up the covers and pushes himself in with Bruce. “You wanted to know why I never talk much, you said?”
Bruce says no, he never said that, but he wants to know anyway, and Steve suddenly plunges down. His kiss feels very much like eating a big bar of soft orange chocolate, but it’s nice. Bruce sighs and surrenders.
“I’d much rather fuck you than say anything at all”, says Steve, and Bruce’s groin begins to throb with need like a steam-train.
“Fuck me?” he squeaks, trying to sound coy.
“Yeah. I know you like to get fingers stuffed up your bum. I can tell just by looking at your face.”
This is embarrassing. He never thought you could tell this from someone’s face.
But he’s not wearing anything under the covers, he notices, and neither does Steve (strange, a minute ago he was wearing a pyjama), and Steve is between his legs and stroking Bruce’s inner thighs, and Bruce feels so needy and horny…
“Do it?” he begs. “Please?”
“Patience, baby. We need to get you aaaaall relaxed.”
Bruce doesn’t see how this thigh-stroking thing is supposed to help, but he holds still like a good boy.
Steve hoists Bruce’s legs up over his forearms, and Bruce thinks this is how a girl must feel at a gynaecologist’s, but for some reason it only makes him more horny.
He closes his eyes, and then it comes… against his arsehole… pushing lightly, shoving its way it, but it’s somewhat invalid, like a half-inflated rubber thing, and every time it presses against Bruce’s body, the air goes somewhere else.
Steve is swearing.
It’s coming in, filling out, but too slow. Bruce could die, this is how horny he is. If someone told him he could get pregnant, he’d risk that too, only to get Steve’s cock properly into him.
Bruce is sobbing with need, and this is the moment when the alarm clock rings.
Bruce sits up, his hair tousled over his face and his face sticky with sweat and morning crumbles.
This is the sort of dream that will make him feel stupid all day, and his fingers are dirty too.
PS: If you need to know what everybody looks like, http://ironmaiden.webvis.net/images/The-Band/Piece-Of-Mind-Lineup1.jpg gives you a clue... Bruce is the guy in the middle, Steve is on the far left.
http://991.com/newgallery/Iron-Maiden-Iron-Maiden-238116.jpg
And this is Eddie, the band mascot, who is really 3 metres tall.