So I'm not sure if this is finished or not
I've been terrible lately....Well ever since The Incident (as I call it in my head, since it produced so much trauma), in that I start fics and never finish them. This song haunts me endlessly (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mX8n5IiSB-8) so one night, in the dark of my room, I put it on repeat and spat this out.
I think I've become afeared of writing smut. Trusted one person to read my writing and she wasn't much of a friend as it turned out, so the only vaguely sexy thing I've written was that Nikki/Tommy double-drabble which I considered a small miracle.
The question is, first of all, is this already ridiculously out there artsy fartsy? And second of all, should it be continued to its logical, er, climax (*snicker*)?
Anyway- this has been jumbling around on my computer for some time, so let's get it out shall we?
"Merry-Go-Round"
Fandom: early Mötley Crüe (in the Mötley house, haha)
Paring: Nikki Sixx/Vince Neil
Rating: PG-13 for lots of swearing, and suggestive content (? that makes me sound like such a fuddy-dud :P )
The gentle strains of guitar music floated throughout the house. Vince had no clue what the fuck Mick was playing, but the back and forthing up and downing of the plucked notes permeated his drunken haze quite pleasantly. Somehow the music always seemed blank, though, until Nikki put words to it.
He wasn't like that. He couldn't listen to the music of it and feel what it meant. He knew Mick, the crazy bastard, always put some sort of meaning into it; he was into that bluesy artistic crap. To Vince, though, the lyrics were what breathed the life into the song. As soon as the fleeting feeling was encapsulated into words, easy to contain, and chew on, and then spit out- then Vince could own them. And he could fly with them. Nikki gave him that, brought him that sense of elation. And sometimes Vince thought that was a gift that not even the bassist could understand.
When Vince's whole world was swaying, the booze taking him under, Mötley songs often floated to the surface of his conscience, anchoring him somehow to the only secure thing in his life. And Nikki was the key to that. Nikki.
As he dragged himself up from his slouch on the ground, his boots scrabbled for purchase on the floor. Coated in something slick. Probably spilt Jack, Vince's poison of choice for the evening. Motherfuck. Narrowly avoided collision with the two by four resting on a couple buckets full of cement that served as a makeshift coffee table/ottoman/bench. He stumbled down the dark hallway, seeking something.
As he stood in front of the faint glow of light from under his doorjamb, the closet light always on, he turned. Head swinging to the left, he realized that, he had somehow known that, his feet were pulling him straight to Nikki's door. Too blasted to give much of a fuck of a thought about possessed boots or demonic bassists' enchantments, Vince opened Nikki's door.
It was far from silent as it swung open and the room was far from inviting in the pitch black. But Nikki lay there, sprawled on his bed. Not asleep. Not dead. That was all that mattered to Vince. He crawled across the mattress on the floor, putting the bottle of booze into Nikki's hand as a peace offering. "Nikki. Nikki. Nikki!" Vince's hushed yell was all the consideration he could give in his state. "Do ya hear thaht, Nikki?"
Nikki squinted, gazing up into the face of a backlit Vince, his head spinning. "What the fuck, Vince-" He paused, as the first thing that seeped into his now-conciousness was the music. Eyes locked with Vince's, he began to hear the words. A merry-go-round. Captured in something that seems so simple. So harmless. But he can't stop. Can't catch his bearings. Can't even orient himself. As the world spins, high off bleach-blond fumes and open, loose grins, the fumes of Jack wafting from soft, warm lips.
"Wass he sayin', Nikki? I needjou to tell me. I... can't I can't I can't," Vince's expression clouded with frustration, "I can't feel it. Youknow. Without the wordsss. S'almost there. But s'not." His hand still clutched Nikki's around the bottle. The other braced his body as he leaned over Nikki's chest, kneeling on the bed.
Nikki dragged the bottle to Vince's face, tipped a few more mouthfuls of alcohol into the blond's mouth, watching his adam's apple bob and the amber liquid trickling out of the corner of his lips, down his throat, glinting gold in the dim, hazy light. And then, without Vince letting go, pulled it across their bodies to his face and took a few deep swigs before taking his other hand and prying it out of Vince's grip, letting it thunk against the carpeted floor.
"Are we going to fall, Vince?" Nikki's eyes looked too serious for someone coming off a heroin nod. Not clear, never clear, but with an intensity that Vince usually only saw onstage.
"We've been falling down," Vince whispered. The unspoken truths- that they were all just getting through the days. Making whatever they could. Fighting whomever they could. Just the need to feel some sort of alive, to let them know that they were making a difference, doing something. Otherwise they might as well quit right then and there.
"All we have to do is get through the night," Nikki countered, surprising Vince with his ardent answer. Nikki was usually the first person to piss in the lemonade. But Vince didn't know how he could have faced the morning had Nikki admitted in the muffling melody of the night that he didn't think they could do this.
The moment Vince realized he still clung to Nikki was the same moment that he realized Mick was playing the circular melody over and over again, creating images of overlapping fingers and scratches in records was the same moment that Nikki reached up, cradling the back of Vince's head in his right hand as he rolled them over, cradling Vince's body with his own.
His thighs were spread, stretched taut, as he straddled Vince's hips, bending forward to take Vince's lips as he took his breath with the force of the flip. The lack of oxygen was dizzying to Vince's brain, but it fit perfectly. He trusted Nikki to love him till the sun came up, vanquishing this doubt and desperation, taking him home, if only into the web of music they spun together.
I think I've become afeared of writing smut. Trusted one person to read my writing and she wasn't much of a friend as it turned out, so the only vaguely sexy thing I've written was that Nikki/Tommy double-drabble which I considered a small miracle.
The question is, first of all, is this already ridiculously out there artsy fartsy? And second of all, should it be continued to its logical, er, climax (*snicker*)?
Anyway- this has been jumbling around on my computer for some time, so let's get it out shall we?
"Merry-Go-Round"
Fandom: early Mötley Crüe (in the Mötley house, haha)
Paring: Nikki Sixx/Vince Neil
Rating: PG-13 for lots of swearing, and suggestive content (? that makes me sound like such a fuddy-dud :P )
The gentle strains of guitar music floated throughout the house. Vince had no clue what the fuck Mick was playing, but the back and forthing up and downing of the plucked notes permeated his drunken haze quite pleasantly. Somehow the music always seemed blank, though, until Nikki put words to it.
He wasn't like that. He couldn't listen to the music of it and feel what it meant. He knew Mick, the crazy bastard, always put some sort of meaning into it; he was into that bluesy artistic crap. To Vince, though, the lyrics were what breathed the life into the song. As soon as the fleeting feeling was encapsulated into words, easy to contain, and chew on, and then spit out- then Vince could own them. And he could fly with them. Nikki gave him that, brought him that sense of elation. And sometimes Vince thought that was a gift that not even the bassist could understand.
When Vince's whole world was swaying, the booze taking him under, Mötley songs often floated to the surface of his conscience, anchoring him somehow to the only secure thing in his life. And Nikki was the key to that. Nikki.
As he dragged himself up from his slouch on the ground, his boots scrabbled for purchase on the floor. Coated in something slick. Probably spilt Jack, Vince's poison of choice for the evening. Motherfuck. Narrowly avoided collision with the two by four resting on a couple buckets full of cement that served as a makeshift coffee table/ottoman/bench. He stumbled down the dark hallway, seeking something.
As he stood in front of the faint glow of light from under his doorjamb, the closet light always on, he turned. Head swinging to the left, he realized that, he had somehow known that, his feet were pulling him straight to Nikki's door. Too blasted to give much of a fuck of a thought about possessed boots or demonic bassists' enchantments, Vince opened Nikki's door.
It was far from silent as it swung open and the room was far from inviting in the pitch black. But Nikki lay there, sprawled on his bed. Not asleep. Not dead. That was all that mattered to Vince. He crawled across the mattress on the floor, putting the bottle of booze into Nikki's hand as a peace offering. "Nikki. Nikki. Nikki!" Vince's hushed yell was all the consideration he could give in his state. "Do ya hear thaht, Nikki?"
Nikki squinted, gazing up into the face of a backlit Vince, his head spinning. "What the fuck, Vince-" He paused, as the first thing that seeped into his now-conciousness was the music. Eyes locked with Vince's, he began to hear the words. A merry-go-round. Captured in something that seems so simple. So harmless. But he can't stop. Can't catch his bearings. Can't even orient himself. As the world spins, high off bleach-blond fumes and open, loose grins, the fumes of Jack wafting from soft, warm lips.
"Wass he sayin', Nikki? I needjou to tell me. I... can't I can't I can't," Vince's expression clouded with frustration, "I can't feel it. Youknow. Without the wordsss. S'almost there. But s'not." His hand still clutched Nikki's around the bottle. The other braced his body as he leaned over Nikki's chest, kneeling on the bed.
Nikki dragged the bottle to Vince's face, tipped a few more mouthfuls of alcohol into the blond's mouth, watching his adam's apple bob and the amber liquid trickling out of the corner of his lips, down his throat, glinting gold in the dim, hazy light. And then, without Vince letting go, pulled it across their bodies to his face and took a few deep swigs before taking his other hand and prying it out of Vince's grip, letting it thunk against the carpeted floor.
"Are we going to fall, Vince?" Nikki's eyes looked too serious for someone coming off a heroin nod. Not clear, never clear, but with an intensity that Vince usually only saw onstage.
"We've been falling down," Vince whispered. The unspoken truths- that they were all just getting through the days. Making whatever they could. Fighting whomever they could. Just the need to feel some sort of alive, to let them know that they were making a difference, doing something. Otherwise they might as well quit right then and there.
"All we have to do is get through the night," Nikki countered, surprising Vince with his ardent answer. Nikki was usually the first person to piss in the lemonade. But Vince didn't know how he could have faced the morning had Nikki admitted in the muffling melody of the night that he didn't think they could do this.
The moment Vince realized he still clung to Nikki was the same moment that he realized Mick was playing the circular melody over and over again, creating images of overlapping fingers and scratches in records was the same moment that Nikki reached up, cradling the back of Vince's head in his right hand as he rolled them over, cradling Vince's body with his own.
His thighs were spread, stretched taut, as he straddled Vince's hips, bending forward to take Vince's lips as he took his breath with the force of the flip. The lack of oxygen was dizzying to Vince's brain, but it fit perfectly. He trusted Nikki to love him till the sun came up, vanquishing this doubt and desperation, taking him home, if only into the web of music they spun together.