My Fic...Apocalypse.
Title: Apocalypse
Author: rainjewel
Rating: NC17
Fandom, Pairing: Green Day, Billie/Mike
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.
Summary: It all got a little worse after Mike Dirnt decided to save the world...
It all got a little worse after Mike Dirnt decided to save the world. Not that it was bad before, but it wasn’t exactly…simple.
“Save the world from what?” he had asked, hanging off the edge of Mike’s couch, feet propped up on the arm, his left shoulder and most of his head hanging upside down. Billie remembers the feeling of his fingers laced over his belly, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat as his breathing finally began to slow. The couch, he thinks he remembers, felt the same as it always did after sex, sort of spongy in the places they’d worn it in with sweat and fucking, the lumps in all the right places.
“From that,” Mike had said, giggling and shaking his head in a way Billie knew meant that Mike was shocked he hadn’t figured this out already. Billie remembers peering up at Mike with a fuzzy face full of blood, blood finally rushing back to other parts of his body where it was greatly needed. He remembers watching Mike prance around the bassist’s flat in nothing but a pair of slippers, noticing each tattoo as it gleamed across Mike’s own flushed skin.
“What?” he had asked, shifting his ass on the cushions. Mike had giggled some more (a shame really, a giggle on such a man) and then pointed a little south of Billie’s upside down face, grinning like a fool.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed,” Mike had said, coming over to gently prop Billie up in an easier position on the couch, one that required Billie to be flat on his back and Mike on top of him, knee between his spread thighs. Mike had run callused fingertips through Billie’s hair, and Billie remembers how different they felt than the spine-tingling scrape of Adrienne’s nails over his scalp. “Your hair,” Mike had explained, mouthing over Billie’s jaw and throat, “Your hair is like the size of a small child, dude. If I were you I’d have it looked at.”
Chuckling, Billie had swatted Mike on the ass, sighing as he looked Mike over, taking in the curves of his shoulders. “I don’t really see what that has to do with saving the world, Mike,” he had sighed.
“Everything,” Mike had replied, rocking forward from the smack, a soft growl in the back of his throat. “Your hair could eat California. It has everything to do with it.” It had sounded serious at the time, Mike trying to let Billie in on one of his many secrets through vague absolutes, but then the bassist had smiled, leaning in to mouth over Billie’s throat, moaning as Billie’s hand came to his hair and gently pushed him down, down, down.
“Speaking of eating,” he had said, sighing softly as he had felt Mike’s tongue lick experimentally over Billie’s cock, as if each time he did this it was new and unfamiliar. Billie liked that about Mike, loved his eager, genuine mouth, moaning quietly as he felt the slide of those wide lips gobbling him down. No flair, some talent, and raw determination, an easy summation of Mike Dirnt. Just Mike Dirnt, which would turn out later to be enough to get Billie come hard up over his shoulder and stain the arm of the couch, again.
***
It was a lie, the comment about it not being bad before. Billie realizes this now. It was bad, then it got worse, that’s how things go. The problem is that Billie built the world, goddamnit. He built God, and then he ran the fucking show. And it wasn’t ego, that he knows. It’s just how things always were, always have been. Billie used to be the boy who gave Mikey the drugs, gave Mikey the confidence, made Mike a Mikey in the first place.
Mikey didn’t tell him about the tattoo. That was the first. That might be a lie too, but Billie at least knows that he can blame Mike for that one, not her.
Billie’s world was created in 1994, along with everyone else. Kurt Cobain shot himself in the face, Dookie went gold, and he put a ring on Adrienne’s finger and his heart in her hand. That didn’t mean that they had to stop fucking. Anastasia didn’t mean they had to stop fucking. After her, neither did Sarah, or their kids. Worlds have rules, have constants, and “BJ & Mikey,” damn well was one.
Looking back, Billie thinks he might have been a bit of an asshole.
***
Billie didn’t cut his hair. He still hasn’t actually. Mike hasn’t said anything, which Billie takes to mean either Mike has forgotten his mission or he’s been too busy with other statements to make one regarding Billie. The tour is over, no more silly right-by-celebrity flights back to Mike’s couch now that Billie is only a few miles away in another suburb, sitting comfortably with Jakob’s latest toy disaster in hand. Another remote control car down the drain, Billie thinks with a tired shake of his head, heading down into the basement in hopes of hiding the destroyed auto until he can send out for a new one come morning.
It takes half an hour to hide the toy out of sight from little prying fingers and eyes that occasionally wander down into his office despite the rules. It takes five minutes for Billie’s eyes to wander to the few guitars Mike leaves over, three seconds for his brain to remember the last bruise he left on Mike’s body (just below the right hip, at the junction of thigh and pelvis), which immediately leads Billie to an hour and a half spent deliberating whether to dye his hair or not. He hasn’t gone blond in awhile. Mike seems to be going for blonde again, which isn’t quite the same as blond but close enough. Billie used to be the only blond Mike went for. But they were younger. The world was better.
Adrienne doesn’t wake up, not even when he swears a blue storm after dropping half the kit down the seat. It’s a bad, bad bleach job, made even worse by three in the morning and his own fingers. He needs highlights, a professional job, like (“she,” is what he thinks) all the other boys and girls do. Billie tells himself he’ll work on it in the morning, and curls up on the office couch with wet hair. As he falls asleep to dreams about long, skinny bodies spread out beneath him, he tells himself to figure out an explanation for Adrienne and his sons come morning. Drinking into the early morning hours is much more acceptable in this house than hair dye.
***
“What, what is THAT?”
Billie gives Mike an exasperated look, hiding the disappointment on his face as he slips behind the heavy door of the bassist’s flat. Mike has a large palm hovering inches away from his own face, moving in wide circles as he tries to take in the circumference and no doubt hue of Billie’s new ‘do. “Oh my god,” Mike whispers, watching Billie drop his keys into the basket by the door, toeing his worn sneakers off in a practiced fashion. The bassist’s wide mouth is agape, sweatpants barely clinging to his hips, which tells Billie he just threw them on. It’s a Saturday, which Billie knows is not a good day for either of them to be seeing each other. Weekends are for kids, wives, and now a girlfriend. He sniffs the air, flipping Mike off as he takes off his shades, wondering if the lack of Mike’s scent in the room means someone else has been there.
“You just get out of the shower or something?” he asks instead, ignoring the comment. Brittney’s awful Camaro wasn’t in the fucking garage, or the driveway. He takes that information and pours it right into the look on his face, hazel eyes zeroing in on Mike’s floppy hair and rosy cheeks.
“No,” Mike says, blue eyes flickering as he takes in the turn in Billie’s stance, recognizing the low burn in the singer’s eyes for what it is. “Wh-hat are you…dude, why are you here?” Apparently the shock of Billie’s long, platinum shag is a bit too much. Billie knows he looks different, but he doesn’t think he looks bad. He takes Mike’s stilted speech in hand, and tucks his palm deep in the hem of Mike’s sweat pants.
“I wanted you to see my new look,” he says, taking a step, backing Mike up towards the wall in an easy dance, hips rocking into the tops of the bassist’s thighs. “Come on, Mikey,” he whispers, wasting not a second on fucking protocol. He doesn’t have to.
“Jesus, Bill,” Mike mutters, possibly into Billie’s hair. The singer doesn’t really know, lips closing in on that bobbing Adam’s apple, sliding up around to his ear. He feels Mike’s body roll with his as they break against the wall, not giving a damn that this is the fucking foyer.
“Put your hands in it,” Billie purrs, urgently, thinking that the sooner Mike touches him, the sooner Mike sees how much of everything Billie can be, he’ll somehow forget the mark that fucking tattoo artist left in his skin. “Mike,” he whispers, fingers coming up to tighten around Mike’s shoulders. “Mike, fucking touch me, now.”
***
Three things Billie realizes when he’s fucking Mike Dirnt right on the kitchen table:
1. Mike Dirnt has a new plant, stuck right in the window above the sink. Mike doesn’t even spend cash on a real Christmas tree, so that’s a fucking anomaly. Mike can’t keep a goddamn weed alive, and Stella likes cats, not philodendrons. It’s not his.
2. The only time Mike can be trusted is when there’s a cock inside him. That’s when he really begs, when he’s not concerned about the sweat stains on the wood finish of his table, whether or not one of his ankles catches the low overhanging lamp. It’s Billie he reaches for, shaking and nearly in tears as Billie pounds into him, and it’s Billie’s name he says when the little singer finally comes down enough from his power trip to press his cheek to Mike’s chest.
3. No matter how much he might want something to change, the act of simply ignoring it will not make it go away. Billie learns this when Mike asks him to take the condom with him, so it’s not so much of an insult for Brittney when she comes home.
The fourth thing Billie realizes that day happens when he’s taking Mike over the kitchen sink: If you bite down hard enough on the back of Mike’s neck, he’ll scream like a fucking thing of beauty and he doesn’t realize that you might have knocked the plant off the sill on purpose.
***
Billie dyes his hair back to jet black two days later. Mike doesn’t say anything, at least not until Billie asks about the house plant situation.
“You don’t really like her, do you?”
Mike is wearing his favorite yellow t-shirt, one Billie remembers a lot around the time they were working on Warning. The sex was awful then, too. He wonders if it’s gotten better between there and now, or if it’s just the world that’s changed.
“I like her just fine,” is what Billie says, fingers running through his hair. “She’s sweet. You’re happy. What’s not to like?”
Mike gives him a look, the turns away, shaking his head. Billie watches the long curve of the bassist’s spine and presses up against him until he fits against it.
“It’s Wednesday,” Billie whispers, feeling Mike’s chest move up and down as he slides his hands over the t-shirt. “That means it’s your turn.”
That gets Mike’s attention, and Billie spends the next two hours marveling at how amazing it is that Mike can stand to jog so much when he’s usually the one getting fucked. Maybe it’s just that Mike fucks harder than Billie does. Maybe it’s just that Mike gets more practice these days.
It doesn’t matter, Billie decides, watching Mike have a mini-heart attack when there’s a little bit of blood in the end.
“Shhh, I’m fine, just need a washcloth,” he whispers, grunting softly as Mike’s strong arms come around him, holding onto him as if he could break at any second.
Mike is staring at his hand, at the fingers peeking over Billie’s shoulder, tinged the wrong, wrong color. “Oh my god, Bill, I’m so sorry, I-”
“S’ok,” Billie says, shifting enough to tell that there won’t be a need for stitches, covering a wince. “Doesn’t matter, stop apologizing,” he says, kissing Mike’s throat, his mouth, calming down his bassist before the man vibrates them both into pieces. “Doesn’t matter,” Billie whispers, getting Mike to stop panicking in small caresses, “I love you.”
"Love you," Mike mumbles in that cluttered way he has, as if he was swallowing up the last of something important. Billie seeks Mike's mouth out using only his tongue, wrapped up in that good kind of ache, a little bit of the wrong pain, a reminder.
"Goddamn right you do." Billie blinks, watching Mike's eyes open at the grating tone--watching still as the bassist nods like the most apologetic puppy on the planet. Billie thinks he'd like to try kissing every eyelash Mike has. He's pretty sure Mike would let him try. He sighs, settling against the bassist's chest, letting Mike take over. "Goddamn right."
***
Yeah...I kind of get bored with what I'm working on. So here's a little bit. I'd say this is unfinished, yeah.
Author: rainjewel
Rating: NC17
Fandom, Pairing: Green Day, Billie/Mike
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.
Summary: It all got a little worse after Mike Dirnt decided to save the world...
It all got a little worse after Mike Dirnt decided to save the world. Not that it was bad before, but it wasn’t exactly…simple.
“Save the world from what?” he had asked, hanging off the edge of Mike’s couch, feet propped up on the arm, his left shoulder and most of his head hanging upside down. Billie remembers the feeling of his fingers laced over his belly, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat as his breathing finally began to slow. The couch, he thinks he remembers, felt the same as it always did after sex, sort of spongy in the places they’d worn it in with sweat and fucking, the lumps in all the right places.
“From that,” Mike had said, giggling and shaking his head in a way Billie knew meant that Mike was shocked he hadn’t figured this out already. Billie remembers peering up at Mike with a fuzzy face full of blood, blood finally rushing back to other parts of his body where it was greatly needed. He remembers watching Mike prance around the bassist’s flat in nothing but a pair of slippers, noticing each tattoo as it gleamed across Mike’s own flushed skin.
“What?” he had asked, shifting his ass on the cushions. Mike had giggled some more (a shame really, a giggle on such a man) and then pointed a little south of Billie’s upside down face, grinning like a fool.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed,” Mike had said, coming over to gently prop Billie up in an easier position on the couch, one that required Billie to be flat on his back and Mike on top of him, knee between his spread thighs. Mike had run callused fingertips through Billie’s hair, and Billie remembers how different they felt than the spine-tingling scrape of Adrienne’s nails over his scalp. “Your hair,” Mike had explained, mouthing over Billie’s jaw and throat, “Your hair is like the size of a small child, dude. If I were you I’d have it looked at.”
Chuckling, Billie had swatted Mike on the ass, sighing as he looked Mike over, taking in the curves of his shoulders. “I don’t really see what that has to do with saving the world, Mike,” he had sighed.
“Everything,” Mike had replied, rocking forward from the smack, a soft growl in the back of his throat. “Your hair could eat California. It has everything to do with it.” It had sounded serious at the time, Mike trying to let Billie in on one of his many secrets through vague absolutes, but then the bassist had smiled, leaning in to mouth over Billie’s throat, moaning as Billie’s hand came to his hair and gently pushed him down, down, down.
“Speaking of eating,” he had said, sighing softly as he had felt Mike’s tongue lick experimentally over Billie’s cock, as if each time he did this it was new and unfamiliar. Billie liked that about Mike, loved his eager, genuine mouth, moaning quietly as he felt the slide of those wide lips gobbling him down. No flair, some talent, and raw determination, an easy summation of Mike Dirnt. Just Mike Dirnt, which would turn out later to be enough to get Billie come hard up over his shoulder and stain the arm of the couch, again.
***
It was a lie, the comment about it not being bad before. Billie realizes this now. It was bad, then it got worse, that’s how things go. The problem is that Billie built the world, goddamnit. He built God, and then he ran the fucking show. And it wasn’t ego, that he knows. It’s just how things always were, always have been. Billie used to be the boy who gave Mikey the drugs, gave Mikey the confidence, made Mike a Mikey in the first place.
Mikey didn’t tell him about the tattoo. That was the first. That might be a lie too, but Billie at least knows that he can blame Mike for that one, not her.
Billie’s world was created in 1994, along with everyone else. Kurt Cobain shot himself in the face, Dookie went gold, and he put a ring on Adrienne’s finger and his heart in her hand. That didn’t mean that they had to stop fucking. Anastasia didn’t mean they had to stop fucking. After her, neither did Sarah, or their kids. Worlds have rules, have constants, and “BJ & Mikey,” damn well was one.
Looking back, Billie thinks he might have been a bit of an asshole.
***
Billie didn’t cut his hair. He still hasn’t actually. Mike hasn’t said anything, which Billie takes to mean either Mike has forgotten his mission or he’s been too busy with other statements to make one regarding Billie. The tour is over, no more silly right-by-celebrity flights back to Mike’s couch now that Billie is only a few miles away in another suburb, sitting comfortably with Jakob’s latest toy disaster in hand. Another remote control car down the drain, Billie thinks with a tired shake of his head, heading down into the basement in hopes of hiding the destroyed auto until he can send out for a new one come morning.
It takes half an hour to hide the toy out of sight from little prying fingers and eyes that occasionally wander down into his office despite the rules. It takes five minutes for Billie’s eyes to wander to the few guitars Mike leaves over, three seconds for his brain to remember the last bruise he left on Mike’s body (just below the right hip, at the junction of thigh and pelvis), which immediately leads Billie to an hour and a half spent deliberating whether to dye his hair or not. He hasn’t gone blond in awhile. Mike seems to be going for blonde again, which isn’t quite the same as blond but close enough. Billie used to be the only blond Mike went for. But they were younger. The world was better.
Adrienne doesn’t wake up, not even when he swears a blue storm after dropping half the kit down the seat. It’s a bad, bad bleach job, made even worse by three in the morning and his own fingers. He needs highlights, a professional job, like (“she,” is what he thinks) all the other boys and girls do. Billie tells himself he’ll work on it in the morning, and curls up on the office couch with wet hair. As he falls asleep to dreams about long, skinny bodies spread out beneath him, he tells himself to figure out an explanation for Adrienne and his sons come morning. Drinking into the early morning hours is much more acceptable in this house than hair dye.
***
“What, what is THAT?”
Billie gives Mike an exasperated look, hiding the disappointment on his face as he slips behind the heavy door of the bassist’s flat. Mike has a large palm hovering inches away from his own face, moving in wide circles as he tries to take in the circumference and no doubt hue of Billie’s new ‘do. “Oh my god,” Mike whispers, watching Billie drop his keys into the basket by the door, toeing his worn sneakers off in a practiced fashion. The bassist’s wide mouth is agape, sweatpants barely clinging to his hips, which tells Billie he just threw them on. It’s a Saturday, which Billie knows is not a good day for either of them to be seeing each other. Weekends are for kids, wives, and now a girlfriend. He sniffs the air, flipping Mike off as he takes off his shades, wondering if the lack of Mike’s scent in the room means someone else has been there.
“You just get out of the shower or something?” he asks instead, ignoring the comment. Brittney’s awful Camaro wasn’t in the fucking garage, or the driveway. He takes that information and pours it right into the look on his face, hazel eyes zeroing in on Mike’s floppy hair and rosy cheeks.
“No,” Mike says, blue eyes flickering as he takes in the turn in Billie’s stance, recognizing the low burn in the singer’s eyes for what it is. “Wh-hat are you…dude, why are you here?” Apparently the shock of Billie’s long, platinum shag is a bit too much. Billie knows he looks different, but he doesn’t think he looks bad. He takes Mike’s stilted speech in hand, and tucks his palm deep in the hem of Mike’s sweat pants.
“I wanted you to see my new look,” he says, taking a step, backing Mike up towards the wall in an easy dance, hips rocking into the tops of the bassist’s thighs. “Come on, Mikey,” he whispers, wasting not a second on fucking protocol. He doesn’t have to.
“Jesus, Bill,” Mike mutters, possibly into Billie’s hair. The singer doesn’t really know, lips closing in on that bobbing Adam’s apple, sliding up around to his ear. He feels Mike’s body roll with his as they break against the wall, not giving a damn that this is the fucking foyer.
“Put your hands in it,” Billie purrs, urgently, thinking that the sooner Mike touches him, the sooner Mike sees how much of everything Billie can be, he’ll somehow forget the mark that fucking tattoo artist left in his skin. “Mike,” he whispers, fingers coming up to tighten around Mike’s shoulders. “Mike, fucking touch me, now.”
***
Three things Billie realizes when he’s fucking Mike Dirnt right on the kitchen table:
1. Mike Dirnt has a new plant, stuck right in the window above the sink. Mike doesn’t even spend cash on a real Christmas tree, so that’s a fucking anomaly. Mike can’t keep a goddamn weed alive, and Stella likes cats, not philodendrons. It’s not his.
2. The only time Mike can be trusted is when there’s a cock inside him. That’s when he really begs, when he’s not concerned about the sweat stains on the wood finish of his table, whether or not one of his ankles catches the low overhanging lamp. It’s Billie he reaches for, shaking and nearly in tears as Billie pounds into him, and it’s Billie’s name he says when the little singer finally comes down enough from his power trip to press his cheek to Mike’s chest.
3. No matter how much he might want something to change, the act of simply ignoring it will not make it go away. Billie learns this when Mike asks him to take the condom with him, so it’s not so much of an insult for Brittney when she comes home.
The fourth thing Billie realizes that day happens when he’s taking Mike over the kitchen sink: If you bite down hard enough on the back of Mike’s neck, he’ll scream like a fucking thing of beauty and he doesn’t realize that you might have knocked the plant off the sill on purpose.
***
Billie dyes his hair back to jet black two days later. Mike doesn’t say anything, at least not until Billie asks about the house plant situation.
“You don’t really like her, do you?”
Mike is wearing his favorite yellow t-shirt, one Billie remembers a lot around the time they were working on Warning. The sex was awful then, too. He wonders if it’s gotten better between there and now, or if it’s just the world that’s changed.
“I like her just fine,” is what Billie says, fingers running through his hair. “She’s sweet. You’re happy. What’s not to like?”
Mike gives him a look, the turns away, shaking his head. Billie watches the long curve of the bassist’s spine and presses up against him until he fits against it.
“It’s Wednesday,” Billie whispers, feeling Mike’s chest move up and down as he slides his hands over the t-shirt. “That means it’s your turn.”
That gets Mike’s attention, and Billie spends the next two hours marveling at how amazing it is that Mike can stand to jog so much when he’s usually the one getting fucked. Maybe it’s just that Mike fucks harder than Billie does. Maybe it’s just that Mike gets more practice these days.
It doesn’t matter, Billie decides, watching Mike have a mini-heart attack when there’s a little bit of blood in the end.
“Shhh, I’m fine, just need a washcloth,” he whispers, grunting softly as Mike’s strong arms come around him, holding onto him as if he could break at any second.
Mike is staring at his hand, at the fingers peeking over Billie’s shoulder, tinged the wrong, wrong color. “Oh my god, Bill, I’m so sorry, I-”
“S’ok,” Billie says, shifting enough to tell that there won’t be a need for stitches, covering a wince. “Doesn’t matter, stop apologizing,” he says, kissing Mike’s throat, his mouth, calming down his bassist before the man vibrates them both into pieces. “Doesn’t matter,” Billie whispers, getting Mike to stop panicking in small caresses, “I love you.”
"Love you," Mike mumbles in that cluttered way he has, as if he was swallowing up the last of something important. Billie seeks Mike's mouth out using only his tongue, wrapped up in that good kind of ache, a little bit of the wrong pain, a reminder.
"Goddamn right you do." Billie blinks, watching Mike's eyes open at the grating tone--watching still as the bassist nods like the most apologetic puppy on the planet. Billie thinks he'd like to try kissing every eyelash Mike has. He's pretty sure Mike would let him try. He sighs, settling against the bassist's chest, letting Mike take over. "Goddamn right."
***
Yeah...I kind of get bored with what I'm working on. So here's a little bit. I'd say this is unfinished, yeah.