July, 1987 (OMG The Smiths!)
I hate putting this in front of a fic, but, for those of you on my flist in my area, I kind of need a place to stay for a bit. Home isn't working out atm.
Title: July, 1987
Pairing: Johnny Marr/Steven Morrissey
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: Compression
Summary: We're beyond the point of friends or lovers or lovers or coworkers. We're even beyond the point of being extensions of each other. Instead, we're just one being now. We're The Smiths; fuck what anyone else says.
Word Count: 1107
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All real names, places and events are used fictitiously. Characters belong to themselves, to the best of my knowledge.
Notes: Written for the ever-amazing spittingink <3
This would probably get torn apart in Smiths bandom. My details are far from correct, and my views on Morrissey ended up showing a lot more than I intended them to.
This is meant to take place right before Marr leaves The Smiths.
I'm drunk off my ass.
I'm drunk off my ass, just laying there, on that single bed in that hotel. It's so strange, to lay in a new hotel bed almost every night, because it proves we've made it. Beside me, Steven is writing something down in a cheap notebook. I see his writing in my head, uneven and messy, and often so illegible that even he can't read it. I don't know what he's writing down, but words are flowing through my mind. They're all mundane and unimportant, and I'm sure that I said some of them. People recognise him now. He can't write the way he wants to.
Steven used to sit out in public areas, wherever, and just listen to people. If someone said something that struck him, he'd write it down. He'd make up stories about the people; who they were, how they got there. He'd give them wives and husbands and mistresses, and then he'd go and he'd make money off them. And it kills him that every time he tries, someone comes up to him and tells him how much they adore The Smiths.
There is nothing worse than fame, is there? Especially when you made your name by pretending to just be like everyone else.
He knows how to keep that fame, though. It's something built-in. It's that holier-than-thou attititude that somehow made me, and everyone else, fall in love with him. He can talk shit about whoever he wants, and people listen, but it's not as if they care. He's openly hated and ridiculed by some, and then lovingly mocked by others, but no one cares.
And, somewhere in my drunken haze, I decide he needs to know.
"Nobody is listening to you," I say. My voice sounds calm, and I can't hear a slur, but it's probably in there somewhere. My words must be coherent, though, because Steven stops him writing and looks up at me.
"What?" He responds, and he doesn't sound confused, and he probably has ideas, but he knows nothing. He's too busy thinking every word he says counts.
I don't respond, but instead just stare back at Steven. He doesn't seem to mind that his question goes unanswered, and his eyes are raking themselves over me. I realise what a strange position I must be in, but I don't bother to move, and it doesn't matter, because nothing matters, and all he wants is for everything to expload. He wants scandal and laughter, and he wants people to scream "Lies!" at every time he claimed celibacy.
I don't know whether I'm being used or not, but I definitely suspect it. But then, he sticks in little references and secrets into his lyrics, and he almost seems genuine. Maybe he loves m. Maybe I'd believe him if I didn't know he was giving the fans hints. Maybe I'd believe him if the fans didn't already know.
And so, I'm somewhere, lost in thought, and Steven is somewhere else. He unbuttoning my trousers, and I'm just staring up at him, blank-faced but amused.
Steven needs some sense of control. He needs to be on top. He needs to guide me. Maybe, if I were more like him, I would theorize on why. Maybe I would think that something in his childhood triggered this. Really, I don't care.
His hands are on my face, and he's smudging my eyeliner. When he moves them, there are little splotches of black on his fingertips, and they infect everything they come in contact with. Little splotches of black on my shirt, my arms, my chest, my legs. And I'm arching into his touch.
Quick, gentle movements, and the occasional grunt on my part, and then Steven's hands are on my ass. He gives it a squeeze. It feels oddly impersonal. And then his fingers dip into my crack, and then deeper.
I feel thick male fingers with thick male knuckles slip past my muscles, and it feels wrong. It feels like he should be a woman, with delicate and dainty hands. And then I realise that women generally grow their nails long. And then I realise that that would mean I was being fucked up the ass by a woman. And I'm suddenly grateful for Steven's masculinity.
We never use a condom anymore. At first we did. We did for a long time, but then it stopped, a few months ago. Before, it had felt like Steven was planning things out, but now it's quick and spontaneous, and I am never, ever sober for it.
The lubricant is wet and uncomfortable, and I make some annoyed comment, but I don't remember what it is, even seconds afterwards. Whether I even know what I'm saying in the first place is questionable.
Steven's response to whatever I said comes in the form of a grunt, as he pushes into me. It's uncomfortable, and I shift away from him. He notices my discomfort and waits a moment, while I adjust. How sweet.
Motion starts up, and I match him movement for movement.
I've never understood why sex is supposed to be beautiful, because it isn't. It's deep and carnal and pleasurable, but it isn't beautiful. We're rocking and panting and it isn't beautiful, but, afterward, Steven will tell me it is. He uses it like some kind of excuse.
And when he comes, it's uncomfortable. That's the part I'm still not used to. I know how to relax my muscles when he enters me, and it doesn't take too long to get used to having him inside of me, but it's when he releases, it gets me. Sometimes I wonder if girls feel the same way.
I feel Steven's hand around my cock, and I'm kind of surprised by it. He's still riding out his orgasm, and I generally don't get much attention-- aside from his cries of "Oh, Johnny", which have always made me feel more uncomfortable than turned on-- until he is finished.
He jerks me off. His movements are completely erratic, and he doesn't look to be enjoying it in the least, but I don't care. I'm arching off the bed again, so high that only my head and shoulders are cushioned by fabric.
This is what everything has become. This is songwriting, and it's fame and love, and any other situation I could possibly throw in here. We're beyond the point of friends or lovers or lovers or coworkers. We're even beyond the point of being extensions of each other. Instead, we're just one being now. We're The Smiths; fuck what anyone else says.
And then I come.
Title: July, 1987
Pairing: Johnny Marr/Steven Morrissey
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: Compression
Summary: We're beyond the point of friends or lovers or lovers or coworkers. We're even beyond the point of being extensions of each other. Instead, we're just one being now. We're The Smiths; fuck what anyone else says.
Word Count: 1107
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All real names, places and events are used fictitiously. Characters belong to themselves, to the best of my knowledge.
Notes: Written for the ever-amazing spittingink <3
This would probably get torn apart in Smiths bandom. My details are far from correct, and my views on Morrissey ended up showing a lot more than I intended them to.
This is meant to take place right before Marr leaves The Smiths.
I'm drunk off my ass.
I'm drunk off my ass, just laying there, on that single bed in that hotel. It's so strange, to lay in a new hotel bed almost every night, because it proves we've made it. Beside me, Steven is writing something down in a cheap notebook. I see his writing in my head, uneven and messy, and often so illegible that even he can't read it. I don't know what he's writing down, but words are flowing through my mind. They're all mundane and unimportant, and I'm sure that I said some of them. People recognise him now. He can't write the way he wants to.
Steven used to sit out in public areas, wherever, and just listen to people. If someone said something that struck him, he'd write it down. He'd make up stories about the people; who they were, how they got there. He'd give them wives and husbands and mistresses, and then he'd go and he'd make money off them. And it kills him that every time he tries, someone comes up to him and tells him how much they adore The Smiths.
There is nothing worse than fame, is there? Especially when you made your name by pretending to just be like everyone else.
He knows how to keep that fame, though. It's something built-in. It's that holier-than-thou attititude that somehow made me, and everyone else, fall in love with him. He can talk shit about whoever he wants, and people listen, but it's not as if they care. He's openly hated and ridiculed by some, and then lovingly mocked by others, but no one cares.
And, somewhere in my drunken haze, I decide he needs to know.
"Nobody is listening to you," I say. My voice sounds calm, and I can't hear a slur, but it's probably in there somewhere. My words must be coherent, though, because Steven stops him writing and looks up at me.
"What?" He responds, and he doesn't sound confused, and he probably has ideas, but he knows nothing. He's too busy thinking every word he says counts.
I don't respond, but instead just stare back at Steven. He doesn't seem to mind that his question goes unanswered, and his eyes are raking themselves over me. I realise what a strange position I must be in, but I don't bother to move, and it doesn't matter, because nothing matters, and all he wants is for everything to expload. He wants scandal and laughter, and he wants people to scream "Lies!" at every time he claimed celibacy.
I don't know whether I'm being used or not, but I definitely suspect it. But then, he sticks in little references and secrets into his lyrics, and he almost seems genuine. Maybe he loves m. Maybe I'd believe him if I didn't know he was giving the fans hints. Maybe I'd believe him if the fans didn't already know.
And so, I'm somewhere, lost in thought, and Steven is somewhere else. He unbuttoning my trousers, and I'm just staring up at him, blank-faced but amused.
Steven needs some sense of control. He needs to be on top. He needs to guide me. Maybe, if I were more like him, I would theorize on why. Maybe I would think that something in his childhood triggered this. Really, I don't care.
His hands are on my face, and he's smudging my eyeliner. When he moves them, there are little splotches of black on his fingertips, and they infect everything they come in contact with. Little splotches of black on my shirt, my arms, my chest, my legs. And I'm arching into his touch.
Quick, gentle movements, and the occasional grunt on my part, and then Steven's hands are on my ass. He gives it a squeeze. It feels oddly impersonal. And then his fingers dip into my crack, and then deeper.
I feel thick male fingers with thick male knuckles slip past my muscles, and it feels wrong. It feels like he should be a woman, with delicate and dainty hands. And then I realise that women generally grow their nails long. And then I realise that that would mean I was being fucked up the ass by a woman. And I'm suddenly grateful for Steven's masculinity.
We never use a condom anymore. At first we did. We did for a long time, but then it stopped, a few months ago. Before, it had felt like Steven was planning things out, but now it's quick and spontaneous, and I am never, ever sober for it.
The lubricant is wet and uncomfortable, and I make some annoyed comment, but I don't remember what it is, even seconds afterwards. Whether I even know what I'm saying in the first place is questionable.
Steven's response to whatever I said comes in the form of a grunt, as he pushes into me. It's uncomfortable, and I shift away from him. He notices my discomfort and waits a moment, while I adjust. How sweet.
Motion starts up, and I match him movement for movement.
I've never understood why sex is supposed to be beautiful, because it isn't. It's deep and carnal and pleasurable, but it isn't beautiful. We're rocking and panting and it isn't beautiful, but, afterward, Steven will tell me it is. He uses it like some kind of excuse.
And when he comes, it's uncomfortable. That's the part I'm still not used to. I know how to relax my muscles when he enters me, and it doesn't take too long to get used to having him inside of me, but it's when he releases, it gets me. Sometimes I wonder if girls feel the same way.
I feel Steven's hand around my cock, and I'm kind of surprised by it. He's still riding out his orgasm, and I generally don't get much attention-- aside from his cries of "Oh, Johnny", which have always made me feel more uncomfortable than turned on-- until he is finished.
He jerks me off. His movements are completely erratic, and he doesn't look to be enjoying it in the least, but I don't care. I'm arching off the bed again, so high that only my head and shoulders are cushioned by fabric.
This is what everything has become. This is songwriting, and it's fame and love, and any other situation I could possibly throw in here. We're beyond the point of friends or lovers or lovers or coworkers. We're even beyond the point of being extensions of each other. Instead, we're just one being now. We're The Smiths; fuck what anyone else says.
And then I come.