26 Fics in 26 Minutes

A story for a song by a band starting with every letter of the alphabet. Ranging from angst to fluff to humour to porn to general whimsy. Encompassing Boosh, RPS, Nathan Barley, Robots in Disguise, and Asylum, and probably a few other things too.

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Length: words

The Beatles – While My Guitar Gently Weeps

The Beatles – While My Guitar Gently Weeps

She should have expected it. He is an adulterer, after all. It is the old cliché – when she met him, he was married, but he left his wife for her, to come to her. It should not be a surprise that he has abandoned her for another, and yet it is, painfully so.

The signs were there. After they made love, entwined together as the music rose around them like fire, climax never more true than it was then, he would mention him. Spider. The wild thing. And he is another adulterer too, the one he had discovered in bed with his wife. Two bastards together, how fitting.

Oh, Spider is so difficult to work with, so tempestuous. He is a beast, he will not listen. Miranda had soothed Rudi in the night, working away his worries and cares until he would rise anew in the morning, to face this Spider, face him down. She had filled him with the confidence he lacked – of course you are as good as him. Of course you are as much a man as he is. You think this is what a man is, to drink himself into oblivion and fuck anything that moves?

She should have seen, she should have. The three of them making music together, out in the desert together, and she saw Spider watching her more than once. Drummers always did. They always wanted to get their filthy hands on the guitar. But she remained faithful to Rudi. She knew that she would never sound as sweet, as young, as he made her, his fingers so swift and clever brushing over her frets. She had ignored Spider’s advances, and so he had turned to the other. To Rudi.

It hurts, but she knows she could get over it. If they let her. If Rudi would sell her, pass her on to another guitarist, so he could live his sordid little sexual life with the freak, she would move on and she would forget.

“Ey, Rudi… Rudi… stop that. No, just for a moment.”

“What is it?” His voice is muffled, she struggles not to think speaking with his mouth full.

“This feels… I don’t know.”

Creaking of bedsprings. “You… you want me to stop? I know I’m having trouble, I told you, I’ve never been able to hold my breath for that long, but–”

“No, no…” filthy laughter, “you’re fine, believe me.” Disgusting, wet lip-smacking sounds. “But it’s your guitar.”

“Miranda?”

“I feel like it’s watching me.”

Padding footsteps now, and then she sees him, her Rudi, beautifully naked. She had forgotten his skin, the colour of soft cocoa powder, and how it would shine to her in the darkness. He runs one nail down her A string, and she shivers.

“I am sorry,” he whispers, and his hands are on her then. For a moment she thinks she might be played, feels herself melting even as she tries to resist, tries to force her strings out of tune because she will not make music for him again, but instead he lays her down tenderly in her case.

Click, click, and she is locked in. She hears Rudi climb back onto the bed, and closes her eyes in the darkness, trying to drown out their music-making.