Shuffled Off

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After an IAMX gig, Noel dreams not of Chris, but of X.

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Notes: This is set during one of IAMX’s tours that Noel played bass for; I don’t know when these dates were, only that this did occur at some point. Also, as a point of interest, everything X says is an IAMX lyric

Also, I would like to point out that I own nothing, nothing at all! Noel and Chris belong to themselves, and X is Chris’s creation. Anyone else mentioned in the fic- Julian, Sue, Russell- also are property of themselves. I’m making no money with this, only me own perverse pleasure.

Shuffled Off by Culumacilinte

Noel Fielding was lit by a single spotlight amid the oppressive, choking blackness. He had the feeling that there might have been an audience somewhere out in the void, but he could neither hear nor see them. The space (or perhaps non-space would have been a better word) smelt of sex, of dead charcoal and of warm, resinous incense, and Noel’s breath juddered harshly against the heavy dark. Behind him, silver-dark tongue flickering over very white teeth, stood a man who looked very like Chris Corner; dark eyes painted with sweat-smudged eyeliner, thin lips bisected by a single black line, black hair swept artfully across his forehead, crumpled top hat of white velvet perched lazily atop his head. If Noel was all points and sharp angles, this man was even sharper, and he looked like he didn’t care who got cut on him. Smiling a wicked smile, he leaned forward to speak into Noel’s mane of hair.

‘Do you wanna be a sailor?’

Noel shivered as cold, booze-smelling breath whispered against the back of his neck, sending prickles of arousal down his spine. There was that familiar body, so thin here as to be almost skeletal, pressed against his in a way that made Noel feel as though he’d already been violated. Hands crept spider-like over his shoulder, long fingerbones clad in elegantly torn lace gloves caressing Noel’s naked chest, nails scraping against nipples dark and pointed with chill, with excitement and with trepidation.

He was curiously silent here, Noel, save for his ragged breathing, the only sound echoing around in the blackness the sound of this not-Chris’s murmurs, filthy suggestions and disturbing memories swirling in Noel’s brain. This was X, and as much as he might look like Chris Corner, Noel knew he was not. Loved that he was not.

‘‘Cos I’m gonna take you like a sailor,’ came the sibilant whisper, and arousal twisted in Noel’s gut like a snake, heavy and unsettling. His mind was still trying to wrap itself around the words, but his body pressed backwards into the strange strength, into muscles stretched tight over bones, and he heard a wrenched moan escape his own throat.

‘God, yes…’

He was a whore for X, moaning and wanting it; he always was. There was a chuckle behind him, high and strangely fey, and one of those pale insect-hands swept through his hair, tangling amid ink black, pulling his head to one side and baring the long curve of his neck, the ridge of his collarbone. He struggled, just a little; just enough to make a point about it, enough to incense X, whose teeth showed in little needle-points between painted lips.

‘Ahh,’ he breathed; a recognition, a challenge, a sigh of satisfaction, and Noel echoed him somewhere in the back of his throat. The sound hung in the air for a moment until, with the greatest care and deliberation, X leaned forward and sank his teeth into the knotted muscle at the base of Noel’s neck. He arched wildly, his mouth open in a voiceless ‘o’, one hand fisted in X’s sweat-damp hair.

It hurt. Oh, oh it hurt like death and like sex and maybe a little like love, and Noel loved it. A whine tripped from his lips, sounding like a wounded animal, and X pulled away with a satisfied smirk, pressing a swift kiss to the place where he had bitten and leaving a smear of shocking scarlet. He didn’t bother to lick it away or clean it up; instead, he ran a finger across the gore-slicked skin and brought it to Noel’s lips, the tip painted vermillion. The finger disappeared into Noel’s mouth with an audible groan and he suckled at it like a babe on the teat, pathetically desperate. X chuckled.

‘You’re living but you’ve got no soul.’ He intoned against Noel’s ear, and in his head, the lyric completed itself: You captivate but you hold no weight at all. He didn’t feel like it, though; he felt as heavy as if he contained whole universes inside himself as he sagged against X, who was supporting him apparently without any effort at all.

Those hands which had been skating over his chest a moment before, viciously twisting at his nipples, slid down the plane of Noel’s belly- god, they were cold– snapping open the fastenings of his trousers and reaching inside. Without the slightest bit of preamble, one long, pale hand closed around his cock, and Noel exhaled a long, quavering moan, his fingers working spastically at his sides and his hips twitching into the touch. X was jerking him off with such violence that Noel’s eyes, though they were wide and glassy, saw almost nothing at all.

‘Does the punishment fit?’

The voice hissed against his ear, the sibilant ‘s’s harsh, loud and uncomfortably wet against his skin, and Noel found himself shaking his head. His voice was low and broken and breathless as it murmured, over and over again:

‘No, no; please, just… anything, god, please…’

X’s laugh was darker now, and he stepped back, releasing his grip on Noel’s prick. He made a little noise of protest, wanting the contact renewed, but X gave him a little shove and Noel fell to the floor. He caught himself on his hands and knees, and his eyes closed momentarily in blissful anticipation before he looked over his shoulders at the figure now standing above him. Painted lips quirked in a cruel little smile and lazily, X snapped one of his braces against his chest, the sound harsh and finite as he looked appraisingly down at Noel.

‘I’m at your feet,’ he murmured ironically, and ran one sharp fingernail down Noel’s back, tracing the stairway of his spine. Noel bit back a moan.

It hurt when X entered him; it hurt like hell; more than it ever did in reality, more even than his first time had done. A brutal spike of knifing, white-hot pain that sent dots dancing before his eyes like the spangles X wore on his cheeks. He swallowed hard at the ache of it, feeling the hot wetness of tears on his cheeks as X moved inside him. There was no shame in it, though, as there would be with anyone else; X expected tears, expected pain, but that didn’t stop him jeering when the little noises Noel was making turned from pained whimpers into short pants and groans of pleasure.

‘Imagine hurt.’ A pointed thrust, sharp stick-fingers digging into Noel’s hips. There would be bruises later, shimmering with glass-dust glitter. Noel groaned again, rocking back against the intrusion; wanting it, welcoming it. X growled against his spine, lips limning a heated path across the skin.

‘Imagine- tears.’

X buried himself cruelly inside Noel, finding an angle that sent a fresh wave of perfect agony through him, and indeed tears did spring once again to his eyes as if on command.

‘He opens up,’ X panted, his movements becoming more frantic, his normally smooth voice suddenly ragged, ‘until he disappears.’

Disappears.

Noel pressed backwards frenetically, meeting X’s thrusts with masochistic need. He was close; so close, he could feel it clenching desperately in his belly, increasing with every hurt X did him. Pleasure like the most potent crack imaginable, shivering and twitching in his muscles, in the ache of his knees against the floor, spiralling insanely in his brain and body.
It was not long until he reached his finish, coming with a series of sharp gasps, head back and mouth open like a porn star as he spilled himself into the darkness. Above him, utterly unconcerned for Noel’s comfort, X continued, riding him hard until he too came, the only noise he made a long, satisfied growl, and Noel felt suddenly and unaccountably filthy at the sensation of heat spilt inside him. A moment or several passed and then X finally pulled out; Noel grimaced at the slow feeling of hot wetness running down his thighs.

‘Cunt,’ X murmured at him, but there was something almost like affection in his voice- or, at the very least, amusement.

Wasted and spent, Noel slumped to the floor, his hand trailing out of the spotlit circle into the darkness beyond, delicate fingers cut off at the tips. Behind him, X’s breathing was heavy, and Noel could hear and feel the rattle of his thin chest as it rose and fell. Unthinking, he burrowed into the other body, spooning up against him as though he were Julian or Russell or even Chris himself; any other ordinary man with whom it would be natural to cuddle after fucking. But X laughed; a quiet sound not exactly malevolent, but certainly unsettling.

‘Are we pretending, Noel?’ He asked, ‘‘Cos I like pretending.’

Noel shivered against X, whose long arms crept around him in some twisted parody of an embrace. He wanted to speak, but found a slender white finger at his lips when he made to. X shook his head ever so slightly, one stringy strand of hair unsticking itself from his forehead. He looked strangely serious, and his eyes were huge.

‘This will make you love again,’ he said quietly, and in an instant, Noel awoke.

His eyes blinked open in the darkness. He was curled in the seat of a coach, his knees tucked up to his chest, resting against the seat in front of him, his head leaned back, hair all over his face. Under him he felt the vague, comforting purr of the engine, buzzing up through his limbs. Dragging himself into wakefulness, he pulled away from the window, clammy and chill with condensation, where his cheek had been stuck to it. Beside him lay a sketchbook, open to a page covered in strange, gothic monsters doodled in biro. He felt warm and stiff, with only a hint of that curious, cold arousal still tracing through his veins. Lit by the muted blue glow of the neons highlighting the aisle, Noel could see the dim figures of Janine, of Edward and their road crew, and there, across from him and a few seats up, Chris sat slumped in sleep, Sue’s head resting contentedly on his shoulder, his thin arm pulled protectively around her. Faint snores issued from his parted lips.

Noel swallowed and looked away. Chris was out of his X clothes now; they had been replaced with a pair of jeans, one of Sue’s band shirts, and bare feet, but in the shifting orange light of streetlights as they passed them, Noel could still see traces of black around his closed eyes, and the striped silk scarf hung loose and untied around his neck. He shifted restlessly, looking pointedly away from the pair of them and tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling, eyes half-heartedly following the plush patterns there.

The radio was playing quietly- something to keep the driver awake, he supposed- and Noel could hear the faint strains of something smooth and sixties-sounding; Marvin Gaye or the Temptations- something like that. But in his head, he could still hear Chris’s voice, feel the pounding beat of his own bass line, still see the manic, flashing lights of tonight’s gig, still taste on his lips the blood of his dream-self.

Three way, freeway, take me like a sailor.
Three way, freeway, wanna be a sailor?

A quick step, boy girl love me like you love her.
A knee-jerk, slow work, wanna be a sailor?

He wasn’t in love with Chris; no, it was nothing quite so perfect and poetic as that, nor was it a case of lusting after the character but not the man. No, Noel just couldn’t get the lyrics out of his head.

That was all.

Culumacilinte