Trash

Posted on by
Noel and Julian get it on, in a variety of ways. And it's trashy.

Category:

Characters: , , ,

Pairing:

Genre:

Rating:

Warning:

Status:

Length: words

Chapter Notes: This is for maestro and beatle_becks. We were chatting and I admitted that I was embarrassed to write smut unless it was 1) totally, unforgivably graphic and real or 2) completely glossed over and vague. This led to a series of challenges in which Maestro and Becks told me what sort of “realistic” and possibly “gross” (or at least unromantic/unidealised) things they wanted to see in a smut fic. This piece is the result.

Maybe, maybe it’s the things we say,
The words we’ve heard and the music we play,
Maybe it’s our cheapness,
Or maybe, maybe it’s the times we’ve had,
The lazy days and the crazes and the fads,
Maybe it’s our sweetness,

But we’re trash, you and me,
We’re the litter on the breeze,
We’re the lovers on the street,
Just trash, me and you,
It’s in everything we do,
It’s in everything we do…

–Suede, “Trash”

It starts on the tour bus. Strewn with empty wine bottles, sandwich crusts, scratched CDs and filthy tee-shirts, gone sour at the armpits. The messier it gets, the more Julian eyes the splayed-apart legs of Noel as he reclines in a haze on a pile of dirty towels, his tight jeans no match for the erection that dumbly pushes outwards. Julian wonders what’s turned him on. Probably not the jazz that’s blaring from the speakers, nor the damp, mouldy smell of the bus. Maybe it’s one of those hardons that happen for no good reason at all, the kind that take you by surprise while hurrying through Sainsbury’s for cranberry scones and good cheese. Whatever the case, Julian decides to ignore it, instead burrowing his hand in Noel’s mass of sweaty hair and pulling in a less than playful fashion.

“Pick it up,” Julian slurs drunkenly, pressing Noel’s face into the grease-spotted carcass of a pizza box. Noel stares into the box obediently, then pulls a chunk of congealed cheese loose with his teeth and chews it up, laughing thickly.

“Delicious.”

“You’re a foul man,” Julian says, shoving him away. Grease covers Noel’s too-large chin, and without planning on it, Julian leans forward and licks it clean, simultaneously amused and disgusted with himself. He likes Noel’s foulness. He likes being foul with him. He can do anything, he knows, and Noel will find none of it shocking.

I’m tired,” Noel corrects, wiping Julian’s smeary spit from his chin. “Sort of. Want to bunk?”

The bunks are in the back of the tour bus. Sardine tin-sized affairs that Julian can’t roll over in without whacking his elbows on the wall. Two weeks into the tour, Noel had “accidentally” clambered into his bunk, squeezing in beside him like an eel. He liked sleeping in dark, confined places, he’d confessed, his voice a trill that had kept Julian awake with its pungent, garlicky scent. Half-asleep, Julian had barely listened, closing his eyes but dimly aware that he and Noel were pressed chest to chest. He asked Noel how he felt about coffins, and Noel hadn’t answered, his silence long, as if he were considering the question carefully.

Noel’s chest rose and fell during the silence, and Julian wondered if it would be less or more awkward if they turned around and were pressed arse to arse. As it was, Julian was pretty sure Noel’s cock was touching his cock, and he didn’t know what to do about it. Should he pretend not to notice, as he (sometimes) did when he accidentally brushed against a large-breasted woman in a crowded club? If they were both clothed, should it matter? Noel then shifted again, and Julian had known for sure that it mattered. He pulled his hips away quickly, as if in apology, but Noel’s had chased after them, his erection pressing into the side of his thigh in a way that was both casual and insistent. Yeah, I’m turned on. What of it? If Julian cared, he was a homophobic twat. If he didn’t, he was giving the green light.

As if to verify this, Noel had lunged forward and kissed him, his tongue swirling round and round Julian’s own in a way that he wanted to stop and correct. Not the wash machine, for fuck’s sake. He’d put up with it, though. For the time being. The next time Noel had kissed him Julian grabbed either side of his face and pushed him away. “Not like that,” he said, trying to demonstrate a more refined flutter and flick. It hadn’t done much good. Noel would try to emulate for a minute two, but always reverted to his old method of plunge and swirl, plunge and swirl. Julian felt a bit like a toilet. When he pointed this out to Noel, Noel had thrown back that he felt like a odd walking rash, rubbed raw as he was by the stiff whiskers of Julian’s mustache.

“Odd rashes and toilets go together,” Julian had said, his tone deliberately obsence. And so they did.

Their experimentation had continued. Slowly and with little dialogue, as neither wanted to acknowledge that this really mattered. That this was really happening, even. Their lack of communication had led to more than one mishap. In his eagerness for some lubricant that would ease the course of their first official act of buggery, Julian had ransacked the bus for some adequate substitute: olive oil, lotion, hair gel. He had opted for a jar of vick’s vapour rub. Like vaseline in body and texture, he fancied it greasy enough for his dick which, while not huge by any stretch of imagination, seemed too big for a skinny wimp’s asshole, certainly. The mentholated ingredients would add an interesting sensation, he’d thought, and had promptly dunked his dick into the jar, smearing the goop over his condom-covered length as he walked towards Noel with slow, deliberate steps, his smile wolfish and unkind.

The menthol had turned out to be too much. Julian hadn’t noticed, protected by latex as he carelessly plundered Noel’s (presumably, though not absolutely) virgin ass. Noel had screamed and yowled in pain, noises Julian had mistook for pleasure. He pinned Noel’s shoulders down and pulled on his hair with his teeth. “Take it,” he grunted between thrusts. “You fucking take it.” Sweat had rolled down their backs, the scent of menthol sharp in the air, like an illness that had a hold on both of them.

Noel had whimpered and curled into a ball afterwards. Well, how was Julian supposed to know? Was he a monster for finding his screams a turn on? To his credit, Noel’s feelings had quickly metamorphised from injured shock to dim pride, as if enduring a fiery bumming had earned him street cred in the local school yard. Sometimes, he would suggest other exotic ingredients as a possible substitute for lube. At the most inappropriate times, as well; in the middle of a takeaway curry meal amongst their friends, for example. Lifting a bite of fresh raita to his lips, Noel would pause and examine the creamy surface, as if reminded of something quaint.

“Yoghurt,” he’d say to Julian, an obscure chuckle in the back of his throat. Julian would only lift an eyebrow, knowing, of course, exactly what he meant.

“Mm, you taste like cheese,” Julian says now. It’s not meant as a compliment, really, but Noel blushes anyway. For a pretty man, he’s all too easily flattered.

“Bunk?” Noel asks again, gesturing with a jerk of his shoulder.

“Maybe in a minute.” Julian waves his hand, indicating that Noel should go ahead without him. He likes to keep Noel wondering as to whether or not he’ll join him for the night. It’s not very nice, he knows, but everything’s better when it’s not routine. When it’s not expected.

Of course, everything’s unexpected when you pretend you’re not fucking in the first place. Julian enjoys sneaking up behind Noel backstage and running his hands over the other man’s arse, claiming it as such-and-such explorer had surely once claimed distant, savage lands. That’s what sex was all about for men, really. Squirting your load in the nearest unconquered territory. And what’s more unconquered, more off-limits, than your supposedly straight best friend?

Noel is full of his own surprises, as well. His horrible wash-machine kissing style turns out to be more effective when applied to Julian’s cock, and while Julian is embarrassed at how very little swishing and swirling it takes to make him come (it seems so fucking gay, to come in a man’s mouth in less than three minutes; he wishes he could be more reluctant), he forgets all about it when Noel raises his head up and smiles triumphantly, like a kid who’s just received top marks, Julian’s freshly-pumped come leaking from between his yellowy teeth and dribbling down his chin, hitting Julian’s chest with a spattering sound he can both hear and feel. Julian is torn on whether it’s the grossest or most erotic moment he’s ever experienced. Maybe it’s both.

Julian watches Noel do a faggy, come-hither walk back to the bunks. He’s a fucking girl, that one. It’s both a turn on and a turn off at once, like most of what Noel does, and Julian wonders briefly what it would be like to fuck a more masculine specimen. Is it less gay to fuck a feminine man, or more gay? Whatever. It’s just fucking, and he knows he’s not fucking gay. He can tell that much by the sheer number of times he’s wished Noel had a practical, self-lubricating pussy. Handling a cock, however, is no doubt easier than handling a clit. Less mysterious, obviously, as Julian is in possession of a cock himself. He knows exactly how much pressure he can exert on Noel’s balls, squeezing them between the circle of his thumb and forefinger, before it gets to be dangerously painful. And Noel knows that he can stroke Julian’s cock as fast as he pleases, that it’s not going to fucking… what? Light on fire? It’s just practical, really, what they’re doing. Inevitable.

Not always perfect, though. Julian can remember the four (yes, four, exactly) times that Noel had snuck into his bunk, his hand snaking into Julian’s pyjama bottoms or old sweats like a living, wordless question mark, only to take hold of a withered, non-responsive slug of a manhood. Too much alcohol. Too many years. Noel takes the blame himself, though, and Julian prefers it that way.

Stretching and draining the last of his wine, Julian expects he’ll have no troubles tonight. His cock is already smarting with promise, his tongue still flavoured with the dirty grime of Noel’s skin. Just in case, Julian plunges his hand down the front of his trousers, his fingernails raking through his pubic hair almost painfully as he gives his cock a few experimental strokes. It tingles and swells slightly, almost as obedient as it was when he was a teenager, and he smiles assuredly, tugging at the foreskin idly before pulling his hand free. He stands and kicks his way through the spill of food wrappings and dirty clothes, knowing full well that Noel is awake in his bunk, naked and waiting.

When he pulls the curtain aside and crawls in, Noel’s hands are already seeking out the buttons of his shirt, the broken zip of his trousers. Shod of clothing, Julian slithers under the blanket and backs his arse up against Noel’s always-ready erection. Noel stiffens, and not in the good way. He stiffens with his whole body, understanding that Julian wants to be the one who’s bummed, for once. But Noel isn’t certain how to deliver. He’s the bottom, as anyone should know by looking. That Julian has suddenly been waving his arse around is disconcerting. Noel doesn’t want to be the fucker, he wants to be the fucked.

He can’t imagine it any other way, so he ropes his hand over Julian’s hip and takes hold of his cock, pumping it with quick efficiency and trying not to notice the fact that Julian is backing his rear against him. He kisses the back of Julian’s neck, tasting cigarettes and something else, something yeasty and vaguely unpleasant that is nonetheless, and paradoxically, pleasing. He reckons Julian hasn’t showered today, and maybe not yesterday, either. He stinks, frankly, but Noel is so used to it as Julian’s particular scent that he doesn’t even notice.

“Put it in,” Julian says gruffly. His arse plumps against Noel’s thighs, and his elbow forks into his ribs. Noel has never met a pushy bottom before, but there’s a first time for everything.

“We don’t have anything,” Noel whispers. To say “lube” would be acknowledging something in words that they’d rather not acknowledge.

“I don’t fucking care.” And he doesn’t, that much is blazingly clear.

Noel bustles and rallies around himself, trying to be enthusiastic as he awkwardly ramps himself into Julian’s waiting body. He’s more painfully aware of the void in his own self than he is pleasured, and wishes that they had an appropriate apparatus for occasions such as this. Where can such a thing even be purchased, though? He’s not fucking walking into a store and asking about lesbo double dong dildos – the triple D – that much he knows.

Just as he makes an effort to close his eyes and enjoy himself, there’s a rush of cold air. It’s almost pleasant at first, drying the perspiration from Noel’s skin and contrasting pleasantly with the heat of the situation. But then he sees Mike peering in at them, shock etched over his face like a mask.

“Oh my god,” he says, dropping the curtain. It catches, though, and doesn’t quite shut. Dave is behind him, looking equally shocked, but perhaps slightly less disgusted.

“Oh, fuck,” Julian groans unhappily, trying to wriggle free. Noel gasps despite himself, flushing all over in shame. His brother looks on the verge of vomiting.

“Are you fucking crazy?” Mike finally says, backing up. “You have careers. What about your girlfriends?“

Neither Noel or Julian says a word. Dave smirks slightly from behind Mike’s shoulder, now looking as if he’s known all along.

“You’d better find away to end this,” Mike says, looking off into the distance. It isn’t phrased like an order, but Noel knows that it is. Even so, the tip of his dick is still caught up in Julian, as if stubborn about letting go.

Mike moves away, swearing under his breath, and they hear the bus door open and shut. Too bad they hadn’t heard it open in the first place. Dave walks away more slowly. Noel hears the rustle of paper as he sits down on the messy couch and lights a cigarette. He nudges Julian away from him and rolls out of the bunk.

Noel yanks on his trousers, sans underwear, and strides, shirtless, over to Dave, trying hard to pretend as if nothing happened. “Hey mate, wild night,” he says, hoping Dave will think him high or drunk or both. Behind him, he can hear Julian struggling into his clothes.

Dave raises his head, smoke curling from his nostrils. “For you, I guess,” he says, lifting a knowing eyebrow, his mouth twitching around a smile.

“Um, yeah, ‘suppose.” Noel sits down and looks around for a bottle that still has something in it.

“All right, Dave?” Julian’s voice is high-pitched. Nervous. Being straight means more to him than it does to Noel, who’s used to being speculated about.

“Sure.” Dave blows smoke toward the light. “What about you? All right?”

“Yeah,” Julian says uncertainly, sitting down. Beneath him, things crunch.

Dave squints at them. “Mike’s pretty upset.”

“He’ll get over it,” Noel says quickly. God knows he’s disappointed his brother in more significant ways over the years.

“I guess he was surprised,” Dave says pointedly, making it clear that he was not surprised.

“Yeah, well.” Julian shifts around. “So were we. I mean… this isn’t something that… it’s not regular.”

“I’m sure,” Dave says, sounding anything but.

Julian is nervous, fidgeting, but Noel’s getting an inkling. Dave’s attitude is much too casual and deliberate to be dismissed. “Are you?” he asks. “Sure, that is.”

Dave looks at him through hazy eyes. “Yeah.” He lifts his feet and props them on Noel’s knee. Julian watches him do it, catching on to the particular tension in the air several minutes after Noel has.

Noel contemplates touching Dave’s feet. He isn’t really turned on by toes, but they’re the nearest thing of Dave’s in his reach. He tips backwards into his seat instead, mock-stretching and widening his legs so that Dave’s feet are nudged up higher along his thighs.

Dave looks at Julian and gives him a sympathetic smile. “You look like you need a drink.”

“I’m good,” Julian says dryly.

“Really?” Dave leans foward, his feet nearly brushing against Noel’s groin. He presses his face very close to Julian’s. “I just had whiskey.”

“Did you?” Julian licks his lips, stares at Dave’s.

Noel watches them kiss with a mixture of arousal and jealousy. Dave drops his feet and digs his fingers into Noel’s thigh, kneading it slightly, but Julian is caught up in Dave’s mouth, allowing his face to be cupped and tilted back towards the light.

Noel feels like an afterthought in the recital that follows. Dave looks at him from time to time, gauging the firmness of Noel’s cock, the wobbly rapture of his vision, but Julian looks at nothing but Dave, Dave, Dave. It should be cold comfort, Noel supposes, that it’s his name that Julian yelps when Dave rams his dick home into Julian’s arse, his chin lifted proudly as he thrusts with ease, as if he’s done this a thousand times before. Maybe he has. As for Noel, he has to make do with Dave’s jerky, half-hearted ministrations to his dick, which wane off completely as Dave becomes more absorbed in Julian’s waggling, pleading arse. Noel slumps against a half-filled bag of rubbish and pretends to be too drunk to notice his own exclusion.

Julian, however, fancies he’s in heaven. Dave is pounding into him just as Noel ever dared, and this is the first time in his life that Julian has ever felt filled. It isn’t demeaning, as he’d assumed. It’s empowering. He feels like he’ll explode, like he’ll set the world on fire. He’s right on the brink of something tremendous when Dave slaps him on the arse and lets out a gutteral cry that sends a jolt through Julian’s balls. A hot, pulsing sensation follows – not from Julian, but from Dave, who comes inside him like a barrelling lorry, giving Julian no time to catch up.

“Fucking yes,” Dave gasps, pulling himself loose with a slurking sound. Julian’s dick is still rock hard against his stomach, decidedly unspent.

“Dave?” he asks, carefully. But Dave’s silent. Julian looks over his shoulder and sees him slumping back in his chair with his eyes closed, spittle glistening on his chin.

“Noel?” he follows, his voice small.

Noel glares at him, his body arranging in a stiff, unwelcoming way. “Use your fingers,” he says crisply. “That’s what I do.”

Noel watches as Julian tries to satisfy himself, almost laughing at his ineptitude. Almost taking pity on him. But in time, he’s just too tired to care. He closes his eyes and rests his head on a heap of something that rustles, that stinks of grease and rot.

Not that he’s concerned. Not that he can be bothered. He drifts away into sleep, instead, at home just where he is.

***
FIN

tartpants