Title: Pulling off his Wings

Author/pseudonym: Barb G.

Fandom: Hard Core Logo

Rating: nc-17

Pairing: J/B

Date: April 24

Archive : (yes or no) no

Category: drama

Disclaimer: Not my toys. I did get to smell Hugh Dillion, does that count?

Summary: A *that* night story.

Warnings: Although not exactly n/c, Billy doesn't throw open his legs and say, "Take me now, big boy."

Pulling off his Wings
By Barb G.

The last drops slid from the bottle, and Billy threw it down. Americans knew fuck all when it came to beer, he decided. He had worked his way through the case, and yet his brain was still as active as it had been when he started.

He had to piss, but he didn't want to get up to do it. He didn't trust his legs or his reaction-time, but he was hyper-aware of everything else. Nothing could stop him from remembering the sound of Joe unzipping his fly. Billy had heard it, through the screams and the music and the high from
playing. He heard it. He had turned to Joe, wondering what the fuck, and Billy knew. He fucking knew. Joe had looked at him calmly with his goofy smile, and then fucked them all over.

For a moment, briefly, Billy admired him. Admired his ability to piss it all away. They had seven albums together, seven, and the money had been shit. Independent labels, basement-graphics, and borrowed time in studios. But the fan-base was there, and they were just starting to get known in the States.

Billy threw his head back, and his vertigo finally shifted. He closed his head to enjoy the room spinning, and reached blindly for the beer that would topple him over to oblivion, but the case was empty.

He groped around a couple times, just to make sure one hadn't escaped him, but the thing stayed empty. "Fuck," he said, but didn't lift his head from the back of the filthy couch. "Fuck!" he repeated, louder, but no one came in to see what he wanted. He glanced up to the clock; it was well past three but he could still hear people moving around in the bar. It was past closing time, but it was worth a shot. The oblivious drunk slipped away as he pushed to his feet, but despite the clarity of his mind, he still needed the walls to walk straight.

The cleaning lady wasn't alone. Festus and the guy from Cyrus records sat alone on the far side of the bar, surrounded by tables with their chairs already raised. It looked like a forest of dead black trees. The Filipino woman who glared at him as he came out of the backrooms, and there wasn't a chance in hell he'd get anything from her.

Festus motioned him over. They still had a mostly full bottle of whisky at the table, so he wandered over. The tables were a bit more difficult to navigate after the straight hallway, but he managed only bruising his thighs twice. "Bill, this is Mr. Cyrus," Festus said.

Billy nodded to the man. Festus turned over the third glass and poured him a shot. "Sit down."

It was an order, but Billy was too tired to care. He sat down, trying to make it look like he wasn't just collapsing. He stared at Cyrus, who met his look evenly.

"You tired of working clubs like this, Bill?" Cyrus asked.

"Joe provides the entertainment," Billy said. His ears were ringing and his mouth was dry, but he didn't touch the shot. He licked his lips with his dry tongue and sat back in the chair.

"Ah, Mr. Dick. You do realize he will never make it, don't you, Bill? He doesn't want it. He'll fuck you over and drag you down again and again until you're just as afraid of success as he is."

Cyrus' eyes were dark. Dark and cold. His voice was emotionless, too, like Joe's antics hadn't bothered him at all because nothing could bother him. Billy picked up the shot and downed it without thinking. Cyrus smiled at him, but again, it was just as cold and calculating. "Did it piss you off? Joe fucking you like that?"

"That's Joe," Billy said.

Cyrus poured him another shot. "That's not what I asked."

Billy hesitated, and Cyrus motioned the drink. Billy swallowed half of it, and the ringing in his ear turned into more rhythmic wave-like sounds. "Did it piss you off?" Cyrus repeated.

"What the fuck do you think? Of course it did," Billy said. He went to stand up, but Cyrus put his hand over Billy's wrist.

"Hear me out, Bill. What do you have to lose?"

"Fuck you," Billy said.

"Maybe it's too late. Maybe Joe's deeper inside you than I thought. You are afraid. Go back to being your big fish in your tiny pond, Bill. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you aren't good enough."

Billy shook his head. He flushed, and with the crashing sound in his ear and the sudden dizziness that came with it, Billy sat down again. "Fuck you," he repeated. "I am good enough."

Cyrus smiled again, topping up his drink. "Of course you are."

***
Joe heard enough. He quietly closed the back door, and made his way back down the alley. The stink of it didn't bother him with the rush still in his system. He had scored again, and the euphoria turned bitter in his throat at Billy's betrayal.

Ungrateful little bitch. Joe had followed Billy from the dressing room; he loved to watch Bill so stumbling drunk; there was something so vulnerable to it. Like a single blow would make him fall down and curl up, and every moment Joe didn't knock Billy over gave him a god-like feeling.

He had listened to their little conversation, expecting Billy to tell them to fuck themselves and be done with it. He hoped Billy would make some other grand gesture that would put Cyrus in his place yet again, but the little fucker had sat down. Listened to them. Agreed with them. The
bitch. The blow's high turned to something more seething, and he fed off of that just as much as he had the rush. Cyrus didn't understand. Billy was fucking his, and no one fucked with that. Billy understood that.

He made it back to their hotel. It was a step up from some of the shit-holes they stayed at, but not luxurious. They each had their own room, but it didn't take much to convince the night clerk that he was Billy and had forgotten his key. One punk star looks like another, and Joe remembered to thank him once the man unlocked his door. Joe locked the door, turned off the rattling air conditioner, and sat down in a chair in the darkest corner to wait.

* * *

"You can't tell me you like the new shit Joe is pumping out. You got this far on your old stuff, but Joe doesn't give a damn any more," Festus said.

Billy went to stand up again. "Don't open your mouth again, Ed," Cyrus snapped. "What he means is, you have to appeal to a more mainstream audience if you want to make it. Let's face it, Billy, the eighties are over and the punk movement is dead. You survived this long with the retro phase, but realistically, Hard Core Logo's days are numbered. You realize this, don't you?"

"You want me to sell out," Billy said. He refused the shot glass, sullenly, and Cyrus glared at Ed. The cleaning lady had finished the last of the tables, but she was polishing the same spot on the bar for more than five minutes, as she obviously tried to overhear the conversation.

"Sell out. Is that what you call wanting to make money at this? You're pouring your blood into this," Cyrus grabbed his hand, turning it over. Two of his calluses had torn and bled during the performance, and he hadn't stopped drinking long enough to put Band-Aids over them. "Wouldn't it be nice to have more than a couple hundred bucks in the bank? To take time off from touring? You have loyalty to your friend and I admire that, but does that mean you have to drink from the same toilet as he does?"

Billy shook his head. Oblivion had come and the world was fuzzy, but now he needed to think. "I need some time," he said.

"Take all the time you need," Cyrus said. "But I'm leaving town tomorrow."

Billy nodded. Cyrus stood up. "Make sure he gets back to his hotel. I don't want anything to happen to him," he told Festus. Festus nodded, and Cyrus left the bar.

"Fucking errand boy," Billy snapped. He would have liked to put his head on the table and close his eyes for five minutes, but didn't want to fall asleep with Festus watching him. His knees and shoulders ached through the numbness of the alcohol, and he pushed to his feet.

Festus took his arm. "Come on," he said, and helped him through the forest of tables.

The outside air didn't help. It was too thick and warm to help sober him. A strong wind and -30 degree temperature always knocked him sober even if it was just from the bar's door to a waiting cab. The heat still seemed to radiate from the sidewalk and wrapped him in a blanket.

Once back in the hotel, he struggled with the key and finally unlocked the door. Festus took a step forward. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?" Billy demanded, blocking the man's entrance with his body.

"You need help."

"The fuck I do. Get out of here," Billy said. He could manage the rest, and even if he couldn't, he'd be damned before he'd let Festus into his room. Billy closed the door, leaning against it for support for a moment, and then turned the deadbolt. He didn't see Joe until he made it to the bed
and groped for the light.

* * *

Joe had switched to the bottle of whisky Billy had kept on his bedside table. He was half way through the bottle when he heard Festus in the hall with him, and decided the fucker was fired as of the morning. Billy staggered into the darkness, alone, and didn't notice him until he switched
on the bedside lamp. "Joe?" he asked.

Joe stood up. Billy tried to tug off his shirt, but the motion was ineffectual, and he almost strangled himself on the buttons. Joe, for once, didn't help him. Billy collapsed onto the bed and threw himself back, still tangled in his shirt, and Joe watched his skinny white chest move with his breathing.

Billy didn't open his eyes again until Joe nudged his legs apart with his knees. "What are you doing?" Billy demanded, but couldn't untangle himself from his shirt. He struggled for a few heartbeats, and gave up.

"What do you think?" Joe demanded.

Billy struggled again, but only managed to tangle himself further. One elbow was out of the sleeve, but he couldn't seem to pull it out any farther or push it back in. They had messed around before, but from the panicked look in Billy's face, Joe knew he knew this wasn't like the other times. "Fuck that, Joe. Let me up." Joe worked Billy's legs apart until Billy made a sound of protest. "Not now, I'm way too fucked."

Joe didn't stop, and Billy jerked under him, stitches tearing in his sleeve as he yanked his arm out. Billy fought back, but wasn't a match for him on blow. Joe moved over him and held him down. It was the same god-like feeling again, but darker tinged. Billy was his, whether he admitted to it or not, and that gave him power.

Billy stared at him for a moment, eyes squinting, and Joe tightened his hands over Billy's wrist. The sudden pain made him jerk. "You're fucking high, Joe. Get the fuck off me now."

"Tell me what you talked about," Joe said, keeping his voice reasonable, given the circumstances. Billy's thrashing became violent, and Joe had to kneel on both sides of his body to pin him down. That brought Billy's stomach in direct contact with his dick, and he found himself pressing harder against Billy to feel the friction.

"Fuck you," Billy said. He collapsed against the bed, limp once more, but Joe didn't stop slowly rubbing himself against the body beneath him. Billy didn't protest; in fact he made another sound in the back of his throat and exposed more of his throat to Joe. The air had turned sticky without the air conditioner, but Joe didn't have a free hand to pull off his own clothes.

"You want to be his whore," Joe said. He pulled Billy's wrists together so he could hold them both with one hand. Billy could have broken free if he wanted to, but he remained where he was, trying to shift up so that Joe was against more than just his stomach. Joe took his free hand and wrapped it around Billy's throat. The rough stubble was coarse against his hand, but Billy made another sound as Joe pressed down slightly. "Answer me."

"Fuck..." Billy said, swallowing, and Joe felt the muscles constrict. "Joe, get off me."

Joe heard the pain in his voice, but didn't move. "Did you agree with them?" he asked.

"No," Billy said, but he wouldn't look up. Bill never could lie to him.

"You're mine," Joe snapped.

"Fuck you, too," Billy growled. He started to fight again, and Joe rode him out. There was no way he was getting Billy to suck him off, not while he was this angry, and between the blow and Billy's thrashing, jerking off wasn't going to be enough. But Billy's dick was hard against Joe's thigh through the denim even as he obviously fought with himself not to move against Joe.

"You're mine," Joe repeated, dropping his voice low. Billy fought again, which made it damn hard to hold his wrists over his head and still undo his jeans. He backhanded Billy once, and a thin line of blood filled one of the dry cracks of Billy's mouth. Billy protested the blow with another sound, but he stopped fighting and licked his lips instead.

That was better. He took his hand off Billy's wrists and undid the jeans easily. Billy didn't move as he yanked them down; he just lay there looking stunned. "Joe, you don't..." he began, but then silenced, staring up at the ceiling.

Joe wasn't in the mood to play, 'Where'd Billy go,' but he didn't want to fuck a corpse either. They had been on tour all summer, but Billy's skin was so white that even the farmer's tan on his arms looked faint. He stripped off his own torn sweater and jeans, and lay down beside Billy. They had done this hundreds of times when they were just starting out, but it had been a long time since the last time Billy had come to his hotel room. Almost a year.

Billy looked at him, confused, but Joe put his hand over Billy's stomach and splayed his fingers. His breathing was calm, and as Joe slowly moved his hand in a circle, Billy actually closed his eyes. He was close to passing out, but Joe didn't want to let him go. "Stay with me," he said, biting down on Billy's shoulder. He did no more than dent the skin, but Billy opened his eyes again and started to move his hips in motion with Joe's hand.

"Joe," Billy whispered, voice cracking. His dick was hard now, flat against his belly. Joe sadistically moved down, breathing down on it, and Billy groaned again. Joe licked along his upper thigh, and the sweat was tart.

He stopped moving his hand, pulling more sweet sounds from Billy. The desperation made him raked his teeth down Billy's abdomen, "Bitch," he growled.

Another sound. Joe stopped; it had almost sounded like an affirmation. He bit down again, harder. "Please," Billy whispered.

Joe opened his mouth. Billy tasted of more sweat and something darker. Billy jolted at Joe's teeth against the underside of his cock, but Joe kept it gentle, more of a warning. He covered his teeth, and Billy sunk back to the mattress. Billy spread his legs further, muscles taut under his skin. Joe ran his hand down Billy's sweat-slick thigh and used the other one to gather up his testicles. Billy shuddered, drawing his knees up. His hands moved for the first time, trying to force Joe's head down, but Joe pulled away. He jerked Billy off instead. The silky skin move over hardness, and
Billy moaned again, just before tensing up. Joe caught most of it, and gathered up what he didn't.

Billy relaxed, going limp, which made it easier. Joe smeared the come over his own cock. There was no preparation. Billy's reflexes were off; before he could protest or roll away, Joe gathered up his legs and pushed him back onto his shoulders. It took two tries to push his way through the tight ring of muscles, but luckily Billy didn't try to fight until he was already inside.

Billy was tight. The heat was unfuckingbelievable. Joe forced himself in Billy's unresisting body, knowing he couldn't last. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Billy was his, there was no denying it now. He only pulled out an inch, slammed back, and was gone. The orgasm ripped through him, and he wanted to howl at the fucking moon. Billy whimpered as Joe pulled away, and curled up where Joe left him. Joe collapsed next to him, panting. He went to touch Billy's shoulder, but Billy flinched away. Joe looked away and saw the blood, and stumbled into the bathroom for a towel. He wiped them off, and collapsed again. Billy, for once, didn't move next to him.

* * *

Joe making him come had been nice, even with all the shit Joe put him through. It broke through the haze his mind was in and lulled him to sleep when it was over. The pain shocked him, throwing him awake. He hadn't been expecting either the hurt or the violation. Joe was crazy; but Billy didn't try to fight. He took it, and even after Joe pulled out of him, the pain didn't go away. He lay on his side, shuddering, and pulled away as Joe tried to join him.

He didn't sleep as Joe snored beside him. Eventually the throbbing died down to just discomfort, and he pushed himself up and out of bed. He dressed, stiffly and still mostly drunk and went to Joe's jacket, still by the chair. He went through it until he found the little baggie. He went into the bathroom and dumped it down the toilet. He left the empty baggie in the sink and slammed the door behind him.

He went to an all night dinner, and sobered up by his fifth cup of coffee. His head hurt worse than his ass did, but he bought a tube of Aspirin at the counter and downed half of them. By the time he dialed Festus' number from the public phone outside the diner, he was feeling human again.

"Yeah?" Festus asked, sounding groggy.

"Tell him I'll fucking take it," he said.

"Billy?"

"No shit."

"Fuck, Billy. Cyrus changed his mind. He called just after I got back."

Billy yanked the headphone cord out of the machine and threw it across the street. "Fuck!" he howled, slamming the palm of his hand against the phone. The pain didn't help. He could see Cyrus' cold eyes laughing over the whole thing. Joe wasn't fuckable, but he was. Yank the strings and watch Billy dance. Joe could do it, why shouldn't that fat fuck.

Not again. He walked away, seething. Never again. Fuck them all.

END