Husker Du: Something I Learned Today, v3 (MM, celeb, RPS [Real Person Slash], viol) by Christine "Green Leafy Dragon" Indigo (christineindigo@juno.com) http://www.asstr.org/~christineindigo/ ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/christineindigo/
DISCLAIMERS AND DISTRIBUTION RIGHTS: This work of FICTION is based on a real band, one of the best rock bands of the eighties. However, it does not and is not intended to describe anything that actually happened to anyone in the band. (Grant denies that he and Bob were ever involved, and I believe him.) Several things, including the description of the inside of Total Access Studios and the recording of "Reoccuring Dreams," have been fictionalized. The author is willing to remove this story from circulation upon request from any of the ex band members or their representatives. You may archive this work of FICTION at any free web site/FTP archive/whatever and/or repost this work to any free newsgroup/echo/whathaveyou, as long as my name and this disclaimer remains intact. Also, there are two earlier rough drafts of this story floating around the net, and I'd prefer that you archive/repost this version, not those versions. This story has explicit homosexual situations, so if you are under 18, go away.
NOTE: Why Husker Du? Because I thought that Mould's and Hart's combative and doomed friendship was interesting and slashy enough to explore in FICTION. Because I wanted to try to capture some of the feel of their music on pixel. Because I drew their name out of a hat. :-)
OCTOBER, 1983:
"No. Absolutely not." Bob Mould leaned against the green painted brick studio walls and sighed. Not this again, he thought. "Turn On The News' not gonna be on the album, and that's final."
"Look, it fits into the story. The kid wakes up from a night of bad dreams and turns back on to reality." Grant Hart was sitting crosslegged on top of the secretary's desk, chipping away at its peeling varnish. A floor lamp was sitting next to him, dust motes floating around in its beam. "Your bad dreams, for the most part."
"It's still gonna be seen as a preachy piece of shit, like the stuff we used to put out. You wanna play in front of mohawked D-students the rest of your life? Why are you so much in love with that song, anyway? There's no dead women in it."
"I've got Diane, Pink Turns To Blue, and a coupla other songs like that, and you've got a couple thousand 'I'm miserable, and life sucks, and I'm gonna slit my wrists tomorrow' type of songs." He paused, and pictured Bob dangling from the side of the Capitol Records building, attached to the wall by a candy-striped flagpole up his considerable rear end. "Becides, we need some kinda real song on the fourth side, not just Reoccuring Dreams, or Dez'll think that...."
"Speaking of which, why don't you two kiss and make up so that we can get it on tape?" Spot, their producer, stuck his head into the room. Sighing, Bob and Grant followed him out and into the live room. Greg Norton was waiting for them inside, tapping his fingers impatiently on the body of his bass. At a signal from Spot, Bob coaxed a quiet feedback squeal from his guitar: the beginning of Reoccuring Dreams. For the next fourteen minutes, he surrounded Grant's supple drumming with a force field of harsh guitar riffs, while Grant responded by laying a blanket of rhythms around and under Bob's guitar. Meanwhile, Greg anchored them with the melody, keeping them from floating too far away from Earth. Afterward, Bob stood in the center of the floor, feeling the sweat dry on his body, trying to remember what he had been arguing about with Grant.
"I still want Turn On on the record." Bob's skin prickled as he felt Grant lean closer in to him from a few inches behind.
"I've said this sixty-nine thousand times before and I'll say it sixty-nine thousand more if I have to: No."
"You're not the boss of the band, we all are. I say it's in."
"I'm gonna go have a smoke." By the time that Greg had finished saying that, he had unplugged his bass, pulled out his lighter, and left the room. Spot had also taken off, leaving the door to the control room swinging violently on its hinges. Bob slowly turned around until he was face-to-face with Grant.
"Look, Greg hates it, and so do I."
"That's not what he said last time we talked about it with him, and you know it."
"Well, it looks like you need to clean out your ears just as much as Spot needs to clean out his. I heard Greg say he hated it."
"Liar."
"I'm not gonna listen to you anymore." Bob pointed to the control room and the reel-to-reel tape deck inside, with the album's master tape on it. "You know, I could go in there with a pair of scissors and a pail of water and fix it so that you wouldn't have any songs on the record."
"Cocksucker." Grant stumbled over that word as he said it, and he stood stock still afterwards with a stricken look on his face. Bob grabbed the collar of Grant's shirt, and Grant then whirled him around, shoving him hard against the nearest wall and pinning him there.
"Do you wanna fight, Bob? Get into it, right here? 'Cause if we do, I'm getting on a plane for home first thing tomorrow."
"That was just like calling a black guy a nigger." Bob didn't struggle at all to get out of Grant's grasp, but remained still.
"I know. I'm sorry. My tongue has a mind of its own sometimes. I shouldn't have said what I did, and you shouldn't have did what you did. Peace?"
"Peace. Just don't do it again."
They stood there against the wall for a while. Slowly, Bob became aware that the front of Grant's jeans, with Grant's cock inside, was pressed flat against the back of his pants; and furthermore, that cock was getting hard. His own cock responded, Pavlov-like, by rising in unison with Grant's. He wondered if Grant's cock had begun to harden while he was shoving him against the wall or afterwards. "Er, what's that?"
"Dunno where it came from, but my zipper's gonna split open if it continues." Grant reached between the two of them to adjust his crotch, which made Bob shiver for a bit as he visualized Grant wrapping his strong arms around his waist and rubbing his.... Why should I be having this reaction to Grant, of all people?, he thought.
"You know, this could just be like that kid in Seattle two years ago who kept getting a big hard one in the middle of the slam pit."
"Oh, yeah, and it fell out of his shorts when he got up to do a stage dive. Everyone, except for a coupla girls, got out of the way of him and he went splat on the floor." Grant chuckled at the memory. "Should have taken him with us, I guess. And I remember that one of those security cats got hard when we shoved him out of the way at that Ramones show in 79. He had a little tiny one, of course. No wonder he worked as a guard." He ran his fingers down a strand of Bob's blond hair. "Hey, you should grow your hair longer, like mine."
"Yeah, we've had some...interesting times together," Bob said. By this time, Grant's cock was at full mast, and Bob's was stiffening so quickly that it was like a garden hose had been hooked up to it and turned on. He thought for a moment about slipping out of Grant's grasp, running into the bathroom, and getting rid of the problem by hand, but he knew that he would have to nail Grant's feet to the floor to keep him from beating him there. Damn the consequences, he thought. "You wanna do something?"
"Sure," Grant replied without hesitation. "One kinda hole's just as good as another, I guess."
"Just two things."
"Yeah?"
"First, we do this and then never speak about it again. Second, when did you start looking at men's crotches?"
They knew that they couldn't go outside for their tryst, for fear of running into Greg or Spot. The idea of locking themselves into the bathroom was brought up, but rejected as too sleazy. So, they went into a nearby sitting room. The room had obviously not been used for a while, and dust greeted them as they opened the door. Vibrant moonlight poured through a filthy window. Bob stood in the moonlight, unzipping his pants. "You still wanna do this?"
"Why not?"
"You know, you're not really my type," Bob said, aware that Grant was rapidly becoming more and more his type as their time in the room wore on. He got on all fours on a shag rug in the center of the room, and heard Grant tearing open a small packet behind him.
"You're not a chick, either." Now ready, Grant pushed into Bob deeply enough to make Bob gasp. Realizing that he had gone too far in, he pulled back until he felt Bob relax, and he thrusted with shallow strokes that deepened until he found a depth in which they were both comfortable.
Too late, Bob realized that the moonlight had become too bright to stare at for more than a few minutes, so he closed his eyes. The moonlight filtered through his eyelids and seeped through his body as the pleasure created by Grant's spirited pumping radiated up and around his rear end. He coughed a little bit from the dust that they were stirring up.
"Mmm, no fair coughing me out," said Grant. The moonlight was searing its way through his system in the same way that it was searing its way through Bob's. He sped up his movements as their desires increased in sync. He felt his balls begin to churn and he came, holding himself deep inside Bob during every spurt. He pulled out afterwards, and collapsed next to Bob. "Oh, man. And you aren't even a girl. Oops."
"Don't worry, I feel way too good right now to get pissed off at you. I'll get you for it later, though." He got up and turned Grant over on his stomach, and put his hand on Grant's thigh. "My turn now," he said quietly.
"Wait, I got something to make up to you." Grant pushed Bob back onto his back and held his wrists down while he kneeled between his legs. He put Bob's cock into his mouth.
"Ouch. Teeth. Teeth," Bob said. Gagging as he tried to take Bob down his throat, he pulled back until Bob's cock was halfway out of his mouth. He noticed that Bob's cock got even harder when he licked and sucked him in a small place underneath Bob's cockhead, so he kept working on that particular place. He kept one eye open and staring at Bob's face while he was doing that. Bob began to quiver, and his breath became ragged as he neared orgasm.
"Slow down. Now," Bob said. Grant just grinned, and he started to hum. He continued to hold Bob's wrists down. Suddenly, Bob lost control and he came, shooting off so intensely that it felt like his balls had completely liquified. Grant kept Bob firmly pressed to the floor as he came. Then, feeling gratified in a way that he couldn't identify, he swallowed and sank to the floor.
"You've done this before," Bob said. Grant didn't reply.
After they had gotten dressed and disposed of all the evidence, they strolled casually out into the parking lot, trying not to touch each other any more than they usually did in public. Greg was there, standing underneath a security light and lighting a cigarette. When he saw them, he started to chortle. Turning, he sauntered back into the studio, shaking his head all the way. The light automaticly turned off.
"Think he saw anything?"
"Nah. Couldn't have," Bob said, trying to ignore the thin cloud of smoke that lingered around a grimy window next to the light.
Grant started to speak, but Bob cut him off. "And I still don't want Turn On on the record."
"Right. I wouldn't want it on just for being a good fuck."
"That was uncalled for. But hey, we'll talk about it later. We still got a coupla hours booked here until dawn." They reentered the studio, their hands nearly close enough to touch.
THE END