Lemon Twist
(by Halo's Angel)
As far as the biggest rock star in Japan was concerned, things were way
too boring in Shoujorama Bay for a hot summer Saturday with nowhere to be
the next day. He had lost count of his cigarettes, and it was absolutely
too early in the day for the half-drunk glass of tab and whiskey sitting
at his elbow, ice cubes long gone, condensation leaving a wet ring on a
magazine cover (SolarX, June), around his own picture. He took a drink of
it, mostly because it still managed to be cool (when were they going to
fix the blessed AC in the loft?) and poked his bare toes in the center of
the chipped wrought-iron finial on the end of his bed. The TV was on in
the corner, and muted, and he caught a flicker of his own eyes, his ass,
the smoke and wind machine hell that had actually turned into a decent
debut video. The random mix in the stereo switched from morrisey to the
church, and in the still hot silence there was only the clicking thump of
the window fan and the distant sound of cartoons coming from the main
room.
It was, Twisteaux Turbeaux thought, no way for a dedicated hedonist such
as himself to be wasting the morning.
Not that it was quite still morning, that is. He hauled himself off of his
bed, and yawned impassively at the rumpled sheets, one corner of the
fitted one loose and revealing a section of blue satin mattress, like the
beginning of a strip-tease. He ignored it, turning at catching his
reflection as he did so. The mirror in the corner was full length, and
matched the worn iron bed. Twist had picked them both up from a third or
fourth hand shop when they'd first moved into the loft, and he had been
determined not to sleep on the floor just because he was in Japan and
broke. The mirror was dusty, since J.J. hadn't been on a cleaning fit in a
while, but it was enough for Twist to see himself. Too thin, some would
say, certain also to sneer at the worn black jeans riding low over his
hipbone, silver ring in his navel showing over the undone top button of
the fly. No shirt, both nipples strung through with silver barbells, hair
growing out dark from a tawny bleach job and several other colors Twist
could not remember, still dark on the tips and roots, uneven to his
shoulders. Barefoot, heavy silver bracelet on one wrist, thumb ring, thick
leather cord with ornate cross dangling to his sternum. Full lips, face
surprisingly delicate, long-fingered hands with guitar calluses. Twisteaux
surveyed himself briefly and was forced to concur with the rest of Asia.
He was, through no actual fault of his own, the sexiest thing within two
thousand kilometers.
"Where's the funeral?"
L.L. was the only person in the main room and possibly the loft, in a
white wifebeater and loose khakis, watching Ranma 1/2 and obviously not
understanding more than twelve words out of every twenty-five, eating
coffee-flavored ice-cream straight from the carton. "Here, obviously," he
said, and licked the back of the spoon. "Although I've seen a few funerals
that look downright happening compared to this."
Twist put a hand on his hip. "The hell is everybody? We're a jrock band,
you should be rolling around on the floor with a dozen expensive
prostitutes and a metric ton of candy."
"We don't have any ricotta cheese," L.L. said, as if that explained the
complete lack of debauchery. "L.J. wanted to make veggie lasagna. He went
out shopping and J.J. went with him so long as L.J. promised to stop by
the Sanrio shop. J.L. went out a while ago, I think he said for lunch but
I really suspect he just wanted to go to the office where it was
air-conditioned."
Twist threw up his hands in utter disgust, and flopped onto the couch next
to his guitarist. "Pathetic."
L.L. shrugged. "I guess."
Twist lifted up his hair, trying to fan the sweat-damp strands at the back
of his neck. "Aren't you hot?"
L.L. handed Twist the carton of ice cream, and grinned. "I grew up in the
south, and mama never had money for an air conditioner. Come June and I'd
be down at the piggly-wiggly reading X-men in the magazine aisle."
"Quaint." Twist slurped the ice cream, and found it surprisingly good,
cold and refreshing, not too heavy.
"Did you wanna go somewhere?" L.L. licked his fingers and Twist, who had
been intending to get the hell out of the loft and go somewhere with some
action, suddenly changed his mind. He liked the action just fine where he
was.
"Nahh." He ran his tongue over the hard metal spoon in his mouth, sucking
away the cold, and took particular note of the space between the bottom of
L.L.'s tank top and the top of his pants, which were separated by a wide
swatch of toned, tanned skin, a shadowy dip of navel, and a light dusting
of honey-colored hair. "This will make your hands cold," he said, setting
the ice-cream carton down on the cluttered coffeetable, and running his
palms down the hole-worn thighs of his jeans.
L.L. yawned, reaching for his cigarettes, his eyes on the transgender
antics on the TV. "Sit on 'em," he suggested, but was not prepared for
Twist to reach over and slip them up under his shirt, icy fingertips
brushing his nipple and making it instantly hard.
"Jesus!" L.L. hissed, dropping his lighter with a clank, arching up the
back of the couch, and shivering. "The hell's that for?"
"My hands are cold," Twist explained, grinning, and L.L. looked at him
sidelong.
"No shit." He gasped as Twisteaux tugged on his nipple, and shifted his
hips in the couch cushions. "I thought you were looking for some action?"
Twist let his fingers trail down, to the inviting shadow of L.L.'s navel,
and traced it. "Well maybe I just found it."
L.L. laughed, a little breathlessly, and leaned his head back on the back
of the couch. "A million fangirls not enough?"
Twist shook his head, smirking. "Not for a good hard shag they aren't."
The buttonhole on the top of L.L.'s pants was worn, coming undone easily,
and Twist's fingers slipped inside to find someplace considerably warmer.
His breath came out in a pleased little noise as he closed his hands
around Lawrence's cock, hot and hard and more than a bit interested in
being fondled.
"You want to fuck, huh?" L.L. blew up at his bangs, breath coming a little
too fast, his green eyes smoky and intent on the motion of Twist's hand
inside his pants. "You shoulda just said so."
Twisteaux leaned in and nuzzled wavy hair that was still slightly damp
from showering, smelling like cloves, and found the warm circle of L.L.'s
earring, suckling it until L.L. moaned a little, and lifted his hips up.
"I wanted some ice cream, too," Twist murmured, and L.L. laughed, choking
on it as Twist's thumb found the wet tip of his sex, and circled it.
"You wanna do me?" Lawrence and his front man had played this game way too
many times to bother with formality, and way too much to have formal
roles. "Or are you looking to get screwed?"
"Dunno," Twist's tongue flickered over the curve of L.L.'s ear, and then
he drew back, left hand deft down the four fastened buttons on the front
of his jeans, moaning a little under his breath as his cock came free,
flushed red and aching. "You wanna do me in the ass?" He smiled, more like
a grimace than anything, hair trailing in his eyes and a hundred times
hotter than the smoldering looks he sent the camera. He squeezed L.L.
hard, twice, and L.L.'s fingernails made a ripping sound over the couch
upholstery.
"Fuck, yeah." L.L. reached over and grabbed two fistfuls of Twist's jeans,
shucking them down to his knees. "I hope you got lube on ya, cos I'm gonna
look real damn funny if I have to walk to my room for it."
"Left pocket," Twist said, and shifted his weight to kick his jeans off,
sliding his hand out of L.L.'s pants to rummage in his pocket for the
capped glass vial he was fond of carrying. Good stuff, only the best,
enough for two. "Don't leave home without it."
"You haven't left home, ya bastard," L.L. was busy undoing the rest of his
fly, slithering his pants off, peeling out of the tank top. Twist's slick
hand caught his sex and worked it greedily, fingers glistening.
"It's too hot for a long one," Twist murmured, and passed L.L. the vial,
turning around, leaning on the couch arm. "Use the rest."
L.L. emptied the vial onto his fingertips and rubbed the liquid into Twist
until he felt him relax, pushing one finger in, listening to him moan.
"You want it like this?"
Twist shook his head, sitting back, and grinned at L.L. over his shoulder.
"You know better than that."
L.L. caught Twist by the hipbones, pulling him in close. "C'mere and let
me do it right, then." He drew Twist's leg across his own, sliding his
hands down to the curve of that perfect ass, reflected just right in the
still-running TV screen, and reached between his legs, stroking himself.
"Okay."
Twist liked to kiss when it was going in, his mouth pressed open on
L.L.'s, lowering his body down onto the admittedly punishing dimensions of
L.L.'s sex, all too happy to impale himself on it. The first time L.L. had
screwed him, hard, standing up, bent over a set of drums in a back
storeroom of Shoujorama Bay University, Twist had thought he was never
going to take that in the ass again. The next day, in a study room of the
library with L.L.'s coat hung over the window in the door, Twist had
practically begged him for it. L.L. had done it, sitting in one of the
plush study chairs, and then spread himself belly down on the table for
Twist to do it back. It was never anything committal except that they both
liked it, and liked it often. Later Twist's affections had room for the
rest of the band, at varying intervals, but Lawrence was something his
mind kept coming back to, the hard bruising shape pushing into him
something he found himself seeking out instead of his usual method of just
letting it happen with whomever was there.
"You okay?" L.L.'s smooth southern voice was rough, his thighs trembling
under the weight of Twist's ass, desperate to start moving.
Twist braced himself against the back wall, worked his hands between them,
and nodded. "Do it. Do it hard."
L.L. was not the sort of man to be told twice, and Twist pushed himself
down for every upward thrust, forcing L.L.'s cock further into him, the
curve of it just right, not just hitting where Twist needed it but
bruising him there, driving against it, stretching him and forcing him to
accept it, to want more of it. When he was alone, and thought about it, It
made Twist so hard that he would push himself into his hand until it was
over. When it was actually happening, it made him come until he thought he
was dying.
Tiny motes of light were turning into streamers before his open eyes.
L.L.'s breath was ragged against his throat and Twisteaux barely had time
to whisper warning, and he was coming, Sweet Christ he was coming,
spilling all over his hand and L.L.'s tight belly. He closed his eyes, let
it take him, let it fill him up and wash him away clean.
L.L.'s breath hitched, and all he could manage was a murmured explicative
before Twist felt it inside, hot and sudden and oh so good, the very best
part. He let himself clench a few times, squeezing, until L.L. said
"Jesus" and Twist knew he was done.
They lay pressed against each other for a long moment, listening to their
breathing, the cicadas and traffic outside, the end credits of the TV show
blending badly with the last song on the Church CD.
"Good?" L.L. whispered, and kissed the side of Twist's neck, licking salt
off his lips.
"Mmm you've got such a good cock," Twist sighed happily, and slid sideways
off onto the couch, legs spread wide, belly wet, careless. "I always
forget when it's not in me."
L.L. raked his hair out of his eyes, chest heaving to a slower pace. "I
should put it in more often."
Twist managed a sultry wiggle. "God it's hot."
"Don' wanna move," L.L. said, to the ceiling. They lay there, silent and
sated, for all of about twenty seconds before they heard the scrape of
boots on the landing, the rattle of keys, J.J.'s voice bright over the
rustle of shopping bags. L.L. and Twisteaux found that they could indeed
move, and move fast.
The loft door opened on a empty living room, the shower running in the
bathroom and Twist's door closed, music cranked up a trifle too loud even
for him.
"Tadaima!" J.J. sang out, but since he was the only one who was Japanese
and L.J. and J.L. were busy wrestling shopping bags into the kitchen, he
had to content himself with answering himself since nobody else would.
"You guys home? We called the maintenance guy and he should be up to fix
the AC to--" he stopped short, frowning at the coffeetable. "Hey! Who left
out the ice cream?"
Twisteaux Turbeaux, back in his room in his rumpled sheets, smiled as he
ran the cold wet bottom of his tab and whiskey glass over his stomach. He
didn't bother answering.
.//back
