Fic - "Cherry" | Birdman/Lil Wayne
Jan. 4th, 2010 11:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
horizon_greeneTitle: "Cherry"
Pairing: Birdman (a.k.a. Baby a.k.a. Bryan Williams)/Lil Wayne (a.k.a. Weezy a.k.a. Dwayne Carter, Jr.)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,434
Warnings: Sex, drugs. Fairly angsty.
Author's Notes: I finally got around to finishing something I started a long time ago. Many, many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
grammar_glamour and pebblin for the thoughtful beta work; this fic is much improved because of both of you. Special thanks to grammar_glamour as well, for talking me through the early stages and providing endless motivation. I think this also means you have your half of the bargain to uphold? ;)
Time is splintering.
Seems like it, anyway. The seconds split apart, repeat endlessly, and I swallow the last of the syrup in my cup and let the styrofoam slip from my fingers.
There are lights flashing outside the bus, bright even through the heavy tint on the windows. Streetlights, headlights, taillights from passing cars—there’s a rhythm to it, to the way they careen past in blurry trails of red, white, orange, blue. It’s a spectacle—spectacular, even—especially since everything else seems so far away and muted.
My phone says it’s 4:22am, but it doesn’t mean a thing to me. The bed I’m laying on shifts and vibrates with the bumps in the road, tires and traffic and white noise like cotton in my ears, and it’s like this shit ain’t even real. My entire body is buzzing and warm and I should sleep now, while I’ve got a minute.
The door to the front of the bus opens suddenly, and there’s a rush, a spike of adrenaline and expectation through the codeine. I can hear the TV, the laughter of a few people still awake and partying. I roll over onto my side, flinging an arm across my eyes to block out the light.
The door shuts quickly. “Sorry,” I hear. The mattress dips next to me.
“Baby,” I croak. My voice is wrecked from tonight’s show and I can’t hardly speak.
“You alright?” he asks. He reaches for me, pets my hair.
I nod as his fingers stroke from roots to tips. He’s gentle, and being touched like this’d almost put me to sleep, if I didn’t know what was coming next.
He bends down and kisses my shoulder. His hand is on bare skin now, rubbing up and down the length of my spine. I arch, and his hand slides beneath my shorts.
“You want it?” He finds my hole, presses against it.
I groan. “Fuck, you know I do.”
He tugs off my shorts, rustles around a little, and then slick fingers are pushing into me. I make a low sound, deep in my throat, and reach for my dick. I play with the head while he works me inside, and I can hear him breathing, all heavy and worked-up over me, even though we’ve barely done a thing yet.
He doesn’t spend much time fingering me, just gets me wet and then pushes me onto my belly. I can hear him unzipping his jeans, and I chew the tip of my thumb, waiting for it, feels like I’m waiting forever for him to get the condom on.
Once he’s in me, though, it’s fuckin’ weird. I’m dizzy and a little confused—his shirt is bunched up and wrinkled against my back, and I can feel his zipper digging into my thighs, scratchy and uncomfortable. It’s hard to focus on anything else.
Knuckles between my teeth, I bite down, waiting for it to hurt. But the pain’s strange. Like…delayed, and kind of fuzzy. It’s disappointing. I’m not getting off on his dick at all and I want the sharpness, something. Anything besides that fucking zipper.
He stops for a second, shifts around and spreads me open wider for him. And that helps. It’s better now—the scratching’s gone, and he’s hitting the spot a little, too.
I mumble something through my fingers. I don’t know what—it doesn’t make any sense, even to me—but he kisses my shoulder and pulls my hair out of my face and I close my eyes, trying to relax.
“You’re okay,” he reassures me. I lick at the indentations my teeth have left along my thumb and then shove my hand under the pillow beneath my head.
“I know.”
Time is going hazy again. I lose track of how long we’ve been fucking. Ten minutes? Twenty? I don’t really know, but it feels like forever. I exhale in one long, slow rasp as he works his mouth down my neck, and I can hear him saying my name—kinda soft and quiet and almost, like, pleading.
He likes it when I’m noisy, when I act all crazy for his dick and desperate and shit. It’s not easy when I’m faded and my voice is broken glass, but I force the sounds out, breathy and whiny and almost like something a girl would do, and I know he likes that, too.
“Come on,” I grunt, doing my best to push back into him. “Come on, daddy.”
Calling him that gets my hair yanked, but I don’t trip. I’d laugh, even, because I know he loves it, loves me, loves this—
But he’s fucking me so hard now that it’s impossible to do much. “Baby, I…” I swallow, tongue pressing against the back of my teeth, then sliding forward, between the sharp edges. “I’m…”
Damn, it’s so hard to talk.
Doesn’t matter, though, because he’s coming. And fuck, he’s getting in so deep, and the sounds I make as his fingers twist in my dreads, holding me still—shit, I know I sound like a bitch, now.
When he’s finished, his grip loosens, hand finding the back of my neck, massaging the muscles there. Like an apology, maybe, but it doesn’t last. His hand’s gone, he rolls off of me, and air floods my lungs in a rush.
For a second I lay there and blink, trying to make sense of the darkness. But I’ve got other needs that won’t wait. I’m still hard. I want to come. I push myself up onto my side and reach for my cock.
I’m sort of half-aware of him getting off the bed and going into the bathroom. But he’s only gone for a minute, and then I feel him behind me again, touching me, damp fingers sliding across my ribs, then down my arm.
His hand covers mine, and I come all over both of us.
He leans down and kisses me, and I’m suddenly conscious of my mouth—artificial cherry sickly sweet, and there’s no hiding it.
He pulls back. “You’re gonna kill yourself with that shit,” he mumbles, and I don’t want to hear it, I really don’t. I turn away, grabbing for the sheet and yanking it up over me.
There’s one last kiss against my shoulder, and then he’s gone, out the door to the front of the bus.
White noise fills my ears again, and after a while I roll over onto my back. A chunk of crushed styrofoam cup is stuck to my arm, and I carefully peel it off. Several other pieces are scattered around me, and I pick them out of the bed, one by one, and flick them towards the trash can in the corner.
My mind’s all over the place, and it’s crazy. I wonder about Heaven, and if I’ll ever make it there, if things go the way some people say. ’Cause it’s one thing to Fear God, but it’s another entirely to obey Him, and I’ve never been very good at that.
Anxiety’s starting to get to me a little. I slide off the bed onto the floor and crawl over to one of my bags, digging for my stash.
Smoking takes the edge off of the night, and afterwards I lie on my back and watch the patterns of light and shadow twisting across the ceiling of the bus. I’m tired, but when I close my eyes I can still see the shapes, fluorescent and rotating against my eyelids.
I wonder if Baby’s on this tour to make money, or if he’s on this tour so he can fuck me. But they’ve just about become one and the same over the years, haven’t they? I can barely tell the difference anymore.
That’s the kind of thing that’s easy to wonder about at times like this, when I’m fucked and high and I ain’t got shit else to do but ponder.
We get to the next city as dawn breaks, and I stumble my way through the hotel lobby. The lights are blinding, reflecting kaleidoscope-bright off of the polished marble floor and making my head spin. By the time I get to the elevator, my knees are on the verge of giving out.
Sliding the keycard into the slot is harder than it should be, but when I get the door open and get inside my room, it’s a huge relief. It’s silent, I’m alone, and falling facedown on the bed seems like the most natural thing in the world.
There are no shapes in the sheets, only endless threads of white cotton, and finally, I sleep.
Pairing: Birdman (a.k.a. Baby a.k.a. Bryan Williams)/Lil Wayne (a.k.a. Weezy a.k.a. Dwayne Carter, Jr.)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,434
Warnings: Sex, drugs. Fairly angsty.
Author's Notes: I finally got around to finishing something I started a long time ago. Many, many thanks to
grammar_glamour and pebblin for the thoughtful beta work; this fic is much improved because of both of you. Special thanks to grammar_glamour as well, for talking me through the early stages and providing endless motivation. I think this also means you have your half of the bargain to uphold? ;)Time is splintering.
Seems like it, anyway. The seconds split apart, repeat endlessly, and I swallow the last of the syrup in my cup and let the styrofoam slip from my fingers.
There are lights flashing outside the bus, bright even through the heavy tint on the windows. Streetlights, headlights, taillights from passing cars—there’s a rhythm to it, to the way they careen past in blurry trails of red, white, orange, blue. It’s a spectacle—spectacular, even—especially since everything else seems so far away and muted.
My phone says it’s 4:22am, but it doesn’t mean a thing to me. The bed I’m laying on shifts and vibrates with the bumps in the road, tires and traffic and white noise like cotton in my ears, and it’s like this shit ain’t even real. My entire body is buzzing and warm and I should sleep now, while I’ve got a minute.
The door to the front of the bus opens suddenly, and there’s a rush, a spike of adrenaline and expectation through the codeine. I can hear the TV, the laughter of a few people still awake and partying. I roll over onto my side, flinging an arm across my eyes to block out the light.
The door shuts quickly. “Sorry,” I hear. The mattress dips next to me.
“Baby,” I croak. My voice is wrecked from tonight’s show and I can’t hardly speak.
“You alright?” he asks. He reaches for me, pets my hair.
I nod as his fingers stroke from roots to tips. He’s gentle, and being touched like this’d almost put me to sleep, if I didn’t know what was coming next.
He bends down and kisses my shoulder. His hand is on bare skin now, rubbing up and down the length of my spine. I arch, and his hand slides beneath my shorts.
“You want it?” He finds my hole, presses against it.
I groan. “Fuck, you know I do.”
He tugs off my shorts, rustles around a little, and then slick fingers are pushing into me. I make a low sound, deep in my throat, and reach for my dick. I play with the head while he works me inside, and I can hear him breathing, all heavy and worked-up over me, even though we’ve barely done a thing yet.
He doesn’t spend much time fingering me, just gets me wet and then pushes me onto my belly. I can hear him unzipping his jeans, and I chew the tip of my thumb, waiting for it, feels like I’m waiting forever for him to get the condom on.
Once he’s in me, though, it’s fuckin’ weird. I’m dizzy and a little confused—his shirt is bunched up and wrinkled against my back, and I can feel his zipper digging into my thighs, scratchy and uncomfortable. It’s hard to focus on anything else.
Knuckles between my teeth, I bite down, waiting for it to hurt. But the pain’s strange. Like…delayed, and kind of fuzzy. It’s disappointing. I’m not getting off on his dick at all and I want the sharpness, something. Anything besides that fucking zipper.
He stops for a second, shifts around and spreads me open wider for him. And that helps. It’s better now—the scratching’s gone, and he’s hitting the spot a little, too.
I mumble something through my fingers. I don’t know what—it doesn’t make any sense, even to me—but he kisses my shoulder and pulls my hair out of my face and I close my eyes, trying to relax.
“You’re okay,” he reassures me. I lick at the indentations my teeth have left along my thumb and then shove my hand under the pillow beneath my head.
“I know.”
Time is going hazy again. I lose track of how long we’ve been fucking. Ten minutes? Twenty? I don’t really know, but it feels like forever. I exhale in one long, slow rasp as he works his mouth down my neck, and I can hear him saying my name—kinda soft and quiet and almost, like, pleading.
He likes it when I’m noisy, when I act all crazy for his dick and desperate and shit. It’s not easy when I’m faded and my voice is broken glass, but I force the sounds out, breathy and whiny and almost like something a girl would do, and I know he likes that, too.
“Come on,” I grunt, doing my best to push back into him. “Come on, daddy.”
Calling him that gets my hair yanked, but I don’t trip. I’d laugh, even, because I know he loves it, loves me, loves this—
But he’s fucking me so hard now that it’s impossible to do much. “Baby, I…” I swallow, tongue pressing against the back of my teeth, then sliding forward, between the sharp edges. “I’m…”
Damn, it’s so hard to talk.
Doesn’t matter, though, because he’s coming. And fuck, he’s getting in so deep, and the sounds I make as his fingers twist in my dreads, holding me still—shit, I know I sound like a bitch, now.
When he’s finished, his grip loosens, hand finding the back of my neck, massaging the muscles there. Like an apology, maybe, but it doesn’t last. His hand’s gone, he rolls off of me, and air floods my lungs in a rush.
For a second I lay there and blink, trying to make sense of the darkness. But I’ve got other needs that won’t wait. I’m still hard. I want to come. I push myself up onto my side and reach for my cock.
I’m sort of half-aware of him getting off the bed and going into the bathroom. But he’s only gone for a minute, and then I feel him behind me again, touching me, damp fingers sliding across my ribs, then down my arm.
His hand covers mine, and I come all over both of us.
He leans down and kisses me, and I’m suddenly conscious of my mouth—artificial cherry sickly sweet, and there’s no hiding it.
He pulls back. “You’re gonna kill yourself with that shit,” he mumbles, and I don’t want to hear it, I really don’t. I turn away, grabbing for the sheet and yanking it up over me.
There’s one last kiss against my shoulder, and then he’s gone, out the door to the front of the bus.
White noise fills my ears again, and after a while I roll over onto my back. A chunk of crushed styrofoam cup is stuck to my arm, and I carefully peel it off. Several other pieces are scattered around me, and I pick them out of the bed, one by one, and flick them towards the trash can in the corner.
My mind’s all over the place, and it’s crazy. I wonder about Heaven, and if I’ll ever make it there, if things go the way some people say. ’Cause it’s one thing to Fear God, but it’s another entirely to obey Him, and I’ve never been very good at that.
Anxiety’s starting to get to me a little. I slide off the bed onto the floor and crawl over to one of my bags, digging for my stash.
Smoking takes the edge off of the night, and afterwards I lie on my back and watch the patterns of light and shadow twisting across the ceiling of the bus. I’m tired, but when I close my eyes I can still see the shapes, fluorescent and rotating against my eyelids.
I wonder if Baby’s on this tour to make money, or if he’s on this tour so he can fuck me. But they’ve just about become one and the same over the years, haven’t they? I can barely tell the difference anymore.
That’s the kind of thing that’s easy to wonder about at times like this, when I’m fucked and high and I ain’t got shit else to do but ponder.
We get to the next city as dawn breaks, and I stumble my way through the hotel lobby. The lights are blinding, reflecting kaleidoscope-bright off of the polished marble floor and making my head spin. By the time I get to the elevator, my knees are on the verge of giving out.
Sliding the keycard into the slot is harder than it should be, but when I get the door open and get inside my room, it’s a huge relief. It’s silent, I’m alone, and falling facedown on the bed seems like the most natural thing in the world.
There are no shapes in the sheets, only endless threads of white cotton, and finally, I sleep.
