Story: "Bad Year For Rock 'n' Roll"

[indybaggins.livejournal.com]

Author: Indy Baggins
Title: Bad Year For Rock 'n' Roll
Pairing: Drew/Chip
Rating: R
Summary: A morning-after in Las Vegas, transvestite strippers, handcuffs, trash bags, a public blowjob and, above all, a gay wedding.
Author’s notes: This is my summer WIP fic present for clayangel. It's somewhat AU (you’ll see how) and eh, very cracky. Like, really, crack on a stick. *g* The beta was by sister_coyote.







The first thing Drew feels is the headache. Not like a regular hang-over, but impressive in a haven’t-felt-this-since-college kind of way, a pounding and pulsating field of pain right behind his eyes.

Then there’s the smell. It’s a horrible, rotten and humid kind of stench. The vile taste of it pushes in the back of his throat, coming up in a big, warm wave and he’s turning and retching, a wet, splattering sound, before he even knows he can move.





“Las Vegas?” Drew asked, hearing his own voice just go that tad higher in surprise. He was driving back home from work, and as he turned into his own driveway he said, “That’s a little gaudy, isn’t it?”

Ryan chuckled warmly, his happiness tangible even through the phone line. “Yeah… That’s the idea.”

“Why, because you’re trying to make it as gay as humanly possible?” Drew said, making sure Ryan heard he was teasing. Although he was pretty sure that with the mood Ryan had been in lately nothing on earth could offend him.

“Something like that,” Ryan said, and Drew could hear him smile.

“Okay, so, the weekend of the 22nd then?” Drew asked while parking the car in the dark garage. He tried to remember whether he had anything planned then. He probably had, but whatever it was, nothing compared to…

“Yeah, make sure you’re there Friday night for the bachelor’s party, and then Saturday at noon is the ceremony.”

…Ryan’s wedding.





Drew blinks, and it’s bright, insanely so, the sunlight reflecting on dark plastic a burning agony of pinpricks into his over-sensitised brain. He’s looking right at a grey garbage bag. When he tries to turn his head and look away there’s more plastic, and more. When he breathes in the pure, unadulterated stench of trash and heat and vomit again he gets hit by another wave of nausea.

He groans and dry-heaves several times. Nothing’s left in his stomach but his nose burns regardless, his eyes tearing up.

There are flies zooming noisily all around and, further away, a rumbling sound, like that of machines. He blinks the tears out of his eyes, and the realisation dawns slowly in his pounding, swimming head. He just woke up on a garbage dump.

Fuck.





“As Ryan’s best man,” Drew said into the mike, daring a look at Ryan. “As Ryan’s best man, it is my honor and privilege to declare this party started!”

The ten strippers, males and females and in-betweens, walked in from behind the curtain to the sound of something low and sultry and the catcalls of everyone present. High heels, fake tits and stuffed dicks, sparkly clothing that would be off in a minute. Drew had offered to get only male ones, something Chippendale-like, but Ryan had vetoed the idea, saying that his way, everyone would have some fun.

That being the same Ryan who was smiling smugly while one of the girls started to give him a lap dance, up and close, and probably always had had a fondness for strippers. Drew had forgotten to tell him they were also prostitutes, but he was sure it didn’t quite matter. He’d seen many a stripper girl offering to do Ryan for free.

The bastard had always refused, too. Probably because he had already been fucking guys on the side, Drew knew, but he had thought Ryan was an idiot at the time.

He took a hundred dollar bill from his pocket and waved it around at a slim brunette that was looking his way. Nothing wrong with asking for a little something something for himself.





He’s quite sure he passed out a bit after that revelation, because the next sharp clear second he is lying flat on his back, view of the bright blue sky with flies tickling his lips. He blows them away morosely.

There are seagulls overhead, screeching. There’s a garbage truck to his far right dumping even more bags onto the heap. Otherwise, it’s strangely quiet. He tries to think, what on earth happened.

He raises his hand to shield his eyes from the brutal sun, to figure out where he is, who he needs to be angry at for this stunt (because oh, he has an idea or two of who could have thought this one up) but something is holding his hand back. He turns his head, and that’s when he sees that…





She danced gloriously. She was wearing a blue sequined dress, skin-tight, that brought out her ass like no one’s business, and black lacy stockings. Despite being quite drunk already, Drew got hard as soon as that ass started grinding into his lap, because god, it had been a damn long time since he had been seduced by someone looking that good, hooker or no.

How many drinks he’d had started to become irrelevant by the time a bottle of champagne appeared next to him and she climbed onto his lap so she could share his glass with him. When she spilled some and then started to lick it off all over his neck, smiling and giggling all the while, he knew he was being played (seriously, he wasn’t that attractive, even if she was as drunk as she was pretending to be) but he didn’t care one bit.





…he is wearing handcuffs. Or well, one handcuff, since the other seems to be attached to the wrist of another hand. A hand that leads him to a male person, who is lying facedown in the garbage. A very naked male person.

Drew pulls on the chain in between the handcuffs and tries to say, “Hey, wake up,” only it comes out raw-sounding, and he coughs.





He never asked her name; in fact he was quite sure they didn’t speak at all, his long-forgotten hundred dollar bill having said everything it needed to for him. But, and really, that’s what made her so irresistible, she was having fun.

He didn’t think she could fake it, not like this. She didn’t take off any clothing, which made him think she might not have been much of the stripper variety, but her dancing was impeccable, her body both limber and toned.

What really mesmerised him though, were the lights in her eyes. The perfectly happy expression on her face. She smiled and whooped and she was singing along with something from Abba while she matter-of-factly grinded into his dick.

Drew, and he was quite aware this was the almost empty bottle of champagne speaking, felt a deep spike of love for this perfect, perfect woman. He was about to tell her this, when she single handily opened his fly and pulled his dick out.





The other guy doesn’t move, so Drew slides closer. It feels incredibly unpleasant, and a slow look down reveals that oh yes, he’s naked as well. Sweaty, pale skin burned red in places, and the black hot plastic seems to attach itself to him as he moves over it.

He gets on his knees, the light pulsating together with the beating in his head now, but he can reach the guy this way, and put his hand on his naked, dirty back.

“Wake up.”





He still told her, “…love you,” but by then she was already sliding off and going down on her knees, and he could see an understanding expression in her eyes.

He wanted to correct her, tell her he’d love her even if she wasn’t about to suck his dick, but then her cherry red lips closed around the head and all those thoughts sort of evaporated to be replaced by “blow-job! I’m getting a blow-job!”

In what was quite a public place, he was aware, but when he took a quick look around no one was paying attention. A couple of Ryan’s previously-believed-to-have-been-straight colleagues were dancing shirtless to YMCA and enthusiastically grinding into each other, and everyone else was in their respective dark corners, hands and moans and drinks everywhere, and seriously, she needed to do that sucking thing again.

He petted her cheek and on cue, she moaned around his dick.





The guy stirs, albeit only a little. Drew tries again, and this time he groans, muffled from somewhere in between the garbage.

Drew’s first thought is that it’s a good thing that the guy he is chained to isn’t dead. Because he has seen that movie, and it never ends well. His second is one of vague concern, because he is lying face down into the stink like that. The stink that’s still strong enough that he has to focus on not heaving again, so that can’t be good.

He put his hand on the guy’s shoulder, and, careful of the way the handcuffs are connecting them both, rolls him over.

Brown short hair, closed eyes. Also, Drew notices with an impending sense of doom, the guy is wearing red lipstick.





She stroked his balls while she sucked, her long fake nails tracing them on the edge of pain, and she allowed him to thrust, didn’t hold him back as he moved deeper into her mouth.

She was flushed and sweating, he could feel it as he touched her face again, heat under his fingertips, which made it almost better. He could pretend that she hadn’t done it a thousand times before, that she was doing it just for him. From that thought on it was all sweet, tantalizing waves of pleasure, until she swallowed greedily, her eyes still dancing.

She wiped her mouth off when she was done, and Drew could see some of her red lipstick transfer to the back of her hand, making it look bruised in the low light. He wanted to kiss it better, but she was already climbing over him, reaching for the champagne. She drank the last of it right from the bottle, her Adams apple bopping up and down.





Drew looks at the lipstick for a couple of long, stunned moments. The guy has a bit of nine-o’clock shadow now, too. He’s sure he hadn’t felt that, before.

The guy blinks open his eyes, frowning into the bright light. They’re brown, a beautiful, soft, glittering brown and they focus on him.

The guy opens his mouth, and then, shattering all of Drew’s hopes that this was just a coincidence, says, “Drew? Where are we?”

And then, “What happened to my wig?”





His memory got a little fuzzy after that.

The second bottle of champagne he didn’t taste much, but it was good, expensive champagne regardless and so he drank it, feeling loose and happy, laughing whenever she touched him.

She traced his belly with her warm hands, touched him all over, and then she pulled him to his feet. He staggered a little, but she held him up and together they made it to the middle of the dancefloor. They were playing something slow then, the tune like molasses over his sweaty skin, the beat in line with his heartbeat. He held her close as they danced, swayed together to the music. She put her hands under his shirt and flirted with the edge of her nails.

She was a little taller than he was, but he had liked it because that way he could lean his head on her shoulder and listen to her silver laugh up close.





The guy sounds hoarse, like he sang too much the night before, and Drew just sits there, thinking No. No way that she was a… dude.

Looking between her legs he can see that “she” most definitely is, but he just can’t get over it. She was so pretty! And yes, she’s not too bad looking as a man, but really, this has never happened to him before. He has let a man suck his dick. A man with lipstick. And it’d been good.

“Drew!” The guy looks at him like he’s been calling a couple times already.

His hand is warm on Drew’s shoulder. “Are you ok?” He sounds worried.

“Not… really,” Drew says, the pounding in his head intensifying and wow, suddenly there’s a wave of darkness that’s actually very soothing and oh yes, he’s passing out again.





They went up to his room around the time the bar closed.

She had handcuffs along with condoms in her bag, and, already far beyond drunk, Drew had agreed to get naked and let her cuff him to the bed.

It was fantastic. She didn’t take off a single piece of clothing but her fake nails, the imprint of her stockings leaving red squares on his skin as she sat over him. She sucked his dick again, used her fingers on his ass. He didn’t remember coming, although he’s sure he must have.

Just falling asleep, and being woken again by her.

A whispered “Not taking off my clothes Jeff!” and a reply of “That’s what they paid for!”

And then there was a dark bag over his head.





Drew wakes again to a soft touch on his lips. At first, he thinks it’s the flies, so he tries to swat them off. But then the air smells of sweat, and skin, and the kiss turns from a soft flicker into something hot, with tongue. And he’s moaning, holding on to naked shoulders, revelling in the skin to skin contact before he realizes where he is. Who he’s with. Where they still are.

He breaks away from the kiss and opens his eyes to see the guy, the bright sun turning his short brown hair into a halo, smiling at him.

“Why did you…” Drew asks.

The guy grins, “Always works in the movies!” and then winks at him.





He wasn’t afraid. He had known it was a prank right then and there, hello, Ryan’s bachelor’s party, but not how far they would go. He was very, very drunk so he actually fell asleep on the way over to… wherever they brought them, drooling on the girl’s shoulder.

She let him sleep and when she thought he was out, whispered into his ear, “I’m an actor, you know.” He’d nodded, because well, if that’s what she wanted to call herself that was fine by him.

They were helped out of the van along with much laughter, walked somewhere, and then left lying down on something soft.

Drew curled up closer to the girl, felt her warm skin against his, and asked her, “You want to be my date to the wedding tomorrow, right?” before passing out.

Chip, laughing, said, “Yes,” and shifted closer.





“Oh, and by the way, my name is Chip,” the guy says, and Drew is still busy just looking at him. The lip-stick is faded, now. But it’s still there.

“Drew,” Drew supplies after a too-long moment of silence.

Chip smiles again “Yeah, already knew that,” and then he takes Drew’s arm in a surprisingly strong grip and helps him up, balancing on the uneven surface.

It’s the most awful ten minutes of his life to get down and away. He has no choice but to keep holding onto the guy, it’s just too tricky to navigate over the bags otherwise since they’re still tied to each other. It’s swelteringly hot, and their bare feet, sometimes knee-deep, slip and slide on the trash. There are sweat drops running off his back, he has the hang-over from hell, he’s naked, sunburned, nauseous, and still this Chip guy doesn’t stop talking.

“So, strange idea of a joke your friends have, huh?” he asks and Drew wants to hit him over the head.

No, seriously.







(Three hours later)


The wedding ends up being completely conservative.

The minister looks very serious, and besides the pink streamers, neon purple suits on the groom and groom and a horrible version of “Ladies Night” being played on an accordion, it could have been anyone’s wedding.

Only, Drew notices he isn’t the only one there with handcuff marks on his wrist. In fact, all of the guests that were still single have them. He should have guessed this was Ryan’s idea of throwing the bouquet. Throwing strippers, and bodily attaching them to his guests. Some of the guests are looking vaguely mortified, others simply pretend it hasn’t happened but wince when they sit down. Drew catches one of Ryan’s colleagues sneakily cupping the butt of his neighbour.

Chip, standing next to him, bumps into him and whispers, “Thank you for taking me with!” He’s smiling happily, and looking quite hot in his hastily acquired suit.

Drew shrugs. “Yeah, well…”

Ryan is reading his vows to Greg now beaming, and suddenly Drew wonders how they met. And why he has never heard the story.

Then Ryan catches his eye, looks at Chip and him and winks, and he realizes he has a pretty good idea.

Bastard.









mood: devious