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From: Christine W Indigo <christineindigo@juno.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Husker Du: Something I Learned Today, v4 (MM, rough, celeb, RPS)
Date: Tue, 31 Dec 2002 10:10:14 -0500
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Husker Du: Something I Learned Today, v4 (MM, celeb, RPS [Real Person
Slash], rough)
by Christine "Green Leafy Dragon" Indigo (christineindigo@juno.com)
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/christineindigo/www/
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/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 three 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. :-)

ANOTHER NOTE: Some things in this story are contrary to what I now know
about
this band.


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 began 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've still
got a couple of hours booked until dawn."  They reentered the studio,
their hands nearly close enough to touch.


THE END




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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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