Greetings. I am La Phantomessa. Flame and be punjabbed.
The purpose of this story is for me to practice writing slash. If I am ever to write successful slash in my preferred genre, I need to practice. So why not with an old childhood favorite? As well, it will severely annoy my little sister, who absolutely loathes this pairing. I say, to each their own. This will obviously contain slash, partially graphic, and naughtiness. You have been sufficiently warned; otherwise, feel free to perish by the wrath of your own thick-headed stupidity for not heeding my warning.
I own neither SD nor Muse (the band). Just this mildly twisted idea. Enjoy
oneshot story1
Holy. Effing. Crap.
Those were the only words that seemed to occupy Fred Jones' mind as he watched a rather busty and flexible girl wrap herself around the pole before him, quickly taking his mind off of his current problems; the very ones that had led him to wander the darker side of town, before stumbling onto the classy little strip joint known only as the Slick Stick, and ordering a drink as he mindlessly watched various girls (and guys - the strip club offered goods to both sides of the sexual street) swing off of various poles.
But those problems rose up again in his mind as he saw the color of her hair, a vicious, fake-looking red. Probably a dye job, he mused, as he stared into the beer bottle hanging loosely in his hands. Ironically enough, that was what had caused his little spat with his would-be-but-really-wasn't-his-girlfriend, Daphne Blake. He'd found a bottle of highlight enhancing shampoo in the van when he was cleaning it out, and immediately thought that it was hers. As soon as he'd suggested it, however, the redhead's eyes had gone as fiery as her hair, and a screaming match had ensued. Velma had taken Scooby out for a walk once she'd come up from her lab and found him quivering by the couch, shaking like a leaf. It wasn't long after that he'd stormed out himself, angry that Daphne was so angry over something so small. And Shaggy...
Shaggy always seemed to disappear at night when they came back to headquarters from another grueling string of mysteries. No one knew where he went, not even Scooby - and if he did know, then he was keeping pretty damn quiet about the whole thing. The girls suspected that he had a girlfriend somewhere, or that maybe he went off to smoke pot, but Fred had rejected those ideas immediately. Being that they were a company, albeit a small one, the whole gang was subjected to monthly drug tests, and the beatnik always came up clean. And whenever he got a girlfriend (or even started dating someone for that matter), the entire world could tell - he'd get this big goofy smile on his face and a dreamy, faraway look in his beautiful brown eyes.
Wait. Scratch that last part, Fred thought. He didn't like to think that he might be attracted to the stupid hippie in any way shape or form. Besides, the blond man thought, taking a long and bitter swig from the bottle before him, he wasn't gay, and Shaggy was certainly not good-looking. Sure, he had a mild appeal, but that was as far as it went. The hippie was stick thin and tall, and with a strange face to boot. He honestly didn't see what any girl would see in him that would lead to him ever being considered as datable. Or so Fred told himself.
He motioned to the bartender for another drink, barely catching it as it swooped down the sticky bar towards him. He spun around on his seat, loosened his ascot, and leaned back, sighing and wishing that life could just be clear-cut for once. Or at least in a way that made him happier then he was now, with a chick that he was probably destined to eventually get married to and have kids with, despite how he felt about it and her. Daphne was hot, sure, but he just didn't click with her like he really wanted them to. Hence the whole craziness ensuing, girl throwing him out of the house/headquarters, and his wandering the sleazier parts of town.
A voice crackling to life on the speaker next to him made Fred jump slightly on his stool, as it praised the previous bendy fake-o redhead for her lovely performance onstage. Fred was about to settle down and ignore whomever was coming next, when the loudspeaker announcer spoke again.
"And now, ladies and gentleman, it's time for our special performance to commence! And you all know what that means." Several people, both men and women Fred was surprised to see, looked up in anticipation towards the stage, guiding his eyes towards it as well. "Dancing tonight to a sexy little number called 'Uprising' that'll get your libidos rising upwards in no time, please welcome back our star boy to the stage - the ever-lustful Muse!"
And just as the blond man wrapped his mind around the fact that the next performer - whom everyone there seemed to be so excited over, men included - was, in fact, a male dancer, the lights darkened in the already dark and seedy room, and a heavy drumbeat came spilling out from the speakers, alongside a wiry sounding guitar. Multicolored lights flashed haphazardly over the room, and the crowd (had it been a crowd before?) gathered closer to the platform on which the pole was secured, catcalls and whistles flying wildly through the air.
It was then that Muse appeared.
HE was a long, lithe body secured in tight black pants, barefoot on the cold metal floor, with twisting, shimmering swirls painted over his lily-white skin. He had long, luxurious chestnut hair, which sparkled gold and ruby in the varying lights, and hung heavily on his almost feminine shoulders, framing a long and seemingly untouched neck. His face, from a distance, wasn't easily discernible in the dimly-lit area, but a lot of it was shadowed by a thick, large pair of black sunglasses. Slender hips swayed seductively as he approached his pole, and long, delicate fingers wrapped themselves around it, slowly sliding up and down the male euphemism before him.
Fred's eyes had popped out of his head, and his drink slipped to the carpeted floor with a heavy clunk. Fuck.
HE was the most fucking gorgeous person he'd ever seen.
The paranoia is in bloom, the PR Transmissions will resume, they'll try to
Push drugs, keep us all dumb down and hope that
We will never see the truth around,
So come on
The Muse allowed one slender hand to drop to his side, while the other caressed the hard pole, as he swung around, slowly, almost as if he were modeling his body for the consumers of the establishment. His free hand gently tugged the edge of his pants down to reveal a delicate, soft blue flower tattooed on the inner curve of his right hip, drifting dangerously close to an area that was far too seductive for his own good. His body undulated, and his hips swiveled expertly around the slick metal pillar, sending shocks of electricity into the body of a certain ascot-wearing fellow, who could only watch, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, as this beautiful creature arched back into the pole, and slid his hands down his body, splaying his legs out almost shamelessly with a strange air of innocence and guile about him.
A slick, pink tongue darted out between even pinker lips, and with one arm slipping around the pole, he dipped himself gracefully, allowing his head to slip back with a look of ecstasy painted over him, like smeared make-up in the aftermaths of intense orgasm. He swung back around until he was standing, and casually threw a leg up, knee bent; almost as if a lover had pulled it up against their body and had it wrapped around their waist. He then began to slowly, almost painfully, grind against the metal, lips parted, head rolling, while everyone cheered him on, throwing money onto the stage practically in piles.
Interchanging mind control, come let the Revolution take its toll,
if you could
Flick a switch and open your third eye, you'd see that
We should never be afraid to die,
So come on
Fred, meanwhile, was trying in vain to shake off his influence. For God's sake, what on earth was he thinking? This was a male stripper, for crying out loud! He was only supposed to be attracted to female strippers, if any stripper at all! What the hell was going on?
And yet... Fred felt a sharp jolt of arousal sweep over him as the man onstage suddenly thrust against the pole, and slowly began to undulate against it, while one long, slender hand went down to touch himself, rubbing up and down against bulging black material. He seemed to have a hypnotic effect on the people around him, the blond man thought, as he saw other people - primarily men - reach down to fondle themselves as they watched him with hungry gazes, like hunters over their prey.
So it wasn't much of a surprise when Fred also let a hand drift downwards over his straining arousal, trapped in blue jeans. It was only because so many other people, including men who'd thrown money at the women who'd been onstage, were doing it as well, he told himself, watching the pale, lithe figure wrap himself around the cold metal pole in a variety of intriguing positions.
Or so, at least, he tried to convince himself. Unfortunately, he failed miserably. And yet, as the Muse gripped the pole and twirled himself upside down, he found that he didn't mind it so much as he'd first thought that he would.
Rise up and take the power back, it's time that
The fat cats had a heart attack, you know that
Their time is coming to an end, we have to unify and watch our flag ascend,
So come on
It was at this point in the show that people started to wave money in the air, as they eventually coerced the Muse to slide off of the stage, hips swaying, and body gleaming with sweat. Several people reached out, fingertips grazing his silky skin as he passed by. One woman pulled him onto her lap, and he leaned over her possessively, slinking up against her before moving away, money tightly stuffed into the edges of the waistband of those accursed tight black pants. Another man - a large, gruff, trucker type of guy - grabbed his hips and ran filthy fingers up his chest before the Muse swirled away, dancing away from the perverted man's obvious bulge and enraged expression.
As the stripper made his way around the room, Fred couldn't help but feel intensely jealous as everyone else around him seemed to grab and slap and pull at his - the - young man. He couldn't help it; he wanted desperately to touch his skin, to weave his fingers through his hair, to smell him even.
If only to prove that he wasn't attracted to men! his super-ego screamed at him; and yet, as the Muse made his way nearer to the bar, Fred found that he didn't altogether mind being attracted to this particular young man. He was beautiful, he was delicious, he was wanton, he was innocent -
- and he was heading right towards him.
They will not force us
They will stop degrading us
They will not control us
We will be victorious,
So come on
The blonde could only stare blankly as the Muse slunk towards him, hips swaying in a manner that would put any high-class whore to shame, and as the male stripper slid onto his lap. All thought left the ascot-wearing man as the taller, thinner young man straddled his hips and started to 'ride' him, body undulating as the entire bar whooped and cheered and whistled. Fred was surprised to find that the young man was extremely aroused, and that his rubbing those slender hips over his crotch would probably be the death of him in just a few short minutes.
And he was almost right. For, as the Muse began to slide off of the blond man's lap (making him moan at the loss of those wonderful sensations), he suddenly reared back up, grasping Fred's member tightly through his jeans with his slender hands, and arched his entire body up against him, before proceeding to run that delicious pink tongue from even pinker lips up the underside of Fred's jaw, and all the way to down below his left ear, creating the final straw that broke the proverbial camel's back.
Fred cried out as he released, thrusting his hips upwards into that pale, lithe hand, and shuddering through the remainder of it when that warm, slender body slid off of his lap for good. He blew the exhausted, over-stimulated man a kiss, before flipping backwards towards the stage, and wrapping his body around the pole once more, his movements now more daring, and a grin cheekily emerging on his face as he swirled ever faster around the cold metal pole.
But only two things caught Fred Jones' eye, as he recovered from his mind-blowing orgasm. One was that the Muse was looking towards his direction, and that when he did, he threw even more of himself into his performance; if that was even possible.
The second was that the Muse's cheeky little smile was almost painfully familiar to him. And while normally Fred would immediately begin searching through his head for any memories that could possibly be related to the young man who was currently swiveling his hips against a hard metal pole, he couldn't concentrate. Not after what the Muse had just done to him. With him. For him.
So all he could do was sit on the bar-stool, and watch the remainder of the performance, squirming in his seat as the stickiness in his jeans started to dry, knowing that a little visit was going to be paid to a certain someone right after this little performance.
And knowing full well that nothing Fred could say or do to himself would stop him.
They will not force us
They will stop degrading us
They will not control us
We will be victorious,
So come on!
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
Wow... and here I thought that this would end up as a oneshot pretty damn quick. Ah well, such is life. Please review, if you would. See you next chapter. The Muse and Fred certainly will. *wink*