life's hard when you're ridiculously nancy. (midnightsausage) wrote,
life's hard when you're ridiculously nancy.

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ok, as promised...

i come bearing ze pr0n. this was inspired by aquandrian and zooey_wanderer and their discussions on julian's secret fetish for autoerotic asphyxiation (so this is dedicated to the two of them **toasts**)...that, and my seeming inability to finish the jules/court slash currently, which was keeping me awake last night (oh the suffering...unable to sleep due to constant thoughts about sexy boys getting it on...what a hard life i lead). keep in mind i wrote this in about half an hour (with limited editing today), finishing at 1am on the dot. also, i'm usually not so good with the kink, so we'll see how this goes, shall we?

The Usual
AUTHOR: midnightsausage
WORDS: 916
FANDOM: Strokes
PAIRING: Julian/Fab unrequited, and Julian and...erm...himself. yes.
RATING: R for kinky stuff and self love (nice pc term there, nat, nice.)
DISCLAIMER: Truth is, Julian and Fab aren't mine. Hence, this never happened. Or maybe it did...only Julian will ever know. I would say not, though. Summary: the only thing here that's mine is the literary syntax. Uh huh.
SUMMARY: Julian is broody, longing in a hotel room, and'll see.
FEEDBACK: is a lovely thing.


thump. thump.


This is the sound of Julian Casablancas’ frustration. Having no one but the empty hotel room to share it with, he’s making sure the world (at least the miniature one within hearing range of his room, anyway) knows.

But they could never know.

Never know why he doesn’t have a girlfriend, can’t keep one.

Why, before he goes to sleep, Fab’s face is the last thing he thinks about.

Why, whenever he’s around Fab and Drew, he has to escape, the way he has done tonight.

No, they’ll never know about that.

Because not even Fab knows.

Which is why Julian is sprawled broodingly on his bed in this shell of a room, the only vestige of a home he has here. He’s been told he’s got the room with the history behind it; another rock star killed himself right here, hung himself in an effort to feel that intense, deeper high that seems somewhat lost when you can screw anyone and everyone you want.

Julian can so relate right now.

He wonders if maybe all that stuff’s true…choking yourself makes you feel it stronger?

Because that’s what he needs right now. To be able to feel something deeper than this pallid imitation of lust that is wanting your best friend, who is not only a straight guy (as you would have thought you were until he came along), but taken. This feels sordid, so wrong.

Julian wants more.

Not like there’s anything better to do, he reasons, and climbs, swaying slightly, to his feet (half a bottle of vodka will do that to a guy). How many lonely, bored rock stars have done this before him? He shudders to think.

As he pulls a belt out of his suitcase, Julian realises properly the magnitude of this activity.

I could die.

What scares him is he’s beyond caring. Whatever it takes, so long as it gets his mind off the forbidden fruit that is his drummer…

He pauses; how to do this? The ceiling is low, but not too low: still high enough for him to be able to hang a little off the ground. Finally, he gets one of the chairs and stands on it, fixing the belt around the burnt sugar smoothness that is his neck and pulling his pants open.

He’s lucky this belt is so long – otherwise his head would be against the ceiling. As it is, he has room to tighten it as he goes, slowly cutting off his life supply. Attaching it to the sprinkler seems to work; holds his weight, just.

From the first slight constriction he can feel himself getting deliciously harder. But maybe that’s just because Fab’s still on his mind, and thinking about Fab could keep him hard for hours. Either way, it’s enough to cause his hand to snake down his torso, sliding his shirt up a little as it goes, down further, to his cock, where he begins stroking it languidly, not striving for that higher place just yet, just reminding himself he can feel such a thing.

He tightens his diy noose a little, and groans at how the feeling permeating his groin area intensifies as the tightness in his chest does. It’s a rush; adrenalin pumping through his veins, he pulls himself harder up and down now, unable to stop small whimpers escaping him. His cock is straining, his hand slick with what will no doubt soon be falling upon his hands and indeed, his mind and whole body.

Tighter still, it’s almost more than he can handle, both in his chest and his erection. He’s gasping for breath, his head’s spinning, but no I can’t stop now, have to finish now I’ve started…

He feels it coming…that rush, the wave that drags him under and throws him mercilessly to the shore, the final curtain. As it hits him like a tonne of bricks, knocking what little breath was still in his lungs out of him, he yanks hard on the makeshift rope, pulling it taunt between himself and its point of anchorage.


He can’t help it; even after all that, Fab’s still there, screwing with him…


Just before the blackness that had started to gather at the edges of his mind seals in on him, Julian feels himself fall suddenly, drop with a thud to the floor. The sprinkler has given way, and the room is slowly being drenched by the high powered leak raining down on it.

bang bang bang.

“Julian, let me in! C’mon man, I know you’re in there, please?”

The voice is irate, but with an edge of worry to it.


He’s obviously been knocking for a while, but Julian just hasn’t noticed. Well, he has had other things on his mind. But now he figures he might as well face it.

Dazedly, he gets to his feet, zips his pants up over the evidence of the past – he checks his watch – half an hour (half an hour! It seemed longer…or shorter, he’s not sure) and makes his way through the manmade downpour to the door.

When he opens it, Fab seems shocked. It takes Julian a minute to realise this is because he’s wet, shirtless and he has a belt round his neck. The water pouring out of the room could have something to do with it too, he muses.

“Jeeze man, what the fuck are you doing in there?”

Could I tell him?

“…Y’know, the usual.”

Seems not.
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