I washed my hair thoroughly. (jade_327) wrote in since_childhood,
I washed my hair thoroughly.

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Muse, standalone

...so needless to say, after i spent most of my workday reading old fics by _likespunglass, who i love, i've gotten inspired. really, really inspired. besides, i haven't written any smut in ages. now for the disclaimers and such:

TITLE: "Muse"
AUTHOR: Me, obviously
PAIRING: Pierre Bouvier/David Desrosiers
SUMMARY: David was a doll. He was a devil. He was fucking magical. The kid could pull off any emotion or any one of my ideas in the snap of a finger. He had it all: charisma, excitement, dangerous beauty. The kind of beauty that was so deep and so powerful, it was pratically unreal. 

DISCLAIMER: Not real, don't own...yet.

PS- I'll give David to the person who can correctly tell me what movie this fic is entirely based on.

Physically, he was perfection. He was as fucking amazing to watch, as one could possibly be.

Carefully scrutinizing him as he and some black leather and fishnet-clad Nancy Spungen* clone sloppily kissed just outside of a tattoo parlor, I inhaled my cigarette deeply, wincing a bit as the smoke stung my ever-blackening lungs. 

His hair was as dark as the night, itself, half-covering his eyes, which were probably as beautiful as the rest of him. He was fickle in his movements; nearly tripping over his own limbs as he grabbed hold of the chick's shoulders and hips and breasts, for stability's sake. 

I wasn't that far from him. I leaned coolly on the wall of a partially-dilpidated building - a brothel, maybe, especially in this part of New York - a few feet away. I only watched him, in his vintage grey, tapered-leg jeans that accentuated his ass better than any pair of jeans should. There was something about him that was so consuming, so erotic, so stunning to film. I wanted to take his picture. I wanted to capture him in a way that, possibly, no one ever had. This kid, this scrungy, offensive little punk, possessed something - naturally - that people spend their blue-collar rent money on, but never seem to achieve.



"Which one of us you looking at? Her or me?" Harshly, I was throttled full-force back into the present, out of my sea of thoughts by the boy who spoke far more abrasively than he looked. He glared through to my soul, as the Nancy to his Sid only giggled dumbly as her tiny, pale hands gripped his ass, squeezing it as if the whole fucking world couldn't tell that he belonged to her. For the moment, most likely.

I stepped forward, a smile turning up at the corners of my mouth, "What do you do?"

"Looking to pick me up, huh?" Up close, I noticed that he was much smaller than me, but clearly managed to pack the amount of attitude that was to be expected from someone of larger proportions. "Only if you pay well enough, Daddy." He moved in closer, his warm breath on my chin.

"David, let's get the fuck outta here," the girl squealed, tugging him only a small distance from me. I smirked at him, as his hazel eyes sparkled in the amber glow of the streetlamp. "Got an eightball in my purse."

"Here." Reaching in my pocket, I dug out a crinkled, beer-stained business card. "Call me. Camera's gonna love you." He was breath-taking, inspiring; so much so, that I understood this was an opportunity not to be missed.

"Pierre Bouvier, huh? Photographer," he held the card in the light. "Hmm. I'll see what arrangements I can make, Picture Boy."

And he was off with his bottled-blonde, staggering down the sidewalk and into the night, drifting off to someone's basement to snort all the goddamned eightballs one could snort without fucking dying.

And I? I was only hoping he'd find my studio.


I watched him enter the lobby, from the doorway of another room on the first floor of the nine-story office building, where I was renting out space for the studio. For some reason, I knew he was going to show up. I'd been monitoring the lobby all day, so I wouldn't be so shocked to find him bursting through my door.

But still, there was he was, in his fucking tight and high, black jeans, eyeliner, and an alarmingly bright red-and-white striped shirt, strategically frayed and tattered around the edges for a dramatic and edgy look. David was living in a damned 1984 Brit-Pop ad.

He approached the receptionist at the desk; a petite strawberry-blonde, with an annoying knack for chewing loudly on her gum. 

"I have an appoinment with um," David pulled my card from his pocket. "Pierre Bouvier." He didn't actually have an appointment, but his white lie made me feel more important.

The suit-wearing receptionist, whose name I couldn't recall, stared up at David, rolling her eyes as she glanced at him as if she were so superior. "And what's your name?"

"David Desrosiers." She laughed condescendingly.

"David Des-what?" The look on his face was one of definite annoyance. I could understand why. Chelsea or Maria or Dana or...whoever, was getting under my skin, too, and I was only just observing the both of them. 

He reached into his back pocket for something; something shiny and metallic. 

A pocket knife.

Hovering over the girl's desk, David shoved papers out of his way, carving his name in plain view for her to remember. Forever.

"D-A-V-I-D. David. Just...fuck the rest and call me David. Now," he smiled sweetly, quite the transition from the demon child I saw he could be. "Tell the fucker I'm here."


The elevator climbed to the fifth floor, with David and I inside its confines in silence. I'm not sure if I was afraid of him at that point, or I was just that overtaken by his flawless image, despite his rumpled hair and the huge white-rimmed sunglasses he was then wearing.

We reached my studio, which was a large open space, littered with boxes and cameras and random articles of clothing, among other things. 

"Nice space you got here," he muttered, taking in his surroundings as he lifted his sunglasses from his face. I wasn't even sure why he'd waited until after he got inside to put them on, anyway.

"Thanks," I extended my hand to him. Instinctively, he shook it.

"No. The knife. Give it to me." If I was going to have him there - just the two of us - I was going to do what I could to ensure my safety. David passed it to me, and smiled sinisterly as he sucked on his pierced bottom lip.

"Sure thing, Daddy. So!" The boy, wide-eyed, stood in front of me, flinging his hair from his eyes. "You wanna take take my picture, eh? Let's fucking do this. Want me to get all pretty for you? Fuck, I could do that. Just take pictures all damn day. 'Pose like this, David.' 'Turn your head like that.' Hell yeah, I could."

I smirked, wiping off my camera lens with a cotton cloth. "Obviously. You're fucking amazing to look at, I'll say that much."

"Oh yeah?" He walked closer. "Well let's do this shit." 

He was a damned pro at this. Moving so fluidly, he was animated, alive. Brilliant, even. I'd never enjoyed taking pictures of somebody so much. Just seeing him in front of the camera that way, was almost orgasmic. 

David was a doll. He was a devil. He was fucking magical. The kid could pull off any emotion or any one of my ideas in the snap of a finger. He had it all: charisma, excitement, dangerous beauty. The kind of beauty that was so deep and so powerful, it was pratically unreal. 

He owned the studio, the world, me , that day. Never before had such magnificent sexuality graced this place. David didn't need me to capture anything. It'd always be there for the fucking universe to see. 

Every few minutes, he'd burst into a fit of giggles, so amused at his behavior, which I'd decided was not an act. This was David, in the flesh. His smile radiated the studio, as I shot frame after frame, baffled by what was happening. He'd become a flash of red, white, and black, leaping across the floor, striking the most appealing of poses. I reveled in him.

"I'm getting hot, fuck. Let's do this...with less clothes, hmm, Pierre?" I was floored. David undressed, pretty much ignoring the fact that I was there, but maybe that was his plan, because somehow he knew how sexy I'd find that. 

Moments later, it was apparent to me that less clothes, for David, meant no clothes. He lied on the floor, positioned like Christ, on his crucifix, with his eyes closed and an ethereal smile crossing his lips. His obscure hair, splayed around his head, was his crown.

"Stay just like that, David," I whispered, as I shifted in his direction. I was eventually standing over him, my legs straddled on either side of his body, and pointed my camera downward, taking what was probably the most captivating picture I'd ever taken.

"You like this, don't you," he asked with his eyes still closed. "Being in control? Well, I like being in control, too, so I guess we have a problem." He was sitting up by then, looking at me intensely as my cock began throbbing behind the fly of my jeans. There was such a subtle hint of lust in his stare, which was odd since I'd learned that David was a not-so-subtle person.

Sitting completely bare-assed on the floor, he took the camera from my hands gently and set it beside him. I wanted him and he could very easily see that. David unbuckled my belt, tossing it aside, as his free hand worked to unfasten the useless mass of denim that was clearly restricting me. 

The jeans were dragged down to my ankles, along with my boxers, almost as though David was disgusted by the fabric. My cock, rock hard, sprang from its confines, and David grinned, bringing the tip of me into his mouth. I moaned, grateful for the contact, and let my head roll backward while David sucked and hummed. The vibrations coursed through my body, weakening me, as my knees shook and hips buckled. I grabbed onto his shoulders and thrust into his mouth a little; his hot, wet, perfect mouth. Looking down at him again, his hair was slick, sticking to his forehead; fingers dug into my ass and I tried my best to not come right at that moment because there was no way I was going to have this end so soon.

His head stopped bobbing and I, no longer enveloped by the heat of his mouth, whimpered at the loss of contact. My mind seemed to weave in and out of consciousness, and David motioned for me to come closer, down on the floor next to him. I did so, but once settling beside him - rather, on top of him - he rolled me off and I fell onto my back, onto the slightly cold, dark tile.

"We do this," he hissed as he was now straddling me, perched on my waist. "My way." David glanced around the room and sighed, not seeing in his line of view, what he wanted. "Fuck it."

In lieu of the missing lube (I'm guessing he was searching for something that would suffice), David spit on his hand, winking at me, and went on to coat his own erection slowly and expertly. He placed his fingers in his mouth, wetting them, and stretched my entrance, keeping his eyes on me the entire time. I writhed beneath him, panting at the pressure, and breathed out his name once or twice, surprised that I didn't scream it first.

"So, what...are...are you gonna fuck me now," I questioned with half-lidded eyes.

"Of course. This goes back to me wanting to be in control. I'm the captain of this ship, Daddy, and you, well...you are not."

He leaned down and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, before slipping inside me. David mewled at the sudden pleasure, his head snapping back, while I gritted my teeth and waited for the pain to subside.

"Ooh, fuck," I moaned, fingernails clawing at his back and amazed that for once, I was the one being fucked. I wrapped my legs around his waist and he pummeled into me, each time harder and deeper than the last.

"Wanna...be...so far inside you, fuck!" My cock rubbed against his stomach, creating a delicious friction that devoured me wholly. I wanted to be his right then and there. I wanted him to make me feel used and disgusting because, shit, how could I not? Being fucked by someone so unblemished and perfect had to make me feel anything but, for it to be completely worthwhile. Damnit, he was doing a good job at that.

David leaned down again, this time, kissing me completely, and not sloppily or quickly, like the way he kissed that girl the night before. His tongue eagerly explored every crevice of my mouth, fighting with mine, until he finally moved on to sucking and biting at my lower lip.

"Oh, God, harder!" He did so, thrusting in me so hard, that my body moved a couple of inches on the floor, but I totally ignored the fact that my back was hurting, grinding against the tile the way it was. I reached a hand down to my cock and began pumping at it frantically, yelling David's name so loudly that it echoed through the studio, bouncing off the walls and floor and ceiling. "Shit, I'm gonna...I'm gonna come so fucking hard..."

David only shouted French obscenities in response, as his sweat dripped onto me. He was convulsing, overwhelmed by the sensation. He had buried himself so far in me, he was tapping into a zone I never knew existed before that afternoon. Our bodies melted into each other's, fusing together with such passion and heat, that I gave into him fully, and let him have his way with me. I clung to him like a child, a mixture of soft and then booming moans escaping my lips. Some time later, I finished, coming onto our chests and stomachs, panting wildly. Satisfied. 

He continued thrusting rampantly, losing all of his rhythm, before finally spilling himself deep inside of me, still breathing my name as his orgasm overcame him in a series intense, sharp waves. David collapsed on top of me, sticking to my skin and whimpering as my fingers snaked their way to his head, tangling themselves in his loose, dark tendrils.

He lied still on me, eyes fluttering shut as sleep flowed through him. I held him in my arms that way, tenderly kissing his forehead, and whispering my appreciation for him and that day, into his hair. He mumbled something back to me, almost incoherently at first as he caught his breath.

"Next time, you can be in control of me." I snorted, wearily. "Daddy."

He was somehow everything that everyone most likely wanted to be, but was not. Even in his own dysfunctionality, he still beheld this innate, yet surreal perfection, that no one, not even David, would understand.

He was somehow, without much thought needed for the decision, my muse.

A/N: Nancy Spungen - deceased girlfriend of the even more deceased Sid Vicious.
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