#swap out the giant worms for not-quite-as-giant spiders and yeah

[thanagrian]

i'm watching d/une part one and arrakis is definitely how i picture thanagar.

[ohblackdiamond]

little t&a (paul/gene, nc-17) (part 13 of 29)

part 1   part 2   part 3   part 4   part 5   part 6   part 7   part 8   part 9   part 10   part 11   part 12   part 13   part 14   part 15   part 16   part 17   part 18   part 19   part 20   part 21  part 22   part 23   part 24    part 25   part 26   part 27   part 28   part 29

Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: Paul and Gene go to the temple of mammon, Studio 54.

“You look,” Gene said, throat drier than sandpaper, “really good.”

Good was an understatement. Paul looked hot. The light blue of the dress made a good contrast against his still-suntanned skin. The neckline made up for the dress length, providing more cleavage than Gene had seen out of Paul since he’d first met him on the front porch in the bathrobe. The heels accentuated his legs—even as a guy, Paul had always had nice legs—but for maybe the first time in three days, Gene was paying more attention to Paul’s face than his body.

It wasn’t like he’d done anything wild with makeup. Blush, red lipstick, eyeshadow, mascara. Except for the eyeliner maybe being a bit heavier, it was about the same look as the night prior. But Paul seemed happier. Relaxed. There wasn’t that tightness to his jaw anymore or that tension to his mouth. And that was a surprise, given the stilted way their dancing earlier had ended. Gene thought Paul might have been sore or tetchy, or at least awkward, but he’d just carried right on. Those sad brown eyes of his didn’t look sad at all, for once, and if Gene were sentimental, he would almost have said they were sparkling.

Maybe he’d just liked sharing a few dances with Gene. And maybe tonight really was the night that this would all be over. Every bit of it. Back to normal life for them both, touring and signing and interviewing. Back to life a hotel room away from each other. He’d be stupid to regret the change. Just stupid.

“You’re not half so bad yourself, Gene.” Paul crooked his head as if he hadn’t seen variations of his outfit at least a dozen times over just this year. As if he hadn’t been suggesting half of it while Gene had asked for the clothes to be sent over. Black leather everything, including the pants—something he already was regretting bitterly. Silver accessories. A belt with a spider encased in enamel as the buckle plate. The public demanded a monster movie out of Gene even when he got off the stage.

“That’s generous.” The limo was already idling in Paul’s driveway. “You ready?”

It took a few seconds for Paul to answer. He wasn’t looking at Gene, at least, not directly in the face; it almost seemed as though Paul was scoping him out, assessing him like there was something new to assess. Gene would have called him out on it, except during times like this, he never was sure if it was Paul’s hearing or Paul’s daydreaming to blame.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

The limo ride was uneventful. Gene decided he didn’t care for Studio 54 long before they pulled up to the VIP entrance. He decided that through the line wrapping around the building for what seemed like miles, the garish outfits of the wannabes begging for admittance, and the weird air of desperation mixed with eagerness that seemed to permeate through the limo windowpane. It made him feel itchy. Beside him, Paul had spent a bit of time doodling peace signs and dicks in the misted-up windowglass like it was a school notebook. His good mood didn’t seem to dampen until the limousine stopped, and he saw the press, out there already, all cameras and notepads.

“Gene—”

“It’s fine, I’ve got my bandana.” He’d forgotten to ask for it over the phone, but it’d been in the box of clothes for him anyway. A couple of them, actually. “Do you want one?”

Paul shook his head.

“No, it’s okay. Switch spots with me, would you?”

Gene swapped obligingly. The limo wasn’t roomy enough to avoid Paul brushing up against him as they traded seats. He caught the woodsy scent of Aramis cologne in Paul’s hair, just another indication of what he’d spent three days pounding into his head now.

“Want me to hold the door for you, too?”

“God, no.”

Gene laughed, and got out first. The bandanas always made him feel like he was about to rob a bank. Every so often, they’d get goofy with it, find weird headgear—knight and astronaut and football helmets—but for the most part, bandanas and scarves were enough out in public, real public. Places where they wanted to be seen, under normal circumstances. The first half-dozen camera flashes were blinding as always. He helped Paul out of the limo, hovering over him as he stepped out. Part of him wished he’d thought to bring a jacket, but maybe that would’ve made it worse, provoked the paparazzi more, if he’d tried covering Paul up too much.

“You okay?” he asked, as the crowd shuddered and swarmed around them. A horde, just a horde, worse than the CBGB crowd ever considered being. Fans would want an autograph or a lay. The press only ever wanted blood.

“I’m fine, I’m—”

“Mr. Simmons!” A woman reporter called out, touching his free arm. “Can I have just a moment?”

“No,” he said, brushing past, his hold on Paul’s arm only getting tighter. Walking quickly, not making eye contact, until the line—there was a line, unbelievably, for VIPs—forced him to stop. Paul had his head half-buried against his shoulder for the whole duration of their wait, tensing with every camera flash and intrigued leer. Gene realized, offhand, that the attention wasn’t pissing Paul off the way it had at CBGB. Instead, it was scaring him.

It made sense, he supposed. CBGB wasn’t nearly important enough to have reporters and cameramen about. They didn’t have big names there, either, no one that Paul would’ve really worried about bumping into. Paul had said earlier that he didn’t think he could pull off talking to someone that knew him, and Gene suspected he was right. Gene suspected an interviewer was even further beyond him at this point.

He’d expected to just be let in once they arrived at the velvet-roped entrance, not really believing Paul’s claims about exclusivity, but instead, a broad-shouldered kid with a grin held them up at the door.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Gene echoed, and shoved down his bandana. On wry automatic, he held up his free hand—full of rings, including the skull one that the teenyboppers seemed fascinated by—as if it was a secret signal. The doorman blinked, unconvinced. Gene could hear Paul snort beside him. “I’m Gene Simmons from KISS, and the—lovely Miss Eisen and I would—”

Still smiling, the doorman pointed at his own tongue.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” But Gene stuck it out anyway. The kid’s expression didn’t change much as he opened the door to let them in. Gene pocketed his bandana, but he didn’t loosen his grip on Paul until they were on the VIP floor, and hopefully beyond the bulk of the press’ touch, and even then, he didn’t let go. Paul looked a little shaken up, anyway, though Gene couldn’t blame him. It was a different beast from last night, for all their objective hadn’t changed.

“Don’t worry. They won’t have gotten any good shots,” Gene said.

“That may not matter. Depends on who else is here.” Paul sighed, worming his arm out from Gene’s, shifting to hold his hand instead. No hesitation. He was getting accustomed to it. So was Gene.

Gene stole a glance Paul’s way before really taking a look at the scene, trying to absorb New York’s hottest discotheque, decide if the interior impressed him any more than the exterior. He decided it didn’t. Maybe too promptly. But the flashing lights, the blaring music—all that was ostensibly no different from CBGB, or any other bar or club; it was just a matter of size and budget and spectacle. It didn’t matter if someone was worth ten bucks or ten million; they all looked the same passed out on the floor. Enough of them were already that Gene couldn’t quite believe they’d gotten to Studio 54 on time.

“What do you think, Gene?”

“You liked it here?”

The VIP floor was covered in lounge furniture, long couches and glass-topped tables. The carpets were dirty, and the smell of booze was heavier in the air than Gene had experienced in years. Probably not since that ill-fated Hotter than Hell shoot when they’d first started off, the one that had very nearly ended with—well. Gene wasn’t in the mood to consider that one, not given Paul’s current shape.

But almost every square inch of the place was smothered in people. Hollywood giants, of vintage and modern flavors. He saw Liz Taylor—wild, to see Cleopatra in the flesh, nearly fifteen years out from the role and easily fifty pounds heavier. He saw Michael Jackson, making moon-eyes as usual at Diana Ross. Poor, hopeless kid. He could’ve sworn he saw Truman Capote, hitting on a well-muscled, shirtless bartender. And all around the giants were the hangers-on and the hopefuls and the arm candies of the duration. Transvestites in g-string bikinis, lesbians in suits. It was viscerally strange, the sheer variety. No one was paying them much mind yet, aware, somehow, that they were too sober to be worth noticing. Paul cleared his throat, defensive.

“Well, yeah, I like it. It’s kind of wild, yeah, but—”

Three feet from them, a producer was puking straight onto the carpet, while a Playboy bunny rubbed the top of his head. On top of one of the tables, a guy was snorting a line of coke straight down a naked girl’s breasts, and as he kept sliding, Gene realized that the powder ran all the way down, bisecting her torso.

“Paul, this is a cesspool.”

 “C’mon, you’ve seen this shit before.”

“Not all at once.” Gene shook his head. “You’re not even into it. Why would you go here?” He understood it for Ace and Peter, as drugged-up as they’d get. He didn’t understand it for Paul. What was he trying to accomplish? What would it really matter, getting with the big names right in their stomping grounds, when those names were so trashed that they were useless? I want to belong somewhere, that was what he’d said. But this somewhere wasn’t it.

 “I just—”

“Mr. Simmons!” came a voice out of the din, eager and excitable. Not a VIP. The tone was too innocent, too close to admiring. Gene turned around.

“I’m not doing auto—”

“Mr. Simmons! I work for Mr. Rubell! I’m one of the doormen!” The kid couldn’t have been older than twenty, blondish and broad-shouldered. “Sorry I didn’t get you at the door, we’ve got a couple new guys, they don’t know—but listen, we’re all looking for that Carol chick!”

“Good.”

“We’ll tell Mr. Stanley when we see him, too.”

“Thanks.”

The doorman nodded, making an awkward salute before heading back. Obliquely, Gene wondered if Bill and Sean had checked Studio 54 out yet. Rubell seemed to have a hiring preference in line with their tastes. He turned to Paul again.

“Looks like they got the memo. You wanna sit down?”

“I… maybe for a minute.” Paul’s eyes darted around, searching for an empty table. Gene looked, too, but he didn’t see one. No corners they could tuck themselves into—not that a corner would’ve been great for keeping a lookout for Carol. Gene felt Paul squeeze his hand. Shot nerves already. Gene could tell that much before Paul spoke again. “If I can keep from talking to anybody, that’d be great.”

“I don’t think you’re going to be that lucky,” Gene said dryly, spying a tall man getting up out of his chair and waving them over.

“If it isn’t Gene Simmons!” the man called out in a distinctively non-American accent. Even if he hadn’t spoken, the feathered brown hair and bright smile would’ve made it obvious. It was Barry Gibb, holding a glass of champagne. “I thought your band was back on the road!”

“Barry, hey,” Gene said, sticking out his hand on automatic. Barry shook it exuberantly. “You’re a few weeks early for that one. How are you?”

Paul looked a bit like he wanted to die on the spot. Barry didn’t seem to notice.

“Great, great. My little brother, Andy…” if possible, Barry’s beaming increased, “he’s just released a single. It’s a guaranteed hit.”

“Really? I think I’d heard he had his own group in Australia—”

“Zenta! You do keep up!” Barry clasped his shoulder. “No, that’s done with now. He’s doing some fantastic solo work…”

Despite the meaningful, sour glances Paul kept throwing his way, Gene’s interest was piqued enough at the thought of a hit, and the thought of a worthwhile contact—the time or two they’d met in passing prior, Barry had been just about this congenial, so Gene didn’t think he was drunk—that he accepted Barry’s invitation to sit down. The next twenty minutes were filled with shop talk, Barry sending off for a Coke for Gene and a whiskey highball for Paul (Gene suspected Paul took Barry up on the offer as payback rather than an actual desire to drink, since he barely touched it), and praise Gene had a hard time fully enjoying.

“My son loves KISS, you know,” Barry said at one point. “He’s never gotten half so excited over our albums.”

“Really? How old is he?” Gene took a sip of his Coke, leaning forward. “We’ll have Casablanca send him something. We have a whole catalog of new merchandise in the works.”

“He’ll be four in December.”

Paul, who had stayed mostly silent up until that point, looked mortified.

“Four?” he almost wailed. Barry seemed amused.

“Oh, love, it’s not an insult. I wish we had that kind of mass appeal behind us.”

“Gene, this—we’ve got to talk to Bill, Gene, we just can’t—I know we don’t get taken seriously, but for God’s sake—”

Under the table, Gene nudged Paul’s bare ankle with his boot. Paul flushed and cut himself off abruptly. Barry glanced over at Paul, then took a swallow of champagne.

“The youth market's the best one to be in, Polly. I've been in this industry long enough to promise you that."

“What, ten years?”

“Next year it’ll be twenty.” Barry got up, shaking both their hands. “I hate to leave you too abruptly, but I’m to meet up with Maurice in a bit. Great to meet you, Polly, great to see you again, Gene.”

“Yeah. And I do mean it, about the merch. We’ve got dolls—”

“Oh, Steve’d love them. Thank you.” Another bright smile, and Barry headed off. Paul let out a groan as soon as he was out of earshot.

“Twenty years,” he mumbled, slumping forward, propping his head up with his hand. “How the hell was I supposed to know the Bee Gees have been at it for twenty years?”

“I didn’t, either,” Gene admitted.

“Fuck, how old is Barry, anyway? Peter’s age?”

“I have no idea.”

“At least he’s not gonna see me again like this. God, he thought I was a jackass…” Paul sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“He didn’t take it personally. Barry’s a good guy.”

“Twenty years stuck with his brothers. I’m amazed they haven’t killed each other.” Paul got up, stepping away from the table, and Gene followed suit. “Think we can get a better look around without getting interrupted? I couldn’t see anything from here.”

Just from a cursory glance, Gene doubted it. Most of the other tables were full or near-full, and no good for people-watching. They’d be better off on the floor.

“We’re going to have to stand to see.” Gene started to take Paul’s arm again, almost on automatic, but a glance at his shoulder stopped him. “Did you get another bra?”

“What?”

Gene pressed a finger against the purple strap hanging past Paul’s sleeve. Paul shook his head, looking abashed.

 “No, this is… this is just the nightie.”

Paul’s cheeks were going a little pink. That pink went straight to red when Gene tugged the strap back into place for him. He had to push Paul’s hair back and turn up his sleeve in order to fix the strap up again to his shoulder, under the dress. His skin was soft, dotted with a handful of moles Gene hadn’t ever really noticed before. There was the pitted smallpox vaccination scar, and the tattoo, of course, the green stem peeking a little past his sleeve. Gene’s fingers lingered longer than they needed to on his arm before he remembered himself enough to pull back.

“The nightie? Why are you wearing that here?”

The redness in Paul’s face wasn’t anywhere near abating.

“Because I didn’t buy a slip. This dress is thinner than I thought.”

“I bet it looks cute on.”

Paul fidgeted, starting to adjust the strap himself, fiddling with the slider.

“Thought you said you just liked what was underneath.”

“Well, that’s the main event, but you’ve got to say something for packaging—"

“Keep pushing it and you won’t find out.”

“I’ll take the chance.” Gene grinned. “Dance with me.”

 He said it on impulse, almost airily. The song blaring through the speakers—some new funk bit from Marvin Gaye was already midway through. Paul put one hand on Gene’s shoulder. Still worried about what people thought of him, even in a place like this. A place where no one would’ve even given much of a shit about them dancing if Paul was like he ought to be. And yet here Paul was, thinking anyone’d care about a girl leading a guy. Gene shook his head, taking Paul’s arm and moving it to his waist.

“No, you lead.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.”

The driving, pulsating bassline and wailing saxophone were such a far cry from the CSNY album they’d danced to in Paul’s basement. There was a flippant, overly sexual air to disco that was kind of fascinating. More marketable than their own sordid stuff. Gene didn’t know if KISS would try and ride the wave—they’d talked about it, and Paul had tossed around a few song lyrics—but it hadn’t come to much yet. Might ruin their image. Might solidify it.

Step by step. Paul was stiffer on the dance floor than he’d been in the basement. Partially because of how he had to keep shifting them both around, to avoid dancing into other couples, or stepping on passed-out partiers. But there was more to it than that. His lips were pursed, as if he didn’t quite know how to handle the song. Maybe, for once, he was listening to the lyrics.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

A little sweat was clinging to Paul’s brow, and a little more to Paul’s palm, enclosed in his. He hadn’t tried anything close to fancy, not even any turns or spins. He’d seen Paul do better than this just a few hours ago. Nerves. Except the only time Paul didn’t nerve out was in front of an audience. And this audience was too wasted to care if the two of them were tearing up the dancefloor or stumbling through each step. Paul’s tongue was poking out between his teeth again, and he wasn’t looking Gene in the face, and he wasn’t looking around the room.

Something warm was spreading in Gene, the longer he looked at Paul, the longer they danced. Stepped in time, more like. That concentration made his features seem almost sweet. Paul’s hand on his waist was fidgeting, like he’d forgotten how to hold it. Gene squeezed his shoulder, and Paul raised his head, finally, as Gene cleared his throat to speak.

“Hey. What’d you say dancing was earlier?”

Paul blinked, caught off guard enough that he stopped moving.

“Getting a feel for your partner. Mirroring them.”

“That’s right.” Gene exhaled. His fingers inched up past Paul’s shoulder, touching his cheek for a brief second before returning to his shoulder again. “Could you mirror something for me, then? Right now.”

“Yeah.” Paul had turned his head towards Gene’s hand. Was looking right at him, all big dark eyes and red lips. Red lips that were twitching up, suddenly, in the faintest ghost of a smile. “What do you want to—"

Gene inclined his head and met Paul’s lips with his own.

Paul kissed back instantly. Greedily. Gene was almost taken aback. It wasn’t ferocious so much as desperate, as though all his pent-up energy was suddenly given just a single release. Paul’s tongue licked across Gene’s lips for entrance before Gene could even get there first, hot and overwhelming. Gene dropped his hold on Paul’s hand to cup his smooth, soft jaw, fingers careful not to brush too far past it. His fingertips caught onto Paul’s curls, stiff with hairspray, yet they still somehow felt good against his fingers. The scent of his cologne, emanating off his hair and neck, was almost overwhelming, cologne and sweat and something else; for an insane moment Gene felt like he could almost smell the want on him.

Paul tightened his grip on Gene’s waist, pulling him forward until their bodies were flush. Gene’s hard-on was getting unbearable, pressing up against Paul nearly worse than no relief, because of all the things wasn’t. Gene couldn’t think straight. Could barely let himself remember who was kissing him so ardently, who he was kissing back, whose lipstick was smearing against his mouth and jaw and neck—

Gene only pulled back to get a breath in. Paul’s hand had sunk below Gene’s waist, groping at his ass through the leather fabric. Paul kept shoving his hips against him, friction that didn’t really quite manage to hit its target. Too much of a height difference. They could fix that. Fuck, they could fix that right here in the disco, in one of those basement rooms—he could fuck Paul there, against the wall, or on the floor; he didn’t care, anywhere. He murmured against Paul’s neck, lapping and kissing, not quite daring to leave a mark against his skin. Gene barely felt Paul’s ankle latch around his boot, almost as if he was laying claim, but it warmed him, nearly as much as Paul’s little hitches for breath, the needy press of his lips against his skin. Gene grunted, fingers tightening on Paul’s hair, intending on tugging him back in for another kiss when Paul’s expression shifted, dilated, glassy eyes suddenly going wide, whole body tight as piano wire. His foot went back into place on the floor, stiff as a soldier, hands seeming frozen on Gene. The color was starting to drain from his face.

“Paul? What’s wrong?”

It must have hit him. His brain must have caught up with his libido faster than Gene’s had. Gene started to let go, feeling his brow furrow, a little, hopeless shame twitching in his gut, but then Paul grabbed onto him harder, shaking his head.

“It’s not you. It’s not you, I swear.” One hand withdrew, just to point. Gene couldn’t follow Paul’s finger at first, with the slew of people, but finally he caught sight of the blond doorman from earlier, ushering someone forward, towards them. Someone cute, but not beautiful. Not a VIP. Someone he knew wouldn’t belong on her own here, any more than Paul did.

A small young woman with light brown hair.

“She’s here.”