"Mr Boardman!" *flash*
"Sir - over here!" *flash-flash*
"Mr- ow! Watch it with that camera arsehole! ... Mr Boardman!"
"Hey Stubby, you fuckin' rock, man!"
*flash*
"Stubby, I love you!" *flash-flash*
"Stubby! Would you sign my shirt?! Please, Stubby-"
"Oy! Get out of my way!" *flash-flash-flash*
The back stage door clicked shut against the throng and camera flashes, and a
panting, manic-looking Stubby Boardman grinned at his manager. He pulled a
pair of lacy white knickers out of his pocket and smirked, twirling them
around his index finger. "They practically landed on my face mid-song. Can't
really mistake the invitation there, can you?"
"Good show, sir?"
The grin broadened even further and Stubby flicked dark, sweaty tendrils of
hair away from his eyes. "Fucking brilliant show." He accepted the offered
bottle of beer and raised it as if in toast. "Biggest crowd yet, I tell you."
"Yes, well, ever since that rumour in The Quibbler a year ago-"
"The Black rumour?"
His manager nodded. "Ever since then the crowds have easily doubled."
Stubby huffed and swung his head back, downing almost half the bottle before
wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.
"Nobody believes it though, surely?" he said.
"Of course they don't," his manager replied, with a dismissive wave of his
hand. "But they still want to catch a glimpse of the man that might be
the notorious Sirius Black. It's all fantasy, sir. The biggest crowd puller
there is."
Stubby scowled and grabbed a towel from a nearby coat peg. "Yeah, great," he
grumbled. "Half of them don't really come to see me. Bastards." He
wrapped it around his neck and allowed himself to be ushered down towards his
dressing rooms by his trusted manager, Richardson.
"Are there, uh, any presents awaiting me?" he asked, pulling his long hair out
of the way to mop at the fresh sweat on the back of his neck.
Richardson caught the gleam in the young rock star's eyes with a quick glance
to his left - "Sir." - and affirmed it. This was going to be one long
post-show party, Richardson thought, but he did not speak it. He never pushed
with his client, unless Stubby initiated conversations about his private life.
Richardson knew all he needed to. Stubby was happy that his manager ignored
his more questionable interests. And, truth be told, with the amount
Richardson was being paid, he would have been happy to have his mouth spelled
shut for the rest of his life.
Boardman gave a salacious smile. Cocky sod. Well, he had every reason to be.
Silently, Richardson handed him the door activation pendant, tuned to work
only for Boardman's fingers.
"Give me a couple of hours, yeah?" With a knowing wink, Boardman entered his
extravagant dressing quarters.
Richardson hovered around the door for a moment. Boardman's fans were a
volatile lot, inclined to get so riled up during shows that they on occasion
took their adoration one step too far. And how was he, Richardson, supposed to
gauge between an adoring, willing fan and a raving stalker when it was often
so difficult to tell the difference between the two?
A Squib's fear, he reasoned, not at all bitter about it; he was more than
financially comfortable in this business. And, for all his haughty arrogance
and gallivanting, Boardman was a powerful wizard. Although Richardson had to
catch himself from indulging in a near-fatherly affection for the young rock
star - and friend - there was no doubt that Boardman knew how to handle
himself.
With that thought in mind Richardson paced to the opposite end of the
corridor, intent on guarding the back stage door against the vulturous
paparazzi.
* * * * * * * * * *
The scent of fresh orchids filled Stubby's nostrils and he allowed himself to
relax, the adrenaline from the gig slowly ebbing from his body. After a brief
and satisfying sniff of the blooms on the coffee table, he went to the
mini-bar and took out another beer - Frogue's Finest this time,
strongest on the market. He downed it even more quickly than the first.
As he inhaled deeply again he heard a soft noise coming from the other room.
It had sounded like a sigh. Whether impatient, nervous, or aroused, he really
couldn't tell for sure. A little of each, most probably.
Slinging the damp towel on a nearby chair, Stubby slinked through to the
bedroom, both anticipation and alcohol running rampant through his veins.
Ah.
Oh yes.
God, yes.
There, sprawled naked on his bed, was a boy. However, there was something
starkly different about this one.
The mask. A plain black fabric mask, tied around the back of the boy's head,
which covered everything bar his nose and chin. A strip of cloth had been
secured around his mouth as well, but it was darker, damp from where his
breath heated it.
Well. That was new. Stubby wondered why on earth Richardson had masked this
one. Was the boy perhaps not as attractive as his previous guests? Or maybe
his manager had been unable to find one that fit Stubby's simple requirements.
He bit the inside of his cheek briefly, frowning.
Or was this some kinky idea on his guest's part?
Licking his lips, he strolled over to the bed and admired the sight of the
figure spread out wantonly across the black sheets, just for him.
"Hel-lo," he whispered, his eyes roaming from feet to head slowly. He felt
himself getting more drunk by the millisecond.
If skin were a drug, then Stubby was hopelessly hooked already. It seemed
ethereal in its paleness - not at all a sign of bad health, but natural
translucence. Shadows played across the ridges of the boy's collarbones, his
chest, the slim stomach. His body was almost hairless, but for the forearms,
legs and - yes - the line that trailed down from the navel - fine black
hairs, short and faint, like the ones around his nipples. Stubby's hands
jerked automatically at his sides. He swallowed an obscenity, his eyes
wandering back up to the mess of black hair sprawled carelessly across the
pillows. It looked so soft.
He leaned down and breathed gently against the boy's bare shoulder. Noting the
twitch of the biceps, he turned his head slightly so he was speaking in to the
pale shell of the ear.
"Are we a shy one? You don't have to be shy - you're beautiful."
The boy remained completely still.
Stubby wondered if perhaps the kid was asleep. It wouldn't be the first time
one had got a little over-excited and raided his drinks cabinet before his
arrival.
Suddenly the boy gave a little squirm. Stubby smiled.
"All right, then," he teased, deciding to play along for now. "If you insist
on being mysterious." It certainly added something to it - being forced to
wait for the reward of seeing the boy's face, of pulling that mask off as he
was about to come. "One moment."
He rose and went over to the Muggle CD player in the corner, sweeping up an
uncased disc and putting it into the machine. He pressed the play button and
waited, and after a moment the first few bars of Veiled in Shadows wafted out the speakers. That track had stayed at number one in the Wizard
Wireless charts for twelve weeks, and had gone gold in Bristol and Norwich.
Stubby grinned with unabashed pride. He listened as his own soft croon fell in
step with the music on the electronic device. Marvellous things, CD players.
Praise the Muggle-borns. Contented, he turned and pulled his shirt off,
watching the boy's prone form all the while. Utterly, fucking gorgeous. His
cock strained against his trousers, so he yanked the fly down and pulled them
off. Stroking his hard prick slowly, Stubby returned to the bed and sat down
on the edge.
"Well," he said, keeping his tone low, compelling. "Since you're such a timid
thing, why don't I start?" He reached down and dragged one fingertip up the
underside of the boy's foot. The foot retracted quickly and Stubby heard an
intake of breath. He chuckled. After a moment the boy relaxed his leg.
"Ticklish?"
Another squirm and the tensing of muscles. It was a thrilling sight. This
particular boy seemed very nervous - more so than any of Stubby's previous
guests. It had to be all for show, just like the mask. Very convincing, Stubby
thought, as he leaned down and blew gently against the boy's creamy thighs.
The scent was powerful, heady. God, this one was divine. Stubby didn't need to
see the boy's face to relish the reaction, just... the rise and fall of his
chest, the hitch of his shoulders. He stared at the lovely cock, which held a
lot of promise by the looks of it; long and straight, cut, balls heavy and
nestled in the valley of his pale thighs.
Nervous, definitely; the boy was only half-hard. That could be fixed. Stubby
leaned down and dropped a light kiss on the tender flesh.
The boy let out a choked sound.
From somewhere an unusual feeling of apprehension dawned and Stubby
momentarily wondered if Richardson had, unknowingly, sent him a virgin. That
wouldn't do at all. However, that wasn't his manager's style. Although the man
had never broached the subject, Stubby knew that Richardson made sure all the
boys had at least some experience. And, truth be told, he wouldn't
dream of breaking one so young - not for a one night stand's sake.
All for show, he reminded himself. It had to be. The apprehension faded and
Stubby smiled, his pulse speeding up. This was bloody perfect.
"Just relax," he purred, inching down the bed until he was sitting at the
boy's feet. He was more than willing to keep playing along.
He reached out and placed both hands against the smooth ankles, curling his
fingers around them. Slowly, he stroked up the boy's legs to the knees, then
back down, those soft black hairs like silk under his palms. With the lightest
of touches, he repeated the motion again and again, going slightly higher each
time until he was caressing the boy's legs to mid-thigh. And he noticed all
the while, patiently, how the boy's cock began to take more of an interest,
growing harder little by little; how the boy's breath sped up with the rising
tide of arousal.
Stubby's mouth watered at the sight. He climbed up and straddled the young
man's hips, avoiding the swelling cock - for now - and ran his fingertips down
over the panting chest.
"You're lovely," he whispered. "Lovely."
He circled the pinkish nipples, delighting in the faint, dark hairs that
ringed them. He wanted to suck them, bite them, claim them - but the youth
trembled and he remembered their 'play'. Tentatively, Stubby descended,
flicking the tip of his tongue across one peaked nipple, before moving across
and wetting the other, hardening it further. The boy's stomach muscles
contracted in pleasure, then fell still. Stubby indulged his guest with one
light pinch, using his teeth.
A breath heaved through the makeshift gag.
Snaking his tongue out again, Stubby felt the boy's cock, now rock hard, brush
up against the underside of his balls as he wriggled.
"You like that?" he whispered. He was granted nothing but another little
flinch. He glanced at the mask. Something coiled in his gut and he felt
compelled to ask: "Are you all right? Can you breathe okay?"
The nostrils flared. After a moment the boy nodded his head once in
affirmation.
"All right then."
He bent down and pressed his lips to one pale collarbone, nipping it gently.
Running his mouth along the ridge of it, he inhaled deeply the sweet musk of
the boy's skin. From there, Stubby fancied he could hear his young lover's
heartbeat, faint but fast. Trailing his fingertips down over the boy's chest,
he licked a path down the centre, following, only stopping to drop kisses here
and there. He licked around the navel once, drawing a throaty groan from his
guest. With a hazy grin, Stubby glanced down between their bodies, unable to
suppress an answering moan as he took in the sight of his own cock hovering
rigid above the boy's flushed erection, the tips barely brushing together.
He knew he wouldn't be able to hold off much longer. Leaning over towards the
bedside table, he retrieved some lubricant from the top drawer. Stubby rubbed
his hands together, taking care to warm up the fluid before stroking his moist
fingers over the boy's thighs, the muscles jumping under his fingertips. He
then dipped down into the heat of his buttocks, his hand gliding beneath the
boy's balls to find his entrance.
As he glanced up he saw the fabric at the boy's mouth purse between his lips.
Stubby hesitated, suddenly wary. "Hey," he whispered, rubbing his index finger
around the boy's hole. "This is all for show, isn't it?" He paused.
For a moment he thought the youth was going to pull away, but then the thighs
trembled and fell further open, by just a fraction. And although not really an
adequate answer for what he was asking, Stubby contemplated, then took it as a
prompt to continue.
"Shh, relax," he whispered, both worried and excited by the display. This one
was good - convincing. It felt like... like nothing he had experienced. "I
won't hurt you. I'm not like that, I swear." He drew another circle around the
boy's quivering muscle, then eased his finger inside.
Christ alive.
Alarm bells rang in Stubby's mind, but the boy shuddered and a very soft,
almost inaudible moan escaped his gag.
Stubby breached him all the way, down to the knuckle. So hot, so tight, so
wonderful. Different from the others - as if... as if this boy was made for
him, constricting and smothering and his cock throbbed at the very idea that
this was so close to what he had always wanted. So close to the perfection of
his fantasies.
It seemed to last for hours. Countless hours of gentle massage and short
breath, long, slow strokes and careful stretching. The boy clenched a lot,
gasped a lot, but every time Stubby attempted to remove his fingers the
muscles would deny him, holding him in.
It was the most surreal, agonizing moment he had ever lived through. Even
compared to the thrill of being on stage - Adonis in the eyes of his fans -
the anticipation was easily as strong, if not stronger. He felt like he was
trapped in a dream with this boy, and totally powerless against the surge of
his own want. Enlightened, and utterly overwhelmed by it.
The time came, finally. "All right," Stubby said quietly, as if he needed to
reaffirm that he was in control of the situation.
He returned to the lubricant, slicking it along his cock, stroking himself
first with one hand, followed by the other, then back again. Part of him
didn't want it to end. He wanted to linger here forever, on his bed, with this
boy - this ever elusive boy who looked so tight, still, even after the careful
preparation.
Pulling the boy's long, slim legs up and around his hips, Stubby leaned
forwards, pushing his cock against the boy's arse. He heard a little nasal "mmph"
as he pressed in, and for one blissful moment he paused, letting out a breath
and savouring the heat and pulse of the boy's body around the head of his
prick.
"Ahh, God you're... you're wonderful."
He pushed further. Further. Inching in, groaning his way in, squeezing his
eyes shut, biting his lower lip. Bliss. Oh, god, bliss.
The boy let out a sob.
Further and further in until he was hilt-deep and still. So still.
Another sob.
Still, so still and then he began to withdraw and the friction was crushing,
crushing his bones, crushing his lungs as he panted for air. He was on fire.
"Holy fuck..."
And the boy was moaning something soft; moaning what - Stubby wasn't sure, but
it sounded like heaven so he thrust gently. And rocked. And felt himself
drowning in the ache, the sensation. And heaved himself back and then slid
forwards. Oh yes, yes, yes. And he moved, grinding slowly, swaying,
groaning. He reached between them and curled his fist around the boy's hot
shaft, stroking, thrusting, stroke, thrust, stroke, thrust.
The boy cried out suddenly and his cock jerked in Stubby's hand, the dark,
swollen head shining with precome. Stubby sank deep into the boy's tight heat
again, swearing and promising him the world - he couldn't help it; he was
losing control, going too fast, being too rough, but the boy was so good, such
a perfect fit - perfection. He broke and drove forwards hard, hard,
hard, cursing between moans. Harder, harder, harder.
The boy's whole body convulsed as hot white threads of come shot out over
Stubby's fingers and the boy's stomach. The groans ignited something beyond
desperate in him, and Stubby yanked that slender body against him, snapping
his hips forwards, wanting to drown in the boy, wanting it to never end. He
reached up with his come-streaked hand to pull the mask away-
And cried out hoarsely as he came, spurting hard into the young body, pulse
followed by pulse followed by pulse. Familiar green eyes watched his face,
filled to the brims with accusation and betrayal, utter sadness and bitter joy
and pleasure and hate and want and pain - all painted there in the vivid
irises.
Sirius let out another cry, even as the euphoria set in and it felt like his
bones had turned to liquid. No, no, no, his mind cried, his cock strained his
release. No, no, no.
Complete, horrifying silence fell around them.
Sirius's prick gave one last desperate twitch and it was over.
The world had just ended.
His world.
Harry's moist, pale lips opened, but only one rasping word escaped.
"Why?"
* * * * * * * * * *
There had always been a Stubby Boardman - or thereabouts. In Sirius's day it
had been Keldor Rayne, lead singer of the Warlocks. He had seemed young for
more years than was humanly possible, like some of them tend to. Only now -
knowing what he did - it made sense to Sirius why some stars didn't burn out
as quickly as others.
When the veil had returned him, he realised fast that he'd been given a second
chance. Not just a second chance at life, but a second chance at a free life,
a life without labels and persecution. A life where he'd mean something to
people. Boardman's manager - the previous Boardman, that is - had snapped him
up quickly from the streets of London, mere hours after Sirius's return.
Bathing his bruised and exhausted body, dressing him in a fine silk shirt and
soft cotton trousers, handing him a large glass of Firewhisky in one hand and
a brand new wand in the other, Richardson had offered Sirius fame and glory,
wealth and worth. And all for the change of a name.
The previous Boardman had retired quietly only days before due to an injury
while performing. How many had come before him, Sirius had no idea. He
definitely remembered the Hobgoblins from when he was young, before the death
of James and Lily. This was Sirius's big chance: go out there and declare - as
Boardman - that it had all been due to a slight disagreement within the band
but now it was sorted and no, he wasn't really retiring. The timing had been
impeccable.
A contract had been produced, but Sirius still hadn't been sure, and had
hesitated.
There were obligations - Harry, for one thing.
But those promising, alluring seeds had been sown and Sirius had agreed to a
practice run with the band - nothing heavy, they had said - just a get
together, a casual jamming session. All he had to do was sing to see if he
could hit the right notes.
It had been the most exhilarating feeling, even to a crowd of one: Boardman's
manager. Sirius hadn't been able to comprehend back then what it would be like
performing to hundreds of people, but he had certainly been turned on by the
idea. Caught up in the whirl of music and fun, his other life had seemed like
a dream. A fading nightmare.
A new life. A decent life, Richardson had repeated afterwards, with a
gleam in his eyes. And Sirius had thought about it. He'd be free of the
depression from being holed up alone at Grimmauld Place like some hermit
squatter. Free from pretending to be working for an Order that had seemed to
be doing just fine without him. Free from a government bent on capturing and
sentencing him to death. Free to live as a wizard, to come and go and feel alive.
Ultimately, a chance to bury and forget those deeply forbidden, desperate
feelings he had been having for-
"Harry-" he choked, blinking the past away and staring at is godson in
disbelief. The tension in the room made his skin grow cold. He could hear his
own heart pounding. "Harry," he said again, but couldn't get anything else
past his throat.
And worst of all, with a wince, he felt his softened cock slip from Harry's
body.
Sirius retreated down the bed as if he'd been burned, stopping near the bottom
and staring, wide-eyed.
Harry sat up, breathing hard. "You came back," he said, voice thick with
wonderment for a split second before it became loaded with anger. "And you
didn't come and find me. You didn't tell me. You came back to be-" Now it was
Harry's turn to choke on his words. "A- f-fucking r-rock star!" He launched
himself at Sirius, landing in a rain of balled up fists and hurt sounding
snarls.
"You fucking BASTARD! How could you leave me like that - leave us all!" He hit
Sirius desperately. "Fuck you fuck you fuck you I can't believe this! FUCK YOU
SIRIUS!"
Harry's fight was relentless, and Sirius did nothing to counter, nothing to
stop it. Harry hit, and hit and perhaps he was crying because his voice had
taken on a strange edge, even though he was still yelling, cursing Sirius,
damning him to hell.
This, Sirius realised, was almost a year's worth of missing a godfather
pouring out. That thought hurt more than Harry's fists, that wrung out the
guilt he'd been so careful to keep locked tightly inside him all this time.
Harry stopped suddenly, falling to the bed beside him with exhaustion. "Do you
even remember who you are?" he panted.
No, Sirius thought. Yes. I do. But.
One breath, two breaths, and then Harry got up, going over to the clothes on
the chair with a noticeable limp.
Sirius wanted to cry. Harry. Harry had been a virgin. He had just
fucked Harry's virgin arse and the boy had said nothing. He'd tasted
him, kissed him, held him, worshipped him and he hadn't realised the whole
time that he hadn't been touching a weak imitation of Harry, but the boy
himself. He shook uncontrollably, listening to the soft swish of material as
Harry dressed.
Was he planning on leaving?
Sirius bit his lip hard, then said: "How did you find me?"
Silence.
"Harry?"
"Don't you dare say my name like that," came the low thrum.
Sirius closed his eyes, finding it hard to breathe. He tried again. "Just tell
me how you found me."
After a very long time of bated, agonizing quiet: "I didn't. I only came
because you... because he looked like you. That's what they said."
"Who?"
"Luna and Dean and Seamus - some of the others. They were talking about him,
about Boardman, and they said you looked like - he looked like you so much in
real life, and they didn't even know that I-" He stopped, his posture tensing.
Sirius could almost hear Harry constructing that angry demeanour again. "What
does it matter? You're not the person I knew. The person I knew
wouldn't have played dead all this time. He would have come back to find me."
"God, I'm so sorry, I-"
"Don't even bother. I don't want to hear it - my godfather's dead. I wish I'd
never come here tonight."
So do I, Sirius thought, the last few strains of his own delusion cracking and
falling away in splinters. "Are you... are you going to tell the others?"
Harry, who had kept his back to Sirius while he dressed, turned. His eyes
positively burned a hole through Sirius's soul and Sirius knew he'd never
forget that look, that it would never forget him.
"Like I said," Harry ground out, eyes red-rimmed in frustration. "My godfather
is dead."
He couldn't look at Harry any longer. "I'm not. I've thought about you. I sent
people to check up on you."
"That's not enough."
"Would you please let me explain why-"
"I don't want to know. Just... don't."
The bedroom door knocked against the wall with a sharp 'betrayal' as
Harry fleeted through it.
He couldn't let him just leave, could he? He couldn't let Harry go, not when
he was so upset and deserved answers.
But Sirius was unable to move. Instead, he found himself too weak to stop a
dormant reflex kicking back into action, and as if on impulse he did something
he hadn't done for a very long time.
However, the transformation into Padfoot brought him very little comfort, and
as he curled up on the bed he felt none of the exhilaration that had been
coursing through his veins like a drug for the past year.
Only devastating guilt.
* * * * * * * * * *
Richardson was waiting at the end of the corridor when the door to Boardman's
dressing rooms burst open and the boy he'd procured before the show stumbled
out, face like thunder. He looked like he was having problems walking.
Richardson hoped to God that didn't mean what he thought it might - he always
made sure they were at least a little experienced. Virginity wasn't in the
specifications, so Richardson always checked, for their sake's, some of them
looking so young, so eager. So naive.
The boy tugged his jumper around him, straightening it. He looked up and
Richardson could see that his eyes were blood-shot.
It rarely went badly, that was for sure. Boardman was good at entertaining
them; most left on cloud nine, some even higher than that. Strange, thought
Richardson, the boy had fit into Boardman's specifications perfectly: medium
height, slight build, raven black hair, green eyes, pale skin. The kid had
even gone to the trouble of painting a fake blemish on his forehead - a symbol
Richardson was well accustomed to; he'd seen his client doodling it in the
condensation on the windows of the tour bus countless times.
"Young sir, if you would just follow me, I'll show you ou-"
"Don't bother," the youngster snapped, pushing past Richardson. "I'll find my
own way."
The door shuddered as it closed behind him and a few flakes of wall plaster
scattered to the carpet. Richardson stared in surprise for a moment. He turned
and made his way down to the dressing room. As he approached he thought he
caught a glimpse of a large, black shape bolting towards the door before it
slammed shut.
"Sir?"
No reply.
"Sir? Is everything all right?"
He waited, then heard a sniff on the other side of the door. After a while
Boardman's voice floated out. "No more boys, Richardson. No more."
"Are you sure?"
A pause. Then: "I'm sure."
Richardson turned to leave.
"Richardson?"
He stopped, concerned by his client's tone. "Sir?"
"Tomorrow I'd like to discuss my contract with you," came the uneven voice.
"Only... I don't think I'm cut out for this business any longer."
~Fin~
SPOILER PAIRING: Sirius/Harry. This
was partially inspired by the movie of the same name, but mostly because a
scene in OotP (and a fandom theory) bunnied me hard. I had to mess with the
date Stubby retired for this fic to work, so apologies for that. Here's the
scene:
Order of the Phoenix, Hardback British Edition (P173)
Chapter: "Luna Lovegood"
SIRIUS - BLACK AS HE'S PAINTED?
Notorious mass murderer or innocent singing sensation. For fourteen years
Sirius Black has been believed guilty of the mass murder of twelve innocent
Muggles and one wizard. Black's audacious escape from Azkaban two years ago
has led to the widest manhunt ever conducted by the Ministry of Magic. None of
us has ever questioned that he deserves to be recaptured and handed back to
the Dementors.
BUT DOES HE?
Startling new evidence has recently come to light that Sirius Black may not
have committed the crimes for which he was sent to Azkaban. In fact, says
Doris Purkiss, of 18 Acanthia Way, Little Norton, Black may not have been
present at the killings.
"What people don't realise is that Sirius is a false name," says Mrs Purkiss.
"The man people believe to be Sirius is actually Stubby Boardman, lead singer
of popular singing group the Hobgoblins, who retired from public life after
being struck on the ear by a turnip at a concert in Little Norton Church Hall
nearly fifteen years ago. I recognised him the moment I saw his picture in the
paper. Now, Stubby couldn't possibly have committed those crimes, because on
the day in question he happened to be enjoying a romantic candlelit dinner
with me. I have written to the Minister of Magic and am expecting him to give
Stubby, alias Sirius, a full pardon any day now."
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