250 followers! to mark the occasion, here is a Morrissey/Marr slashfic with bizarrely plausible dialogue that I found and saved years ago, which seems to have vanished from the internet
“You’ve got a lovely car here, Jonathan,” said Morrissey and raised an ironic eyebrow. He folded himself into the passenger seat and caressed the walnut dashboard.
The passenger door was still open when Johnny started the car. Morrissey hurried to shut it, and they were on the road before he had his seatbelt on.
“What’s the rush?” Morrissey asked. He turned to look at Johnny, who had on his shades and was fixed staring at the road ahead.
“I thought I was the grumpy one….”
They bumped along the road to Chester more or less in silence. Johnny had slotted a cd into the player, and though they were looking in opposite directions, they found themselves tapping out bits of the tune at the same time. Morrissey tried to wink theatrically at Johnny each time this happened; Johnny ensured he missed this. But then he would catch Morrissey unawares – his face turned, watching the wild grass at the edge of the road move passed in a blur out of the passenger window. And then Johnny’s eyes would be off the road and he would stare at the back of Morrissey’s hair – see how his hair had been carefully brushed forward, see how it tapered down to the nape of his neck, so short there, like velvet, the skin fleeting. He uncurled the fingers of one hand from the steering wheel. He could stroke Morrissey’s hair. Like some small creature, he could run his fingers over it and it would respond – would turn on him and rip him to shreds, or it would wrap itself around him, loving and loyal.
“Dinner in Chester,” Morrissey mused. “How very bourgeois of you.”
“Then it’s right up your street.”
“Tsk, tsk, a voice like a whip.”
Johnny parked and they walked past the old timber buildings in the old walled city.
“Isn’t this ever so English?” Morrissey said.
Johnny seemed to smile, but Morrissey had known him long enough and well enough to know that it was merely a thinly disguised sneer. And Morrissey felt something slip inside him, like a pebble falling into a brackish well. Here he was inanely babbling when every other moment of his life – even when he was asleep – he thought one step ahead. Always prepared before he spoke, always quicker, more witty, more cutting than his verbal sparring partner. But not now. Damn you, Jonathan! Mr Marr’s iciness had Mr Morrissey confused. Johnny, who had been like a Jack Russell terrier in human form, harassing with his eternal spring of enthusiasm, always saying something – was now unwilling to say a word.
Morrissey could never feel angry with Johnny. As they walked the cobbled streets, he watched the rounded stones pass under his feet, and he knew why. He loved Johnny too much. Yet it was a fragile love, not like the robust sort that Morrissey had latterly sought. His beloved boxers, who loved him in sweaty headlocks, or winded on the floor of the ring – with whom any act of love was a playground tussle and adolescent veneration of muscles – when the sweat dried and the bloodied lip congealed, it was “yeah, we’re mates, we are” and a playful cuff to the head and a nudge in the ribs. Love in a football shirt, love in a pint glass. But not Johnny. No, small, noisy, a stylish clown on the outside but inside the howling agony of Ronnie Spector trapped inside Phil’s wall of sound. In transit vans on tour, and later, coaches, the playful wallop on the head – but with a bunch of daffodils, not a boxing glove. Morrissey was afraid of this brittle love. It burnt too bright. Unfolding, unsheathed from their bleeding hearts and snotty noses, it consumed them. They were made fragile by love. It shatters and pierces but like ice – melts and cleans the blood. Cold in death, the water freezes again, and precious and fragile it exists again, a many-sided ice crystal consisting only of spikes and thorns. But, oh, it is beautiful and the agony – the agony –
“I said, Steve – this place.”
Morrissey looked up quickly when he realised Johnny was talking to him slowly, as if he was a simple child.
“I was thinking,” Morrissey said, and he was embarrassed at how feeble he sounded.
“About what to have?” Johnny asked.
“You could put it like that, yes.”
Johnny strode in and Morrissey shuffled behind, ducking to avoid damaging his quiff on the low ceiling.
“I said – that could have gone better,” Johnny declared as he marched across the carpark and got in the driver’s seat. “C’mon, get in.”
“Why, when you’re being so –.”
But one look from Johnny stopped Morrissey. On the edge of exploding in Prima Donnaish disgust, the little guitarist had an uncanny control over him.
“Get in, Steve.”
Morrissey did. Subdued.
“It was nice to chat, though, wasn’t it?” Morrissey said, his voice timid.
Johnny ignored him. Morrissey was quiet, as if he was about to cry. But he wouldn’t. No, not in front of Johnny. Tears he might allow himself in the solitude of his insomniac’s bed – but not in a carpark in bloody Chester.
“Nice to talk about old times,” Morrissey sighed.
“What - what did you expect from me?”
Morrissey was blasted backwards against the seat by Johnny’s sudden anger. He wanted to shout back that he knew Johnny had been winding him up all evening, toying with him like a sadistic cat with a lame mouse at its mercy. Wear it down, bat it from paw to paw, tenderise the flesh, draw out the inevitable blood-letting, and then – the final lunge.
“No, no, I’ve had enough. All evening you’ve been funny with me. You wanted – oh, for god’s sake, I don’t know what you want.”
“Why are you being like this?”
Johnny beat his fists on the steering wheel in frustration. Morrissey began to fear for his life.
“You can’t use people, Steven!”
“I – I – don’t –.”
“ ‘Let’s meet up’, you said. And you wanted us to get back together again, and now you’re being like this –.”
“Jonathan, I don’t understand. You wanted us to meet up. And you’re being ridiculous. You’ve been cold with me all evening and I didn’t know what to do.”
Johnny’s forehead was on the steering wheel. His body shuddered with a violent emotion which frightened Morrissey, but still he leant across the car and put his arm around Johnny.
“Give yourself a few minutes, and then drive somewhere.”
“Anywhere – I don’t care.”
“Being – y’know – you said I was cold to you.”
Morrissey pressed his face against Johnny’s hair. He hoped Johnny didn’t notice how he closed his eyes and inhaled his scent. Cigarettes, sweat, some musky male shampoo, leather jacket. Oh, Johnny….
“I wanted us to meet, Steven, I really did. Part of me always thinks we could work together again, but the rest of me knows – we never could. It wouldn’t work, would it? And I hate myself now for building you up, for meeting up with you and making you hope – and then trashing it all.”
Morrissey tucked a finger under Johnny’s chin and made him look at him. It was so gentle that Johnny nearly cried: he thought Morrissey was going to kiss him.
“I thought that might be it.”
“Jonathan, I always hope we could ‘reform’ or however you might chose to describe it, but I know we can’t. Has anyone invented a time machine? No. This isn’t the 80s. We’ve had our time. It’s over. We’re just a pair of old men, sobbing in a carpark ‘cos we can’t let go.”
Johnny smiled. Properly.
“Listen, Marr, I’ll always be your friend. And you’d better always be mine. We’ll always meet up and talk about the old days. Sit on a bench at the seaside sharing chips in a newspaper. I’ll even let you wear a flat cap, if you must.”
“I love you, Steven,” Johnny said.
“And I love you too,” Morrissey replied, and they smiled as they hugged each other. “Now come on – drive.”
“Read the sign.”
“Don’t look so scared.”
“Why not? You’re taking me to Wales on a dark and windy night.”
“You said you didn’t care where we went.”
“It goes without saying: anywhere, except Wales.”
“A nice walk, I thought.”
“Steve, do you remember…?” and so Johnny navigated the steep roads of Flintshire while they talked of old times. Just speaking of them brought those distant days close enough for them to touch them.
“Here we are,” Johnny announced, as he pulled into a dark, empty carpark.
“Where are we?” Morrissey asked, a note of trepidation in his voice.
“It’s a mountain.”
“A what? A mountain? I haven’t bought my ropes and crampons, y’know.”
“C’mon, let’s walk.”
The carpark was gravelled and flat, but when they turned onto the stony path, they stumbled on the uneven surface.
“Shouldn’t have had all that wine,” Morrissey said, and Johnny burped. “Oh, Jonathan, really.”
Johnny darted ahead, and it was too dark to see where he’d gone. Morrissey nobly tried to keep up, and rubbed his earlobe nervously.
“Jonathan? Where are you?”
“Over here!” a voice shouted in the darkness.
Morrissey tripped but kept his balance, and felt the tough heather scrape at his bare ankles.
“Johnny!” he shouted sharply. “I can’t see you! I’ve lost the path!”
It was almost impossible to distinguish the black mass of the mountain from the inky expanse of sky, but Morrissey’s eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light. Suddenly he saw that the sky was mad with stars, and that the heavens reared above the black mountain as a dark velvet blue. He stopped worrying that he’d lost the path and instead gazed about at the sky and became giddy on the honey-scent of the heather. Then, bluntly, something blundered into him from the darkness and he fell to the ground, bruised and afraid.
Johnny, lying on top of Morrissey, could feel his friend’s heart pounding through his blazer.
“Steve, it’s me,” Johnny whispered.
Morrissey pushed him off and sat up. They crouched, facing each other in the dark.
“Very funny, Jonathan,” he said sarcastically. But he was glad. Johnny’s irrepressible puppiness had returned.
“What do you think?” Johnny asked.
“It’s – it’s surprisingly nice, actually.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
“It’s like the moors.”
“Ooh, Heathcliff!” Johnny joked.
“Ah, why can’t I be Catherine for a change?”
“’Cos you’re the tall, mysterious one with the ironic leer.”
“The Ironic Lear on the blasted heather.”
“On the blasted, bloody mountain!”
“It’s typical of me to let you take me somewhere like this. Entirely random.”
“You said ‘take me anywhere’ – so I did.”
“Yes, I had noticed that, Jonathan. At this precise moment, I appear to be sat on a mountain in Wales.”
“It’s called Mole Famu. Means ‘Mother Mountain’. From a distance it looks like an enormous breast.”
“A tit. A big buxom wench’s mammary gland. It even has a nipple on the top.”
“I’m so glad….”
“On a clear day, you can see Liverpool over that way, and Parkgate where they have all that nice icecream. The Irish Sea’s down there, and way over to the west, Snowdon.”
“Taking photos?” Morrissey laughed. At his own joke.
Just then, the moon appeared from behind the cloud that had blotted it out. Everything turned to silver in its light, and Morrissey and Johnny looked at each other, but like they hadn’t seen each other for a long, long time.
“You look very handsome, Steve, your quiff bobbing in the wind.”
Morrissey tried to look away and rubbed his earlobe. But he couldn’t turn from Johnny. His face, suddenly silver, looked beautiful. And he saw Johnny’s lip quiver. He flung his arm around Johnny, and said, “You are my friend, you do know that?”
Johnny clung onto Morrissey’s arm and nodded. He was smiling too much to say anything.
“I miss you, Jonathan. No, we can’t have those old days back, but just being here with you, it reminds me –.”
He stopped. Because Johnny was stroking his face.
“I love your chin,” said Johnny. “It’s absurd. Like what Neanderthals used to dig holes with.”
“And you,” Morrissey smiled, running his fingers through Johnny’s hair, “Have always reminded me of a mischievous rodent.”
“I should be glad you’re an animal lover, then.”
“Thank god I am!” said Morrissey.
Their lips met at the same moment that they flung their arms around each other and crashed over onto the heather. They held each other closely and while they tried to swallow each other with their mouths and jousted their tongues, their arms were so tight around each other that they could barely breathe. There in the moon-silvered darkness of the mountain, the only sound was the sucking of their mouths, the scuffing of hands over cloth and the crackling of the heather as they moved over it.
Morrissey caressed Johnny. He stroked his sweet face, he ran his fingers over his neck and then groped his way down Johnny’s back, trying to push him closer. Then his hands went lower and clasped Johnny’s buttocks. Johnny, so slight, was still in possession of a firm behind and Morrissey fondled it as if he was enjoying a rare and delicious fruit. Johnny slid his hand along Morrissey’s side – he could feel the muscles on Morrissey’s chest and the light valley that marked his waist. He held Morrissey there and pushed his thumb against his hipbone. And when he felt Morrissey’s attention to his arse, he was fearless even though he knew what Morrissey intended. It wouldn’t be the first time: this was the one thing from the old days that they could still have.
Despite the cold, they lifted each other’s shirts up to their chins. The chill night air made them gasp – and then the touch of fingers on bare flesh. Through layers of fabric, the heat of their erections burnt against each other. Belts came undone. Trousers were eased down. Fingers slid under elastic and scraped through dark pubic hair to swollen cocks.
They released each other from the pain of their tight embrace. Morrissey knelt before Johnny and Johnny pulled down Morrissey’s boxer shorts. His erection sprang forward and, on seeing it, Johnny felt his own grow and grabbed Morrissey’s hands, forcing him to set him free. The moment it appeared, Morrissey pushed Johnny onto his back in the heather and took him in his mouth. Morrissey remembered how Johnny liked it. He wrapped the shaft in his tongue and squeezed the tip of it with the soft back of his throat, then slipped away to kiss it and massage it with his lips, suck and lick it, then back to swallowing it again. Johnny remembered how Morrissey did it. He sank his hands in Morrissey’s hair and whimpered. He threw back his head and strange preternatural sounds growled from his throat. Memories flooded him: of the back seats of tour buses when everyone else was asleep. In rehearsal rooms when everyone else left the room to leave Morrissey and Marr to their songwriting magic. Backstage between the amps and guitar flight cases slithering on flowers. Lonely hotel rooms with nylon sheets and thin curtains.
Morrissey looked up at Johnny and they smiled at each other. Morrissey looked beautifully evil in the moonlight, his eyebrows arched and Satanic. Johnny gripped Morrissey’s shoulders and felt himself rocked back and forth by the oncoming destruction of an imminent orgasm. But Morrissey wouldn’t let him. It was his favourite trick. Like standing in the wings before a gig, letting the audience, desperate for the sight of his pale torso, arouse themselves to a frenzy. Johnny loved Morrissey for being the king of anticipation.
Morrissey prowled his face towards Johnny’s, and on the journey, ran his tongue slowly up Johnny’s neck, over his Adam’s apple, up his chin and then straight into his mouth. He reached down and clasped Johnny’s cock. It was rock-hard and trembling, the veins throbbing with blood. They embraced again, and their cocks rubbed against each other. Johnny’s, still wet with saliva, made Morrissey’s dance and jerk with excitement. He had to have Johnny now. A primeval need gnawed at him, made his groin seethe with a deliciously dirty fire.
He yanked Johnny’s pants and trousers down to his ankles. Johnny’s heart thudded at the thrill of being the object of such desperate desire. When Morrissey commanded in ragged breaths, “Roll over – Johnny – now – onto your side,” Johnny did so, willingly, as if he was just Morrissey’s puppet. Because what had been the best way to keep Johnny happy? Keep Morrissey happy.
Morrissey sank down in the heather behind Johnny and curved his arm around him. On his side, he pushed his hips against Johnny’s buttocks. When Johnny felt the heat of it between his legs he nearly exploded into Morrissey’s hand. Morrissey took it away and spat on it, then stroked himself and ran his fingers down Johnny’s cleft. He gently slid in a finger, and Johnny turned his face to his lover.
“Johnny, are you sure?”
Morrissey guided himself in carefully and then slid his hand between Johnny’s thighs to lever open his legs and give himself more room. As he began to thrust, straining himself against Johnny’s dear body, he grasped Johnny’s cock. He was flattered by how long Johnny had managed to stay erect. Johnny was whimpering again, into Morrissey’s face. Morrissey rested his chin on Johnny’s shoulder and all Johnny could do was stare at how beautiful his lover’s face was, his eyes closed, lips pouted, forehead furrowed with effort.
“I love you, Steven. I mean it,” Johnny gasped, groaning at the delight of feeling Morrissey move inside him.
He lifted his head and kissed him. Morrissey was all teeth. He nibbled Johnny’s lips, he tenderly bit the tip of Johnny’s tongue.
Again and again, Morrissey thrust into him. Slow and relentless, moving his whole body in a rhythm that neither of them ever wanted to end. But red fire splashed across Johnny’s eyes, like flowers opening in sudden sunlight. And then, crying out his lover’s name so that it echoed off the mountain and from side to side of the valley, Johnny came into Morrissey hand. His thighs clenched together and the hard steel of Morrissey’s ruffian ID bracelet bit into his flesh. His groin burning, unable to stop himself, Morrissey came seconds later, sweat pouring off his face into Johnny’s eyes.
Morrissey slid out of his lover and rolled onto his back. He didn’t care that his back was prickled by the heather, and everywhere, that honey smell; in their hair, on their clothes. Through his drooping eyelids, he could see the stars and he seemed to be floating through them.
Johnny turned to Morrissey and propped himself up on one elbow to gaze at him.
“Just like the old days,” he whispered, and Morrissey ruffled Johnny’s hair.
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