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Fire and ice
Iron Maiden, Megadeth slash fic by Julietds

Disclaimer: No harm or offence is intended by this or any of my stories. It's pure fiction only partially or totally inspired by players and, in some case, by events that actually happened. Either way, I don't know these guys personally and my writings are meant to be purely for entertainment, so don't sue me, I can guarantee you it wouldn't be worth it anyway.

Notes: Inspired by Robert Frost's infamous poem. Parts of it are in fact contained into the story.
I once heard the world will end in fire.

Some say in ice... how did it even go on? No idea. Something about desire and a poet babbling about double deaths. I probably heard it coming out of my Literature's former teacher's mouth, before dropping out of school.

I have no idea why I remember about it halfway to his hotel room. Maybe I just need to take a break from the focus necessary to flirt and the thrill washing over me since I realized that he, among all, chose me, among all, as partner for the night. What a shitty choice, by the way.

First he offered me a beer and long straight dark hair got whipped back in a huffy, familiar gesture as I accepted it, raising a brow. Then, he started blabbering – again – about how sucky American pubs were, in that ridiculous English accent of his. Maybe that's why I just remembered about that poetic shit. My teacher, Mr. Frost – I can't even remember whether it was a nickname or not – was a goddamn Englishman. One of those who hold the textbooks in mid-air and read empty words out loud with such emphasis that you could swear they snort their pages during the recess breaks.

At first, I was determined not to show him that I was a fan, but then I didn't need to. He wasn't like Mr. Frost, face down, his nose stuck inside a yellowed book. Even if he was probably half of his age, the guy seemed to be smarter and as big headed as legends say. He knew who he was. I knew who he was, better than people could tell.

I looked at my right and Junior was chatting lovingly with a sweaty Steven Harris, shoulder leant against the door frame as he swallowed hardly another shot, trying to impress the older man. Like people, even strangers, let alone Steve, didn't notice those Minnesota childish look of his anyway. No matter years went by.

I wonder why Bruce didn't pick him, for example. He went straight for me, Junior is a more appealing guy. I am stinky and sarcastic and haven't showered. I take a look at his hairy chest as our clothes reach the floor in a heap.

If only I was Junior, I would be blushing by now. My chest is still completely smooth, like a baby's ass. But I'm not Junior. Bruce knew it and he went for it anyway. For me.

He invites me to come closer, props me in his lap and whispers sweet nothings in my ear while massaging my shoulders softly.

He's sweaty too, I can see his bangs stick to the forehead. It's not a bad feeling, though. I like his scent. It's manly. Inebriating. As intense as the shudder I feel running down my back when his hands travel lower down my body and fondle my thighs hard. I see a flash run across his eyes as I pull his hair, spurring him to go on. And he does, he really does. I feel his fingers breaching into me, stretching me for him, as his voice soothes the intrusion. A shameless groan leaves my throat.

“Go on” I plead him. “Please.”

And he pleases me.

He looks quite amused too, pretty satisfied to see the cocky singer that a few hours before didn't even want to be too friendly with him, beg him to be fucked with his fingers – I'd say.

Maybe that's why he picked me and not Junior, after all. Maybe he still wanted to fight, after a long night. Maybe he was looking for what something that belonged to a younger Bruce. That would explain why he's pushing himself so deep, after all. The burning is almost unbearable now but for some reason, I don't stop him.

I silently keep on hating and loving it, him, me. His choice, my response. I can't find a single thing to appreciate tonight. Lust burns inside my core as Mr. Frost's fire of reckoning. I know I've been naughty. I know I've been deserving every second of it. The pain, the pleasure. I've been stealing it all. And I deserve it. But what if heaven and hell are not meant to be deserved? What if someone from hell or heaven just picks you up, not minding about what you did, but instead about who you are?

“Are you alright?” Bruce gives voice to his worries as a hot tear soaks my cheek. I nod as he wipes it away.

Some say the world will end in fire. He bites my neck and fills me completely, making me groan desperately. Some say in ice.

“Fuck” I mutter under my breath. “Fuck...”

His eyes, darkened by lust, meet mine and I can tell he deserves every inch of this hell. His dick disappears into me, buried to the base as I unbind my curls, feeling slightly more comfortable. A grin lighten up his face as soon as he reaches out and his fingers sink into my hair.

“So beautiful” he murmurs, smiling softly. His free hand brushes a loose stand of hair behind my hair and a sweat drop runs to the tip of his nose. “Beautiful and untamable.”

Untamable? Fuck. Ten years ago, maybe.

I gasp as he starts pounding into me but I feel more clear headed than ever. The awareness to be the object of his desire quenches my anger and, at the same time, I feel lit like a bonfire.

“Bloody hell... so tight...”

From what I’ve tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire.

“Don't... stop...”

I hold on to the headboard, swearing as he fucked me harder and faster. If he was looking for a way to wreck, he definitely found it. But I'd say he's still looking for something else to quench his thirst. I can read the anger in his movements, it's familiar and, at the same time, completely new. Bruce fucks me like he resents me, comforting me every once in a while just to make sure I'm fine. And that's when I can hear it, that hint of desperation in his voice.

At some point, I'd say a second away from reaching the top of frustration and the bottom of lucidity, he flips me over and grips my hips. His plump lips brush against my spinal column and kiss the emptiness away, as his body reconnects with mine.

I feel like I could've loved Bruce. Maybe, if only we met in different circumstances and if we were different people. We would've worked all day and partied all night, not giving a fuck about what people would've said. At some point, our lives would've intersect one another and one of us would've come up with the stupid idea of becoming lovers after a night of passion. A very drunk night of passion. I would've accepted his terms cause he would've given me no choice, as he would've done from that moment on. He would've been as hot as he is now while fucking me behind a pile of amps every night, his fans unaware of what was going on a few meters away from them. He would've pinned my body there and I would've let him do it, cause he would've been the only exception. And I would've been his. He would've let me fuck him in the darkness of our hotel room, behind closed doors. He would've let me get him drunk enough to blabber about love and such idiot things that find no place in our world.

Then again, he would've hated it. Hated it like he meant it. Hated me like he meant it. He has his own way to do, as if he is the good guy and you are the bad one. That's another side of Bruce's soul, so far from the smiley dork who jumps up and down all over the stage. He would've hated it because, somehow, I feel like relationship are not made for people like me and him. He knows who he is. He would've run away, he would've betrayed me, like my beloved ones always happen to do behind my back. He would've hated me just like he is doing now. No, not like now. Now he's calm. Now he's miles away from that other slut. Now I can pretend he loves me and he can pretend I'm just a random guy he picked up at the bar. Feed the lie, he likes to and you know you do too. Would he have beaten me up, too? Would I have allowed him to do it? It would've wrecked me like he does and I would've hated myself for needing it. But he would've been the only exception, after all. It wouldn't have mattered how hard I could've been wishing for things to change. Cause he is the only exception, after all.

But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate.

He yanks on my hair and repeats my name as a mantra, as if, after all, it means something to him. It's funny even to think that he still remembers it. A random rockstar picks up a rather random guy, who happens to be a rockstar as well, at the bar and remembers his name. Mind blowing, uh? Some people could think he did it a thousand times, to feed the lie and play pretend not to give in to his emotions. But said people can't hear us here. They can't hear him calling my name like he always does in that ridiculous English accent of his. And so, the pretense goes on and on and on. And we are like strangers again.

At the bar, I thought he was drunk. He probably wished I was drunk.

To say that for destruction ice.

Now I also wish I was drunk.

Is also great and would suffice.

I once heard the world will end in fire. I now know, it wasn't mine.

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Comment by: Anonymous [Login or Register]

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Comment by Pigatron - 01/01/17 - 10:36PM
I like the way you integrated the poem into the text. It was like another layer to the story. Mustaine's inner thoughts were really interesting throughout, sad though, and the ending was quite heavy, I had to read it twice. Oh, and, "Now he's miles away from that other slut." :) Who might that be, I wonder.

Julietds's response: Thank you dear! That's one of my favorite poems, I'm glad it fitted with the story. Also I'm fond of drama, in case you couldn't tell. Haha. The romantic triangle reference is open to suggestion, so...let there be crack pairing fantasies, I say ;) Sorry for the late reply and thanks again for your support!
Comment by rockingandwriting - 12/31/16 - 02:23PM
It's rare to read a fic where Mustaine is so insecure like this. I liked the alternative perspective, although it was a little unsettling to read Bruce as a slightly cold and emotionless guy (or was that just Mustaine's paranoia talking ?) Great use of the poem too, it seems to tie the whole story together well. I really liked this. Well done!

Julietds's response: Thank you very much! You got it right, I wanted to portrait Bruce as seen through Mustaine's eyes, considering the whole story was written with his pov. I wanted to expose Dave's more tender and insecure side, the one that induces him to be wary of his lover since he got it bad and he's afraid of losing such a "free spirit" as Bruce. Anyway I hope it wasn't too confusing, I'm glad you enjoyed it :D


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Delicious, simply delicious babe <3 Tried to post a comment before but the site crashed xD Well, now I'm about to go to bed so it's even better. Was kinda starved already. Perfect, well worth all the wait! :D —redpen, for sassyjumper's Blank Inside
Oh sweet shit! I remember this wish! Also remember Axl’s rant 😂.. Jesus Christ I miss the 80s n 90s ... all the men were so pretty 😩.. yes, even though I have told you my thoughts on Axl, I have to admit the man was hot! And this version of Jon you have here in this story.. *fans self* fuhhhhhk he’s so cocky and sure of himself even Axl’s security looked to him for orders😂😂... yay for that, cuz this Axl was so frikken full of himself it made my everything pucker 😖. I’m sad Duff didn’t have a bigger part cuz I loved his trolling.. the shithead😂.. Bonus round.. Jesus. Can’t wrap my head around this pairing but I’m enjoying the shit out of it so far!! Make him your bitch Jonny! I’m in your corner, dude! More please. This is gunna be fantastic! 🦆❤️🤗 —CrazyInBC, for lyndysambora's Muddy Angels
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