Free fiction: Truce. Rockstar m/m for Ms Tushmore on the occasion of her birthday

March 30, 2013 at 11:21 pm | Posted in Free fiction | 1 Comment

A little while ago, Ms Melanie Tushmore announced that what she would really love for her birthday was some fic, written by her writerly friends. Because she is a considerate lass, she left us some prompts to choose from, and when one of the prompts is something that looks like this:


how could I possibly resist?

Scraping in under the deadline by the skin of my teeth, here is some rockstar m/m for your reading pleasure. It features new, never before seen characters, but there is a cameo by everyone’s favourite band manager, for those of you who have read Metal Heart. 🙂 Do I need to warn for swearing and sexual situations? There you go, I just did.


Truce, by Meredith Shayne


“…and with the slanging match between Ezekiel Starr of glam metal outfit Lost Angels and Dave Robinson of pub rockers Spitfire having gone on for a couple of years now, we here at The Drum are kind of surprised to find that the two bands have actually never played on the same bill. However, all that is about to change, with both bands jockeying for position in the line-up of the Big Day Out, which kicks off in Sydney next week before travelling to Brisbane, Melbourne, Adelaide and Perth. Let’s hope the two singers aren’t seated near each other on the plane between gigs, although our money’s on Robinson if it does come to blows, just quietly.”

“Mine is too.” Dave snorted with laughter and took another sip of his beer. Across the rehearsal room, Spitfire’s manager, Dean Jones, rolled up the magazine he was reading from and pointed it at Dave.

“It’s not fucking funny. If you so much as frown in Zeke Starr’s direction, I am going to fucking kill you.”

Dave raised his eyebrows. “How will you even know? You won’t be there.”

“I will be for the Sydney show.” Dean pointed the magazine at him again. “And Karen knows she has to keep a very fucking close eye on all of you fuckwits when you’re out of state. She has my permission to kill you in the most painful way possible the minute any one of you starts acting like an arsehole.”

“Isn’t that the way it always is?” Spitfire’s drummer, Baz, asked from his seat on the drum riser.

“It’s doubly so this time. Quadruply so.” Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “As if last year wasn’t bad enough, with those King Phoenix wankers turning my hair grey, now I’ve got to deal with your bullshit as well.”

“It’ll be fine, Jonesy, don’t you worry. I promise I won’t rough him up unless he provokes me, how’s that?” Dave snorted again. “Although, just his name pisses me off. Ezekiel Starr. Fuck off! What an arsehole. He should have just called himself ‘Ezekiel I’m a fucking wanker,’ and been done with it.” Dave drained his beer, then punted the can into the bin, missed, and got up to retrieve it.

“You know, Robbo, you could always just pull his pigtails and be done with it yourself,” Shane said to Dave from the other side of the room, where he was re-stringing his bass.

Glen, Spitfire’s lead guitarist, laughed around a mouthful of takeaway curry. “Yeah. Or flick his bra.”

Dave flipped the beer can into the bin then headed back to his seat, directing his middle fingers to both sides of the room. “Fuck both of you. I don’t want to pull his pigtails, or flick his bra. Or suck his cock.”

“I don’t know,” Shane said lightly, grinning. “Some of those trousers he wears don’t leave much to the imagination. There’s a good sized package there, I reckon.”

That was true. Not that Dave was going to admit that he’d noticed. “If you’ve spent so much time looking at his cock, you have him.”

There was a flutter of pages and something hit Dave square in the back. Dave turned to see the magazine Dean had been reading from spread out on the floor. He grinned at Dean as Dean ground his teeth, pointed at him and then around at them all. “Listen up, all of you. I am too old for this bullshit. Fucking behave yourselves! If you make it into the press for any other reason than playing a shit-hot gig, your lives will not be worth living, I swear to God.”

With that he turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. For a moment they grinned at each other, shaking their heads.

“Do you think he throws magazines at his missus?” Baz asked, getting up and taking a seat behind his drum kit as Glen finished his dinner and put his plate aside.

“Not bloody likely,” Dave said, picking his guitar up and dropping the strap over his head. “She’d have his guts for garters.”

Shane finished tuning his bass and plugged it into his amp. “He saves all that shit for us.”

“We’re the lucky ones,” Dave said as Glen picked his guitar up and approached his mike. “Take the set from the top?”

“Yep,” was the chorus from beside and behind him, and as Baz counted them in, Dave pushed all thoughts of Zeke Starr from his mind.


The day of the Sydney Big Day Out dawned bright and stinking hot. With parking at a premium at the Showground, Dean picked them up in a people mover, their gear being dealt with separately by their crew. Dave sat quietly while sweat trickled down the small of his back underneath his t-shirt, not for the first time wishing they were the kind of band who wore shorts on stage. His hair was as warm as a blanket where it draped over his bare shoulders, and he pulled an elastic out of his pocket and gathered it back into a ponytail just to get it the fuck off his neck.

They retreated to the backstage drinks tent as soon as they got there, Dave alternating between water and beer so he’d stay at least vaguely hydrated. Dean disappeared almost immediately, his phone glued to his ear as he made sure everything was sorted for their set. Dave had been thrilled to discover they were on the main stage, the one the headliners played on, and at four o’clock too, a damn sight better than last year’s BDO where they’d played one of the tiny side stages at lunchtime, more towards the start of the day than the end of it. He’d been less thrilled to discover that Starr and Co. were scheduled for the big stage too, and even worse, were on after them. Immediately after them, not after sunset or anything, but still. The solid, sweaty rock of Spitfire ran rings around the glam faux metal crap that was Starr’s specialty, and it grated on Dave that people were too dazzled by the pretty, eyeliner-smeared, glitter-dusted, pleather-wearing arsewipe that was Zeke Starr to realise that.

Speaking of the fucking wanker, there didn’t seem to be any sign of him. Dave curled his lip as it occurred to him that Starr might think he was too good to hang around backstage, even if it was the VIP area, and his stomach soured. He went to get another beer to settle it down.

When he got back to the boys, Glen said to him, “We’ve still got a couple of hours to wait yet. Some of the others wanted to go and check out some of the other bands. Want to come?”

Dave nodded and took a swig of his beer. “Sure. Who do you want to—”

Just then, a group of about ten people walked into the drinks tent, at the head of which was Zeke Starr. His long blond hair was teased so that it stuck up at least a couple of inches from the top of his head, and while it cascaded over his shoulders, it didn’t move a millimetre as he walked. He was wearing extremely tight, shiny red trousers, black patent leather Doc Martens, and a black fishnet singlet top. He had so much black shit around his eyes he looked like a panda, the contrast even more stark because he was so pale he practically fucking glowed. His band were similarly dressed, a little less flamboyant maybe, but still clearly members of the same hairspray glitter cult.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dave said under his breath, rolling his eyes. “Here comes the glam gang.”

In his peripheral vision, Dave saw Glen turn to look, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Zeke Starr. He watched as Starr and his entourage headed straight for them, Starr looking over and meeting his gaze. Dave watched the flash of recognition in Starr’s eyes turn mischievous, and his heart thumped hard against his ribs as Starr started to smirk. As he got closer, Dave saw the woman next to Starr take his elbow, as if in anticipation of a kerfuffle. Starr kept his smug gaze locked with Dave’s as they walked past, but didn’t stop or say anything, finally looking away as he stepped past him.

Dave’s gaze dropped to Starr’s plastic-covered arse as if there was an invisible string pulling it there, and before he’d even formed a conscious thought, he said, “Nice trousers.”

Dimly, he heard someone behind him groan, but all he could concentrate on was the fact that Starr had neatly pivoted, tearing free of the woman who held him to get in Dave’s face, stepping so close they were practically nose to nose. Dave’s heart started racing again, and he felt a start of surprise at the fact that they were the same height; Dave was six foot five and built like a brick shithouse, and there weren’t many people who stood eye to eye with him. He certainly hadn’t expected a whippet-thin glam rocker with the bluest eyes Dave had ever seen to be one of them.

“They are, aren’t they?” Starr said smoothly, and Dave could feel Starr’s breath on his mouth. He suppressed a shiver. “So shiny, and they make my arse look fucking fantastic.” He smirked again, then pulled back to cast a heated gaze over Dave’s body, and Dave’s stomach clenched at the look in his eyes. “Well then, you are a big boy in real life, aren’t you, Robinson? Tell me,” he stepped closer once more, and suddenly there was a leg between Dave’s, pressing up into Dave’s balls, against his cock, “Are you big all over? Enquiring minds want to know.”

Dave felt like he couldn’t get enough air, and his heart was trying to choke him, but that didn’t stop his hands from coming up and fisting in the fishnet barely covering Starr’s chest. Before things could go any further, Dave felt hands on his back and shoulders grabbing at him, and Dean’s voice rang out across the tent.

“Robinson, don’t you fucking dare! Karen, get him!”

Spitfire’s tour manager Karen was suddenly at his side, saying something, fuck knew what because he wasn’t listening, too busy glaring at Starr to care. Dave didn’t let go of Starr’s shirt, but then the hands on him started pulling him back, and Starr’s smirk widened into a grin as he was pulled back too, and Dave was forced to let him go. Starr kept smirking at him as he was shuffled away, and Dave kept looking until Starr turned away to look where he was going and the hands holding Dave finally loosened.

“Oh my fucking God,” Shane wheezed from beside him, doubled over and pissing himself laughing. “That was amazing. He pulled your pigtails! This tour is going to be the best one ever.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Dean said to Shane as he marched up to them, then turned his ire on Dave. “What the fuck did I tell you? Am I going to have to put you on a fucking leash? There’s press all over this tent, and they are going to be all over you in a minute, so make yourself scarce until your set.” When Dave didn’t move, Dean grabbed him, turned him and shoved him towards the exit. “I mean it. Don’t come back until it’s time for you to go on. And do not, under any circumstances, talk to anyone from the media about this, and that is final. I am not putting up with any bullshit from you.”

“Come on, mate, let’s get out of here,” Glen said, grabbing Dave and a still-laughing Shane by the wrist. “We’ll meet Baz by the red stage and have a wander for a couple of hours until everyone’s cooled down.”

Dave let himself be led, but just before they left the tent he looked back to see Zeke Starr watching him, smirking at him. Dave turned his back and tried to pretend Starr didn’t exist.

That worked until mid-way through Spitfire’s set, when Dave turned to get some water off the drum riser between songs and found Starr at the side of the stage. Fuming, Dave kept eye contact while he took a drink and then turned his back again, but for the rest of the set his back itched like Starr’s gaze was boring into it, and it was all he could do to keep from looking over to see if he was still there. When Dave did finally turn, to go off stage, Starr was gone, and Dave felt a weird mix of annoyance and relief. He went backstage to get another drink, but when the first song of Lost Angels’ set started belting out from the stage, Dave begged off the post-show partying and nabbed a taxi home to spend the night staring at his bedroom ceiling in the dark.


As the show moved from Sydney to the Gold Coast, and then onto Melbourne, the Spitfire and Starr camps did their best to keep Dave and Zeke apart, and they were pretty successful. Dave was unfailingly polite to the press, deflecting all questions about his war with Zeke Starr with non-committal platitudes under the evil eye of Karen, prompting Shane to joke that when he retired from music he should go into politics. Starr still watched Spitfire’s set from the side of the stage, and Dave valiantly tried to ignore him. At the Gold Coast gig, Dave went to watch the bands on the smaller stages when Lost Angels were on, but in Melbourne he stayed backstage and chatted to the other musicians hanging around, one ear on his conversations and one ear on the music. At the Adelaide show, he snuck off by himself and stood on the edge of the empty side of the stage, behind a pile of equipment, watching Starr put everything he had into whipping the crowd up into a shouting, foot-stomping frenzy.

There was always a party after the show, either backstage if the headliners hadn’t been on yet, or back at the hotel if they had. Starr was always there, surrounded by a gaggle of people and holding court, but at the Adelaide after-party he was noticeably absent. Dave stuck it out for about half an hour, then piked out to go to bed. He had the hotel room to himself this time, Glen having relatives in Adelaide that he’d elected to stay with instead, and a room to yourself while on tour was something to be cherished. But he’d no sooner had a shower and dried his hair off than there was a knock on the door.

Pulling some jeans and a t-shirt on, he went to answer it. The slim man on the other side of it was in his mid-twenties, dressed in an old grey t-shirt and worn blue jeans, with battered red Converse on his feet. He had one arm outstretched, his hand on the doorjamb propping him up, and one foot resting on top of the other as he leaned against the door. In his other hand he held a six-pack of beer. His blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the base of his neck, and his stubble glinted golden in the light of the hallway. He had the bluest eyes that Dave had ever seen, and…holy shit. Holy fucking shit.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he said, his heart doing its best to slam right through his ribs and out of his chest.

Starr laughed. “Well, I thought since we’d both given our babysitters the slip, I’d bring you a peace offering.” He held up the beer, swinging it slightly on one finger. “Going to let me in, big man?”

Dave stared at him for a moment longer, then stepped back, opening the door wider so that Starr could come in. And Starr did, strolling into the room looking like the cat who’d got the cream. He walked straight over to the table under the window and put the beers down, tearing the pack open and getting two bottles out, opening both and holding one out to Dave.

Dave stood with the closed door at his back, still staring. “You look so different without all that shit on your face. And normal hair.”

Starr snorted. “Yeah, that’s the point.” He waved the beer he was holding at Dave, raising his eyebrows. “Come on, Robinson, come get your beer.”

Dave hesitated a moment longer, then crossed the room, taking the bottle—without noticing for a second how their fingers brushed when he did it, not one fucking second—and leaning against the table before taking a long swallow. He had a million questions to ask, not least being how Starr had known he’d left the party and gone to his room, but before he could decide which one to ask first, Zeke spoke.

“Saw you watching our set today.” He took a swig of his beer and raised an eyebrow, smiling a little.

Busted. Dave felt his face heat, and he shrugged, taking another mouthful of beer. “I was curious.” He paused. “You know how to put on a show, I’ll give you that.”

“But you hate the show.” Zeke stepped closer, so they were facing each other. “The makeup, the glitter, the clothes…you hate all that.”

Dave swigged his beer again, glancing at Zeke’s mouth before looking at his eyes. “I just think that the music should stand on its own, that’s all. Music shouldn’t need all that stuff to be good.”

“It doesn’t need it, but it doesn’t hurt it either.” Zeke stepped closer, so that they were as close as they could be without touching, and Dave’s heart picked up its pace. “You put on a show too, you know,” Zeke said, his voice soft and smooth. “All those people, clapping when you want them to clap, singing with you, singing for you. Reaching for you when you reach out to them.”

Zeke swallowed and put his beer down on the table, and when he spoke again he sounded a little breathless, and just like that, Dave’s breath was coming quicker too. “It’s no wonder they want to touch you though. Who wouldn’t?” Zeke’s fingers trailed lightly up Dave’s arm, making him shiver. “So tall, so strong, all that beautiful, dark silky hair and the smouldering bedroom eyes to match it.” Zeke’s hand had slid up his arm and over his shoulder, and was now on the back of his neck, thumb stroking his jaw. “And the way you move, so graceful for someone so big. So sexy.”

Dave could actually see Zeke’s breaths coming fast now, could see his chest rising and falling. He let go of the table with his free hand and slid his arm around Zeke’s waist, pulling him in the scant inch that separated them, settling their groins together and making them both gasp. They stood cheek to cheek, pressed together, panting, and Dave could feel Zeke’s heart racing where their chests touched. Zeke’s hands were on his shoulders, kneading gently, and Dave scraped his stubble against Zeke’s as he spoke.

“We’re supposed to hate each other,” he whispered. “What about all the things we’ve said? What’s all that been, then?”

Dave felt more than heard Zeke laugh, and he shivered again as Zeke pulled back and whispered against his mouth, “Foreplay, Dave, that’s what it’s been. Two years of really fun foreplay.”

Dave’s brain went oh, while his cock went oh fuck yes, and then all higher thought processes came to an end as Zeke pressed his mouth to Dave’s and kissed him breathless.

Dave thumped his beer down on the table, not giving a shit about the liquid splashing out onto his hand when he did it. Wrapping both arms around Zeke’s waist, he pushed away from the table and walked him backwards towards the bed. They fell onto it, Zeke laughing into Dave’s mouth as he pressed him into the mattress. They writhed around, getting each other’s clothes off as fast as they could, t-shirts and jeans going flying, shoes hitting the floor with a thump. Then Dave found himself on his back on the bed, with a very lithe, very naked glam rocker moving on top of him.

Dave groaned and tightened his arms around Zeke as Zeke bit at his throat and continued thrusting against him. “Keep that up and this won’t last as long as I want it to.”

“It better. I want my ride.” Zeke sat up, the fingers of one hand playing with Dave’s nipple, the other wrapping around his cock to give it a lazy stroke. “Condoms and lube?”

Dave jerked his head towards his suitcase. “There’s a zippered pocket at the back. They’re in there.”

He watched as Zeke got up and padded over to his suitcase, rummaged around for a moment then came back with a strip of condoms and the tube of lube. There were six condoms in the strip, and that made Dave smile. “That’s a bit of wishful thinking, don’t you reckon?”

Zeke grinned. “It never hurts to be optimistic.” As Dave laughed, Zeke straddled his legs, putting the condoms and lube next to them before reaching for Dave’s cock again. “You are big all over. I was hoping you would be.” He stroked Dave lightly and then leaned down and took the head of Dave’s cock into his mouth.

Zeke sucked Dave’s cock until Dave was a quivering, gasping mess locked in an epic struggle to be polite and not just grab Zeke’s head and fuck his mouth like he owned it. Zeke pulled back before Dave had lost all control, luckily, but before Dave could offer to reciprocate, or even catch his breath, Zeke was rolling the condom onto Dave, then slicking him thoroughly before positioning himself and slowly sinking down onto him.

They both groaned, and Dave clutched at Zeke’s hips, once again struggling not to just ram him downwards. “Fuck you’re hot,” he gasped as Zeke swore and threw his head back, his eyes closed and his teeth worrying his bottom lip as he inched downwards.

Zeke didn’t answer until he’d come to a stop, Dave balls-deep inside him. He looked down at Dave, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused, his breathing fast. “You’re not too bad yourself,” he said, his voice rough, before bracing himself against Dave’s chest and starting to move.

Dave’s pulse thundered in his ears as Zeke undulated above him, panting and moaning as he rode Dave’s cock. He was starting to sweat, and his hair was coming loose from its tie, so Dave reached up and tugged it out, then took hold of Zeke’s cock and started to stroke him. Zeke cried out and almost fell forward, kissing Dave frantically, his hair fanning out to either side of them. Dave planted his feet on the bed and thrust up in time with Zeke’s movements, driving himself as deep into Zeke as he could go.

They kept kissing, moaning into each other’s mouths, panting and biting and clutching at each other until Dave couldn’t hang on any longer and came, holding Zeke to him as hard as he could. Dave had only just relaxed when Zeke’s hand covered Dave’s on his cock and their entwined fingers finished him off as well. He slumped on Dave’s chest in a boneless heap.

“Jesus,” Dave gasped, stroking his shaking fingers through Zeke’s hair. “That was something.”

Zeke laughed. “It was something, all right.”


The Perth gig had a different feel to all the other Big Days Out, and Dave didn’t know if that was the venue, the weather, the crowd…or something else. He chose not to examine it too closely. The Spitfire and Starr camps still did their best to keep the two singers apart, but Zeke still watched Spitfire’s set, and when Lost Angels were on, Dave stood at the side of the stage in full view of everyone, and couldn’t bring himself to give a shit who saw him.

The last show of the tour always meant a huge party, but Dave had something else in mind. Leaving for the hotel almost as soon as Lost Angels’ set was over, he paused only to gather a few supplies before heading to the floor above. When he knocked on a particular door it was opened almost immediately, as if the person behind it had been waiting. They were both still in their gig clothes, which for Dave meant jeans and a t-shirt; for Zeke, that meant extremely tight, shiny blue trousers, leopard print Doc Martens, and a black singlet top whose armholes were so big it was amazing he could keep it on at all when he was bounding around the stage. His eyeliner was black, but the glitter around his eyes was blue, to match his trousers. And his eyes.

Dave grinned. “Nice trousers.”

Zeke grabbed him by the t-shirt and pulled him over the threshold. “I know. They’re so shiny.”

Dave stepped right into him as the door closed behind them, sliding his hands down Zeke’s back to grip his backside. “And they make your arse look fucking fantastic.”


Copyright © Meredith Shayne

All the usual disclaimers apply – this is a work of fiction. Any names, places, incidents and events are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual people, incidents or events is entirely coincidental, etc etc.

Thanks to LJ LaBarthe for the read through.


1 Comment »

RSS feed for comments on this post. TrackBack URI

  1. *wibble* I ❤ it so hard!!!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Create a free website or blog at
Entries and comments feeds.


The music behind Melanie Tushmore

Looming in Adelaide

Weaving, Writing, Cooking & Gardening in the 'burbs


love without limits

Pomma's Place

Just another site

%d bloggers like this: