"Cracks" [Pack Street Shipfic, Marty/Ozzy]

“Cracks”

A Marty/Ozzy shipfic by Hasty [Pack Street by Weaver, thank you Weaver]

Edited Version

(straight from the muthafuckin /ztg/)

I called again. Ozzy didn’t pick up. Goddammit.

I mashed the redial button and tried to calm down. Ozzy busked weekend evenings by the payphone on 15th. If you rang up that phone via the directory line, he’d answer, even in the middle of a song. He said he wanted to talk when I left this morning, and I’d told him I would when I got home. Today he didn’t answer, so he wasn’t busking,

so something was wrong.

I’d tried to plan tonight just right. Charlie prowled for easy marks Saturdays and didn’t come back ‘til dawn, so the place was mine. I could look and dress how he felt like. Get all guised up, make a cheap, shitty dinner I can stomach, and relax. I used the routine to get into the role a little --  stickin’ my ass out when taking the cricket tenders out of the oven, checking makeup in the tin mirror over the sink, all that. And after dinner was over and I’d washed the dishes, he’d slither his hot mess around the living room, dancing on air, no one watching.

Guess not today.

A screaming fell across the sky. My bus pulled up.I checked my phone: 5:20 PM (only ten minutes behind) as the October sun went over the skyline and I fumbled for change.

Sitting in the back for twenty minutes let me cool off long enough to start to worry about Ozzy. Ozzy’s favorite thing to do was play his guitar. If Ozzy wasn’t entertaining the public, either he’d been hit by a car or he must be feeling pretty fucking low. I jerked the pull-cord hard enough for it to leave a mark on my knuckles and stood at attention for whenever this fucking pig driver would finally ease over and let me off. The bitch eyed me in the mirror. “Please sit until the bus has come to a complete stop.” I flipped her the bird and waited for her to slam the brakes, whereupon I leapt out the back door and ran down a side street, headed for home.

The stop was only seven blocks from the building but for a stoat that shit adds up, especially when you have a bag of laundry thrown over your shoulder. I felt like my engine’d caught fire when I saw Betty on the steps. Shit. We weren’t on good terms since I called her pudgy on a drunken Tuesday a few weeks back.

“Hello, Marty.” She pulled on her Maverick.

I wheezed for half a second, then as I opened my mouth she cut in - “You just gonna waste my fucking time?”

She put up a fist.

“Fuck you,”

she extended her middle finger and rolled her eyes,

“…you seen Ozzy?”

She paused. “Nah. Hear ‘e hasn’t left his room.” Her frown softened. She started to say something else, but reconsidered, holstered her finger and turned away, pointing her nose toward an air conditioning unit at the top of a nearby tenement. I broke for the lobby.

I slinked through the entryway, trying to keep my breathing low. I was in a shitty mood and if someone harassed me, I’d likely just explode on them when I needed to be finding Ozzy. I skittered up the stairs, pretending not to notice one of the chucklefuck twins calling me out from the benches, and fiddled in my pocket for the keys. After a full half minute of panicked searching I was finally able to get in, kick the door shut behind me, and totter over to the couch, shelving the bag of laundry on the left cushion before hopping onto the right and collapsing in.

I tried to simmer my worry and fury down to something more manageable, think up a plan for this situation.

I couldn’t.

There wasn’t shit to think about, anyway. The only way out was through. Ozzy lived a few doors down and was almost always at home.

I hopped off the couch, braced myself, and walked over to Ozzy’s door.

I rang the bell. No answer.

Knocked, loudly. No answer. This wasn’t unusual. Sometimes he was napping and needed the time to make his way to the door.

I waited a little while, listening to the peculiar way the building breathed on cold days, wind winding through the cracked foundations and up the hollows in the walls, sounding like a sort of sickly river bearing our column up to the sky.

…

I knocked again. A floorboard creaked.

Nothing.

He was hiding from me. I lost it. “FUCK YOU!”

and with that eloquent sendoff I stomped back to my room and slammed the door, diving for my freshly-laundered white skirt and lavender top. Ozzy isn’t about to ruin my evening. If he really fucking needed something, he could just come by. I snatched the makeup out of the box under my bed and started slathering on foundation before I’d even reached the bathroom. When I hopped on my stool and got a look in the mirror, I could see the difference that my anger made in the makeup job, and tried to embrace it. I slashed on eye pencil, smeared grey eyeshadow clear under in a straight line, and fucking laminating my kisser with cheap cherry lipstick.

When I looked in the mirror again I looked more like a fucking whore than anything.

I swore incoherently while I ran my head under the faucet, trying to erase the mess I’d made of myself. My head soaked in water, I stared into the black behind my eyelids, tore at my face and raged. Eventually I surfaced, wiped down my face with a towel and saw I’d scratched myself slightly along the cheek. I hadn’t felt it. I put a little band-aid on it.

It looked cute. Try and look cute.

I looked back in the mirror after the bare-bones second attempt. I had dabbed on foundation carefully this time, just enough to smooth out the tone, and drew higher cheekbones. Good enough. I jumped down, threw on my shoes and just in time, it’s past eight and I was fucking starving.

Martina crossed to the kitchen, trying to wipe the stern look off her face. Martina wouldn’t want to shoot a bus full of kids right now. She’d act naturally. I’ll act naturally. It’ll come to me.

I pawed through the refrigerator and found the package. I sprayed down the baking sheet with discount cooking spray and poured the crickies on it, raking them with my fingers so that none were touching, then threw them in the oven. 375 degrees. I set the timer for ten minutes, and moved to sit down, but I kept pacing instead, treading the floor. The oven rang, and I took out the crickies. Perfectly done. Call me Gordon Ramsey. I grabbed a plate, some ketchup, and a few crickies, but instead of eating I just stared at the floor.

This wasn’t working. I was stuck in the same shitty mood, and because of it I couldn’t act right, couldn’t quit being an arrogant asshole for five fucking minutes and be someone nice for a change. And I’d just told my best friend to fuck off.

The door slammed against the wall. It was Ozzy.

We looked at each other for a couple of seconds, dumbstruck, before either of us thought to move or speak. His eyes quivered while his mouth strained upward in an exaggerated “neutral” gaze, and as he shut the door behind him his cheeks pulled down slightly, his mouth opening to utter a nonlingual grunt of confusion.

I halfheartedly screamed, screeched rather, then choked out a sob that led to a full crying fit. I boiled over, frustrated that I couldn’t seem to control myself or my life. Generally that came out as rage, but tonight I felt cheated, betrayed, by myself as much as anyone else. He walked over and sat beside me on the couch, just looking me over, watching grey tears stain my face, drip to my lap, blot out across the cream skirt in rings, at first pouring like rain but slowly easing to a patter.

It felt like a long time. I only noticed he had put an arm over my shoulder after I stopped. I took a few breaths, and summoned the courage to turn and face him. He was forcing a smile. There were long red streaks down his face. He had been crying.

Fucking christ. I’m moaning like a drama queen and he’s the one hurting. I tried to pull myself together.

“…are you doing okay, man?”

“Yeah. I was just down today.”

“Why? Is something wrong? Do you want to talk about it?”

He took a minute to answer. I ground my teeth to dust waiting.

“…Nothing’s wrong. Some days I just worry I’m only playing for myself.” He paused. “I want others to like my songs, take ‘em in, you know? And I feel like that doesn’t happen. They just clap to make me happy. I don’t know if it means anything to them. For me it’s all the meaning I think I have. Sometimes that just eats me is all.”

Where to start? “Dude, you’re the best fucking guy on Pack Street. You’re kind, you’re honest, you care about people. Just being around you is like therapy. I bet the others are pissed you weren’t!”

I meant it but it sounded fake. His face hardened. I tried again.

“When I hear you play I hear a man baring his soul for the world to see. Real fucking artistry. You can express yourself like no one on Pack Street.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

He bit his lip. “…why are you dressed like a girl?”

He was my best friend. He deserved the truth. “I like to dress as a woman.” I took a breath and tried to explain myself. “It’s more than just a sexual thing. It’s a way of being someone else. Someone without all the baggage of my own life.” What a fucking joke, with your voice cracking in the middle. Tell him the truth. “…It makes me feel like I can let go. Not hate everything. Demur and shit, not be in charge all the fucking time.” Just fucking say it, you coward. “…let myself be attached to somebody. Let them just take me, like, fuckin’, trust them. Trust myself that I’ll believe them. Love somebody,     like,     ”

I didn’t know how to say it, so I just let the sentence hang there. We sat in silence a few minutes. I think I said too much. He took his arm and pulled me right into his chest, lifting me off of my feet and holding my whole body against his belly, and curled his chin around my head. I felt hot tears roll down onto my back, and I tried to stifle my own cries against him while I wrapped my arms as far as I could around his torso. He moved his hands to the small of my back and held them there, both of us holding each other.

“Marty -- … you want me to call you something else?”

I choked on my answer. “I’m no different, man.”

“… It’s okay to need other people. You look very nice. Please don’t cry.”

He brought his face against mine, rubbing his muzzle against the side of my face. I pushed my head against him, feeling his hot breath against me,

did I have a fucking hardon?

I did. Fuck me. I pushed myself away from his chest and he set me down on the couch again. I scurried away and shoved my hands into my groin, making a face to pretend I needed the space. Ozzy looked hurt. “Did I go too far?” There were tears in his eyes. Any hesitation in my answer was a yes.

“No, I’m just… a little shook up right now.” The quiet was suffocating. His arm reached across my back again. He moved his body in front of me, pulling his head back so it wouldn’t seem so imposing. He stared away at the wall while he spoke, unexpectedly clear.

“Marty, do you see us as just friends?”

He turned his head to me. “Nothing more?”

How did he know?

“nuh-uh.”

I generally didn’t tell people that about me. Pred culture was pretty strict about this. Boys with girls. If you are otherwise, keep your fucking mouth shut and cruise prey territory. Boss them around. Call them faggots. They’re into that shit anyway.

I had known Ozzy a few years. He and Charlie were the only people I really considered my friends. I knew I could trust him. But tonight, right now, he was looking at me with eyes I didn’t recognize, looking at my body, and I didn’t know how to feel, or more importantly how to react. He turned away a moment to try and hide a sniffle, then turned back with a smile.

“You’re someone real special to me, okay?”

I nodded. I curled up a little. He cupped me with his hands and brought me to his face,

and we kissed, just like that, his wet nose twitching against the top of my head, his hot breath warming my cheeks, my eyes shut tight as he laid himself down on the sofa and pulled me with him. He pulled away for a second and slipped off my top with one hand, then brought me back in and locked lips, petting my back with his left hand while his right kept my head suspended and level with his.

He moved his left hand to take down the skirt. I involuntarily curled up, tremoring violently, embarrassed.

“Jesus, honey, stop shaking so much, please.” He was full of shit. I could feel his hands jittering. He moved his hand to the wet spot on my panties.

“If you want me to stop, just say something, okay?” I nodded, and tried to slacken my body. The effect was more of moving from having a grand mal seizure to just twitching. He chuckled at my obvious case of nerves. I raised my head and glared, but I was still misty eyed, so it didn’t have the intended effect, judging from his move to kiss me again.

He pulled the panties down and off my legs while our lips were together, and I felt my dick cooled by the open air, leaking precum. I was entirely exposed. I couldn’t hide anything if I wanted to.

Ozzy pulled me to his belly and laid down on the couch, on his back, cradling me against his fur with one hand while undoing his own belt with the other. He move the forefingers on his claw up to my cock and began slowly stoking me off, rubbing my belly with his thumb at the same time. I cooed automatically.

“When you aren’t screaming, you have a lovely voice.”

I shut my eyes, feeling my cheeks burning as he rubbed my pre all over the shaft, making it slick under his fingers. I opened them again when I heard his pants fall to the floor, and looked down between my feet at his own erection, stiff in the air, musky.

I pushed my head up to kiss him on his chin, and he moved his head to return it, while my hips began to rock back and forth impatiently against his hand. Ozzy took his other hand and brought it to my head, rubbing my chin and cheeks while he picked up the pace with his other paw. My tail twitched, brushing against his cock, while I panted at the sensation. My whole body was being caressed, pleasured. Ozzy smiled down at me.

“Are you gonna blow soon?”

“mm-hmm.” I moaned, and he slowed down his pace, leaving me on edge, feeling like the tip of my cock was going to explode. “Your face is all screwed up. It’s cute.” He rocked his hand across my rod slower and slower, tugging at the tip before pulling down the length with his palm. “You like being like this? All pent up?” His smile widened. “ ‘Cause you seem to be.” I was too gone to speak, instead just grinding my hips against him, my dick aching. He gave one last long tug and moved his paw down slightly to fondle my asshole. The sensation was incredible, and I shot my load, whimpering as my dick spurted across my chest and onto his fingers. He kept lightly pushing at my backdoor until I’d finished, moving his other hand to my belly to feel me breathe, rubbing my tummy.

I knew what I wanted to do. I sat up and shimmied down to his cock, by now leaking a thick stream of precum down the shaft. “Hungry?”, Ozzy chided. Fucker. I stuck my nose at the base, and licked up the stream from the bottom to the top. He moaned in appreciation. I loved to take a dick in my mouth. Makes you feel like a pervert saying it, but it’s true, it turned me on like nothing else. But I’d never done this with somebody this… large before. My little paws weren’t big enough to wrap around his girth, so instead I pushed the top half of my body flush against his pole and curled my arms around, rubbing myself against him. “Jesus, Marty…” was all he got out before I plunged my mouth over the tip of his dick, and he lost  his words in a gasp as I licked around the head, taking the beautiful smell deep in.  

I try to move my head down further, but I can only get an inch down before I feel the head prodding at my tonsils. I try to stifle a choke while I pull back up, and slowly work into a rhythm, bobbing my head down while pulling my body up, then easing up the shaft again while pushing my body down. I let the speed build, allowing my body to go out of sync with my head and tug faster and faster at his dick. Ozzy put his hand on my head and started forcing it down, keeping my lips locked on his cock before letting me come up for air.  I looked up at him –

“You gonna cum soon?”

He chuckled as his face tensed. “Well, if you’re gonna say it like that…”

I took all that I could into my mouth and pulled myself tight against him, feeling the first spasms against my chest as his cum flooded my mouth. I swallowed as much as I could, the excess pouring out of my cheeks and down his length, sticky, hot, viscous.  The first spirts gave way to a slower weep of fluid, and I came up for air before licking his twitching dick clean. I wiped my face and licked off what I had caught on my hands, then crawled onto his belly and spread eagled on top of him, satisfied. It was the best head I’d ever given.

I laid on his stomach a few minutes before I found the presence of mind to say anything. I hobbled off of him onto the other cushion, fumbled for words:

“…I’m sorry I’m such a dirty fucking creep,”

“But you’re MY dirty creep,” he interrupted, pulling up his drawers. “You’re no creep. Just …odd.”

I shook my head. He leaned over and used his hand to hold my head in place.

“When you dress like this you try to show a side of yourself that’s beautiful. Just because that side is different doesn’t make it not you.”

…

“I love you, Marty.”

“…I love you, too.”  

We paused, and listened to the wind whistle through the walls as it raced upwards. Its cold radiated out from the cracks in the ceiling, and against its chill I threw on random clothes from the laundry sack.

“…What are-“

“Shhhh.” and he picked me up, patted my head and tucked it along his shoulder blade,

“we can talk in the morning.”

I dreamed of a wintertime lunch in the countryside, wearing a jacket with patched sleeves, staring at an ocean of snow that followed the hills as they rose higher and higher into the fog.