The Duke

70′s Mixup - { Duke & David } RP

The Duke fumbled in agitation with his bowtie. He wasn’t quite certain what brought him here. Here, Los Angeles, in the dying days of 1976. A warm winter, sun low in the sky yet warm enough to beat like sheet metal down on the Duke’s pale skin. His skin burnt easily in the sun, and the uppers which he’d downed that morning only exacerbated his overwarmth. Out of lust after shelter from the tyranny of the elements, more than anything else, the Duke entered the venue to which he had been guest-listed.

It was a press conference, a press conference for the release of an album by a man named David Bowie. David Bowie. The name reminded him of some happy thing, some happy time, people, faces, bodies, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. That dream was long since gone.

When David arrived, chauffeured in a dark yellow limousine, the Duke was not paying attention. He paced on the spot, swinging his legs to the side and back again, flipping his hat up and down. A woman approached him. He barely took notice. The woman - more a girl, really, couldn’t have been more than 20 - said something, something in a tone like the Duke imagined trying to eat heavy syrup out of the tin. He swatted her away. He didn’t have time for women today. He didn’t have time for this unnatural winter heat and this silly conference. If anything, it was even warmer inside the building. The Duke took off his hat and held it under his arm.

The event was coming to an end. Many women, and a couple of men, had approached the Duke in apparent proposition, but he had given them all the selfsame disregard. He was, however, growing interested in meeting this “David Bowie”. The Duke walked towards the exit, unsteady on his feet, and waited for the crowd to file out. He had very little patience. He twiddled his thumbs, played with the sunglasses which he had forgotten to remove upon coming indoors, slipped them up onto his pristine ginger combover, and waited, and waited, and waited.

An inhumanly familiar face strode from the crowd. A man just short of six foot, dark blond hair in disarray, with the very same heterochromic eyes as the Duke himself. The Duke suppressed a gasp. David Bowie.

“I think you and I need to talk.” It took a second for it to hit the Duke that Bowie was talking to him. He looked up, pocketing his sunglasses and replacing his hat, straightening his waistcoat and jacket, adjusting his bowtie - masquerading dignified and sober as best he could. It worked quite well, the Duke believed. Yes, he was quite satisfied with it. Bowie continued, looking directly into the Duke’s near-identical eyes. “ - but not here. Come with me to Berlin, would you?”

“Why, of course”, answered the Duke. “I’ve never been to Berlin, I don’t think. My memory fails me. But, either way, I would certainly like to come to Berlin.”

David ran his fingers through his hair, same voice too. Twilight Zone material. He turned to the large men who had escorted him in, he was very much a recluse lately and it was actually a miracle they had managed to get him out here at all since John’s murder. With a simple nod given to them, the men came towards David, who glanced at Duke and gestured for him to follow. The bouncers did a double take, flanking both David and Duke and giving each other odd looks, shrugging and just clearing a path so the pair could get out into the limo quickly and safely.

{ “Airport,” } David instructed the driver, { “and make it snappy.” }

They were going to need another ticket, being this close to the holidays it was not going to be easy but he was sure they’d be able to arrange something for him. David reached over and adjusted the setting for the air-con, not a fan of sweat and disliking to show up anywhere driping with it.

{ “You’re really him, aren’t you?” } David looked to the man seated beside him, { “you’re the.. Duke.. “ } But how? And why? He’d abandoned that persona, was he suffering a bad trip just now? He did take a little something to calm him nerves before his arrival..

A small, torpedo-shaped pill lay in the Duke’s palm as he settled in to the car. He needed something if he were to go on a plane. Planes truly scared him. This particular pill would also help with the stimulant side-effects which had rendered him so shambling and so shaky a ll evening.

The Duke smiled a little at David’s question, finding it somewhat slightly sing-song silly. Somewhat, slightly, sing, song, silly. Mm. The Duke’s thoughts were still a little scattered, and he had to mentally rehearse his every move. Arms, inside the car, firmly on the armrests. Legs, crossed, one over the other. (Keep shoes pristine. Keep trousers crisp.) Head, turned towards David.

The Duke spoke - a crisp deep voice, iReceived Pronunciation accented with L.A. - no faltering at all.

“Yes, that is correct; I am the Thin White Duke. I’m looking forward to Berlin already.”

The Duke clapped his hands, as slowly as if he were applauding an opera, grinning wildly. He turned his wonky-toothed face to David.

“Aren’t you? I’m very much looking forward to hearing what you have to say… David.”

“I’m a little nervous to be honest,” David sighed, getting out of the limo to camera flashes blinding him and feeling irritable for it, the six hefty guards escorting he and Duke into the airport. Once they got inside, it was quieter and the guards spread out to vet the place for safety reasons.

David took Duke over to the counter and they purchased a last minute ticket, the woman behind the computer gave them a hard time until she tiredly glanced up and suddenly straightened her back. She smiled at Duke and offered him instantly a first class seat right alongside David’s.

David lifted a brow, then followed Duke over to the waiting area.

“Would you quit looking so damn smug?” he grinned amusedly, eyes somewhat envious as he took out his valium.

An airport security guard suddenly descended upon him at once, hauling him up by the arm and scrambling to remove the possibly ilicit substance from the easily recognized rock star’s clenched fist.

“Stop touching me!” he growled, “it’s just a fucking sedative!”

The Duke was momentarily amused. Here was himself, just having got away with downing barbiturates, and here was his new partner-in-crime, David, being somewhat brutally accosted by airport security for a fucking benzodiazepine before we’d even reached the plane. Schadenfreude, that’s what those Berliners would call this - “harm joy”, to translate it word-for-word. Then, he came to his senses.

The Duke bounced to his feet like an overwound spring, and, with a strength unexpected of a man so apparently brittle, kicked the security guard, hard, between the legs. He went on to knee him in the stomach and give him a punch in the side of the head. The security guard reeled, half-conscious. If we were in a comic, twittering birds would be orbiting his head. Finally, the Duke wrapped his hands around the security guard’s throat.

"Do you know what it’s like to be afraid of flying?“ ” Hm?“

David stumbled forwards as the security guard was forced to let go, the man’s body reeling backwards and David clutched his fist tightly, looking around with wide eyes as Duke came to his aid. He wasn’t good with confrontations and this sort of situation generally ended with an embarrassing and overly invasive cavity search.

The security guard swooned heavily, unable to focus right and the six burly males who protected David were making a beeline towards the star right then and there, having noticed the commotion by now.

“I’m s.. s-sorry,” the guard slurred, trying to cower away and grab for his baton.

David was not a fighter, he shook with the adrenaline but he’d be alright, thanks to the Duke’s swift actions and he fully appreciated the gesture, gratitude radiating from his wide eyes. The bodyguards arrived, but they did not interfere without David’s command.

“Duke,” David called gently, “darling, it’s not worth prison.. “

“… Hm?”

The Duke paused, and released the security guard. The guard stumbled backwards, unsteady, and, after some tottering and empty grasps at supports which weren’t there, crumpled to the cold polished floor. His baton rolled away. The temptation took the Duke to pick it up and give the guard one last thorough going-over, but, upon David’s words, he resisted.

“You… you make a good point, Davy. Nothing is worth prison.”

The arrivals board: Berlin, 09:25. The current time, shining in individual round lights from from the ticker-tape electronic clock above the board: 09:20. Announcements rang out from the PA system. The Duke strode towards the gate, turning to watch David follow.

David hurried after Duke, not bothering to look back because he knew it’d only cause further delay if the security guard decided to be a cunt about the whole situation.

Boarding the plane was a smooth transition and David took his pill with a glass of water before anyone else tried to stop him. Feeling better now that he knew he’d relax, David settled into the cushy seats of first class travel and put his feet up.

“Forgive me if I’m a bit of a bore,” David apologized in advance, “but I think you’d appreciate the sleep as much as I would.” Although sometimes the sedative made him sleepy, other times it added a bit of a giggle to him depending on what else he might have taken beforehand. He reached up, switching on the cool air conditioning.

“Hey, listen. Thank you for the help back there but.. I don’t understand how you’re even here,” David looked at Duke, reclined and ready to be lulled into a drowsy state, “it doesn’t make any sense.. “

He turned his gaze skywards. “I killed Ziggy, I left you behind.. don’t tell me he’s still around, too?” David mused to himself but loud enough for Duke to hear, “I must be sicker than I thought.. I need serious help.. “

The Duke crossed and uncrossed his legs, switching them over again and again, restless already. He hoped to sleep through this. Christ, how he hated flying! And there beside him was David, the spit and image of himself, a taller, more healthily built take, sure, but still so uncannily like himself. He could not put his finger on it! The Duke slammed a fist against the armrest in frustration. He could not put his finger on a damned thing.

Angry with himself, the Duke threw his feet against the back of the seat in front. "Sleep?" The Duke scowled. "Do you think there's a snowball's chance that I may be able to sleep with your incessant questioning in my ear? And with the incessant undulating and fucking shaking and shuddering of - " the Duke flung an arm about his aluminium confines " - this thing?"

The plane rolled along the runway, and the Duke screwed his eyes shut, stamping a foot against the seat in front, leaving a hairline crack behind his polished black loafer.

#about #my computer is fixed

The Return of the Thin White Duke

Throwing darts in lovers' eyes, as ever.

@bowieakajohn @spaceboy-ziggy @bowie-1977 @saraahwilliams

Hey Duke. It's me, Tommy. Hope you're doing well :-)

Hello, and thank you, Tommy. I’ve been missing you. Other than that, I am quite happy, content. Stay in contact, Tommy.

#answers #anonymous

Ziggy/Duke RP

@thinwhitelight said: Wake up, Ziggy…I’ve made you breakfast.

**

Ziggy shifts and opens his big blue eyes, gaze traversing hungrily over Duke’s body. “Is it quite a big breakfast, Duke?” he wonders, coy smile, suggestive and desiring.

Los Angeles, April 1976. It is raining hard, the skies the solid matte grey colour of the moon. The Thin White Duke hurries back from the shops, rapid authoritative strides, reaching his block at quarter to ten. Searching his pockets, the Duke thinks for a moment that he has lost his keys. He finds them, however, and, in his daze, swipes his entry card. Soon, he is at his apartment. Three spare bedrooms. One of which contains Ziggy Stardust. The Duke opens the door, Ziggy’s door and, imitating icy composure, says to the half-sleeping spaceboy: “Wake up, Ziggy. I’ve made you breakfast.”

Warm and snug, cozy under his blankets and a pretty duvet he’d customized with sequins, Ziggy peered out from his cocoon of fabrics and stifled a yawn, humming to stretch his body and wriggle his toes.

“Mmm, I am really hungry,” Ziggy responded eagerly, big blue eyes trailing over Duke, “I hope there’s a lot of it.”

The room is warm, perhaps too warm for the Duke. He shifts on the spot, uncomfortable, and loosens his white silk bowtie. He is shaking slightly. He surveys the room as though it is unfamiliar to him, inspecting every one of the paintings and photographs, paintings which he had painted, photographs featuring himself, as if they were alien to him. Then, coming round, he looks upon Ziggy, up and down, from disarrayed hair to toes protruding from the bedclothes. You don’t seem terribly well today, Ziggy.“ He lays his hands upon Ziggy’s glittery duvet, fingering the fabric. “I think that - a nice, big breakfast would do you the power of good.” The Duke smirks, slim lips twisted. He loosens his shirt a little in the heat. “But it would all depend on you being a good boy.”

Ziggy enjoys the heat, the hotter it is the better he likes it but as they say, opposites attract, right? “Mmm, I’ll be alright Duke,” he smiles and flutters his lashes, “especially now that you’re here. I feel better already.”

He shifts and kicks off the covers, unashamed of his morning erection and licking his lips invitingly. “I promise I’ll behave Duke,” Ziggy pouted faintly, “I’m always good. I’m a very, very good boy.”

The Duke undoes a few more buttons of his shirt. Faltering over one, he realises that he is still wearing his hat. He flings it haphazardly in Ziggy’s direction. “I’m glad that I could make you feel better.” The Duke’s eyes flicker around the room, aimless, but eventually land upon Ziggy’s glistening body, reptilian in its grace in such an awkward posture. “A very good boy?” Ponderous, the Duke comes to a stop. Time appeares to freeze for him. Then, returned to himself, he says, with that curled-lip half-snarl: “Let’s see.” Still fully clothed, with the exception of a few shirt buttons undone, jacket and waistcoat eccentrically intact, he climbs over Ziggy’s body.

Ziggy startles at the hat, grimacing and pushing it off his bed onto the floor. “Eeww!” he shudders, “it’s wet!” The rainy weather was making Ziggy feel off color, but as long as he kept watm, he’d survive til Summer.

“Ohh Duke,” Ziggy purred with a shiver at the snarl, he lay back into the pillows and shuddered suddenly, “eeww.. Duke, you’re soaked!”

Big blue eyes wide and staring, but quick hands unable to help themselves to assist in disposing of the offending clothing.

The Duke likes the rain. It makes him feel like some kind of actor. That was nostalgic for him. It reminded him of better times. He could understand others’ distaste for it, however. For example, he didn’t like walking around in soaking clothes. The Duke apologised cursorily for his wet clothes, with a wave of his skinny white hand. The room temperature had indeed dropped significantly. His numb body had taken a second to notice. “Now, Ziggy -” - his eyes widened in surprise at Ziggy’s forthrightness as Ziggy began to undo his jacket; then, his voice approached a growl as he said - “Ziggy, I want you to stay safe, but, do you really mind all that much if I’m wet? The Duke’s hands strayed to his trouser buttons.

Ziggy’s lips curled up into a coy smile, running his fingertips over Duke’s chest, fingering his nipples and raking his little claws over the gentle bumps of Duke’s ribs.

“Since it’s on you, I guess it’s alright,” Ziggy purred, “I really want to be good for you Duke.”

Eyes half closed and leaning back into the pillows, Ziggy gazed up and touched Duke’s cheek softly, his free hand wandering down over Duke’s flat stomach, now exposed by the open shirt.

He gave a little hum of pleading, slightly feminine in pitch as he parted his thighs and Duke’s lower half gently dropped down between Ziggy’s legs. He was only wearing a long skirt he’d thrown on in a hurry last night, thinking they were flares, nothing more.

Feeling the light touch of Ziggy’s fingers — such long, exquisite, delicate fingers — just the very tips of those beautiful fingers — with such precision — grazing his skin —

— and then, and then, those fingernails — the Duke couldn’t help but gasp. As Ziggy looked up at him, through his long, spidery eyelashes, and reached up to touch his face, the Duke reached down and slapped Ziggy in the face, hard, open hand landing right on his cheekbone.

“You’ll be good for me, Ziggy, all right. I’ll make sure of that.”

The Duke gave a thin smile as he pulled back Ziggy’s skirt.

Ziggy pulled back his hand quickly at the slap, tears brimmed his big, blue eyes and he averted them away from his assailant. A soft whimper escaped his throat, but the sting upon his cheek prevented him from grasping Duke by the wrist and he let the skirt be lifted up past his thighs, exposing him.

“Ohh, oh no.. No.. “ Ziggy pleaded, lifting his eyes now to Duke’s, “I’ll be good, I promise!”

A smirk twists the Duke’s mouth, turning his lips to a threat, a sniper’s-rifle light dancing on Ziggy’s body. He cupped the back of Ziggy’s head in his hand. Clambering onto the bed, he knelt there, on the tips of his kneecaps, one leg on either side of Ziggy’s snow-white legs.

The Duke smiled down at Ziggy, his face dressed in something like a sneer. The Duke’s eyes are narrow, and his lips have slight kinks at the corners, drawing them so slightly open, showing a rough row of crooked teeth.

"Did that hurt, Ziggy? That did hurt, didn’t it? You liked it, didn’t you?“

The Duke played with his trouser buttons as he crawled up the bed, laying his hand on Ziggy’s thigh, sliding his other hand down from beneath Ziggy’s frizzy hair to the side of his pale throat - a light touch. He could feel the beat of every vein and artery.

"Ziggy.”

The Duke gestured to the buttons he’d been fiddling with.

"You know what to do.“

Ziggy shrank back a little, eyes wide and body trembling and yet cock throbbing in direct contrast to his fearful, misty eyed expression.

“Ah aah y-yes! It-it hurt!” Ziggy simpered, “I didn’t like it, I really didn’t! Stop!”

Hands lifted, trying to defend himself but giving it not much effort as opposed to what he could’ve done.

“Duke?”

Ziggy followed the gesture and trembling fingers prised Duke’s monster python from it’s confines. Of course he knew what to do, but he didn’t have to be so dull about it.

“Duke no, please!” Ziggy shook his head, grasping Duke’s rear with his hands and rubbing his soft cheek against the rock hard protrusion, “I can’t! I don’t like it!”

He wriggled, squirming to try and get free, breath hitching and eyes panicked.

#answers #dont-callme-alex

"Ha! Ziggy. Let's see how big a breakfast we can give you today."

Feeling Ziggy's sharp fingernails, the Duke's pulse quickened. His cock dribbled a little against Ziggy's face, and he tightened his grip on Ziggy's neck, twisting his head around, dragging himself across his face, smudging the makeup that he'd fallen asleep in.

He gasped slightly as he reached Ziggy's soft, wet lips.

"Ziggy."

The Duke wriggled in his tension, expectant. He drops the pitch of his voice, and barks:

"Ziggy."

Just that, that one word, that name.

I just wanted tell you that you're insanely cute 😘

Thank you... Alexis. Thank you.

fooledheaart-archive-deactivate

A wild crowd of young people (some of them were not that young) were waiting next to the platforms in the Victoria Station in London. Some of them were holding posters, records, pictures and even pieces of paper, they were all waiting for his arrival and they all were looking for the precious autograph.

Young Sarah was there too, holding her copy of “Young Americans” and just following the crowd. Her heart was beating fast, and she was walking around nervously. This was her first year studying in London and the city, even when it was beautiful, was still a mystery to her. But what a wonderful coincidence that one of her favourite singers was coming to the city.

Some girls started to scream and Sarah saw that finally a train was arriving. This only started a madness, strangers pushed Sarah violently and their screams full of excitement were deafening. She found a safe spot next to a column and waited, her hands pressed the record against her chest, afraid that someone could damage it with a violent move. People started to scream his name and Sarah let out a long sigh.

@thinwhitelight

velvet-flame-deactivated2021020

The limousine, chauffeur-driven, glinting in the light of the dipping sun, drew into the driveway of the rail station. The Duke squinted, dazed for a second by the brightness of the station's fluorescent strips. Loud footsteps all around, stamping, stampeding. Screams, almost squeals, almost amplified whimpers, of adulation. As the scene came into focus, a grin split the Duke's face. It was good to be home, and it was good to feel in control. Yes, in control - that was the name for the feeling.

The Duke stepped out onto the platform, the floor of the concourse shining with fresh polish. He shrugged off his jacket and waistcoat, casting them gracelessly into the car. A row of photographers advanced, having gathered beforehand on another platform. The Duke paid them no regard. He waved to the crowd, and a squealing fan, or two, or two hundred, waved back. He was revelling in the heady feeling of mass adoration, tipsy on fanaticism.

The Duke surveyed the vast gaggle of fans, from wall to wall, platform to platform. His eyes came to rest on a pillar, around which was a clearing, a break in the melée where few to no fans jostled and howled.

— But there was somebody there. There was a young girl, blue jeans and a fairy-tale white blouse, immaculate brown hair past her shoulders, piled high with costume jewellery. She clutched a copy of "Young Americans", very close. She seemed shy. She seemed interesting.

The Duke, still riding the tempestuous wave of publicity, and slightly inebriated with something-or-other to top it all off, broke into a speed-walk, long, rapid steps, shoes clicking against the ground. He placed a hand on the pillar, leant forward, and spoke into the girl's face.

"Here I am. I am back."

#saraahwilliams

WHERE IS MY BEAUTIFUL @thinwhitelight?

I... am right here.

#bowieakajohn

70′s Mixup - { Duke & David } RP

The Duke fumbled in agitation with his bowtie. He wasn’t quite certain what brought him here. Here, Los Angeles, in the dying days of 1976. A warm winter, sun low in the sky yet warm enough to beat like sheet metal down on the Duke’s pale skin. His skin burnt easily in the sun, and the uppers which he’d downed that morning only exacerbated his overwarmth. Out of lust after shelter from the tyranny of the elements, more than anything else, the Duke entered the venue to which he had been guest-listed.

It was a press conference, a press conference for the release of an album by a man named David Bowie. David Bowie. The name reminded him of some happy thing, some happy time, people, faces, bodies, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. That dream was long since gone.

When David arrived, chauffeured in a dark yellow limousine, the Duke was not paying attention. He paced on the spot, swinging his legs to the side and back again, flipping his hat up and down. A woman approached him. He barely took notice. The woman - more a girl, really, couldn’t have been more than 20 - said something, something in a tone like the Duke imagined trying to eat heavy syrup out of the tin. He swatted her away. He didn’t have time for women today. He didn’t have time for this unnatural winter heat and this silly conference. If anything, it was even warmer inside the building. The Duke took off his hat and held it under his arm.

The event was coming to an end. Many women, and a couple of men, had approached the Duke in apparent proposition, but he had given them all the selfsame disregard. He was, however, growing interested in meeting this “David Bowie”. The Duke walked towards the exit, unsteady on his feet, and waited for the crowd to file out. He had very little patience. He twiddled his thumbs, played with the sunglasses which he had forgotten to remove upon coming indoors, slipped them up onto his pristine ginger combover, and waited, and waited, and waited.

An inhumanly familiar face strode from the crowd. A man just short of six foot, dark blond hair in disarray, with the very same heterochromic eyes as the Duke himself. The Duke suppressed a gasp. David Bowie.

“I think you and I need to talk.” It took a second for it to hit the Duke that Bowie was talking to him. He looked up, pocketing his sunglasses and replacing his hat, straightening his waistcoat and jacket, adjusting his bowtie - masquerading dignified and sober as best he could. It worked quite well, the Duke believed. Yes, he was quite satisfied with it. Bowie continued, looking directly into the Duke’s near-identical eyes. “ - but not here. Come with me to Berlin, would you?”

“Why, of course”, answered the Duke. “I’ve never been to Berlin, I don’t think. My memory fails me. But, either way, I would certainly like to come to Berlin.”

David ran his fingers through his hair, same voice too. Twilight Zone material. He turned to the large men who had escorted him in, he was very much a recluse lately and it was actually a miracle they had managed to get him out here at all since John’s murder. With a simple nod given to them, the men came towards David, who glanced at Duke and gestured for him to follow. The bouncers did a double take, flanking both David and Duke and giving each other odd looks, shrugging and just clearing a path so the pair could get out into the limo quickly and safely.

{ “Airport,” } David instructed the driver, { “and make it snappy.” }

They were going to need another ticket, being this close to the holidays it was not going to be easy but he was sure they’d be able to arrange something for him. David reached over and adjusted the setting for the air-con, not a fan of sweat and disliking to show up anywhere driping with it.

{ “You’re really him, aren’t you?” } David looked to the man seated beside him, { “you’re the.. Duke.. “ } But how? And why? He’d abandoned that persona, was he suffering a bad trip just now? He did take a little something to calm him nerves before his arrival..

A small, torpedo-shaped pill lay in the Duke’s palm as he settled in to the car. He needed something if he were to go on a plane. Planes truly scared him. This particular pill would also help with the stimulant side-effects which had rendered him so shambling and so shaky a ll evening.

The Duke smiled a little at David’s question, finding it somewhat slightly sing-song silly. Somewhat, slightly, sing, song, silly. Mm. The Duke’s thoughts were still a little scattered, and he had to mentally rehearse his every move. Arms, inside the car, firmly on the armrests. Legs, crossed, one over the other. (Keep shoes pristine. Keep trousers crisp.) Head, turned towards David.

The Duke spoke - a crisp deep voice, iReceived Pronunciation accented with L.A. - no faltering at all.

“Yes, that is correct; I am the Thin White Duke. I’m looking forward to Berlin already.”

The Duke clapped his hands, as slowly as if he were applauding an opera, grinning wildly. He turned his wonky-toothed face to David.

“Aren’t you? I’m very much looking forward to hearing what you have to say… David.”

“I’m a little nervous to be honest,” David sighed, getting out of the limo to camera flashes blinding him and feeling irritable for it, the six hefty guards escorting he and Duke into the airport. Once they got inside, it was quieter and the guards spread out to vet the place for safety reasons.

David took Duke over to the counter and they purchased a last minute ticket, the woman behind the computer gave them a hard time until she tiredly glanced up and suddenly straightened her back. She smiled at Duke and offered him instantly a first class seat right alongside David’s.

David lifted a brow, then followed Duke over to the waiting area.

“Would you quit looking so damn smug?” he grinned amusedly, eyes somewhat envious as he took out his valium.

An airport security guard suddenly descended upon him at once, hauling him up by the arm and scrambling to remove the possibly ilicit substance from the easily recognized rock star’s clenched fist.

“Stop touching me!” he growled, “it’s just a fucking sedative!”

The Duke was momentarily amused. Here was himself, just having got away with downing barbiturates, and here was his new partner-in-crime, David, being somewhat brutally accosted by airport security for a fucking benzodiazepine before we’d even reached the plane. Schadenfreude, that’s what those Berliners would call this - “harm joy”, to translate it word-for-word. Then, he came to his senses.

The Duke bounced to his feet like an overwound spring, and, with a strength unexpected of a man so apparently brittle, kicked the security guard, hard, between the legs. He went on to knee him in the stomach and give him a punch in the side of the head. The security guard reeled, half-conscious. If we were in a comic, twittering birds would be orbiting his head. Finally, the Duke wrapped his hands around the security guard’s throat.

"Do you know what it’s like to be afraid of flying?“ ” Hm?“

David stumbled forwards as the security guard was forced to let go, the man’s body reeling backwards and David clutched his fist tightly, looking around with wide eyes as Duke came to his aid. He wasn’t good with confrontations and this sort of situation generally ended with an embarrassing and overly invasive cavity search.

The security guard swooned heavily, unable to focus right and the six burly males who protected David were making a beeline towards the star right then and there, having noticed the commotion by now.

“I’m s.. s-sorry,” the guard slurred, trying to cower away and grab for his baton.

David was not a fighter, he shook with the adrenaline but he’d be alright, thanks to the Duke’s swift actions and he fully appreciated the gesture, gratitude radiating from his wide eyes. The bodyguards arrived, but they did not interfere without David’s command.

“Duke,” David called gently, “darling, it’s not worth prison.. “

"... Hm?"

The Duke paused, and released the security guard. The guard stumbled backwards, unsteady, and, after some tottering and empty grasps at supports which weren't there, crumpled to the cold polished floor. His baton rolled away. The temptation took the Duke to pick it up and give the guard one last thorough going-over, but, upon David's words, he resisted.

"You... you make a good point, Davy. Nothing is worth prison."

The arrivals board: Berlin, 09:25. The current time, shining in individual round lights from from the ticker-tape electronic clock above the board: 09:20. Announcements rang out from the PA system. The Duke strode towards the gate, turning to watch David follow.

Go Duke!! Way ta clock that security guard!! XD

Ha! I enjoyed myself there, even if I did lose my grip.

#answers #anonymous

70′s Mixup - { Duke & David } RP

The Duke fumbled in agitation with his bowtie. He wasn’t quite certain what brought him here. Here, Los Angeles, in the dying days of 1976. A warm winter, sun low in the sky yet warm enough to beat like sheet metal down on the Duke’s pale skin. His skin burnt easily in the sun, and the uppers which he’d downed that morning only exacerbated his overwarmth. Out of lust after shelter from the tyranny of the elements, more than anything else, the Duke entered the venue to which he had been guest-listed.

It was a press conference, a press conference for the release of an album by a man named David Bowie. David Bowie. The name reminded him of some happy thing, some happy time, people, faces, bodies, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. That dream was long since gone.

When David arrived, chauffeured in a dark yellow limousine, the Duke was not paying attention. He paced on the spot, swinging his legs to the side and back again, flipping his hat up and down. A woman approached him. He barely took notice. The woman - more a girl, really, couldn’t have been more than 20 - said something, something in a tone like the Duke imagined trying to eat heavy syrup out of the tin. He swatted her away. He didn’t have time for women today. He didn’t have time for this unnatural winter heat and this silly conference. If anything, it was even warmer inside the building. The Duke took off his hat and held it under his arm.

The event was coming to an end. Many women, and a couple of men, had approached the Duke in apparent proposition, but he had given them all the selfsame disregard. He was, however, growing interested in meeting this “David Bowie”. The Duke walked towards the exit, unsteady on his feet, and waited for the crowd to file out. He had very little patience. He twiddled his thumbs, played with the sunglasses which he had forgotten to remove upon coming indoors, slipped them up onto his pristine ginger combover, and waited, and waited, and waited.

An inhumanly familiar face strode from the crowd. A man just short of six foot, dark blond hair in disarray, with the very same heterochromic eyes as the Duke himself. The Duke suppressed a gasp. David Bowie.

“I think you and I need to talk.” It took a second for it to hit the Duke that Bowie was talking to him. He looked up, pocketing his sunglasses and replacing his hat, straightening his waistcoat and jacket, adjusting his bowtie - masquerading dignified and sober as best he could. It worked quite well, the Duke believed. Yes, he was quite satisfied with it. Bowie continued, looking directly into the Duke’s near-identical eyes. “ - but not here. Come with me to Berlin, would you?”

“Why, of course”, answered the Duke. “I’ve never been to Berlin, I don’t think. My memory fails me. But, either way, I would certainly like to come to Berlin.”

David ran his fingers through his hair, same voice too. Twilight Zone material. He turned to the large men who had escorted him in, he was very much a recluse lately and it was actually a miracle they had managed to get him out here at all since John’s murder. With a simple nod given to them, the men came towards David, who glanced at Duke and gestured for him to follow. The bouncers did a double take, flanking both David and Duke and giving each other odd looks, shrugging and just clearing a path so the pair could get out into the limo quickly and safely.

{ “Airport,” } David instructed the driver, { “and make it snappy.” }

They were going to need another ticket, being this close to the holidays it was not going to be easy but he was sure they’d be able to arrange something for him. David reached over and adjusted the setting for the air-con, not a fan of sweat and disliking to show up anywhere driping with it.

{ “You’re really him, aren’t you?” } David looked to the man seated beside him, { “you’re the.. Duke.. “ } But how? And why? He’d abandoned that persona, was he suffering a bad trip just now? He did take a little something to calm him nerves before his arrival..

A small, torpedo-shaped pill lay in the Duke’s palm as he settled in to the car. He needed something if he were to go on a plane. Planes truly scared him. This particular pill would also help with the stimulant side-effects which had rendered him so shambling and so shaky a ll evening.

The Duke smiled a little at David’s question, finding it somewhat slightly sing-song silly. Somewhat, slightly, sing, song, silly. Mm. The Duke’s thoughts were still a little scattered, and he had to mentally rehearse his every move. Arms, inside the car, firmly on the armrests. Legs, crossed, one over the other. (Keep shoes pristine. Keep trousers crisp.) Head, turned towards David.

The Duke spoke - a crisp deep voice, iReceived Pronunciation accented with L.A. - no faltering at all.

“Yes, that is correct; I am the Thin White Duke. I’m looking forward to Berlin already.”

The Duke clapped his hands, as slowly as if he were applauding an opera, grinning wildly. He turned his wonky-toothed face to David.

“Aren’t you? I’m very much looking forward to hearing what you have to say… David.”

“I’m a little nervous to be honest,” David sighed, getting out of the limo to camera flashes blinding him and feeling irritable for it, the six hefty guards escorting he and Duke into the airport. Once they got inside, it was quieter and the guards spread out to vet the place for safety reasons.

David took Duke over to the counter and they purchased a last minute ticket, the woman behind the computer gave them a hard time until she tiredly glanced up and suddenly straightened her back. She smiled at Duke and offered him instantly a first class seat right alongside David’s.

David lifted a brow, then followed Duke over to the waiting area.

“Would you quit looking so damn smug?” he grinned amusedly, eyes somewhat envious as he took out his valium.

An airport security guard suddenly descended upon him at once, hauling him up by the arm and scrambling to remove the possibly ilicit substance from the easily recognized rock star’s clenched fist.

“Stop touching me!” he growled, “it’s just a fucking sedative!”

The Duke was momentarily amused. Here was himself, just having got away with downing barbiturates, and here was his new partner-in-crime, David, being somewhat brutally accosted by airport security for a fucking benzodiazepine before we'd even reached the plane. Schadenfreude, that's what those Berliners would call this - "harm joy", to translate it word-for-word. Then, he came to his senses.

The Duke bounced to his feet like an overwound spring, and, with a strength unexpected of a man so apparently brittle, kicked the security guard, hard, between the legs. He went on to knee him in the stomach and give him a punch in the side of the head. The security guard reeled, half-conscious. If we were in a comic, twittering birds would be orbiting his head. Finally, the Duke wrapped his hands around the security guard's throat.

"Do you know what it's like to be afraid of flying?" " Hm?"

Ziggy/Duke RP

@thinwhitelight said: Wake up, Ziggy…I’ve made you breakfast.

**

Ziggy shifts and opens his big blue eyes, gaze traversing hungrily over Duke’s body. “Is it quite a big breakfast, Duke?” he wonders, coy smile, suggestive and desiring.

Los Angeles, April 1976. It is raining hard, the skies the solid matte grey colour of the moon. The Thin White Duke hurries back from the shops, rapid authoritative strides, reaching his block at quarter to ten. Searching his pockets, the Duke thinks for a moment that he has lost his keys. He finds them, however, and, in his daze, swipes his entry card. Soon, he is at his apartment. Three spare bedrooms. One of which contains Ziggy Stardust. The Duke opens the door, Ziggy’s door and, imitating icy composure, says to the half-sleeping spaceboy: “Wake up, Ziggy. I’ve made you breakfast.”

Warm and snug, cozy under his blankets and a pretty duvet he’d customized with sequins, Ziggy peered out from his cocoon of fabrics and stifled a yawn, humming to stretch his body and wriggle his toes.

“Mmm, I am really hungry,” Ziggy responded eagerly, big blue eyes trailing over Duke, “I hope there’s a lot of it.”

The room is warm, perhaps too warm for the Duke. He shifts on the spot, uncomfortable, and loosens his white silk bowtie. He is shaking slightly. He surveys the room as though it is unfamiliar to him, inspecting every one of the paintings and photographs, paintings which he had painted, photographs featuring himself, as if they were alien to him. Then, coming round, he looks upon Ziggy, up and down, from disarrayed hair to toes protruding from the bedclothes. You don’t seem terribly well today, Ziggy.“ He lays his hands upon Ziggy’s glittery duvet, fingering the fabric. “I think that - a nice, big breakfast would do you the power of good.” The Duke smirks, slim lips twisted. He loosens his shirt a little in the heat. “But it would all depend on you being a good boy.”

Ziggy enjoys the heat, the hotter it is the better he likes it but as they say, opposites attract, right? “Mmm, I’ll be alright Duke,” he smiles and flutters his lashes, “especially now that you’re here. I feel better already.”

He shifts and kicks off the covers, unashamed of his morning erection and licking his lips invitingly. “I promise I’ll behave Duke,” Ziggy pouted faintly, “I’m always good. I’m a very, very good boy.”

The Duke undoes a few more buttons of his shirt. Faltering over one, he realises that he is still wearing his hat. He flings it haphazardly in Ziggy’s direction. “I’m glad that I could make you feel better.” The Duke’s eyes flicker around the room, aimless, but eventually land upon Ziggy’s glistening body, reptilian in its grace in such an awkward posture. “A very good boy?” Ponderous, the Duke comes to a stop. Time appeares to freeze for him. Then, returned to himself, he says, with that curled-lip half-snarl: “Let’s see.” Still fully clothed, with the exception of a few shirt buttons undone, jacket and waistcoat eccentrically intact, he climbs over Ziggy’s body.

Ziggy startles at the hat, grimacing and pushing it off his bed onto the floor. “Eeww!” he shudders, “it’s wet!” The rainy weather was making Ziggy feel off color, but as long as he kept watm, he’d survive til Summer.

“Ohh Duke,” Ziggy purred with a shiver at the snarl, he lay back into the pillows and shuddered suddenly, “eeww.. Duke, you’re soaked!”

Big blue eyes wide and staring, but quick hands unable to help themselves to assist in disposing of the offending clothing.

The Duke likes the rain. It makes him feel like some kind of actor. That was nostalgic for him. It reminded him of better times. He could understand others’ distaste for it, however. For example, he didn’t like walking around in soaking clothes. The Duke apologised cursorily for his wet clothes, with a wave of his skinny white hand. The room temperature had indeed dropped significantly. His numb body had taken a second to notice. “Now, Ziggy -” - his eyes widened in surprise at Ziggy’s forthrightness as Ziggy began to undo his jacket; then, his voice approached a growl as he said - “Ziggy, I want you to stay safe, but, do you really mind all that much if I’m wet? The Duke’s hands strayed to his trouser buttons.

Ziggy’s lips curled up into a coy smile, running his fingertips over Duke’s chest, fingering his nipples and raking his little claws over the gentle bumps of Duke’s ribs.

“Since it’s on you, I guess it’s alright,” Ziggy purred, “I really want to be good for you Duke.”

Eyes half closed and leaning back into the pillows, Ziggy gazed up and touched Duke’s cheek softly, his free hand wandering down over Duke’s flat stomach, now exposed by the open shirt.

He gave a little hum of pleading, slightly feminine in pitch as he parted his thighs and Duke’s lower half gently dropped down between Ziggy’s legs. He was only wearing a long skirt he’d thrown on in a hurry last night, thinking they were flares, nothing more.

Feeling the light touch of Ziggy’s fingers — such long, exquisite, delicate fingers — just the very tips of those beautiful fingers — with such precision — grazing his skin —

— and then, and then, those fingernails — the Duke couldn’t help but gasp. As Ziggy looked up at him, through his long, spidery eyelashes, and reached up to touch his face, the Duke reached down and slapped Ziggy in the face, hard, open hand landing right on his cheekbone.

“You’ll be good for me, Ziggy, all right. I’ll make sure of that.”

The Duke gave a thin smile as he pulled back Ziggy’s skirt.

Ziggy pulled back his hand quickly at the slap, tears brimmed his big, blue eyes and he averted them away from his assailant. A soft whimper escaped his throat, but the sting upon his cheek prevented him from grasping Duke by the wrist and he let the skirt be lifted up past his thighs, exposing him.

“Ohh, oh no.. No.. “ Ziggy pleaded, lifting his eyes now to Duke’s, “I’ll be good, I promise!”

A smirk twists the Duke's mouth, turning his lips to a threat, a sniper's-rifle light dancing on Ziggy's body. He cupped the back of Ziggy's head in his hand. Clambering onto the bed, he knelt there, on the tips of his kneecaps, one leg on either side of Ziggy's snow-white legs.

The Duke smiled down at Ziggy, his face dressed in something like a sneer. The Duke's eyes are narrow, and his lips have slight kinks at the corners, drawing them so slightly open, showing a rough row of crooked teeth.

"Did that hurt, Ziggy? That did hurt, didn't it? You liked it, didn't you?"

The Duke played with his trouser buttons as he crawled up the bed, laying his hand on Ziggy's thigh, sliding his other hand down from beneath Ziggy's frizzy hair to the side of his pale throat - a light touch. He could feel the beat of every vein and artery.

"Ziggy."

The Duke gestured to the buttons he'd been fiddling with.

"You know what to do."

#spaceboy-ziggy

Just wanted to say hello. I love The Duke! ♥

“Thank you, Dust. Very much.” Thw Duke smiles, with a curl of his red lips, their colour contrasting on a knife-edge with that of his skin. “Thank you very much.”

#answers #dustonmars

70′s Mixup - { Duke & David } RP

The Duke fumbled in agitation with his bowtie. He wasn’t quite certain what brought him here. Here, Los Angeles, in the dying days of 1976. A warm winter, sun low in the sky yet warm enough to beat like sheet metal down on the Duke’s pale skin. His skin burnt easily in the sun, and the uppers which he’d downed that morning only exacerbated his overwarmth. Out of lust after shelter from the tyranny of the elements, more than anything else, the Duke entered the venue to which he had been guest-listed.

It was a press conference, a press conference for the release of an album by a man named David Bowie. David Bowie. The name reminded him of some happy thing, some happy time, people, faces, bodies, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. That dream was long since gone.

When David arrived, chauffeured in a dark yellow limousine, the Duke was not paying attention. He paced on the spot, swinging his legs to the side and back again, flipping his hat up and down. A woman approached him. He barely took notice. The woman - more a girl, really, couldn’t have been more than 20 - said something, something in a tone like the Duke imagined trying to eat heavy syrup out of the tin. He swatted her away. He didn’t have time for women today. He didn’t have time for this unnatural winter heat and this silly conference. If anything, it was even warmer inside the building. The Duke took off his hat and held it under his arm.

The event was coming to an end. Many women, and a couple of men, had approached the Duke in apparent proposition, but he had given them all the selfsame disregard. He was, however, growing interested in meeting this “David Bowie”. The Duke walked towards the exit, unsteady on his feet, and waited for the crowd to file out. He had very little patience. He twiddled his thumbs, played with the sunglasses which he had forgotten to remove upon coming indoors, slipped them up onto his pristine ginger combover, and waited, and waited, and waited.

An inhumanly familiar face strode from the crowd. A man just short of six foot, dark blond hair in disarray, with the very same heterochromic eyes as the Duke himself. The Duke suppressed a gasp. David Bowie.

“I think you and I need to talk.” It took a second for it to hit the Duke that Bowie was talking to him. He looked up, pocketing his sunglasses and replacing his hat, straightening his waistcoat and jacket, adjusting his bowtie - masquerading dignified and sober as best he could. It worked quite well, the Duke believed. Yes, he was quite satisfied with it. Bowie continued, looking directly into the Duke’s near-identical eyes. “ - but not here. Come with me to Berlin, would you?”

“Why, of course”, answered the Duke. “I’ve never been to Berlin, I don’t think. My memory fails me. But, either way, I would certainly like to come to Berlin.”

David ran his fingers through his hair, same voice too. Twilight Zone material. He turned to the large men who had escorted him in, he was very much a recluse lately and it was actually a miracle they had managed to get him out here at all since John’s murder. With a simple nod given to them, the men came towards David, who glanced at Duke and gestured for him to follow. The bouncers did a double take, flanking both David and Duke and giving each other odd looks, shrugging and just clearing a path so the pair could get out into the limo quickly and safely.

{ “Airport,” } David instructed the driver, { “and make it snappy.” }

They were going to need another ticket, being this close to the holidays it was not going to be easy but he was sure they’d be able to arrange something for him. David reached over and adjusted the setting for the air-con, not a fan of sweat and disliking to show up anywhere driping with it.

{ “You’re really him, aren’t you?” } David looked to the man seated beside him, { “you’re the.. Duke.. “ } But how? And why? He’d abandoned that persona, was he suffering a bad trip just now? He did take a little something to calm him nerves before his arrival..

A small, torpedo-shaped pill lay in the Duke's palm as he settled in to the car. He needed something if he were to go on a plane. Planes truly scared him. This particular pill would also help with the stimulant side-effects which had rendered him so shambling and so shaky a ll evening.

The Duke smiled a little at David's question, finding it somewhat slightly sing-song silly. Somewhat, slightly, sing, song, silly. Mm. The Duke's thoughts were still a little scattered, and he had to mentally rehearse his every move. Arms, inside the car, firmly on the armrests. Legs, crossed, one over the other. (Keep shoes pristine. Keep trousers crisp.) Head, turned towards David.

The Duke spoke - a crisp deep voice, iReceived Pronunciation accented with L.A. - no faltering at all.

"Yes, that is correct; I am the Thin White Duke. I'm looking forward to Berlin already."

The Duke clapped his hands, as slowly as if he were applauding an opera, grinning wildly. He turned his wonky-toothed face to David.

"Aren't you? I'm very much looking forward to hearing what you have to say... David."

Ziggy/Duke RP

@thinwhitelight said: Wake up, Ziggy…I’ve made you breakfast.

**

Ziggy shifts and opens his big blue eyes, gaze traversing hungrily over Duke’s body. “Is it quite a big breakfast, Duke?” he wonders, coy smile, suggestive and desiring.

Los Angeles, April 1976. It is raining hard, the skies the solid matte grey colour of the moon. The Thin White Duke hurries back from the shops, rapid authoritative strides, reaching his block at quarter to ten. Searching his pockets, the Duke thinks for a moment that he has lost his keys. He finds them, however, and, in his daze, swipes his entry card. Soon, he is at his apartment. Three spare bedrooms. One of which contains Ziggy Stardust. The Duke opens the door, Ziggy’s door and, imitating icy composure, says to the half-sleeping spaceboy: “Wake up, Ziggy. I’ve made you breakfast.”

Warm and snug, cozy under his blankets and a pretty duvet he’d customized with sequins, Ziggy peered out from his cocoon of fabrics and stifled a yawn, humming to stretch his body and wriggle his toes.

“Mmm, I am really hungry,” Ziggy responded eagerly, big blue eyes trailing over Duke, “I hope there’s a lot of it.”

The room is warm, perhaps too warm for the Duke. He shifts on the spot, uncomfortable, and loosens his white silk bowtie. He is shaking slightly. He surveys the room as though it is unfamiliar to him, inspecting every one of the paintings and photographs, paintings which he had painted, photographs featuring himself, as if they were alien to him. Then, coming round, he looks upon Ziggy, up and down, from disarrayed hair to toes protruding from the bedclothes. You don’t seem terribly well today, Ziggy.“ He lays his hands upon Ziggy’s glittery duvet, fingering the fabric. “I think that - a nice, big breakfast would do you the power of good.” The Duke smirks, slim lips twisted. He loosens his shirt a little in the heat. “But it would all depend on you being a good boy.”

Ziggy enjoys the heat, the hotter it is the better he likes it but as they say, opposites attract, right? “Mmm, I’ll be alright Duke,” he smiles and flutters his lashes, “especially now that you’re here. I feel better already.”

He shifts and kicks off the covers, unashamed of his morning erection and licking his lips invitingly. “I promise I’ll behave Duke,” Ziggy pouted faintly, “I’m always good. I’m a very, very good boy.”

The Duke undoes a few more buttons of his shirt. Faltering over one, he realises that he is still wearing his hat. He flings it haphazardly in Ziggy’s direction. “I’m glad that I could make you feel better.” The Duke’s eyes flicker around the room, aimless, but eventually land upon Ziggy’s glistening body, reptilian in its grace in such an awkward posture. “A very good boy?” Ponderous, the Duke comes to a stop. Time appeares to freeze for him. Then, returned to himself, he says, with that curled-lip half-snarl: “Let’s see.” Still fully clothed, with the exception of a few shirt buttons undone, jacket and waistcoat eccentrically intact, he climbs over Ziggy’s body.

Ziggy startles at the hat, grimacing and pushing it off his bed onto the floor. “Eeww!” he shudders, “it’s wet!” The rainy weather was making Ziggy feel off color, but as long as he kept watm, he’d survive til Summer.

“Ohh Duke,” Ziggy purred with a shiver at the snarl, he lay back into the pillows and shuddered suddenly, “eeww.. Duke, you’re soaked!”

Big blue eyes wide and staring, but quick hands unable to help themselves to assist in disposing of the offending clothing.

The Duke likes the rain. It makes him feel like some kind of actor. That was nostalgic for him. It reminded him of better times. He could understand others’ distaste for it, however. For example, he didn’t like walking around in soaking clothes. The Duke apologised cursorily for his wet clothes, with a wave of his skinny white hand. The room temperature had indeed dropped significantly. His numb body had taken a second to notice. “Now, Ziggy -” - his eyes widened in surprise at Ziggy’s forthrightness as Ziggy began to undo his jacket; then, his voice approached a growl as he said - “Ziggy, I want you to stay safe, but, do you really mind all that much if I’m wet? The Duke’s hands strayed to his trouser buttons.

Ziggy’s lips curled up into a coy smile, running his fingertips over Duke’s chest, fingering his nipples and raking his little claws over the gentle bumps of Duke’s ribs.

“Since it’s on you, I guess it’s alright,” Ziggy purred, “I really want to be good for you Duke.”

Eyes half closed and leaning back into the pillows, Ziggy gazed up and touched Duke’s cheek softly, his free hand wandering down over Duke’s flat stomach, now exposed by the open shirt.

He gave a little hum of pleading, slightly feminine in pitch as he parted his thighs and Duke’s lower half gently dropped down between Ziggy’s legs. He was only wearing a long skirt he’d thrown on in a hurry last night, thinking they were flares, nothing more.

Feeling the light touch of Ziggy's fingers — such long, exquisite, delicate fingers — just the very tips of those beautiful fingers — with such precision — grazing his skin —

— and then, and then, those fingernails — the Duke couldn't help but gasp. As Ziggy looked up at him, through his long, spidery eyelashes, and reached up to touch his face, the Duke reached down and slapped Ziggy in the face, hard, open hand landing right on his cheekbone.

"You'll be good for me, Ziggy, all right. I'll make sure of that."

The Duke gave a thin smile as he pulled back Ziggy's skirt.

#spaceboy-ziggy

@bowieakajohn Don’t cry, my sweet, don’t break your heart. Here I am.

#bowieakajohn

spookie-kitty

Just got out of surgery