And now for something completely different.
Title: Spotlight
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Mick/Tom Petty--yes, I did.
Word Count: 3,203
Disclaimer: If I owned the Stones or Tom Petty, I would be very hated among them.
Okay, I did this because I read a quote by Mick from Rolling Stone magazine published in 1977 or 1978, asking what he thought of the new music scene and he said, "Oh, Tom Petty. He's amazing. I'd suck his cock!"
--
“Thank you! And goodnight!”
With that, you turn away from the microphone and break into a quick speed, eager to get off the stage. There was a small window of opportunity to escape before the fans could swarm after you, their fingers grasping at your shirt, pulling you down and into a state of oblivion. You’ll be damned if you’re going to let that happen, you tell yourself.
You dart through the corridors of backstage, shaded in strips of darkness, wiping away the blond hair that clung to your face. Your body is thrumming, energy shooting along your veins, into your head and it’s almost too heavy.
The solid sounds of the guitars still ring through your head, the taste of salt around your mouth and on your skin. You feel like you’re frying inside your own skin, enough to still cause sweat to leak from your pores like the very music that you make.
There’s something sticky and wet strapped to you-you realize that during your escape you had forgotten to lend your guitar to a roadie. That’s not concerning now as you navigate your way through the shady backstage area.
It’s hot-it was hot today and hot yesterday and your hair wants to cling to your face, getting in your eyes and mouth. Everything else disappears and it’s only you with your guitar and the doors falling away from your vision as you race pass them, waiting for you to choose a spot where you’ll rest and they can invite you in.
Your mouth opens-“Finally,”-as you see the oncoming door-Dressing Room, authorized personal only-and it’s your sanctuary, a place of rest and you’re ready to fall to the floor. You open the door, ready to fall over, but you won’t, you can’t-and suddenly you’re in a chair, mouth open,
It’s almost hotter than you realize and you begin to peel away your shirt, and your scarf-why must you accessories if it’s going to be such a pain to take off?-and the sweat drips down your neck. There’s other goodies lying on your table, surrounded by small bulbs of light, circling around the mirror in front of you. They look appealing but your body has no energy to do anything else, and you let yourself do nothing else.
Your bandmates are around you, everywhere, here and there, but it’s not enough to bother you and speak to them. They’ve got their own to do, you decide and reach for an open bottle. It goes perfect with the orange you see on the side.
The doors open and there’s a voice, “Yeah, I’ve got a surprise visitor,” and you think it’s some fucking groupie who gave the roadie a blow job to get backstage, and there’s Stan with, “really? You let one in-“
And he can’t answer anymore because there, standing in the middle of the fucking doorway, in your fucking doorway, is a pair of large lips and a scattered hair style.
It’s almost like Jesus fucking Christ is in your doorway.
And that Jesus fucking Christ is Mick Jagger.
You can hardly believe, your bandmates hardly believe it, and think to crack yourself with a glass bottle to snap from this surreal image-really, how is Mick fuckin’ Jagger in your dressing room and you didn’t even know he was at the gig? Surely there would be some maniacal chick-rather chicks-who would have thrown themselves at his feet?
He’s not invisible, and you almost find it hilarious. There’s some people who don’t find Mick irresistible.
“Right,” he says, and it’s enough to disintegrate the tense atmosphere and now he’s walking in, like everyone’s mates of his and he’s coming up to you and you have no idea-
“Hey,” he says, his eyes glinting and you realize they’re glinting at you, and oh fuck, one of your greatest idols is standing in front of you and you’re not even saying anything, “are you Tom?”
“Hey,” and it’s meek and you hate yourself for being so timid, “I’m Tom,” and there’s no genius behind your words. You want a good impression, something fan-freaking-tastic that’ll blow him out of this world.
“I heard about you,” and he’s grinning, a grin that nearly leaves you speechless. Wordlessly, you try to scramble words together, hoping they’re not going to turn out like run on sentences.
“I’ve heard about you,” you say lamely, and Jagger finds this hilarious and he’s laughing, laughing and you slightly think it’s directed at you. You scold yourself and try to brush off your initial shock of, you need to figure out how to stop being so starstruck.
The band’s somewhere away from your mind, and you’re here, staring Mick in the face, blue eyes glinting and you want to make a connection. There has to be one there and you want to find it. There’s a sudden determination in your mind and you burst forth with, “you’re great, y’know?”
Mick smiles and he knows, knows that he’s the best and you didn’t have to speak it, but you do. Flattery gets you everywhere, you remember that from someone and it seems to work because Mick is now standing and you can see he’s probably considering you for a friend, or at least, you hope so.
You find this so alien, you falling over yourself for someone who has been in your records for so long, someone who has had significant impact on your life, but you know that anyone would act like this. You’ve heard Mick speak so many times about James, the James Brown, and his awestruck experience. It’s not that bad, you tell yourself.
You also find it strange-your bandmates aren’t even saying anything and you frown for a moment, glancing over to see them. They, too, have looks of dopey-eyed children, staring into this swirling vision of a rock god standing in front of them. Jagger seems to have caught your eye and he turns around with enviable grace.
“And hello to you lot, too,” and he’s suddenly good-natured and venturing the room, and you can see how Mick can own a small area; he’s everywhere and you can hardly believe that he was standing right in front of you only seconds ago.
People seem to try to float into the room, and you’re sure word has gotten out that a Rolling Stone is here, in your-the band’s dressing room. You think that there is probably a million girls swarming. Mick looks back at the door and grins, knowing what is waiting for him out there. He should know, you think, as he has probably had chicks all the time, fingers like hooks and tearing at his shirt and pants when he would try to leave.
You jolt awake from your stupor when you see your bandmates leaving. Why, and you’re suddenly to your feet, striding to anyone, someone with a clue, and Ron’s voice comes in, “nice meetin’ you, Mick, but we’ve gotta run,” and that’s no explanation to your ears. Your body feels cold and it shouldn’t be, not after a concert and meeting an idol of yours and you need-and then, “hey Tom, wait for us to come back. We’re gonna go divert some fans to clear a way out-there’s hundreds of ‘em.”
And then another: “Yeah, man, they’re everywhere-can’t even get the rides out. Sit tight,” and then they’re gone, gone before you can say anything, but that’s not of importance.
So now it’s you, Mick, and an empty dressing room. People were always floating in and out but now it’s so silent that you don’t think it’s real. This is happening so fast that you almost believe that a fan gave you something, but you’re more responsible than that, accepting something from a a complete stranger with ulterior motives.
Mick’s wondering around the room, studying, watching, deciding if he likes it or not and you stand there, sort of lost but not knowing if you can do something. Instead, the first words that you say are, “how did you get here without anyone noticing?”
Mick laughs, “easy,” and he’s walking up to you, “I’ve done it many times, as long as a fan or PR person doesn’t find out,” and he makes a face.
You feel much easier, and you’re folding yourself to the wall, finding a stance. “They’re everywhere, those guys,” and you’re trying to make a conversation.
Mick’s face curls and he’s snorting, “Yeah, doesn’t make it any easier, those blokes.”
You look down, trying to rack your brain of something, anything, and you don’t want to find yourself out of material-you just barely started talking, for fuck’s sake.
With nothing else in mind, you look up, but at that moment you nearly send yourself backward, because there, right in front of you, is Mick, staring, reading into your own eyes. This closeness, this almost gentle look on his face is enough to send you on edge, tense at what is going on.
There’s that grin again, inviting you to smile but something is different, he’s different and he keeps eying you and you find yourself trying to move-move, you tell yourself, but you don’t have it in you. You need to move, you have to move, this doesn’t make sense and you need to leave-
Mick is still grinning and he places his hands on your shoulders, you fight to shy away and he’s pushing you, and your legs bump into the chair and your sitting now, watching while Mick drops to his knees. You’re so petrified and curious to see what happens, and your throat works furiously to produce something but your throat is sandpaper and you can’t choke up anything.
What can you do what will you do-you need to and there’s Mick’s face, between your open legs, grinning again. You need a distraction, something, anything, you need more time before this goes on.
“What about Keith? The others?” and Mick looks at you strangely, as if he wants to say something but instead, “They’re out, takin’ a break, doing what they like,” and that answer is the only thing you’ll get. It’s vague but Mick thinks it answers everything.
“What are you doin-“
Mick’s hand up on your mouth and you don’t speak, cannot speak, and his hand is on the button of your jeans. Reality sets in, reality is everywhere and it’s fucking heavy as it crashes into you, and then there’s, “you needn’t worry your pretty little head,” he’s so hysterical that it’s almost funny.
You want to move, want to punch Mick in the mouth, want to say, “I’m not up for this, but please, go on,” because anything is better than being in a state of bewilderment. Although, you do not think that you can give Mick a hook in the mouth, because, really, he’s Mick fucking Jagger.
“Oh, don’t be a prude,” he says and you almost scoff, it’s so unsettling the way he says it, so casually. Your fingers are useless, holding against their will on the seat’s arm rest you think, for a moment, that you’re going to tear them off, “I’ve got an idea that you’ll like this, mate.”
Those fingers are at your button again, undoing them and then fucking hell, you know what he’s up to and you struggle with yourself to rise. “Ah, Tom,” he says and your name rolls off Mick’s tongue like fucking velvet.
You need to say something, stop this madness, or embrace it-why are you even thinking that way? Why are you sitting there, why can’t you stop this and-your thoughts are gone, dripping from your mind as Mick’s hands peel away your pants and it’s only you, your underclothes and Mick.
“Why?” you finally say, your traitorous throat allowing you enough time to get something out, and this question seems so inferior that it’s a wonder why Mick is even answering you. The answer is in front of you, staring, mockingly obvious, yet you need closure, some form of receipt that tells you what he will do.
Your answer glints in Mick’s eyes, and you can see he’s contemplating, or at least you hope he is. Everything is buzzing and you figure that Mick is zoning out because of the amount of time-absurd amount-that is, until he leans up into your face, and your face to face with blue eyes like your own, but his are more dark, more riddled with emotions that you are too young to really know. Still, this doesn’t stop you from trying.
“It’s quite simple, really,” and it’s supposed to answer everything in the goddamn universe, but not yours, everything is so fucking irritating because of these vague answers and you’re sure you can give the older man a good hook in the mouth, “and I’m betting you’ve never had your cock sucked by another man.”
And then your words explode like a supernova and-did you hear that right? Fuck, this isn’t what you heard and now Mick’s laughing, grinning and doing it at the same time that it’s almost absurd and you reel back in time. Your fingers curl on the armrest and you cannot believe what you’re hearing.
“Oh, come of it,” Mick says and he’s back to your pants. He grins and, “everyone knows that not everyone’s straight in the head,” and it’s like some damn riddle that you’re supposed to know.
“Stop fucking answering me in riddles,” you say. You feel absurdly oblivious to what he’s saying and it angers you, which is not something you’re used to to, but seeing how everything has gone so fast it’s enough to upset you.
Jagger is laughing, and you become annoyed by this, your hands trying to curl into fists, but they doesn’t make it. His hands are now in your underclothes and you shudder, and fucking hell, that feels good.
You have a volatile feeling rising in your gut screaming to don’t fucking do it and this could be the best thing you’ll ever experience and your so conflicted that you hate it and yourself. Why are you feeling like this? Why do you keep letting yourself fall into this? It’s insane and-oh hell, his hand is on your dick.
You arch up and Mick is smiling, giving you a look. Your hair still clings to your forehead, the sweat still smeared on your brow and this is so insane that you don’t believe it and-god, you grunt because this is so fantastic that-
“I like my boys better this way,” and you double take, almost shooting up as you realize what Mick said. He waves it off with the other hand, you want to get what he’s saying, but you don’t-you’re too mixed up in what is going on that-you hiss.
This is almost too unbearable that it’s almost an entirely different experience. You’ve never screamed in cathedrals but you’re pretty sure that it might happen. Speed it up, speed it down, slow down the rhythm and you’re fucking putty in his hands, rather hand. Your pulse is beating and it’s hard to distinct them from the pounding of your heart.
Your breath is caught in your throat as something hot, heavy and wet descends over your need and you almost howl at this, your eyes flying open to the ceiling. This is almost mind blowing, almost too real to even be deciphered.
Your mind is slipping into oblivion, falling, falling, falling ever deeper into a world where nothing lets go until the very last minute. Nothing is of importance to you as you can only feel the wet mouth working over you and the tongue that coils around you, snakelike and completely alive.
It’s the desire and you want it, to take it, and to have it completely as your own. It’s primal within your mind and you reach to grasp it, your hips answering that need and your thrusting up, but there’s a set of hands that stops you from doing so, holding you down, forcing you to stop and bend to their will.
Mick’s mouth is tight, warm and just what makes you feel that there is nothing else in the world that you need more than this. The saliva that trails down, the warm breath caressing your aching flesh, the suction that provides relief and it’s yours, yours to claim and only yours.
Mick’s head rises and falls, setting a pattern and-you’re grunting almost muttering obscenities-and the hands are gone as they also wrap around your cock, moving and grasping along with his mouth and your hands, so displaced from their subservient position, find the courage to grasp at the hair that is placed on the one that is so wrapped around your cock. It’s like seizing control of another and you feel that groan, that simple vibration and it’s almost godly.
Mick knows what he’s doing because you’ve never met anyone who can do this, and it’s as if he does this countless times, and it’s executed with such ease, but it leaves you no time to think as your mind is blank, devoid of everything and you can feel it.
Everything is falling around you and you pull, tighten on the strands-anything to keep yourself in contact with this world. It’s almost there and-you’re suddenly there, coming, shooting into Mick’s mouth, gasping and grunting, falling outside of your mind for a moment before merging with it again. You let go of the coiled hair in your hands and fall back, exhausted and spent.
You don’t know if you can face Mick, the very same idol you;v e had for years and the one who had just sucked you off. It’ not something that you can easily face up tot his. There’s a laugh outside of your closed eyelids and you want to look, but there’s something in your gut, but you know what it is, that prevents you from looking.
“You can look at me,” says a voice, “everyone seems to get that notion.”
You don’t want to, but you do, and it’s not what you expect. Your perception hasn’t warped, hasn’t turned Mick into some smoke-barreling dragon because of what he has done, and how he has done it. You need a moment to breathe, your insides still weak and recovering.
“The great Mick Jagger gave you a fucking blow job-has a nice ring, doesn’t it? And there’s that playful grin on his lips and it’s infectious, traveling to your own lips.
“You… do that often?” you finally ask, your voice nothing but a rasp. “More so than you think,” but again, there’s that elusive quality that he’s been known for and it’s acceptable this time. You’re not in the mood to spout agitation and your body is too satisfied to do anything.
“It’s what you don’t hear is what’s surprising,” he says and there’s good humor in that voice. You grin also, unable to resist.
Everything tumbles in place and the perfect alignment happens.
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Mick/Tom Petty--yes, I did.
Word Count: 3,203
Disclaimer: If I owned the Stones or Tom Petty, I would be very hated among them.
Okay, I did this because I read a quote by Mick from Rolling Stone magazine published in 1977 or 1978, asking what he thought of the new music scene and he said, "Oh, Tom Petty. He's amazing. I'd suck his cock!"
--
“Thank you! And goodnight!”
With that, you turn away from the microphone and break into a quick speed, eager to get off the stage. There was a small window of opportunity to escape before the fans could swarm after you, their fingers grasping at your shirt, pulling you down and into a state of oblivion. You’ll be damned if you’re going to let that happen, you tell yourself.
You dart through the corridors of backstage, shaded in strips of darkness, wiping away the blond hair that clung to your face. Your body is thrumming, energy shooting along your veins, into your head and it’s almost too heavy.
The solid sounds of the guitars still ring through your head, the taste of salt around your mouth and on your skin. You feel like you’re frying inside your own skin, enough to still cause sweat to leak from your pores like the very music that you make.
There’s something sticky and wet strapped to you-you realize that during your escape you had forgotten to lend your guitar to a roadie. That’s not concerning now as you navigate your way through the shady backstage area.
It’s hot-it was hot today and hot yesterday and your hair wants to cling to your face, getting in your eyes and mouth. Everything else disappears and it’s only you with your guitar and the doors falling away from your vision as you race pass them, waiting for you to choose a spot where you’ll rest and they can invite you in.
Your mouth opens-“Finally,”-as you see the oncoming door-Dressing Room, authorized personal only-and it’s your sanctuary, a place of rest and you’re ready to fall to the floor. You open the door, ready to fall over, but you won’t, you can’t-and suddenly you’re in a chair, mouth open,
It’s almost hotter than you realize and you begin to peel away your shirt, and your scarf-why must you accessories if it’s going to be such a pain to take off?-and the sweat drips down your neck. There’s other goodies lying on your table, surrounded by small bulbs of light, circling around the mirror in front of you. They look appealing but your body has no energy to do anything else, and you let yourself do nothing else.
Your bandmates are around you, everywhere, here and there, but it’s not enough to bother you and speak to them. They’ve got their own to do, you decide and reach for an open bottle. It goes perfect with the orange you see on the side.
The doors open and there’s a voice, “Yeah, I’ve got a surprise visitor,” and you think it’s some fucking groupie who gave the roadie a blow job to get backstage, and there’s Stan with, “really? You let one in-“
And he can’t answer anymore because there, standing in the middle of the fucking doorway, in your fucking doorway, is a pair of large lips and a scattered hair style.
It’s almost like Jesus fucking Christ is in your doorway.
And that Jesus fucking Christ is Mick Jagger.
You can hardly believe, your bandmates hardly believe it, and think to crack yourself with a glass bottle to snap from this surreal image-really, how is Mick fuckin’ Jagger in your dressing room and you didn’t even know he was at the gig? Surely there would be some maniacal chick-rather chicks-who would have thrown themselves at his feet?
He’s not invisible, and you almost find it hilarious. There’s some people who don’t find Mick irresistible.
“Right,” he says, and it’s enough to disintegrate the tense atmosphere and now he’s walking in, like everyone’s mates of his and he’s coming up to you and you have no idea-
“Hey,” he says, his eyes glinting and you realize they’re glinting at you, and oh fuck, one of your greatest idols is standing in front of you and you’re not even saying anything, “are you Tom?”
“Hey,” and it’s meek and you hate yourself for being so timid, “I’m Tom,” and there’s no genius behind your words. You want a good impression, something fan-freaking-tastic that’ll blow him out of this world.
“I heard about you,” and he’s grinning, a grin that nearly leaves you speechless. Wordlessly, you try to scramble words together, hoping they’re not going to turn out like run on sentences.
“I’ve heard about you,” you say lamely, and Jagger finds this hilarious and he’s laughing, laughing and you slightly think it’s directed at you. You scold yourself and try to brush off your initial shock of, you need to figure out how to stop being so starstruck.
The band’s somewhere away from your mind, and you’re here, staring Mick in the face, blue eyes glinting and you want to make a connection. There has to be one there and you want to find it. There’s a sudden determination in your mind and you burst forth with, “you’re great, y’know?”
Mick smiles and he knows, knows that he’s the best and you didn’t have to speak it, but you do. Flattery gets you everywhere, you remember that from someone and it seems to work because Mick is now standing and you can see he’s probably considering you for a friend, or at least, you hope so.
You find this so alien, you falling over yourself for someone who has been in your records for so long, someone who has had significant impact on your life, but you know that anyone would act like this. You’ve heard Mick speak so many times about James, the James Brown, and his awestruck experience. It’s not that bad, you tell yourself.
You also find it strange-your bandmates aren’t even saying anything and you frown for a moment, glancing over to see them. They, too, have looks of dopey-eyed children, staring into this swirling vision of a rock god standing in front of them. Jagger seems to have caught your eye and he turns around with enviable grace.
“And hello to you lot, too,” and he’s suddenly good-natured and venturing the room, and you can see how Mick can own a small area; he’s everywhere and you can hardly believe that he was standing right in front of you only seconds ago.
People seem to try to float into the room, and you’re sure word has gotten out that a Rolling Stone is here, in your-the band’s dressing room. You think that there is probably a million girls swarming. Mick looks back at the door and grins, knowing what is waiting for him out there. He should know, you think, as he has probably had chicks all the time, fingers like hooks and tearing at his shirt and pants when he would try to leave.
You jolt awake from your stupor when you see your bandmates leaving. Why, and you’re suddenly to your feet, striding to anyone, someone with a clue, and Ron’s voice comes in, “nice meetin’ you, Mick, but we’ve gotta run,” and that’s no explanation to your ears. Your body feels cold and it shouldn’t be, not after a concert and meeting an idol of yours and you need-and then, “hey Tom, wait for us to come back. We’re gonna go divert some fans to clear a way out-there’s hundreds of ‘em.”
And then another: “Yeah, man, they’re everywhere-can’t even get the rides out. Sit tight,” and then they’re gone, gone before you can say anything, but that’s not of importance.
So now it’s you, Mick, and an empty dressing room. People were always floating in and out but now it’s so silent that you don’t think it’s real. This is happening so fast that you almost believe that a fan gave you something, but you’re more responsible than that, accepting something from a a complete stranger with ulterior motives.
Mick’s wondering around the room, studying, watching, deciding if he likes it or not and you stand there, sort of lost but not knowing if you can do something. Instead, the first words that you say are, “how did you get here without anyone noticing?”
Mick laughs, “easy,” and he’s walking up to you, “I’ve done it many times, as long as a fan or PR person doesn’t find out,” and he makes a face.
You feel much easier, and you’re folding yourself to the wall, finding a stance. “They’re everywhere, those guys,” and you’re trying to make a conversation.
Mick’s face curls and he’s snorting, “Yeah, doesn’t make it any easier, those blokes.”
You look down, trying to rack your brain of something, anything, and you don’t want to find yourself out of material-you just barely started talking, for fuck’s sake.
With nothing else in mind, you look up, but at that moment you nearly send yourself backward, because there, right in front of you, is Mick, staring, reading into your own eyes. This closeness, this almost gentle look on his face is enough to send you on edge, tense at what is going on.
There’s that grin again, inviting you to smile but something is different, he’s different and he keeps eying you and you find yourself trying to move-move, you tell yourself, but you don’t have it in you. You need to move, you have to move, this doesn’t make sense and you need to leave-
Mick is still grinning and he places his hands on your shoulders, you fight to shy away and he’s pushing you, and your legs bump into the chair and your sitting now, watching while Mick drops to his knees. You’re so petrified and curious to see what happens, and your throat works furiously to produce something but your throat is sandpaper and you can’t choke up anything.
What can you do what will you do-you need to and there’s Mick’s face, between your open legs, grinning again. You need a distraction, something, anything, you need more time before this goes on.
“What about Keith? The others?” and Mick looks at you strangely, as if he wants to say something but instead, “They’re out, takin’ a break, doing what they like,” and that answer is the only thing you’ll get. It’s vague but Mick thinks it answers everything.
“What are you doin-“
Mick’s hand up on your mouth and you don’t speak, cannot speak, and his hand is on the button of your jeans. Reality sets in, reality is everywhere and it’s fucking heavy as it crashes into you, and then there’s, “you needn’t worry your pretty little head,” he’s so hysterical that it’s almost funny.
You want to move, want to punch Mick in the mouth, want to say, “I’m not up for this, but please, go on,” because anything is better than being in a state of bewilderment. Although, you do not think that you can give Mick a hook in the mouth, because, really, he’s Mick fucking Jagger.
“Oh, don’t be a prude,” he says and you almost scoff, it’s so unsettling the way he says it, so casually. Your fingers are useless, holding against their will on the seat’s arm rest you think, for a moment, that you’re going to tear them off, “I’ve got an idea that you’ll like this, mate.”
Those fingers are at your button again, undoing them and then fucking hell, you know what he’s up to and you struggle with yourself to rise. “Ah, Tom,” he says and your name rolls off Mick’s tongue like fucking velvet.
You need to say something, stop this madness, or embrace it-why are you even thinking that way? Why are you sitting there, why can’t you stop this and-your thoughts are gone, dripping from your mind as Mick’s hands peel away your pants and it’s only you, your underclothes and Mick.
“Why?” you finally say, your traitorous throat allowing you enough time to get something out, and this question seems so inferior that it’s a wonder why Mick is even answering you. The answer is in front of you, staring, mockingly obvious, yet you need closure, some form of receipt that tells you what he will do.
Your answer glints in Mick’s eyes, and you can see he’s contemplating, or at least you hope he is. Everything is buzzing and you figure that Mick is zoning out because of the amount of time-absurd amount-that is, until he leans up into your face, and your face to face with blue eyes like your own, but his are more dark, more riddled with emotions that you are too young to really know. Still, this doesn’t stop you from trying.
“It’s quite simple, really,” and it’s supposed to answer everything in the goddamn universe, but not yours, everything is so fucking irritating because of these vague answers and you’re sure you can give the older man a good hook in the mouth, “and I’m betting you’ve never had your cock sucked by another man.”
And then your words explode like a supernova and-did you hear that right? Fuck, this isn’t what you heard and now Mick’s laughing, grinning and doing it at the same time that it’s almost absurd and you reel back in time. Your fingers curl on the armrest and you cannot believe what you’re hearing.
“Oh, come of it,” Mick says and he’s back to your pants. He grins and, “everyone knows that not everyone’s straight in the head,” and it’s like some damn riddle that you’re supposed to know.
“Stop fucking answering me in riddles,” you say. You feel absurdly oblivious to what he’s saying and it angers you, which is not something you’re used to to, but seeing how everything has gone so fast it’s enough to upset you.
Jagger is laughing, and you become annoyed by this, your hands trying to curl into fists, but they doesn’t make it. His hands are now in your underclothes and you shudder, and fucking hell, that feels good.
You have a volatile feeling rising in your gut screaming to don’t fucking do it and this could be the best thing you’ll ever experience and your so conflicted that you hate it and yourself. Why are you feeling like this? Why do you keep letting yourself fall into this? It’s insane and-oh hell, his hand is on your dick.
You arch up and Mick is smiling, giving you a look. Your hair still clings to your forehead, the sweat still smeared on your brow and this is so insane that you don’t believe it and-god, you grunt because this is so fantastic that-
“I like my boys better this way,” and you double take, almost shooting up as you realize what Mick said. He waves it off with the other hand, you want to get what he’s saying, but you don’t-you’re too mixed up in what is going on that-you hiss.
This is almost too unbearable that it’s almost an entirely different experience. You’ve never screamed in cathedrals but you’re pretty sure that it might happen. Speed it up, speed it down, slow down the rhythm and you’re fucking putty in his hands, rather hand. Your pulse is beating and it’s hard to distinct them from the pounding of your heart.
Your breath is caught in your throat as something hot, heavy and wet descends over your need and you almost howl at this, your eyes flying open to the ceiling. This is almost mind blowing, almost too real to even be deciphered.
Your mind is slipping into oblivion, falling, falling, falling ever deeper into a world where nothing lets go until the very last minute. Nothing is of importance to you as you can only feel the wet mouth working over you and the tongue that coils around you, snakelike and completely alive.
It’s the desire and you want it, to take it, and to have it completely as your own. It’s primal within your mind and you reach to grasp it, your hips answering that need and your thrusting up, but there’s a set of hands that stops you from doing so, holding you down, forcing you to stop and bend to their will.
Mick’s mouth is tight, warm and just what makes you feel that there is nothing else in the world that you need more than this. The saliva that trails down, the warm breath caressing your aching flesh, the suction that provides relief and it’s yours, yours to claim and only yours.
Mick’s head rises and falls, setting a pattern and-you’re grunting almost muttering obscenities-and the hands are gone as they also wrap around your cock, moving and grasping along with his mouth and your hands, so displaced from their subservient position, find the courage to grasp at the hair that is placed on the one that is so wrapped around your cock. It’s like seizing control of another and you feel that groan, that simple vibration and it’s almost godly.
Mick knows what he’s doing because you’ve never met anyone who can do this, and it’s as if he does this countless times, and it’s executed with such ease, but it leaves you no time to think as your mind is blank, devoid of everything and you can feel it.
Everything is falling around you and you pull, tighten on the strands-anything to keep yourself in contact with this world. It’s almost there and-you’re suddenly there, coming, shooting into Mick’s mouth, gasping and grunting, falling outside of your mind for a moment before merging with it again. You let go of the coiled hair in your hands and fall back, exhausted and spent.
You don’t know if you can face Mick, the very same idol you;v e had for years and the one who had just sucked you off. It’ not something that you can easily face up tot his. There’s a laugh outside of your closed eyelids and you want to look, but there’s something in your gut, but you know what it is, that prevents you from looking.
“You can look at me,” says a voice, “everyone seems to get that notion.”
You don’t want to, but you do, and it’s not what you expect. Your perception hasn’t warped, hasn’t turned Mick into some smoke-barreling dragon because of what he has done, and how he has done it. You need a moment to breathe, your insides still weak and recovering.
“The great Mick Jagger gave you a fucking blow job-has a nice ring, doesn’t it? And there’s that playful grin on his lips and it’s infectious, traveling to your own lips.
“You… do that often?” you finally ask, your voice nothing but a rasp. “More so than you think,” but again, there’s that elusive quality that he’s been known for and it’s acceptable this time. You’re not in the mood to spout agitation and your body is too satisfied to do anything.
“It’s what you don’t hear is what’s surprising,” he says and there’s good humor in that voice. You grin also, unable to resist.
Everything tumbles in place and the perfect alignment happens.