Hey, y'all.
Keith figured Allen was probably waiting, tapping his foot, yelling at some intern while wondering why they were late. It’s just too bad Keith doesn’t give a fuck.
Keith agreed to come with Mick, dressed in a purple suit he picked up, to a meeting with Allen Klein, their new manager after Andrew bailed. It seemed like a good idea; an American cat looking out for them, just like one big family and that was enough for Keith.
It’s just too bad good things never work out in their favor. Allen was an insufferable dick, never telling the group what he was doing and because of that, they’re sitting outside, safely housed in Blue Lena, Keith’s Bentley, waiting outside to go see that miserable fuck.
Keith looks over to the passenger’s side, sees Mick looking calm, too calm and swallows his frustration. He wants to leave, wants to stay to give Allen a piece of his fist, but Keith knows that both are futile, so he sits.
Mick is handling documents, bills, juggling the economic aspects of the band that Keith was never too interested in. Mick is fiddling with some items and finally looking up, sighing, “alright, I think that’s everything.”
Keith needs more time to stay, doesn’t want to see that bastard, doesn’t want to me more frustrated than he already is and his brain is trying to answer that plea, his hands seeking out the joint in his pocket.
“You don’t have to come,” Mick begins because he’s always so democratic for the guitarist, sighing and looking out the window. Keith shrugs his shoulders; it doesn’t matter, and decides if he will do this, he needs to take the edge off.
The singer is sure Keith doesn’t know what he’s getting into but he’s used to it, always flying in blindly and Mick certainly isn’t going to stop him now. He’s used to these antics and should expect anything different.
Keith is rolling his fingers, clenching them to keep the joint in place and searching for his lighter. The younger boy knows that Mick is staring at him, staring at the joint. He thinks of getting one for the singer or maybe even sharing it, but there’s a point in time when Keith realizes he only brought one with him-the firm’s been all over them and Keith surely doesn’t want to give up his high quality items.
He thinks that Mick is thinking about asking him and might expect him to share because that’s what friends are for and Keith is a good friend, certainly a good friend. As he puts it in his mouth, the other is raising his eyebrows.
“We haven’t much time to spare, Keith, Mick says, disappointingly truthful, but Keith never sees the point of being early but Mick likes to be professional. He’s never been on time and he’s not going to start changing that.
The guitarist shrugs his shoulders and answers with, “Yeah, well,” like it’s supposed to be explain everything to Mick.
“C’mon Mick,” comes his voice and Mick halts, half out the door, looking over his shoulder, and Keith is waiting for a complaint. Mick’s face is full of expectance, give me one good reason why, and Keith follows with, “you really don’t want to go in there, do you?” and it’s lame, he knows this, stating the most obvious things ever, but he needs more time to think of an excuse.
There are words on those plush lips, words that Keith may know already-he’s having none of that.
“Just mellow out-Allen can wait and he’ll like,” he finishes, raising the joint.
“You’re not going to let this go, aren’t you?” and Keith grins because it’s a victory for him. The door closes and the singer is shifting back to his previous position. A lighter flickers and smoke is curling from the joint, filling the empty space between them.
Keith expects that Mick thinks that Keith will pass the joint to him, but Keith has better ideas in mind. Before Keith inhales, he’s motioning toward Mick, “c’mere,” and brings the joint to his mouth. Mick looks vaguely confused before dawning happens. Keith inhales, fingers curling at the back of the singer’s neck and closes the distance between their mouths, blowing the held-in smoke into Mick’s mouth.
Keith pulls away, open-mouthed, tendrils of smoke evaporating from his own mouth, and Mick blows out the smoke, brushing past the guitarist’s face. Mick’s blood feels slower, hated and thick, content seeping into his body and pooling into his belly.
Keith waits before bringing the joint to his mouth again, leans forward, holding in the smoke, letting it wash over his tongue, the concentrated burn swirling persistently inside, and releases it to Mick. It climbs out of every available opening, wafting into his nose, around his skin, heating everywhere it touches and Mick inhales. The guitarist’s fingers are in the older boy’s hair, gripping then releasing, pulling back with an indulgent smirk.
He watches, smoke fading into the air. There’s more contact this time, their tongues brushing, the heated content.
There’s a warning somewhere in there but Keith’s never been one to follow them. He pushes it back and continues.
Mick is becoming languid, feels as though his body is floating through water and Keith has barely moved away from his face, staring at the other, studying, need need need rocking through him. He’s stoned, it’s pleasant, and Keith is going farther to keep this feeling going.
The joint is wearing down, ash approaching his fingers and Keith hasn’t moved away from the singer’s face, staring at each other, Keith bringing the joint to his mouth for the last time, breathing out the smoke. It’s only after the singer relaxes and blows out the smoke does Keith close the distance again, bringing their mouths together, rearranging his body for better access. Mick is moving back, an instinct he’s very familiar with.
The door stops Mick from moving, back pressing against it, and the cool metal door handle nudging into his back. Keith eventually hovers over the singer, leering down at him. “Keith,” rolls languidly off Mick’s tongue, thick and accented, catching his attention all the while leaning his down, hands resting on the back of his neck and on the window beside the singer’s head.
“Keith, are we gonna-” is the last thing the older boy says before Keith tightens a hand in Mick’s long hair, “yes,” rolling low off his tongue and connects their mouths together. Keith licks along Mick’s bottom lip, tongue sliding into the brown-haired boy’s mouth, tongues sliding together, warmth spreading. Mick pushes forward and so does the guitarist. Keith takes the other’s bottom lip into his teeth and it becomes dirty, trails of moisture leaking from their mouths.
Hands and fingers are on the guitarist’s shoulder and neck, pulling him down, flush against him. Rough calloused fingers find their way under Mick’s purple, sleeveless shirt, skin hot hot hot, fingers scratching at the open flesh. Mick slowly surges forward, Keith following, and for a moment he’s pulled back down to Earth when his head bumps the ceiling of his Bentley. Mick finds this hilarious, dissolving into giggles. They’re really infectious and Keith finds himself laughing along.
He stop s when Mick starts moving, clamoring over to him, placing himself on Keith’s lap, and straddling him. They claim each other’s mouth again, reveling in the tastes, smoky and bitter and numbing and it’s all of their own tastes. The lithe singer grinds his hips down into Keith’s, pushing his clothed erection into the guitarist’s, moaning and writhing.
Keith thrusts his hips up, hands finding Mick’s waist, pushing them down, creating a movement of tandem. The spiky-haired boy throws his head back and the other sees this as a fine opportunity, leaning and nipping at the heated flesh.
“Mick, I’m gonna-” and it never really comes out, biting off the sentence as Mick leans forward, breathing, gasping with, “Keith, I want-need you to fuck me now.”
With great resistance, Keith stops, hips stuttering, gripping the older boy’s hips tightly. Through the parts of his brain that aren’t saturated with lust and chemicals, his body protests to moving. He reaches for Mick’s shirt, thinks of undressing him but doesn’t have the real effort for it. Instead, he motions to Mick to raise his hips, pulls at the button of the other’s pants and pulls them down, wrenching them to sit on Mick’s thighs and does the same to his own.
Keith discards his jacket (too constricting) and slicks his fingers before pressing them into the tight heat of his singer’s body-he’s done with foreplay and wants-needs to get to the main activity. He stretches his fingers, pushing outwards, and Mick is groaning, panting, sharp gasps coming from his throat, pushing down on them, wanting more and Keith chuckles.
“Keith,” he whines, “just-come on,” is a familiar phrase for the guitarist and he loves it. Sometimes Keith would rather draw this part out-it’s not that often that Mick ever begs, too scarcely does Keith ever hear it, the only hinting factor to Keith that Mick is near desperation for relief. He likes the irritation, the need and want in Mick’s voice, how much Mick is yearning for Keith to get on with it.
Fortunately Keith takes pity on the singer, retracting his fingers and adding more saliva to his fingers to coat himself, thumbing the head of his cock to gather the dripping liquid and using it. He positions himself, hand at the base and Mick’s sinking down.
It’s almost too much and not enough, the heat, the tightness, and it causes his stomach to tense as Mick sinks lower onto him until reaching the base. Mick sharply gasps, head leaning forward, steadily groaning, “Keith Keith Keith,” and it’s a whirl inside of Keith’s head and stomach, lips suddenly at his mouth takes the guitarist’s head off from everything that passes through.
Keith is moving, hips rolling upward, the muscles around him gripping, clasping, hot suction encouraging him to keep going. Mick whispers his name, moving in with him, trying to take as much as he can, “oh fuck, Keith,” groans his voice, pushing his face into Keith’s neck, breathing in, biting, hands clenching into the younger man’s shoulders. Keith’s hands rest on the bony hips above his own, giving as good as he got.
The singer’s back grinds against the steering wheel, rubbing down his back, sweat collecting on the surface, and Mick’s legs are going numb from this position but he’s not concerned, lust lust lust, not enough, need more dripping from every pore. Keith seeks out Mick’s mouth, a messy kiss commencing. Tongues slide against each again, wrapping in a duel, one of Keith’s hands take the opportunity to slide under the purple shirt, gliding along contracting muscles, fingers scratching at the seat-covered skin.
Keith increases the speed, slamming his hips upward, meeting harshly with the body on his lap, stopping him from going any farther and Keith groans, not enough pressure, not enough friction and Mick is pulling away, stuttering out a groan when Keith brushes over that spot, eyes pressed shut and swirling under the influence of ecstasy. Keith’s eyes dart to the exposed skin of the blue-eyed boy’s neck and sucks on the skin.
“Keith, gonna come-” and Keith already knows this, and keeps thrusting his hips in that same position, aiming for that same spot. He shudders even more when Keith wraps a hand around his neglected arousal, sliding a hand down the length, executing clever twists, squeezing with the right amount of pressure.
“Come for me,” Keith demands, low and guttural, “and look at me. Need to see your face, need to see-”
Mick’s whole body sings with pleasure, pressure building at the base of his spine, heat coiling tightly in his stomach and he’s looking up, sharply moving his head, staring into mahogany eyes and he’s coming, letting out a long moan. Keith watches, fascination thrumming through him before his own release follows, buried in Mick’s body. He shoves himself in as far as he can go and keeps fucking through the orgasm, intending to milk it for all it was worth and soars past oblivion., vaguely registering the warm liquid on his hand.
The older man slumps in the younger’s lap, spent, exhaustion taking hold after. They both vaguely register their position, the aches coming in from the prolonged position. Mick leans back, resting against the steering wheel, panting to catch his breath. Keith closes his eyes for a moment, letting the feeling of awe wash over him.
He loves these moments, living through the time after they both come and the silence that comes in, a sense of calm. It’s a moment to collect themselves.
A breath, then, “we missed the meeting,” and of course Mick has to say something like that.
Keith rolls his eyes, the aftershocks finally worn away. He reaches for Mick’s hips and helps him off and Mick sits back into his seat. The guitarist looks around for something to wipe his hand with as Mick pulls up his own pants; making a face he feels the wetness.
“Figured as much,” he says, not at all concerned, using his own jacket to wipe his hand (he can always wash it). Keith takes a moment to look down at himself, at his pants still pooled around his thighs, the sticky, white fluid bleeding through various parts of his pants, his softened cock still hanging out-he could sit like this for a long time, satiated, stoned and feeling good.
“Put yourself back in,” Mick says. “We might as well go home.”
The guitarist is looking at Mick, hands absently fiddling with his pants. “Thought you might’ve wanted to catch the last bit of the meeting?” The look the singer gives him should explain everything but Keith can’t read minds and it’s a good thing Mick decides to elaborate.
“Don’t be daft; I’m not walking around with a load of cum on my pants.”