What a coincidence xD
This is a request fic written for slowhandclap and crossposted from who_slash.
*salutes captain_plant for taking a superb lead with this pairing*
Title: Substitute
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Pete/Mick
Time Period: 1964
Word Count: 3,636
Warnings: Adult situations, gay sexytimes, OMG ANGST
Disclaimer: I write this crap for free. I do not intend to exploit the Who or the Rolling Stones (in the financial sense, anyway) and I have no legal rights to them.
Summary: One sexually frustrated lead singer plus one sexually repressed guitarist equals an angsty, gay inter-band encounter.
The Stones had been a band for almost three years now, if you rounded up-and Pete rounded up. It was December 1964 and the Who didn’t even have a proper single out under their own name. Opening for the Stones, who had recently gotten back from America, who had the number one song on the charts with a Willie Dixon blues cover, felt different because it was different. Here was a young band playing the music they all loved, suddenly topping the charts and getting their heads above water. Hell, when Pete was still puttering about in art school, these boys were sticking their necks out at jazz clubs where nobody wanted to hear this coarse American R&B stuff that was stubbornly on the rise in the London underground music scene. Pete made a point of not being impressed with much, but he couldn’t help but stare a little when he first saw them come in; five of them, a funny little pod of shaggy-haired moptops who spoke blues as a second language, but with incorrigible English accents, of course. You had to have a certain something to make it work, or at least make it a tiny more believable-that as a skinny-hipped, thick-lipped white boy, you could sing about things like levees and roosters and outside women with the same conviction as the original singers, an ocean and a culture and several decades away.
Whatever it was, the strange little waif called Mick Jagger had it, from his cloud of brown hair that he tossed around like a lion’s mane when he snarled into the mic, all the way down to his shiny, worn-in leather shoes. He screwed up his face and strutted all over the stage, his showmanship so over-the-top that you couldn’t help but stare, first in shock and possibly ridicule, and then with a creeping feeling of awe, a hunch that you were seeing something extra special, out of the ordinary, one-of-a-kind. They looked as normal as four budding rockers could look-definitely calling more attention to themselves than the Who, whose hairstyles were markedly less impressive-and when they filtered in backstage, they arranged themselves, some sitting, some standing, but all in a nonchalant kind of solar system with bigmouthed Mick at the center. He was always moving-he wore a long knit scarf that he kept playing with, twirling around in it like a very flat-chested harem girl until someone came to take it away and hang it up. Pete sat in a corner of the backstage area, holding his guitar in his lap like a shield, a fence over which he could peer, surreptitiously stealing glance after glance at the bony, magnetic young man darting about across the room. He wondered if he dared to say hello, if Mick would remember him; they had been in the same room before, because indeed they were swimming in the same ocean.
Preparations for the show went by in a blur, as if time had suddenly pitched forward and accelerated them into the future, screeching to a halt just as they were standing behind the curtain, outfitted and ready to take the stage. All the time he had been tuning and retuning his guitar, strapping it across his chest, running through the set list once more in his mind, he had been keeping a furtive eye on Mick, who seemed to have a unique relationship with the guitarist Keith Richards. Pete knew the two of them had been friends practically since the cradle; they were brothers, twins, and definitely looked the part-but there was something weirdly fascinating about the way they interacted. It was almost flirtatious, the way Mick swiveled his hips as he walked in Keith’s vicinity, darting out a hand to touch the guitarist’s arm, shoulder, leaning in to whisper a joke, a secretive smile spreading across both of their faces. Something about it sent a wave of tension through Pete, his stomach clenching at the sight of such innocent intimacy. Meanwhile, his own singer, Roger, was floating around nonchalantly nearby, apparently feeling no need to give Pete much attention. Pete looked at the way Mick and Keith were and he wanted it.
Now the nightclub’s emcee was announcing the Who through the building’s sound system, sending a rush of adrenaline through Pete’s body. At that moment he caught a funny wiggling movement from the left corner of the backstage area. It was Mick, and he was dancing-doing the twist, a dance that had gone out of fashion with the teenyboppers nearly five years ago, a dance that was suddenly more than a dance, it was Mick, all bone and sinew and sex appeal, pivoting from those tantalizing hips, owning the small, nondescript space which he happened to occupy and turning it into the focal point of the area. It was just a glimpse of this graceful, contrived movement, and that was enough to numb Pete for a split second as if he had been slugged full force across the face. When he came to, no time had passed, they were about to take the stage, he was still standing and breathing. As he moved to depart from backstage, he accidentally caught Mick’s eye again and simultaneously felt his guitar rub him in an unexpected way between his legs. The look between them echoed within his body and made him very grateful that he was a guitar player: he was inexplicably, undeniably hard, and all at the split-second sight of those hips.
If it weren’t for the music, Pete wouldn’t have known what to do with himself, but for the duration of the Who’s set, he could take refuge from the strange feelings and thoughts and sensations and channel all of his thoughtlessness through his fingers, filling the room and his brain with noise until he was nothing but a bundle of sweat and sound waves. Thankfully, nobody bothered him after their set was done, and he was left to collapse into a chair, half-listening to the rock and roll inferno currently being perpetrated by the Rolling Stones upon the club guests. The rest of his band had probably gone out to mix with the crowd or sidle up to the bar, assuming he had done the same or else leaving him to his own devices. Mick’s voice rang blurrily through his head and he sank into a half-stupor. It took him a good thirty seconds to notice when the Stones’ set had ended. He jumped out of his chair and pretended to be casually strolling off in some designated direction, finding himself drifting through the back corridor that lead in a roundabout set of hallways from the backstage to the alleyway of the club.
“Oy,” called a teasing voice, touching him like phantom fingers across the back of his neck. He whirled around and came face to face with Mick, standing with his thumbs hooked through his belt loops, pants slung dangerously low on his hips, head tilted and lips pursed.
“Hi,” Pete managed, the beginnings of a cold sweat suddenly beading on his brow. He tried in vain not to notice the way the residual lights filtering into the back hallway glanced off of the smaller man’s skin, highlighting the sweat and the places where his clothes had been soaked through, clinging to his wiry frame.
Mick’s eyes gleamed hypnotically; was he giving Pete the once-over?
“You look flustered,” he said.
“I was-just going outside for a bit. Get some air, you know.” Pete gestured limply in the general direction of the back door.
“Saw you ogling me earlier,” Mick said, grinning. “You’re not very subtle, you know.”
Pete sputtered indignantly and tried to collect himself to get out of this surreal situation as soon as possible. Though what he was running from, he couldn’t say. “You like to put on a show, don’t you?” he found himself saying.
Mick sauntered a few steps closer, teetering on the boundary between casual encounter and…something more. When he laughed, the wind from his breath ruffled lightly across Pete’s face. “You’re something of a performer yourself,” he said, the words rolling off his tongue in a way that made Pete acutely agitated.
The space between them made so little sense all of a sudden that when Mick suddenly slid forward, Pete barely even flinched. He stayed still as the singer’s hands went to his wrists, gripping them loosely and guiding them to Mick’s twisty, devilish hips. They stood like that for a moment, Pete in dumbfounded surprise as he found his hands cupping the hips of another man. Mick was returning the touch, wasting no time. He spread his fingers and palmed the flat of Pete’s stomach, all the while staring straight at Pete with a hardened, fiery expression. His eyes were wide and determined, his jaw set and his lips quivering at the same time. Pete’s mind began to form a vague idea of what Mick wanted of him, and still he remained, waiting for Mick’s next move.
His mouth dropped open when Mick’s hands slunk downward, stroking his inner thighs, emphasizing the rising, hardened shape that was now throbbing between Pete’s legs as a result of this unexpected onslaught. Mick’s tongue flicked out and moistened his lips, and he raised his eyebrows, his palms closing in. “Did I do that?” he murmured. “Allow me, please.”
Without further ado he was urging Pete backwards, up against the wall, dropping to his knees and unzipping the front of Pete’s pants, gently bringing Pete’s fairly obvious secret out into the open. Exposed, vulnerable, only seconds away from anybody walking in on them-but then Pete’s logic was blindsided by the sensation of a mouth testing the head of his shaft, of hands gripping it carefully, a tongue swirling and moistening the pulsing arousal, and then he was being engulfed, little by little, taken slowly but surely into Mick’s mouth.
His heart was beating so fast that he couldn’t tell the pulses apart anymore; the rhythm ran together in his chest and trembled right through his ribcage to the wall behind him. He pressed his spine harder against the flat cinderblock, so hard that it almost hurt, bracing himself against the fear of getting caught with his pants around his ankles and his cock in the mouth of another man. Despite his best efforts he couldn’t melt through solid brick, and he couldn’t tear himself from the undeniable heat building throughout his body as Mick’s head bobbed up and down, trapping Pete’s hardness in the moist, constrictive hollow of his mouth. Those delectable lips clamped down and sucked harder than a vacuum, that tongue massaging the underside of his shaft and swirling around his head every time Mick’s mouth retracted. This was the only point of contact between their two bodies-Pete’s hands were spread out on either side of him, as if someone was trapping him at gunpoint against the wall-but the feeling of being consumed, of the hot, swooping pleasure threatening to drown him and pull him downward, this feeling coursed through every molecule of the guitarist’s body. He desperately wished he had something to cling to for reassurance, and his hands finished this thought for him, finding their way to the rough smoothness of Mick’s hair and burrowing into it, feeling the warmth of the older boy’s scalp and riding the jerking motions he made as he continued to pleasure Pete with his mouth. The added touch stirred a stifled groan of acknowledgement in the back of Mick’s throat, a noise that traveled as a tingling hum around the breadth of his arousal and caused him to utter a strangled cry of his own, abandoning all previous trepidation and throwing his head back as he took twin fistfuls of the fluffy brown hair in his hands and tugged on it a little. Another image flashed through his mind like a bolt of lightning, igniting him from within-instead of brown hair, it was blonde hair he was clenching possessively in his fists, a compact, familiar body kneeling at his feet, eyelashes fluttering over glazed blue. He was powerless to stop this sudden daydream and it took hold of him, spurring him to take control, to enjoy this strange new circumstance. He pulled harder, drawing more moaning from Mick, and now Pete was bucking against him, tugging on his hair carelessly and using the tight, subservient mouth in a manner almost abusive, drawing on the delirious courage that was borne of the knowledge that this was a boy whose mouth he was fucking, a boy who was sucking hungrily on his cock as if it were a piece of candy, a boy whose body he controlled. He needed to come so badly-he grunted and began to thrust between Mick’s lips, envisioning someone else’s mouth wrapped around his cock. With a shower of blinding sparks, an entire fireworks show set off all at once behind his eye sockets, he climaxed, emptying himself into the back of Mick’s mouth and shuddering uncontrollably as all of his energy was sucked out of his body. Mick took the hot fluid and swallowed it without hesitation. Weakly Pete felt his knees give way and his grip on Mick’s hair slacken. “I need to sit down,” he heard himself mumble, and he slid to the ground, his back to the wall as a vertical guide. Mick was still kneeling between Pete’s legs, now bowed at the knee and parted to give the singer space. Pete kept his eyes close, resting the back of his head on the cold, unforgiving cinderblock and feigning temporary feebleness-every moment his eyes were shut, he didn’t have to face the reality of the act and the boy in front of him. Every time his brain tried to present the idea of Roger to him, the thought was firmly repelled. Though what he was so horrified about, he didn’t know. He marveled at this for a moment, turning it over in his mind-he didn’t regret it at all. He enjoyed every second of it and wanted more. His body seemed to be particularly rebellious tonight and his lips twitched up into the beginnings of a smile without his consent.
“You liked that?” Mick said, his voice a little sticky at the edges. Underneath the usual swagger, Pete detected a note of genuine anxiety, a plea for approval.
Pete nodded automatically. His brain was still trying to gather the facts of what had just happened. He ventured a look and found Mick’s face hovering there in the dimness of the corridor, open and earnest. Mick grinned and Pete found himself mirroring the infectious smile.
“Wait.” A hand rested on the back of Pete’s hand, which had gone to redo the front of his pants. Pete frowned in puzzlement, and the simple touch sent another indelible shockwave through his hand back to his own groin beneath. He gasped a little.
“Er,” said Pete. Did Mick want him to return the favor? He wasn’t sure if he could handle that, at least not at this moment.
“Fuck me?” Mick whispered, nearly tripping over his words. Pete’s eyes widened.
“Did I hear that right?” he said weakly, stalling for time.
“Please,” Mick said hoarsely.
“I don’t think I’ve got much left in me,” Pete began carefully. This business of casual sex was harder than he thought. Was he really spent so easily? It must have been the sheer thrill of it, the fright and the newness of it all. He would get better at it, he assured himself. His days of fumbling around clumsily were long gone-it was time to man up and get it done. He tried for a mask of bravado, but let it slip in an instant. There was no point. He would try again later, when he was actually with a bird, and not with a boy who wanted to be treated like one.
“Really.”
“Somebody’s going to come back here any minute, looking for us-”
“Look, do you want it or not?” Though his manner was tentative, there was no mistaking the challenge in his voice, goading Pete, daring him.
Before Pete had time to respond, the hand had moved to his most sensitive area and was tracing the shaft where it lay half-exposed through the front of the guitarist’s pants. His body betrayed him again, sending an enthusiastic current of heat to the area, moving and hardening against the invasive touch. “I think you do,” Mick whispered throatily in his ear, rubbing a thumb against the bare skin.
“Fine, let’s get on with it, then.” He made a great show of irritation as he got up and followed Mick around the corner, further back into the twisting halls of the building. Mick seized a door handle and opened what appeared to be a broom closet; aside from a set of metal shelving and a stack of dusty mop buckets, it was empty. Without a word Mick pulled him inside by the wrist and shut the door.
“I can’t see a thing-”
Mick’s hand pressed flatly against his collarbone and slid up to spread across Pete’s lips. It was totally pitch-black, and the loss of vision was already heightening Pete’s hearing and touch. Their breathing seemed to fill the small space like an echo chamber, and his skin prickled with blind anticipation. It wasn’t as if they were in danger of getting lost in here, either. Mick was rubbing up against him, lining up their hips and grinding against his arousal.
“God, all right, just-” Losing patience, Pete fumbled at the form of the man before him, grabbing him roughly by the hips and feeling for the metal of the belt buckle. After a few seconds he felt his way through it, unbuckling it and feeling the waist of Mick’s jeans loosen. “Turn around,” he muttered, and Mick obeyed. They inched forward till they found the wall, and Pete shoved the jeans down the singer’s legs. Having no view of his goal, he had to go by touch to figure out how far down the pants were, which meant running his hands over the firm, bare backside and down the backs of Mick’s thighs. The older man panted and wriggled his hips at the exploration of his body, pressing back desperately into the empty space between their bodies. Slowly at first, Pete bridged the gap, lining their hips up again, his knees poking at the pair of spindly legs, his hands steadying both of them as they gripped the jutting hipbones like readymade handles. From what he could tell, Mick was spread as wide as he could, with his pants tangling him up at the ankles, open and completely vulnerable. Pete reveled in the way the singer arched and groaned softly under his touch, so much more brazen and thrilling than any woman the guitarist had ever been with. He moved his hands up the front of Mick’s chest and pulled the smaller man into him, nearly sandwiching him between Pete and the wall, their bodies falling into place section by section until Pete was angling against the tightness between Mick’s legs, grunting softly as he found the entrance and gingerly pushed his way in. It was a ridiculously tight fit, and Pete thought he might come before he even got all the way in. Here, in the middle of this act, swathed in an unrelenting pressure and pressed against a lithe, heaving, willing body, Pete’s mind was suddenly free to roam as it never could be in the light; the lust in his mind’s eye transformed the person to whom he was temporarily joined, changing the bushy dark hair to a slick blonde bowl cut, turning the skin beneath his hands into the forbidden, muscular figure he had only glimpsed shirtless on the odd occasion; he could almost hear his name being shaped by those lips that sang his words, whispered by the illusion of the darkness into his ear. He thrust with increasing intensity, fueled by the pictures in his mind, the thought of a well-muscled back arching, a fine-boned face contorted with pain-riddled pleasure. In his head he chanted the same word over and over with every stroke, pushing himself closer to the brink, pushing himself further and further into this glorious charade. Roger. Roger. Roger…
Lost in the depths of his fantasies, in the throes of pleasure, the brief escape the darkness offered him from reality, he hurtled towards climax, almost smashing both of them face-first into the wall as he came, releasing all of the tension and shattering the delusion, bringing him back down to earth. The darkness was now nothing but flatness, stuffiness, threatening to suffocate him. In a sudden panic he backed up, desperate to untangle himself from this situation. They rustled about separately for several moments, each refastening himself into his clothing and attempting to make his appearance mildly normal.
“Thanks,” came the disembodied voice, low and a little shaky. And that was all-in a swish of denim and brown hair, Mick opened the closet door and waltzed back out. Pete crouched dismally against the wall, listening as another set of footsteps began to coincide with Mick’s. A voice Pete identified as Keith’s reached his ears, muffled by the walls, exchanging a few words with his singer, asking him where he had been, what he was doing. The lilting, careless bravado was back in Mick’s tone as he replied, and then the footsteps receded until Pete was truly alone, shut up in this dark little box with his thoughts and the memories of what he had just done, and the daunting, impossible task of trying to explain it to himself.
*salutes captain_plant for taking a superb lead with this pairing*
Title: Substitute
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Pete/Mick
Time Period: 1964
Word Count: 3,636
Warnings: Adult situations, gay sexytimes, OMG ANGST
Disclaimer: I write this crap for free. I do not intend to exploit the Who or the Rolling Stones (in the financial sense, anyway) and I have no legal rights to them.
Summary: One sexually frustrated lead singer plus one sexually repressed guitarist equals an angsty, gay inter-band encounter.
The Stones had been a band for almost three years now, if you rounded up-and Pete rounded up. It was December 1964 and the Who didn’t even have a proper single out under their own name. Opening for the Stones, who had recently gotten back from America, who had the number one song on the charts with a Willie Dixon blues cover, felt different because it was different. Here was a young band playing the music they all loved, suddenly topping the charts and getting their heads above water. Hell, when Pete was still puttering about in art school, these boys were sticking their necks out at jazz clubs where nobody wanted to hear this coarse American R&B stuff that was stubbornly on the rise in the London underground music scene. Pete made a point of not being impressed with much, but he couldn’t help but stare a little when he first saw them come in; five of them, a funny little pod of shaggy-haired moptops who spoke blues as a second language, but with incorrigible English accents, of course. You had to have a certain something to make it work, or at least make it a tiny more believable-that as a skinny-hipped, thick-lipped white boy, you could sing about things like levees and roosters and outside women with the same conviction as the original singers, an ocean and a culture and several decades away.
Whatever it was, the strange little waif called Mick Jagger had it, from his cloud of brown hair that he tossed around like a lion’s mane when he snarled into the mic, all the way down to his shiny, worn-in leather shoes. He screwed up his face and strutted all over the stage, his showmanship so over-the-top that you couldn’t help but stare, first in shock and possibly ridicule, and then with a creeping feeling of awe, a hunch that you were seeing something extra special, out of the ordinary, one-of-a-kind. They looked as normal as four budding rockers could look-definitely calling more attention to themselves than the Who, whose hairstyles were markedly less impressive-and when they filtered in backstage, they arranged themselves, some sitting, some standing, but all in a nonchalant kind of solar system with bigmouthed Mick at the center. He was always moving-he wore a long knit scarf that he kept playing with, twirling around in it like a very flat-chested harem girl until someone came to take it away and hang it up. Pete sat in a corner of the backstage area, holding his guitar in his lap like a shield, a fence over which he could peer, surreptitiously stealing glance after glance at the bony, magnetic young man darting about across the room. He wondered if he dared to say hello, if Mick would remember him; they had been in the same room before, because indeed they were swimming in the same ocean.
Preparations for the show went by in a blur, as if time had suddenly pitched forward and accelerated them into the future, screeching to a halt just as they were standing behind the curtain, outfitted and ready to take the stage. All the time he had been tuning and retuning his guitar, strapping it across his chest, running through the set list once more in his mind, he had been keeping a furtive eye on Mick, who seemed to have a unique relationship with the guitarist Keith Richards. Pete knew the two of them had been friends practically since the cradle; they were brothers, twins, and definitely looked the part-but there was something weirdly fascinating about the way they interacted. It was almost flirtatious, the way Mick swiveled his hips as he walked in Keith’s vicinity, darting out a hand to touch the guitarist’s arm, shoulder, leaning in to whisper a joke, a secretive smile spreading across both of their faces. Something about it sent a wave of tension through Pete, his stomach clenching at the sight of such innocent intimacy. Meanwhile, his own singer, Roger, was floating around nonchalantly nearby, apparently feeling no need to give Pete much attention. Pete looked at the way Mick and Keith were and he wanted it.
Now the nightclub’s emcee was announcing the Who through the building’s sound system, sending a rush of adrenaline through Pete’s body. At that moment he caught a funny wiggling movement from the left corner of the backstage area. It was Mick, and he was dancing-doing the twist, a dance that had gone out of fashion with the teenyboppers nearly five years ago, a dance that was suddenly more than a dance, it was Mick, all bone and sinew and sex appeal, pivoting from those tantalizing hips, owning the small, nondescript space which he happened to occupy and turning it into the focal point of the area. It was just a glimpse of this graceful, contrived movement, and that was enough to numb Pete for a split second as if he had been slugged full force across the face. When he came to, no time had passed, they were about to take the stage, he was still standing and breathing. As he moved to depart from backstage, he accidentally caught Mick’s eye again and simultaneously felt his guitar rub him in an unexpected way between his legs. The look between them echoed within his body and made him very grateful that he was a guitar player: he was inexplicably, undeniably hard, and all at the split-second sight of those hips.
If it weren’t for the music, Pete wouldn’t have known what to do with himself, but for the duration of the Who’s set, he could take refuge from the strange feelings and thoughts and sensations and channel all of his thoughtlessness through his fingers, filling the room and his brain with noise until he was nothing but a bundle of sweat and sound waves. Thankfully, nobody bothered him after their set was done, and he was left to collapse into a chair, half-listening to the rock and roll inferno currently being perpetrated by the Rolling Stones upon the club guests. The rest of his band had probably gone out to mix with the crowd or sidle up to the bar, assuming he had done the same or else leaving him to his own devices. Mick’s voice rang blurrily through his head and he sank into a half-stupor. It took him a good thirty seconds to notice when the Stones’ set had ended. He jumped out of his chair and pretended to be casually strolling off in some designated direction, finding himself drifting through the back corridor that lead in a roundabout set of hallways from the backstage to the alleyway of the club.
“Oy,” called a teasing voice, touching him like phantom fingers across the back of his neck. He whirled around and came face to face with Mick, standing with his thumbs hooked through his belt loops, pants slung dangerously low on his hips, head tilted and lips pursed.
“Hi,” Pete managed, the beginnings of a cold sweat suddenly beading on his brow. He tried in vain not to notice the way the residual lights filtering into the back hallway glanced off of the smaller man’s skin, highlighting the sweat and the places where his clothes had been soaked through, clinging to his wiry frame.
Mick’s eyes gleamed hypnotically; was he giving Pete the once-over?
“You look flustered,” he said.
“I was-just going outside for a bit. Get some air, you know.” Pete gestured limply in the general direction of the back door.
“Saw you ogling me earlier,” Mick said, grinning. “You’re not very subtle, you know.”
Pete sputtered indignantly and tried to collect himself to get out of this surreal situation as soon as possible. Though what he was running from, he couldn’t say. “You like to put on a show, don’t you?” he found himself saying.
Mick sauntered a few steps closer, teetering on the boundary between casual encounter and…something more. When he laughed, the wind from his breath ruffled lightly across Pete’s face. “You’re something of a performer yourself,” he said, the words rolling off his tongue in a way that made Pete acutely agitated.
The space between them made so little sense all of a sudden that when Mick suddenly slid forward, Pete barely even flinched. He stayed still as the singer’s hands went to his wrists, gripping them loosely and guiding them to Mick’s twisty, devilish hips. They stood like that for a moment, Pete in dumbfounded surprise as he found his hands cupping the hips of another man. Mick was returning the touch, wasting no time. He spread his fingers and palmed the flat of Pete’s stomach, all the while staring straight at Pete with a hardened, fiery expression. His eyes were wide and determined, his jaw set and his lips quivering at the same time. Pete’s mind began to form a vague idea of what Mick wanted of him, and still he remained, waiting for Mick’s next move.
His mouth dropped open when Mick’s hands slunk downward, stroking his inner thighs, emphasizing the rising, hardened shape that was now throbbing between Pete’s legs as a result of this unexpected onslaught. Mick’s tongue flicked out and moistened his lips, and he raised his eyebrows, his palms closing in. “Did I do that?” he murmured. “Allow me, please.”
Without further ado he was urging Pete backwards, up against the wall, dropping to his knees and unzipping the front of Pete’s pants, gently bringing Pete’s fairly obvious secret out into the open. Exposed, vulnerable, only seconds away from anybody walking in on them-but then Pete’s logic was blindsided by the sensation of a mouth testing the head of his shaft, of hands gripping it carefully, a tongue swirling and moistening the pulsing arousal, and then he was being engulfed, little by little, taken slowly but surely into Mick’s mouth.
His heart was beating so fast that he couldn’t tell the pulses apart anymore; the rhythm ran together in his chest and trembled right through his ribcage to the wall behind him. He pressed his spine harder against the flat cinderblock, so hard that it almost hurt, bracing himself against the fear of getting caught with his pants around his ankles and his cock in the mouth of another man. Despite his best efforts he couldn’t melt through solid brick, and he couldn’t tear himself from the undeniable heat building throughout his body as Mick’s head bobbed up and down, trapping Pete’s hardness in the moist, constrictive hollow of his mouth. Those delectable lips clamped down and sucked harder than a vacuum, that tongue massaging the underside of his shaft and swirling around his head every time Mick’s mouth retracted. This was the only point of contact between their two bodies-Pete’s hands were spread out on either side of him, as if someone was trapping him at gunpoint against the wall-but the feeling of being consumed, of the hot, swooping pleasure threatening to drown him and pull him downward, this feeling coursed through every molecule of the guitarist’s body. He desperately wished he had something to cling to for reassurance, and his hands finished this thought for him, finding their way to the rough smoothness of Mick’s hair and burrowing into it, feeling the warmth of the older boy’s scalp and riding the jerking motions he made as he continued to pleasure Pete with his mouth. The added touch stirred a stifled groan of acknowledgement in the back of Mick’s throat, a noise that traveled as a tingling hum around the breadth of his arousal and caused him to utter a strangled cry of his own, abandoning all previous trepidation and throwing his head back as he took twin fistfuls of the fluffy brown hair in his hands and tugged on it a little. Another image flashed through his mind like a bolt of lightning, igniting him from within-instead of brown hair, it was blonde hair he was clenching possessively in his fists, a compact, familiar body kneeling at his feet, eyelashes fluttering over glazed blue. He was powerless to stop this sudden daydream and it took hold of him, spurring him to take control, to enjoy this strange new circumstance. He pulled harder, drawing more moaning from Mick, and now Pete was bucking against him, tugging on his hair carelessly and using the tight, subservient mouth in a manner almost abusive, drawing on the delirious courage that was borne of the knowledge that this was a boy whose mouth he was fucking, a boy who was sucking hungrily on his cock as if it were a piece of candy, a boy whose body he controlled. He needed to come so badly-he grunted and began to thrust between Mick’s lips, envisioning someone else’s mouth wrapped around his cock. With a shower of blinding sparks, an entire fireworks show set off all at once behind his eye sockets, he climaxed, emptying himself into the back of Mick’s mouth and shuddering uncontrollably as all of his energy was sucked out of his body. Mick took the hot fluid and swallowed it without hesitation. Weakly Pete felt his knees give way and his grip on Mick’s hair slacken. “I need to sit down,” he heard himself mumble, and he slid to the ground, his back to the wall as a vertical guide. Mick was still kneeling between Pete’s legs, now bowed at the knee and parted to give the singer space. Pete kept his eyes close, resting the back of his head on the cold, unforgiving cinderblock and feigning temporary feebleness-every moment his eyes were shut, he didn’t have to face the reality of the act and the boy in front of him. Every time his brain tried to present the idea of Roger to him, the thought was firmly repelled. Though what he was so horrified about, he didn’t know. He marveled at this for a moment, turning it over in his mind-he didn’t regret it at all. He enjoyed every second of it and wanted more. His body seemed to be particularly rebellious tonight and his lips twitched up into the beginnings of a smile without his consent.
“You liked that?” Mick said, his voice a little sticky at the edges. Underneath the usual swagger, Pete detected a note of genuine anxiety, a plea for approval.
Pete nodded automatically. His brain was still trying to gather the facts of what had just happened. He ventured a look and found Mick’s face hovering there in the dimness of the corridor, open and earnest. Mick grinned and Pete found himself mirroring the infectious smile.
“Wait.” A hand rested on the back of Pete’s hand, which had gone to redo the front of his pants. Pete frowned in puzzlement, and the simple touch sent another indelible shockwave through his hand back to his own groin beneath. He gasped a little.
“Er,” said Pete. Did Mick want him to return the favor? He wasn’t sure if he could handle that, at least not at this moment.
“Fuck me?” Mick whispered, nearly tripping over his words. Pete’s eyes widened.
“Did I hear that right?” he said weakly, stalling for time.
“Please,” Mick said hoarsely.
“I don’t think I’ve got much left in me,” Pete began carefully. This business of casual sex was harder than he thought. Was he really spent so easily? It must have been the sheer thrill of it, the fright and the newness of it all. He would get better at it, he assured himself. His days of fumbling around clumsily were long gone-it was time to man up and get it done. He tried for a mask of bravado, but let it slip in an instant. There was no point. He would try again later, when he was actually with a bird, and not with a boy who wanted to be treated like one.
“Really.”
“Somebody’s going to come back here any minute, looking for us-”
“Look, do you want it or not?” Though his manner was tentative, there was no mistaking the challenge in his voice, goading Pete, daring him.
Before Pete had time to respond, the hand had moved to his most sensitive area and was tracing the shaft where it lay half-exposed through the front of the guitarist’s pants. His body betrayed him again, sending an enthusiastic current of heat to the area, moving and hardening against the invasive touch. “I think you do,” Mick whispered throatily in his ear, rubbing a thumb against the bare skin.
“Fine, let’s get on with it, then.” He made a great show of irritation as he got up and followed Mick around the corner, further back into the twisting halls of the building. Mick seized a door handle and opened what appeared to be a broom closet; aside from a set of metal shelving and a stack of dusty mop buckets, it was empty. Without a word Mick pulled him inside by the wrist and shut the door.
“I can’t see a thing-”
Mick’s hand pressed flatly against his collarbone and slid up to spread across Pete’s lips. It was totally pitch-black, and the loss of vision was already heightening Pete’s hearing and touch. Their breathing seemed to fill the small space like an echo chamber, and his skin prickled with blind anticipation. It wasn’t as if they were in danger of getting lost in here, either. Mick was rubbing up against him, lining up their hips and grinding against his arousal.
“God, all right, just-” Losing patience, Pete fumbled at the form of the man before him, grabbing him roughly by the hips and feeling for the metal of the belt buckle. After a few seconds he felt his way through it, unbuckling it and feeling the waist of Mick’s jeans loosen. “Turn around,” he muttered, and Mick obeyed. They inched forward till they found the wall, and Pete shoved the jeans down the singer’s legs. Having no view of his goal, he had to go by touch to figure out how far down the pants were, which meant running his hands over the firm, bare backside and down the backs of Mick’s thighs. The older man panted and wriggled his hips at the exploration of his body, pressing back desperately into the empty space between their bodies. Slowly at first, Pete bridged the gap, lining their hips up again, his knees poking at the pair of spindly legs, his hands steadying both of them as they gripped the jutting hipbones like readymade handles. From what he could tell, Mick was spread as wide as he could, with his pants tangling him up at the ankles, open and completely vulnerable. Pete reveled in the way the singer arched and groaned softly under his touch, so much more brazen and thrilling than any woman the guitarist had ever been with. He moved his hands up the front of Mick’s chest and pulled the smaller man into him, nearly sandwiching him between Pete and the wall, their bodies falling into place section by section until Pete was angling against the tightness between Mick’s legs, grunting softly as he found the entrance and gingerly pushed his way in. It was a ridiculously tight fit, and Pete thought he might come before he even got all the way in. Here, in the middle of this act, swathed in an unrelenting pressure and pressed against a lithe, heaving, willing body, Pete’s mind was suddenly free to roam as it never could be in the light; the lust in his mind’s eye transformed the person to whom he was temporarily joined, changing the bushy dark hair to a slick blonde bowl cut, turning the skin beneath his hands into the forbidden, muscular figure he had only glimpsed shirtless on the odd occasion; he could almost hear his name being shaped by those lips that sang his words, whispered by the illusion of the darkness into his ear. He thrust with increasing intensity, fueled by the pictures in his mind, the thought of a well-muscled back arching, a fine-boned face contorted with pain-riddled pleasure. In his head he chanted the same word over and over with every stroke, pushing himself closer to the brink, pushing himself further and further into this glorious charade. Roger. Roger. Roger…
Lost in the depths of his fantasies, in the throes of pleasure, the brief escape the darkness offered him from reality, he hurtled towards climax, almost smashing both of them face-first into the wall as he came, releasing all of the tension and shattering the delusion, bringing him back down to earth. The darkness was now nothing but flatness, stuffiness, threatening to suffocate him. In a sudden panic he backed up, desperate to untangle himself from this situation. They rustled about separately for several moments, each refastening himself into his clothing and attempting to make his appearance mildly normal.
“Thanks,” came the disembodied voice, low and a little shaky. And that was all-in a swish of denim and brown hair, Mick opened the closet door and waltzed back out. Pete crouched dismally against the wall, listening as another set of footsteps began to coincide with Mick’s. A voice Pete identified as Keith’s reached his ears, muffled by the walls, exchanging a few words with his singer, asking him where he had been, what he was doing. The lilting, careless bravado was back in Mick’s tone as he replied, and then the footsteps receded until Pete was truly alone, shut up in this dark little box with his thoughts and the memories of what he had just done, and the daunting, impossible task of trying to explain it to himself.