I should be doing my study-guide right now.
Title: On A Sunny Afternoon
Rating: Borderline R
Pairings: Keith/Mick
Word Count: 2440
Disclaimer: For their own sanity, I don't own the Stones.
I was watching a clip from 'Stones In The Park' and I watched Mick basically imply that he was giving the microphone a blow-job. Tell me I'm not the only one who noticed this.
Keith was off to the side of the stage, his fingers currently in usage at the moment. The warm heat was very pleasing; this July day was quite something. The air was excited, the sounds so spontaneous. It was hard to believe that just three days earlier, someone of their own had left the world through a watery casket.
Right now, not many thoughts could formulate within Keith’s mind. His entire being was enveloped within the sounds of the song. They were on stage, on a platform to which they had been raised up on. Keith would occasionally step ahead, his feet moving in a dilating way. He could feel the crushing and crunching of the butterflies that littered the stage, their corpses laying under his feet, around the stage, very few even showing signs of life. Keith would look at them, his attention caught slightly before he would venture back to his guitar.
From the moment they had stumbled into their set, it was either going to go well or go down in flames. This sound, this muddy intonation slips through his ears; it is created from their lack of practice, just barely there to show any idea or skill of professionalism or even the desire to keep up what they liked. Keith sounded as though he were wishing to be anywhere, like lounging in a bed somewhere far away. His white, long-sleeved shirt, complete with a belt wrapped around his stomach, was very light. He could feel the tickling of his own hair, long and thicker then it has ever been.
This day feels like a dream and Keith is sure that at any moment he would be springing out of bed, at his home in Dartford, his mum in the kitchen asking whether he wanted a muffin for breakfast. He felt like a stranger in a place where he was not quite understanding if he was needed or not.
After bringing to fruition their previous song, people began to assimilate on the stage. African sambas were joining them; maracas sprang into life, congas entering this peculiar mix of sounds, African rhythms, and south-influenced melodies. It was like one large, jamming party on this stage. The audience ogled what was transpiring on stage; people in the crowd began to ascend to their feet, arms and legs stretching, their hearts pulsating the music through them, just dancing, as they were possessed with the music.
Keith would glance back to the new kid, Mick Taylor as he was called, and seeing if he did okay. Turn to Charlie and check on him, who seemed to be having a time of his life, all smiles and laughs. Bill was still assuming that position he had been for years so nothing was out of ordinary with him.
Jagger was all over the stage, everywhere in people’s eyes, all over the microphone. Keith was quite sure he was wondering, along with the other three-hundred thousand people, just what the hell Mick decided to wear. White bell-bottoms that looked light and frilly, a purple, sleeveless shirt was hiding under that top he wore. He certainly was the center of attention. Keith could see just why he was at everyone’s interest.
He was wearing a dress. A full, white, dangling dress fitting right over his body. It glided with his own body, moving so carelessly through the air, on time with his steps. Keith tilted his head. He could practically hear the headliners-- well maybe in America-- being typed up right now. The guitarist laughed at that inside. Now Jagger was moving again, his moves bordering on paroxysm. He was jolting, shaking, convulsing. Keith was still more focused on his guitar but occasionally lent an eye in Mick’s direction. Keith was still plunging through their current number ‘Sympathy For The Devil. To be quite honest, it was this now epic jam. He really thanked Mick for really pulling those lyrics out and pushing them onto paper. He was quite surprised how Mick brought that in.
Now Mick was at the lip of the stage. Mick had just a moment ago dropped the microphone on the stage, right beside Taylor, and began shaking himself with the rhythms of the song. He clapped, he mouthed words. Keith surveyed as Mick shimmied up to one of their newly hired ‘rhythm section’ and shake himself at them, the others gleefully responding. The man knew of the speculation that crowd was giving them, though it was positive. How the women went crazy over it, the males bobbing with them. He watched Mick’s gyrating form began moving back to him. Keith felt a little flash in his stomach and his brows knitted at what it was. It was so sudden and fast that he had no idea what it was.
Keith returned to his guitar in hopes of distracting himself again, hoping to forget just what his body was doing. Keith spiraled into the music again, his heart filling and brewing with his soul in the guitar. Sometimes he wondered if he could take these guitar skills that, his fingers had slaved over to attain for years, and just apply them to other methods. Some with an implied salacious tone. Keith then granted himself permission to get his body involved with the music, his limbs beginning to spring forth with energy, his mouth opening in joy.
Keith raised his head, his hooded eyes traveling back to Mick who was now at the stage’s mouth and sat down. The guitarist decided to do the same and moved his thin legs. He had to admit, these black pants were smooth and very much comfortable. Keith looked to other side of his body, peering out the thousands of little, blotchy faces of colors staring right back at him, giving him the looks of admiration and pure music soaked passion.
Mick then folded his knees and sat down on his bottom while Keith moved back again. Keith did slightly not like venturing to the front of it. It guaranteed a quicker way of being seized by some excited and exuberant fan, resulting in injury and Keith did not want that to be the last thing he experiences this decade. Being out with a broken leg, arm or whatever, it did not sound like an appealing idea, so Keith backed up to the middle part. Mick was clapping, calling out joyously ad bowing his head. Keith knew his singer was becoming more outrageous with his moves and stage-presence. It was all being confirmed within his mind, systematically, little by little.
Keith inwardly beamed at the excitement that Mick was showing, the samba harmonies carrying on with a blithe and encouraging effect. Keith saw the little hands poking from over the stage, the women reaching for him. The next moments that happened Keith paid attention to.
Mick got a certain look on his face and slowly eased the microphone down. His long hair splashed over his face, giving him a more feminine look. His mouth opened and he leaned down. Keith blinked. He stared closer and watched Mick put the electrical device so close to his mouth, open and inviting the devise in. Before it could go in, Mick pulled away, leaned back up and put his mouth exactly where it has been. Keith could hear the breath that connected with the head of the devise, his breath sensually gliding over it.
Mick clutched the mic between his knees, his white bell-bottoms creasing when it hit the microphone. Those pale hands were rubbing his knees and making its purpose known. The crucifix that Mick wore dangled forwards, bobbing off the microphone. Mick leaned in deeper as though he were telling a secret. His hands slipped lightly against his bent knees, breathing deeply on it, though it was not heard over the thundering sonority of the music and the enthusiasm of the crowd. Keith was close to amp and it could be brightly and clearly heard.
He was… blowing the microphone.
Deep-throating it like he were facing the real thing.
Keith’s eyes became transfixed at Mick curled figure. He watched as Mick leaned back in again and could swear that Mick was fantasizing up there about something; whatever it was, Keith could not look away. Keith swore to the gods above that he could have heard a soft moan tumble from that mouth. Mick wrapped his arms around his head, his darkened hair fanning out under these appendages. He leaned in closer and Keith thought he saw a tongue come out to swipe over. Keith felt something contrive deep within his body, a place where his libido lived. His fingers flexed over the neck of his guitar, tightening and unclenching repeatedly. Keith’s mind was stumbling over this image repeatedly.
Mick drug his hands through the hair that lay in his face and sliding them through the strands. A pulse dully shot through his body when Keith gawked as Mick rose back up; his movements slightly huskier then the average performance would transfer into. Even if Keith could not see Mick’s face since he leaned back up he could swear that Mick probably would have some satisfied look. It did not matter that some people could see him; about 80 percent of their crowd probably could not even see them, just hearing their sound.
Things went off in a different way in Keith’s mind when everyone else was enjoying himself or herself. When he was subjected to that viewing, Keith’s mind went completely in another land. He imagined that he was sitting in front of Mick, that same person that was in front of him, the very person who was his singer. Instead of the trees, people, water and other pieces that congealed and made up Hyde Park, it was a hotel room or somewhere back in Redlands. The stage morphed and established itself as a bed; sheets construed everywhere, matted to the bed. Those hands were on his knees, that very same mouth blowing warm air on his groin.
It was something that Keith was starting to relish. Mick was then upon his feet, shaking and gyrating again. The younger boy wondered just how Mick was able to go from practically sucking off a microphone back to a normal demeanor. Surely, the guitarist was not the only one who noticed this little public display-- he would not count the people in front of him as exempt from the fiasco and he could understand the people way in the back that could not see it.
Mick picked up his discarded top that he had shed. He put it back on and began singing again. Later on through this performance, Mick was yet again sitting at the lip of the stage. This time Keith could feel a type of thing invading his stomach, up to his spine and all around his entire being. It was filled with a coveting spite. Those hands, the very same ones previous, were grasping at Mick again and Keith wanted to kick each one away. To take his guitar and sling it across those reaching limbs, severing them and giving those people fair warning before even advancing on his--… his? Since when did Mick become his? Keith dropped that thought almost as immediately as it came.
Mick came back to him and spoke to him. He uttered a few words and Keith nodded and trailed after Mick. Mick was now sitting down, Keith placed behind him. Keith assumed this post like a commanding stance. He felt like he was baiting off anyone who was trying to grasp at Mick. There was this odd sense of power that was associated with this position and Keith enjoyed it. A flash later, Mick was urging Taylor over to them. Again, this enviousness prickled into his stomach when Mick looked at Taylor. Keith especially did not like the grasping women who were so eager to throw themselves at Mick. Mick was shaking a tambourine, his body also shaking along with the beat he had created.
Mick was to his feet in an instance and Keith immediately looked at Mick, his eyes searching for some type of sign for which he didn’t know that specifics of. Keith wanted to say, “Don’t go near the edge of the stage. I don’t like those women touching you,” but Keith knew better in not doing that. Mick traded words him again, almost drowned out by the noise of the crowd and music. Keith stepped back, afraid that he would do something like keep Mick away. Mick shook again and thrust his hips repeatedly. It was that a mirage flowed into Keith’s head, its vision of a certain carnal nature involving Mick in front of him doing that. On a bed. On his back or stomach. It did not matter to Keith as long as he could watch it.
That moment was peculiar for Keith. He went from playing music to imagining this… fantasy. It was a very quick turn of events. His train of thought was de-railed when a surge of women tried clamoring onto the stage, all of them eagerly trying to reach Mick. If it were any other gender, Keith would have gladly swung at them, beating them to a bloody pulp if they even laid a finger on him. But how was he to fend off a woman like that? He did not want to harm them; sometimes they provided no other choice then to remove them with more then just a little physical force. Some deserved a right punch in the mouth for their persistence. Thank god for security at times, else they would be in so much trouble; they would not be able to get anything done with those girls around.
After the concert, Keith was walking backstage and Mick disappeared. The guitarist was thankful for that or else he would not be able to stop himself from jumping Mick. This new-found feeling was strange to him, especially considering that Mick was his best friend and to be having these thoughts about him were certainly, in some form of way, not accepted. How would he be able to tell Mick that since he employed that little mouth trick he couldn’t get him out of his mind. Not to mention that he wanted to shove him up against the wall and ram his tongue down Mick’s throat among doing other things to him.
He needed to get back to Anita quickly to help rid himself of these thoughts as soon as possible. This was going to definitely be a weird way to end off the year and a decade.
Rating: Borderline R
Pairings: Keith/Mick
Word Count: 2440
Disclaimer: For their own sanity, I don't own the Stones.
I was watching a clip from 'Stones In The Park' and I watched Mick basically imply that he was giving the microphone a blow-job. Tell me I'm not the only one who noticed this.
Keith was off to the side of the stage, his fingers currently in usage at the moment. The warm heat was very pleasing; this July day was quite something. The air was excited, the sounds so spontaneous. It was hard to believe that just three days earlier, someone of their own had left the world through a watery casket.
Right now, not many thoughts could formulate within Keith’s mind. His entire being was enveloped within the sounds of the song. They were on stage, on a platform to which they had been raised up on. Keith would occasionally step ahead, his feet moving in a dilating way. He could feel the crushing and crunching of the butterflies that littered the stage, their corpses laying under his feet, around the stage, very few even showing signs of life. Keith would look at them, his attention caught slightly before he would venture back to his guitar.
From the moment they had stumbled into their set, it was either going to go well or go down in flames. This sound, this muddy intonation slips through his ears; it is created from their lack of practice, just barely there to show any idea or skill of professionalism or even the desire to keep up what they liked. Keith sounded as though he were wishing to be anywhere, like lounging in a bed somewhere far away. His white, long-sleeved shirt, complete with a belt wrapped around his stomach, was very light. He could feel the tickling of his own hair, long and thicker then it has ever been.
This day feels like a dream and Keith is sure that at any moment he would be springing out of bed, at his home in Dartford, his mum in the kitchen asking whether he wanted a muffin for breakfast. He felt like a stranger in a place where he was not quite understanding if he was needed or not.
After bringing to fruition their previous song, people began to assimilate on the stage. African sambas were joining them; maracas sprang into life, congas entering this peculiar mix of sounds, African rhythms, and south-influenced melodies. It was like one large, jamming party on this stage. The audience ogled what was transpiring on stage; people in the crowd began to ascend to their feet, arms and legs stretching, their hearts pulsating the music through them, just dancing, as they were possessed with the music.
Keith would glance back to the new kid, Mick Taylor as he was called, and seeing if he did okay. Turn to Charlie and check on him, who seemed to be having a time of his life, all smiles and laughs. Bill was still assuming that position he had been for years so nothing was out of ordinary with him.
Jagger was all over the stage, everywhere in people’s eyes, all over the microphone. Keith was quite sure he was wondering, along with the other three-hundred thousand people, just what the hell Mick decided to wear. White bell-bottoms that looked light and frilly, a purple, sleeveless shirt was hiding under that top he wore. He certainly was the center of attention. Keith could see just why he was at everyone’s interest.
He was wearing a dress. A full, white, dangling dress fitting right over his body. It glided with his own body, moving so carelessly through the air, on time with his steps. Keith tilted his head. He could practically hear the headliners-- well maybe in America-- being typed up right now. The guitarist laughed at that inside. Now Jagger was moving again, his moves bordering on paroxysm. He was jolting, shaking, convulsing. Keith was still more focused on his guitar but occasionally lent an eye in Mick’s direction. Keith was still plunging through their current number ‘Sympathy For The Devil. To be quite honest, it was this now epic jam. He really thanked Mick for really pulling those lyrics out and pushing them onto paper. He was quite surprised how Mick brought that in.
Now Mick was at the lip of the stage. Mick had just a moment ago dropped the microphone on the stage, right beside Taylor, and began shaking himself with the rhythms of the song. He clapped, he mouthed words. Keith surveyed as Mick shimmied up to one of their newly hired ‘rhythm section’ and shake himself at them, the others gleefully responding. The man knew of the speculation that crowd was giving them, though it was positive. How the women went crazy over it, the males bobbing with them. He watched Mick’s gyrating form began moving back to him. Keith felt a little flash in his stomach and his brows knitted at what it was. It was so sudden and fast that he had no idea what it was.
Keith returned to his guitar in hopes of distracting himself again, hoping to forget just what his body was doing. Keith spiraled into the music again, his heart filling and brewing with his soul in the guitar. Sometimes he wondered if he could take these guitar skills that, his fingers had slaved over to attain for years, and just apply them to other methods. Some with an implied salacious tone. Keith then granted himself permission to get his body involved with the music, his limbs beginning to spring forth with energy, his mouth opening in joy.
Keith raised his head, his hooded eyes traveling back to Mick who was now at the stage’s mouth and sat down. The guitarist decided to do the same and moved his thin legs. He had to admit, these black pants were smooth and very much comfortable. Keith looked to other side of his body, peering out the thousands of little, blotchy faces of colors staring right back at him, giving him the looks of admiration and pure music soaked passion.
Mick then folded his knees and sat down on his bottom while Keith moved back again. Keith did slightly not like venturing to the front of it. It guaranteed a quicker way of being seized by some excited and exuberant fan, resulting in injury and Keith did not want that to be the last thing he experiences this decade. Being out with a broken leg, arm or whatever, it did not sound like an appealing idea, so Keith backed up to the middle part. Mick was clapping, calling out joyously ad bowing his head. Keith knew his singer was becoming more outrageous with his moves and stage-presence. It was all being confirmed within his mind, systematically, little by little.
Keith inwardly beamed at the excitement that Mick was showing, the samba harmonies carrying on with a blithe and encouraging effect. Keith saw the little hands poking from over the stage, the women reaching for him. The next moments that happened Keith paid attention to.
Mick got a certain look on his face and slowly eased the microphone down. His long hair splashed over his face, giving him a more feminine look. His mouth opened and he leaned down. Keith blinked. He stared closer and watched Mick put the electrical device so close to his mouth, open and inviting the devise in. Before it could go in, Mick pulled away, leaned back up and put his mouth exactly where it has been. Keith could hear the breath that connected with the head of the devise, his breath sensually gliding over it.
Mick clutched the mic between his knees, his white bell-bottoms creasing when it hit the microphone. Those pale hands were rubbing his knees and making its purpose known. The crucifix that Mick wore dangled forwards, bobbing off the microphone. Mick leaned in deeper as though he were telling a secret. His hands slipped lightly against his bent knees, breathing deeply on it, though it was not heard over the thundering sonority of the music and the enthusiasm of the crowd. Keith was close to amp and it could be brightly and clearly heard.
He was… blowing the microphone.
Deep-throating it like he were facing the real thing.
Keith’s eyes became transfixed at Mick curled figure. He watched as Mick leaned back in again and could swear that Mick was fantasizing up there about something; whatever it was, Keith could not look away. Keith swore to the gods above that he could have heard a soft moan tumble from that mouth. Mick wrapped his arms around his head, his darkened hair fanning out under these appendages. He leaned in closer and Keith thought he saw a tongue come out to swipe over. Keith felt something contrive deep within his body, a place where his libido lived. His fingers flexed over the neck of his guitar, tightening and unclenching repeatedly. Keith’s mind was stumbling over this image repeatedly.
Mick drug his hands through the hair that lay in his face and sliding them through the strands. A pulse dully shot through his body when Keith gawked as Mick rose back up; his movements slightly huskier then the average performance would transfer into. Even if Keith could not see Mick’s face since he leaned back up he could swear that Mick probably would have some satisfied look. It did not matter that some people could see him; about 80 percent of their crowd probably could not even see them, just hearing their sound.
Things went off in a different way in Keith’s mind when everyone else was enjoying himself or herself. When he was subjected to that viewing, Keith’s mind went completely in another land. He imagined that he was sitting in front of Mick, that same person that was in front of him, the very person who was his singer. Instead of the trees, people, water and other pieces that congealed and made up Hyde Park, it was a hotel room or somewhere back in Redlands. The stage morphed and established itself as a bed; sheets construed everywhere, matted to the bed. Those hands were on his knees, that very same mouth blowing warm air on his groin.
It was something that Keith was starting to relish. Mick was then upon his feet, shaking and gyrating again. The younger boy wondered just how Mick was able to go from practically sucking off a microphone back to a normal demeanor. Surely, the guitarist was not the only one who noticed this little public display-- he would not count the people in front of him as exempt from the fiasco and he could understand the people way in the back that could not see it.
Mick picked up his discarded top that he had shed. He put it back on and began singing again. Later on through this performance, Mick was yet again sitting at the lip of the stage. This time Keith could feel a type of thing invading his stomach, up to his spine and all around his entire being. It was filled with a coveting spite. Those hands, the very same ones previous, were grasping at Mick again and Keith wanted to kick each one away. To take his guitar and sling it across those reaching limbs, severing them and giving those people fair warning before even advancing on his--… his? Since when did Mick become his? Keith dropped that thought almost as immediately as it came.
Mick came back to him and spoke to him. He uttered a few words and Keith nodded and trailed after Mick. Mick was now sitting down, Keith placed behind him. Keith assumed this post like a commanding stance. He felt like he was baiting off anyone who was trying to grasp at Mick. There was this odd sense of power that was associated with this position and Keith enjoyed it. A flash later, Mick was urging Taylor over to them. Again, this enviousness prickled into his stomach when Mick looked at Taylor. Keith especially did not like the grasping women who were so eager to throw themselves at Mick. Mick was shaking a tambourine, his body also shaking along with the beat he had created.
Mick was to his feet in an instance and Keith immediately looked at Mick, his eyes searching for some type of sign for which he didn’t know that specifics of. Keith wanted to say, “Don’t go near the edge of the stage. I don’t like those women touching you,” but Keith knew better in not doing that. Mick traded words him again, almost drowned out by the noise of the crowd and music. Keith stepped back, afraid that he would do something like keep Mick away. Mick shook again and thrust his hips repeatedly. It was that a mirage flowed into Keith’s head, its vision of a certain carnal nature involving Mick in front of him doing that. On a bed. On his back or stomach. It did not matter to Keith as long as he could watch it.
That moment was peculiar for Keith. He went from playing music to imagining this… fantasy. It was a very quick turn of events. His train of thought was de-railed when a surge of women tried clamoring onto the stage, all of them eagerly trying to reach Mick. If it were any other gender, Keith would have gladly swung at them, beating them to a bloody pulp if they even laid a finger on him. But how was he to fend off a woman like that? He did not want to harm them; sometimes they provided no other choice then to remove them with more then just a little physical force. Some deserved a right punch in the mouth for their persistence. Thank god for security at times, else they would be in so much trouble; they would not be able to get anything done with those girls around.
After the concert, Keith was walking backstage and Mick disappeared. The guitarist was thankful for that or else he would not be able to stop himself from jumping Mick. This new-found feeling was strange to him, especially considering that Mick was his best friend and to be having these thoughts about him were certainly, in some form of way, not accepted. How would he be able to tell Mick that since he employed that little mouth trick he couldn’t get him out of his mind. Not to mention that he wanted to shove him up against the wall and ram his tongue down Mick’s throat among doing other things to him.
He needed to get back to Anita quickly to help rid himself of these thoughts as soon as possible. This was going to definitely be a weird way to end off the year and a decade.