(no subject)
Title: Who's Hungry?
Pairing: Malcolm Young/Phil Rudd
Warning: slash, sexual content
Rating: M
COMPLETE
Disclaimer: This work is entirely fictional and meant for the reader's enjoyment. I own nothing whatsoever, no profit is being made, and no harm/defame is intended/provoked towards the characters in this story.
A/N: This was originally Angus/Phil, buuuuuuuut, Phil/Malcolm I decided went better. XD
“You dragged me,” Malcolm gestured to himself, “Out of bed,” Pointed to the half open bedroom that was slowly being swallowed by the rise of the stairs, “At eight in the morning,” Another point to the clock on the wall that he was hauled past, “For what?” Phil had him effectively by the back of the collar, a hand curled into the thin material as he yanked him along without words.
“Do I have to guess now?” Malcolm yawned, stumbling over his feet that were still trying to catch up with the rest of his body. Phil still said nothing, just cocked a glance out of the corner of his eye at the shorter man as the rounded down the hallway and down a second set of stairs and into the kitchen. Phil paused a moment, looking around and then turn to Angus who was looking up at him, brows pulled together in confusion.
“Alright. Three guesses then?” Malcolm held up three fingers, opening his mouth to speak when Phil's arms were about him, spinning them both around so that he was pressed up against the edge of the counter.
“Just one guess.” Were the first words out of Phil's mouth. He gripped Malcolm by the hips and hefted him up onto the counter, plating him down firmly as he slipped between his legs. He pushed his hands up the shirt that hung off the thin frame, hands palming the already heated skin that quivered beneath his fingers.
Malcolm was good at guessing games. A smirk crawled across his face as he draped his arms about Phil's shoulders.
“Hmmm, I think someone wants breakfast.” Phil cracked a wide smile, the blue eyes flashing.
“You're getting good at this.” He chuckled softly, pushing up the shirt, kisses plush against the guitarist's neck as he bunched the material up near his collarbone, bending down, kissing across the expanse of his chest. Malcolm pushed him away a moment and Phil looked up at him with quirked brow.
“It's really early.”
“So?”
“I don't eat breakfast until, what? Like one?”
“Yeah, well, I'm hungry now.” Phil jumped up onto the counter beside him, a wicked grin flickering across his face. He gripped the bunched shirt in his hands and tugged the guitarist in, meshing their lips together in a hard kiss---and Malcolm suddenly slipped away and out of his shirt and off the counter, and Phil jumped down after him.
He caught the other about the waist, dragging him backwards despite the obviously playful struggle and pressed him up against the edge of the breakfast table, pressing flush against his back.
“Fine. Breakfast'll be served on the table then.” Phil growled slightly, leaning in, teeth sinking into the smaller man's neck. He received a yelp in turn, and again, the guitarist put up another struggle. Phil palmed the back of his neck and shoved him forward so that his entire upper half practically lay flat atop the table.
“Phil, c'mon, for fuck's sake.” Phil leaned over the other, smirking as he kissed along the slope of his neck.
“Ya don't always get late mornings luv,” He chuckled, “Get used to it.” Malcolm glared at him over his shoulder, palming the table and pushed up in a vain effort to move the other from on top of him. It was useless as Phil smirked against his neck, hands pushing up the loose shirt and running over every inch of heated flesh he could find.
Malcolm bit his lip, stifling a moan as his throat constricted around further retorts when the drummer's hand slipped beneath the waistband of his undershorts, gripping him firmly. He jerked eagerly into the warm friction with a soft moan, the fingers curling about him tightly. Fuck. Anyone could walk in on us and-
He stopped midway through the thought with a shout, fingers tightened on the edge of the table as he arched eagerly into the talented hand, stroking roughly. He came up on his toes somewhat, riding out jolts of pleasure as he felt more than heard the soft chuckle against his neck. The other hand that had been holding him down via his neck was suddenly gone...and suddenly Phil was gone as well.
Malcolm growled slightly at the loss of friction, panting as he looked over his shoulder. Phil was rummaging around inside a cabinet, looking frustrated and the guitarist laughed, pushing himself up.
“Hey, no,” Phil thrust a finger in his direction, the other hand suddenly coming out with a bottle of cooking spray, “You stay put.”
“Going to do a little cooking are we?” Malcolm nodded at the bottle as he was suddenly turned about and pushed against the table again, teeth on his ear. He was shoved down once more and there came a soft spritzing noise and he looked over his shoulder, fingers curling around the edge of the table as two fingers were suddenly pushed up inside of him. He groaned loudly; the others were going to kill them. A) For fucking on the breakfast table, and B) because it was eight in the morning and no one besides Phil was more of an ass to wake one of them up before noon for a fuck (And really, Phil wasn't a picky person, it was usually who was closest that morning, no one was safe; not Brian, not Cliff, and not Angus. Although, Cliff he seemed to favor the most but Cliff had set up for an interview out in Perth Studios and he was not present which was when Malcolm, being only the room next door, became the presented target).
His jaw clenched tightly, a sharp grunt falling past his lips as the other gave the fingers a sharp twist and push and pleasure curled through him in a sparking roll that left him straining for more.
“Like that?”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh, gladly.” Malcolm glared at him, face flushed with pleasure, his entire body tightening with loss as the fingers slipped away and his nails carved marks into the table. He could hear movement, too much movement for far too long and he knew Phil was doing it on purpose.
“For the love'a God, Phil.” He could hear the drummer laughing, snickering and he could practically see the sneer that worked across his face and it made his hands curl into fists and if he didn't do something fast, he was going to make sure he saw that fist disappear somewhere in Phil's skull.
Relief, though, was granted as a hand found his hip, pulling him back slightly as the other palmed the square between his shoulder blades and made sure to keep him firmly against the table. His eyes screwed shut, teeth sinking into his lower lip as the drummer's weight settled atop of him, the pressure biting swelling as he pushed inside.
“Ah fuck.” Malcolm's words slurred together, sweat breaking out in a light layer across his body, sheening brightly on his forehead as the other buried himself deep and froze, a groan heated against his neck as he let them both breathe before he pulled back and pushed back in, tonguing the rise of the guitarist's shoulder, the salty taste tingling. Malcolm grunted again, arching forward slightly against the table before pushing back, his breathing already heavy.
Phil pushed himself up slightly, grasping both of Malcolm's wrists and pinning them to the table, his head whirling as that tight heat engulfed him and he had to restrain himself from losing his composure then and there. Swallowing tightly, he thrust int again, a jerky movement that left him breathless before he repeated the action, soon finding a steady, firm rhythm that had him panting, legs shaking slightly under the sparks of pleasure that spiked at his spine.
Beneath him, Malcolm writhed and struggled against the restraint to his hands, desperately pushing his hips back in an effort for more friction that he wasn't getting. He knew Phil liked to drag things out, loved to tease and push, but at eight o'clock in the morning, this was ridiculous. He couldn't stop the desperate, needy moans that fell from his mouth, face flaming up with embarrassment; like the sneer he could see from before, he could see the smirk on the drummer's face.
At least he didn't whine, he could say that much because every time Phil snatched Angus, that's all anyone would hear. With Brian, it was a lot of low groan and growls and for strange reasons when there was a battle for dominance, things broke. With Cliff, it was a mixture; it really could be any sound from a strangled wail to a throaty moan to no sound at all.
Breathing heavy, he gave a wrist a wrench and pried it free only to have it slammed back against the table. Phil laughed in his ear, the pace slowly losing any sync as the sound drifted off into a groan.
“What's'a matta Mal?” He teased breathlessly, fumbling over his words as the guitarist's elbow met his ribs and he jerked slightly, the angle shifting and suddenly, Malcolm went taught with a sharp cry and Phil's grinned stretched from ear to ear as he kept up that motion, relishing in the noises he'd copped from the other, pushing for more.
“Phil. Phil. Phil, c'mon.” Malcolm was practically begging and he was sure that he was the only one that could do it to him. Phil eyed the clock in a quick glance; he'd probably go back to bed after this. He freed one of Malcolm's hand and the other hastily let it retreat beneath him, gripping himself with a tight groan. Phil nipped at his neck, his tongue tracing over the edge of his ear as he buried his nose in the dark locks of hair.
Malcolm worked his hand feverishly, brow furrowed in a sharp concentration as his vision blurred at the edges, suddenly collapsing in on itself and he jerked eagerly into his own touch before everything locked into place, a wave of pleasure climaxing over him as he spilled into his hand with a loud shout. He buried his face into an arm, biting into the skin as he arched eagerly into his hand before he finally slumped forward, panting and gasping for breath.
He grunted slightly as Phil pushed in a few more times, pace growing erratic and frantic before he did similar, going rigid, hips jerking vigorously before suddenly collapsing atop of him, breath uncomfortably hot on his neck. The two of them lay there and Malcolm looked up after a moment to the windows---which were fogged and he reached out, the glass cool against his fingertips.
“Alright, alright, back to bed...” Phil nodded, murmuring absently as he pulled back, his entire body quivering sharply as he messed and fumbled with his pants. Malcolm pushed himself up, hitching the boxers up about his waist as he pushed hair that lay matted to his face out of the way. He chuckled slightly, reaching out and drawing up the tie to Phil's sweats.
“Let's not do that again.”
“Tch, you ruin all the fun.”
“Well, I don't mean the sex, I just mean, not at this hour.” Phil laughed, nodding. He was already yawning as Malcolm finished, moving past him and Phil went after him.
“I don't think I'll be hungry for the rest of the day.” He cracked as he watched the slight limp in the guitarist's step and he returned the gesture when he flipped him off, disappearing into his room. Phil stood outside his bedroom door, laughing to himself when he suddenly heard the rapid crunch of gravel and the sound of a car door slamming. He perked up, taking the stairs two at a time as he climbed down them and went to the front door, Cliff suddenly appearing from a cab and waving when he saw Phil.
“What happened to the interview?”
“Cancelled. The interviewee's sick.”
“Oh. Alright.”
“You alright? You sick? You look kinda flushed.”
“Nah, just had breakfast,” Phil said, smirking slightly as he eyed Cliff up and down before reaching out and snatching him by the collar and dragging him inside, “But I think you're just in time for the second course.”
Pairing: Malcolm Young/Phil Rudd
Warning: slash, sexual content
Rating: M
COMPLETE
Disclaimer: This work is entirely fictional and meant for the reader's enjoyment. I own nothing whatsoever, no profit is being made, and no harm/defame is intended/provoked towards the characters in this story.
A/N: This was originally Angus/Phil, buuuuuuuut, Phil/Malcolm I decided went better. XD
“You dragged me,” Malcolm gestured to himself, “Out of bed,” Pointed to the half open bedroom that was slowly being swallowed by the rise of the stairs, “At eight in the morning,” Another point to the clock on the wall that he was hauled past, “For what?” Phil had him effectively by the back of the collar, a hand curled into the thin material as he yanked him along without words.
“Do I have to guess now?” Malcolm yawned, stumbling over his feet that were still trying to catch up with the rest of his body. Phil still said nothing, just cocked a glance out of the corner of his eye at the shorter man as the rounded down the hallway and down a second set of stairs and into the kitchen. Phil paused a moment, looking around and then turn to Angus who was looking up at him, brows pulled together in confusion.
“Alright. Three guesses then?” Malcolm held up three fingers, opening his mouth to speak when Phil's arms were about him, spinning them both around so that he was pressed up against the edge of the counter.
“Just one guess.” Were the first words out of Phil's mouth. He gripped Malcolm by the hips and hefted him up onto the counter, plating him down firmly as he slipped between his legs. He pushed his hands up the shirt that hung off the thin frame, hands palming the already heated skin that quivered beneath his fingers.
Malcolm was good at guessing games. A smirk crawled across his face as he draped his arms about Phil's shoulders.
“Hmmm, I think someone wants breakfast.” Phil cracked a wide smile, the blue eyes flashing.
“You're getting good at this.” He chuckled softly, pushing up the shirt, kisses plush against the guitarist's neck as he bunched the material up near his collarbone, bending down, kissing across the expanse of his chest. Malcolm pushed him away a moment and Phil looked up at him with quirked brow.
“It's really early.”
“So?”
“I don't eat breakfast until, what? Like one?”
“Yeah, well, I'm hungry now.” Phil jumped up onto the counter beside him, a wicked grin flickering across his face. He gripped the bunched shirt in his hands and tugged the guitarist in, meshing their lips together in a hard kiss---and Malcolm suddenly slipped away and out of his shirt and off the counter, and Phil jumped down after him.
He caught the other about the waist, dragging him backwards despite the obviously playful struggle and pressed him up against the edge of the breakfast table, pressing flush against his back.
“Fine. Breakfast'll be served on the table then.” Phil growled slightly, leaning in, teeth sinking into the smaller man's neck. He received a yelp in turn, and again, the guitarist put up another struggle. Phil palmed the back of his neck and shoved him forward so that his entire upper half practically lay flat atop the table.
“Phil, c'mon, for fuck's sake.” Phil leaned over the other, smirking as he kissed along the slope of his neck.
“Ya don't always get late mornings luv,” He chuckled, “Get used to it.” Malcolm glared at him over his shoulder, palming the table and pushed up in a vain effort to move the other from on top of him. It was useless as Phil smirked against his neck, hands pushing up the loose shirt and running over every inch of heated flesh he could find.
Malcolm bit his lip, stifling a moan as his throat constricted around further retorts when the drummer's hand slipped beneath the waistband of his undershorts, gripping him firmly. He jerked eagerly into the warm friction with a soft moan, the fingers curling about him tightly. Fuck. Anyone could walk in on us and-
He stopped midway through the thought with a shout, fingers tightened on the edge of the table as he arched eagerly into the talented hand, stroking roughly. He came up on his toes somewhat, riding out jolts of pleasure as he felt more than heard the soft chuckle against his neck. The other hand that had been holding him down via his neck was suddenly gone...and suddenly Phil was gone as well.
Malcolm growled slightly at the loss of friction, panting as he looked over his shoulder. Phil was rummaging around inside a cabinet, looking frustrated and the guitarist laughed, pushing himself up.
“Hey, no,” Phil thrust a finger in his direction, the other hand suddenly coming out with a bottle of cooking spray, “You stay put.”
“Going to do a little cooking are we?” Malcolm nodded at the bottle as he was suddenly turned about and pushed against the table again, teeth on his ear. He was shoved down once more and there came a soft spritzing noise and he looked over his shoulder, fingers curling around the edge of the table as two fingers were suddenly pushed up inside of him. He groaned loudly; the others were going to kill them. A) For fucking on the breakfast table, and B) because it was eight in the morning and no one besides Phil was more of an ass to wake one of them up before noon for a fuck (And really, Phil wasn't a picky person, it was usually who was closest that morning, no one was safe; not Brian, not Cliff, and not Angus. Although, Cliff he seemed to favor the most but Cliff had set up for an interview out in Perth Studios and he was not present which was when Malcolm, being only the room next door, became the presented target).
His jaw clenched tightly, a sharp grunt falling past his lips as the other gave the fingers a sharp twist and push and pleasure curled through him in a sparking roll that left him straining for more.
“Like that?”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh, gladly.” Malcolm glared at him, face flushed with pleasure, his entire body tightening with loss as the fingers slipped away and his nails carved marks into the table. He could hear movement, too much movement for far too long and he knew Phil was doing it on purpose.
“For the love'a God, Phil.” He could hear the drummer laughing, snickering and he could practically see the sneer that worked across his face and it made his hands curl into fists and if he didn't do something fast, he was going to make sure he saw that fist disappear somewhere in Phil's skull.
Relief, though, was granted as a hand found his hip, pulling him back slightly as the other palmed the square between his shoulder blades and made sure to keep him firmly against the table. His eyes screwed shut, teeth sinking into his lower lip as the drummer's weight settled atop of him, the pressure biting swelling as he pushed inside.
“Ah fuck.” Malcolm's words slurred together, sweat breaking out in a light layer across his body, sheening brightly on his forehead as the other buried himself deep and froze, a groan heated against his neck as he let them both breathe before he pulled back and pushed back in, tonguing the rise of the guitarist's shoulder, the salty taste tingling. Malcolm grunted again, arching forward slightly against the table before pushing back, his breathing already heavy.
Phil pushed himself up slightly, grasping both of Malcolm's wrists and pinning them to the table, his head whirling as that tight heat engulfed him and he had to restrain himself from losing his composure then and there. Swallowing tightly, he thrust int again, a jerky movement that left him breathless before he repeated the action, soon finding a steady, firm rhythm that had him panting, legs shaking slightly under the sparks of pleasure that spiked at his spine.
Beneath him, Malcolm writhed and struggled against the restraint to his hands, desperately pushing his hips back in an effort for more friction that he wasn't getting. He knew Phil liked to drag things out, loved to tease and push, but at eight o'clock in the morning, this was ridiculous. He couldn't stop the desperate, needy moans that fell from his mouth, face flaming up with embarrassment; like the sneer he could see from before, he could see the smirk on the drummer's face.
At least he didn't whine, he could say that much because every time Phil snatched Angus, that's all anyone would hear. With Brian, it was a lot of low groan and growls and for strange reasons when there was a battle for dominance, things broke. With Cliff, it was a mixture; it really could be any sound from a strangled wail to a throaty moan to no sound at all.
Breathing heavy, he gave a wrist a wrench and pried it free only to have it slammed back against the table. Phil laughed in his ear, the pace slowly losing any sync as the sound drifted off into a groan.
“What's'a matta Mal?” He teased breathlessly, fumbling over his words as the guitarist's elbow met his ribs and he jerked slightly, the angle shifting and suddenly, Malcolm went taught with a sharp cry and Phil's grinned stretched from ear to ear as he kept up that motion, relishing in the noises he'd copped from the other, pushing for more.
“Phil. Phil. Phil, c'mon.” Malcolm was practically begging and he was sure that he was the only one that could do it to him. Phil eyed the clock in a quick glance; he'd probably go back to bed after this. He freed one of Malcolm's hand and the other hastily let it retreat beneath him, gripping himself with a tight groan. Phil nipped at his neck, his tongue tracing over the edge of his ear as he buried his nose in the dark locks of hair.
Malcolm worked his hand feverishly, brow furrowed in a sharp concentration as his vision blurred at the edges, suddenly collapsing in on itself and he jerked eagerly into his own touch before everything locked into place, a wave of pleasure climaxing over him as he spilled into his hand with a loud shout. He buried his face into an arm, biting into the skin as he arched eagerly into his hand before he finally slumped forward, panting and gasping for breath.
He grunted slightly as Phil pushed in a few more times, pace growing erratic and frantic before he did similar, going rigid, hips jerking vigorously before suddenly collapsing atop of him, breath uncomfortably hot on his neck. The two of them lay there and Malcolm looked up after a moment to the windows---which were fogged and he reached out, the glass cool against his fingertips.
“Alright, alright, back to bed...” Phil nodded, murmuring absently as he pulled back, his entire body quivering sharply as he messed and fumbled with his pants. Malcolm pushed himself up, hitching the boxers up about his waist as he pushed hair that lay matted to his face out of the way. He chuckled slightly, reaching out and drawing up the tie to Phil's sweats.
“Let's not do that again.”
“Tch, you ruin all the fun.”
“Well, I don't mean the sex, I just mean, not at this hour.” Phil laughed, nodding. He was already yawning as Malcolm finished, moving past him and Phil went after him.
“I don't think I'll be hungry for the rest of the day.” He cracked as he watched the slight limp in the guitarist's step and he returned the gesture when he flipped him off, disappearing into his room. Phil stood outside his bedroom door, laughing to himself when he suddenly heard the rapid crunch of gravel and the sound of a car door slamming. He perked up, taking the stairs two at a time as he climbed down them and went to the front door, Cliff suddenly appearing from a cab and waving when he saw Phil.
“What happened to the interview?”
“Cancelled. The interviewee's sick.”
“Oh. Alright.”
“You alright? You sick? You look kinda flushed.”
“Nah, just had breakfast,” Phil said, smirking slightly as he eyed Cliff up and down before reaching out and snatching him by the collar and dragging him inside, “But I think you're just in time for the second course.”