FIC: Radio Friendly 8 of 10 (Blake/Chris, NC-17)
Author: Clio
Title: Radio Friendly Part 8 of 10: So Round So Firm So Fully Packed
Pairing: Blake/Chris (American Idol)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: In which Blake makes up his mind.
Length: 2400 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Radio Friendly is an AU set in 1962, when New York was the center of pop music and the Brill Building was where it all happened, when a group of talented songwriters and producers crafted perfect pop hits for artists whose every move was controlled by their label. Pictures and songs will be used along the way to take you back to yesteryear-and for those who'd like more info, see the additional author's note at the bottom.
You're reading this story because lillijulianne was so enthusiastic and allysonsedai insisted that it see the light of day, because they were willing to keep reading even when I sent three chapters in one weekend, and were instrumental in the flow, in pointing out what it needed and what it didn't, and in holding my hand through the entire thing. Thank you, ladies!
Chapter 1: Come to Where the Flavor Is
Chapter 2: Where Particular People Congregate
Chapter 3: This Is the One They'll Have to Beat
Chapter 4: You've Come a Long Way, Baby
Chapter 5: Alive with Pleasure
Chapter 6: It's What's Upfront That Counts
Chapter 7: We'd Rather Fight Than Switch
Missing Scene 1: Ryan and Simon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
May 1, 1963
In the end, Chris signed an extention to stay at Syco until the end of Blake's contract, which gave them time to polish up all the songs they'd started for Chris's record and get them into the hands of other artists. Of course many of them went to Ace Young, but a few ended up with the Kittens, and one was being used to launch a young kid with a funny name who was even more of a teen dream than Ace. Cowell was testing a lot of stage names, but "Sunny Mack" was the one that was sticking. Hicks thought he could use the songs meant for Chris to "age up" Ace's appeal and then have the kid take over in the teeny-bop slot, and Chris and Blake hoped he could pull it off, for Ace's sake.
Surprising everyone who knew their real relationship, especially Ryan, Cowell took Ryan with him to London for two weeks in March. He said he was going on a scouting trip, though he didn't bring any of the Syco A&R men with him. Apparently he'd heard some new British sound on the radio when he was home over Christmas and wanted to see the bands for himself. Ryan made his own connections with the labels overseas, to ensure that he would get the first shipments of new songs, and taped interviews with some of the new bands even though they hadn't broken in America yet. Cowell, meanwhile, secured the US rights to several of them, though Hicks had made it known around the office, in Cowell's absence, that he didn't think much would come of any of them. Ryan had returned 10 pounds heavier, worlds happier, and had confided to Chris that not only had he and Cowell spent a "secret weekend" in Paris, but he'd also met Mama Cowell.
So Chris and Blake didn't actually get out to the beach house Ryan had offered until May. Ryan had a piano, so they just brought a guitar and some clothes, plus a very heavy bag that Chris was being mysterious about, and one reel-to-reel tape. Cowell had taken them aside at their going-away party to let them know what he would be announcing to the company in early May: he'd sold Syco to Capitol Records. He handed them the reel-to-reel tape and said, "Listen to this and you'll understand." And of course, the first thing Blake did when they got into the house was find the machine and put on the tape. Out of the speakers, a voice did the count: "One-two-three-four!"
"Pretty straight-ahead dance rock," Blake said, starting to twist. "Dunno why it's got Cowell so excited. Great harmonies. Wonder who the session band is."
Chris picked up the insert from the acetate. "There isn't one," he said. "They're a band, like Buddy Holly and the Crickets."
"Huh," Blake said, dancing over to Chris. "Well, they've got good people picking their songs, anyway."
"Yeah," Chris said, flipping to the songwriting credits. "Oh, wow."
"What?"
"I think I know what has Cowell so scared. They don't have anyone picking their songs."
Blake stopped dancing. "What do you mean?"
Chris looked up. "They wrote these songs."
"What, all of them?" Blake asked, taking the offered insert.
"Well, half of them," Chris said, looking over Blake's shoulder. "But look at the others. They're all covers, not songs given to them."
"Jesus, 'Chains' is that song Kelly and Daughtry wrote for the Kittens last year."
"Yeah, and these two are Shirelles songs. They must like the girl groups."
"And everyone does 'Twist and Shout.' Well, hell," Blake said. "No wonder Cowell was pushing you so hard."
"Then again, they've only really hit in England. Ryan tried them out on his show but he said the kids didn't really go for them. But if they do …"
"Then Cowell is selling high, and so are we." Blake put the insert down and turned, pulling himself into Chris's arms. "No work tonight. I can't even think."
"There's a place down the beach where we can get dinner," Chris said.
"And after that," Blake said, "you can take me into the back bedroom and show me that big strong man everyone keeps talking about."
"All right," Chris said, "but it won't make you any less of a fag."
"No," Blake replied. "I'm going willingly. Begging, even."
The next morning, Chris found Blake out on the porch, in a crew neck and shorts, drinking his tea and smoking. "You're up early," he said.
Blake shrugged. "Must be the fresh air. Or the way you wore me out last night. I can barely sit down."
Chris grinned. "Don't set the beast loose if you can't handle it."
"Did you really say that? Is that your new name for your dick?"
"No, I meant, the beast within," he said, pointing at his own chest. "You were begging for it, remember?"
"And I'll do it again," Blake replied. "So you're finally going to show me what's in that bag?" he asked.
Chris nodded. He opened it, and dumped onto the table a pile of small books with colored covers.
"What are these?" Blake asked.
"Plays," Chris replied.
"So we're really going to do this," Blake said, sitting up.
"Yeah. Never mind writing stories in a song. We're going to write a story with songs. And I'm sure there must be something here that we can use."
Chris, being a bit more organized than Blake, made three piles for each of them: rejects, possibilities, and "you must read this right now." They walked into town for lunch, ordered some groceries while there, and returned, only knocking off work when Blake finally cried "uncle" sometime after ten at night. By then they had moved inside, and were sitting at either end of the couch, their legs entwined.
"No one should ever make a musical out of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. Or, for that matter, any Albee play. Who sings words like, 'abstruse'?"
"Sondheim," Chris replied, closing the play he was reading. "You should look at this play first thing tomorrow, though," he said, sliding it over to Blake.
"That's an odd title: I Am a Camera. Well, as Sondheim would say, plays tomorrow, sex tonight."
"That doesn't scan," Chris replied.
"I don't care. I'm off the clock." He stubbed out his cigarette. "Damn, I forgot to buy Luckies when we were in town."
"Marlboros for you, then," Chris said, tossing Blake his half-empty pack.
"You know, a man's cigarette brand, it's personal. You're a Marlboro Man through and through."
"I like to think I was a cowboy in a previous life," Chris said, smiling.
"Me, I've always smoked Luckies, since high school," Blake said, getting up from the couch.
Chris got up as well, turning off the lamps as they walked back to the bedroom. "Easy on your throat?"
"No," Blake said, pulling off his sweater.
Chris walked into the room behind him, shedding his own jeans and t-shirt. "Reach for one instead of a sweet?"
"No," Blake said.
Chris sat on the bed, his back against the headboard, and watched the muscles in Blake's back and shoulders ripple as he tidied up the room.
"No more guesses?" Blake asked. He stood at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips, the top two buttons of his fly open (nothing on underneath; there never was unless he was in dress pants). Chris could just see the way his hair thickened and darkened below his tummy.
Chris licked his lips. "No, I'm pretty sure I know the answer," he said, sliding off his boxers and tossing them past Blake into the open hamper.
Blake pulled off his shorts. "So, Chris Richardson, what is your answer?" He grabbed Chris's ankles, yanking him down so he was lying flat on the bed, then crawled toward Chris, every inch the cat.
Chris's voice hitched in his throat. He waited until Blake was kneeling over him, one hand on either side of his shoulders, and then said, "So round," putting a hand on one side of his ass, "so firm," he raised his other hand to the other side, "so fully packed," and he sank his fingers into the flesh, the flesh that was his to hold, which was a fucking amazing thing when he really thought about it, as he was right now.
"That is correct," Blake said, laughing breathily, his lips just out of Chris's reach.
"Don Pardo, tell me what I've won," Chris whispered.
"A new car," Blake said, kissing him, "a dinette set," another kiss, "and a year's supply of Blake Lewis."
"Just a year?" Chris asked between kisses.
Blake pulled back, looking into Chris's eyes, long enough that Chris wondered if he'd misspoken, long enough that he started to get that butterfly pinned to cardboard feeling again. Finally, he whispered, "A lifetime supply?"
Chris grinned widely. "That's more like it," he said, and they were kissing again, and Blake was shaking a little, so Chris pulled his hands up from the lovely ass to those big strong shoulders and held him tight, stroking him, kissing the calm back into him, until Blake released his lips and slid down, kissing along Chris's chin and neck, licking his collarbone and nuzzling into his armpit. Chris had let go of his shoulders, putting his arms behind his head, just watching Blake move.
Blake pulled Chris's nipple into his mouth, grazing it with his teeth and then licking it. He moved further down, sliding his cheek along Chris's stomach, and whispered, "What do you want, Chris?"
"I want you to fuck me."
"Oh really?" Blake replied, not looking up. "Which way?"
"Like this."
Blake sat up on his knees, and Chris looked down his body, his hairy chest and tummy, the heavily muscled legs, and in the center his thick, hard cock rising out of its nest of dark hair. "Too lazy to move?" Blake asked, leaning over to grab the Vaseline from the nightstand.
"No, just enjoying the view."
"Oh," Blake said. He fumbled with the jar lid.
"Hey, whenever anyone else comments on your looks you're fine with it."
"They aren't talking about me."
"Well, who are they talking about?"
"I don't know. That guy up on stage. That guy in the club. That funny songwriter. I don't know. Not me. You know me, my insides. It's different."
"Then I'll have to say it more often," Chris said, stroking Blake's thigh with one hand, "so you'll get used to it."
"Um, all right," Blake said. He moved to be between Chris's legs, rather than straddling them, and Chris spread them wide, tipping up his ass. Then he scooped a bit of Vaseline onto his fingertips and slowly slid two of them into Chris, who moaned.
"Just like that," Chris muttered, his eyes fixed on Blake. He loved the way Blake's blunt fingers made it a little rough, even when Blake was trying to be gentle, and had gotten him to start with two, not one, so he could feel that sudden invasion that made his stomach flip flop. "It's fine, it's enough."
Blake scowled at him, and Chris knew that he didn't think it was enough, but Chris didn't really care. If it weren't for the fucking, this would be his favorite part, watching Blake slick himself up. Blake set down the jar, rubbing the gel off his hands on Chris's thighs as he moved them into position. Then he leaned in, sinking his cock into Chris's ass in one long slow fluid motion.
They kissed, soft and wet, taking their time, until finally Chris muttered, "Are you going to move, ever?"
Blake chuckled, without breaking the kiss, and started to thrust, first a bit shallow, then long and deep and slow, and Chris rose up to meet him.
Chris moved his hands down to rest on Blake's lower back, feeling the muscles working, working him over, really, and that was a sexy thought, the way that they were all entangled. My body is your body. My pleasure is your pleasure. Blake was inside him and all around him, closer than close, no part not touching-even their feet were rubbing against each other. He knew at some point they'd have to stop; they'd come, they'd get tired, they'd fall asleep, but it was the middle he liked the best, and the way that when Blake was topping he was never in much of a hurry.
After some minutes, Blake said, "Ready?" and at Chris's nod he sat up just a bit, and began to thrust harder, faster, tipping his hips and Chris's so his cock would rub against Chris's prostate, making him growl with the pleasure of it.
Chris hadn't moved his hands from Blake's back, and as he thrust faster it built up in him even more: those strong muscles and the sweet ass just beneath them; his cock slamming hot and thick and deep into Chris; the sweat glistening on the hairs on his chest; the determined scowl on his face; the sinews in his strong arms standing out as they held up his torso. Only one thing missing. "Open your eyes," Chris said.
Blake had his head tipped down, so when he slowly looked at Chris it was up, through his thick eyelashes, and Chris thought he might have shot fire out of them. Chris came, suddenly, clenching tight around Blake's cock, shouting his name, fighting to keep his eyes open so he could watch Blake watching him.
Blake thrust a few more times and then he was coming, too, kissing Chris with the force of it, sobbing out Chris's name before collapsing on top of him. They lay there, sweaty and sticky and gasping for breath, Blake's head resting on Chris's chest.
After a bit Blake said, "So that's what it's like, to be watched like that."
"I watch you like that all the time," Chris admitted, running his fingers through Blake's hair. "I just don't let you see."
"Well, now I know how you feel."
"Kinda, yeah. Well, how you make me feel."
Blake shifted, sitting up on his elbow, letting his other hand trail along Chris's chest. "I kinda feel like I should be buying a ring or something. Or a house."
Chris smiled. "For now I think sharing an apartment is all we can afford. We could get some crackerjack rings engraved."
"Nah," Blake said. "Been done. But I'll find something."
Chris took Blake's hand in his. "You know, forever used to seem like such a long time, but now?"
"Now it's not long enough," Blake said, and leaned in for a kiss.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chris and Blake listen to this song which I have for you here.
Missing Scene 2: Chris and Blake
Chapter 9: Instead of a Sweet. Includes headlines!
Notes: Did you get the clues? "Love Me Do", the first Beatles single, was released in the UK in November of 1962 and would have been climbing up the charts when Simon was home at Christmas that year. "Please Please Me" was released in January 1963 and shot up to #2; it was released in the US but went nowhere (hence Chris's comment about Ryan playing them and the kids not going for them). Simon sold to Capitol, the label that eventually gains the rights to the Beatles in the US, and given what Simon was up to in the UK in the spring of 1963 you can make your own conclusions on how that deal was structured. The tape that Simon gives to Blake and Chris, then, is the Please Please Me album, which had been released in the UK in March and was climbing to a 30-week stay at #1. The song Blake and Chris are listening to, "I Saw Her Standing There," is the first song on the album.
The Beatles changed everything, and yet, they didn't. The British Invasion of the US record charts in their wake did sweep many of the artists that the Brill Building songwriters had been writing for off the charts, including Neil Sedaka. But not all of those British acts wrote their own songs as the Beatles did, and in fact many of these songwriters wrote for acts like Herman's Hermits (remember Peter Noone on 60s week?) and later, of course, The Monkees. But between Bob Dylan and the Beatles, the "rockist" idea that serious musicians should be writing their own songs took hold, moving into the singer-songwriter trend of the 1970s. So when Simon said to Ryan that "it will all be over soon" that's what he meant, that this way of making music would end, and in many ways it did until producer-driven disco rose in the mid-70s.
For more on rockism, see Kalefa Sanneh's brilliant New York Times article "The Rap Against Rockism," and point your rock-snob friends to it the next time they make fun of you for watching American Idol.
Title: Radio Friendly Part 8 of 10: So Round So Firm So Fully Packed
Pairing: Blake/Chris (American Idol)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: In which Blake makes up his mind.
Length: 2400 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Radio Friendly is an AU set in 1962, when New York was the center of pop music and the Brill Building was where it all happened, when a group of talented songwriters and producers crafted perfect pop hits for artists whose every move was controlled by their label. Pictures and songs will be used along the way to take you back to yesteryear-and for those who'd like more info, see the additional author's note at the bottom.
You're reading this story because lillijulianne was so enthusiastic and allysonsedai insisted that it see the light of day, because they were willing to keep reading even when I sent three chapters in one weekend, and were instrumental in the flow, in pointing out what it needed and what it didn't, and in holding my hand through the entire thing. Thank you, ladies!
Chapter 1: Come to Where the Flavor Is
Chapter 2: Where Particular People Congregate
Chapter 3: This Is the One They'll Have to Beat
Chapter 4: You've Come a Long Way, Baby
Chapter 5: Alive with Pleasure
Chapter 6: It's What's Upfront That Counts
Chapter 7: We'd Rather Fight Than Switch
Missing Scene 1: Ryan and Simon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
May 1, 1963
In the end, Chris signed an extention to stay at Syco until the end of Blake's contract, which gave them time to polish up all the songs they'd started for Chris's record and get them into the hands of other artists. Of course many of them went to Ace Young, but a few ended up with the Kittens, and one was being used to launch a young kid with a funny name who was even more of a teen dream than Ace. Cowell was testing a lot of stage names, but "Sunny Mack" was the one that was sticking. Hicks thought he could use the songs meant for Chris to "age up" Ace's appeal and then have the kid take over in the teeny-bop slot, and Chris and Blake hoped he could pull it off, for Ace's sake.
Surprising everyone who knew their real relationship, especially Ryan, Cowell took Ryan with him to London for two weeks in March. He said he was going on a scouting trip, though he didn't bring any of the Syco A&R men with him. Apparently he'd heard some new British sound on the radio when he was home over Christmas and wanted to see the bands for himself. Ryan made his own connections with the labels overseas, to ensure that he would get the first shipments of new songs, and taped interviews with some of the new bands even though they hadn't broken in America yet. Cowell, meanwhile, secured the US rights to several of them, though Hicks had made it known around the office, in Cowell's absence, that he didn't think much would come of any of them. Ryan had returned 10 pounds heavier, worlds happier, and had confided to Chris that not only had he and Cowell spent a "secret weekend" in Paris, but he'd also met Mama Cowell.
So Chris and Blake didn't actually get out to the beach house Ryan had offered until May. Ryan had a piano, so they just brought a guitar and some clothes, plus a very heavy bag that Chris was being mysterious about, and one reel-to-reel tape. Cowell had taken them aside at their going-away party to let them know what he would be announcing to the company in early May: he'd sold Syco to Capitol Records. He handed them the reel-to-reel tape and said, "Listen to this and you'll understand." And of course, the first thing Blake did when they got into the house was find the machine and put on the tape. Out of the speakers, a voice did the count: "One-two-three-four!"
"Pretty straight-ahead dance rock," Blake said, starting to twist. "Dunno why it's got Cowell so excited. Great harmonies. Wonder who the session band is."
Chris picked up the insert from the acetate. "There isn't one," he said. "They're a band, like Buddy Holly and the Crickets."
"Huh," Blake said, dancing over to Chris. "Well, they've got good people picking their songs, anyway."
"Yeah," Chris said, flipping to the songwriting credits. "Oh, wow."
"What?"
"I think I know what has Cowell so scared. They don't have anyone picking their songs."
Blake stopped dancing. "What do you mean?"
Chris looked up. "They wrote these songs."
"What, all of them?" Blake asked, taking the offered insert.
"Well, half of them," Chris said, looking over Blake's shoulder. "But look at the others. They're all covers, not songs given to them."
"Jesus, 'Chains' is that song Kelly and Daughtry wrote for the Kittens last year."
"Yeah, and these two are Shirelles songs. They must like the girl groups."
"And everyone does 'Twist and Shout.' Well, hell," Blake said. "No wonder Cowell was pushing you so hard."
"Then again, they've only really hit in England. Ryan tried them out on his show but he said the kids didn't really go for them. But if they do …"
"Then Cowell is selling high, and so are we." Blake put the insert down and turned, pulling himself into Chris's arms. "No work tonight. I can't even think."
"There's a place down the beach where we can get dinner," Chris said.
"And after that," Blake said, "you can take me into the back bedroom and show me that big strong man everyone keeps talking about."
"All right," Chris said, "but it won't make you any less of a fag."
"No," Blake replied. "I'm going willingly. Begging, even."
The next morning, Chris found Blake out on the porch, in a crew neck and shorts, drinking his tea and smoking. "You're up early," he said.
Blake shrugged. "Must be the fresh air. Or the way you wore me out last night. I can barely sit down."
Chris grinned. "Don't set the beast loose if you can't handle it."
"Did you really say that? Is that your new name for your dick?"
"No, I meant, the beast within," he said, pointing at his own chest. "You were begging for it, remember?"
"And I'll do it again," Blake replied. "So you're finally going to show me what's in that bag?" he asked.
Chris nodded. He opened it, and dumped onto the table a pile of small books with colored covers.
"What are these?" Blake asked.
"Plays," Chris replied.
"So we're really going to do this," Blake said, sitting up.
"Yeah. Never mind writing stories in a song. We're going to write a story with songs. And I'm sure there must be something here that we can use."
Chris, being a bit more organized than Blake, made three piles for each of them: rejects, possibilities, and "you must read this right now." They walked into town for lunch, ordered some groceries while there, and returned, only knocking off work when Blake finally cried "uncle" sometime after ten at night. By then they had moved inside, and were sitting at either end of the couch, their legs entwined.
"No one should ever make a musical out of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. Or, for that matter, any Albee play. Who sings words like, 'abstruse'?"
"Sondheim," Chris replied, closing the play he was reading. "You should look at this play first thing tomorrow, though," he said, sliding it over to Blake.
"That's an odd title: I Am a Camera. Well, as Sondheim would say, plays tomorrow, sex tonight."
"That doesn't scan," Chris replied.
"I don't care. I'm off the clock." He stubbed out his cigarette. "Damn, I forgot to buy Luckies when we were in town."
"Marlboros for you, then," Chris said, tossing Blake his half-empty pack.
"You know, a man's cigarette brand, it's personal. You're a Marlboro Man through and through."
"I like to think I was a cowboy in a previous life," Chris said, smiling.
"Me, I've always smoked Luckies, since high school," Blake said, getting up from the couch.
Chris got up as well, turning off the lamps as they walked back to the bedroom. "Easy on your throat?"
"No," Blake said, pulling off his sweater.
Chris walked into the room behind him, shedding his own jeans and t-shirt. "Reach for one instead of a sweet?"
"No," Blake said.
Chris sat on the bed, his back against the headboard, and watched the muscles in Blake's back and shoulders ripple as he tidied up the room.
"No more guesses?" Blake asked. He stood at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips, the top two buttons of his fly open (nothing on underneath; there never was unless he was in dress pants). Chris could just see the way his hair thickened and darkened below his tummy.
Chris licked his lips. "No, I'm pretty sure I know the answer," he said, sliding off his boxers and tossing them past Blake into the open hamper.
Blake pulled off his shorts. "So, Chris Richardson, what is your answer?" He grabbed Chris's ankles, yanking him down so he was lying flat on the bed, then crawled toward Chris, every inch the cat.
Chris's voice hitched in his throat. He waited until Blake was kneeling over him, one hand on either side of his shoulders, and then said, "So round," putting a hand on one side of his ass, "so firm," he raised his other hand to the other side, "so fully packed," and he sank his fingers into the flesh, the flesh that was his to hold, which was a fucking amazing thing when he really thought about it, as he was right now.
"That is correct," Blake said, laughing breathily, his lips just out of Chris's reach.
"Don Pardo, tell me what I've won," Chris whispered.
"A new car," Blake said, kissing him, "a dinette set," another kiss, "and a year's supply of Blake Lewis."
"Just a year?" Chris asked between kisses.
Blake pulled back, looking into Chris's eyes, long enough that Chris wondered if he'd misspoken, long enough that he started to get that butterfly pinned to cardboard feeling again. Finally, he whispered, "A lifetime supply?"
Chris grinned widely. "That's more like it," he said, and they were kissing again, and Blake was shaking a little, so Chris pulled his hands up from the lovely ass to those big strong shoulders and held him tight, stroking him, kissing the calm back into him, until Blake released his lips and slid down, kissing along Chris's chin and neck, licking his collarbone and nuzzling into his armpit. Chris had let go of his shoulders, putting his arms behind his head, just watching Blake move.
Blake pulled Chris's nipple into his mouth, grazing it with his teeth and then licking it. He moved further down, sliding his cheek along Chris's stomach, and whispered, "What do you want, Chris?"
"I want you to fuck me."
"Oh really?" Blake replied, not looking up. "Which way?"
"Like this."
Blake sat up on his knees, and Chris looked down his body, his hairy chest and tummy, the heavily muscled legs, and in the center his thick, hard cock rising out of its nest of dark hair. "Too lazy to move?" Blake asked, leaning over to grab the Vaseline from the nightstand.
"No, just enjoying the view."
"Oh," Blake said. He fumbled with the jar lid.
"Hey, whenever anyone else comments on your looks you're fine with it."
"They aren't talking about me."
"Well, who are they talking about?"
"I don't know. That guy up on stage. That guy in the club. That funny songwriter. I don't know. Not me. You know me, my insides. It's different."
"Then I'll have to say it more often," Chris said, stroking Blake's thigh with one hand, "so you'll get used to it."
"Um, all right," Blake said. He moved to be between Chris's legs, rather than straddling them, and Chris spread them wide, tipping up his ass. Then he scooped a bit of Vaseline onto his fingertips and slowly slid two of them into Chris, who moaned.
"Just like that," Chris muttered, his eyes fixed on Blake. He loved the way Blake's blunt fingers made it a little rough, even when Blake was trying to be gentle, and had gotten him to start with two, not one, so he could feel that sudden invasion that made his stomach flip flop. "It's fine, it's enough."
Blake scowled at him, and Chris knew that he didn't think it was enough, but Chris didn't really care. If it weren't for the fucking, this would be his favorite part, watching Blake slick himself up. Blake set down the jar, rubbing the gel off his hands on Chris's thighs as he moved them into position. Then he leaned in, sinking his cock into Chris's ass in one long slow fluid motion.
They kissed, soft and wet, taking their time, until finally Chris muttered, "Are you going to move, ever?"
Blake chuckled, without breaking the kiss, and started to thrust, first a bit shallow, then long and deep and slow, and Chris rose up to meet him.
Chris moved his hands down to rest on Blake's lower back, feeling the muscles working, working him over, really, and that was a sexy thought, the way that they were all entangled. My body is your body. My pleasure is your pleasure. Blake was inside him and all around him, closer than close, no part not touching-even their feet were rubbing against each other. He knew at some point they'd have to stop; they'd come, they'd get tired, they'd fall asleep, but it was the middle he liked the best, and the way that when Blake was topping he was never in much of a hurry.
After some minutes, Blake said, "Ready?" and at Chris's nod he sat up just a bit, and began to thrust harder, faster, tipping his hips and Chris's so his cock would rub against Chris's prostate, making him growl with the pleasure of it.
Chris hadn't moved his hands from Blake's back, and as he thrust faster it built up in him even more: those strong muscles and the sweet ass just beneath them; his cock slamming hot and thick and deep into Chris; the sweat glistening on the hairs on his chest; the determined scowl on his face; the sinews in his strong arms standing out as they held up his torso. Only one thing missing. "Open your eyes," Chris said.
Blake had his head tipped down, so when he slowly looked at Chris it was up, through his thick eyelashes, and Chris thought he might have shot fire out of them. Chris came, suddenly, clenching tight around Blake's cock, shouting his name, fighting to keep his eyes open so he could watch Blake watching him.
Blake thrust a few more times and then he was coming, too, kissing Chris with the force of it, sobbing out Chris's name before collapsing on top of him. They lay there, sweaty and sticky and gasping for breath, Blake's head resting on Chris's chest.
After a bit Blake said, "So that's what it's like, to be watched like that."
"I watch you like that all the time," Chris admitted, running his fingers through Blake's hair. "I just don't let you see."
"Well, now I know how you feel."
"Kinda, yeah. Well, how you make me feel."
Blake shifted, sitting up on his elbow, letting his other hand trail along Chris's chest. "I kinda feel like I should be buying a ring or something. Or a house."
Chris smiled. "For now I think sharing an apartment is all we can afford. We could get some crackerjack rings engraved."
"Nah," Blake said. "Been done. But I'll find something."
Chris took Blake's hand in his. "You know, forever used to seem like such a long time, but now?"
"Now it's not long enough," Blake said, and leaned in for a kiss.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chris and Blake listen to this song which I have for you here.
Missing Scene 2: Chris and Blake
Chapter 9: Instead of a Sweet. Includes headlines!
Notes: Did you get the clues? "Love Me Do", the first Beatles single, was released in the UK in November of 1962 and would have been climbing up the charts when Simon was home at Christmas that year. "Please Please Me" was released in January 1963 and shot up to #2; it was released in the US but went nowhere (hence Chris's comment about Ryan playing them and the kids not going for them). Simon sold to Capitol, the label that eventually gains the rights to the Beatles in the US, and given what Simon was up to in the UK in the spring of 1963 you can make your own conclusions on how that deal was structured. The tape that Simon gives to Blake and Chris, then, is the Please Please Me album, which had been released in the UK in March and was climbing to a 30-week stay at #1. The song Blake and Chris are listening to, "I Saw Her Standing There," is the first song on the album.
The Beatles changed everything, and yet, they didn't. The British Invasion of the US record charts in their wake did sweep many of the artists that the Brill Building songwriters had been writing for off the charts, including Neil Sedaka. But not all of those British acts wrote their own songs as the Beatles did, and in fact many of these songwriters wrote for acts like Herman's Hermits (remember Peter Noone on 60s week?) and later, of course, The Monkees. But between Bob Dylan and the Beatles, the "rockist" idea that serious musicians should be writing their own songs took hold, moving into the singer-songwriter trend of the 1970s. So when Simon said to Ryan that "it will all be over soon" that's what he meant, that this way of making music would end, and in many ways it did until producer-driven disco rose in the mid-70s.
For more on rockism, see Kalefa Sanneh's brilliant New York Times article "The Rap Against Rockism," and point your rock-snob friends to it the next time they make fun of you for watching American Idol.