Loving the Alien
Rating: M.
Pairing: Mick Jagger/David Bowie. One of my favorites, as you can see.
Disclaimer: Ok, with these guys truth's a bit dodgy, but let's say this is false (though inspired in this picture http://i170.photobucket.com/albums/u264/wettner/jagger-bowie.jpg). And it's dedicated to karneol_vision--sorry for the delay and I really hope you like it!!
Summary: Loving David Bowie is an otherworldly experience.
It all starts at some party or at some night at one of the hottest clubs. England, New York--the haunt doesn't matter. What matters is that then, the five senses come into play. It's as if them, the ones in charge of making a body human, were the main ingredient to love someone who is out of this world.
Hearing.
When you're someone who is so in touch with music, it's fundamental. A chord, a note, it can touch your heart, your stomach, or even create a sensation of sexual attraction.
Even club owners know it. So, when those special guests walk in, the sound changes. The DJ is instructed to play the hits that will announce the triumphal entrance of them. Even at parties, sound and music bow to them, acknowledging the presence of the human and the alien.
Sight.
It's the next step. Blue eyes, sleepy blue eyes wander around, trying to recognize a face among a cloud of smoke raising from the chairs, where stylish people smoke like it's an art and drink like it's a ritual. The drugs will come out later. But even them who have drunk too much and who have even started experimenting with dangerous substances have eyes for someone like Mick Jagger, who comes in sporting skinny jeans, showing off his slim and attractive figure, those legs that dance provocatively, "Honky Tonk Woman" and "Brown Sugar" not a celebration of sex, but of himself. The white shirt covering a slim torso. The Oriental-inspired vest and its decorations focusing on the fact Mr. Jagger may be an Englishman, but he's an exotic catch, something to see.
But even a man like that is looking for something in the darkness. Ignoring girls who wink, angelic yet provocative blondes with Farrah Fawcett hair falling all over their shoulders, or brown sugar beauties with stylish afros who would have loved to spend a night with the Rolling Stone.
But there's an aqua blue suit--a color that catches the eye in an instant. A color which a girl might wear on one of her long dresses, but it's in a suit now, and then comes another burst of color--a fiery red hairdo, eyeshadow applied to the point where there's a rainbow on a pale face. Green hues, sparkles, glitter, faint blues and whites, red thin lips--and the two different-colored eyes adding to the wondrous asymmetry of it all.
Smell.
Among the smell of cigarettes and alcohol, among the smell of several men wearing their best cologne and of ladies that have bought perfume or that still wear cute though outdated flowers in their hair, David can recognize Mick's particular scent. Of course, the Stone has groomed himself, and is also wearing some cologne that perhaps one of his girlfriends has given him, or some fashion/party guru. But that's not the dominating fragance. The smell that comes out of Mr. Jagger's body has to do with something else. It's like a permanent musk, like if the aphrodisiac sweat from the stage was always sticking to his body, that heat and that passion. Of course, the club is stuffy and crowded--but it's that other kind of sweat. The Starman knows this. And, even below that smell, he can recognize another one--a faint smell of sex. Mick Jagger smelled like sex ever since the seventies started. Sure, he'd been the third sexiest Stone (not a great record, but the ladies always went for Brian Jones) when the sixties, a rebel in front of the Beatles, but his new look had just helped things.
Mick Jagger is a sex bomb and that is his natural fragance.
For his part, Mick can't quite grasp David's smell. It has to do with the fact Ziggy Stardust also has his cologne bottles, but his choice of smells is fainter. But there's also something delicate about it, and it's not exactly the perfume. He smells like makeup too, and colors. Once Mick said that he smelled like all the girls in the club--no. All the girls in the world. And that yet, because he was all the girls, that made him different from them, set him apart from them. He was condensed feminity, sublimated in one form. The slender, sensual Starman.
Touch.
It has to happen. So naturally. Even when their hands refuse to recognize each other. Instead, they advance, like eyes in the dark, groping around, touching walls, trying not to stumble on chairs that have been flipped over, sometimes even bodies of people who drank or inhaled too much and are sleeping the party away. They continue on like that until they find a door handle, which eventually opens a door. Sometimes even to a utility closet. If that's the case, what ensues is a complete confusion of skins that sometimes even tangle with buckets and mops.
It's so much better when it's a party and they end up tumbling on someone's bed. Because that's when the hands know they can roam free.
Mick's shirt is silk, but he's still wearing jeans, nonetheless, and David touches the denim, the cold metal of the fly, and then nothing else, because a Rolling Stone doesn't wear briefs (maybe only Charlie, he's conservative, whatever) so it's all about Mick now. He's slim, muscle tensing against the flesh, a ribcage showing off some bone. His legs are like a greyhound's: they don't seem too muscled, but they're strong, and they even give way to a muscled arse. David's hands curve around it, hunger for it, long for Mick's hard and sinewy body. He's like a statue made of the finest British iron.
For his part, David, who was enveloped in aqua blue velvet, seems to be velvet himself. He's milky white, even pale for an Englishman, and hairless in spite of that velvet touch. Mick, at first, can't just grab him--no. He has to touch him with the tips of his fingers, even holding back his lust and passion. There's even a contrast--white skin against that face that's so full of color, against that red hair. By then, the makeup is sometimes runny, lipstick smeared, smudges of eyeshadow.
Mick traces David's torso then, his finger going from the Starman's throat hollow and on, in a straight line, as if he wanted to dissect him and finally see Ziggy Stardust's insides.
He stops when he reaches that treasure trail, almost invisible, faint to the touch.
He stops because he knows what comes next.
Taste.
Lipstick, salty sweetness, like one of those gourmet chocolates that come in those expensive gift boxes. That's what David Bowie's kisses taste like, especially when they're open-mouthed, when there's tongue. Mick likes the exotic flavor. Everything about this man is exotic or strange. A novelty.
For his part, Mick's taste is also tinged with a rockstar quality. There's alcohol in it, but not just because he has drunk anything. It's as if his kisses tasted like whiskey, even with that American Southern thing, which he may have acquired because he has sung bawdy country songs with John Phillips, or maybe since he sang "Dead Flowers"--but it's just like a real drink, relaxing, intoxicating, and even though David Bowie would prefer a glass of champagne or wine, he finds himself drinking avidly from this liquor, his tongue warring with Mick's.
Then, David wants to get drunk on Mick. He does not only want kisses, he wants all that the Rolling Stone has to offer. That's when he gets down on his knees and his mouth circles around Mick's cock.
The Stone weakens when that happens. His legs tremble when he feels the Starman sucking avidly, perhaps with too much dexterity. But he doesn't dare to ask who taught him to do so. Instead, he ends up closing his eyes, biting his lip, tasting his own blood as David's warm mouth engulfs his shaft.
Bowie, for his part, lets his hungry tongue do what it wants. It licks, traces the tip, eventually drinks Mick's seed--it also tastes like liquor, like partying, warm, a bit like the sweat David has also tasted when he bites Mick's thighs. He has drunk cum before (Lou Reed sometimes forces him to swallow it all) but the Rolling Stone's taste is his favorite.
Mick then wants to return the favor. But, when it's his turn to take David's dick inside that famous mouth and touch it with famous, pop culture tongue, Ziggy Stardust's so turned on already he's fully hard and already leaking, so the Stone doesn't have to do much. David cums quickly, and Mick swallows it as well. It's a taste he can't fully understand either, but it has to be something unique, like the Starman. It's the only semen he swallows, after all. Men suck his dick sometimes. Mick Jagger never does it. Only with David. Because, deep inside, he hopes there's something indeed alien about him. A clue that will prove David's not from this world.
Mick looks up at Ziggy Stardust's face, from where he's kneeling, close to the other man's newly limp shaft. The Stone's on his knees. It's like some kind of adoration.
David's makeup's running and he looks younger than when the party started.
He looks as if that story is true indeed. As if he was the space traveler who had come to Earth to give mankind a message of peace and love... and who had succumbed to temptation.
Too innocent not to fall. And too beautiful not to make someone else fall for him. Like Mick.
And their nights end like that, both on a bed, Mick's grip strong, sometimes even bruising, not wanting to let David go, as if he was afraid some moonbeam, coming through a curtain, could steal him away. When that happens, he usually thrusts into the glam rocker quickly, with an urgency, not letting him catch his breath, swallowing gasps with kisses, sometimes even biting that slender white form--leaving red marks, anything, anything, just to prove David's corporeal, even though he must be, because his hole is surrounding his cock, and he's hard again, and he's cumming, he's having an orgasm, and Mick's having one too, and fuck David looks so beautiful when he's in a rapture, in pleasure, and Mick wonders if it happens with every other earth dweller and that takes his mind away from sex... so he has to thrust inside, harder, making David arch and whimper. But Mick needs his orgasm, and he eventually starts pounding, desperate, even sad, but finally he explodes inside the Starman, and then falls down, holding him close.
When that frail body moves closer to his, he does believe he's the only one who knows how to love the alien.
Pairing: Mick Jagger/David Bowie. One of my favorites, as you can see.
Disclaimer: Ok, with these guys truth's a bit dodgy, but let's say this is false (though inspired in this picture http://i170.photobucket.com/albums/u264/wettner/jagger-bowie.jpg). And it's dedicated to karneol_vision--sorry for the delay and I really hope you like it!!
Summary: Loving David Bowie is an otherworldly experience.
It all starts at some party or at some night at one of the hottest clubs. England, New York--the haunt doesn't matter. What matters is that then, the five senses come into play. It's as if them, the ones in charge of making a body human, were the main ingredient to love someone who is out of this world.
Hearing.
When you're someone who is so in touch with music, it's fundamental. A chord, a note, it can touch your heart, your stomach, or even create a sensation of sexual attraction.
Even club owners know it. So, when those special guests walk in, the sound changes. The DJ is instructed to play the hits that will announce the triumphal entrance of them. Even at parties, sound and music bow to them, acknowledging the presence of the human and the alien.
Sight.
It's the next step. Blue eyes, sleepy blue eyes wander around, trying to recognize a face among a cloud of smoke raising from the chairs, where stylish people smoke like it's an art and drink like it's a ritual. The drugs will come out later. But even them who have drunk too much and who have even started experimenting with dangerous substances have eyes for someone like Mick Jagger, who comes in sporting skinny jeans, showing off his slim and attractive figure, those legs that dance provocatively, "Honky Tonk Woman" and "Brown Sugar" not a celebration of sex, but of himself. The white shirt covering a slim torso. The Oriental-inspired vest and its decorations focusing on the fact Mr. Jagger may be an Englishman, but he's an exotic catch, something to see.
But even a man like that is looking for something in the darkness. Ignoring girls who wink, angelic yet provocative blondes with Farrah Fawcett hair falling all over their shoulders, or brown sugar beauties with stylish afros who would have loved to spend a night with the Rolling Stone.
But there's an aqua blue suit--a color that catches the eye in an instant. A color which a girl might wear on one of her long dresses, but it's in a suit now, and then comes another burst of color--a fiery red hairdo, eyeshadow applied to the point where there's a rainbow on a pale face. Green hues, sparkles, glitter, faint blues and whites, red thin lips--and the two different-colored eyes adding to the wondrous asymmetry of it all.
Smell.
Among the smell of cigarettes and alcohol, among the smell of several men wearing their best cologne and of ladies that have bought perfume or that still wear cute though outdated flowers in their hair, David can recognize Mick's particular scent. Of course, the Stone has groomed himself, and is also wearing some cologne that perhaps one of his girlfriends has given him, or some fashion/party guru. But that's not the dominating fragance. The smell that comes out of Mr. Jagger's body has to do with something else. It's like a permanent musk, like if the aphrodisiac sweat from the stage was always sticking to his body, that heat and that passion. Of course, the club is stuffy and crowded--but it's that other kind of sweat. The Starman knows this. And, even below that smell, he can recognize another one--a faint smell of sex. Mick Jagger smelled like sex ever since the seventies started. Sure, he'd been the third sexiest Stone (not a great record, but the ladies always went for Brian Jones) when the sixties, a rebel in front of the Beatles, but his new look had just helped things.
Mick Jagger is a sex bomb and that is his natural fragance.
For his part, Mick can't quite grasp David's smell. It has to do with the fact Ziggy Stardust also has his cologne bottles, but his choice of smells is fainter. But there's also something delicate about it, and it's not exactly the perfume. He smells like makeup too, and colors. Once Mick said that he smelled like all the girls in the club--no. All the girls in the world. And that yet, because he was all the girls, that made him different from them, set him apart from them. He was condensed feminity, sublimated in one form. The slender, sensual Starman.
Touch.
It has to happen. So naturally. Even when their hands refuse to recognize each other. Instead, they advance, like eyes in the dark, groping around, touching walls, trying not to stumble on chairs that have been flipped over, sometimes even bodies of people who drank or inhaled too much and are sleeping the party away. They continue on like that until they find a door handle, which eventually opens a door. Sometimes even to a utility closet. If that's the case, what ensues is a complete confusion of skins that sometimes even tangle with buckets and mops.
It's so much better when it's a party and they end up tumbling on someone's bed. Because that's when the hands know they can roam free.
Mick's shirt is silk, but he's still wearing jeans, nonetheless, and David touches the denim, the cold metal of the fly, and then nothing else, because a Rolling Stone doesn't wear briefs (maybe only Charlie, he's conservative, whatever) so it's all about Mick now. He's slim, muscle tensing against the flesh, a ribcage showing off some bone. His legs are like a greyhound's: they don't seem too muscled, but they're strong, and they even give way to a muscled arse. David's hands curve around it, hunger for it, long for Mick's hard and sinewy body. He's like a statue made of the finest British iron.
For his part, David, who was enveloped in aqua blue velvet, seems to be velvet himself. He's milky white, even pale for an Englishman, and hairless in spite of that velvet touch. Mick, at first, can't just grab him--no. He has to touch him with the tips of his fingers, even holding back his lust and passion. There's even a contrast--white skin against that face that's so full of color, against that red hair. By then, the makeup is sometimes runny, lipstick smeared, smudges of eyeshadow.
Mick traces David's torso then, his finger going from the Starman's throat hollow and on, in a straight line, as if he wanted to dissect him and finally see Ziggy Stardust's insides.
He stops when he reaches that treasure trail, almost invisible, faint to the touch.
He stops because he knows what comes next.
Taste.
Lipstick, salty sweetness, like one of those gourmet chocolates that come in those expensive gift boxes. That's what David Bowie's kisses taste like, especially when they're open-mouthed, when there's tongue. Mick likes the exotic flavor. Everything about this man is exotic or strange. A novelty.
For his part, Mick's taste is also tinged with a rockstar quality. There's alcohol in it, but not just because he has drunk anything. It's as if his kisses tasted like whiskey, even with that American Southern thing, which he may have acquired because he has sung bawdy country songs with John Phillips, or maybe since he sang "Dead Flowers"--but it's just like a real drink, relaxing, intoxicating, and even though David Bowie would prefer a glass of champagne or wine, he finds himself drinking avidly from this liquor, his tongue warring with Mick's.
Then, David wants to get drunk on Mick. He does not only want kisses, he wants all that the Rolling Stone has to offer. That's when he gets down on his knees and his mouth circles around Mick's cock.
The Stone weakens when that happens. His legs tremble when he feels the Starman sucking avidly, perhaps with too much dexterity. But he doesn't dare to ask who taught him to do so. Instead, he ends up closing his eyes, biting his lip, tasting his own blood as David's warm mouth engulfs his shaft.
Bowie, for his part, lets his hungry tongue do what it wants. It licks, traces the tip, eventually drinks Mick's seed--it also tastes like liquor, like partying, warm, a bit like the sweat David has also tasted when he bites Mick's thighs. He has drunk cum before (Lou Reed sometimes forces him to swallow it all) but the Rolling Stone's taste is his favorite.
Mick then wants to return the favor. But, when it's his turn to take David's dick inside that famous mouth and touch it with famous, pop culture tongue, Ziggy Stardust's so turned on already he's fully hard and already leaking, so the Stone doesn't have to do much. David cums quickly, and Mick swallows it as well. It's a taste he can't fully understand either, but it has to be something unique, like the Starman. It's the only semen he swallows, after all. Men suck his dick sometimes. Mick Jagger never does it. Only with David. Because, deep inside, he hopes there's something indeed alien about him. A clue that will prove David's not from this world.
Mick looks up at Ziggy Stardust's face, from where he's kneeling, close to the other man's newly limp shaft. The Stone's on his knees. It's like some kind of adoration.
David's makeup's running and he looks younger than when the party started.
He looks as if that story is true indeed. As if he was the space traveler who had come to Earth to give mankind a message of peace and love... and who had succumbed to temptation.
Too innocent not to fall. And too beautiful not to make someone else fall for him. Like Mick.
And their nights end like that, both on a bed, Mick's grip strong, sometimes even bruising, not wanting to let David go, as if he was afraid some moonbeam, coming through a curtain, could steal him away. When that happens, he usually thrusts into the glam rocker quickly, with an urgency, not letting him catch his breath, swallowing gasps with kisses, sometimes even biting that slender white form--leaving red marks, anything, anything, just to prove David's corporeal, even though he must be, because his hole is surrounding his cock, and he's hard again, and he's cumming, he's having an orgasm, and Mick's having one too, and fuck David looks so beautiful when he's in a rapture, in pleasure, and Mick wonders if it happens with every other earth dweller and that takes his mind away from sex... so he has to thrust inside, harder, making David arch and whimper. But Mick needs his orgasm, and he eventually starts pounding, desperate, even sad, but finally he explodes inside the Starman, and then falls down, holding him close.
When that frail body moves closer to his, he does believe he's the only one who knows how to love the alien.