Groupies Ain't What They Used to Be, chapter 1
Title: Groupies Ain't What They Used to Be, chapter 1 of 2
Authors: tasyfa and looking_spiffy
Fandom: Green Day RPS - Billie Joe Armstrong/Mike Dirnt
Characters: Billie/Lars Ulrich (what else, amirite? ;) )
Prompt: 1: Rituals for the 50kinkyways challenge ( My kink prompt table.)
Word Count: 15,908 total
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I own only the words; the people own themselves and the events are fictitious.
Summary: "If you want an autograph, kid, this ain't the fuckin' way to go about getting one." He only wanted a sink to wash off all the goddamn mud. Thing is, he crashed a crabby, arrogant rock star drummer's dressing room to get to one.
Author's Notes: The only event both Metallica and Green Day have played is Woodstock 1994. Of course we had to write this. But just so we're all clear, this has nothing whatsoever to do with our Saints universe. Not the same story; not the same people, as you'll find out soon enough. :D
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Piss-warm and mud-flavoured, but it had been free and so Billie Joe Armstrong raised the beer bottle to his lips anyway. He supposed he couldn't blame the shitty taste on the manufacturer, considering that he was head-to-toe wet dirt and that unfortunately included his lips. And his tongue. He swished the room temperature liquid around in his mouth in an attempt to clean it out some and spat on the trampled grass. Not like anyone would notice with the way it'd been raining in fucking New York state.
The next mouthful tasted a lot more like beer, and so did the one after that. It wasn't like he had anything else to do but stand around and drink; the band had posed for the obligatory photo and then Mike had been whisked off to see a dentist about the tooth that idiot security guard had broken in the middle of the chaos that had become Green Day's set and Tré had gone with. Leaving Billie to field any questions or other shit.
Jesus Christ but he wanted a fucking shower.
The last swallow hit bitter at the back of his tongue and he grimaced as he tossed the bottle into the nearest trash can, wondering how long he'd be stuck in this 'staging area' or whatever they were calling it before he could get a ride back to the hotel. A while, he guessed. They'd done their set - they'd owned their set - and now he just wanted to get the fuck away from the corporate monster that was the very imperfect redux of Woodstock.
"Mr. Armstrong?"
She'd repeated it three times before Billie clued in that the stick-thin chick with the tiny glasses perched on her nose was talking to him. He summoned a smile. "Just Billie Joe, please."
Ms. Librarian Wannabe smiled. "Billie Joe, then. I'm from the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, in Cleveland, Ohio? Your band's performance has been all anyone can talk about since you left the stage, and we'd like to preserve your clothing in the museum, as part of the exhibit on Woodstock."
"You want my clothes?" he echoed dumbly, only half-listening as she went into a more in-depth schpiel. Huh, something of his in the Hall of Fame. He couldn't help the wash of pride at that, despite everything.
Billie refocused as she finished speaking, realising abruptly that the real reason they wanted to preserve his stuff was as evidence of the fucking mud fight. "Excuse me, you want them as is, right? Without being washed first?" He smirked at the affirmative. "Hold out your arm."
Her eyes rounded dramatically as he began to strip. Billie Joe ignored both her protests and the interested onlookers. "Look, lady, you want 'em, you take 'em now. I'm heading for the nearest shower or hell, fucking tap that I can find, and I'm not real fussy about whether or not I fuck up my goddamned clothes. You want the shoes?" Her speechless nod made him grin wide as he toed off the ruined Chucks and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "Y'need these, too?"
"No, no, this is quite fine, thank you," she said in a rush. He laughed, sketching her a salute, and then turned on his heel and stalked off towards the tents. Well, as close to stalking as he could get, given that he was now barefoot and clad only in his underwear. And a fucking lot of mud.
One of these big-name guys has got to have a dressing room with a decent-sized sink in it. Billie headed for the third door with a gold star on it. He listened at the door for a moment and when he heard nothing, he turned the handle.
The interior was warm - stifling - with only a tiny bit of illumination, but it was enough for him to spot the white porcelain in the corner and he grinned. A moment later, the white fingertip towel had begun to streak dark with grime as Billie lathered it with hand soap and scrubbed at his skin.
Green eyes narrowed in the face of the barely-chilled bottle of beer thrust his way by the young female server. Taking the bulky cell phone away from his ear and resting it against his shoulder, Lars Ulrich peered over the makeshift bar. "You got anything else? Where do I have to go to get a vodka tonic around here?" The smirk said he was joking, but he kinda wasn't. Fuck, this was the backstage area, right? Couldn't be that fucking hard to get a decent drink, could it?
It didn't help his mood much, really. He'd only been onsite for what felt like five minutes, and already he'd had a mic shoved in his face by some multi-pierced schmuck asking him inane shit about the weather being 'fantastic' in that fucking sarcastic Gen X fucking tone that he hated. Fuck. Evidently the weather had not been fantastic in New York state, judging by the ring of mud already caking around the bottom of his boots. Ominous thunder was beginning to roll around the distant skies.
Not a vodka tonic in sight.
He thanked the girl as sincerely as he could, took the beer anyway and, with a small wedge of paperwork under one arm and the cell phone to his ear again, headed off down the metal grill pathway. Momentarily he was distracted from his conversation when a woman far too well dressed for a festival had passed him with what appeared to be a suit draped over her arm. He wasn't entirely sure, though, based on the brief look he'd gotten, because said possible suit was positively swathed in mud and chunks of grass and who knew what else. He relayed this information back to the interviewer on the phone, who sounded vaguely interested but continued with the predictable questions nonetheless. It was sort of good that they were predictable - at least then he could concentrate on not getting too muddy yet. It was still five hours 'til stage time, and there wouldn't be a shower in his porta-kabin dressing room.
'Course, I could just fucking stand outside for half an hour. The thunder rumbled louder, reading his mind, and spots of rain began to appear on his ill-advised sunglasses. Forhelvede. Keeping up the conversation, Lars quickened his pace to the point where he could be accused of scurrying, practically bursting into his dressing room as the rain got dramatically heavier.
"Fucking hell!" he exclaimed, peeling the wet paperwork away from his arm and kicking the door shut behind him. "I gotta go, man, I just got caught in the rain, my fuckin'…yeah? Alright, thanks. Okay. Bye." Deftly, he threw the cell phone across the room onto the couch and muttered to himself. "Not like you had anything thought-provoking to ask anyway."
He gave a huff and set the beer down to separate the papers, laying each of them flat on the coffee table. Lucky it was warm in here. Guess I'll be doing the setlist from memory, the fucking songlist's run all…
Running water?
Lars whipped around. Well, his dressing room wasn't leaking. But there was some skinny young guy in naught but boxer shorts stood at his sink.
Resuming gum chewing after a few moments' incredulous pause, the drummer stared. A few more moments of looking the intruder up and down, and he took off his rain spattered sunglasses to reveal a perturbed frown. "If you want an autograph, kid, this ain't the fuckin' way to go about getting one. So how the fuck did you get past security?"
An autograph, right. Fat fucking chance. He couldn't have waited ten more minutes? Five, even. Fuck me. Billie Joe threw a cursory glance over his shoulder at the room's rightful occupant, more to check on his location so he'd know if he needed to be ready to bolt. But no, the guy was at the coffee table by the small but expensive-looking leather couch, picking over papers that had ink running down some of them. The downpour must've started up again.
He rinsed the towel out as best as he could and began wiping away the suds with mostly clean water. He'd already availed himself of the toothbrush and toothpaste; he wasn't about to mention that.
"Funny thing about security: they're paid to keep the musicians in. Sorry about invading your tent or whatever but there's nothing around here like a fucking shower and I kinda picked a mud fight with the audience. Fuckers went mad. Be done in a sec."
As close to finished with his body as he was going to get, Billie bent and stuck his head under the tap, rinsing until the water ran clear. Well, slightly blue-tinted; he'd only dyed his hair a couple of days ago. He scrubbed the ruined towel over his soaking wet hair to get it dry enough to not drip in his eyes and was about to call it a done job and leave this grumpy dickhead to his soggy paperwork when something occurred to him. He groaned.
"Aw, fuck, man. They didn't get me while my pants were around my knees, did they?" Billie dropped his lone article of clothing down to his ankles, craning to see his bare backside. "Does my ass look muddy to you?"
"Musician," Lars echoed, voice dripping with disbelief, eyebrows shooting up his forehead. He snorted a laugh, turning back to the paperwork, rather relieved that almost all of it was legible. He'd seen enough naked male ass in his time - especially in these last few bachelor years - to not bat an eyelid. It also led him onto his next conclusion about the young man. Not just a fan, and if he's a musician then I'm a fucking pro tennis star. So.
Guess it's kind of handy to have the groupies waiting for you.
Satisfied with the laid out papers, he turned back to the dressing room's other occupant, who was still vainly trying to check out his own ass. It was a nice ass, Lars could admit to that. The rest of the body wasn't too bad either. Face was okay. Good thing, too - some of the girls and guys that came to him after a show must've been hit over the head with the ugly tree. Not even copious alcohol could cloud that. No, this one wasn't too hard on the eyes.
Lars jerked his head, flicking long hair out of his face. "Now you mention it, there is a little streak of mud on your right asscheek. You want me to get it, or should I check out your dick too, just in case?"
Hazel eyes flicked up to meet his. The older man smirked and moved around the couch. "Gotta say, this isn't the best come-on I've had, and I don't know how many other guys have gone for it, but my advice is to find a new angle. I admire your balls, though. No pun intended."
'Come-on'? Shit, he thinks…wait a minute. An incredulous smirk found its way to Billie's mouth as he really looked at the guy for the first time and realised who he was. And that he seemed pretty interested. Well, well, well. Even Metallica likes cock.
The challenge of it attracted Billie Joe immediately. Lars Ulrich, in arguably the world's manliest band, thought he was some groupie who'd sneaked in here for a fuck, and furthermore, seemed prepared to give it to him. Oh, man, he couldn't leave now! He had to find out how far he could push. Did the world-famous drummer actually swing this way?
"My dick I can see, but thanks."
He reached for the towel, swiping the wet fabric across both asscheeks in deliberate slow motion, and ran a hand over his crotch, making a show of inspecting it. Then he bent over to grasp the waistband of his boxers, ensuring that they weren't quite all the way up yet when he turned his body towards the older man. Once dressed, as it were, Billie moved to stand in front of Lars, cynical half-smile clearly visible.
"Unless you wanted a closer look." A beat, long enough for those eyebrows to climb again, and Billie grinned. "Don't suppose I could bum a smoke? Mine got trashed in the rain." Maybe he could get at least that much out of the drummer before he turfed Billie back into the miserable weather.
Lars gave a huge eye roll, appearing to abruptly lose interest as he turned away. Great. Motherfucker wants cigarettes and small talk now? "Don't smoke, sorry," he replied in a tone that would have been flat were it not for the clear thread of irritation. "One rock 'n' roll cliché I haven't gotten into yet."
The younger man wasn't in his field of vision anymore, but the image of those boxers sliding teasingly up and over that ass shimmered in his mind, over and over as he sauntered over to the couch, picking up the deposited beer on the way, and flopped down. He swung his legs up onto the seat, slouching back onto the armrest on one elbow, regarding the other man with relative indifference. Yeah, he did have a pretty nice body. Could do with a little more meat on him, a little more muscle. Vaguely he wondered how that body would look, how those muscles that he had would tense and shift when he was tangled up in another man. How he'd look bent over a couch, tattooed hands gripping at leather. Or maybe how he'd look folded over a body almost as compact as his.
He wondered, still vaguely, how he tasted.
A smirk tweaked at Lars's lips, eyes flashing dark for a moment. He waved the bottle of beer aloft. "Want some?"
He plucked the chewing gum from his mouth, the next motion becoming deliberately sexual as he wrapped his lips around the collar of the bottle, putting a little more pout into it than usual. Green eyes held onto hazel as he swigged. The bottle was righted, and the tip of a pink tongue appeared to swipe along his top lip. He then offered the bottle again.
"Who'd you have to fuck to get back here, huh?" he asked. "Just curious. Hope it wasn't one of our road crew, some of those fuckers are nasty."
Billie took the beer, letting his fingers brush against Lars's as they closed around the glass shape, and then his tongue reached for the liquid as he tilted the bottle up, not touching it to his lips until the last possible moment. Two can play that game. He handed it back after swallowing and gestured to his body in a mocking parody of a game show host.
"Nah, a little striptease, a little sprinting is all. Handy to be able to fit places that fat security fucks can't get to." He grinned at how true yet misleading his words were. His head canted to the side as he gazed at rather pretty green eyes, abruptly aware that in coming close enough to borrow the man's drink, he'd ended up with his dick all but in Lars's face. Billie knew the plain cotton boxers were clinging a little - damp from his messy clean-up job - and the fly was a simple opening, no zipper, no buttons. Just a gap in the fabric that might very well be occupied soon as the low level arousal got him half hard.
He made no move to conceal the partial erection, simply hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts for lack of anywhere else to put his hands (no pockets, after all) and gave a wicked smile.
"Drinking usually makes me want to smoke. Might be some kind of oral fixation, who knows?" He watched Lars flick that long hair out of his face, tossing his head like some flirty teenage girl, and hazel eyes sparked. Wonder if he likes it pulled?
Billie Joe had heard the stories about the women; the post-concert showers that were more like free-for-all orgies; the booze and drugs. Alcoholica, right? Seemed weird that with all that shit going on, this guy didn't smoke cigarettes. But did he ever wrap that full-lipped pout around a cock the way he did around a beer bottle? Or was the seeming interest, the vague flirting, Lars's way of being polite to someone he thought was a fan?
His smile deepened. "So tell me, what rock 'n' roll clichés are you into?"
Lars snorted, quirking an eyebrow. "What, you want a list for reference? Or are you looking for tips?" Wonder how many other people he's planning on fucking today?
What a question. The more simple one would have been what wasn't he into - everything, honestly, everything you could possibly think of in the realm of rock 'n' roll clichés had been thrown at him, more so over the last four years. And he'd enthusiastically tried pretty much all of it. You only live once, right? No harm in having fun offstage, too, as long as you weren't an idiot about it, and he wasn't worried about heavy addiction - not being stupid enough to try smack and not having enough of an attention span for any one thing to get into the realms of needing an intervention. That was the real rock 'n' roll cliché.
He inspected the beer bottle as he spoke, sounding rather bored. "Not that I got into this business for these things specifically, but the chicks, the coke and the booze certainly take the edge off those twenty-two hours when you're basically sitting around with your thumb up your ass. I've dabbled in some other shit, but it's nothing to really write home about. Nothing you wouldn't find in a dirt-digging article in Rolling Stone."
A distasteful look crossed his face suddenly, and he sat up, tucking the bottle between the back cushions. He muttered something about wet T-shirt competitions, hands going to the buttons on his shirt, the material clinging to his skin thanks to the rain currently pouring down from the sky. Peeling the damp piece of clothing off of his skin and once again grateful for the warmth in here, he tossed the thing behind him and tugged at the black muscle shirt that remained on him. It didn't feel too bad, so he left it on. For now, anyway.
He heaved a little sigh as he sat back on his elbow and picked up the bottle again, gaze sliding back to hazel as he spoke.
"Then of course there's the cock. I like to fuck men, I like to be fucked by men and I like to suck dick. That part you probably won't find in Rolling Stone." A beat, and he flashed a wide smile. It was gone as quickly as it appeared. "Now, as much as I'm enjoying the view," a cursory glance down to the slight tent in those flimsy boxers, I could tear those off with my teeth, "You wanna take a seat and stop standing there like some fuckin' naked manservant, or do you want to fuck off and leave me to that fuckin' paperwork?" A swig of that beer, far less sensual this time, and a penetrating stare. "Huh?"
Guess that answers that question. The older man's brazen openness about it surprised Billie. Then again, even if he had been some kind of music journalist looking to write that kind of dirt-digging article, it wasn't like there was anywhere to hide a wire on him. Lars had already seen pretty much the whole package.
Hazels travelled the lines of newly exposed arms, liking the subtle curve of muscle. They weren't in-your-face massive biceps but their strength was clear and Billie could easily imagine the way they'd bulge in hard flex. Like, say, when a drumstick callused hand was jerking someone off.
He met that hard stare with a smirk tugging at his mouth. Fuck off or take a seat, huh? He didn't want to leave. This possibility would never have entered his head but as it had gone and presented itself, Billie wanted to ride it out, see what might happen. Lars could believe whatever the fuck he wanted about how Billie had gotten in here, but his assumption about why had acquired the status of truth. Billie was here for sex, now. Though the idea of fucking a rock star held a very different kind of appeal than it would have to a real groupie.
It wasn't about worship. It was about contempt.
Deciding to get a little more direct, Billie Joe took the proffered seat - in Lars's lap. His eyes sparkled with mischief and a faint sheen of lust. "Looks like we share some vices."
Annoyance flitted over Lars's face, even a degree of distaste making his lip curl as the younger man deposited himself. It faded, though; it was more from being caught off guard than anything. Who the fuck just sits in someone's lap no more than fifteen minutes after meeting them? This kid did, evidently. And if he really thought about it, if the mood took him, he'd probably do it too. Fandens. He shifted to make himself more comfortable, huffing under his breath, and eyed the blue-haired man somewhat suspiciously.
This felt like a weird version of playing hard to get. It wasn't like the other man was being stand-offish, but he wasn't throwing himself at the Dane either. He exuded a confidence that Lars rarely saw in other groupies, male or female, and it was a tiny bit unsettling. Usually there was a little starstruck shimmer in their eyes, but there was none of that here. It was like this brat didn't even care whose dressing room he'd wandered into, just so long as he'd get some action. Fuck, that was kind of a punch to the ego.
He halted himself mid-train of thought. Punch to the ego? What are you, a gawky fucking teenager? You need an ego boost? Getting his feathers ruffled over nothing wasn't going to accomplish much. So, he flicked his hair out of his face, lifted his leg and draped it over one of the bare ones so the two of them were threaded together, and offered the bottle again. Once it was taken, that hand descended to settle just lightly at the young man's stomach, stroking over the pale skin. He continued to watch his new friend - who smelled like cheap soap - rather carefully.
"Share some vices? No kidding," he murmured in a low drawl. "I'd never have pegged you for a cocksucker."
Billie laughed. "No? That might be a first." The hand on his stomach felt warm, even in the humid air; felt good. He uncurled his inside leg - the one not trapped by a denim-clad thigh - and snaked it around Lars, his toes searching under the thin muscle shirt to rub against skin. Hazels held fast to green as he brought the beer bottle to his mouth, sliding it inside.
The shape was unforgiving and as always, this little 'party trick' sparked off the memory that he'd more or less learned how to suck cock in exactly this manner. High as fuck, he and Mike had had a competition to see who could deep-throat their bottle better. Mike had won by default - Billie had choked hard enough to puke and ruin perfectly good beer. He'd been teased about it for weeks until the next time they scored some seriously good weed.
Mike had shut up fast when his dick had become the next practice target.
Right now, the stubby neck of the bottle pressed hard against Billie Joe's tongue as his lips reached the point where the glass flared out and he tightened them as much as possible, feeling surreptitiously for how good the seal was before his hand fully released the bottle and he leaned back, chin rising and Adam's apple bobbing as the liquid raced down his throat. When the flow stopped, he relaxed his mouth and wrapped fingers around the bottle instead, placing the empty vessel on the coffee table before tilting his head to regard Lars with a naughty little grin, knowing his words could be taken in several different ways, few of them innocent.
"Sorry, drank all your beer. Easier to peg me now?"
Lars gave a loose shrug, looking to the bottle, as if he wasn't a little bit impressed. Obviously he took note of it for possibly-not-so-far-in-the-future reference.
"Beer was shitty anyway. Probably should've cleaned that bottle off before you did that," he commented somewhat disdainfully. "Those things are probably filthy. And if you say, 'I like to live dangerously', kid, I'm gonna gag." He raised his arm to drape it over the back of the couch, gaze coming back to engaging hazel, an almost fond smile on his face. "My friend Kirk can do that. Maybe you two should have a contest. Or a sixty nine."
His words didn't imply whether he himself could do it or not. He could, and had done so quite a few times with practice, but the truth of it was he just didn't enjoy it. It felt fuckin' weird to him and he'd never been able to get past the unnatural sensation.
But he didn't mind being on the receiving end, no sir. And the sight of that bottle neck disappearing past full lips had been a pleasant one.
He continued to stroke at that exposed skin, fingertips sliding gentle up to a hairless chest, down to follow the lines of ribs, and further, past a bellybutton and over the top of those boxers, settling this time at the top of the younger man's thigh. Slowly, slowly, nice and teasing, everybody relax. He arched a little, moving his head close enough to extend his tongue and lick at a pierced earlobe.
"Guess now we can finally do something else with our mouths."
Air hissed through Billie's teeth in a soundless rush at the sudden wetness along his ear. His skin tingled in the wake of those delicate strokes, his thigh relaxing under the heat of Lars's palm. There wasn't anything partial about the tent in his shorts anymore as the easy - and one might say, inevitable - shift stirred his body into full alert.
He mulled over the Dane's words about his bandmate, enjoying the implications. Maybe their two bands had more in common than Billie Joe would have thought.
His breath hitched as tongue became teeth, Lars biting and sucking at his ear lobe. The urge to say that he liked to live dangerously just to piss off the older man tugged hard but he ignored it. Billie also ignored the comments about the probable cleanliness of the beer bottle and the familiar inaccuracy of his perceived age. Aside from the fact that he recognised deliberately provocative speech thanks to the frequency with which it exited his own mouth, he also had a sense that Lars wasn't the most stable person, and pushing too much this early in the game wouldn't get him what he wanted. He was nothing if not goal-oriented - especially now that he was turned on.
Instead he murmured, "Good for Kirk, but he isn't here. You are."
Then he turned his head towards Lars, seeking that sinful mouth for a kiss.
Yesssss, hissed a voice in the back of Lars's mind, first at the catch in the young man's breathing, then again as he turned to face him, hazel eyes colliding with his just before lips followed suit. The kiss wasn't hard, wasn't urgent; it was easy, seeking heat, languid. Tasting someone new was something he greatly enjoyed, and when possible he would take a lazy pleasure in it, really savour it. This one tasted good, he kissed good, he felt good against him. Gonna enjoy this boy.
Carefully, not breaking the kiss, he untangled himself and slid across the lap that was open to him, legs spreading, knees burying into the couch. He rocked against that very prominent erection, humming in approval. There was no doubt that the man beneath him would feel, if not see, his own arousal, the sensation of denim sliding rough against his cock sending sparks all through his body. He enjoyed this part, too: his skin waking up to the touch of someone else's, warmth spreading from the pit of his stomach. This steady rise of life, of vigour, of heated energy. Fuck, nothing compared, not even playing in front of fifty thousand people.
Soon, hands slipped under his shirt, smoothing over shifting muscles, while hips rose to meet each of his slow thrusts. Lars broke away from the deep kiss, giving a pleased little gasp, eyes alight through brown wisps. He nodded slightly, approving again. "You seem like you know what you're doing," he said slyly, his own hand rounding to push through close-cropped blue hair. He flicked his head, getting the hair out of his eyes. "This a regular thing for you, or would I be stupid to assume that I'm special?"
Special? Oh, you're special, alright. Billie held in a laugh but his eyes glittered as he admitted, "Hardly my first kiss but no, I don't make a habit out of crashing other people's rooms." Not without their permission first usually, anyway.
He raised his legs a bit, ankles hooking together behind the drummer. The lazy heat of the Dane's body covering his made him feel all liquid and loose and his lack of attire only added to it; the rough glide of denim over his inner thighs as Lars's hips rocked into his, the friction against his cock, the taste of that tongue in his mouth - beer and something sweet Billie couldn't identify. It was good to just feel.
His hands pulled at the muscle shirt insistently until Lars lifted up enough for Billie to yank it over his head and drop it on the floor. He sighed at the skin-to-skin contact, a breathless little sound, and ghosted a fingertip over the dark flesh of Lars's nipples, his fingernails tracing lightly across the older man's chest, giving the occasional light tug to the liberal dusting of hair that served as a sharp contrast to his own smooth skin. "Nice. Do you like it being played with?"
Billie slipped his other hand around the back of Lars's neck and brought their mouths back together without waiting for an answer. He liked the way the man kissed so attentively, concentrating on that source of pleasure even as his languid thrusts provided potent distraction, building a slow burn. If Billie hadn't already decided that he wanted to fuck this guy, he'd be content to lie just like this, kissing and grinding against each other until they both came. Though fewer clothes would be good for that as well.
Both of Billie's hands slid into the back pockets of those jeans and pushed down, relishing the increased pressure. A husky whine preceded his asking, "Can we get rid of these, too?"
"Impatient," was all Lars said in reply, biting at the other man's bottom lip before returning to the kiss. Now he rocked his hips back and forth, against the hips that met his and against the hands cupping - and squeezing - his still-clothed asscheeks. He was rather glad to have been rendered shirtless, as he realised the humidity in the room was pretty stifling. Evidently the thunderstorms of the last day, and the one crackling over them at that moment, had done nothing to clear the air. Sweat had already begun to sheen his lithe body, and he arched as he broke the kiss, skin stretching taut as he looked down into dilated eyes, smug smirk twisting his moist lips.
His gaze tracked over rounded shoulders, taking in the close up sight of surprisingly muscular arms and scattered tattoos. The kid didn't seem particularly toned from a distance, and his torso was pretty skinny, but his arms were nice. Shame he couldn't say the same for their decorations. He skated his hands over inked skin, eyebrow quirked in almost undisguised amusement. "Nice tattoos," he murmured, still smirking. When his eyes fell upon one particular tattoo, italicised script that spelled out the name Adrienne, he couldn't help but snuff a quiet laugh.
He flattened himself against that skinny torso, smiling into a disarmingly sweet kiss, and began to slide his hand back down to slip past the waistband of the younger man's shorts. He moaned softly on grasping his target, and smiled. Curiosity continued to override the need for immediate gratification.
"Punk rock kid wants to fuck a metal megastar? Wonder if your mohawked friends would see you as a hero or a traitor."
Billie Joe tensed, hazel eyes flashing fire before he could control the instinctive snarl. He forced his body back into pliancy and drawled, "Who the fuck cares what they think? It don't matter." Don't even matter what you think. "I do what I want."
He couldn't completely disguise the edge in his voice; comments like that were salt on a still-fresh wound. The only people whose opinions mattered were Mike and Tré, and Adrienne. But for all that he loved her and had chased her for so long, that relationship - that marriage - was brand new and still so uncertain. So fucking scary, especially with her pregnant.
Billie pushed away the thoughts of his wife; she didn't belong here and she knew it. He also banished thoughts of Gilman, where those 'mohawked friends' still hung out. Where he'd once found a home and a philosophy and the music that had set him free only to be cast out for following his dreams.
Oh, yeah, they'd think he was a traitor. They already did. It didn't get much clearer than having a proclamation that you should die layered onto the graffitied walls of your former home.
Sharp green eyes told him that Lars had definitely noticed that he'd hit a button but Billie chose to ignore it, instead moving his hands to slip under the denim and grab skin, his fingers skating close to the middle in a deliberate tease as he massaged the double handful of drummer ass, his own hips lifting into the hand curled around his erection now that his attention was back where it should be, not on some fucking dickheads in his past.
His mouth, however, couldn't quite let it go and one corner lifted in a sneer as he queried, "What about you, huh? Condescending to fuck a guy like me just for kicks, for sheer variety? You said you hadn't figured me for a cocksucker but I'd've thought you'd have me on my knees and then out the door, just like a fucking 'rock star'."
Lars's eyebrows shot up, but the smile stayed in place, developed more of a smirk. His hands stilled, and he blinked, part incredulous and part amused. When the younger man's expression didn't change, that sneer disguising simmering anger and emblazoned with contempt, the drummer sat up and laughed a little. "'Rock star', huh?" Those hazel eyes narrowed slightly.
Oh my. Gotcha.
"You say 'rock star' to me like I'm going to deny the title. You say 'fucking rock star' like you, if you really are a musician, if you really did play on one of those stages today like you claimed, aren't one. Like you're never gonna be one." A pause, and he laughed again, clearly revelling in this. His smile became a shit-eating grin, and he lowered himself back down, one hand pushing into blue hair, the other beginning to lazily stroke the other man's erection. He continued to talk, pleased with himself that he'd found one of the brat's hang-ups.
"Yes, I fuck the chicks. I fuck the guys. And I don't condescend to anyone, because all of them, all of you, you're all the same. A dick to suck or a pussy to fuck when it's convenient, none of us have any illusions about that. I snort the coke, I fly in the private jets, I get driven around in limos, I drink until eight in the morning and pass out until it's time to play. I don't need any of this shit to survive, but you have no idea how much fun it is to just enjoy it. You're goddamn fucking right I'm a rock star, and I love it."
He dipped his head to mouth roughly at a pale neck, the hand hidden behind cotton shorts moving faster. Now he was rasping his words directly into a pierced ear. "If you are what you say you are, then the second you stepped onto that stage today, the second you step into an arena on your first headlining tour, the second you lay down the first notes for your big major label album in a fancy studio, and the second, the fuckin' second you sign your name on that five album contract, you, by default and to some degree, become a rock star."
His gaze slid away for a moment or two, not that the other man would see, thoughts of a leonine frontman flitting into his head. The smile faltered briefly. "You'd better fucking learn to live with that fact before it starts tearing at you," he murmured.
The coil in Billie Joe's belly had grown tighter and tighter with every truth the older man uttered. He could admit, in the privacy of his own mind, that it was truth. That the decision Green Day had made to sign to Reprise had caused exactly that tidal shift, and that they had no one but themselves to blame for it. They might not have realised just how high the final cost would be but ignorance was no excuse and Billie really couldn't say whether he would have chosen this route anyway had he known. There were too many 'what ifs' in that equation.
Someday, Lars's last remark about learning to live with it might cool him off - might bring on an adult rationality about the situation, even a grudging acknowledgment that he was right.
Not today.
Lust, fury, shame: they roared in his bloodstream from the rough touch and the harsher words. Billie shoved hard against the drummer's chest, using the leverage from his startled backwards motion to wriggle out from underneath and flip them over, landing with his knees astride a prominent ribcage. He stared down into green eyes, his own burning as he got rid of his shorts.
"You said something about the convenience of a dick to suck. Dunno if that still applies if we're equals and all but I've got one right here for ya, nice and easy going down." He wasn't massively endowed or anything; he knew it; didn't care. Most times the things he could do to his lover with his mouth made up for his cock not looking like a porn star's and Billie got off just fine so who really cared? At least he didn't choke the guys who went down on him.
The challenge in those hazels wondered if Lars would be one of them.
The grin on Lars's face momentarily disappeared when he was shoved back, if only from the flash of panic that he might topple backwards and crack his head on the coffee table. But then he was flat on his back with a pissed off punk rock boy looming over him, and the grin was right back in place. The fire radiating from hazel eyes was reflected straight back at them, utterly fearless.
"Any diseases I should know about? Oh wait, I forgot, you don't do that sort of thing, do you? You're not a rock star," he taunted gleefully. He squirmed back a little, enough to prop himself up on his elbows. "You're sweetness and fucking light, right?"
Any further words he might have formulated were dashed when there was a knock at the door. Not breaking away from the younger man's gaze, he called out. "Busy, come back later!" A pause, and the knock came a second time, causing his grin to vanish again. He looked towards the door. "Fuck off!" he barked. When the knock came a third time, he angrily squirmed out of the grasp of pale thighs and vaulted over the back of the couch. "Fuckin' ruin the moment," he muttered, stalking over to the door.
The vibrant green glare that greeted the young polo-shirted man, hunched underneath a large umbrella, was enough to make him falter. "Um, sorry, I, Mr…Lars Ulrich? I-I was told it was urgent, so-"
"What?"
"Uh, I have your bag here, the, uh, the crew have just arrived onsite, and um, we're having an auction later today, all the money's, uh, gonna go to charity," he held up a sheet of paper with various charity logos and garish type, proclaiming to save the rainforest, stop the bombs and all kinds of shit. "Could you, um, maybe sign-"
Lars snatched the drum head away from him before he'd even offered it. "Sure, sure, sure," he muttered, leaning against the doorframe as he took a Sharpie and obliged. He caught the spiky-haired youth stealing a glance into his dressing room, eyes shooting down to intently inspect the sheet of paper a second later. Lars smirked and handed the items back, taking his leather shoulder bag.
"Alright, is there anything else? Fuck, it's wet out there, you wanna join us?" He leaned back, giving him a better view of the other occupant. "You wanna join in?"
The young man's eyes went like saucers before Lars shut the door in his face. He swaggered back towards the couch, snickering to himself, unbuttoning his fly. "So, you want me to suck you off?" he asked rhetorically. His hands went to his hips, slowly pushing down those jeans, eyes glittering. "Or is it that you wanna fuck my mouth, kid?"
Then he too was naked in the stifling warmth, crawling on hands and knees across the length of the couch, the ridge of his spine shining with sweat in the artificial light. He wrapped a hand around the younger man's erection, the other hand coming up to slide two fingers past wetted lips. They withdrew, coated in saliva, and in the next moment he stiffened and exhaled sharply as he began to push those fingers into his ass. He huffed a little laugh, green colliding with hazel again before he finally took that cock into his mouth.
Billie arched into the wet heat, the feel of those lips sliding over his erection going a long way towards relaxing him - or at least, transforming the rage into a different sort of tension altogether. The brief glimpse of Lars fingering himself didn't hurt, either, though it did prompt more taunting.
"Wouldn't've thought a rock star would do his own prep work. Don't you have people for that?"
The nails digging into his thigh served as a reply and he laughed, reaching down to gather handfuls of hair. The loose bits tickled his legs and abdomen as Lars's head began to bob. Billie didn't fight the moan that clawed out of his throat; he let it sound clearly in the warm room, gifting the older man with an honest reaction to the brilliant sensation cascading through his body from that mouth working on him.
His head fell back, pressing hard against the arm rest as his feet planted more firmly and he thrust up into the tight seal and suction of Danish lips, the action falling somewhere in between the options Lars had presented. His fists tightened, tugging on luxuriously long hair, using it as additional leverage to keep the rhythm of his hips steady, allowing himself to let go and sink into the pleasure. Pleasure for pleasure's sake; it seemed to be Lars's guiding principle and Billie didn't want to resist it any longer. It felt too good.
Still, he offered a snide remark anyway. Just because his young body was well on its way to orgasm number one didn't magically dissolve all his attitude.
"Better hope that guy's the type to keep shit to himself. I didn't exactly make myself inconspicuous today and I dunno if you want it getting out that Metallica has a very experienced cocksucker for a drummer."
The hummed laugh transformed into a moan as Lars curled his invading fingers just right, eliciting a further moan, almost an echo, from the younger man. He swung between mild annoyance at having his hair pulled, smugness at the increasing bonelessness his mouth was inducing and at being referred to as 'a very experienced cocksucker' - he most definitely took that as a compliment - and burgeoning arousal at the press against his tongue and the penetration of his own fingers.
Not wanting to delay any pleasure to explain himself, the drummer arched, his lips and his hand picking up speed. Fire rolled up his spine in waves, licking at his brain, body feeling hot and mind feeling fuzzy as the moans from the man beneath him began to grow in frequency. It didn't take his skillful lips very much longer to have that man giving a guttural cry and clutching at his head, to have heat hit the back of his tongue and to cough a little. Once the younger man sagged, fingers untwisting from his hair, Lars sat up and spat onto the floor, wiping his mouth with the heel of his hand.
"Some people I'll swallow for. You're not one of 'em," he said, voice rough from the pleasure still thrumming through his system. He withdrew his fingers with a minor grimace. "Not that you care, I'm sure."
A few moments to compose himself, and he pushed the hair out of his eyes, reaching to his bag for a bottle of water.
"Personally, I don't give a shit who knows what. I'm pretty fuckin' tired of the veil of secrecy - I'm sure you've guessed by now that I'm not ashamed of who I am or what I choose to do, and the hush-hush thing does not work for me." He paused to swig from his water. Fuck, it was airless in there. "So I could fuckin' care less what that kid says, no more than I'd care if you went and blabbed. But the record company, the management? The rest of the band? Different fuckin' story."
He couldn't hide the irritation in his tone. Alright, so maybe he didn't want the world to know he was a slut exactly, but he was very rich thanks to hard fucking work, he enjoyed drinking and some recreational drugs, and there were plenty of groupies. Where was the harm in being honest? Fuck.
Lars's tone registered before the actual words seeped into Billie's slightly addled brain. He dragged himself upright, sitting beside the drummer and reaching a hand out. "Mind if I have some?" He swallowed a gulp of the tepid water and gave it back.
His fingers traced random swirls through the soft hair on the older man's thigh. He didn't care about the spitting; fuck, most did these days, what with the world buying a clue that sex could be damaging to your health. His own uncle had died of AIDS, after all, and Billie Joe was very fucking careful as a result.
Though swallowing come was one of the only higher-risk behaviours he allowed himself. Something of a fetish of his, pretty much the only one, so far as he knew. Not that he was about to explicitly say so.
"I don't much care if he says anything, either. Less of an issue for my band and everybody fucking knows I'm bi. Thought I'd warn you, though."
He slid closer, those fingers dancing onto sensitive inner thighs as Billie leaned in and kissed Lars. "Want me to return the favour? Or we could make out for a bit and then I could fuck you." His tongue explored the Dane's mouth, licking at the traces of salt musk. "Mmm, or both. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm easy."
A bright smile chased that comment, devoid of attitude for once, and it made him look far younger than his twenty-two years. He stroked long hair away from high cheekbones and a pert nose. "Whatever you got the time for."
Lars narrowed his eyes a little, noticeably blindsided by the change in demeanour. It was enough to make him suspicious. Alright, I'm good, but I'm not that good.
Callused hands skated further up his inner thighs, and his legs spread wider automatically, accompanied by a little exhale. Electricity crackled under his skin, not intolerable yet, but a few more intimate touches and he'd be squirming for release. He sank into more kisses, the other man arching pliantly against him as Danish fingers slid down to the small of his back.
This all might be a cover. He might try and bite your dick off for what you said earlier.
He looked into hazel eyes, tried to see a hidden agenda, tried to see that firecracker attitude that had been present until his mouth had done its work. Maybe I am that good.
"So you do know how to act like a groupie," he surmised slowly. "You just choose not to." His frown deepened slightly, then he shook his head, pulling himself back to that mouth. "Whatever," he muttered before lips met his own. These kisses still weren't rough, not violent or desperate at all; in fact, Lars rarely subjected himself to such kisses. You couldn't savour anything if you were nursing a busted lip, he reasoned. No, he was much more for lazy hedonism most of the time.
Fleetingly he checked his watch as he took another swig of water. It was really doing fuck all to cool him down, but the motion was automatic, as it would have been if he'd had vodka or Jägermeister. "I've got plenty of time, don't you worry about that. And I take it you haven't got any 'famous musician' duties to attend to." His breath hitched as a hand grazed over his neglected cock, and sparks went off in green eyes. "M'not gonna last too long if you get to the fucking soon."
The bottle was set down on the floor, and hands went to tattooed biceps as he lay back and pulled the younger man on top of him. He stole another kiss, arching away from the couch.
"Blow me, fellow rock star," he rasped against full lips.
( to chapter 2)
Don't forget to leave some love for looking_spiffy too!
Authors: tasyfa and looking_spiffy
Fandom: Green Day RPS - Billie Joe Armstrong/Mike Dirnt
Characters: Billie/Lars Ulrich (what else, amirite? ;) )
Prompt: 1: Rituals for the 50kinkyways challenge ( My kink prompt table.)
Word Count: 15,908 total
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I own only the words; the people own themselves and the events are fictitious.
Summary: "If you want an autograph, kid, this ain't the fuckin' way to go about getting one." He only wanted a sink to wash off all the goddamn mud. Thing is, he crashed a crabby, arrogant rock star drummer's dressing room to get to one.
Author's Notes: The only event both Metallica and Green Day have played is Woodstock 1994. Of course we had to write this. But just so we're all clear, this has nothing whatsoever to do with our Saints universe. Not the same story; not the same people, as you'll find out soon enough. :D
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Piss-warm and mud-flavoured, but it had been free and so Billie Joe Armstrong raised the beer bottle to his lips anyway. He supposed he couldn't blame the shitty taste on the manufacturer, considering that he was head-to-toe wet dirt and that unfortunately included his lips. And his tongue. He swished the room temperature liquid around in his mouth in an attempt to clean it out some and spat on the trampled grass. Not like anyone would notice with the way it'd been raining in fucking New York state.
The next mouthful tasted a lot more like beer, and so did the one after that. It wasn't like he had anything else to do but stand around and drink; the band had posed for the obligatory photo and then Mike had been whisked off to see a dentist about the tooth that idiot security guard had broken in the middle of the chaos that had become Green Day's set and Tré had gone with. Leaving Billie to field any questions or other shit.
Jesus Christ but he wanted a fucking shower.
The last swallow hit bitter at the back of his tongue and he grimaced as he tossed the bottle into the nearest trash can, wondering how long he'd be stuck in this 'staging area' or whatever they were calling it before he could get a ride back to the hotel. A while, he guessed. They'd done their set - they'd owned their set - and now he just wanted to get the fuck away from the corporate monster that was the very imperfect redux of Woodstock.
"Mr. Armstrong?"
She'd repeated it three times before Billie clued in that the stick-thin chick with the tiny glasses perched on her nose was talking to him. He summoned a smile. "Just Billie Joe, please."
Ms. Librarian Wannabe smiled. "Billie Joe, then. I'm from the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, in Cleveland, Ohio? Your band's performance has been all anyone can talk about since you left the stage, and we'd like to preserve your clothing in the museum, as part of the exhibit on Woodstock."
"You want my clothes?" he echoed dumbly, only half-listening as she went into a more in-depth schpiel. Huh, something of his in the Hall of Fame. He couldn't help the wash of pride at that, despite everything.
Billie refocused as she finished speaking, realising abruptly that the real reason they wanted to preserve his stuff was as evidence of the fucking mud fight. "Excuse me, you want them as is, right? Without being washed first?" He smirked at the affirmative. "Hold out your arm."
Her eyes rounded dramatically as he began to strip. Billie Joe ignored both her protests and the interested onlookers. "Look, lady, you want 'em, you take 'em now. I'm heading for the nearest shower or hell, fucking tap that I can find, and I'm not real fussy about whether or not I fuck up my goddamned clothes. You want the shoes?" Her speechless nod made him grin wide as he toed off the ruined Chucks and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "Y'need these, too?"
"No, no, this is quite fine, thank you," she said in a rush. He laughed, sketching her a salute, and then turned on his heel and stalked off towards the tents. Well, as close to stalking as he could get, given that he was now barefoot and clad only in his underwear. And a fucking lot of mud.
One of these big-name guys has got to have a dressing room with a decent-sized sink in it. Billie headed for the third door with a gold star on it. He listened at the door for a moment and when he heard nothing, he turned the handle.
The interior was warm - stifling - with only a tiny bit of illumination, but it was enough for him to spot the white porcelain in the corner and he grinned. A moment later, the white fingertip towel had begun to streak dark with grime as Billie lathered it with hand soap and scrubbed at his skin.
Green eyes narrowed in the face of the barely-chilled bottle of beer thrust his way by the young female server. Taking the bulky cell phone away from his ear and resting it against his shoulder, Lars Ulrich peered over the makeshift bar. "You got anything else? Where do I have to go to get a vodka tonic around here?" The smirk said he was joking, but he kinda wasn't. Fuck, this was the backstage area, right? Couldn't be that fucking hard to get a decent drink, could it?
It didn't help his mood much, really. He'd only been onsite for what felt like five minutes, and already he'd had a mic shoved in his face by some multi-pierced schmuck asking him inane shit about the weather being 'fantastic' in that fucking sarcastic Gen X fucking tone that he hated. Fuck. Evidently the weather had not been fantastic in New York state, judging by the ring of mud already caking around the bottom of his boots. Ominous thunder was beginning to roll around the distant skies.
Not a vodka tonic in sight.
He thanked the girl as sincerely as he could, took the beer anyway and, with a small wedge of paperwork under one arm and the cell phone to his ear again, headed off down the metal grill pathway. Momentarily he was distracted from his conversation when a woman far too well dressed for a festival had passed him with what appeared to be a suit draped over her arm. He wasn't entirely sure, though, based on the brief look he'd gotten, because said possible suit was positively swathed in mud and chunks of grass and who knew what else. He relayed this information back to the interviewer on the phone, who sounded vaguely interested but continued with the predictable questions nonetheless. It was sort of good that they were predictable - at least then he could concentrate on not getting too muddy yet. It was still five hours 'til stage time, and there wouldn't be a shower in his porta-kabin dressing room.
'Course, I could just fucking stand outside for half an hour. The thunder rumbled louder, reading his mind, and spots of rain began to appear on his ill-advised sunglasses. Forhelvede. Keeping up the conversation, Lars quickened his pace to the point where he could be accused of scurrying, practically bursting into his dressing room as the rain got dramatically heavier.
"Fucking hell!" he exclaimed, peeling the wet paperwork away from his arm and kicking the door shut behind him. "I gotta go, man, I just got caught in the rain, my fuckin'…yeah? Alright, thanks. Okay. Bye." Deftly, he threw the cell phone across the room onto the couch and muttered to himself. "Not like you had anything thought-provoking to ask anyway."
He gave a huff and set the beer down to separate the papers, laying each of them flat on the coffee table. Lucky it was warm in here. Guess I'll be doing the setlist from memory, the fucking songlist's run all…
Running water?
Lars whipped around. Well, his dressing room wasn't leaking. But there was some skinny young guy in naught but boxer shorts stood at his sink.
Resuming gum chewing after a few moments' incredulous pause, the drummer stared. A few more moments of looking the intruder up and down, and he took off his rain spattered sunglasses to reveal a perturbed frown. "If you want an autograph, kid, this ain't the fuckin' way to go about getting one. So how the fuck did you get past security?"
An autograph, right. Fat fucking chance. He couldn't have waited ten more minutes? Five, even. Fuck me. Billie Joe threw a cursory glance over his shoulder at the room's rightful occupant, more to check on his location so he'd know if he needed to be ready to bolt. But no, the guy was at the coffee table by the small but expensive-looking leather couch, picking over papers that had ink running down some of them. The downpour must've started up again.
He rinsed the towel out as best as he could and began wiping away the suds with mostly clean water. He'd already availed himself of the toothbrush and toothpaste; he wasn't about to mention that.
"Funny thing about security: they're paid to keep the musicians in. Sorry about invading your tent or whatever but there's nothing around here like a fucking shower and I kinda picked a mud fight with the audience. Fuckers went mad. Be done in a sec."
As close to finished with his body as he was going to get, Billie bent and stuck his head under the tap, rinsing until the water ran clear. Well, slightly blue-tinted; he'd only dyed his hair a couple of days ago. He scrubbed the ruined towel over his soaking wet hair to get it dry enough to not drip in his eyes and was about to call it a done job and leave this grumpy dickhead to his soggy paperwork when something occurred to him. He groaned.
"Aw, fuck, man. They didn't get me while my pants were around my knees, did they?" Billie dropped his lone article of clothing down to his ankles, craning to see his bare backside. "Does my ass look muddy to you?"
"Musician," Lars echoed, voice dripping with disbelief, eyebrows shooting up his forehead. He snorted a laugh, turning back to the paperwork, rather relieved that almost all of it was legible. He'd seen enough naked male ass in his time - especially in these last few bachelor years - to not bat an eyelid. It also led him onto his next conclusion about the young man. Not just a fan, and if he's a musician then I'm a fucking pro tennis star. So.
Guess it's kind of handy to have the groupies waiting for you.
Satisfied with the laid out papers, he turned back to the dressing room's other occupant, who was still vainly trying to check out his own ass. It was a nice ass, Lars could admit to that. The rest of the body wasn't too bad either. Face was okay. Good thing, too - some of the girls and guys that came to him after a show must've been hit over the head with the ugly tree. Not even copious alcohol could cloud that. No, this one wasn't too hard on the eyes.
Lars jerked his head, flicking long hair out of his face. "Now you mention it, there is a little streak of mud on your right asscheek. You want me to get it, or should I check out your dick too, just in case?"
Hazel eyes flicked up to meet his. The older man smirked and moved around the couch. "Gotta say, this isn't the best come-on I've had, and I don't know how many other guys have gone for it, but my advice is to find a new angle. I admire your balls, though. No pun intended."
'Come-on'? Shit, he thinks…wait a minute. An incredulous smirk found its way to Billie's mouth as he really looked at the guy for the first time and realised who he was. And that he seemed pretty interested. Well, well, well. Even Metallica likes cock.
The challenge of it attracted Billie Joe immediately. Lars Ulrich, in arguably the world's manliest band, thought he was some groupie who'd sneaked in here for a fuck, and furthermore, seemed prepared to give it to him. Oh, man, he couldn't leave now! He had to find out how far he could push. Did the world-famous drummer actually swing this way?
"My dick I can see, but thanks."
He reached for the towel, swiping the wet fabric across both asscheeks in deliberate slow motion, and ran a hand over his crotch, making a show of inspecting it. Then he bent over to grasp the waistband of his boxers, ensuring that they weren't quite all the way up yet when he turned his body towards the older man. Once dressed, as it were, Billie moved to stand in front of Lars, cynical half-smile clearly visible.
"Unless you wanted a closer look." A beat, long enough for those eyebrows to climb again, and Billie grinned. "Don't suppose I could bum a smoke? Mine got trashed in the rain." Maybe he could get at least that much out of the drummer before he turfed Billie back into the miserable weather.
Lars gave a huge eye roll, appearing to abruptly lose interest as he turned away. Great. Motherfucker wants cigarettes and small talk now? "Don't smoke, sorry," he replied in a tone that would have been flat were it not for the clear thread of irritation. "One rock 'n' roll cliché I haven't gotten into yet."
The younger man wasn't in his field of vision anymore, but the image of those boxers sliding teasingly up and over that ass shimmered in his mind, over and over as he sauntered over to the couch, picking up the deposited beer on the way, and flopped down. He swung his legs up onto the seat, slouching back onto the armrest on one elbow, regarding the other man with relative indifference. Yeah, he did have a pretty nice body. Could do with a little more meat on him, a little more muscle. Vaguely he wondered how that body would look, how those muscles that he had would tense and shift when he was tangled up in another man. How he'd look bent over a couch, tattooed hands gripping at leather. Or maybe how he'd look folded over a body almost as compact as his.
He wondered, still vaguely, how he tasted.
A smirk tweaked at Lars's lips, eyes flashing dark for a moment. He waved the bottle of beer aloft. "Want some?"
He plucked the chewing gum from his mouth, the next motion becoming deliberately sexual as he wrapped his lips around the collar of the bottle, putting a little more pout into it than usual. Green eyes held onto hazel as he swigged. The bottle was righted, and the tip of a pink tongue appeared to swipe along his top lip. He then offered the bottle again.
"Who'd you have to fuck to get back here, huh?" he asked. "Just curious. Hope it wasn't one of our road crew, some of those fuckers are nasty."
Billie took the beer, letting his fingers brush against Lars's as they closed around the glass shape, and then his tongue reached for the liquid as he tilted the bottle up, not touching it to his lips until the last possible moment. Two can play that game. He handed it back after swallowing and gestured to his body in a mocking parody of a game show host.
"Nah, a little striptease, a little sprinting is all. Handy to be able to fit places that fat security fucks can't get to." He grinned at how true yet misleading his words were. His head canted to the side as he gazed at rather pretty green eyes, abruptly aware that in coming close enough to borrow the man's drink, he'd ended up with his dick all but in Lars's face. Billie knew the plain cotton boxers were clinging a little - damp from his messy clean-up job - and the fly was a simple opening, no zipper, no buttons. Just a gap in the fabric that might very well be occupied soon as the low level arousal got him half hard.
He made no move to conceal the partial erection, simply hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts for lack of anywhere else to put his hands (no pockets, after all) and gave a wicked smile.
"Drinking usually makes me want to smoke. Might be some kind of oral fixation, who knows?" He watched Lars flick that long hair out of his face, tossing his head like some flirty teenage girl, and hazel eyes sparked. Wonder if he likes it pulled?
Billie Joe had heard the stories about the women; the post-concert showers that were more like free-for-all orgies; the booze and drugs. Alcoholica, right? Seemed weird that with all that shit going on, this guy didn't smoke cigarettes. But did he ever wrap that full-lipped pout around a cock the way he did around a beer bottle? Or was the seeming interest, the vague flirting, Lars's way of being polite to someone he thought was a fan?
His smile deepened. "So tell me, what rock 'n' roll clichés are you into?"
Lars snorted, quirking an eyebrow. "What, you want a list for reference? Or are you looking for tips?" Wonder how many other people he's planning on fucking today?
What a question. The more simple one would have been what wasn't he into - everything, honestly, everything you could possibly think of in the realm of rock 'n' roll clichés had been thrown at him, more so over the last four years. And he'd enthusiastically tried pretty much all of it. You only live once, right? No harm in having fun offstage, too, as long as you weren't an idiot about it, and he wasn't worried about heavy addiction - not being stupid enough to try smack and not having enough of an attention span for any one thing to get into the realms of needing an intervention. That was the real rock 'n' roll cliché.
He inspected the beer bottle as he spoke, sounding rather bored. "Not that I got into this business for these things specifically, but the chicks, the coke and the booze certainly take the edge off those twenty-two hours when you're basically sitting around with your thumb up your ass. I've dabbled in some other shit, but it's nothing to really write home about. Nothing you wouldn't find in a dirt-digging article in Rolling Stone."
A distasteful look crossed his face suddenly, and he sat up, tucking the bottle between the back cushions. He muttered something about wet T-shirt competitions, hands going to the buttons on his shirt, the material clinging to his skin thanks to the rain currently pouring down from the sky. Peeling the damp piece of clothing off of his skin and once again grateful for the warmth in here, he tossed the thing behind him and tugged at the black muscle shirt that remained on him. It didn't feel too bad, so he left it on. For now, anyway.
He heaved a little sigh as he sat back on his elbow and picked up the bottle again, gaze sliding back to hazel as he spoke.
"Then of course there's the cock. I like to fuck men, I like to be fucked by men and I like to suck dick. That part you probably won't find in Rolling Stone." A beat, and he flashed a wide smile. It was gone as quickly as it appeared. "Now, as much as I'm enjoying the view," a cursory glance down to the slight tent in those flimsy boxers, I could tear those off with my teeth, "You wanna take a seat and stop standing there like some fuckin' naked manservant, or do you want to fuck off and leave me to that fuckin' paperwork?" A swig of that beer, far less sensual this time, and a penetrating stare. "Huh?"
Guess that answers that question. The older man's brazen openness about it surprised Billie. Then again, even if he had been some kind of music journalist looking to write that kind of dirt-digging article, it wasn't like there was anywhere to hide a wire on him. Lars had already seen pretty much the whole package.
Hazels travelled the lines of newly exposed arms, liking the subtle curve of muscle. They weren't in-your-face massive biceps but their strength was clear and Billie could easily imagine the way they'd bulge in hard flex. Like, say, when a drumstick callused hand was jerking someone off.
He met that hard stare with a smirk tugging at his mouth. Fuck off or take a seat, huh? He didn't want to leave. This possibility would never have entered his head but as it had gone and presented itself, Billie wanted to ride it out, see what might happen. Lars could believe whatever the fuck he wanted about how Billie had gotten in here, but his assumption about why had acquired the status of truth. Billie was here for sex, now. Though the idea of fucking a rock star held a very different kind of appeal than it would have to a real groupie.
It wasn't about worship. It was about contempt.
Deciding to get a little more direct, Billie Joe took the proffered seat - in Lars's lap. His eyes sparkled with mischief and a faint sheen of lust. "Looks like we share some vices."
Annoyance flitted over Lars's face, even a degree of distaste making his lip curl as the younger man deposited himself. It faded, though; it was more from being caught off guard than anything. Who the fuck just sits in someone's lap no more than fifteen minutes after meeting them? This kid did, evidently. And if he really thought about it, if the mood took him, he'd probably do it too. Fandens. He shifted to make himself more comfortable, huffing under his breath, and eyed the blue-haired man somewhat suspiciously.
This felt like a weird version of playing hard to get. It wasn't like the other man was being stand-offish, but he wasn't throwing himself at the Dane either. He exuded a confidence that Lars rarely saw in other groupies, male or female, and it was a tiny bit unsettling. Usually there was a little starstruck shimmer in their eyes, but there was none of that here. It was like this brat didn't even care whose dressing room he'd wandered into, just so long as he'd get some action. Fuck, that was kind of a punch to the ego.
He halted himself mid-train of thought. Punch to the ego? What are you, a gawky fucking teenager? You need an ego boost? Getting his feathers ruffled over nothing wasn't going to accomplish much. So, he flicked his hair out of his face, lifted his leg and draped it over one of the bare ones so the two of them were threaded together, and offered the bottle again. Once it was taken, that hand descended to settle just lightly at the young man's stomach, stroking over the pale skin. He continued to watch his new friend - who smelled like cheap soap - rather carefully.
"Share some vices? No kidding," he murmured in a low drawl. "I'd never have pegged you for a cocksucker."
Billie laughed. "No? That might be a first." The hand on his stomach felt warm, even in the humid air; felt good. He uncurled his inside leg - the one not trapped by a denim-clad thigh - and snaked it around Lars, his toes searching under the thin muscle shirt to rub against skin. Hazels held fast to green as he brought the beer bottle to his mouth, sliding it inside.
The shape was unforgiving and as always, this little 'party trick' sparked off the memory that he'd more or less learned how to suck cock in exactly this manner. High as fuck, he and Mike had had a competition to see who could deep-throat their bottle better. Mike had won by default - Billie had choked hard enough to puke and ruin perfectly good beer. He'd been teased about it for weeks until the next time they scored some seriously good weed.
Mike had shut up fast when his dick had become the next practice target.
Right now, the stubby neck of the bottle pressed hard against Billie Joe's tongue as his lips reached the point where the glass flared out and he tightened them as much as possible, feeling surreptitiously for how good the seal was before his hand fully released the bottle and he leaned back, chin rising and Adam's apple bobbing as the liquid raced down his throat. When the flow stopped, he relaxed his mouth and wrapped fingers around the bottle instead, placing the empty vessel on the coffee table before tilting his head to regard Lars with a naughty little grin, knowing his words could be taken in several different ways, few of them innocent.
"Sorry, drank all your beer. Easier to peg me now?"
Lars gave a loose shrug, looking to the bottle, as if he wasn't a little bit impressed. Obviously he took note of it for possibly-not-so-far-in-the-future reference.
"Beer was shitty anyway. Probably should've cleaned that bottle off before you did that," he commented somewhat disdainfully. "Those things are probably filthy. And if you say, 'I like to live dangerously', kid, I'm gonna gag." He raised his arm to drape it over the back of the couch, gaze coming back to engaging hazel, an almost fond smile on his face. "My friend Kirk can do that. Maybe you two should have a contest. Or a sixty nine."
His words didn't imply whether he himself could do it or not. He could, and had done so quite a few times with practice, but the truth of it was he just didn't enjoy it. It felt fuckin' weird to him and he'd never been able to get past the unnatural sensation.
But he didn't mind being on the receiving end, no sir. And the sight of that bottle neck disappearing past full lips had been a pleasant one.
He continued to stroke at that exposed skin, fingertips sliding gentle up to a hairless chest, down to follow the lines of ribs, and further, past a bellybutton and over the top of those boxers, settling this time at the top of the younger man's thigh. Slowly, slowly, nice and teasing, everybody relax. He arched a little, moving his head close enough to extend his tongue and lick at a pierced earlobe.
"Guess now we can finally do something else with our mouths."
Air hissed through Billie's teeth in a soundless rush at the sudden wetness along his ear. His skin tingled in the wake of those delicate strokes, his thigh relaxing under the heat of Lars's palm. There wasn't anything partial about the tent in his shorts anymore as the easy - and one might say, inevitable - shift stirred his body into full alert.
He mulled over the Dane's words about his bandmate, enjoying the implications. Maybe their two bands had more in common than Billie Joe would have thought.
His breath hitched as tongue became teeth, Lars biting and sucking at his ear lobe. The urge to say that he liked to live dangerously just to piss off the older man tugged hard but he ignored it. Billie also ignored the comments about the probable cleanliness of the beer bottle and the familiar inaccuracy of his perceived age. Aside from the fact that he recognised deliberately provocative speech thanks to the frequency with which it exited his own mouth, he also had a sense that Lars wasn't the most stable person, and pushing too much this early in the game wouldn't get him what he wanted. He was nothing if not goal-oriented - especially now that he was turned on.
Instead he murmured, "Good for Kirk, but he isn't here. You are."
Then he turned his head towards Lars, seeking that sinful mouth for a kiss.
Yesssss, hissed a voice in the back of Lars's mind, first at the catch in the young man's breathing, then again as he turned to face him, hazel eyes colliding with his just before lips followed suit. The kiss wasn't hard, wasn't urgent; it was easy, seeking heat, languid. Tasting someone new was something he greatly enjoyed, and when possible he would take a lazy pleasure in it, really savour it. This one tasted good, he kissed good, he felt good against him. Gonna enjoy this boy.
Carefully, not breaking the kiss, he untangled himself and slid across the lap that was open to him, legs spreading, knees burying into the couch. He rocked against that very prominent erection, humming in approval. There was no doubt that the man beneath him would feel, if not see, his own arousal, the sensation of denim sliding rough against his cock sending sparks all through his body. He enjoyed this part, too: his skin waking up to the touch of someone else's, warmth spreading from the pit of his stomach. This steady rise of life, of vigour, of heated energy. Fuck, nothing compared, not even playing in front of fifty thousand people.
Soon, hands slipped under his shirt, smoothing over shifting muscles, while hips rose to meet each of his slow thrusts. Lars broke away from the deep kiss, giving a pleased little gasp, eyes alight through brown wisps. He nodded slightly, approving again. "You seem like you know what you're doing," he said slyly, his own hand rounding to push through close-cropped blue hair. He flicked his head, getting the hair out of his eyes. "This a regular thing for you, or would I be stupid to assume that I'm special?"
Special? Oh, you're special, alright. Billie held in a laugh but his eyes glittered as he admitted, "Hardly my first kiss but no, I don't make a habit out of crashing other people's rooms." Not without their permission first usually, anyway.
He raised his legs a bit, ankles hooking together behind the drummer. The lazy heat of the Dane's body covering his made him feel all liquid and loose and his lack of attire only added to it; the rough glide of denim over his inner thighs as Lars's hips rocked into his, the friction against his cock, the taste of that tongue in his mouth - beer and something sweet Billie couldn't identify. It was good to just feel.
His hands pulled at the muscle shirt insistently until Lars lifted up enough for Billie to yank it over his head and drop it on the floor. He sighed at the skin-to-skin contact, a breathless little sound, and ghosted a fingertip over the dark flesh of Lars's nipples, his fingernails tracing lightly across the older man's chest, giving the occasional light tug to the liberal dusting of hair that served as a sharp contrast to his own smooth skin. "Nice. Do you like it being played with?"
Billie slipped his other hand around the back of Lars's neck and brought their mouths back together without waiting for an answer. He liked the way the man kissed so attentively, concentrating on that source of pleasure even as his languid thrusts provided potent distraction, building a slow burn. If Billie hadn't already decided that he wanted to fuck this guy, he'd be content to lie just like this, kissing and grinding against each other until they both came. Though fewer clothes would be good for that as well.
Both of Billie's hands slid into the back pockets of those jeans and pushed down, relishing the increased pressure. A husky whine preceded his asking, "Can we get rid of these, too?"
"Impatient," was all Lars said in reply, biting at the other man's bottom lip before returning to the kiss. Now he rocked his hips back and forth, against the hips that met his and against the hands cupping - and squeezing - his still-clothed asscheeks. He was rather glad to have been rendered shirtless, as he realised the humidity in the room was pretty stifling. Evidently the thunderstorms of the last day, and the one crackling over them at that moment, had done nothing to clear the air. Sweat had already begun to sheen his lithe body, and he arched as he broke the kiss, skin stretching taut as he looked down into dilated eyes, smug smirk twisting his moist lips.
His gaze tracked over rounded shoulders, taking in the close up sight of surprisingly muscular arms and scattered tattoos. The kid didn't seem particularly toned from a distance, and his torso was pretty skinny, but his arms were nice. Shame he couldn't say the same for their decorations. He skated his hands over inked skin, eyebrow quirked in almost undisguised amusement. "Nice tattoos," he murmured, still smirking. When his eyes fell upon one particular tattoo, italicised script that spelled out the name Adrienne, he couldn't help but snuff a quiet laugh.
He flattened himself against that skinny torso, smiling into a disarmingly sweet kiss, and began to slide his hand back down to slip past the waistband of the younger man's shorts. He moaned softly on grasping his target, and smiled. Curiosity continued to override the need for immediate gratification.
"Punk rock kid wants to fuck a metal megastar? Wonder if your mohawked friends would see you as a hero or a traitor."
Billie Joe tensed, hazel eyes flashing fire before he could control the instinctive snarl. He forced his body back into pliancy and drawled, "Who the fuck cares what they think? It don't matter." Don't even matter what you think. "I do what I want."
He couldn't completely disguise the edge in his voice; comments like that were salt on a still-fresh wound. The only people whose opinions mattered were Mike and Tré, and Adrienne. But for all that he loved her and had chased her for so long, that relationship - that marriage - was brand new and still so uncertain. So fucking scary, especially with her pregnant.
Billie pushed away the thoughts of his wife; she didn't belong here and she knew it. He also banished thoughts of Gilman, where those 'mohawked friends' still hung out. Where he'd once found a home and a philosophy and the music that had set him free only to be cast out for following his dreams.
Oh, yeah, they'd think he was a traitor. They already did. It didn't get much clearer than having a proclamation that you should die layered onto the graffitied walls of your former home.
Sharp green eyes told him that Lars had definitely noticed that he'd hit a button but Billie chose to ignore it, instead moving his hands to slip under the denim and grab skin, his fingers skating close to the middle in a deliberate tease as he massaged the double handful of drummer ass, his own hips lifting into the hand curled around his erection now that his attention was back where it should be, not on some fucking dickheads in his past.
His mouth, however, couldn't quite let it go and one corner lifted in a sneer as he queried, "What about you, huh? Condescending to fuck a guy like me just for kicks, for sheer variety? You said you hadn't figured me for a cocksucker but I'd've thought you'd have me on my knees and then out the door, just like a fucking 'rock star'."
Lars's eyebrows shot up, but the smile stayed in place, developed more of a smirk. His hands stilled, and he blinked, part incredulous and part amused. When the younger man's expression didn't change, that sneer disguising simmering anger and emblazoned with contempt, the drummer sat up and laughed a little. "'Rock star', huh?" Those hazel eyes narrowed slightly.
Oh my. Gotcha.
"You say 'rock star' to me like I'm going to deny the title. You say 'fucking rock star' like you, if you really are a musician, if you really did play on one of those stages today like you claimed, aren't one. Like you're never gonna be one." A pause, and he laughed again, clearly revelling in this. His smile became a shit-eating grin, and he lowered himself back down, one hand pushing into blue hair, the other beginning to lazily stroke the other man's erection. He continued to talk, pleased with himself that he'd found one of the brat's hang-ups.
"Yes, I fuck the chicks. I fuck the guys. And I don't condescend to anyone, because all of them, all of you, you're all the same. A dick to suck or a pussy to fuck when it's convenient, none of us have any illusions about that. I snort the coke, I fly in the private jets, I get driven around in limos, I drink until eight in the morning and pass out until it's time to play. I don't need any of this shit to survive, but you have no idea how much fun it is to just enjoy it. You're goddamn fucking right I'm a rock star, and I love it."
He dipped his head to mouth roughly at a pale neck, the hand hidden behind cotton shorts moving faster. Now he was rasping his words directly into a pierced ear. "If you are what you say you are, then the second you stepped onto that stage today, the second you step into an arena on your first headlining tour, the second you lay down the first notes for your big major label album in a fancy studio, and the second, the fuckin' second you sign your name on that five album contract, you, by default and to some degree, become a rock star."
His gaze slid away for a moment or two, not that the other man would see, thoughts of a leonine frontman flitting into his head. The smile faltered briefly. "You'd better fucking learn to live with that fact before it starts tearing at you," he murmured.
The coil in Billie Joe's belly had grown tighter and tighter with every truth the older man uttered. He could admit, in the privacy of his own mind, that it was truth. That the decision Green Day had made to sign to Reprise had caused exactly that tidal shift, and that they had no one but themselves to blame for it. They might not have realised just how high the final cost would be but ignorance was no excuse and Billie really couldn't say whether he would have chosen this route anyway had he known. There were too many 'what ifs' in that equation.
Someday, Lars's last remark about learning to live with it might cool him off - might bring on an adult rationality about the situation, even a grudging acknowledgment that he was right.
Not today.
Lust, fury, shame: they roared in his bloodstream from the rough touch and the harsher words. Billie shoved hard against the drummer's chest, using the leverage from his startled backwards motion to wriggle out from underneath and flip them over, landing with his knees astride a prominent ribcage. He stared down into green eyes, his own burning as he got rid of his shorts.
"You said something about the convenience of a dick to suck. Dunno if that still applies if we're equals and all but I've got one right here for ya, nice and easy going down." He wasn't massively endowed or anything; he knew it; didn't care. Most times the things he could do to his lover with his mouth made up for his cock not looking like a porn star's and Billie got off just fine so who really cared? At least he didn't choke the guys who went down on him.
The challenge in those hazels wondered if Lars would be one of them.
The grin on Lars's face momentarily disappeared when he was shoved back, if only from the flash of panic that he might topple backwards and crack his head on the coffee table. But then he was flat on his back with a pissed off punk rock boy looming over him, and the grin was right back in place. The fire radiating from hazel eyes was reflected straight back at them, utterly fearless.
"Any diseases I should know about? Oh wait, I forgot, you don't do that sort of thing, do you? You're not a rock star," he taunted gleefully. He squirmed back a little, enough to prop himself up on his elbows. "You're sweetness and fucking light, right?"
Any further words he might have formulated were dashed when there was a knock at the door. Not breaking away from the younger man's gaze, he called out. "Busy, come back later!" A pause, and the knock came a second time, causing his grin to vanish again. He looked towards the door. "Fuck off!" he barked. When the knock came a third time, he angrily squirmed out of the grasp of pale thighs and vaulted over the back of the couch. "Fuckin' ruin the moment," he muttered, stalking over to the door.
The vibrant green glare that greeted the young polo-shirted man, hunched underneath a large umbrella, was enough to make him falter. "Um, sorry, I, Mr…Lars Ulrich? I-I was told it was urgent, so-"
"What?"
"Uh, I have your bag here, the, uh, the crew have just arrived onsite, and um, we're having an auction later today, all the money's, uh, gonna go to charity," he held up a sheet of paper with various charity logos and garish type, proclaiming to save the rainforest, stop the bombs and all kinds of shit. "Could you, um, maybe sign-"
Lars snatched the drum head away from him before he'd even offered it. "Sure, sure, sure," he muttered, leaning against the doorframe as he took a Sharpie and obliged. He caught the spiky-haired youth stealing a glance into his dressing room, eyes shooting down to intently inspect the sheet of paper a second later. Lars smirked and handed the items back, taking his leather shoulder bag.
"Alright, is there anything else? Fuck, it's wet out there, you wanna join us?" He leaned back, giving him a better view of the other occupant. "You wanna join in?"
The young man's eyes went like saucers before Lars shut the door in his face. He swaggered back towards the couch, snickering to himself, unbuttoning his fly. "So, you want me to suck you off?" he asked rhetorically. His hands went to his hips, slowly pushing down those jeans, eyes glittering. "Or is it that you wanna fuck my mouth, kid?"
Then he too was naked in the stifling warmth, crawling on hands and knees across the length of the couch, the ridge of his spine shining with sweat in the artificial light. He wrapped a hand around the younger man's erection, the other hand coming up to slide two fingers past wetted lips. They withdrew, coated in saliva, and in the next moment he stiffened and exhaled sharply as he began to push those fingers into his ass. He huffed a little laugh, green colliding with hazel again before he finally took that cock into his mouth.
Billie arched into the wet heat, the feel of those lips sliding over his erection going a long way towards relaxing him - or at least, transforming the rage into a different sort of tension altogether. The brief glimpse of Lars fingering himself didn't hurt, either, though it did prompt more taunting.
"Wouldn't've thought a rock star would do his own prep work. Don't you have people for that?"
The nails digging into his thigh served as a reply and he laughed, reaching down to gather handfuls of hair. The loose bits tickled his legs and abdomen as Lars's head began to bob. Billie didn't fight the moan that clawed out of his throat; he let it sound clearly in the warm room, gifting the older man with an honest reaction to the brilliant sensation cascading through his body from that mouth working on him.
His head fell back, pressing hard against the arm rest as his feet planted more firmly and he thrust up into the tight seal and suction of Danish lips, the action falling somewhere in between the options Lars had presented. His fists tightened, tugging on luxuriously long hair, using it as additional leverage to keep the rhythm of his hips steady, allowing himself to let go and sink into the pleasure. Pleasure for pleasure's sake; it seemed to be Lars's guiding principle and Billie didn't want to resist it any longer. It felt too good.
Still, he offered a snide remark anyway. Just because his young body was well on its way to orgasm number one didn't magically dissolve all his attitude.
"Better hope that guy's the type to keep shit to himself. I didn't exactly make myself inconspicuous today and I dunno if you want it getting out that Metallica has a very experienced cocksucker for a drummer."
The hummed laugh transformed into a moan as Lars curled his invading fingers just right, eliciting a further moan, almost an echo, from the younger man. He swung between mild annoyance at having his hair pulled, smugness at the increasing bonelessness his mouth was inducing and at being referred to as 'a very experienced cocksucker' - he most definitely took that as a compliment - and burgeoning arousal at the press against his tongue and the penetration of his own fingers.
Not wanting to delay any pleasure to explain himself, the drummer arched, his lips and his hand picking up speed. Fire rolled up his spine in waves, licking at his brain, body feeling hot and mind feeling fuzzy as the moans from the man beneath him began to grow in frequency. It didn't take his skillful lips very much longer to have that man giving a guttural cry and clutching at his head, to have heat hit the back of his tongue and to cough a little. Once the younger man sagged, fingers untwisting from his hair, Lars sat up and spat onto the floor, wiping his mouth with the heel of his hand.
"Some people I'll swallow for. You're not one of 'em," he said, voice rough from the pleasure still thrumming through his system. He withdrew his fingers with a minor grimace. "Not that you care, I'm sure."
A few moments to compose himself, and he pushed the hair out of his eyes, reaching to his bag for a bottle of water.
"Personally, I don't give a shit who knows what. I'm pretty fuckin' tired of the veil of secrecy - I'm sure you've guessed by now that I'm not ashamed of who I am or what I choose to do, and the hush-hush thing does not work for me." He paused to swig from his water. Fuck, it was airless in there. "So I could fuckin' care less what that kid says, no more than I'd care if you went and blabbed. But the record company, the management? The rest of the band? Different fuckin' story."
He couldn't hide the irritation in his tone. Alright, so maybe he didn't want the world to know he was a slut exactly, but he was very rich thanks to hard fucking work, he enjoyed drinking and some recreational drugs, and there were plenty of groupies. Where was the harm in being honest? Fuck.
Lars's tone registered before the actual words seeped into Billie's slightly addled brain. He dragged himself upright, sitting beside the drummer and reaching a hand out. "Mind if I have some?" He swallowed a gulp of the tepid water and gave it back.
His fingers traced random swirls through the soft hair on the older man's thigh. He didn't care about the spitting; fuck, most did these days, what with the world buying a clue that sex could be damaging to your health. His own uncle had died of AIDS, after all, and Billie Joe was very fucking careful as a result.
Though swallowing come was one of the only higher-risk behaviours he allowed himself. Something of a fetish of his, pretty much the only one, so far as he knew. Not that he was about to explicitly say so.
"I don't much care if he says anything, either. Less of an issue for my band and everybody fucking knows I'm bi. Thought I'd warn you, though."
He slid closer, those fingers dancing onto sensitive inner thighs as Billie leaned in and kissed Lars. "Want me to return the favour? Or we could make out for a bit and then I could fuck you." His tongue explored the Dane's mouth, licking at the traces of salt musk. "Mmm, or both. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm easy."
A bright smile chased that comment, devoid of attitude for once, and it made him look far younger than his twenty-two years. He stroked long hair away from high cheekbones and a pert nose. "Whatever you got the time for."
Lars narrowed his eyes a little, noticeably blindsided by the change in demeanour. It was enough to make him suspicious. Alright, I'm good, but I'm not that good.
Callused hands skated further up his inner thighs, and his legs spread wider automatically, accompanied by a little exhale. Electricity crackled under his skin, not intolerable yet, but a few more intimate touches and he'd be squirming for release. He sank into more kisses, the other man arching pliantly against him as Danish fingers slid down to the small of his back.
This all might be a cover. He might try and bite your dick off for what you said earlier.
He looked into hazel eyes, tried to see a hidden agenda, tried to see that firecracker attitude that had been present until his mouth had done its work. Maybe I am that good.
"So you do know how to act like a groupie," he surmised slowly. "You just choose not to." His frown deepened slightly, then he shook his head, pulling himself back to that mouth. "Whatever," he muttered before lips met his own. These kisses still weren't rough, not violent or desperate at all; in fact, Lars rarely subjected himself to such kisses. You couldn't savour anything if you were nursing a busted lip, he reasoned. No, he was much more for lazy hedonism most of the time.
Fleetingly he checked his watch as he took another swig of water. It was really doing fuck all to cool him down, but the motion was automatic, as it would have been if he'd had vodka or Jägermeister. "I've got plenty of time, don't you worry about that. And I take it you haven't got any 'famous musician' duties to attend to." His breath hitched as a hand grazed over his neglected cock, and sparks went off in green eyes. "M'not gonna last too long if you get to the fucking soon."
The bottle was set down on the floor, and hands went to tattooed biceps as he lay back and pulled the younger man on top of him. He stole another kiss, arching away from the couch.
"Blow me, fellow rock star," he rasped against full lips.
( to chapter 2)
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