Groupies Ain't What They Used to Be, chapter 2
Title: Groupies Ain't What They Used to Be, chapter 2 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
( Part 1)
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"So one minute I'm a groupie and the next I'm a rock star? Which one is it, Lars? Or do you even care so long as it still feels good?" Billie's voice was a sibilant whisper against skin, welling up with cynical amusement. He'd had his 'little death' moment and now his brain had reconnected thanks to the older man's continued talking, orienting him back towards inhabiting his body. Release hit him deeper than most, leaving him all but defenceless; fortunately, most times his bedpartner was also trying to catch a breath and didn't notice, not if it was a casual encounter. More than once, well, that had the potential to become more complicated. But he wasn't going to worry about it.
He kissed his way down the Dane's torso, soft nibbles along slick skin, until he reached the proud erection and pulled back the foreskin to lick at the ultra sensitive spot he'd exposed, gaze hot and locked on green.
"Does it make me a rock star to take what I want for the simple reason that I want it?"
Billie curled his tongue around the cockhead and then drew it across to catch the pre-come. His eyes hooded in unconcealed pleasure as he licked lips swollen and shining, not fully aware of the sultry picture he made or how husky he sounded. "You taste good."
Adjusting his grip a bit, he swallowed Lars down.
The drummer took a deep breath and held it as lips skittered down his body, heat blossoming over his skin from each touch, spine holding that arch. He released the breath in a sigh, lips curving into a lazy smirk while he watched a clever tongue tease and lick at his cock. It was quite a sight.
Does it make me a rock star to take what I want for the simple reason that I want it?
"You're getting the hang of it," he acknowledged, voice low and thick, the end of his words bleeding into a long moan when that smart mouth dropped down to envelop his erection. Inwardly he chuckled at the fact that, now the younger man's mouth was otherwise engaged, he couldn't backtalk him.
Most thoughts washed away as he let himself dissolve into the bright arousal singing through his veins. His legs spread further, fingers digging into the couch, a series of breathy moans flooding unhindered past his parted lips. He wouldn't deny the pleasure this was giving him by silencing himself; he was a very vocal lover, and if he felt good, then the other person was damn well going to know about it. He wasn't doing this for headgames bullshit: he was doing it because he wanted to get off, if that wasn't already abundantly clear.
He grazed a palm through that blue buzzcut, fingers settling around the back of the younger man's neck and rubbing at the muscles as that head bobbed in sinful rhythm. He managed one more sly comment, still watching the slide of full lips over his cock with hazed green eyes, before sensation spiralled too high for him to form words.
"I'm not the only experienced cocksucker in the room."
Billie snorted a laugh, all he could manage by way of verbal response right now. No, you're not. His favourite thing to do with his hands and mouth was make music - this came in as a not-too-distant second. He loved the feel of skin stretched taut with arousal sliding against the inner surface of his cheeks, the roof of his mouth; the pressure against the root of his tongue and in his throat as he pushed down as far as he could, bitterness dribbling across his taste buds.
Tré teased him about being a cock worshipper and Billie Joe didn't deny it. He couldn't say exactly why it appealed to him so strongly, although the increasingly frantic moans bleeding from the man squirming under his attention, hips moving in a jerky rhythm, fingers digging in to the back of Billie's neck, certainly formed a large part of the picture. But it was more than just his bedpartner's pleasure. Something about the feel and taste and sounds - the visceral intimacy of it - brought him a deep satisfaction that had his throat vibrating with excited noise and his own hips circling, grinding against the couch.
He glanced up at Lars, finding green eyes shut tight as the drummer breathed heavily. Good. It was better when he could simply concentrate on what he was doing and not have to worry about someone watching him. Hazels followed suit, long lashes resting on flushed cheeks as they hollowed out and his fingers caressed Lars's balls, rolling the sacs gently, leaving no part of the sensitive flesh untouched as Billie's focus narrowed to his provision of this intense stimulation.
"Fuck," Lars breathed to the ceiling. Fuck! The word came again, in his head this time, and his thigh muscles flexed and his hips lifted in a counter rhythm to that word rolling staccato through his mind. Thunder crackled overhead, almost drowning out his gasped breaths and hoarse moans, and his heels could gain no purchase on the leather couch, now slippery with his sweat. Briefly, he managed to crack open his eyes and see those hollow, heated cheeks and grinding hips, the hard flex of the younger man's asscheeks as he rocked against the wet slide of the leather. Lars squirmed at the sight, writhing at the double hit of shattering pleasure, head rolling back against the arm rest and body arching taut like a bowstring. He moaned loud in appreciation. Fuck, fuck!
Wicked fingers massaged his balls, rubbed along his perineum and over his asshole, and Lars gasped, a high 'ah!' bursting from his throat at the extra bit of sensation. It proved to be exactly what he needed; a few more moments, a few more swallows against his cockhead and he was fucking soaring.
He came hard, ass lifting clean away from the couch as he spilled himself into that masterful mouth with a sharp cry. To the younger man's further credit, his head continued to bob, working furiously through Lars's orgasm even as the older man bucked and thrust into his mouth, riding it out until the last drop.
Once his body settled, temporarily spent, Lars squirmed a little more on the couch, smiling wide, and he actually laughed a little. "Mmm," he hummed appreciatively, pushing away the damp strands of hair that were clinging to his face before tucking his hand behind his head and looking at the younger man, lips halfway between a smirk and a genuine smile. "That was very good. Better than most chicks." He took a deep breath, letting it out with another satisfied hum. "I guess this is the part where I should want a cigarette, huh?"
He licked his lips, tasting the tang of sweat as he noted the glowing heat in hazel eyes, the small smear of come at the corner of reddened lips. The drummer sat up, leaning forward and licking away the white smudge with a filthy chuckle.
"You know where I might've been, and you swallow?" Lars snorted, and it would have been derisory were it not for the fact that he was actually impressed. His hand came up to snake around the back of the younger man's head, fingertips massaging his scalp before moving closer and bringing their lips together. He smiled into the kiss. This kid was really good.
Billie kissed back readily, a little more demanding than their previous kisses. Desire thrummed through him and he felt kind of drunk, really, as though what had just gone down his throat had been pure alcohol. His palms flattened on the drummer's thighs as he moaned against Danish lips.
He liked the older man's unfettered reactions. Just natural, not forced, no bullshit. 'If it feels good, do it.' And it did - it felt damned good.
Billie Joe inched forward, snaking his arms around Lars to press their chests together. The slide of naked skin, sweaty and gleaming in the poor light; the taste heavy in his mouth; the sound of thunder overhead made his senses spin, light-headed and living for the moment.
His erection poked a sharp hipbone. The scent of sex and leather assaulted him, adding to the wanting shooting through his bloodstream to elicit a whimper. Billie pulled back a fraction, hazels hugely dilated as he asked, "Do you have anything? I might swallow but I don't fuck without a rubber."
"If you did, I'd think you really were stupid," Lars drawled, licking at the other man's swollen bottom lip before claiming another deep kiss, hand sliding down to the small of his back. He was pleased at the needy sounds bleeding from the mouth pressed tight against his, and he moaned in reply, his skin and senses already reawakening to the experienced touch of this young man. He broke away from the kiss and pulled back. "Alright, get offa me so we can get to the best part."
He reached back and grasped the battered leather bag, fishing into one of the side pockets and pulling out his wallet, handing over the small silver square and continued to dig through the bag. "They usually come prepared," he muttered. "So I don't think I have any lube in here. Fuck it."
He took a tattooed hand to encourage the younger man around to face the table, and noticed, for the first time, the wedding band on one of the fingers. A second's pause was all the indication he gave that he'd spotted it; he didn't make a snide comment on it, didn't even give a knowing smirk. He'd fucked enough married women to dismiss the sight of a ring. Sometimes husbands would come looking for him the next time Metallica hit town; sometimes the women would come looking for him to tell him the one night stand had been enough to give them the courage to get out of a shitty marriage. It took all sorts, evidently. This was the first time a married man had come to him for sex, though. Huh. Maybe this one would be even more memorable than he'd initially thought.
Another flick of the hair, and Lars slid onto the younger man's lap, a mirror of their make out session earlier - he was a fan of this position, it had to be said. His voice emerged as a silken purr.
"You ready to fuck Lars Ulrich, kid?"
The condom had already been rolled down over the other man's heavy cock, and Lars arched against him, encouraging him to lean back while he grasped that erection with a sweat-slicked palm and pushed himself down, teeth setting into his bottom lip as he felt himself begin to stretch. Slowly, slowly, reedy little moans flitting from his lips, he sank down until his thighs clasped tattooed hips. Grinning, green eyes heavy lidded and dilating, he draped his arms around the shoulders beneath him and began to undulate his body.
Billie's head thunked onto the back of the couch as Lars worked his erection into his body, so slowly Billie Joe thought he might come by the time the Dane finally sat flush with his hips. And then Lars began to move.
A keening cry whipped out and Billie reached for that teasing ass with both hands, gripping and spreading the curved flesh that clearly had a similar level of acquaintance with dick as the addictive mouth did, to take him with only the lube from the condom. He shuddered as he thrust up into Lars, meeting and matching his rhythm as an incredulous grin bloomed over his face.
A low laugh preceded the messy crush of lips and tongues and Billie murmured, "Fuck yes, I'm ready. I would've been prepared, too, if I'd had any idea you'd be into this." He smirked, pausing the flow of words to voice heated approval, fire licking through him with every fluid motion driving his cock deep, muscles clenching around him in spiking pleasure.
"So this is what it's like to fuck a rock star, huh? Gotta say, Lars, you're really fucking tight, dude. You feel fantastic."
He pressed another kiss to that smiling mouth, fingers tightening on the older man's ass. Billie didn't actually think less of the drummer for sleeping around (he didn't have a lot of room to talk there), just for the way he saw it as using - as perverting - fan worship by taking advantage of people that looked up to him because of Metallica's music, making it personal. Making it sexual, and making it take them places they might not have wanted to go if they hadn't had stars in their eyes.
His own eyes glittered with lust and dark amusement and his tongue was as wayward as ever. "Guess I got here first today."
"Seems so," Lars concurred, rubbing a thumb over a pebble-hard nipple. "Probably first and last, at least until after the show. Gotta keep my strength up, and this is lasting longer than usual." He paused and laughed throatily. "Just like you said, on their knees and out the door, normally."
Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration. Dependant on a lot of things - his mood, how much time he had to spare, the person, the location - sometimes, yeah, he'd be civil enough to buy the person a drink, stick around for a while and talk. He wasn't a total asshole, and he kept the balance right so it was made clear that there was no chance of a relationship blossoming. Most of the time, though, the people that wanted inside his jeans? Giggly airhead chicks or arrogant pricks, neither of which he wanted to waste good time or money on, however much he had.
The people that put themselves in those positions were responsible for their actions. What happened to them and whether misguided feelings got thrown into the mix was their own fuckin' business and their own fuckin' stupidity. It wasn't like he ever pressured anyone into anything - hell, if anything, sometimes it was the other way around. He also wasn't stupid enough to fuck chicks or guys that were jailbait, or at least were jailbait and starry-eyed. Those were walking lawsuits, right there. This one, this smartmouthed punk rock brat might be jailbait, he had no idea, but he sure as fuck didn't seem starry-eyed. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, and that was good enough for Lars.
He felt another swell of smugness at the compliments. "Y'don't feel so bad yourself, fuck." His head rolled back, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, shoulder muscles flexing as he pressed his palms against the younger man's shoulder blades and bent his head for another sloppy kiss. The hands tight on his ass brought his hips into an odd swinging motion, wanting to feel the hard thrust of the cock inside him - fandens, the kid knew how to hit his sweet spot just right - and the hard squeeze of callused fingers around his asscheeks. Fuck, he really liked that, it sent a jolt of pleasure right through him.
"I'm actually pretty glad you came after me today," he admitted, and smirked. "You got your priorities straight, anyhow." Another shock of pleasure flashed through him, enough for him to cry out almost in surprise, and one of his hands fumbled back to clasp one of the ones on his ass, making it squeeze harder, eyes slipping shut. "Fuck, that's…right there…"
Billie Joe's grin widened at the older man's obvious pleasure. Fuck, just that they were both doing this for the sheer fact that it felt good, no bones about it, made him a little giddy; never mind that Lars thought he was some kind of fanboy, it didn't matter. Or the giddiness could be due to the drugging level of arousal that made all the tiny hairs on his body stand up, electrified.
He shifted his hands slightly on Lars's asscheeks, getting a more secure grip, and then spread the drummer as wide open as he could, fingers digging in deep enough to leave nail marks. He changed the angle not at all, his smirk displaying no small amount of smugness as Lars gasped at the increased pressure exactly where he'd said he wanted it. Billie continued to thrust up as best as he could even as Lars's hips rolled down into his.
"You want it good and hard, yeah? I can do that," he rasped, capturing a swollen mouth for a rough kiss. "But you gotta do for yourself, rock star, 'cause I ain't got another hand."
Billie's gaze dropped, raking hot across Danish skin as Lars did just that, the drummer's fingers curling around his own renewed erection and beginning to pump in time with their thrusts.
Lars was by now gasping for breath, the heavy air and wonderful exertion working in tandem to steal every drop of oxygen in his lungs. He felt the lingering sting of nails that had bitten into his skin, the fierce stretch of that skin as he was spread open, and pleasure whipped through him, hot and vicious. His own nails returned the favour, free hand tightly gripping the younger man's shoulder to keep his balance as their hips crashed together. Swollen lips were wide, sucking in as much air as possible and releasing it with raw moans and almost-wails sent to the ceiling.
"Oh, fuck me, fuck me," he managed to get out, hoarse as hell. Fuck him, he felt like he was fucking glowing.
Green eyes finally prised themselves open, closed as they had been while he'd had lost himself in the hard clutch of tattooed hands, and he looked back down to his now so very welcome intruder. The smug grin Lars found himself wearing most of the time during these situations was painted all over the brat's face, and the Dane couldn't help but smirk in response. He also couldn't help but think that it was a refreshing change to be fucking someone - who, admittedly, fucked very well indeed - who wasn't dazzled by his mere presence, who wasn't even remotely in awe of him. Or if he was, he was doing a damn fine job of hiding it. Either way, Lars had a certain amount of respect for him for that.
The smirk vanished from his face as the young man's cock thudded into his sweet spot, two, three, four times in rapid succession, and Lars thought he might break into pieces right then and there from the sheer assault of it. It was aggressive, it roared with intent: I'm gonna make you scream when you come. Shock flitted for the barest millisecond through his eyes, and then it was gone, he was gone, diving into that moment headfirst. I'm gonna scream when you make me come.
He jerked himself off with renewed energy, and as heat began to build fast from the pit of his stomach he bent to press his forehead against the younger man's, damp hair draping messily over both of them, lips hovering just over another pair, still wide open. His moans spiralled higher, louder, and he gave them all to that smart mouth.
Billie didn't think he'd ever concentrated quite this intently on his lover's reactions, but then, his usual sexual interactions weren't anywhere near this complicated. Right now, that slight detachment, that other-than-self focus, gave him some breathing space. Because he'd be damned if he were going to come before Lars Ulrich did.
He watched the drummer stroke himself, dizzy and breathless from everything that had happened today. Billie's moans entwined with the higher-pitched ones and he began murmuring encouragement, filthy words mingling with the stifling air in shocking ease.
"That's it, yeah…right like that. You're a drummer; I know you can feel my cock in your ass, feel it fucking splitting you in half - jerk off to that, Lars. Every time I fuck into you I wanna see that fist pump; wanna see a chain reaction as you fuck your hand and your dick leaks pre-come, getting ready…"
Billie crushed his mouth to Lars's, not even the frantic tangle of tongues silencing either of them. There was an incredible surge in his blood knowing that while his own identity might or might not become known, it would be blindingly obvious to anyone in the near vicinity what the Metallica musician was up to. The moans and gasps, the sharp little cries grew increasingly louder and when the inevitable finally happened, it was gonna be deafening.
Molten heat shone from hazels as Billie Joe broke the kiss but dipped right back in for one last lick against full lips. Dazzled green eyes met his and he grinned, lust and devilment and something almost implacable in his gaze.
"Let me see you come."
Something snaked down Lars's spine, and it wasn't cold but the sensation was in contrast to the heat he was swathed in. It was electric, it was needles, it was something, and it came as utter filth spilled from the other man's lips. Filth that made him tremble with lust.
His hips snapped in perfect rhythm with his own hand and the hard thrust of that cock, and his mind went kick-cymbal-tom, kick-cymbal-tom, a rapidfire drumbeat that his addled mind was sure it knew from one of their songs. Does your mom know you talk like that, boy? offered his mind again, but it was gone in a heartbeat before it could pass his lips, washed clean away by pleasure that, judging by the way his body continued to shake, was just beginning to overwhelm him.
He didn't care who came first; he didn't care if this kid came at all. As long as he got off, that was what was important. And fuck, he was really gonna get off.
His thighs burned, his body burned, the heat of it all threatened to overtake his consciousness, and then it didn't matter because he was screaming, really screaming, the sound raw and tearing and poured right into the younger man's mouth as he came.
A rush of exultation swept through Billie with that scream, the pure satisfaction of it strong enough to trigger his orgasm. He panted against still-vibrating lips, body spasming, an irrepressible grin stealing over his face. Take that, rock star.
Distantly he wondered if security would come running at the noise or if Lars's 'people' knew better. Billie Joe still didn't give a shit if someone found out.
Their rhythm slowed to a halt and when the older man unclenched his fist from around his softening cock, hand a sticky mess, Billie took hold of his wrist and brought it to his mouth, eyes glittering.
"Let me." Context and echo gave the lie to the innocence of the phrase as he extended his tongue and delicately began to lick.
Lars watched that sight with still hazed eyes, chest heaving as he slowly brought his breathing back under control. After some long moments of just silently watching, nothing more, a weak smirk finally arrived on his lips. He pushed a hand through that blue buzzcut, almost petting the filthy little creature that was methodically licking off every spot, every smear of come from his hand. So careful, so…determined, almost. Like every drop was his and his alone. Fuck, if Lars hadn't just wrung himself absolutely dry, that thought and that sight probably would've made his cock twitch. He was half inclined to join in with the clean up, more than half inclined, because the kid just made it look so fucking enjoyable, so pleasant and innocent and wrong. The only reason he didn't was because, fuck, he couldn't tear his eyes away long enough. He splayed his fingers, allowing that clever tongue to flex and lick between them.
Once the young man was done, hazel eyes fluttered and raised to meet his. Lars smirked wider, approving almost to the point of awe.
"Dirty fucking punk," he murmured, voice like sandpaper on silk, before bending his head and capturing a slow kiss. Once he broke away, he felt it only fair to give his verdict. "That was real good. Top seven, at least."
With that, he lifted himself up on slightly trembling legs - fucking hell, whatta workout - and winced only briefly as the cock slipped out of him. S'gonna be fun sitting on that drum stool tonight, he thought wryly, as tepid water called to him and he flopped over onto his back next to the other man. He figured with how hot he was it might actually feel cold, but even as the bottle touched his lips he grimaced. Wrong. He gulped down a couple of mouthfuls, if only to rehydrate. "Fuck, you'd think, what with the fucking ticket prices, that they'd be able to afford a fucking cooler or two in this place, huh?"
He looked over to the younger man, surprised into silence when he saw something entirely different in his eyes. Gone was the 'fuck you' glint, the fearlessness. Lars looked away again, giving a little sigh, a little eye roll. God-fucking-dammit, maybe all that was a front. He passed the water over.
"Hope I didn't fuckin' peg you wrong, kid," he said quietly. "I thought you were smart, not getting invested in this shit, y'know?" Pushing sweat drenched hair out of his eyes, he looked back to hazel. "You alright?"
"Invested? In what, this?" Billie gestured to both of them. "Not." Reflexive snark that didn't have its usual bite but got the message across nonetheless. He took a long pull at the water bottle; it diluted the taste in his mouth. Disappointing on some level but the moment was gone and that amount of exercise in this kind of heat had made him thirsty.
He leaned back into the couch, letting his whole body relax against the leather, and glanced at Lars. A hint of concern showed in those green eyes. Huh. Billie smiled slightly. He didn't mind using me when he figured I was using him back but looks like it might actually bother him if I were one of those hero-worshipping kids. Who'd've thunk it?
"S'not personal, just…gimme a minute, is all." He needed a little more time to come back to himself, especially after a wild ride like that. Fuck, that had been good. And all the better for being so fucking unexpected. He dismissed the rating, flattering as it was. Sex was one area where Billie Joe's only competition was himself - if he were to sleep with Lars again, then a rating might mean something, but as it stood that luscious scream had already told him everything he needed to know about how the Dane had enjoyed the experience.
Billie stretched, mind settling into his skin. The fact that he was still here came as a bit of a surprise; he'd kind of figured that he'd be discarded right after the condom. Instead the two of them sprawled on the sweaty leather couch and passed the bottle of water back and forth almost absently until Lars threw it on the floor, empty.
He scrubbed his hands over his face and groaned. "By the way, this, this moment right here? This is when you should really, really want a fucking smoke." They both laughed and Billie continued, good-humoured sass flavouring his complaint, "'Cept I've already sucked and fucked and I still don't got any cigarettes!"
"Unless you wanna bum a cigar offa Kirk when he gets here - fuck knows why he's picked that habit up - I don't have any suggestions for you," Lars replied, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. He was quietly relieved that the kid hadn't turned out to be one of those wide-eyed worshippers - briefly he'd had visions of him becoming a fawning, clingy pain in the ass before being turfed out of here as naked as the day he was born. It would have tainted what had been a wonderful experience, an uncomplicated fuck that he'd been so certain was an uncomplicated fuck, and that would've been a massive piss off.
Thankfully, the younger man had just been temporarily wiped. And Lars couldn't help but feel pretty smug about that.
He cast a sideways glance at the other man, then slid over towards him, slipping a hand around the back of his neck and initiating another indulgent kiss. No particular reason, not as a lead in to more sex; to be honest he didn't have the time - he'd need a shower (though fuck knows where anything approaching one of those would be at this mudbath, but there had to be something, fuck) and maybe even a nap before showtime, then there was that fucking paperwork still waiting for him. Nah, this time he just wanted to make out for a little bit. The kid kissed good and tasted nice.
As they kissed, the lazy twine of tongues leaving a pleasant buzz in his system, he felt a tattooed hand thread fingers into his hair, and it made him remember that wedding band again. Ordinarily, since he'd now gotten exactly what he wanted out of the other man, he'd bring it up, persist in picking at him about infidelity and loyalty until he was choking on his rage; if only for the sight of his beet-red face clashing with that shock of blue hair as he was dragged off by security. Okay, maybe not that dramatic, but shit, he'd've liked to have a little fun.
Alas, as he discovered on peeking at his watch midway through their make out, he really, really didn't have the fucking time.
"Doesn't seem like you're the type to outstay your welcome. Fuck, if only all of you were like that," Lars commented, raising his eyes to the heavens briefly, before sinking back into the kiss.
I bet. Billie's mental tone was acidic but he let the retort stay in his head for once and simply returned the kiss, taking a pure enjoyment in it. When the Dane finally drew back, Billie Joe smirked.
"I'd say I hate to fuck and run, but I'm not gonna outright lie to you." Just let you keep believing your little illusions is all. He stood up, running his hands through his short hair to spike it up as best as he could, and bent to retrieve his boxers. The older man's leather bag caught his eye; entangled in its strap was a white plastic carrier bag emblazoned with the Woodstock logo. Probably stuffed full of promo junk - in fact, Billie probably had one waiting for him somewhere.
He straightened and offered a wide grin. "In lieu of that cigarette, I don't suppose you have an old T-shirt or something I could steal? I'd rather not get arrested for indecency if I don't have to." Assuming, of course, someone wasn't already looking for him for that for having dropped his pants on national television. International television? He couldn't remember.
Lars waited as the younger man picked up his underwear, taking in the view with no small pleasure, and stood himself, meandering over to his discarded shorts and jeans. "Hm? Shirt?"
Nice to see he's not totally dissimilar from all groupie-kind, he thought with amusement. Fuck, get a few mementos, and run.
Squinting in thought as he tugged his jeans back on, inspiration struck him suddenly, and he couldn't hide the complacent smirk that blossomed on his face. He buttoned his fly and went to his bag, detaching the plastic one with a degree of annoyance - more shit he didn't need - and unzipping the main compartment. "A shirt, lemme see here, um…will this be okay?"
A balled up white T-shirt was then flung in the other man's direction, and as it met his chest, Lars straightened, twirling a Sharpie between his fingers and grinning, voice ringing gleeful with all kinds of barbs. "Who should I make the autograph out to, huh? It's a big shirt, I could sign it where it hangs right over your dick. 'To the Punk Rock Star, Lars was here', maybe, really top off your souvenir?" The grin only became wider as the shirt was unravelled.
Like it wasn't his style to throw the kid a Metallica - no, wait, Metallistock - shirt. Their own Scary Guy all bedecked in a peace sign necklace, daisies and, most importantly, dollar signs, underscored by the legend HIPPIE SHIT: BEADS & PEACE. Hey, at least it wasn't black for a change.
Billie's eyebrows shot up as he shook out the T-shirt and saw the logo. What the fuck? A closer look made him grin - he could appreciate the sentiments that had gone into the design.
Slipping it over his head, he looked down and started to laugh. 'Big' wasn't the word: it was long enough to extend past the bottom edge of his shorts and hung like a fucking dress on his thin frame. "Jesus Christ, like I needed any help looking underage."
He glanced up as Lars approached, Sharpie held aloft with a gleefully malicious grin. Billie Joe matched it. He grasped the drummer's upraised hand, holding it away from them both, and his other slid into tangled long hair as he leaned in and kissed Lars, an aggressive yet easy last taste.
When he moved back, Billie let the backs of his fingers glide along one Danish cheekbone and he smiled, wide and honest.
"Thanks. You're nothing like I would've expected. I like that." Billie's hands dropped and he went to the door, flashing another smile. "Break a leg tonight."
Then he was gone.
"I just fucking might, with all that mud out there," Lars called to the closed door. He heard no response and shrugged, skritching at the skin of his cheek where the young man's fingers had grazed, then rubbed at it with the back of his hand. Dammit, he wanted to get the last shot in. Fuck, it was no matter, not like he was ever likely to see the kid again. More's the pity, came a lustful little voice in the back of his head as he licked his lips.
He padded over to the sink and splashed some water on his face, wondering where there might be something resembling a shower near the site and cursing under his breath in his native tongue at the filthy towel. Fucking kid. Nothing like he would've expected, and he likes that? The fuck is that supposed to mean? He likes surprises, or what? Does he- His thought process stopped as he noticed that his palms seemed a little discoloured. Angling them towards the light, it appeared that blue dye from the other man's hair had rubbed off a bit on his hands thanks to all the sweating they'd been doing. The Dane curled his lip, scowling. "Fucking kid."
The dye was stubborn under nothing but water, and he didn't want to touch the shitty soap - which was also filthy, for fuck's sake - so he stalked back over to his bag, kneeling on the floor and searching through for the moist towelettes from their plane. As he did so, he eyed the plastic bag he'd shoved aside before, one of those promotional bags with a load of shit he didn't want inside. Wonder if they put official Woodstock Wet Wipes in there.
Somewhat surprisingly, it turned out that they didn't, but as Lars sat back on his haunches and scrubbed at his hands with the wipes he'd recovered from his bag, he pulled over that Woodstock bag and peered into it. Tissues, breath mints, VIP passes to some clubs in New York City, a can of Pepsi, a pen…an envelope. Containing a set of postcards, he discovered, with a photo of one of the bands performing on the front of each one, and a mini bio on the back. Once his hands were clean, he flicked through them, providing a running commentary to himself as he did so.
"The weird-ass line up…Cypress Hill? I like the diversity, but isn't this supposed to be Woodstock? Like, Woodstock? Feels more like just another Lollapalooza with a few of the old guard thrown in for good measure. Wonder if they used one of Ross's shots for us. Least they didn't get Kiss back together for this, that would've been beyond-"
What, exactly, made him stop in his verbal tracks? A postcard with what appeared to be his fuckbuddy's face on it, that's what. Eyebrows raised, Lars blinked at the photo, at the sight of the then blond kid staring up at him from glossy card. It was kind of hard to tell, what with the lack of garish blue, but close inspection proved that yes, nose ring, big hazel eyes, cocksucker lips, it really was him.
"Green Day?" he read aloud. A pause, and he snuffed a laugh. "Well, shut my fucking mouth."
Skimming over the blurb on the back, Lars pulled himself to his feet and discarded the postcard on the couch. Once he'd slipped on his black muscle shirt and tugged on his boots he peered out the door, finding that not only had the rain mercifully stopped but the sun was trying its hardest to break through the cloud cover. He smiled. Day's looking up. A suck, a fuck, a shower and a metal show. Good day at the office.
I just hope I didn't just fuck a guy who calls himself Tré Cool.
Billie heard a faint echo of the drummer's voice as his hand left the doorknob but he didn't stop or go back. In truth, he rather liked having not given the motor mouth the last word; he suspected it would stick in his craw and that made Billie Joe smirk.
He wandered in the direction of the staging area, not really having any idea where else to go. Maybe he'd just get another beer - assuming the bar staff recognised him, anyway. It wasn't like he had any I.D. on him. Or any pants.
"Sorry, dude," Billie apologised as he bumped into a guy - road crew by the looks of it - and stopped in his tracks, staring hungrily at the lit cigarette dangling from work-roughened fingers. "Hey, would you mind if I bummed a smoke?"
The guy looked him up and down, eyebrows raising as he took a drag. "Where'd you get the shirt? Sold out of those the first day, I heard."
Billie shrugged. "Got it from the drummer. He seems like a cool enough guy." An ego bigger than your average sports stadium, but pretty decent anyway. And killer in bed. His smirk widened at his thoughts but he didn't enlighten the unknown in front of him.
Dark eyes bugged out. "No way! Lars Ulrich gave you a T-shirt?" He reached a hand out like he was going to touch it and Billie's stance tightened, warning him off. He looked longingly at the cigarette, seeing the bulge of a package tucked into the roadie's sleeve. An idea occurred to him and for a moment, he hesitated; and then hazels narrowed at the hint of sentimentality.
"How many cigarettes you got left?" When he was told nearly a full pack, Billie grinned. "Tell you what. The pack - and the lighter - for the shirt."
Five minutes later, Billie Joe was back down to just his shorts, and inhaling blissfully on his second cigarette. He didn't even care that they were Winstons instead of his usual Camels; they were nasty, unfiltered goodness, and oh fuck but he had needed a fix.
"Gotta be fucking kidding me," Lars grumbled to himself.
His quest for something resembling a shower hadn't been entirely unsuccessful. He'd snooped around the backstage area, and the best he could come up with without going offsite was one of those plastic shower attachment things, courtesy of Les Claypool of all people. Offsite wasn't an option anymore what with his stolen time, so, armed with complimentary shampoo and shower gel - seemingly he was destined to smell like cheap soap today - the drummer managed to find a set of outside faucets behind one of the food vans and set about stripping to his boxers.
Water cascaded over his head as he bent over, a little too cold but it wasn't like he had anyone to bitch at but himself, so he merely sucked it up and lathered up his hair. Trying to focus on something other than the mild indignity and lukewarm water, he was unsurprised to find his mind going to the blue-haired brat again, Tré Cool or whatever. He figured, especially late at night or whenever he was alone, that whip thin, sweat sheened, clever little body might shimmer into his mind's eye for quite some time to come. Heh, come. He wondered briefly if the kid would hang around, catch the 'Tallica set; he probably would. Why fuck the drummer and not watch the band afterwards? He also wondered if he might spot his fuckbuddy side of stage, or even in the crowd. In his Hippie Shit shirt and budget boxers. Ha ha.
He hadn't been there for five minutes before he felt eyes on him. Can't even get ten minutes to my fucking self? he thought grumpily, sweeping the foamy hair out of his face to see.
"Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, man."
Whoa, speaking of Hippie Shit, fuck! Lars was actually amused at the coincidence - some well-fed roadie taking a break with a hot dog, with a Metallistock shirt slung over his shoulder. Amused enough to not tell the guy to fuck off.
"S'alright," he responded, straightening and flicking his hair back. "What can I do for ya? Want me to sign that shirt there?"
The roadie looked like he'd just received the best birthday present ever. "Holy fuck, would you? I got a pen, shit!" He fumbled at his back pocket, retrieving a Sharpie and gleefully handing it over. "I'm a huge fan, you have no idea, just getting to work this thing was awesome, I never thought-"
"Never thought you'd see one of the band this close and in his boxers?" Lars finished with a genuine grin, leaving his name as the shirt was held out towards him.
He offered his hand and the guy shook it enthusiastically. "I got the shirt, now I got it signed, it's awesome, thank you, man! You guys are awesome! I'll be watchin' you guys tonight, no kidding!"
Lars nodded in thanks, told him he hoped he'd enjoy the show, and he was left in peace. He smiled to himself, then turned back to his makeshift shower.
"Bill! Yo, Armstrong!"
Billie Joe turned at the sound of his name to find Tré barrelling towards him. He grinned. "Hey, how's Mike? Tooth all fixed?"
"Yeah, yeah, s'good as new - better, probably. Rob sent him straight back to the hotel 'cause he's still all frozen and he's doped up good." Tré's high-pitched giggle made Billie laugh, too. Blue eyes squinted at him. "Where the fuck did you disappear to? Or maybe I should ask, who the fuck did you disappear with? You're smoking like you just ran a sex marathon."
He spluttered, nearly inhaling the cigarette itself, not just the smoke. "Is it that obvious?"
Tré cackled. "Nah, I just know you that well. Seriously? Like, seriously. I'm off playing white knight for our bassist and you're fucking someone. Who was it?"
Billie took a few more puffs and dropped the butt on the soaking ground. He watched the groundwater put out the ember as his smirk grew into a face-splitting grin. Offhand, he couldn't have said if having to get airlifted away from the stage thanks to the insane crowd, or fucking Metallica's drummer, qualified as the most surreal moment of his day. He'd remember both for a very fucking long time.
"Tell ya when we get to Mike so I don't gotta answer all the same damn questions. S'not someone you'd ever have guessed, though - and even if you had, no way would you've thought it'd be that good." Or that he'd be so normal, for all the arrogance.
"Alright, then let's get one more free drink before we get the fuck outta here!"
"But-" Billie tried to protest as Tré grabbed his elbow and dragged him towards the bar tent.
"Dude. We are fucking Green Day, okay? This is what it's all about."
Laughing, he gave in, oddly pleased when the bartender didn't even bat an eye at his state of undress. Tré's oblivious chatter accompanied them to a nearby table that had mostly dry chairs, where his bandmate raised his beer. "To mud, free booze, and sex."
Billie Joe clinked his bottle against Tré's with a wide smile. "And to passionate drummers."
~~~The End~~~
Don't forget to leave some love for looking_spiffy!
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
( Part 1)
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"So one minute I'm a groupie and the next I'm a rock star? Which one is it, Lars? Or do you even care so long as it still feels good?" Billie's voice was a sibilant whisper against skin, welling up with cynical amusement. He'd had his 'little death' moment and now his brain had reconnected thanks to the older man's continued talking, orienting him back towards inhabiting his body. Release hit him deeper than most, leaving him all but defenceless; fortunately, most times his bedpartner was also trying to catch a breath and didn't notice, not if it was a casual encounter. More than once, well, that had the potential to become more complicated. But he wasn't going to worry about it.
He kissed his way down the Dane's torso, soft nibbles along slick skin, until he reached the proud erection and pulled back the foreskin to lick at the ultra sensitive spot he'd exposed, gaze hot and locked on green.
"Does it make me a rock star to take what I want for the simple reason that I want it?"
Billie curled his tongue around the cockhead and then drew it across to catch the pre-come. His eyes hooded in unconcealed pleasure as he licked lips swollen and shining, not fully aware of the sultry picture he made or how husky he sounded. "You taste good."
Adjusting his grip a bit, he swallowed Lars down.
The drummer took a deep breath and held it as lips skittered down his body, heat blossoming over his skin from each touch, spine holding that arch. He released the breath in a sigh, lips curving into a lazy smirk while he watched a clever tongue tease and lick at his cock. It was quite a sight.
Does it make me a rock star to take what I want for the simple reason that I want it?
"You're getting the hang of it," he acknowledged, voice low and thick, the end of his words bleeding into a long moan when that smart mouth dropped down to envelop his erection. Inwardly he chuckled at the fact that, now the younger man's mouth was otherwise engaged, he couldn't backtalk him.
Most thoughts washed away as he let himself dissolve into the bright arousal singing through his veins. His legs spread further, fingers digging into the couch, a series of breathy moans flooding unhindered past his parted lips. He wouldn't deny the pleasure this was giving him by silencing himself; he was a very vocal lover, and if he felt good, then the other person was damn well going to know about it. He wasn't doing this for headgames bullshit: he was doing it because he wanted to get off, if that wasn't already abundantly clear.
He grazed a palm through that blue buzzcut, fingers settling around the back of the younger man's neck and rubbing at the muscles as that head bobbed in sinful rhythm. He managed one more sly comment, still watching the slide of full lips over his cock with hazed green eyes, before sensation spiralled too high for him to form words.
"I'm not the only experienced cocksucker in the room."
Billie snorted a laugh, all he could manage by way of verbal response right now. No, you're not. His favourite thing to do with his hands and mouth was make music - this came in as a not-too-distant second. He loved the feel of skin stretched taut with arousal sliding against the inner surface of his cheeks, the roof of his mouth; the pressure against the root of his tongue and in his throat as he pushed down as far as he could, bitterness dribbling across his taste buds.
Tré teased him about being a cock worshipper and Billie Joe didn't deny it. He couldn't say exactly why it appealed to him so strongly, although the increasingly frantic moans bleeding from the man squirming under his attention, hips moving in a jerky rhythm, fingers digging in to the back of Billie's neck, certainly formed a large part of the picture. But it was more than just his bedpartner's pleasure. Something about the feel and taste and sounds - the visceral intimacy of it - brought him a deep satisfaction that had his throat vibrating with excited noise and his own hips circling, grinding against the couch.
He glanced up at Lars, finding green eyes shut tight as the drummer breathed heavily. Good. It was better when he could simply concentrate on what he was doing and not have to worry about someone watching him. Hazels followed suit, long lashes resting on flushed cheeks as they hollowed out and his fingers caressed Lars's balls, rolling the sacs gently, leaving no part of the sensitive flesh untouched as Billie's focus narrowed to his provision of this intense stimulation.
"Fuck," Lars breathed to the ceiling. Fuck! The word came again, in his head this time, and his thigh muscles flexed and his hips lifted in a counter rhythm to that word rolling staccato through his mind. Thunder crackled overhead, almost drowning out his gasped breaths and hoarse moans, and his heels could gain no purchase on the leather couch, now slippery with his sweat. Briefly, he managed to crack open his eyes and see those hollow, heated cheeks and grinding hips, the hard flex of the younger man's asscheeks as he rocked against the wet slide of the leather. Lars squirmed at the sight, writhing at the double hit of shattering pleasure, head rolling back against the arm rest and body arching taut like a bowstring. He moaned loud in appreciation. Fuck, fuck!
Wicked fingers massaged his balls, rubbed along his perineum and over his asshole, and Lars gasped, a high 'ah!' bursting from his throat at the extra bit of sensation. It proved to be exactly what he needed; a few more moments, a few more swallows against his cockhead and he was fucking soaring.
He came hard, ass lifting clean away from the couch as he spilled himself into that masterful mouth with a sharp cry. To the younger man's further credit, his head continued to bob, working furiously through Lars's orgasm even as the older man bucked and thrust into his mouth, riding it out until the last drop.
Once his body settled, temporarily spent, Lars squirmed a little more on the couch, smiling wide, and he actually laughed a little. "Mmm," he hummed appreciatively, pushing away the damp strands of hair that were clinging to his face before tucking his hand behind his head and looking at the younger man, lips halfway between a smirk and a genuine smile. "That was very good. Better than most chicks." He took a deep breath, letting it out with another satisfied hum. "I guess this is the part where I should want a cigarette, huh?"
He licked his lips, tasting the tang of sweat as he noted the glowing heat in hazel eyes, the small smear of come at the corner of reddened lips. The drummer sat up, leaning forward and licking away the white smudge with a filthy chuckle.
"You know where I might've been, and you swallow?" Lars snorted, and it would have been derisory were it not for the fact that he was actually impressed. His hand came up to snake around the back of the younger man's head, fingertips massaging his scalp before moving closer and bringing their lips together. He smiled into the kiss. This kid was really good.
Billie kissed back readily, a little more demanding than their previous kisses. Desire thrummed through him and he felt kind of drunk, really, as though what had just gone down his throat had been pure alcohol. His palms flattened on the drummer's thighs as he moaned against Danish lips.
He liked the older man's unfettered reactions. Just natural, not forced, no bullshit. 'If it feels good, do it.' And it did - it felt damned good.
Billie Joe inched forward, snaking his arms around Lars to press their chests together. The slide of naked skin, sweaty and gleaming in the poor light; the taste heavy in his mouth; the sound of thunder overhead made his senses spin, light-headed and living for the moment.
His erection poked a sharp hipbone. The scent of sex and leather assaulted him, adding to the wanting shooting through his bloodstream to elicit a whimper. Billie pulled back a fraction, hazels hugely dilated as he asked, "Do you have anything? I might swallow but I don't fuck without a rubber."
"If you did, I'd think you really were stupid," Lars drawled, licking at the other man's swollen bottom lip before claiming another deep kiss, hand sliding down to the small of his back. He was pleased at the needy sounds bleeding from the mouth pressed tight against his, and he moaned in reply, his skin and senses already reawakening to the experienced touch of this young man. He broke away from the kiss and pulled back. "Alright, get offa me so we can get to the best part."
He reached back and grasped the battered leather bag, fishing into one of the side pockets and pulling out his wallet, handing over the small silver square and continued to dig through the bag. "They usually come prepared," he muttered. "So I don't think I have any lube in here. Fuck it."
He took a tattooed hand to encourage the younger man around to face the table, and noticed, for the first time, the wedding band on one of the fingers. A second's pause was all the indication he gave that he'd spotted it; he didn't make a snide comment on it, didn't even give a knowing smirk. He'd fucked enough married women to dismiss the sight of a ring. Sometimes husbands would come looking for him the next time Metallica hit town; sometimes the women would come looking for him to tell him the one night stand had been enough to give them the courage to get out of a shitty marriage. It took all sorts, evidently. This was the first time a married man had come to him for sex, though. Huh. Maybe this one would be even more memorable than he'd initially thought.
Another flick of the hair, and Lars slid onto the younger man's lap, a mirror of their make out session earlier - he was a fan of this position, it had to be said. His voice emerged as a silken purr.
"You ready to fuck Lars Ulrich, kid?"
The condom had already been rolled down over the other man's heavy cock, and Lars arched against him, encouraging him to lean back while he grasped that erection with a sweat-slicked palm and pushed himself down, teeth setting into his bottom lip as he felt himself begin to stretch. Slowly, slowly, reedy little moans flitting from his lips, he sank down until his thighs clasped tattooed hips. Grinning, green eyes heavy lidded and dilating, he draped his arms around the shoulders beneath him and began to undulate his body.
Billie's head thunked onto the back of the couch as Lars worked his erection into his body, so slowly Billie Joe thought he might come by the time the Dane finally sat flush with his hips. And then Lars began to move.
A keening cry whipped out and Billie reached for that teasing ass with both hands, gripping and spreading the curved flesh that clearly had a similar level of acquaintance with dick as the addictive mouth did, to take him with only the lube from the condom. He shuddered as he thrust up into Lars, meeting and matching his rhythm as an incredulous grin bloomed over his face.
A low laugh preceded the messy crush of lips and tongues and Billie murmured, "Fuck yes, I'm ready. I would've been prepared, too, if I'd had any idea you'd be into this." He smirked, pausing the flow of words to voice heated approval, fire licking through him with every fluid motion driving his cock deep, muscles clenching around him in spiking pleasure.
"So this is what it's like to fuck a rock star, huh? Gotta say, Lars, you're really fucking tight, dude. You feel fantastic."
He pressed another kiss to that smiling mouth, fingers tightening on the older man's ass. Billie didn't actually think less of the drummer for sleeping around (he didn't have a lot of room to talk there), just for the way he saw it as using - as perverting - fan worship by taking advantage of people that looked up to him because of Metallica's music, making it personal. Making it sexual, and making it take them places they might not have wanted to go if they hadn't had stars in their eyes.
His own eyes glittered with lust and dark amusement and his tongue was as wayward as ever. "Guess I got here first today."
"Seems so," Lars concurred, rubbing a thumb over a pebble-hard nipple. "Probably first and last, at least until after the show. Gotta keep my strength up, and this is lasting longer than usual." He paused and laughed throatily. "Just like you said, on their knees and out the door, normally."
Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration. Dependant on a lot of things - his mood, how much time he had to spare, the person, the location - sometimes, yeah, he'd be civil enough to buy the person a drink, stick around for a while and talk. He wasn't a total asshole, and he kept the balance right so it was made clear that there was no chance of a relationship blossoming. Most of the time, though, the people that wanted inside his jeans? Giggly airhead chicks or arrogant pricks, neither of which he wanted to waste good time or money on, however much he had.
The people that put themselves in those positions were responsible for their actions. What happened to them and whether misguided feelings got thrown into the mix was their own fuckin' business and their own fuckin' stupidity. It wasn't like he ever pressured anyone into anything - hell, if anything, sometimes it was the other way around. He also wasn't stupid enough to fuck chicks or guys that were jailbait, or at least were jailbait and starry-eyed. Those were walking lawsuits, right there. This one, this smartmouthed punk rock brat might be jailbait, he had no idea, but he sure as fuck didn't seem starry-eyed. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, and that was good enough for Lars.
He felt another swell of smugness at the compliments. "Y'don't feel so bad yourself, fuck." His head rolled back, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, shoulder muscles flexing as he pressed his palms against the younger man's shoulder blades and bent his head for another sloppy kiss. The hands tight on his ass brought his hips into an odd swinging motion, wanting to feel the hard thrust of the cock inside him - fandens, the kid knew how to hit his sweet spot just right - and the hard squeeze of callused fingers around his asscheeks. Fuck, he really liked that, it sent a jolt of pleasure right through him.
"I'm actually pretty glad you came after me today," he admitted, and smirked. "You got your priorities straight, anyhow." Another shock of pleasure flashed through him, enough for him to cry out almost in surprise, and one of his hands fumbled back to clasp one of the ones on his ass, making it squeeze harder, eyes slipping shut. "Fuck, that's…right there…"
Billie Joe's grin widened at the older man's obvious pleasure. Fuck, just that they were both doing this for the sheer fact that it felt good, no bones about it, made him a little giddy; never mind that Lars thought he was some kind of fanboy, it didn't matter. Or the giddiness could be due to the drugging level of arousal that made all the tiny hairs on his body stand up, electrified.
He shifted his hands slightly on Lars's asscheeks, getting a more secure grip, and then spread the drummer as wide open as he could, fingers digging in deep enough to leave nail marks. He changed the angle not at all, his smirk displaying no small amount of smugness as Lars gasped at the increased pressure exactly where he'd said he wanted it. Billie continued to thrust up as best as he could even as Lars's hips rolled down into his.
"You want it good and hard, yeah? I can do that," he rasped, capturing a swollen mouth for a rough kiss. "But you gotta do for yourself, rock star, 'cause I ain't got another hand."
Billie's gaze dropped, raking hot across Danish skin as Lars did just that, the drummer's fingers curling around his own renewed erection and beginning to pump in time with their thrusts.
Lars was by now gasping for breath, the heavy air and wonderful exertion working in tandem to steal every drop of oxygen in his lungs. He felt the lingering sting of nails that had bitten into his skin, the fierce stretch of that skin as he was spread open, and pleasure whipped through him, hot and vicious. His own nails returned the favour, free hand tightly gripping the younger man's shoulder to keep his balance as their hips crashed together. Swollen lips were wide, sucking in as much air as possible and releasing it with raw moans and almost-wails sent to the ceiling.
"Oh, fuck me, fuck me," he managed to get out, hoarse as hell. Fuck him, he felt like he was fucking glowing.
Green eyes finally prised themselves open, closed as they had been while he'd had lost himself in the hard clutch of tattooed hands, and he looked back down to his now so very welcome intruder. The smug grin Lars found himself wearing most of the time during these situations was painted all over the brat's face, and the Dane couldn't help but smirk in response. He also couldn't help but think that it was a refreshing change to be fucking someone - who, admittedly, fucked very well indeed - who wasn't dazzled by his mere presence, who wasn't even remotely in awe of him. Or if he was, he was doing a damn fine job of hiding it. Either way, Lars had a certain amount of respect for him for that.
The smirk vanished from his face as the young man's cock thudded into his sweet spot, two, three, four times in rapid succession, and Lars thought he might break into pieces right then and there from the sheer assault of it. It was aggressive, it roared with intent: I'm gonna make you scream when you come. Shock flitted for the barest millisecond through his eyes, and then it was gone, he was gone, diving into that moment headfirst. I'm gonna scream when you make me come.
He jerked himself off with renewed energy, and as heat began to build fast from the pit of his stomach he bent to press his forehead against the younger man's, damp hair draping messily over both of them, lips hovering just over another pair, still wide open. His moans spiralled higher, louder, and he gave them all to that smart mouth.
Billie didn't think he'd ever concentrated quite this intently on his lover's reactions, but then, his usual sexual interactions weren't anywhere near this complicated. Right now, that slight detachment, that other-than-self focus, gave him some breathing space. Because he'd be damned if he were going to come before Lars Ulrich did.
He watched the drummer stroke himself, dizzy and breathless from everything that had happened today. Billie's moans entwined with the higher-pitched ones and he began murmuring encouragement, filthy words mingling with the stifling air in shocking ease.
"That's it, yeah…right like that. You're a drummer; I know you can feel my cock in your ass, feel it fucking splitting you in half - jerk off to that, Lars. Every time I fuck into you I wanna see that fist pump; wanna see a chain reaction as you fuck your hand and your dick leaks pre-come, getting ready…"
Billie crushed his mouth to Lars's, not even the frantic tangle of tongues silencing either of them. There was an incredible surge in his blood knowing that while his own identity might or might not become known, it would be blindingly obvious to anyone in the near vicinity what the Metallica musician was up to. The moans and gasps, the sharp little cries grew increasingly louder and when the inevitable finally happened, it was gonna be deafening.
Molten heat shone from hazels as Billie Joe broke the kiss but dipped right back in for one last lick against full lips. Dazzled green eyes met his and he grinned, lust and devilment and something almost implacable in his gaze.
"Let me see you come."
Something snaked down Lars's spine, and it wasn't cold but the sensation was in contrast to the heat he was swathed in. It was electric, it was needles, it was something, and it came as utter filth spilled from the other man's lips. Filth that made him tremble with lust.
His hips snapped in perfect rhythm with his own hand and the hard thrust of that cock, and his mind went kick-cymbal-tom, kick-cymbal-tom, a rapidfire drumbeat that his addled mind was sure it knew from one of their songs. Does your mom know you talk like that, boy? offered his mind again, but it was gone in a heartbeat before it could pass his lips, washed clean away by pleasure that, judging by the way his body continued to shake, was just beginning to overwhelm him.
He didn't care who came first; he didn't care if this kid came at all. As long as he got off, that was what was important. And fuck, he was really gonna get off.
His thighs burned, his body burned, the heat of it all threatened to overtake his consciousness, and then it didn't matter because he was screaming, really screaming, the sound raw and tearing and poured right into the younger man's mouth as he came.
A rush of exultation swept through Billie with that scream, the pure satisfaction of it strong enough to trigger his orgasm. He panted against still-vibrating lips, body spasming, an irrepressible grin stealing over his face. Take that, rock star.
Distantly he wondered if security would come running at the noise or if Lars's 'people' knew better. Billie Joe still didn't give a shit if someone found out.
Their rhythm slowed to a halt and when the older man unclenched his fist from around his softening cock, hand a sticky mess, Billie took hold of his wrist and brought it to his mouth, eyes glittering.
"Let me." Context and echo gave the lie to the innocence of the phrase as he extended his tongue and delicately began to lick.
Lars watched that sight with still hazed eyes, chest heaving as he slowly brought his breathing back under control. After some long moments of just silently watching, nothing more, a weak smirk finally arrived on his lips. He pushed a hand through that blue buzzcut, almost petting the filthy little creature that was methodically licking off every spot, every smear of come from his hand. So careful, so…determined, almost. Like every drop was his and his alone. Fuck, if Lars hadn't just wrung himself absolutely dry, that thought and that sight probably would've made his cock twitch. He was half inclined to join in with the clean up, more than half inclined, because the kid just made it look so fucking enjoyable, so pleasant and innocent and wrong. The only reason he didn't was because, fuck, he couldn't tear his eyes away long enough. He splayed his fingers, allowing that clever tongue to flex and lick between them.
Once the young man was done, hazel eyes fluttered and raised to meet his. Lars smirked wider, approving almost to the point of awe.
"Dirty fucking punk," he murmured, voice like sandpaper on silk, before bending his head and capturing a slow kiss. Once he broke away, he felt it only fair to give his verdict. "That was real good. Top seven, at least."
With that, he lifted himself up on slightly trembling legs - fucking hell, whatta workout - and winced only briefly as the cock slipped out of him. S'gonna be fun sitting on that drum stool tonight, he thought wryly, as tepid water called to him and he flopped over onto his back next to the other man. He figured with how hot he was it might actually feel cold, but even as the bottle touched his lips he grimaced. Wrong. He gulped down a couple of mouthfuls, if only to rehydrate. "Fuck, you'd think, what with the fucking ticket prices, that they'd be able to afford a fucking cooler or two in this place, huh?"
He looked over to the younger man, surprised into silence when he saw something entirely different in his eyes. Gone was the 'fuck you' glint, the fearlessness. Lars looked away again, giving a little sigh, a little eye roll. God-fucking-dammit, maybe all that was a front. He passed the water over.
"Hope I didn't fuckin' peg you wrong, kid," he said quietly. "I thought you were smart, not getting invested in this shit, y'know?" Pushing sweat drenched hair out of his eyes, he looked back to hazel. "You alright?"
"Invested? In what, this?" Billie gestured to both of them. "Not." Reflexive snark that didn't have its usual bite but got the message across nonetheless. He took a long pull at the water bottle; it diluted the taste in his mouth. Disappointing on some level but the moment was gone and that amount of exercise in this kind of heat had made him thirsty.
He leaned back into the couch, letting his whole body relax against the leather, and glanced at Lars. A hint of concern showed in those green eyes. Huh. Billie smiled slightly. He didn't mind using me when he figured I was using him back but looks like it might actually bother him if I were one of those hero-worshipping kids. Who'd've thunk it?
"S'not personal, just…gimme a minute, is all." He needed a little more time to come back to himself, especially after a wild ride like that. Fuck, that had been good. And all the better for being so fucking unexpected. He dismissed the rating, flattering as it was. Sex was one area where Billie Joe's only competition was himself - if he were to sleep with Lars again, then a rating might mean something, but as it stood that luscious scream had already told him everything he needed to know about how the Dane had enjoyed the experience.
Billie stretched, mind settling into his skin. The fact that he was still here came as a bit of a surprise; he'd kind of figured that he'd be discarded right after the condom. Instead the two of them sprawled on the sweaty leather couch and passed the bottle of water back and forth almost absently until Lars threw it on the floor, empty.
He scrubbed his hands over his face and groaned. "By the way, this, this moment right here? This is when you should really, really want a fucking smoke." They both laughed and Billie continued, good-humoured sass flavouring his complaint, "'Cept I've already sucked and fucked and I still don't got any cigarettes!"
"Unless you wanna bum a cigar offa Kirk when he gets here - fuck knows why he's picked that habit up - I don't have any suggestions for you," Lars replied, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. He was quietly relieved that the kid hadn't turned out to be one of those wide-eyed worshippers - briefly he'd had visions of him becoming a fawning, clingy pain in the ass before being turfed out of here as naked as the day he was born. It would have tainted what had been a wonderful experience, an uncomplicated fuck that he'd been so certain was an uncomplicated fuck, and that would've been a massive piss off.
Thankfully, the younger man had just been temporarily wiped. And Lars couldn't help but feel pretty smug about that.
He cast a sideways glance at the other man, then slid over towards him, slipping a hand around the back of his neck and initiating another indulgent kiss. No particular reason, not as a lead in to more sex; to be honest he didn't have the time - he'd need a shower (though fuck knows where anything approaching one of those would be at this mudbath, but there had to be something, fuck) and maybe even a nap before showtime, then there was that fucking paperwork still waiting for him. Nah, this time he just wanted to make out for a little bit. The kid kissed good and tasted nice.
As they kissed, the lazy twine of tongues leaving a pleasant buzz in his system, he felt a tattooed hand thread fingers into his hair, and it made him remember that wedding band again. Ordinarily, since he'd now gotten exactly what he wanted out of the other man, he'd bring it up, persist in picking at him about infidelity and loyalty until he was choking on his rage; if only for the sight of his beet-red face clashing with that shock of blue hair as he was dragged off by security. Okay, maybe not that dramatic, but shit, he'd've liked to have a little fun.
Alas, as he discovered on peeking at his watch midway through their make out, he really, really didn't have the fucking time.
"Doesn't seem like you're the type to outstay your welcome. Fuck, if only all of you were like that," Lars commented, raising his eyes to the heavens briefly, before sinking back into the kiss.
I bet. Billie's mental tone was acidic but he let the retort stay in his head for once and simply returned the kiss, taking a pure enjoyment in it. When the Dane finally drew back, Billie Joe smirked.
"I'd say I hate to fuck and run, but I'm not gonna outright lie to you." Just let you keep believing your little illusions is all. He stood up, running his hands through his short hair to spike it up as best as he could, and bent to retrieve his boxers. The older man's leather bag caught his eye; entangled in its strap was a white plastic carrier bag emblazoned with the Woodstock logo. Probably stuffed full of promo junk - in fact, Billie probably had one waiting for him somewhere.
He straightened and offered a wide grin. "In lieu of that cigarette, I don't suppose you have an old T-shirt or something I could steal? I'd rather not get arrested for indecency if I don't have to." Assuming, of course, someone wasn't already looking for him for that for having dropped his pants on national television. International television? He couldn't remember.
Lars waited as the younger man picked up his underwear, taking in the view with no small pleasure, and stood himself, meandering over to his discarded shorts and jeans. "Hm? Shirt?"
Nice to see he's not totally dissimilar from all groupie-kind, he thought with amusement. Fuck, get a few mementos, and run.
Squinting in thought as he tugged his jeans back on, inspiration struck him suddenly, and he couldn't hide the complacent smirk that blossomed on his face. He buttoned his fly and went to his bag, detaching the plastic one with a degree of annoyance - more shit he didn't need - and unzipping the main compartment. "A shirt, lemme see here, um…will this be okay?"
A balled up white T-shirt was then flung in the other man's direction, and as it met his chest, Lars straightened, twirling a Sharpie between his fingers and grinning, voice ringing gleeful with all kinds of barbs. "Who should I make the autograph out to, huh? It's a big shirt, I could sign it where it hangs right over your dick. 'To the Punk Rock Star, Lars was here', maybe, really top off your souvenir?" The grin only became wider as the shirt was unravelled.
Like it wasn't his style to throw the kid a Metallica - no, wait, Metallistock - shirt. Their own Scary Guy all bedecked in a peace sign necklace, daisies and, most importantly, dollar signs, underscored by the legend HIPPIE SHIT: BEADS & PEACE. Hey, at least it wasn't black for a change.
Billie's eyebrows shot up as he shook out the T-shirt and saw the logo. What the fuck? A closer look made him grin - he could appreciate the sentiments that had gone into the design.
Slipping it over his head, he looked down and started to laugh. 'Big' wasn't the word: it was long enough to extend past the bottom edge of his shorts and hung like a fucking dress on his thin frame. "Jesus Christ, like I needed any help looking underage."
He glanced up as Lars approached, Sharpie held aloft with a gleefully malicious grin. Billie Joe matched it. He grasped the drummer's upraised hand, holding it away from them both, and his other slid into tangled long hair as he leaned in and kissed Lars, an aggressive yet easy last taste.
When he moved back, Billie let the backs of his fingers glide along one Danish cheekbone and he smiled, wide and honest.
"Thanks. You're nothing like I would've expected. I like that." Billie's hands dropped and he went to the door, flashing another smile. "Break a leg tonight."
Then he was gone.
"I just fucking might, with all that mud out there," Lars called to the closed door. He heard no response and shrugged, skritching at the skin of his cheek where the young man's fingers had grazed, then rubbed at it with the back of his hand. Dammit, he wanted to get the last shot in. Fuck, it was no matter, not like he was ever likely to see the kid again. More's the pity, came a lustful little voice in the back of his head as he licked his lips.
He padded over to the sink and splashed some water on his face, wondering where there might be something resembling a shower near the site and cursing under his breath in his native tongue at the filthy towel. Fucking kid. Nothing like he would've expected, and he likes that? The fuck is that supposed to mean? He likes surprises, or what? Does he- His thought process stopped as he noticed that his palms seemed a little discoloured. Angling them towards the light, it appeared that blue dye from the other man's hair had rubbed off a bit on his hands thanks to all the sweating they'd been doing. The Dane curled his lip, scowling. "Fucking kid."
The dye was stubborn under nothing but water, and he didn't want to touch the shitty soap - which was also filthy, for fuck's sake - so he stalked back over to his bag, kneeling on the floor and searching through for the moist towelettes from their plane. As he did so, he eyed the plastic bag he'd shoved aside before, one of those promotional bags with a load of shit he didn't want inside. Wonder if they put official Woodstock Wet Wipes in there.
Somewhat surprisingly, it turned out that they didn't, but as Lars sat back on his haunches and scrubbed at his hands with the wipes he'd recovered from his bag, he pulled over that Woodstock bag and peered into it. Tissues, breath mints, VIP passes to some clubs in New York City, a can of Pepsi, a pen…an envelope. Containing a set of postcards, he discovered, with a photo of one of the bands performing on the front of each one, and a mini bio on the back. Once his hands were clean, he flicked through them, providing a running commentary to himself as he did so.
"The weird-ass line up…Cypress Hill? I like the diversity, but isn't this supposed to be Woodstock? Like, Woodstock? Feels more like just another Lollapalooza with a few of the old guard thrown in for good measure. Wonder if they used one of Ross's shots for us. Least they didn't get Kiss back together for this, that would've been beyond-"
What, exactly, made him stop in his verbal tracks? A postcard with what appeared to be his fuckbuddy's face on it, that's what. Eyebrows raised, Lars blinked at the photo, at the sight of the then blond kid staring up at him from glossy card. It was kind of hard to tell, what with the lack of garish blue, but close inspection proved that yes, nose ring, big hazel eyes, cocksucker lips, it really was him.
"Green Day?" he read aloud. A pause, and he snuffed a laugh. "Well, shut my fucking mouth."
Skimming over the blurb on the back, Lars pulled himself to his feet and discarded the postcard on the couch. Once he'd slipped on his black muscle shirt and tugged on his boots he peered out the door, finding that not only had the rain mercifully stopped but the sun was trying its hardest to break through the cloud cover. He smiled. Day's looking up. A suck, a fuck, a shower and a metal show. Good day at the office.
I just hope I didn't just fuck a guy who calls himself Tré Cool.
Billie heard a faint echo of the drummer's voice as his hand left the doorknob but he didn't stop or go back. In truth, he rather liked having not given the motor mouth the last word; he suspected it would stick in his craw and that made Billie Joe smirk.
He wandered in the direction of the staging area, not really having any idea where else to go. Maybe he'd just get another beer - assuming the bar staff recognised him, anyway. It wasn't like he had any I.D. on him. Or any pants.
"Sorry, dude," Billie apologised as he bumped into a guy - road crew by the looks of it - and stopped in his tracks, staring hungrily at the lit cigarette dangling from work-roughened fingers. "Hey, would you mind if I bummed a smoke?"
The guy looked him up and down, eyebrows raising as he took a drag. "Where'd you get the shirt? Sold out of those the first day, I heard."
Billie shrugged. "Got it from the drummer. He seems like a cool enough guy." An ego bigger than your average sports stadium, but pretty decent anyway. And killer in bed. His smirk widened at his thoughts but he didn't enlighten the unknown in front of him.
Dark eyes bugged out. "No way! Lars Ulrich gave you a T-shirt?" He reached a hand out like he was going to touch it and Billie's stance tightened, warning him off. He looked longingly at the cigarette, seeing the bulge of a package tucked into the roadie's sleeve. An idea occurred to him and for a moment, he hesitated; and then hazels narrowed at the hint of sentimentality.
"How many cigarettes you got left?" When he was told nearly a full pack, Billie grinned. "Tell you what. The pack - and the lighter - for the shirt."
Five minutes later, Billie Joe was back down to just his shorts, and inhaling blissfully on his second cigarette. He didn't even care that they were Winstons instead of his usual Camels; they were nasty, unfiltered goodness, and oh fuck but he had needed a fix.
"Gotta be fucking kidding me," Lars grumbled to himself.
His quest for something resembling a shower hadn't been entirely unsuccessful. He'd snooped around the backstage area, and the best he could come up with without going offsite was one of those plastic shower attachment things, courtesy of Les Claypool of all people. Offsite wasn't an option anymore what with his stolen time, so, armed with complimentary shampoo and shower gel - seemingly he was destined to smell like cheap soap today - the drummer managed to find a set of outside faucets behind one of the food vans and set about stripping to his boxers.
Water cascaded over his head as he bent over, a little too cold but it wasn't like he had anyone to bitch at but himself, so he merely sucked it up and lathered up his hair. Trying to focus on something other than the mild indignity and lukewarm water, he was unsurprised to find his mind going to the blue-haired brat again, Tré Cool or whatever. He figured, especially late at night or whenever he was alone, that whip thin, sweat sheened, clever little body might shimmer into his mind's eye for quite some time to come. Heh, come. He wondered briefly if the kid would hang around, catch the 'Tallica set; he probably would. Why fuck the drummer and not watch the band afterwards? He also wondered if he might spot his fuckbuddy side of stage, or even in the crowd. In his Hippie Shit shirt and budget boxers. Ha ha.
He hadn't been there for five minutes before he felt eyes on him. Can't even get ten minutes to my fucking self? he thought grumpily, sweeping the foamy hair out of his face to see.
"Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, man."
Whoa, speaking of Hippie Shit, fuck! Lars was actually amused at the coincidence - some well-fed roadie taking a break with a hot dog, with a Metallistock shirt slung over his shoulder. Amused enough to not tell the guy to fuck off.
"S'alright," he responded, straightening and flicking his hair back. "What can I do for ya? Want me to sign that shirt there?"
The roadie looked like he'd just received the best birthday present ever. "Holy fuck, would you? I got a pen, shit!" He fumbled at his back pocket, retrieving a Sharpie and gleefully handing it over. "I'm a huge fan, you have no idea, just getting to work this thing was awesome, I never thought-"
"Never thought you'd see one of the band this close and in his boxers?" Lars finished with a genuine grin, leaving his name as the shirt was held out towards him.
He offered his hand and the guy shook it enthusiastically. "I got the shirt, now I got it signed, it's awesome, thank you, man! You guys are awesome! I'll be watchin' you guys tonight, no kidding!"
Lars nodded in thanks, told him he hoped he'd enjoy the show, and he was left in peace. He smiled to himself, then turned back to his makeshift shower.
"Bill! Yo, Armstrong!"
Billie Joe turned at the sound of his name to find Tré barrelling towards him. He grinned. "Hey, how's Mike? Tooth all fixed?"
"Yeah, yeah, s'good as new - better, probably. Rob sent him straight back to the hotel 'cause he's still all frozen and he's doped up good." Tré's high-pitched giggle made Billie laugh, too. Blue eyes squinted at him. "Where the fuck did you disappear to? Or maybe I should ask, who the fuck did you disappear with? You're smoking like you just ran a sex marathon."
He spluttered, nearly inhaling the cigarette itself, not just the smoke. "Is it that obvious?"
Tré cackled. "Nah, I just know you that well. Seriously? Like, seriously. I'm off playing white knight for our bassist and you're fucking someone. Who was it?"
Billie took a few more puffs and dropped the butt on the soaking ground. He watched the groundwater put out the ember as his smirk grew into a face-splitting grin. Offhand, he couldn't have said if having to get airlifted away from the stage thanks to the insane crowd, or fucking Metallica's drummer, qualified as the most surreal moment of his day. He'd remember both for a very fucking long time.
"Tell ya when we get to Mike so I don't gotta answer all the same damn questions. S'not someone you'd ever have guessed, though - and even if you had, no way would you've thought it'd be that good." Or that he'd be so normal, for all the arrogance.
"Alright, then let's get one more free drink before we get the fuck outta here!"
"But-" Billie tried to protest as Tré grabbed his elbow and dragged him towards the bar tent.
"Dude. We are fucking Green Day, okay? This is what it's all about."
Laughing, he gave in, oddly pleased when the bartender didn't even bat an eye at his state of undress. Tré's oblivious chatter accompanied them to a nearby table that had mostly dry chairs, where his bandmate raised his beer. "To mud, free booze, and sex."
Billie Joe clinked his bottle against Tré's with a wide smile. "And to passionate drummers."
~~~The End~~~
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