I did something different.
Title: A Day At The Circus
Rating: R
Pairings: Pete/Mick, implied Keith/Mick, Pete/Keith M. (if you squint)
Word Count: 5842
Disclaimer: I don't own any members belonging to the Who and the Stones, or anybody mentioned in this story.
For the past many months, I kept neglecting to type up my Pete/Mick fic. It's about 2 years old and my mind has been obsessed with that idea of that pairing. So, I went back and cleaned up the story and decided it would be a fun experience in writing.
The sounds of a softened guitar wafted lightly through the air.
Pete was not all to thrilled to be here at the moment. The night, rather morning, seemed to sag on at an unbearably lagging speed. It was rehearsal day, only set a few days from actual filming. He’d sat at the edge of the stage with a guitar in his lap, briefly strumming along a low melody; his fingers’ moments were far removed from his thoughts. Shaggy dark hair sat perched above his blue eyes. His eyes always seemed to have a slight brooding sense in them. His eyes always made him look like he was thinking all of the time.
His eyes were weary, his body in a slight exhausted manner. His mind had been operating on autopilot all night. It had been a few hours after midnight and rehearsals were still commencing. There were calls to finish up but people found themselves in the midst of more problems. Pete’s attention was occasionally caught by the roar or low growl from one of the stage animals that were rented out for this specific occasion. The animals that posed a significant threat were a bit sedated: how else were they going to get so close to a tiger without becoming its friendly meal?
Pete would occasionally throw a glance over his shoulder just to size up what was happening. Pete began to wonder how the hell he got hired in this mess. Spontaneously, Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones had came up to him with an idea: a traveling type of circus. Not only did it include circus acts, but also rock ‘n’ roll acts to complete it. He had gone through the proceedings of organizing it and even paid for the money himself (that was rare because Mick was uptight about any money that was spent; Pete suspected it probably was mostly to do with Allen Klein).
With some help, Mick put through the calls to people and set about arranging everything. Pete thought it was a little out there and it must have been stressful, seeing that it was Mick who was handling most of the work. He had paid a pretty penny for this to go on and Mick intended it to be a TV special.
Through the flurry of voices from the animals, instruments, and commotion, Mick’s voice was audible. He could be seen pointing and reading from a piece of paper. He had been running around (really, how did that man have so much energy at this time of day, Pete would wonder) all day and was visibly frustrated at times. Throughout the day, Pete had watched the older male talk to the circus acts, talk to Keith about what music to play, gather the bands up, laugh with John Lennon, make sure Keith Moon wasn’t plotting to destroy anything (it became a trade mark of Keith‘s to leave his mark by literally blowing things up), and consoling with an obviously deteriorating Brian.
It was depressing to see Brian this way after so long. It was sad to see such a strong man that was on top of his game, just fall to pieces over the years. He really was like a fragile stone. Mick would look over and see Brian sitting alone on the side of the stage, in a chair and silently crying; Mick would bite his lip in concern and go over to gently talk with Brian, and even Pete would go over and try to help sometimes.
“Come on Brian,” Mick would try to alleviate Brian’s mood, “we need you to be strong. Would you like to help with some guitar arrangements?”
Pete would watch and admire how Mick tried to help Brian up. Brian would silently nod and haul himself up to go with Mick and help. Pete would watch other bands rehearse and watched the Stones mostly instead. The Who were just fresh from a tour that year and Pete felt confident in that his band did not need much rehearsing. The lilting sounds of guitar notes grazed the air as the Stones finished up their rehearsals. ‘No Expectations’ drifted through the air, reminding people who cared to lend an ear that their new album was just fresh out on the markets. It was the fourth take.
Due to a mind devoid of sleep, Pete never kept his mind hanging in the same spot seeing that he really had nothing to do except act like a street musician playing for money. For a while, he had wondered just where his bandmates were. He thought if Mick had enough judgment in mind to watch if their drummer planned to destroy a few toilets out of boredom. Almost anything Keith touched, he literally had to break it; it proved to be troublesome at times-- especially at hotels.
Just in time, Pete watched Keith trot; rather move unsteadily on his feet, as Keith came over to Pete’s preoccupied spot. He smelled thickly of alcohol and cigarettes. He grinned at him toothily, tussled brown hair scattered around his head. Pete regarded him with a humored expression. He was wearing a yellow sheet, something to what the audience would soon be wearing; every so often, Keith would step on it and nearly fall face first into the floor. He sat, more as fell down, beside Pete.
He had a giddy, happy atmosphere and it was infectious as Pete could not help but let a simper expression pour onto his face.
“Hi beanpole,” Keith had said, a slur staining his words. “Why are you over here by yourself?” His voice was slightly demanding.
Pete shrugged his shoulders and his bony, long fingers continued to dance over the fret board. “Nothing much.”
“That’s no fun,” Keith said as a matter of fact, his face wrinkling to show a scout expression. “Y’need to get out more; stop being a moody person.”
“Well then, I’m sorry if my version of fun doesn’t include bourbon, bombs, and destruction,” Pete said in mock hurt, scanning the other man’s posture.
“That’s what life’s about, Petey. Have some fun, loosen up and don’t be serious all the time.”
Pete’s eyes held an amused quality. “Oh then Keith, what are you planning to do right now?”
Keith laughed, his voice seeming like it was a loud shot through the air. He slapped his hands on the ground to then entwine them together. “Not much this time. Mick told me to not do anything serious, but he never said what I could do.” Keith’s face then began to sport a vexing expression; the one Pete was used to seeing that warned him of some extensive damage to come.
Pete’s face turned into a weary glance. “Don’t do anything that would hurt yourself, but you’re probably not going to listen anyways,” Pete remarked.
“Dear boy, have you ever known me to listen to anybody? Roger hates that, but it’s not like the little man can tell me what to do.” Keith snickered.
“You know how fast Roger can get angry,” came the deadpanned voice.
“And it’s cute actually; he looks like an angry, little bird.”
A laugh came from beside Keith. “He’d kill you if he found out you said that.”
“Let him try.”
Although Pete had been entertaining Keith in hopes to keep the drummer from thinking about wrecking objects, his mind had been drifting through another path. His attention had been haltingly diverting from Keith’s attention demanding voice. Pete’s head languidly swiveled and focused on other things while the onslaught on Keith animated chatter flew past his ears.
Pete’s eyes were fixated-- more like glued to another thing. Rather, it was a person. That someone was the current ringmaster of the entire circus operation: Mick Jagger. His eyes traced the path that Mick walked-- shimmied and glided was the rather appropriate terms. His movements were fluid and loose; albeit there was a slight stumble due to his delayed judgment, (lack of sleep is what Pete concluded).
“.. and I was going to take that-… Pete? Hey Pete!”
Pete’s eyes snapped back to Keith. “Huh? Wha--?”
“You weren’t paying attention to me at all!”
Pete said nothing.
Keith pouted. “If you were gonna ignore me, tell me. You’re no fun.”
Keith then stood up, taking a wobbly stance, but nearly fell back down. “I’ll go find Roger and mess with him; he’s much more fun to annoy.”
“What about John?”
“Dear boy, he’ll glare at me and tell me to back off.” Keith shook his head, and then brought up his hands to cover his neck. “I’d like to have my neck intact before the nights over.”
Once Keith had floundered off, to no doubt get Roger wired up through a series of jabs for Keith’s pure amusement, Pete’s eyes quickly sought out what he had been looking at earlier. He was delighted to see Mick was still going, but slightly disappointed that Mick had slowed down. He directed something, pointing at Charlie and then another series of soundless words. Pete was vaguely aware that he had slowed his fingers into a still movement. He sat the guitar down and proceeded to watch like a spectator.
Mick had sat up and began to wave his arms in the air like a ballet dancer, causing the thin, long sleeved shirt to ride up, and exposing milky white skin. Pete absently noted a dull heat in his stomach and in his face. The more he studied the moving boy, the more persistent the heat was in demanding his attention. The way Mick swiveled and swayed his hips around fluidly like a professionally belly dancer. Those thin legs moving around in jeans that acted like a second skin, little was left to the imagination. The way that beige colored hair caressed his skin and spilling all over his shoulders. Those plush lips-- Pete knew that he had stop or it would become too much for him.
He was hitting the edge: something in his gut spilled forwards into his groin and it had an immediate affect. His mind tried to tear into his brain to stop but his eyes were too busy in indulging in the rare opportunity of watching Mick in person-- something he rarely was able to do. There were not many times when they were in the same town, rather state or country. A tidal wave was surging through his body, its determined path set.
The last temptation came when Mick started lowering himself to the floor in what looked like some type of possession or ritual and that the music was exorcising the demon from him. Pete’s breath lodged in his throat as his lungs nearly stopped taking in air as a deep wave of warmth flared through him. Pete shot up and felt his head spin around, like he was being released from his body. Desperately, Pete knew he had to relieve himself of this problem that was quickly pronouncing itself in his pants; he knew it would cause a problem because you cannot really hide these well. He needed a secluded place fast or else Pete feared he would not be able to keep himself from jumping the male of interest.
With an intent and purpose, Pete sought out a place for his ‘private matter’. His eyes lit up when he spotted a door and jogged, borderline running, towards it. His expression changed quickly: as soon as he reached for the doorknob and grasped it, the doorknob nearly fell off. Grinding his teeth together, Pete peered out of his blue eyes in frustration. He turned the handle and had to put some effort in opening the door.
‘Damn this to fucking hell,’ he thought in resentment. ‘Why does Moonie have to literally break every fucking thing he touches?’
When opening the door, Pete vaguely noticed that he was in an office type setting. Papers were unruly, some with a lot and not so much writing. There were maybe two or three chairs, but nothing too fancy. There was a burnished desk nearly in the middle of the small room, sporting papers, pencils, but nothing much of an office desk. Pete struggled over to the desk, curling his fingers around the edges for moral support. Pete’s mind had expected to hear the cracking sounds of the desk being split from the pent up friction in his spindly fingers.
‘Breathe in and out,’ Pete told himself in his mind. ‘Just… take it easy for a bit.’
Pete was not sure what would happen now. His body was coursing with adrenaline and that it would explode within him, an over-flooding levee that threatened to collapse, his hair falling into his eyes, causing a shade of darkness to conceal them. He bit his lip until he could taste the copper liquid rolling across his tongue and lip. Time slowed to a mere afterthought as Pete willed himself to stop quaking. Lady Karma had no such plans to let the man go so easily and Pete guessed that she was chuckling at his unfortunate situation.
The last thing Pete wanted was for someone to walk in on him and ask what’s wrong. Especially not--
“Hey Pete,” came a close voice. Pete froze. It was Keith and his mind temporally breathed a sigh of relief.
“Where’d y’ go off to? Roger won’t listen to me!” Keith was passing the door and Pete’s eyes were glued to it, waiting for Keith to burst in like a lunatic. “Peeeeete!” Keith whined at his absence and Pete silently chuckled. Even though Keith could be annoying and destroy stuff, the boy still found time to be adorable and cute. “Fine, ignore me, but you’ll pay later!”
The voice became fainter and finally faded from his ear reach. ‘Thank god he didn’t come in here. That would be a bit hard to explain.”
However, at that moment, Pete was again reminded of the persistent dull throb between his legs. That brief indirect meeting with Keith had taken his mind off the situation that he was being suffered from. Now there was nothing to keep his mind from wondering.
The silent room offered no roadblocks; the ordinary appearance of the room kept no spectacular look to keep him focused on. Fingernails drug ragged scratched across the wooden surface and it caused brief pain. Pete mussed that he might rip his own nails off. His hands had overtime disobeyed his mind’s orders to stay where they are because now they were steadily drifting toward the pronounced need that currently sat merrily in his pants. A noise had lightly touched his mind as footsteps pushed into his ears. Pete lightly tried to comprehend whom they were, but was wrapped in the mental battle of mind over body and desire.
‘”Why the fuck is this door jammed?” came a muffled confused voice on the other side of the door. Pete paid no mind to the voice, as he still remained unmoving like a statue. The rustling of the door scraping across the floor as it was violently opened, so Pete decided to throw a glance over his shoulders as the door moved shut. In the moment that passed, Pete felt his body turn cold and his heart nearly sink into the very bottom of his feet.
‘Fuck,’ Pete thought in panic and disbelief. ‘Of all people, why did he have to step in?’
The person in question who was crouched on their knees gathering up rustled papers had been the man Pete basically had been ogling all night: Mick Jagger.
Mick glanced upwards to Pete with a quick glance that spoke a silent ‘hello’ and went back to gathering papers. With eyes wide, filled with disbelief, Pete watched as Mick reached for papers. Finally, Mick connected eyes with Pete and stood fully up. Pete willed for the man to walk away and not say anything in hopes of not raising suspicion as to why he was nearly chocking the desk. Karma, like always with her sick games, begged to differ.
“Hey Pete,” Mick said casually, inspecting the other man’s knuckles clenching at the desk. “What’re you doing back here? Shouldn’t you and your lads be rehearsing, or at least finishing up?”
Pete managed a poor shadow of his usual confident smile. “Yeah, well, we’ve just finished up a t-tour and I thought that there’s no n-need to practice; we’re in top shape tonight.”
Mick noted to wavering quality in his voice. “If you say so Pete.”
“Why are you back here?” Pete tried to distract himself with a conversation to keep his mind from other places. “I thought you had to supervise everything.”
Mick snorted. “I am; just needed a few papers is all. I’ve got to do some rearranging for who’ll go on first.” Mick said with a determined look in his eyes. “So Pete, I thought I would move your band up a few spots and switch another in your previous set.”
Pete nodded, not trusting his own voice.
“And John wants to go up first, but I’m having Jethro Tull there. He wants his new bird, Yoko, to sing with ‘em. ‘m not sure if that would be a good idea. I‘m just speculating.”
“T-try it out, see where it g-goes. It could be a wonderful show experience and it would c-certainly give the type of exposure that Yoko n-needs.” Pete tried to speak as normally as possible without his voice sounding like liquid putty.
Mick did not respond immediately and just sort of stared at Pete. He came closer and Pete could swear Mick could hear his heartbeat trying to burst from his ribs. Both stared at each other: one in suspicion and the other in fear and anticipation. Mick narrowed his cerulean eyes slightly.
“Pete,” Mick began slowly, “are you alright? You’ve been acting far off all day; more then you usually would.”
“I’m just tired, that’s all.” Pete wanted to sound normal like he would usually, but could not keep from hints of desire from seeping into his voice. It was becoming harder and more physically demanding then to not grab the smaller man, shove him against the wall, and jam his tongue down his throat as far as Pete could. This close of proximity was mind numbing as Pete could see all the little features on Mick that was making him more unique in Pete’s eyes.
“Pete, I know you better then that, and something is bothering you.” As perceptive as ever, Mick saw right through. Sometimes, Pete cursed Mick’s ability to do that.
“Nothing really.” Pete had to force his voice more.
Mick took a step forward and Pete’s mind went into a frenzy. Pete took a step back. This was like a tango in a way, each carrying out moves to compliment each other. But such was not the case now.
“Pete,” Mick tried to say to reassure Pete, “you know you can tell me anything. As a friend.”
Should he? Should he not? It was a question that jangled in his mind with the same answer. He was not sure if it would cause a negative effect for what friendship that they’ve had. Would he embrace it? Or in turn, turn Pete away fully? It was a chance that Pete was not sure he would take fully. For once in his life, Pete didn’t know how to take command of the situation. The air around him was tense and very thick.
“Pete, tell me what’s wrong.” Mick was beginning to become impatient with Pete in easing his way out of it. He wanted to know why Pete was acting weirdly as it nagged his mind. Pete’s back hit the wall as he stared at the shorter man. His fingers were shaking in repressed urge and Pete was pushing past his breaking point, when he would be pushed past the edge into a point of no return. It was very troubling.
Mick placed his hand on Pete’s arm and Pete felt the firm warmth and knew that he could not stop himself. He quickly grasped the hand that was on his arm and gripped it tight, causing the other man to dart his eyes to it. The grip tightened and Mick slightly became alarmed. The look in Pete’s eyes hit him like a car: was inflated with a look that Mick was used to receiving by many of the fans. Pete began to lean down and put his face almost leveled with Mick.
“Do you really want to know what’s wrong?” Pete spoke, but it sounded different. It was deeper, a raw quality embedded within. Something about the way Pete’s voice sounded put Mick a tad on edge and it confused him. He tugged slightly on his own arm, to only have Pete tighten his grip on his bone thin wrist.
“Yeah.” Mick decided to confront it.
“This.” Before Mick could have time to say ‘what’, Pete pulled on Mick’s wrist and he landed onto Pete’s chest with an ‘oof’ and found a hand grasping at his chin. A pair of lips (much thinner then his own) were roughly placed on his own. Mick’s eyes widened as he felt Pete’s tongue slide across his bottom lip; upon instinct, he opened his mouth. Mick’s mind shrieked and screamed at him to push the taller male away and run, or at least punch him in the gut, yet another sensual part of his mind protested that this actually felt nice, while the other side was just falling over itself out of confusion with lack of knowing what to do.
An arm slid around his lissome waist and held firmly. With eyes wide, Mick soon began to get over the initial shock of being kissed. Kissed by a male. Even at the insistence of his mind, his eyes soon began to egress shut. He began to give back the passion that Pete was showing him. He had no idea why he was doing this in the first place, emotion running in confused oaths and lines of undirected wit.
In Pete’s mind, he had an initial shock: one, Mick was not punching him in his face. Second, he had not expected Mick to even give back into the kiss. In addition, three, he was very proud of himself for taking this leap of faith. With the fear and anxiety tossed aside, Pete began to ease in more to the role. For such a long time Pete had wondered what it would be like to kiss Mick; those lips he’d heard so much about from those girls who had the opportunity to kiss. It actually made Pete jealous to know that he might never have been able to do this. Maybe it was a recognition to the side of him that wanted to try out other things. Either way, his mind became engrossed in what he was doing.
The other was not going through the same ordeals as Pete was, or at least not as harshly or as many. This was not new to Jagger; he had done this before. Keith was a willing participant and much more then people cared to realize. Contrary to popular belief, not ALL groupies were horny or clingy females. Mick had met some very nice groupies that were male and had made some friends that have stayed with him for many years. Mick had kind of, in a way, took advantage of his situation and learned how to please both genders as he mostly used them on Keith. He would rather not tell people, but he knew how to be intimate with both genders, or at least he was not ready to reveal it yet.
Pete took a step forward, forcing the other to go backwards. Mick had the distant thought that he was trampling on his papers, but then released that thought. Now Jagger’s back was against the wall while Pete was trying to take the lead. Both had finally separated the need for air had overcome their senses. Both panted raggedly, finally satisfying the need for air. Pete allowed himself to look at Mick and found himself lost.
There was a look on Mick’s face that Pete thought was possibly the most erotic things on the planet. Mick’s eyes were half lidded; his blue eyes seemed lighter in color. His cheeks were slightly inflamed and the pale color around it had emphasized the color. His hair was scattered all over his eyes, grazing his cheeks, and spilling over those thin broad soldier; he looked like some type of mythical creature. Pete had bit the inside of his mouth to reassure himself that in no way this was a work of his dreams.
Pete was eager to start things off quickly-- why would not he? He had been waiting for years for this event to unfold before him. He rose up his hand and tenderly placed a finger to Mick’s lips like he was inspecting them. In a way, he was. Pete had begun to move his hands down Mick’s chin and to the thin shoulders where his hands settled for a time being. Mick brought his up and down Pete’s sides.
“So this is what was wrong today,” Mick had remarked.
“Yeah. I didn’t think you’d take kindly to my little ‘situation’.” Pete’s mouth became busy with leaning in to nip and lick at the pale neck presented in front of him. He heard the sharp intake of breath and Pete grinned, his lips receiving the dull vibrations that spiraled up Mick‘s neck. Mick felt the tickle of hair from Pete’s head and felt Pete move down farther. A warm feeling loitered in Mick’s stomach and he embraced it. Pete now wanted to draw it out; he may never get this chance for a long time when Mick was so willing to do this with him. He was going to savor this moment as file it in his memories in a vivid picture, wanting to see the face Mick makes when overcome by orgasmic feelings.
Fingers slid underneath the thin material of Mick’s long sleeved shirt to rest, heating them with natural body heat. Mick allowed his arms to envelop the taller guitarist and pressed himself closer to Pete as the man busied himself with pushing Mick’s shirt up. Allowing himself to be swallowed, Mick let his head loll back as his eyes shuttered close. Hands were at his waist, fumbling in a sloppy manor to release him from his clothed prison. Pete narrowed his eyes when the denim material seemed to defy his want of having Mick shed his pants and yanked harder.
Feeling the tugs on his pants turn nearly violent, Mick looked back at Pete. “Oy, don’t tear my trousers up; I’ve still got to use them, y’know.”
Pete shrugged his shoulders, a silent version of ‘okay’ projected wordlessly. Pete also began to shed the layers of his own threads in favor of the cool air grazing at his own skin. With quick eyes, Pete looked around the office for a steady structure without removing his mouth from Mick’s collarbone. With an idea thickly coursing in his mind, Pete wrapped his own skeletal arms around the lithe hips of Mick’s and hauled both of them to the desk. When Mick was sat down, he felt the clatter of objects moving; pencils, paper, and other materials fell to the ground only to be forgotten about.
Pete dove back down to the thin body on the desk, delighting himself in tasting the pearl colored skin. Fingernails left petals of red welts on his back, feeling the biting pangs dancing all over. It served as encouragement and Pete was glad to oblige the request. Delving deeper into the denim jeans, Pete had felt the emphasized need that had been building in the singer’s pants. Pete was aware that he too was in the same predicament. Clothes were tossed in heaps on the floor as lonely pools of fabric. Breaths mingled in the air as they both felt the cooled air on their heated bodies.
Without the restraints of clothes, both felt no need in denying themselves the offer to explore the other. Pete looked around, searching for some type of lubricant, something that would make it much easier for Mick to handle. His eyes alighted on a bottle of baby oil sitting on a shelf. With fast-paced strides, Pete reached for it, happy that someone was thinking about having soft skin, but had no idea that it would be used for this. He returned and planted himself back in front of Jagger,
A kneading thought clung to the very back of Mick’s mind. He needed to be out there, surveying what went on or not. It was steadily being pushed farther away as Pete leaned down slowly placed his lips greedily, but softly on his own. Pete then flipped the cap without much sight included, just a quick, glance of seeing where it was being directed. After applying what could have been more then he needed, Pete carelessly through the bottle away, hearing it splash somewhere and the smell of baby oil would slowly seep through the room. Again, Pete settled back in the place between Mick’s twig-like legs.
Words mattered nothing as Mick’s eyes reflected the okay to proceed and Pete slid effortlessly through the tight muscles and into the waiting heat of Mick’s body. Both faced each other in different tones and expressions: one in incoherent lust and the other in a pained grimace with heaps of passion within their eyes. Pete took in an unsteady breath as he prepared himself, bracing an arm on the desk for support. His body shook from the repressed urge to just carry out what he had wanted, quick, fast, and as soon as possible.
Mick bit his lips. It would be a long time until he would get used to being impaled on someone. No matter how many times it happened, it still felt foreign; it took a little time to get used to, afterwards it would feel like a white-hot landscape of desire.
“Are you okay Mick?” Pete asked; worry dusting at the edges of his voice.
“Yeah, it just-- takes time to get used to.” Mick nearly gasped out his words, having to force his voice to comply.
“Okay,” Pete replied. “I’ll be gentle first--” Pete tore off his sentence as he began to move his hips in rhythm Legs came up to wrap securely around Pete’s waist as they both began to feel the effects of their activity. Pete could barely hold back the appreciative moans hat built up in his throat. Mick began to feel the desk scrape under him against his skin and his hands clutched at Pete’s back like a shield. When Mick let his head roll back and open his mouth to let out those exquisite sounds, Pete was there to receive them. He leaned down and slowly laid Mick down on the desk as his hands threaded through the sweaty heap of cinnamon hair now drenched in sweat.
Pete tore away and placed his head into the are where Mick’s shoulders slopped into his neck and kept it there. Mick groaned as Pete’s movements became more frequent and less controlled. That blossoming heat coiled in Pete’s stomach and he tried to hold it back, wanting Jagger to finish with him. At that perfect moment, Mick nearly groaned out and Pete’s name was on his lips as he arched under Pete. Pete allowed himself to let go and they became heavily saturated in the height of the throws of passion. All Pete could think about was the that same soul bond that had now occurred-- his body responding perfectly with Mick’s and they both floated to the surface like a ship in water.
Nothing was spoken for a while as both recovered. Mick opened his eyes to see Pete above him with closed eyes. Reaching up a hand, Mick placed a hand on Pete’s sweaty shoulder to remind the other man that they were still here. Pete opened his eyes and looked at Mick below him. He let a lazy smile grace his face. Mick grinned.
“Well then,” Pete said as he began to pull himself off the other man, “that was one of the best goes I’ve had.”
Mick sat up, albeit with some difficulty. “You’re welcome.” a laugh pooled out from Mick’s mouth and he began to gather up his clothes. Pete noticed a slight a slight limp Mick now carried and amusedly thought if anyone would question why.
Both were fully dressed and had gone back out into the area where all the commotion was going on. No one knew, but only Pete and Mick would know of this tirade. They resumed back to what they had been doing before their encounter: one listening to his alcohol influenced drummer with stories of annoying a singer, coupled with adventures with a bassist, and the other directing the near chaotic like crowd of musicians, circus acts, roadies with equipment, animal tamers and their animals, and other sorts of odd ends. In addition, Pete, in the process of occasionally nodding at Keith’s impaired speech, went back to staring at Mick for the rest of the night.
He still had not gotten in completely through that just moments ago, he had the emotive singer writhing in his grasp. It was a very nice experience and he looked forwards to any encounter that would happen in the future.
The door scrapped against the floor as a man with brown hair pushed forward with a grunt. The first thing that hit him was the odd smell, coupled with the unruly papers. He saw the bottle of near empty baby oil, its contents spilled all over the papers, staining them with a silvery color. Eyebrows knitted in confusion and he picked up a sheet to gaze at through glasses. With one last sniff, he exited the room. Walking back to his previous spot, he sat down beside a woman with thick, black wavy hair and beady eyes. A baby laughed in her arms.
“So John,” the woman said, “I was wondering when I’d get to come up with you and perform?” An Asian accent penetrated through her voice and out onto her words.
‘That smell is familiar, but who’d wanna have a shag in there?’ came the confused man’s thoughts.
John looked at the women. “Oh, well, uh, that’s up to Mick to decide, not me.” John’s eyes fell upon another man who sat on the sidelines. Hunched like a weird angle and could be considered some-what awkward in length, shape, and size, John watched the skinny body. It was staring straight at Mick. This stare puzzled John as he followed its line of vision repeatedly. Even though his brain was an endless haven of delayed thoughts and sleep pressured nerves, he had not the foggiest idea why Pete stared.
“Why’s he staring at Mick all of a sudden?” John said to himself.
Rating: R
Pairings: Pete/Mick, implied Keith/Mick, Pete/Keith M. (if you squint)
Word Count: 5842
Disclaimer: I don't own any members belonging to the Who and the Stones, or anybody mentioned in this story.
For the past many months, I kept neglecting to type up my Pete/Mick fic. It's about 2 years old and my mind has been obsessed with that idea of that pairing. So, I went back and cleaned up the story and decided it would be a fun experience in writing.
The sounds of a softened guitar wafted lightly through the air.
Pete was not all to thrilled to be here at the moment. The night, rather morning, seemed to sag on at an unbearably lagging speed. It was rehearsal day, only set a few days from actual filming. He’d sat at the edge of the stage with a guitar in his lap, briefly strumming along a low melody; his fingers’ moments were far removed from his thoughts. Shaggy dark hair sat perched above his blue eyes. His eyes always seemed to have a slight brooding sense in them. His eyes always made him look like he was thinking all of the time.
His eyes were weary, his body in a slight exhausted manner. His mind had been operating on autopilot all night. It had been a few hours after midnight and rehearsals were still commencing. There were calls to finish up but people found themselves in the midst of more problems. Pete’s attention was occasionally caught by the roar or low growl from one of the stage animals that were rented out for this specific occasion. The animals that posed a significant threat were a bit sedated: how else were they going to get so close to a tiger without becoming its friendly meal?
Pete would occasionally throw a glance over his shoulder just to size up what was happening. Pete began to wonder how the hell he got hired in this mess. Spontaneously, Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones had came up to him with an idea: a traveling type of circus. Not only did it include circus acts, but also rock ‘n’ roll acts to complete it. He had gone through the proceedings of organizing it and even paid for the money himself (that was rare because Mick was uptight about any money that was spent; Pete suspected it probably was mostly to do with Allen Klein).
With some help, Mick put through the calls to people and set about arranging everything. Pete thought it was a little out there and it must have been stressful, seeing that it was Mick who was handling most of the work. He had paid a pretty penny for this to go on and Mick intended it to be a TV special.
Through the flurry of voices from the animals, instruments, and commotion, Mick’s voice was audible. He could be seen pointing and reading from a piece of paper. He had been running around (really, how did that man have so much energy at this time of day, Pete would wonder) all day and was visibly frustrated at times. Throughout the day, Pete had watched the older male talk to the circus acts, talk to Keith about what music to play, gather the bands up, laugh with John Lennon, make sure Keith Moon wasn’t plotting to destroy anything (it became a trade mark of Keith‘s to leave his mark by literally blowing things up), and consoling with an obviously deteriorating Brian.
It was depressing to see Brian this way after so long. It was sad to see such a strong man that was on top of his game, just fall to pieces over the years. He really was like a fragile stone. Mick would look over and see Brian sitting alone on the side of the stage, in a chair and silently crying; Mick would bite his lip in concern and go over to gently talk with Brian, and even Pete would go over and try to help sometimes.
“Come on Brian,” Mick would try to alleviate Brian’s mood, “we need you to be strong. Would you like to help with some guitar arrangements?”
Pete would watch and admire how Mick tried to help Brian up. Brian would silently nod and haul himself up to go with Mick and help. Pete would watch other bands rehearse and watched the Stones mostly instead. The Who were just fresh from a tour that year and Pete felt confident in that his band did not need much rehearsing. The lilting sounds of guitar notes grazed the air as the Stones finished up their rehearsals. ‘No Expectations’ drifted through the air, reminding people who cared to lend an ear that their new album was just fresh out on the markets. It was the fourth take.
Due to a mind devoid of sleep, Pete never kept his mind hanging in the same spot seeing that he really had nothing to do except act like a street musician playing for money. For a while, he had wondered just where his bandmates were. He thought if Mick had enough judgment in mind to watch if their drummer planned to destroy a few toilets out of boredom. Almost anything Keith touched, he literally had to break it; it proved to be troublesome at times-- especially at hotels.
Just in time, Pete watched Keith trot; rather move unsteadily on his feet, as Keith came over to Pete’s preoccupied spot. He smelled thickly of alcohol and cigarettes. He grinned at him toothily, tussled brown hair scattered around his head. Pete regarded him with a humored expression. He was wearing a yellow sheet, something to what the audience would soon be wearing; every so often, Keith would step on it and nearly fall face first into the floor. He sat, more as fell down, beside Pete.
He had a giddy, happy atmosphere and it was infectious as Pete could not help but let a simper expression pour onto his face.
“Hi beanpole,” Keith had said, a slur staining his words. “Why are you over here by yourself?” His voice was slightly demanding.
Pete shrugged his shoulders and his bony, long fingers continued to dance over the fret board. “Nothing much.”
“That’s no fun,” Keith said as a matter of fact, his face wrinkling to show a scout expression. “Y’need to get out more; stop being a moody person.”
“Well then, I’m sorry if my version of fun doesn’t include bourbon, bombs, and destruction,” Pete said in mock hurt, scanning the other man’s posture.
“That’s what life’s about, Petey. Have some fun, loosen up and don’t be serious all the time.”
Pete’s eyes held an amused quality. “Oh then Keith, what are you planning to do right now?”
Keith laughed, his voice seeming like it was a loud shot through the air. He slapped his hands on the ground to then entwine them together. “Not much this time. Mick told me to not do anything serious, but he never said what I could do.” Keith’s face then began to sport a vexing expression; the one Pete was used to seeing that warned him of some extensive damage to come.
Pete’s face turned into a weary glance. “Don’t do anything that would hurt yourself, but you’re probably not going to listen anyways,” Pete remarked.
“Dear boy, have you ever known me to listen to anybody? Roger hates that, but it’s not like the little man can tell me what to do.” Keith snickered.
“You know how fast Roger can get angry,” came the deadpanned voice.
“And it’s cute actually; he looks like an angry, little bird.”
A laugh came from beside Keith. “He’d kill you if he found out you said that.”
“Let him try.”
Although Pete had been entertaining Keith in hopes to keep the drummer from thinking about wrecking objects, his mind had been drifting through another path. His attention had been haltingly diverting from Keith’s attention demanding voice. Pete’s head languidly swiveled and focused on other things while the onslaught on Keith animated chatter flew past his ears.
Pete’s eyes were fixated-- more like glued to another thing. Rather, it was a person. That someone was the current ringmaster of the entire circus operation: Mick Jagger. His eyes traced the path that Mick walked-- shimmied and glided was the rather appropriate terms. His movements were fluid and loose; albeit there was a slight stumble due to his delayed judgment, (lack of sleep is what Pete concluded).
“.. and I was going to take that-… Pete? Hey Pete!”
Pete’s eyes snapped back to Keith. “Huh? Wha--?”
“You weren’t paying attention to me at all!”
Pete said nothing.
Keith pouted. “If you were gonna ignore me, tell me. You’re no fun.”
Keith then stood up, taking a wobbly stance, but nearly fell back down. “I’ll go find Roger and mess with him; he’s much more fun to annoy.”
“What about John?”
“Dear boy, he’ll glare at me and tell me to back off.” Keith shook his head, and then brought up his hands to cover his neck. “I’d like to have my neck intact before the nights over.”
Once Keith had floundered off, to no doubt get Roger wired up through a series of jabs for Keith’s pure amusement, Pete’s eyes quickly sought out what he had been looking at earlier. He was delighted to see Mick was still going, but slightly disappointed that Mick had slowed down. He directed something, pointing at Charlie and then another series of soundless words. Pete was vaguely aware that he had slowed his fingers into a still movement. He sat the guitar down and proceeded to watch like a spectator.
Mick had sat up and began to wave his arms in the air like a ballet dancer, causing the thin, long sleeved shirt to ride up, and exposing milky white skin. Pete absently noted a dull heat in his stomach and in his face. The more he studied the moving boy, the more persistent the heat was in demanding his attention. The way Mick swiveled and swayed his hips around fluidly like a professionally belly dancer. Those thin legs moving around in jeans that acted like a second skin, little was left to the imagination. The way that beige colored hair caressed his skin and spilling all over his shoulders. Those plush lips-- Pete knew that he had stop or it would become too much for him.
He was hitting the edge: something in his gut spilled forwards into his groin and it had an immediate affect. His mind tried to tear into his brain to stop but his eyes were too busy in indulging in the rare opportunity of watching Mick in person-- something he rarely was able to do. There were not many times when they were in the same town, rather state or country. A tidal wave was surging through his body, its determined path set.
The last temptation came when Mick started lowering himself to the floor in what looked like some type of possession or ritual and that the music was exorcising the demon from him. Pete’s breath lodged in his throat as his lungs nearly stopped taking in air as a deep wave of warmth flared through him. Pete shot up and felt his head spin around, like he was being released from his body. Desperately, Pete knew he had to relieve himself of this problem that was quickly pronouncing itself in his pants; he knew it would cause a problem because you cannot really hide these well. He needed a secluded place fast or else Pete feared he would not be able to keep himself from jumping the male of interest.
With an intent and purpose, Pete sought out a place for his ‘private matter’. His eyes lit up when he spotted a door and jogged, borderline running, towards it. His expression changed quickly: as soon as he reached for the doorknob and grasped it, the doorknob nearly fell off. Grinding his teeth together, Pete peered out of his blue eyes in frustration. He turned the handle and had to put some effort in opening the door.
‘Damn this to fucking hell,’ he thought in resentment. ‘Why does Moonie have to literally break every fucking thing he touches?’
When opening the door, Pete vaguely noticed that he was in an office type setting. Papers were unruly, some with a lot and not so much writing. There were maybe two or three chairs, but nothing too fancy. There was a burnished desk nearly in the middle of the small room, sporting papers, pencils, but nothing much of an office desk. Pete struggled over to the desk, curling his fingers around the edges for moral support. Pete’s mind had expected to hear the cracking sounds of the desk being split from the pent up friction in his spindly fingers.
‘Breathe in and out,’ Pete told himself in his mind. ‘Just… take it easy for a bit.’
Pete was not sure what would happen now. His body was coursing with adrenaline and that it would explode within him, an over-flooding levee that threatened to collapse, his hair falling into his eyes, causing a shade of darkness to conceal them. He bit his lip until he could taste the copper liquid rolling across his tongue and lip. Time slowed to a mere afterthought as Pete willed himself to stop quaking. Lady Karma had no such plans to let the man go so easily and Pete guessed that she was chuckling at his unfortunate situation.
The last thing Pete wanted was for someone to walk in on him and ask what’s wrong. Especially not--
“Hey Pete,” came a close voice. Pete froze. It was Keith and his mind temporally breathed a sigh of relief.
“Where’d y’ go off to? Roger won’t listen to me!” Keith was passing the door and Pete’s eyes were glued to it, waiting for Keith to burst in like a lunatic. “Peeeeete!” Keith whined at his absence and Pete silently chuckled. Even though Keith could be annoying and destroy stuff, the boy still found time to be adorable and cute. “Fine, ignore me, but you’ll pay later!”
The voice became fainter and finally faded from his ear reach. ‘Thank god he didn’t come in here. That would be a bit hard to explain.”
However, at that moment, Pete was again reminded of the persistent dull throb between his legs. That brief indirect meeting with Keith had taken his mind off the situation that he was being suffered from. Now there was nothing to keep his mind from wondering.
The silent room offered no roadblocks; the ordinary appearance of the room kept no spectacular look to keep him focused on. Fingernails drug ragged scratched across the wooden surface and it caused brief pain. Pete mussed that he might rip his own nails off. His hands had overtime disobeyed his mind’s orders to stay where they are because now they were steadily drifting toward the pronounced need that currently sat merrily in his pants. A noise had lightly touched his mind as footsteps pushed into his ears. Pete lightly tried to comprehend whom they were, but was wrapped in the mental battle of mind over body and desire.
‘”Why the fuck is this door jammed?” came a muffled confused voice on the other side of the door. Pete paid no mind to the voice, as he still remained unmoving like a statue. The rustling of the door scraping across the floor as it was violently opened, so Pete decided to throw a glance over his shoulders as the door moved shut. In the moment that passed, Pete felt his body turn cold and his heart nearly sink into the very bottom of his feet.
‘Fuck,’ Pete thought in panic and disbelief. ‘Of all people, why did he have to step in?’
The person in question who was crouched on their knees gathering up rustled papers had been the man Pete basically had been ogling all night: Mick Jagger.
Mick glanced upwards to Pete with a quick glance that spoke a silent ‘hello’ and went back to gathering papers. With eyes wide, filled with disbelief, Pete watched as Mick reached for papers. Finally, Mick connected eyes with Pete and stood fully up. Pete willed for the man to walk away and not say anything in hopes of not raising suspicion as to why he was nearly chocking the desk. Karma, like always with her sick games, begged to differ.
“Hey Pete,” Mick said casually, inspecting the other man’s knuckles clenching at the desk. “What’re you doing back here? Shouldn’t you and your lads be rehearsing, or at least finishing up?”
Pete managed a poor shadow of his usual confident smile. “Yeah, well, we’ve just finished up a t-tour and I thought that there’s no n-need to practice; we’re in top shape tonight.”
Mick noted to wavering quality in his voice. “If you say so Pete.”
“Why are you back here?” Pete tried to distract himself with a conversation to keep his mind from other places. “I thought you had to supervise everything.”
Mick snorted. “I am; just needed a few papers is all. I’ve got to do some rearranging for who’ll go on first.” Mick said with a determined look in his eyes. “So Pete, I thought I would move your band up a few spots and switch another in your previous set.”
Pete nodded, not trusting his own voice.
“And John wants to go up first, but I’m having Jethro Tull there. He wants his new bird, Yoko, to sing with ‘em. ‘m not sure if that would be a good idea. I‘m just speculating.”
“T-try it out, see where it g-goes. It could be a wonderful show experience and it would c-certainly give the type of exposure that Yoko n-needs.” Pete tried to speak as normally as possible without his voice sounding like liquid putty.
Mick did not respond immediately and just sort of stared at Pete. He came closer and Pete could swear Mick could hear his heartbeat trying to burst from his ribs. Both stared at each other: one in suspicion and the other in fear and anticipation. Mick narrowed his cerulean eyes slightly.
“Pete,” Mick began slowly, “are you alright? You’ve been acting far off all day; more then you usually would.”
“I’m just tired, that’s all.” Pete wanted to sound normal like he would usually, but could not keep from hints of desire from seeping into his voice. It was becoming harder and more physically demanding then to not grab the smaller man, shove him against the wall, and jam his tongue down his throat as far as Pete could. This close of proximity was mind numbing as Pete could see all the little features on Mick that was making him more unique in Pete’s eyes.
“Pete, I know you better then that, and something is bothering you.” As perceptive as ever, Mick saw right through. Sometimes, Pete cursed Mick’s ability to do that.
“Nothing really.” Pete had to force his voice more.
Mick took a step forward and Pete’s mind went into a frenzy. Pete took a step back. This was like a tango in a way, each carrying out moves to compliment each other. But such was not the case now.
“Pete,” Mick tried to say to reassure Pete, “you know you can tell me anything. As a friend.”
Should he? Should he not? It was a question that jangled in his mind with the same answer. He was not sure if it would cause a negative effect for what friendship that they’ve had. Would he embrace it? Or in turn, turn Pete away fully? It was a chance that Pete was not sure he would take fully. For once in his life, Pete didn’t know how to take command of the situation. The air around him was tense and very thick.
“Pete, tell me what’s wrong.” Mick was beginning to become impatient with Pete in easing his way out of it. He wanted to know why Pete was acting weirdly as it nagged his mind. Pete’s back hit the wall as he stared at the shorter man. His fingers were shaking in repressed urge and Pete was pushing past his breaking point, when he would be pushed past the edge into a point of no return. It was very troubling.
Mick placed his hand on Pete’s arm and Pete felt the firm warmth and knew that he could not stop himself. He quickly grasped the hand that was on his arm and gripped it tight, causing the other man to dart his eyes to it. The grip tightened and Mick slightly became alarmed. The look in Pete’s eyes hit him like a car: was inflated with a look that Mick was used to receiving by many of the fans. Pete began to lean down and put his face almost leveled with Mick.
“Do you really want to know what’s wrong?” Pete spoke, but it sounded different. It was deeper, a raw quality embedded within. Something about the way Pete’s voice sounded put Mick a tad on edge and it confused him. He tugged slightly on his own arm, to only have Pete tighten his grip on his bone thin wrist.
“Yeah.” Mick decided to confront it.
“This.” Before Mick could have time to say ‘what’, Pete pulled on Mick’s wrist and he landed onto Pete’s chest with an ‘oof’ and found a hand grasping at his chin. A pair of lips (much thinner then his own) were roughly placed on his own. Mick’s eyes widened as he felt Pete’s tongue slide across his bottom lip; upon instinct, he opened his mouth. Mick’s mind shrieked and screamed at him to push the taller male away and run, or at least punch him in the gut, yet another sensual part of his mind protested that this actually felt nice, while the other side was just falling over itself out of confusion with lack of knowing what to do.
An arm slid around his lissome waist and held firmly. With eyes wide, Mick soon began to get over the initial shock of being kissed. Kissed by a male. Even at the insistence of his mind, his eyes soon began to egress shut. He began to give back the passion that Pete was showing him. He had no idea why he was doing this in the first place, emotion running in confused oaths and lines of undirected wit.
In Pete’s mind, he had an initial shock: one, Mick was not punching him in his face. Second, he had not expected Mick to even give back into the kiss. In addition, three, he was very proud of himself for taking this leap of faith. With the fear and anxiety tossed aside, Pete began to ease in more to the role. For such a long time Pete had wondered what it would be like to kiss Mick; those lips he’d heard so much about from those girls who had the opportunity to kiss. It actually made Pete jealous to know that he might never have been able to do this. Maybe it was a recognition to the side of him that wanted to try out other things. Either way, his mind became engrossed in what he was doing.
The other was not going through the same ordeals as Pete was, or at least not as harshly or as many. This was not new to Jagger; he had done this before. Keith was a willing participant and much more then people cared to realize. Contrary to popular belief, not ALL groupies were horny or clingy females. Mick had met some very nice groupies that were male and had made some friends that have stayed with him for many years. Mick had kind of, in a way, took advantage of his situation and learned how to please both genders as he mostly used them on Keith. He would rather not tell people, but he knew how to be intimate with both genders, or at least he was not ready to reveal it yet.
Pete took a step forward, forcing the other to go backwards. Mick had the distant thought that he was trampling on his papers, but then released that thought. Now Jagger’s back was against the wall while Pete was trying to take the lead. Both had finally separated the need for air had overcome their senses. Both panted raggedly, finally satisfying the need for air. Pete allowed himself to look at Mick and found himself lost.
There was a look on Mick’s face that Pete thought was possibly the most erotic things on the planet. Mick’s eyes were half lidded; his blue eyes seemed lighter in color. His cheeks were slightly inflamed and the pale color around it had emphasized the color. His hair was scattered all over his eyes, grazing his cheeks, and spilling over those thin broad soldier; he looked like some type of mythical creature. Pete had bit the inside of his mouth to reassure himself that in no way this was a work of his dreams.
Pete was eager to start things off quickly-- why would not he? He had been waiting for years for this event to unfold before him. He rose up his hand and tenderly placed a finger to Mick’s lips like he was inspecting them. In a way, he was. Pete had begun to move his hands down Mick’s chin and to the thin shoulders where his hands settled for a time being. Mick brought his up and down Pete’s sides.
“So this is what was wrong today,” Mick had remarked.
“Yeah. I didn’t think you’d take kindly to my little ‘situation’.” Pete’s mouth became busy with leaning in to nip and lick at the pale neck presented in front of him. He heard the sharp intake of breath and Pete grinned, his lips receiving the dull vibrations that spiraled up Mick‘s neck. Mick felt the tickle of hair from Pete’s head and felt Pete move down farther. A warm feeling loitered in Mick’s stomach and he embraced it. Pete now wanted to draw it out; he may never get this chance for a long time when Mick was so willing to do this with him. He was going to savor this moment as file it in his memories in a vivid picture, wanting to see the face Mick makes when overcome by orgasmic feelings.
Fingers slid underneath the thin material of Mick’s long sleeved shirt to rest, heating them with natural body heat. Mick allowed his arms to envelop the taller guitarist and pressed himself closer to Pete as the man busied himself with pushing Mick’s shirt up. Allowing himself to be swallowed, Mick let his head loll back as his eyes shuttered close. Hands were at his waist, fumbling in a sloppy manor to release him from his clothed prison. Pete narrowed his eyes when the denim material seemed to defy his want of having Mick shed his pants and yanked harder.
Feeling the tugs on his pants turn nearly violent, Mick looked back at Pete. “Oy, don’t tear my trousers up; I’ve still got to use them, y’know.”
Pete shrugged his shoulders, a silent version of ‘okay’ projected wordlessly. Pete also began to shed the layers of his own threads in favor of the cool air grazing at his own skin. With quick eyes, Pete looked around the office for a steady structure without removing his mouth from Mick’s collarbone. With an idea thickly coursing in his mind, Pete wrapped his own skeletal arms around the lithe hips of Mick’s and hauled both of them to the desk. When Mick was sat down, he felt the clatter of objects moving; pencils, paper, and other materials fell to the ground only to be forgotten about.
Pete dove back down to the thin body on the desk, delighting himself in tasting the pearl colored skin. Fingernails left petals of red welts on his back, feeling the biting pangs dancing all over. It served as encouragement and Pete was glad to oblige the request. Delving deeper into the denim jeans, Pete had felt the emphasized need that had been building in the singer’s pants. Pete was aware that he too was in the same predicament. Clothes were tossed in heaps on the floor as lonely pools of fabric. Breaths mingled in the air as they both felt the cooled air on their heated bodies.
Without the restraints of clothes, both felt no need in denying themselves the offer to explore the other. Pete looked around, searching for some type of lubricant, something that would make it much easier for Mick to handle. His eyes alighted on a bottle of baby oil sitting on a shelf. With fast-paced strides, Pete reached for it, happy that someone was thinking about having soft skin, but had no idea that it would be used for this. He returned and planted himself back in front of Jagger,
A kneading thought clung to the very back of Mick’s mind. He needed to be out there, surveying what went on or not. It was steadily being pushed farther away as Pete leaned down slowly placed his lips greedily, but softly on his own. Pete then flipped the cap without much sight included, just a quick, glance of seeing where it was being directed. After applying what could have been more then he needed, Pete carelessly through the bottle away, hearing it splash somewhere and the smell of baby oil would slowly seep through the room. Again, Pete settled back in the place between Mick’s twig-like legs.
Words mattered nothing as Mick’s eyes reflected the okay to proceed and Pete slid effortlessly through the tight muscles and into the waiting heat of Mick’s body. Both faced each other in different tones and expressions: one in incoherent lust and the other in a pained grimace with heaps of passion within their eyes. Pete took in an unsteady breath as he prepared himself, bracing an arm on the desk for support. His body shook from the repressed urge to just carry out what he had wanted, quick, fast, and as soon as possible.
Mick bit his lips. It would be a long time until he would get used to being impaled on someone. No matter how many times it happened, it still felt foreign; it took a little time to get used to, afterwards it would feel like a white-hot landscape of desire.
“Are you okay Mick?” Pete asked; worry dusting at the edges of his voice.
“Yeah, it just-- takes time to get used to.” Mick nearly gasped out his words, having to force his voice to comply.
“Okay,” Pete replied. “I’ll be gentle first--” Pete tore off his sentence as he began to move his hips in rhythm Legs came up to wrap securely around Pete’s waist as they both began to feel the effects of their activity. Pete could barely hold back the appreciative moans hat built up in his throat. Mick began to feel the desk scrape under him against his skin and his hands clutched at Pete’s back like a shield. When Mick let his head roll back and open his mouth to let out those exquisite sounds, Pete was there to receive them. He leaned down and slowly laid Mick down on the desk as his hands threaded through the sweaty heap of cinnamon hair now drenched in sweat.
Pete tore away and placed his head into the are where Mick’s shoulders slopped into his neck and kept it there. Mick groaned as Pete’s movements became more frequent and less controlled. That blossoming heat coiled in Pete’s stomach and he tried to hold it back, wanting Jagger to finish with him. At that perfect moment, Mick nearly groaned out and Pete’s name was on his lips as he arched under Pete. Pete allowed himself to let go and they became heavily saturated in the height of the throws of passion. All Pete could think about was the that same soul bond that had now occurred-- his body responding perfectly with Mick’s and they both floated to the surface like a ship in water.
Nothing was spoken for a while as both recovered. Mick opened his eyes to see Pete above him with closed eyes. Reaching up a hand, Mick placed a hand on Pete’s sweaty shoulder to remind the other man that they were still here. Pete opened his eyes and looked at Mick below him. He let a lazy smile grace his face. Mick grinned.
“Well then,” Pete said as he began to pull himself off the other man, “that was one of the best goes I’ve had.”
Mick sat up, albeit with some difficulty. “You’re welcome.” a laugh pooled out from Mick’s mouth and he began to gather up his clothes. Pete noticed a slight a slight limp Mick now carried and amusedly thought if anyone would question why.
Both were fully dressed and had gone back out into the area where all the commotion was going on. No one knew, but only Pete and Mick would know of this tirade. They resumed back to what they had been doing before their encounter: one listening to his alcohol influenced drummer with stories of annoying a singer, coupled with adventures with a bassist, and the other directing the near chaotic like crowd of musicians, circus acts, roadies with equipment, animal tamers and their animals, and other sorts of odd ends. In addition, Pete, in the process of occasionally nodding at Keith’s impaired speech, went back to staring at Mick for the rest of the night.
He still had not gotten in completely through that just moments ago, he had the emotive singer writhing in his grasp. It was a very nice experience and he looked forwards to any encounter that would happen in the future.
The door scrapped against the floor as a man with brown hair pushed forward with a grunt. The first thing that hit him was the odd smell, coupled with the unruly papers. He saw the bottle of near empty baby oil, its contents spilled all over the papers, staining them with a silvery color. Eyebrows knitted in confusion and he picked up a sheet to gaze at through glasses. With one last sniff, he exited the room. Walking back to his previous spot, he sat down beside a woman with thick, black wavy hair and beady eyes. A baby laughed in her arms.
“So John,” the woman said, “I was wondering when I’d get to come up with you and perform?” An Asian accent penetrated through her voice and out onto her words.
‘That smell is familiar, but who’d wanna have a shag in there?’ came the confused man’s thoughts.
John looked at the women. “Oh, well, uh, that’s up to Mick to decide, not me.” John’s eyes fell upon another man who sat on the sidelines. Hunched like a weird angle and could be considered some-what awkward in length, shape, and size, John watched the skinny body. It was staring straight at Mick. This stare puzzled John as he followed its line of vision repeatedly. Even though his brain was an endless haven of delayed thoughts and sleep pressured nerves, he had not the foggiest idea why Pete stared.
“Why’s he staring at Mick all of a sudden?” John said to himself.