I am so damn late.
I saw the pic!challenge and I wanted to immediately participate, but unfortunately, I had nothing at the time-- or it was all taken up by me writing Stones fics like crazy. Hope I'm not too late.
Title: Meet The Band, Fight The Women
Rating: PG
Pairings: Implied Pete/Roger, implied Pete/Mick Jagger
Time Period: 1964
Word Count: 1000
Warnings: Wee bit of violence
Disclaimer: If I owned the Who or the other band in here, they would hate me forever and ever.
Summary: Pete waits to the band and takes into account he'll have to fight off the girls around him.
This was inspired by a small conversation with clarey_h and I decided to expand on it.
Based on this picture.
If one took a quick survey around the over-crowded room, one could notice the tall, angular body that stood out, as though it was a blotch of black ink on a stark-white canvas.
Pete wasn’t sure what prompted him to interim in this room, asphyxiating and drowning amongst the individual girls. The room was slick with natural heat, breaching through cotton-threaded clothes, sweaty-knuckled fingers. There was so much-- for a lack of better wording-- estrogen in this room. Teaming with adolescent girls entering through their own sexual phase and revolution, getting to know what maneuvers their small bodies possessed.
Pete couldn’t really annex to them. He didn’t have what they had. He never possessed the small and soft body of a woman, gauzy curves sanding into their bodies. He didn’t experience what they normally felt-- but now, he could relate. He was abiding to see the same band that they were lined up for; the waiting had come to be routine for these girls, the notion of seeing this coveted band would bring tremors to them, seize their lungs in panic and conk out their conscious into soft darkness from panic.
Pete uses his height to his leeway, standing solid like calcium. What Pete hadn’t been expecting was that he couldn’t drop his guitar. He had absent-mindedly became attached to it, bringing it with him almost everywhere. His excuse was that he was iterating it, tuning its vocal strings and use his fingers to talk to them, striking up a conversation only he and the guitar knew. But really, could one expect to approach a crowd like this and not want some type of protection from the inexorable surge of women and stiletto heels? He didn’t want the unfortunate honor of getting perforated by one of those tonight.
Pete watched the nameless girls’ faces unrelentingly, silently communicating to his brain which would be more quick to assert a violent change, the ones that would be carelessly tossed aside for the others. Which ones would be the most willing to shatter the atmosphere and leave the broken pieces behind for the others to cut themselves on so that she can make her way up there first?
The door. Opening up to the mass of women seemed like diving into the Arctic Ocean without equipment. The atmosphere flies back to its occluded storm of feet moving, a herd of women, their own animal, surging forwards to catch the door. Pete knew if he didn’t get a hold on something fast, these girls would overpower and subjugate him until he was nothing but a pile of blood and mangled carcass, marred by stiletto imprints. Pete couldn’t capaciously see what was going on, his vision being tossed around as bodies ground past him. Pete can’t gather enough strength to turn around and go against the unceremonious girls.
They’re screaming, whizzing past his ears at a high celerity, but he can’t make them out. He finds a wall as he stumbles through the crowd, hoping to find leverage on the wall. While he’s fretting over his own health at stake from the stilettos, he absently notes he held onto his guitar. A girl, with no sympathy for his well-being, smashes right past him, whirling his guitar and jerking his arm, causing the chain reaction for him to fortuitously pull his arm, trying to stop but it comes out to antipode: he smashes it against the wall, the loud intonations spiraling over the loud screams of the girls.
The violent distortion of the guitar halts the girls around him, their eyes wide like brass buttons. Pete notes that he can see the well-oiled agency turning and churning in their minds. All of their conscious thoughts fall from their steady walls, crashing into their furnace of thoughts about what he will do. They’re afraid he might hit them with it. Pete acquiesces his mind to smirk.
He takes a step forward and like a tangoing dance, they react, moving from his eyes to the side of him. They’re wary animals now, fastidiously checking if there is danger. Pete sees the damage done to his guitar and he lightly raises it. There are small gasps and they scramble back farther. Pete straightens and walks, his shoulder solidified in his stance and he straightens his spine. The door in which they surged forwards to approaches him, smiling toothily at him and welcoming him. It is obviously silently thankful it was not destroyed. The women sharply stare.
Pete walks through the door and knows they won’t follow him, too afraid that they’ll become rubble under his guitar. He marches past the corridor. There was a sudden urge to turn back or just take out a cigarette and smoke through an entire pack, desiring nicotine to soothe him. He sees the door that leads him to what he wants, what he had been waiting for outside in that sweaty, estrogen and hormone-threaded room. There is a plaque on the door, reading ‘the Stones’ and Pete feels airy.
Something constitutes in his chest, and he can’t help but make a comparison.
He remembers his own singer. The lithe frame, though small, and compacted with sinewy muscles, could be hot-tempered. He saw the arches and delineation, sharply jutting out and making themselves known. The slick bowl-cut hair, though starting to fray outwards. Roger was something that seemed like it passed every decade: he held a gala something with him, always catching Pete’s eye, whether it was for the right or wrong reasons.
Then Pete made another thought: he saw Mick and why he was currently beguiling him: a thin waist, almost freakishly feminine. The slight strut combined with a walk. A broad face, delicate features that hadn’t seen the diddly side of a fist. Immaculate fingers and a lissome girlish figure. It was an aciculate contrast, but Pete liked them anyways.
Pete decided he would take advantage of making it all this way, propelling with his fingers, he headed inside the dressing room.
Title: Meet The Band, Fight The Women
Rating: PG
Pairings: Implied Pete/Roger, implied Pete/Mick Jagger
Time Period: 1964
Word Count: 1000
Warnings: Wee bit of violence
Disclaimer: If I owned the Who or the other band in here, they would hate me forever and ever.
Summary: Pete waits to the band and takes into account he'll have to fight off the girls around him.
This was inspired by a small conversation with clarey_h and I decided to expand on it.
Based on this picture.
If one took a quick survey around the over-crowded room, one could notice the tall, angular body that stood out, as though it was a blotch of black ink on a stark-white canvas.
Pete wasn’t sure what prompted him to interim in this room, asphyxiating and drowning amongst the individual girls. The room was slick with natural heat, breaching through cotton-threaded clothes, sweaty-knuckled fingers. There was so much-- for a lack of better wording-- estrogen in this room. Teaming with adolescent girls entering through their own sexual phase and revolution, getting to know what maneuvers their small bodies possessed.
Pete couldn’t really annex to them. He didn’t have what they had. He never possessed the small and soft body of a woman, gauzy curves sanding into their bodies. He didn’t experience what they normally felt-- but now, he could relate. He was abiding to see the same band that they were lined up for; the waiting had come to be routine for these girls, the notion of seeing this coveted band would bring tremors to them, seize their lungs in panic and conk out their conscious into soft darkness from panic.
Pete uses his height to his leeway, standing solid like calcium. What Pete hadn’t been expecting was that he couldn’t drop his guitar. He had absent-mindedly became attached to it, bringing it with him almost everywhere. His excuse was that he was iterating it, tuning its vocal strings and use his fingers to talk to them, striking up a conversation only he and the guitar knew. But really, could one expect to approach a crowd like this and not want some type of protection from the inexorable surge of women and stiletto heels? He didn’t want the unfortunate honor of getting perforated by one of those tonight.
Pete watched the nameless girls’ faces unrelentingly, silently communicating to his brain which would be more quick to assert a violent change, the ones that would be carelessly tossed aside for the others. Which ones would be the most willing to shatter the atmosphere and leave the broken pieces behind for the others to cut themselves on so that she can make her way up there first?
The door. Opening up to the mass of women seemed like diving into the Arctic Ocean without equipment. The atmosphere flies back to its occluded storm of feet moving, a herd of women, their own animal, surging forwards to catch the door. Pete knew if he didn’t get a hold on something fast, these girls would overpower and subjugate him until he was nothing but a pile of blood and mangled carcass, marred by stiletto imprints. Pete couldn’t capaciously see what was going on, his vision being tossed around as bodies ground past him. Pete can’t gather enough strength to turn around and go against the unceremonious girls.
They’re screaming, whizzing past his ears at a high celerity, but he can’t make them out. He finds a wall as he stumbles through the crowd, hoping to find leverage on the wall. While he’s fretting over his own health at stake from the stilettos, he absently notes he held onto his guitar. A girl, with no sympathy for his well-being, smashes right past him, whirling his guitar and jerking his arm, causing the chain reaction for him to fortuitously pull his arm, trying to stop but it comes out to antipode: he smashes it against the wall, the loud intonations spiraling over the loud screams of the girls.
The violent distortion of the guitar halts the girls around him, their eyes wide like brass buttons. Pete notes that he can see the well-oiled agency turning and churning in their minds. All of their conscious thoughts fall from their steady walls, crashing into their furnace of thoughts about what he will do. They’re afraid he might hit them with it. Pete acquiesces his mind to smirk.
He takes a step forward and like a tangoing dance, they react, moving from his eyes to the side of him. They’re wary animals now, fastidiously checking if there is danger. Pete sees the damage done to his guitar and he lightly raises it. There are small gasps and they scramble back farther. Pete straightens and walks, his shoulder solidified in his stance and he straightens his spine. The door in which they surged forwards to approaches him, smiling toothily at him and welcoming him. It is obviously silently thankful it was not destroyed. The women sharply stare.
Pete walks through the door and knows they won’t follow him, too afraid that they’ll become rubble under his guitar. He marches past the corridor. There was a sudden urge to turn back or just take out a cigarette and smoke through an entire pack, desiring nicotine to soothe him. He sees the door that leads him to what he wants, what he had been waiting for outside in that sweaty, estrogen and hormone-threaded room. There is a plaque on the door, reading ‘the Stones’ and Pete feels airy.
Something constitutes in his chest, and he can’t help but make a comparison.
He remembers his own singer. The lithe frame, though small, and compacted with sinewy muscles, could be hot-tempered. He saw the arches and delineation, sharply jutting out and making themselves known. The slick bowl-cut hair, though starting to fray outwards. Roger was something that seemed like it passed every decade: he held a gala something with him, always catching Pete’s eye, whether it was for the right or wrong reasons.
Then Pete made another thought: he saw Mick and why he was currently beguiling him: a thin waist, almost freakishly feminine. The slight strut combined with a walk. A broad face, delicate features that hadn’t seen the diddly side of a fist. Immaculate fingers and a lissome girlish figure. It was an aciculate contrast, but Pete liked them anyways.
Pete decided he would take advantage of making it all this way, propelling with his fingers, he headed inside the dressing room.