And thank you again to festive_tights for answering all my questions. (:
Title: One More Try
Disclaimer: I write this crap for free. I do not intend to exploit the Rolling Stones (in the financial sense, anyway) and I have no legal rights to them. Thank you.
Warning: A bit of violence e.g. people with big mouths getting smacked upside the head, the usual f-bombs galore, drinking and toking, and OH YEAH SOME DIRTY SEX
Summary: Sexual tension in the recording studio. You know what happens next.
Word Count: 2565
Mick had always wanted to get it on in an unlikely place, a forbidden place, for instance, a recording studio. It was just Keith and Mick and the yellow incandescent lights that lit up the tiled hallways after hours; Keith sat in a chair in one of the studio’s spare rooms, hunched over his guitar in one of his fits of productivity.
It was doubly thrilling, too, because it was doubly forbidden, this thing between the two of them.
He leaned up against the doorframe, crossing his arms and waiting for some acknowledgement of his presence. Keith looked up, half-interested, and scanned fuzzily around the room before he finally caught sight of the spindly figure watching him from the doorway. Mick noticed the bottle of scotch crouched on the desk, in which only a thin strip of amber liquid remained. This sight raised his hopes a good deal. The drunker Keith was, the easier it would be to tempt him.
“Oh, you’re still here,” Keith said flatly, before going back to his guitar. Mick advanced into the room and took a commanding stance over Keith, crossing his arms again. He grasped mutely at words and found none, so he said nothing.
After another thirty seconds’ oblivious silence, Keith looked up again, his brow knitted in mild irritation. “What do you want?” He turned and fumbled for a pad of paper and a pencil off of the writing desk nearby and balanced the paper on his knee.
“Oh, you know,” said Mick.
The words held all the menace of a gauntlet thrown between them. The meaning suddenly sunk in and Keith stopped in the middle of jotting down a chord sequence. He frowned and kept his eyes on the paper.
“Come on, babe. We’ve got all night. The whole place is ours.” Mick slid his fingers underneath the fringe of hair that hung down the nape of Keith’s neck.
“Just because it happened a few—” Keith bit off his own sentence, stabbing indiscriminate holes into the pad of paper. He tensed his shoulders in a firm wall and his hands trembled in white-knuckled fury.
“Won’t you even look at me, love?” Mick coaxed in the sickly-sweet voice he knew Keith hated. He escalated the situation by locking his arms around Keith from behind and pressing his lips to the side of Keith’s neck. The other man grunted and tried to shove him away.
Mick would not be deterred. He kept one leg on the ground and lifted one knee, pressing it sharply into Keith’s lap and pushing himself against the side of Keith’s body. He was filled with a sour belligerence, the need to provoke some kind of reaction at whatever cost. The pencil in Keith’s hand pressed so hard to the paper that it snapped clean in half. Before Mick had a chance to straddle him fully, Keith was on his feet, hauling Mick upward along with him, holding him within reach; in a split second their eyes met and Mick saw the heavy, drunken fury there—
A fist connected with the front of Mick’s skull so hard that his face went numb. The shock sent him reeling, knees buckling and all conscious thought walloped out of his brain. His mind was an endless, blank, white-hot landscape of pain, and from a thousand miles away his stupid, useless heart was still beating, spreading and recirculating and perpetuating the pain like it had no idea what was good for it.
For a minute he stayed there, curled pathetically on the floor, and clutched his face as the pain began to bleed through the dullness. He was dimly aware of clammy warm liquid trickling into his palms—maybe his skull was bashed in and his brains were finally seeping out. It felt strangely marvelous to feel pieces of his own life fall into his hands drop by drop. He hadn’t been punched like this in forever, and part of him wanted to settle in, right here in the floor, and feel the world fade away until there was nothing. That’s what Keith did, more and more these days—he pushed himself to the edge and came crawling back, choked and then released by the grip of the drugs, and all anyone could do was watch and feel utterly sick.
Apparently Mick had no such privilege. Hands—the same ones that had sent him to the ground—were touching him, closing around his shoulders, pulling him out of himself, denying him even a moment’s self-centered misery. His skull was cracked in fifty places and the voice seemed to be prying his head apart every time the sound waves hit his eardrums. He didn’t have to answer, and he didn’t even try to decipher the words that were being directed to him. What could Keith do? Punch him again?
He stayed half-conscious, noting with dazed interest as a pair of arms folded him to Keith’s body and he was slung into the air, head lolling on Keith’s shoulder as he moved weightlessly through space. Somewhere below was the sound of footsteps connecting with the ground, and changes in light and dark registered vaguely through the slits of his swollen eyelids. He was being transported; where, he didn’t know or care, as long as it was Keith anchoring him to the known world.
His body made contact with something plush and soft above floor level. He was lying prone on one of the studio couches, Keith standing over him. The room was dark and the sole light from the ceiling fixtures strung along the hallway reached through the door, silhouetting the dark shape of Keith’s body. The figure knelt down beside him and the hands were on him again, this time in a decidedly salacious manner: running fingers beneath the hem of his shirt and wrenching him free, then to his belt buckle, relieving him of his jeans and underclothes. His head was throbbing and bruised, and Keith made no effort to be gentle as he finished undressing the singer. With every fresh jolt of pain came a different kind of throb, a dull heat stirring between his legs as Keith handled his body brusquely. He whimpered through bloodied lips when his cock, growing harder by the second, came free and met the air-conditioned chill of the room. He wriggled experimentally against the fabric of the couch to confirm he was completely naked. It was frustratingly dim and Mick’s face was still too sore to open his eyes very wide, but as well as he could tell, Keith was now upright, tearing off his own clothes with the same intensity as he had Mick’s. Now the guitarist was bare from the waist up, his muscles catching stray stripes of light as he moved to pull off his jeans.
Mick was ready for him; their bodies collided in a burst of heat and Mick seized him by his hair to pull him down for a vicious, savage kiss. He moaned against Keith’s mouth, clutching his arms around Keith’s back as if to shield himself from the pain coursing through his own body. Keith bit and sucked carelessly at Mick’s lips, panting raggedly and rustling Mick about beneath him like a rag doll. He came up for air and rested his head on the couch seat next to Mick’s while sliding his palms beneath the other man’s knife-edged shoulder blades, down the slim-hipped torso, clutching Mick’s skinny backside in his hands and maneuvering his pelvis for better access. His breath was hot and manic against the side of Mick’s face as he attempted to line himself up properly. Mick’s entire body was so swamped with sensations that he felt as if he could glow in the dark. Without thinking, his hand shot down between them and found Keith’s shaft, guiding it to his opening, and Keith plunged into him. Pain and pleasure were identical to Mick at this point and he pushed back, thrashing underneath the guitarist’s weight, feeling the abrasive hip bones dig into his own hips with each thrust, listening to the jagged gusts of breath and the deep noises Keith made in the back of his throat every time he stroked in and out.
“You like this?” snarled a voice in his ear, rough as gravel and filled with thirst.
A plaintive sound escaped from between Mick’s lips. He tried to nod and his head began to pound harder. It was all the same, each wave of feeling as Keith pounded into him. He wasn’t sure if he was going to come or pass out. Digging his nails into the small of Keith’s back urged the guitarist on, even faster and rougher than before, and a sensation seared beneath Mick’s skin. His head was going to explode, he was going to turn completely inside out—he just needed Keith to keep talking to him. He needed that voice in his ear, cutting through the bluntness of the pain and shaking him to his core.
“Do you?” he managed between gasps.
There was a pause in which the only noises were their breaths and the sound of their bodies rubbing and scraping violently against one another.
“I—you—only because it’s you. I don’t—like—fucking—men—”
“I make you hard, don’t I?”
“Evidently,” Keith growled.
“You can’t resist me.”
“Yes. Harder. Keith, oh God…”
Keith hissed Mick’s name as he pumped at a deliriously fast pace, dropping the word from his lips like a spell, stirring white heat at the base of Mick’s spine and extending to every inch of flesh, setting him ablaze. He groaned and arched his back as he came, and Keith’s orgasm overlapped with his. The guitarist shoved himself inside of Mick to the hilt and held the other man’s hips in a vice grip, keeping them both completely still as they finished together. They ended up like that, in a sweaty heap on the couch, one too inebriated and the other too battered to move.
“Keith,” Mick whispered.
“Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t crashed.”
“I’m still awake,” said Keith. All the biting ire had gone out of his voice. He just sounded exhausted, and his body language confirmed this as he hauled himself laboriously up from where he lay stretched over Mick’s body. Mick wished they could stay like this, but there was no choice except to let Keith go—he couldn’t imagine trying to explain what was going on to the unlucky person who walked into the studio tomorrow morning and found two naked men sleeping squished together on the couch. Keith half-stumbled, half-rolled off of the couch and pulled and buttoned and zipped himself sleepily back into his clothes.
Yawning, Mick felt around for his rumpled boxer shorts and put them back on as best he could. He contemplated finding his pants next, but his body protested any expenditure of energy and he lay there motionless.
“Be back in a minute,” he heard Keith say. Mick closed his eyes and had slipped under before he knew it.
He woke up with a small start, the kind of sleepy alarm that comes from not knowing if you’ve been out for two minutes or two hours. Keith was near, sitting with his back against the edge of the couch, legs crossed and shoulders back, an impeccably-rolled joint pinched between a thumb and forefinger. From where Mick lay, he was near enough to see the details of Keith’s face: from what he could make out in the faint light, Keith’s eyes were red and bloodshot, more dramatically so than a half-smoked blunt could do all on its own. The guitarist was staring stonily into space, but with that wide-eyed, weary, watery expression that Mick had only seen a few times in his life but recognized instantly. He had never caught Keith crying, but had stumbled on the after-effects; they would avoid eye contact and both would pretend that nothing was going on, and all the while Mick would be putting on his over-the-top, clownish charm to try and cheer Keith up, making it painfully obvious that he was aware of what Keith had been doing. Now he wasn’t sure if he could pull his face into any kind of recognizable expression. His features felt like a sore, grotesque plaster mask caked to what had once been his forehead, eyes, cheeks, nose, lips and chin.
“How do I look?” he drawled feebly. Keith’s eyes snapped onto him at once.
“Like tenderized beef,” said Keith.
“Ah.” Mick touched a finger to his bottom lip and inhaled sharply. “Well, that’s not a good look for the band, is it.”
“Here.” Keith scooted over to Mick’s side and offered the joint to Mick’s mouth. Mick breathed in deeply, trying not to think about the pair of lips that had been clamped around the joint a few moments ago. He blew out a stream of smoke rings with his tongue, which had escaped injury, and watched them waft away over his head.
Keith rested an elbow on the flat of the couch and propped his chin up with one hand. “Mick. We need to settle this.”
“I think you bloody well did that already,” Mick said. “I got the point, thanks.”
“But—I didn’t—fucking hell. I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t’ve…”
“Nah, I deserved it.”
“No. But you do realize the position you’re putting me in?”
“On top?” Mick mumbled slyly. “Why, that’s the place to be.”
“I’m trying to have a fucking conversation.”
“Keep trying,” Mick said, his voice bright and mockingly encouraging. Keith scoffed to himself, then swiveled around so that his back was to the singer. He took another drag on the joint and cleared his throat.
“What’ve I got to do to keep you happy?”
Mick blinked. The words swam by too fast before he could understand their meaning. “Er—what?”
“What…what do you want from me, Mick? I’d give you anything—well, maybe not anything, you’re too big of a prat for that, but…”
“I just want you,” Mick murmured.
“So…what? Have I got to shag the living daylights out of you every few months to keep you off me? Will that work?”
“Are you being serious?”
Keith sighed. “Fuck if I know.”
After another few minutes’ constricting silence, Mick sat up and started stuffing himself clumsily into his clothes. Keith turned and watched him bemusedly.
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” Mick croaked, shimmying into his jeans and rising unsteadily to his feet. Keith jumped up, a bit too quickly, and lurched to one side before regaining his balance.
“I can’t let you go out looking like that,” Keith said. He took hold of Mick’s elbow as if to guide him, but in reality that was now the only thing keeping the guitarist from toppling over again.
“I’m fine. You’re the one falling down.”
“Come on, we’ll go home—”
“Can we go to your place?”
“Come along, love,” Mick said, brushing his lips to Keith’s cheek.
They made quite a beautifully decrepit pair, one fall-down drunk, the other sporting a bloody nose and two black eyes, and both significantly stoned, staggering down the hallway and out of the building. They clung to each other as they went in search of a late-night taxicab that would take them home, where they would crash in the same bed and wake up laughing at it all, just like old times.