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This is from last night. I wrote this a while ago and I do like it. I don't know, but it seems that I'm writing some really angsty stories lately. Torture, angst, abuse, possible death, all that good things. I ain't even halfway done with this.
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Title: Know Your Place
Pairing: Andrew/Mick, Mick/Keith, slight Brian/Keith
Disclaimer: I would be rich if I owned the Stones. Sadly, I do not.
Oh yeah, I should put this around in 1964.
He leaned back and rested on the headboard. A hand rose and placed itself on his forehead. Bangs of wispy blond hair were removed from his face.
Andrew’s eyes gazed out, scrutinizing the scenery. Covers lay strung out and battered across the surface of his bed. Andrew’s face stays calm. He contemplates the as the thoughts of past days merge into little details for his mind to process. It was a habit his mind tended to motion.
He remembered: that breezy day of pointless eagerness and the frilly things that made his stomach feel like it was quaky. The days where Andrew would stare into that big, empty glass window of the studio and watch a lithe vessel in which that sensuous voice bulges from. It reflects like a beautiful brand of tenderness and sensuality.
Andrew would slip from the booth and allow himself to watch that body.
Brief moments were dedicated to thoughts when Andrew briefly wondered what was so appealing. He switched his blue eyes up to the door and contemplates. This progressed a question; manifesting into many pointless questions of doubt and uninhibited desires. It was irritating, like sand paper grating against skin.
This person in question belonged to a singer. A singer with grace but it was a sloppy grace that tended to be miscalculated. Andrew was only a few months younger, but age never made a difference to him.
Andrew’s fingers twitched restlessly, digging themselves into the fine linen sheets that were exposed. It wasn’t soon before long Andrew decided to make it his. That only his eyes could greedily and selfishly watch and indulge his mind.
The boy, who only sang the blues, was something that Andrew strives for. Those loose straws that Andrew grasped for with the leverage of self determination and satisfaction for himself. The boys name at the end of his tongue.
The boy introduced himself as Mick; a thin frame with gangly limbs of a boy. Brown strands of light chocolaty hair sat perched above two expressive baby blue eyes. Alabaster skin lay stretched over jutting bones and was further paled from that brown hair.
This was a strange young lad. He looked male, yet an uncanny appearance of a female. It was like he was an androgynous being; male and female.
Andrew would entirely embrace this, not to mention that he had another task on hand: a band that he was supposed to pull through and put out into the open market for the world to selfishly devour. A few strings pulled, some ads and finally it worked. This fledgling band was out for the open world to gaze at. The Rolling Stones were now an international sensation.
Mick was out there performing and opening up his body for the masses. Andrew had envisioned that only he could view it. To trap this rare paragon in his woven net and to harbor it for his own delight.
Andrew sank down into the heat lit bed. His eyes caught sight of a body. Andrew’s eyes opened a little, still crouched at a steady, half lidded gaze. There stood Mick awkwardly hovering in the doorway. A smirk graced Andrew’s face, but he didn’t want to show it on his face.
“Come here,” he spoke with a commanding tone, but lightly.
Mick bit his lip and hesitantly stepped towards Andrew. The bed sagged under new weight as he got closer. “I’m glad you came,” Andrew coos softly to the other and tenderly reaches out to smooth Mick’s hair from his face.
‘Stay,” he told Mick. “You’re not going back to your room tonight.”
A brief emotion flashed across Mick’s face but quickly dissipated like steam. Slowly, Andrew dragged his fingers in a caressing manor across Mick’s face; slowly dipping them across the soft fibers that made up Mick’s hair.
Andrew couldn’t take it anymore; he had to have it and would do anything for it. Feeble touches and lingering glances were the first of many advancements towards Mick. Perhaps he was to subtle and vague in these approaches and should make it much more known. Finally. Andrew took out light brutality against his prey; that pretty haired boy would soon become aware of these advancements.
One day under a blue, cloudless sky, Andrew had taken up matters. Mick was sleeping: cool dreams flickering across his subconscious as he slumbered peacefully and obliviously to the world around him. Eyes slowly pried open and the world poured into his mind as Mick became aware of all that was around him.
Something was clasped around Mick’s arms. Wrists felt as though they were coated with something. Some type of fabric material. They wouldn’t move much after Mick tugged on them. Finally peering upwards, Mick realized his arms were bound and tied above his head. Fear leaked into his stomach.
“Hello Mick,” this cool phrase dripped into his ears.
Eyes darted forewords. “What the fu--”
“Mick,” Andrew interrupted him. “Since you’re up and out, I think it’s time to get down to business.”
Eyebrows knotted together in vast confusion.
“I am going to make you mine. This is just me claiming my territory.”
Confusion faded, replaced by disbelief. “You’re what?”
“I’m going to ******** you Mick.” Andrew’s tone is simple as his fingers drifted towards the fabrics that encased Mick’s body.
Mick began to thrash and call out, but his sounds are cut short with a sharp and swift backhand to the face. These sounds become strangled and putout in Mick’s throat as his head is twisted to the side. He sucks in a sharp breath, heat pulsating in throbs around his cheek.
“I don’t want to have to harm you Mick,” Andrew gently coos. “Especially with such a pretty face like yours.”
This energy that Andrew pounds into Mick’s body with hostility through sex and pain. Progressively brewing in strangled screams and grunts.
Through this fury, Andrew feels God. He felt this warm body around him. This struggling and fury was maddening as spilled and spiraled downwards into Mick through waves of uninhibited ecstasy and pleasurable sensations. It swirled feverishly around his body.
His brutality is displayed so open on Mick’s body. Fingers left scorched trials of red that would soon sprout into little plants all over that pearly skin. Blotches of the would be flowers had tarnished this skin. It acted like a sign. A picket that told both that Andrew had staked his claim of this beauty. He had caught quite an exotic thing.
Warm breath caresses and slides around Mick’s ear as the touch makes him recoil. He shudders into silence as a wet muscle trails in and out around the outer shell. A warm stinging sensation burns into Mick’s eyes as he desperately tries to stop it.
“If you so much as ******** breathe a word of this to anyone,” Andrew calmly whispers, but with malice coating his words. “You’re out of this band and I’ll ******** kill you.”
This wicked, feverish relationship that was crafted only served as a power source that Andrew had sculpted. It held like an anchor to Mick.
A grin splits Andrews ace, roguish and sadistic as he is pleased.
It now served as an anchor to Mick. Anything that Mick never agreed to what Andrew did, he gave him a look: it spoke menacing and soundless warheads as to what would transpire later. Mick would shudder into silence and just shut down; the way Andrew liked it.
But one day, this almost comes tumbling down.
Almost.
Something happened that Andrew never carved out a place for in his plans: it came in the form of little musician. A guitar player that looked as thought they were awkward. Mr. Unhealthy as they liked to call him. It just so happened that this little musician was best friends with Mick. Keith is what they all called him.
Andrew would be seated lowly in his seat and watch as Keith would bring light to Mick’s eyes. Andrew’s stomach would flop and clench.
Andrew knew that Mick could stray away and so Andrew made sure that his little nymphet would be thoroughly taught to never drift; but this Keith could easily make all of what Andrew has pushed into Mick’s mind just crumble and pour out of Mick’s mind like a leak. It caused heated moments of friction to course over his mind.
He noted those mahogany, brown eyes lingering on Mick’s form. Those narrowed eyes and the study of Mick’s eyes: when they would dart away. Keith’s eyes held soundless questions buried in their depths. Those drastic or small movements from Mick caused Keith to notice, no matter how bad.
Keith just doesn’t get it. Something never felt right; it was like a foreboding and menacing fight would take place. That silence before the killer minced their victim.
It would blow up, this very energy. Keith ad been able to catch Mick before he escaped. An elevator waiting to whirl Mick away.
--
“Mick,” he called out, hoping to catch the older boys attention.
Mick turned around and his eyes lit up seeing the approaching figure of his best friend.
Keith came to a halt as he came closer. “What the hell was all that downstairs? You just went white when Loogy came in.”
Mick sighed and slightly leaned on the elevator door as it closed. He bit his lip and stands in that spot. He wanted to say something. Anything! But he couldn’t, not with Andrew and his hawk like gaze that penetrated his very being. Keith’s eyes trailed Mick up and down, but they caught onto Mick’s wrists. Slight blue and red tones mar the area.
“It’s just,” Mick says as he struggles and bites back. “Me ’n Loog are at a… a bit of a disagreement.”
“And yer hands?” Keith reaches over to gently lift them.
“What about them?”
“What happened?”
Anxiety swells into Mick’s chest. “Well, y’know.” Mick is hesitant. “Y’know how them fans could get. Grabbin’ at you. And the microphone sometimes gets caught on my wrists. It’s not that bad.”
Keith switches his relentless eyes around Mick’s wrist: painted with dark colors. “And I know that’s a crock of s**t.” Keith looks up and locks eyes with Mick. “Yer lyin’ to me Michael.”
Mick doesn’t move. Keith’s eyebrows furrow in suspicion and confusion. Mick knows when Keith is being serious and when he is, he uses his real name.
“It’s just…” Mick starts, but cuts himself off.
“It’s what?”
“I just… that… just not tonight Keith.”
Keith’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. "Why? Why not now?"
“Perhaps around another time.”
Keith blows out a sigh and knows that Mick can’t be pressed for any more information. He then gazes around the surroundings. The large empty hallway suddenly seems much bigger than both had thought.
“Lets get out of this hallway,” Mick said, hoping to drive off the attention that has been placed in his person. “Uh, don’t really want to be out actually.”
Keith lets a grin file onto his face. “Yeah.” Briefly looking around, a blank look etches in Keith’s face.
“Oh yeah, where is yer room at Mick? I was thinkin’ that we could go there.”
Fear curled around Mick’s stomach. His eyes briefly widened a fraction before settling down.
“No!” Keith looked at him strangely. “Uh, lets got to your room. Mines a little too far away.”
Keith still quizzically gazed at him. Suspicion was mirrored in Keith’s eyes. Something churns in his gut, but Keith isn’t sure which way to interpret it. Fear? Worry? Keith pushes this all aside.
Keith takes Mick’s hand and pulls him down the hallway. Mick lets Keith do this. Feeling a hand that’s gentle and warm, not vicious, yet tender hands that caress him in all the wrong places. It feels really nice.
Jealousy. It’s a mean b*****d. Pulsating and dishing out that wonderful poison. Andrew watches from a distance as Keith draws Mick away down the corridor. He hates it. Loathes it. There a monster already eating at him by seeing this action as his chest tightens.
Mick was slipping again. The various looks and actions Mick had done. Andrew knew that he would have to put him back in that wonderfully frightened place.
This is a touch that Mick can like. He welcomes it and doesn’t recoil. Not the ones that press purple petals on his body. His stomach feels light and the air a little unsteady., but not the ones where it’s being knocked out of his body until he’s wheezing and gagging.
Keith’s door gradually shapes from a blotch to a solid surface as both come closer into view. This doesn’t hold that destructive aura hanging around it. Keith’s door is a brown color, the number 145B plastered brightly to the sanded down surface. Mick doesn’t lift his head as Keith fishes around his pockets for the keys.
Glancing upwards, Mick notes that Keith is having trouble in unlocking the door. “You have to turn it Keith. It doesn’t unlock if you only stick the key in.”
The lock signals the desired sound and both shuffle in. When the expected sound of an audible door hitting the frame to signal the door has closed, Mick releases the breath he was holding. Clothes are sprawled out everywhere. Random assorted items lie lonely on the thick, but short carpet.
Keith takes the time to turn the lock but stops and peers at the door handle. Something just feels off. Like a menacing trap had been plotted and he’s not sure why.
It seems as though sharp silence rings inside the room as both are unsure what to say. Keith slips a hand over to his pocket. Realizing that he doesn’t have that familiar presence of a soft pack of cigarette in his pocket.
“I think you’ve pissed off Loogy Keith,” Mick breaks the silence, hoping it wouldn’t morph into those long silences, saturated with awkwardness and tense feelings.
Keith snorts. “ Yeh, so? ********’ deserves it.”
Mick bites back a bitter tongue to prevent a retort of, “Deserves more than that.”
“Least it ain’t Brian. He’s always in a bad mood.”
“When is he not upset about something?” Keith answers back.
Mick lets a chuckle fall past his lips and leans back on the bed.
“I’m gonna ring up room service,” Mick replies as he reaches for the phone.
“Ask them cats if they got any smokes,” Keith replies after looking through his drawers for his desired item.
“Besides that,” Mick asks distractedly. “You want anything’ else? Food? Clothes? Milk? Cheese?”
Keith’s face wrinkles in disdain as he hears the word ‘cheese’. Everyone in the band had already knew of Keith’s disgust for cheese. Keith swivels around on his feet and walks towards Mick.
Mick briefly gazes at Keith. He can’t help but think how lovely Keith looks. Just how the material outlines his body. He had even grown fond of the largeness of Keith’s ears and it w-- no.
What was he thinking? This was his best friend for ******** sake, his best mate! He wasn’t supposed to think like that. Mick quickly banished any thought of Keith that would lead into forbidden territory.
Something outside grasps at Keith’s attention. The large blue, crystal clear pool strikes Keith’s fancy.
“******** room service, let’s go to the pool.”
Eyebrows pushing together, Mick gazes at Keith. “The pool?” he asks, as though needing reassurance.”
“There’s nothing to do around here.” It did sound appealing and quite enjoyable after it had time to soak into Mick’s mind.
Both moved out of the room restlessly from the terrain of the messy room and headed towards the pool excitedly.
But no matter how hard he pushed it back, thoughts came rushing back and he couldn’t hold them away. Like a leaking faucet. Keith couldn’t carelessly cast these away from his attention and not notice those dark spots decorating and adorning Mick’s wrists.
Microphones don’t just suddenly decide to oppose and attack. There had to be something that Keith wasn’t getting. Missing print that was staring him right in the face. Not to mention how Andrew could wordlessly instill anxiety and a complete mood change in Mick with just one glance.
But now, Keith would leave it alone. He made many mental notes to confront Mick about this when neither one had any worries impacting their minds. But for now, Keith s attention back on the alluring sound of dipping into the pool.
--
Andrew slowly paced the kitchen. Sharp thoughts prod very vindictive at his mind. His fingers lightly, but slowly caress the table; the wood felt smooth as he slowly traced his fingers in absent paths and places.
Andrew stops to agitatedly suck on his shaky cigarette which is turning into a tower of ash. Smoke leaks from this pile, like a signaling bonfire. He couldn’t help but think that he had the appearance of one of those angry, smoke bellowing people that were portrayed in those wacky cartoons.
Blue eyes catch sight of an abandoned plate of eggs, cheese, and bacon. Andrew opens his mouth, but then snaps it shut. A dawning tumbles into his mind; he did think he had it under control. Juggling this little obsession and the millions of little balls that came with it.
He saw how he kept up with them. But then a change happens and this other ball fits in. It’s name is Keith and he is out of place. Keith disrupts his flow and paths. Like the planets had come to chaotic halt. He tensely reaches towards his mouth and plucks out the cigarette.
But as quickly as Andrew watched, the balls had become abandoned. They fell, shattering into millions of little pieces. Only the walls and lights were there to speculate on this subject. A bitter laugh tore through Andrew’s chest.
“That won’t happen,” he says staunchly. “No, I will never allow this. My plan won’t fall through.”
In a coarse of off hand violence, Andrew thrusts the abandoned plate of food off the table. It clattered and splintered in many little shards. He bitterly stared and quietly turned away.
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Current music is "If I Was A Dancer" (p. 2) by The Rolling Stones.
