life's hard when you're ridiculously nancy. (midnightsausage) wrote,
life's hard when you're ridiculously nancy.
midnightsausage

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The things I go through for you people...

Because I promised alison_12 fic tonight (or whenever it is for her), I felt I'd better deliver when I actually did get it finished. But then, what happened? My internet died. (not in an unfixable way, I just ran out of credit. Oops.) So here I am, in the computer rooms, at quarter to 12 at night, to post fic for you all. But especially Alison, because she has been waiting ages for it, and pestering me, and I kept ignoring it because I had huge fuck off writers block.

Aaaanyway.

Here 'tis. The second part of the Jawn/Bowie/Jagger fic. It's very long, and features fluffy Pete/Carl make-up sex (sort of) at the end. YES LOTS OF SEX YAYE. Also, it's not true. *disclaim disclaim disclaim*.

I'm just going to post it all again, if it's alright with you all. Because I can't remember where I left off, and I can't be bothered finding the link, and blah blah blah.

For the_other_kat, because it's her birthday (or was), and alison_12, because she pretty much "commissioned" it by telling me I had to slash David Bowie with someone. Like, a fucking long time ago.


"Well, maybe if you didn't fuck it up so much, I wouldn't need to be high to make sense of you!"

"Pete, the reason we're fucking up anyway is because you're high!"

John rolled his eyes at Gary. This was just one of the many spats between their frontmen that had been getting progressively worse as the tour went on, until some nights it seemed as if the two were going to rip each other apart with their verbal sparring. He and Gary had made an unspoken agreement that usually, this was Pete and Carl's problem, and to leave them to it. However, for John, tonight was just one night too many.

"Look, why don't you two just shut the fuck up, eh?"

Both Pete and Carl looked over at him, slightly shocked that they'd been interrupted. Even Gary seemed vaguely surprised that he'd intervened where he usually didn't feel the need.

"I'm so effing sick of it! You two should really sort your shit out right about now, or else I'm out!"

With that, John stormed off towards the dressing rooms at the end of the hallway, leaving his stunned bandmates standing in the corridor staring after him.

"What the fuck was that?"

Gary sighed. "I think that was a warning, mate."


John slammed the dressing room door behind him as he stomped into the room. Throwing himself down in one of the chairs, he scowled darkly at the bare wall; which, he fancied, was probably asking itself what it had done to deserve such a glare.

He sighed wearily; he was worrying about a wall's feelings, and was on the verge of comforting it and assuring it that it wasn't at fault.

"They're sending me potty, mate," he informed the wall instead. The wall, predictably, didn't reply.

"Someone else who ignores me. Great."

He decided he had to get out of there. Not just for his sanity's sake, but because the others would be coming back soon, and he didn't want to be asked what was "bothering" him, or, worse, have to deal with more of Pete and Carl's bickering. Grabbing one of their rejected setlist drafts from the floor, he nabbed the pen out of Pete's journal and scrawled a quick note telling them he'd headed out for a walk and not to worry, he'd get back to the hotel fine.

Spotting a roll of gaffa tape on the floor, he broke some off and went to tape the note to the wall he'd been musing over earlier. However, as he went to stick it down, his hand, curiously enough, went through the wall.

"Well, you're just full of secrets, aren't you my frien -"

John was cut off by a force behind the wall yanking the rest of his body forward to join his hand on the other side of the so-called "wall".


John looked around him curiously. After a dizzying fall through some sort of technicolour tunnel, he'd found himself in a room that looked remarkably like the one he'd just been pulled from. Same shape, same positioning of the door, very similar furniture…In fact, the only differences were the way the room looked slightly less worn, and the fact that none of their gear was in here. There was still an array of drink and drugs laid out on the table in the corner, but someone else's clothing and personal effects were scattered over the chairs and floor. A glittering catsuit that John was sure not even one of the exhibitionists in his band would try to pull off. Platform boots in a rather bizarre orange leather. And a collection of make up that covered the dressing table, mingled with the traces of cocaine obviously left by its owner when they left the room hurriedly.

Someone was coming. John could hear stumbling footfalls and hushed laughter from the corridor outside. Panicked, he stared wildly around the room, hoping for somewhere, anywhere to hide. Spotting a cupboard in one corner, he dashed over to it and dived in amongst a collection of disused stage costumes that smelt like theatre: make up, a little bit of sweat and, overpoweringly, must from being left in the cupboard a little too long. He carefully pulled the door closed behind him, but for curiosity's sake, left a tiny gap to peer through. Maybe the mysterious owner of the dressing room could shed some light on what the hell was going on here.

His dash into the depths of the cupboard was not a second too late, for the next moment the door burst open, and two figures fell through it, entangled in each other, before slamming it closed behind them. One of the figures had a hood of some sort over his hair, and his back to John, so was therefore unidentifiable, but the other, with vivid orange hair spiked up above his head with hairspray...

John bit back a gasp. David Bowie?? He was in David Bowie's dressing room?

But hang on, why was Bowie in his Aladdin Sane getup? Everyone knew he was a more serious, adult artist these days, what was going on there?

John realised this probably wasn't his main worry right now, when Bowie and his unidentified companion began kissing each other again, deeply. John flinched slightly, seeing where this was probably heading all too clearly, and not wanting to have to witness it.

"Mmph..." They broke off the kiss for a moment, and stood panting for a moment, still close together.

"Thought we'd never get away."

That voice, John thought...it sounds familiar.

“Don’t have long before they’ll come barging in here, though.”
“We can fix that though, hmm?”

The mysterious hooded companion untangled himself from David, then headed over to the door and clicked the lock closed, before heading back over to re-engage the other man in a deep kiss. One of David’s hands snuck around to cradle the back of his kissing partner’s head, inadvertently dislodging the hood obscuring his hair and face. As the two of them stumbled backwards (frighteningly closer to his hiding place, John noted), they turned so that the now revealed stranger was clearly displayed to John, who bit back a gasp.

No fucking way.

Mick fucking Jagger??

John had accepted that he’d obviously discovered a Dr Who-style time split, this dressing room his own personal Tardis, but this was something else. Of course, he knew they myths, that they’d been together, if only for one night, but this didn’t look like a one off romantic tryst.

More and more uncomfortable with the way he was forced to watch this scene playing itself out before him (true, he could have just shut his eyes, but what sort of self-respecting man gives up the opportunity of a free porn show, albeit a gay one?), John watched as Mick pulled out of the kiss, shrugged off the hooded coat and reached for the buttons on the front of David’s very tight trousers. Struggling slightly with it, he backed David up against the wall John had fallen through not that long ago.

Well, that answers that question, John thought absently in the corner of his mind that hadn’t been distracted by this surreal (veryfuckinghotahem) situation, and that had been worrying instead about how the fuck he was going to get back from…well, wherever it was that he was currently. Obviously the wall was not an option, considering the way David’s back collided rather solidly with it, as Mick finally managed to get his trousers undone, and yanked them down to about knee level, before obviously deciding it was just too hard to get them down any further, and falling to his knees.

As he watched Mick taking David’s cock into his mouth, John was reminded of a discussion they’d had on the bus one day…”I reckon Mick Jagger’d be great in bed.” “He’d definitely give a good blow job with those lips, for sure.” He couldn’t recall exactly who these observations were made by (Pete and Carl were top of his list of suspects, though), but whoever it was seemed to be right…Mick’s mouth definitely seemed to be doing a bang-up job of it. David’s head fell back onto the wall behind him, squashing the back of his immaculate hairdo (not that he seemed to care much), his mouth falling open as he let out a loud groan of appreciation while his hands fisted desperately in Mick’s long shaggy locks and oh God…he was NOT getting hard over this, he couldn’t be.

S’all a very surreal, vivid dream, he told himself, trying to remain calm. I’ll wake up any minute, and I’ll just be in another hotel room with Pete jumping on me trying to beg forgiveness for last night and…

“Oh fuck Mick, yes!”

Maybe not.

David was now tugging noticeably harder on Mick’s hair, while John could just see Mick’s tongue swirling around his cock as he slid up and down over it. With a sudden final cry, David’s thrusts forward abruptly stopped, his body tensing, then slumping back against the wall, panting as Mick gently (almost tenderly, John thought, confused…that hadn’t been something he’d been expecting from this particular partnership) cleaned up the last of David’s orgasm off his cock, until it slipped, soft, from his mouth.

David pulled him up from the floor into a deep, lingering kiss, and by now John had stopped denying the fact that he was incredibly aroused by the entire situation, and was on the verge of undoing his own now very tight pants, when the two of them broke off the kiss, gasping slightly, and headed over to the couch facing the cupboard John was hiding in. He decided against moving at all at this stage, anything at all would be noticed from the angle they were viewing the cupboard from.

They both sank down into the couch (which had at least a few more springs now than it did when John had first seen it), hands overlapping on Mick’s thigh. David’s hand began gradually sliding upwards towards Mick’s crotch. Mick made a little noise of what could almost be discontent.

“You don’t have to, Davey, you know.”
“But what if I want to?”

Mick grinned wickedly. “Then by all means, be my guest, Davey.”

David grinned back, reaching for the zip on Mick’s pants. Mick helpfully arched his hips up so David could pull his pants down to pool on the floor by his feet. Coaxing Mick’s cock free of his boxers, David began to stroke and pull it, gently at first, before starting to twist his wrist a bit faster and harder.

“Oh fuck…Jesus Christ…”

David leant over and planted a deep kiss on Mick’s lips as he continued to stroke his cock with an elegant, long-fingered hand. This muffled Mick’s moans marginally, but not entirely, and he finally broke free of the kiss with a desperate, almost sob-like cry.

“Fuuuck…Oh god, I love you Davey…”

He made a final thrust into David’s hand and then collapsed back onto the couch, panting heavily. David slowed his strokes until Mick’s cock was completely soft, then brought his hand, covered in Mick’s cum, up to his mouth and began licking it clean. Mick and John both made little noises of desperation, as Mick pulled David and his hand closer so that he could lick it as well. John shoved his own hand in his mouth, biting down on it to stop a groan escaping. A hand went down to his now aching cock, to cup it and rub against the front of his jeans, creating a pleasant sort of friction.

David finally lowered his hand, now clean, and put his head down on Mick’s shoulder.

“Love you too, Micky…”

Mick ducked his head down and placed a last, languid kiss on David’s mouth, then raised it again, and after pressing his lips to David’s forehead one last time, rested his head on top of David’s and closed his eyes. They both seemed to settle against each other, clearly falling asleep.

John realised that this was probably his chance to get out of there, but he was too close now to move, let alone try to find his way out. He hurriedly opened his jeans, and began rapidly stroking his cock. It didn’t take long before he was coming, biting hard on the hand that wasn’t around his cock to stop his moans, releasing himself onto the floor of the cupboard incriminatingly. He allowed himself a minute to regain his composure after such an intense orgasm, then he carefully wiped his hand on one of the costumes at the back of the cupboard and, checking through the gap in the door that the room’s two occupants were safely asleep, he crept out and went to the wall that had caused him so much trouble tonight.

He wasn’t sure if it was going to work, but it was worth a try. He reached out and put his hand on it, expecting it not to yield under him like it had for the slumbering couple earlier, but to his pleasant surprise, his hand went straight through it, yanking him after it abruptly.


He stumble-fell back through the wall, then immediately righted himself and observed his surroundings. Everything seemed back to normal; someone’s red jacket flung across the back of one of the chairs, one of Pete’s hats abandoned on a dressing table, a bottle of whiskey half-drunk on the floor by the sofa, Pete and Carl snogging on said sofa…

Wait.

John blinked slightly. Last time he’d seen his frontmen, they’d been at each other’s throats and it was all about to end in tears (although John wasn’t sure if they were going to be Pete’s, Carl’s or Gary’s)…and now they were sticking their tongues down each others’ throats and practically dry humping on the dressing room couch?

John retreated slowly to his wall, wondering if maybe he should get back in his cupboard, for safety or sanity’s sake. He backed up to the side wall of the cupboard, just in case.

“Fuck, Carl…”

Not again, for fuck’s sake! John thought exasperatedly. That would make 2 unwanted sex scenes he had somehow had the misfortune to be privy to tonight. Although maybe “unwanted” was the wrong word for it…

There was a gasp from the couch, and the body straddling the one sitting on the couch (John could only tell it was Carl because of the long hair and slightly more stocky frame, Carl was wearing one of Pete’s shirts for some reason, and they were both wearing jeans anyway), arched his back, then collapsed down onto Pete’s chest, burying his head in the space between Pete’s neck and shoulder. They both remained still for a moment save for the heavy pants and slight tremors shaking both their bodies still, then Carl disentangled himself from Pete and sank down next to him on the couch, unknowingly mirroring the pose Mick and David had been in so many years earlier in the very same spot. Pete swung an arm around Carl’s shoulders, pulling him closer, until Carl was snuggled into his chest once more. He planted a gentle kiss in Carl’s tousled and sweat-dampened hair, resting his chin comfortably on top of Carl’s head.

“Do love you, y’know Biggles.”

Carl sighed contentedly.

“Yeah, I know Pete,” he mumbled into Pete’s collarbone. “Love you too.”

Neither of them seemed to have noticed John standing open-mouthed in the corner, and for the second time that night, John watched the couple on the sofa fall asleep, wrapped up in each other and the comfort of their love. Then he crept out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Yaye for me. Even though I nearly closed the window while I was doing the formatting.
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