It's alternative.
Title: A Guitar and A Woman of The Night
Rating: R
Pairings: Keith/Mick
Word Count: 1944
Disclaimer: It would be called slavery if I owned the Stones so I don't.
It's an AU story (Alternative Universe). I thought it would be fun to try one out. I dunno how it turned out.
A guitar could be lightly heard as the owner strummed it with little effort. He was perched on the sidewalk of the corner of the street. A jar was placed in front of his feet, change and paper money partially clogging the glass structure. He watched as the everyday people walked past him; usually they spared a second glance at him, smiling and offering him some money for his musical talents on the guitar. Other times he was not so lucky when someone decided they could make off with his hard-earned bread and he would have to heavily combat them with his trusty guitar.
But today was different. The man had his head titled and his eyes closed. Being a musician that played in the streets had many opportunities for the guitarist to observe things. Every object that was built or placed on this street, he could see them with ease. He would peer out from under the fringe of his hair that hung in his face. Brown eyes would observe the surroundings and make quick thoughts. If this musician was up, say in the earlier hours when the sun was not shining its all-seeing rays on the town, he could see few activities going on.
This just happened to be one of those nights-- one could say morning, but that was irrelevant to the guitarist. After scratching the spiky-hair on top of his head, he began to indolently strum his guitar. He vaguely considered all that was around him. He did have to be careful because this was the time when gangs had descended upon the street; prostitutes were working the darkened corners of the city at the moment. Crime seemed to surge forwards when this time of day had settled in. He sighed and he looked forwards. Something had caught his eyes as he looked ahead.
A skinny-looking person was leaning against a streetlight and looked very lightly clothed. He could not see the figure up close, but what he could make out was the puff of curled, brown hair hanging over milky-white skin. His body looked very awkwardly angled, yet the person hung around his ‘post’ with confidence. The guitarist then realized it was just one of those prostitutes that hung around the town. He lightly sneered at the figure; they had such low morals and standards, always looking for the next fuck for little money.
The guitarist still observed as another came stalking up to this one. A quick exchange of words that he could not hear and now physical movement began to take place. The prostitute that he had been surveying began to lead what had looked like a man in his late thirties down the street and turned into a random building to disappear inside. The man had suspected that the prostitute had just scored a paying customer. Before he had a chance to see the couple emerge from the foundation, he had already risen up, packed his guitar away, and confiscated his jar to leave his vacated area.
The next time he had decided to take a spot on the road at the same time he had saw the same prostitute from a few days earlier. This time, the guitarist was considerably closer that he could make out the features on the person: brown, curled hair that hung almost over blue baby-blue eyes, thin and curved shoulders that molded into a slender neck, long waif-like legs. What really had gotten his attention was the large set of lips that was on the prostitute’s face. And due to the fact that this was a male. Those plush lips were also punctuated by the china doll skin. The guitarist had watched as the other man beckoned another customer with him down the same pathway as before. The customer was a married man and Keith frowned with disgust: the man could have kids at home and a wife, and here he was sleeping with some doxy person of the night.
This street musician was slightly puzzled now. For many days, he had gotten up at that same moment to view this person. Why was he just now taking interest? In a prostitute, no less. This guitarist was watching the boy take customer after customer, many being both genders, women and men who had lusted after this very young-looking person who was baby-faced and very prepubescent looking. The guitarist frowned at the level of these people that were willing to steep that low-grade level. But he could not complain: he had watched, as the prostitute would happily lead them into that building for the very activities that he had been selling his body for. Apparently, he was very popular with the paying customers; nearly every night he had more then a handful of clientele.
Today was different. As this street musician was setting up for another few hours a day worth of playing, there was a small cry. His head shot up to see a rather large man roughly grab the one he had been viewing for a while. There were inaudible hissed words passing from the larger man and he began to drag off the smaller boy; it seemed as though the larger one had been having a long and hard day when looking closely at his confirmed body language. He drug the other against what looked to be their will. The street musician was not sure whether to come to the aid or just watch.
On one hand, they did sell themselves and it would be inevitable that this might happen to them one day. Always disregarding the risks and consequences that came with this job and the obvious dangers that lurked around every non-lighted corner they decided to venture to. But the other part of the guitarist felt that nobody should suffer like that. If one did not want another’s touch on them, then that is what should be considered. No one has the right to force himself or herself onto someone without the consent of that person. But as the street musician was on his feet, he heard the sound of a slamming door and knew he had been too late. A guilty emotion began to congeal inside his gut, extending to every inch of his flesh that was connected to his nerves. He felt very bad that he had not reacted in time.
Over the next few days, he had not even seen a trace of the night creature. People passed by him and gave him his earned money, but he had not paid attention. He was, for reasons unknown to him, concerned over the person that had been handled roughly that morning a few days ago. Seeing his empty presence had some-what caused worry to instill in his mind. He had mentally kicked himself for not getting up sooner.
One morning when this street musician had decided that enough people weren’t up to make enough money, he had decided to pack it up and move out again at a much later time of the day. It was then that he had spotted the same pale-skinned person of the night. His heart lit-up upon discovering this sight. He heard something coming from this prostitute. The musician moved closer. It sounded like the pale-skinned man was… singing. It became more audible and easier to decipher. He listened intently to this voice and realized something: it was a fucking good voice. This boy could sing his voice off. If the boy could play guitar-- which is what the guitarist wasn’t sure if the boy could-- he could make a very convincing blues singer.
An idea began to plow through his head and he had tuned his guitar. He moved as close as he could without alerting the other on the other side of the street. He began to strum at a louder sound. The other person looked at the guitarist and had cut off his singing for a bit. The prostitute looked at the street musician for a brief while and began singing again but at a quieter pace. The guitarist tried to urge the singer on with a few more notes. Soon more people began to collect around them to hear this combination of a guitar with a voice on top of it. A few cheers and some claps later, the guitarist had a full jar of money in under just an hour.
A small smile was received by the guitarist from this prostitute-turned-singer. It was enough to cause a small warm spark through the guitarist. This ‘singer’ did not stay around too long because he was approached by a potential client. Again, he was ushering them to the same building. It felt a bit lonely when the prostitute was not there anymore. The guitarist leaned back, feeling his hair rub against his neck. He still strummed idly.
The next day the guitarist was there again trying to lull as many customers in his general vicinity. Then he saw another man come up to the prostitute he had just discovered who could sing. A hand clamped harshly around that spindly-looking arm and began to drag off the boy. This time the guitarist was read to react. He set down his guitar and began to move towards the couple; he then hesitated and went back to his guitar, believing somewhere in his mind that he might need it for some persuading. Before the man could open the door, a light tap was on his back. He whirled around, ready to hit his ‘company’ for the night for even daring to turn down his services. He instead saw someone very different. Some boy whose hair stuck out at angles and was definitely not curled brown hair. A much more tanned color was in the place of pearly skin.
“Who the fuck are you?” the man asked gruffly.
“That’s none of your concern,” said the spiky-haired boy. “The real problem is that you’re forcing yourself onto someone who doesn’t want it.”
The man snorted. “That whore, you mean?” He pointed at the one beside the guitarist. “Fuckin’ deserves it. He’s just scum that I’m providing my time to.”
The eyes narrowed. “Really? And your scum for even doing this.”
“And who are you to tell me?”
“The firm will if you don’t get outta here. I know that they’ll love to catch someone like you.”
The balding man stepped forwards. “And who are you to tell me that? Could take you here and now.”
Before the balding man could react, the guitarist swung his guitar and made contact with the man. He doubled over like a snapped radio tower. He gagged for a brief moment, holding his stomach. He then looked up as best as he could from the current position his body was shaped in.
“I suggest you get y’r ass out of here or else my guitar will make a lovely home inside your skull.”
After a few moments, the man had straightened up and allowed himself to be excused. The guitarist turned around to look at the person he had just saved. He also nearly gasped: this man was fucking gorgeous. Now that he was up close, the street musician could see all the small features that he could have possibly missed. It was then in his mind, that he should introduce himself to this man.
“Hi, I’m Keith. Keith Richards,” he said while extending an arm. “Local street musician at your service.”
The other man looked at it in a slight suspicion before it melted away, leaving a warmth in his eye.
“Mick. My name’s Mick Jagger.” He then grinned. “Local tart at the people’s service.”
Rating: R
Pairings: Keith/Mick
Word Count: 1944
Disclaimer: It would be called slavery if I owned the Stones so I don't.
It's an AU story (Alternative Universe). I thought it would be fun to try one out. I dunno how it turned out.
A guitar could be lightly heard as the owner strummed it with little effort. He was perched on the sidewalk of the corner of the street. A jar was placed in front of his feet, change and paper money partially clogging the glass structure. He watched as the everyday people walked past him; usually they spared a second glance at him, smiling and offering him some money for his musical talents on the guitar. Other times he was not so lucky when someone decided they could make off with his hard-earned bread and he would have to heavily combat them with his trusty guitar.
But today was different. The man had his head titled and his eyes closed. Being a musician that played in the streets had many opportunities for the guitarist to observe things. Every object that was built or placed on this street, he could see them with ease. He would peer out from under the fringe of his hair that hung in his face. Brown eyes would observe the surroundings and make quick thoughts. If this musician was up, say in the earlier hours when the sun was not shining its all-seeing rays on the town, he could see few activities going on.
This just happened to be one of those nights-- one could say morning, but that was irrelevant to the guitarist. After scratching the spiky-hair on top of his head, he began to indolently strum his guitar. He vaguely considered all that was around him. He did have to be careful because this was the time when gangs had descended upon the street; prostitutes were working the darkened corners of the city at the moment. Crime seemed to surge forwards when this time of day had settled in. He sighed and he looked forwards. Something had caught his eyes as he looked ahead.
A skinny-looking person was leaning against a streetlight and looked very lightly clothed. He could not see the figure up close, but what he could make out was the puff of curled, brown hair hanging over milky-white skin. His body looked very awkwardly angled, yet the person hung around his ‘post’ with confidence. The guitarist then realized it was just one of those prostitutes that hung around the town. He lightly sneered at the figure; they had such low morals and standards, always looking for the next fuck for little money.
The guitarist still observed as another came stalking up to this one. A quick exchange of words that he could not hear and now physical movement began to take place. The prostitute that he had been surveying began to lead what had looked like a man in his late thirties down the street and turned into a random building to disappear inside. The man had suspected that the prostitute had just scored a paying customer. Before he had a chance to see the couple emerge from the foundation, he had already risen up, packed his guitar away, and confiscated his jar to leave his vacated area.
The next time he had decided to take a spot on the road at the same time he had saw the same prostitute from a few days earlier. This time, the guitarist was considerably closer that he could make out the features on the person: brown, curled hair that hung almost over blue baby-blue eyes, thin and curved shoulders that molded into a slender neck, long waif-like legs. What really had gotten his attention was the large set of lips that was on the prostitute’s face. And due to the fact that this was a male. Those plush lips were also punctuated by the china doll skin. The guitarist had watched as the other man beckoned another customer with him down the same pathway as before. The customer was a married man and Keith frowned with disgust: the man could have kids at home and a wife, and here he was sleeping with some doxy person of the night.
This street musician was slightly puzzled now. For many days, he had gotten up at that same moment to view this person. Why was he just now taking interest? In a prostitute, no less. This guitarist was watching the boy take customer after customer, many being both genders, women and men who had lusted after this very young-looking person who was baby-faced and very prepubescent looking. The guitarist frowned at the level of these people that were willing to steep that low-grade level. But he could not complain: he had watched, as the prostitute would happily lead them into that building for the very activities that he had been selling his body for. Apparently, he was very popular with the paying customers; nearly every night he had more then a handful of clientele.
Today was different. As this street musician was setting up for another few hours a day worth of playing, there was a small cry. His head shot up to see a rather large man roughly grab the one he had been viewing for a while. There were inaudible hissed words passing from the larger man and he began to drag off the smaller boy; it seemed as though the larger one had been having a long and hard day when looking closely at his confirmed body language. He drug the other against what looked to be their will. The street musician was not sure whether to come to the aid or just watch.
On one hand, they did sell themselves and it would be inevitable that this might happen to them one day. Always disregarding the risks and consequences that came with this job and the obvious dangers that lurked around every non-lighted corner they decided to venture to. But the other part of the guitarist felt that nobody should suffer like that. If one did not want another’s touch on them, then that is what should be considered. No one has the right to force himself or herself onto someone without the consent of that person. But as the street musician was on his feet, he heard the sound of a slamming door and knew he had been too late. A guilty emotion began to congeal inside his gut, extending to every inch of his flesh that was connected to his nerves. He felt very bad that he had not reacted in time.
Over the next few days, he had not even seen a trace of the night creature. People passed by him and gave him his earned money, but he had not paid attention. He was, for reasons unknown to him, concerned over the person that had been handled roughly that morning a few days ago. Seeing his empty presence had some-what caused worry to instill in his mind. He had mentally kicked himself for not getting up sooner.
One morning when this street musician had decided that enough people weren’t up to make enough money, he had decided to pack it up and move out again at a much later time of the day. It was then that he had spotted the same pale-skinned person of the night. His heart lit-up upon discovering this sight. He heard something coming from this prostitute. The musician moved closer. It sounded like the pale-skinned man was… singing. It became more audible and easier to decipher. He listened intently to this voice and realized something: it was a fucking good voice. This boy could sing his voice off. If the boy could play guitar-- which is what the guitarist wasn’t sure if the boy could-- he could make a very convincing blues singer.
An idea began to plow through his head and he had tuned his guitar. He moved as close as he could without alerting the other on the other side of the street. He began to strum at a louder sound. The other person looked at the guitarist and had cut off his singing for a bit. The prostitute looked at the street musician for a brief while and began singing again but at a quieter pace. The guitarist tried to urge the singer on with a few more notes. Soon more people began to collect around them to hear this combination of a guitar with a voice on top of it. A few cheers and some claps later, the guitarist had a full jar of money in under just an hour.
A small smile was received by the guitarist from this prostitute-turned-singer. It was enough to cause a small warm spark through the guitarist. This ‘singer’ did not stay around too long because he was approached by a potential client. Again, he was ushering them to the same building. It felt a bit lonely when the prostitute was not there anymore. The guitarist leaned back, feeling his hair rub against his neck. He still strummed idly.
The next day the guitarist was there again trying to lull as many customers in his general vicinity. Then he saw another man come up to the prostitute he had just discovered who could sing. A hand clamped harshly around that spindly-looking arm and began to drag off the boy. This time the guitarist was read to react. He set down his guitar and began to move towards the couple; he then hesitated and went back to his guitar, believing somewhere in his mind that he might need it for some persuading. Before the man could open the door, a light tap was on his back. He whirled around, ready to hit his ‘company’ for the night for even daring to turn down his services. He instead saw someone very different. Some boy whose hair stuck out at angles and was definitely not curled brown hair. A much more tanned color was in the place of pearly skin.
“Who the fuck are you?” the man asked gruffly.
“That’s none of your concern,” said the spiky-haired boy. “The real problem is that you’re forcing yourself onto someone who doesn’t want it.”
The man snorted. “That whore, you mean?” He pointed at the one beside the guitarist. “Fuckin’ deserves it. He’s just scum that I’m providing my time to.”
The eyes narrowed. “Really? And your scum for even doing this.”
“And who are you to tell me?”
“The firm will if you don’t get outta here. I know that they’ll love to catch someone like you.”
The balding man stepped forwards. “And who are you to tell me that? Could take you here and now.”
Before the balding man could react, the guitarist swung his guitar and made contact with the man. He doubled over like a snapped radio tower. He gagged for a brief moment, holding his stomach. He then looked up as best as he could from the current position his body was shaped in.
“I suggest you get y’r ass out of here or else my guitar will make a lovely home inside your skull.”
After a few moments, the man had straightened up and allowed himself to be excused. The guitarist turned around to look at the person he had just saved. He also nearly gasped: this man was fucking gorgeous. Now that he was up close, the street musician could see all the small features that he could have possibly missed. It was then in his mind, that he should introduce himself to this man.
“Hi, I’m Keith. Keith Richards,” he said while extending an arm. “Local street musician at your service.”
The other man looked at it in a slight suspicion before it melted away, leaving a warmth in his eye.
“Mick. My name’s Mick Jagger.” He then grinned. “Local tart at the people’s service.”