Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

You Better Close Your Eyes	By : Nexus Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Deep Purple Views: 2270 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Deep Purple. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-You Better Close Your Eyes
- 1
You Better Close Your Eyes

Genre: Slash
Rating: PG
Fandom: Deep Purple
Pairing: Ian Gillan/Ritchie Blackmore
Timeline: 1970
Warnings: Angst, Language

Summary:
Ian is troubled over his feelings for Ritchie. Does Ritchie feel the same, or is he just playing with Ian’s head?

Author's Notes:
This story is a direct continuum of chapter seven in “The Woe of Aftermath”.

Disclaimer:
I do not, nor will I ever, own Deep Purple. Damn.

*****

"Ian?"

Ritchie’s hand eased its way under the covering and smoothed along over my thigh. My skin tingled with anticipation. I could feel Ritchie's hand brushing tantalizingly close to those parts of me that had begun to tighten with coarse intensity, and I wondered, could he sense my desperation?

“Ian? Ian, get up!”

“Huh?” I sprinted out of bed as though a tarantula had nestled in its midst. But it wasn’t a rogue arachnid that glowered at me in the darkness, it was Ritchie. Shit. Not again. I would have genuinely preferred a tarantula.

“What are you doing here?”

Ritchie ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “I was worried.”

“Right. So you come running to—“

I looked around, and for a brief moment there I couldn't remember where we were. The corroded, grey pillars looked familiar. There was a patent tang of dampness in the air, which bloody narrowed it down to anywhere in London.

“Where the fuck are we?”

“You don't know?” Ritchie's russet eyes followed me as I paced anxiously around the room, like a caged leopard in a circus.

“I crashed, man, I had a lot to drink last night.”

“Right,” he said. “So you can remember last night? At the Horses?”

“Shit, Ritchie, I’m not about to play 20 Questions with you.”

“Hanwell Community Centre.”

“Eh?”

He stood up. “That’s where we are. My car’s outside, lets get out of here.”

Once in the car, Ritchie nattered on about a prospective support slot for Hawkwind, which if I didn’t suffer from a godawful hangover, I’d have definitely got my two pence in. As it were, there were more disturbing thoughts fucking with me at the moment than sharing a stage with Lemmy Kilmister.

I shot a glance at Ritchie. He wore a pristine white shirt, dark blue jeans and his trademark leather jacket. No surprises there, then. His dark hair curled just below his chin, and, a couple of centimeters above, a lone dimple graced his sensuous pout. The same one I kissed, sucked and ravished in my—

“Ian!”

“What?”

“Could you fucking concentrate for one moment?”

“Yeah, go on, you want Hawkwind to open for us at the Isle of W—“

“No,” he rolled his eyes. “About Jon’s birthday?”

“Oh.”

“Ian?”

“Jesus fucking christ, Ritchie, would you stop doing that!”

“What's the fuck’s up with you today, Gillan?”

“I had a disturbing dream, okay, now can we put a lid on it.”

“Fine,” Ritchie sighed and flicked the radio on.

BBC1, as if I didn’t have enough problems without hearing about the fucking IRA blowing up shit. We drove in silence to what appeared to be West London. It didn’t occur to me to ask him where we were going, I figured it would be IBC Studios at Portland Place or somewhere equally inappropriate. As he parked the car in a leafy street overlooking Holland Park, I finally realised where we were.

“Um, what are we doing at your house?”

“I wanna go through a couple of tunes. That all right with you?”

“Sure,” I shrugged. Could have been a lot worse.

We climbed up to Ritchie's penthouse on the top floor and he let us in. Slayer, his German shepherd, greeted us at the door with bated breath and lapped excitedly at Ritchie’s fingers. So I wasn’t the only sad bastard drooling over him.

“I’m gonna get you an aspirin and a cuppa coffee.”

“Cheers,” I muttered, and stalked off to the bathroom to take a leak.

I looked at myself in the mirror, and a broken man sniggered back at me. Queer! I muffled a frustrated scream and turned the tap on, splashing what must have been the entire contents of the Atlantic on my pale, wretched features.

“You okay in there mate?”

Shit. “I’ll be out in a minute,” I hollered.

I dried my face and ran a comb through my hair, hoping it wasn’t Slayers’. When I looked the least bit presentable, I left the bathroom to find Ritchie glaring at me in the foyer. I crashed into my favourite couch and spotted a mug of fresh coffee on the wicker table to my right. I needed a cigarette.

“Ritchie, you gotta fag?” I winced at the sound of that. Freudian slip or what?

He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a packet of Benson & Hedges, prompting me to help myself. I did.

“Thanks for the coffee.”

“So,” he sighed. “You wanna tell me what’s biting your liver?”

“Nope,” I laughed and took a long drag of the cigarette. Slayer poked his nose over the armchair, beckoning my attention. I gave him a pat.

“What did you want to work on?”

Ritchie arched a brow and nodded. “Okay Ian, this is how it’s gonna be. Something I want, for something you want. Deal?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“But you’ve got to promise to be on the level with me, or there’s no point in playing.”

“Kay.”

“You first.”

I took a swig of the hot coffee. “Alrighty,” I nodded. “Do you get a kick out of fucking with people’s heads? Is that how you get your rocks off?”

“Heh,” he chuckled. “Yeah, I do. I’m a sadistic son of a bitch. Happy?”

“Elated.”

“My turn, then,” he smiled at me. “Do you fancy men, Ian?”

“Nope,” I croaked. I fancy you, you son of a bitch, but I ain’t gonna tell you that.

“Hmm,” he lit a cigarette. “I’m only asking because of the way you acted last night. You know what they say about blokes who get overly techy about the subject.”

“Spare me the psychobabble, Blackmore.”

“Listen, I didn’t mean to give you any grief on the subject. I am only curious, is all. Quite frankly, I couldn’t give a rat’s arse if you dig shagging guys. Each to their own, you know what I’m saying?”

I guess.

“Ian?”

“Yeah, that’s cool,” I managed to say, almost to myself. Was this another one of Ritchie’s games or was he really cool about the subject?

“Ritchie,” I had to ask. “Do you?”

He smiled coolly and fixed me with another one of his enigmatic looks that meant nothing and everything at the same time.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “I kinda do.”

We both stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. It must have only been a few seconds, when Slayer started barking and sprinted off to the hall wagging his tale energetically.

“That’d be Jon,” Ritchie said and went to answer the door.

I took a final drag of the cigarette and stubbed it out in the ceramic ashtray that Ritchie’s niece made for him last year. It was kind of hard picturing Ritchie as somebody's uncle. Uncles were smiley, blithering idiots who visited you on birthdays and holidays, who brought you useless gifts and got totally wankered on eggnog at Christmas. Ritchie was none of the above.

“Heya pal,” chimed Jon. “You look bloody awful.”

“Hello,” I sighed and forced a smile. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“Didn’t Ritchie tell ya, we’re having a bedroom practice today, and I’m gonna cook us all a roast. Yorkshire puds and all!” he beamed and headed for the kitchen.

I looked up at Ritchie who stood hunched in the corner.

“Didn’t realise there’d be company,” I blurted.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he came over and sat on the table, opposite me. He sucked in his lower lip and took a deep breath. Ritchie’s hands, now cupping my head, moved slowly over my cheeks. Long fingers traced the backs of my ears, and down along my jaw line.

“What am I gonna do with you, Ian?”

THE END
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Adult-FanFiction.Org is not in any way associated with or related to FanFiction.Net

Adult-FanFiction.org (AFF, the site), its owners, agents, and any other entities related to Adult-FanFiction.org or the AFF forum take no responsibility for the works posted to the Adult-FanFiction.org by its members.

While AFF and its agents attempt to remove all illegal works from the site as quickly and thoroughly as possible, there is always the possibility that some submissions may be overlooked or dismissed in error. The AFF system includes a rigorous and complex abuse control system in order to prevent improper use of the AFF service, and we hope that its deployment indicates a good-faith effort to eliminate any illegal material on the site in a fair and unbiased manner. This abuse control system is run in accordance with the strict guidelines specified above.

All works displayed here, whether pictorial or literary, are the property of their owners and not Adult-FanFiction.org. Opinions stated in profiles of users may not reflect the opinions or views of Adult-FanFiction.org or any of its owners, agents, or related entities.

Website Domain ©2002-2017 by Apollo. PHP scripting, CSS style sheets, Database layout & Original artwork ©2005-2017 C. Kennington. Restructured Database & Forum skins ©2007-2017 J. Salva. Images, coding, and any other potentially liftable content may not be used without express written permission from their respective creator(s). Thank you for visiting!

Powered by Fiction Portal 2.0
Modifications © Manta2g, DemonGoddess
Site Owner - Apollo

You Better Close Your Eyes