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Blast From The Past

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Blast From The Past

He was still beautiful.

Dan hissed through his teeth, and tried to quell the stirrings in his jeans with an effort of sheer will. All these years later, all that time spent in an effort to forget and it was all--

Sascha flicked his hair over his shoulder and threw his head back to laugh, Kai wriggling against his side and giving the youngster the eye - and Dan ground his teeth. He would not get jealous. He would not think about...anything to do with that young man who was now rubbing himself against Kai, dammit.

Apparently enjoying it, too.

Sascha leaned against Dirk with a grin, and when Henjo got in on the act - Sascha leering down at the other guitarist with a definite wolfish edge to the expression - Dan swore at them all and stalked away, intent on finding a beer and a quiet corner to sulk in.

The green room was empty. A turn of the key ensured that it would remain so, and Dan heaved a sigh as he flopped on to the sofa, an open beer comfortable in his hand. After all, he thought, it wasn’t that he hadn’t been asked to participate in the great Helloween/Gamma Ray crossover. Couldn’t get two drumkits on stage, right? Right.

His mood was nothing to do with that. Not at all.

Although Sascha could have said ‘hello’, and not just pushed past him as though he were invisible. He could have thrown a wink at him, watching from the shadows at the side of the stage; he’d seen him, he knew he had. But the blue eyes had slid across and away, only to light up when a certain redhead on guitar had prowled up and--

The bottle was empty. More. Where was the beer?

Got you. Bring a spare. Good idea.

--it wouldn’t have killed him, no. But then, he hadn’t exactly departed from Freedom Call under the best of circumstances, had he? Teased by the road crew, fights within the band, and of course there were the... other...incidents. The ones he hadn’t talked about to anyone else. The ones Dan was sure that nobody else knew about, even now.

Dan smirked, and dropped his free hand to the crotch of his jeans even as he lifted a fresh beer bottle to his lips.

Yeah, the other incidents. The ones that involved a young, green, naive guitarist and an older, far more experienced musician...a drummer. The boss.


Ah, those were the days. The first album, the first tours. Being around for Sascha when it all got a bit much, offering friendly advice and a shoulder to cry on. Explaining how it all worked, that of course girlfriends did the dirty when you were on the road, what did you expect? Then long discussions as to the inconstancy of women, and the inevitable suggestion of certain ways to ease the intense frustration that even a groupie’s willing body did nothing to assuage.

Denied, thrown back, protesting and horrified.

Now Dan did laugh, and stroked himself through his jeans. The first time he’d touched the lad, his expression when he found that he enjoyed it too, the eagerness....

It had been dark, only a tiny glow from the overhead reading lights illuminating the lounge area of the tourbus. He and Sascha had been sprawled on the sofa watching old movies, and the time had just seemed so...right.

Sascha’s lips, pouty and full. Their softness and warmth, pliable under his mouth; even his stubble felt delicate against Dan’s cheek. What Dan could see of his face in the dim reddish glow had an almost feminine curve to it; barely into his twenties and still with the softness of adolescence to him. Beautiful.

That tumble of blonde hair was soft, too, and after some initial reluctance he threw himself into the kiss with all the fire he usually poured into his playing. Sour tang of tobacco smoke, but under that was another taste, one that Dan found himself reaching for with everything he had. Something unique and musky, a flavour that was Sascha’s alone.

Their bodies had been warm, shirts ripped off and thrown across the seats, skin sliding smooth on skin. He was heat and fire, this boy, and desperation and flat out hunger; that long frame had wriggled and clung, Dan holding him close and pressed into his body as tight as he could go. Oh, the taste of him, that bitter tang of urgency that just made their tryst all the sweeter--

It was no good. Lost in his memories of sweet young Sascha Dan unhooked his jeans, slid them down far enough to free his cock. It nudged his hand, and he gasped a laugh when the thought that it remembered the boy as fondly as he did flashed across his mind; the skin of his palm felt rough against it, but the sensation took him to another time entirely.

There was nothing quite like it. That sensation of a hard cock, the slickness of pre-come against your hand, the pulse of a heartbeat not your own under your fingers - and the same being done to you, but a different pace, a different hand, a different beat and rhythm. A strength to the body you rolled against, size and solidity that one just didn’t get with a woman - not better, but oh so delightfully different. And the angelic sound of passion squeezed from his throat, the tiny whimpers and sounds of want, of need. Wordless begging and that sweet, sweet mouth to be plundered time and again.

Dan’s hand tightened, and he let his head fall back with a groan. Oh, Sascha had been something, all right; once he’d figured out that just because you got your kicks with another guy it didn’t make you gay there was no stopping him. Every time they were alone - on the bus, in hotels, at venues, broom closets, dark corners, anywhere. He was insatiable, the fire and passion of youth allied with the excitement of forbidden fruit.

His cock pulsed under his fingertips. The long, creamy line of Sascha’s throat was well-defined in his mind’s eye; his scent, clean and clear no matter how fresh from the stage he was--

That he could smell now.

Blue eyes regarded him solemnly when he slammed his own eyes open. He hadn’t been imagining it; here was the boy - well, yes, almost thirty now but still so young when seen against the rest of them - kneeling before him and watching him with that serious gaze he recalled so well. The nose ring flashed a shaft of light when he cocked his head, but the eyes never wavered; part of Dan’s mind wanted to know if the door was locked, if anyone else was watching. Sascha closed one eye in a slow wink, although he still didn’t crack a smile.

“It’s locked. The others are in the showers.”

Dan couldn’t think of a thing to say, but his cock had recovered from the shock and reached up, desperate for attention.

“Thinking of me?” he asked, and all Dan could do was nod. Ah, that did the trick; those eyes warmed, and despite the black hair and the sharp cheekbones, the lack of puppy softness, right then it was the Sascha he remembered. The Sascha he’d been thinking about. The hands a little firmer, the touch more sure, but when he ran his hands through the hair, across the face and the kid angled his cheek to rub against his palm... yes, this was his Sascha.

And now it was Dan making noises in the back of his throat, nails buried in the cheap foam of the sofa, spine arched with pleasure at the white fire that screamed through his nerve endings at the touch of that mouth that was now, it seemed, as talented as those fingers ever had been. And those hands!

Curled around him, his hips held tight and pulled forward, those warm, full lips swallowing his cock deep; one hand detached from his skin, and then his balls were enveloped and he couldn’t suppress the yelp that escaped his chest. He felt Sascha grin, the one hand moving his hips forward and back, fucking his cock down that throat and the long fingers around his balls and God, but it had never been like this!

Dan wrapped his fingers in the silky black hair, and hung on. Through the sweat that ran into his eyes he caught glimpses of the boy - man - bent before him; hunched and curled over his groin, strength and grace all focused on one purpose. No matter what he’d thought before the gig, never mind the rudeness, forget the near violence of their parting: this was the Sascha he’d trained, the one he’d shown paths he would never have thought to walk alone.

And dammit but he was good--

One glance was all it took. One shy look up through those long, dark eyelashes and Dan was coming, hair yanked between clenched fingers and curses gasped between gritted teeth. Sascha moaned, the vibration winding around the pulses of semen and turning the gasps to sharp cries of sheer, insane pleasure.

Barely had his orgasm begun to subside and he was on him, the long body pressing him down against the cushions, hips shoving against his groin, the nip of an opened zip making him wince. The boy needed relief, it seemed; it had ever been the way. Bring Dan to a screeching orgasm, then be so desperate for attention he would be grateful for whatever he could get. It had kept him coming back for more for all the time they’d spent in the same band - so why should it be any different now?

The taste of himself in Sascha’s mouth had him panting. The kid still tasted the same; musk of his own semen, tang of cigarettes, and that indefinable flavour that was all Sascha. Dan found himself just as eager, and they ground their lips together with as much force as they pushed their cocks. Dan’s hand wriggled between them, and Sascha tore his mouth away to throw his head back and moan; forced through a throat tight with need it emerged as something between a whine and a howl, an animal noise that had Dan redoubling his efforts.

A glance over Sascha’s shoulder and he shuddered; there was something so indefinably hot about the way that long, smooth back arched and curled under the concealment of rumpled clothing, hips humping with need into Dan’s grasp. Teeth scraped against his neck, the heat of the boy’s mouth clamped on his skin, his need groaned against Dan’s own. Faster and hotter and he was there, the wet splash of his come between their bodies causing them both to jerk and writhe for the delicious, forbidden release of it.

They lay in a tangle, arms and legs and softening cocks, the rasp of their breathing harsh in their ears. When Sascha began to turn Dan caught him, tried to wrap his arms around him; he wanted to prolong this, the delicious afterglow and the smell and the heat of their tryst, fix it in his memory--

He must have got stronger as he’d got older, because he slithered out of Dan’s grasp with ease. He turned his back, tucked himself in, shook back his hair and turned, eyeing his old boss with a glint in his eye as sharp as the fluorescent light reflected from the gold in his nose. Dan settled back into the cushions and smiled.

“So you’ve forgiven me, then?” he asked.

Sascha blinked, then threw his head back and laughed. The sound went on, and it contained none of the happy looseness of youth that Dan remembered; no, this was the laugh of a much older person entirely. It was bitter and cold, and he fought to right himself before that horrible noise brought anyone else rushing to see what was the matter.

Sascha regained control even as Dan reached his feet, but held out a palm to stop him coming any closer.

“No,” he said, his voice flat and quiet, “I’ll never forgive you.”

“Then why--”

And now he did smile, sharp and wolfish.

“Because I was just wondering, when I saw you in here touching yourself,” he said, and the expression was feral, “if you were as good as Kai. And for your information, Daniel,” and the name was spat over his shoulder as he made his way to the door, turning the key, “you’re nowhere close. He is,” and the smile burst forth again, reminding Dan of what he’d lost, of what he’d taken from the boy so long ago, “out of your league. Way, way out of your league.”

The door drifted shut behind him, and all Dan could do was stare.