LPfiction

Category Linkin Park

Naivety by ALifeForMusic

Naivety

So I read Mike's interview in Kerrang! around two months ago (yes, it took me that long to write a 9-page-standalone ;)) and he talks about the time in the beginning, when he and Chester used to spend days in his apartment, working on Chester's voice, trying to find his signature style. I'm not sure why, but the image inspired me to write this. Plus, who doesn't love some oldschool!Bennoda?


Hope you guys enjoy, reviews are of course greatly appreciated ♥

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Naivety




"That was good, Chester! Next time, try to make it sound a bit more, I don't know... aggressive? Like you're really pissed off?“, Mike asks and you just nod, despite your throat feeling raw from hours of singing and you run a hand through your messy bleached curls, buying yourself some time to recover. You just can't get it right.

You've been holed up here in Mike's tiny one-bedroom-apartment for days, trying to figure out what Chester sounds like.


So far, you haven't found him. Every time you try something new with your voice, Mike tells you that you sound too much like Dave Gahan or Scott Weiland or some other fucking singer whose name you don't even recognize. At a certain point you start feeling like he makes up random names just to annoy the fuck out of you.

How are you supposed to know what you sound like anyway, when every time you try, he tells you that it doesn't sound right?

Maybe you are the problem. Maybe your voice isn't special enough. Maybe copying other singer's styles is all your voice is good for.

You groan and slump forward, burying your head in your hands. You crave a smoke. Or a drink. Something to distract yourself from the fact that you moved to L.A. for this, no money, no backup plan.


"You're doing a really great job so far“, Mike points out, sensing your defeat. You turn around to look at him. His eyes are wide and excited, not a trace of frustration on his face.

He's weird, you decide.

Not necessarily in a bad way – you've just never met anyone quite like him.


Before you came here, you didn't actually expect to get along with him at all. The two of you were too different – with him being the typical middle class college kid, blissfully oblivious to the things that happen outside of his squeaky clean little world – and you being... different. A freak. You've seen so much evil in the world at such a young age, and it has fucked you up.


It came as quite the surprise to you that you turned out to actually like this raven-haired boy with those dark eyes that seem a little too large for his head at times.

He intrigues you.

The way he puts his thoughts into lyrics amazes you – his poetry far too complex, far too troubled for the kind of person you had made him out to be.

And you started to accept that there is more to this kid, artistic talent that intimates you at times, when you'd originally looked down on him for being younger, for being less experienced.


“You want a drink?”, he asks, obviously looking for a way to keep you motivated.


“Sure”, you sigh. “Beer would be great.”


You hear him puttering around in the kitchen for a minute before he returns with two bottles in his hands. He hands you one of them, lets himself fall onto the bed you're sitting on and lies back for a moment.


“Seriously, Chester, you were great today”, he turns his head in your direction, fixating you with his dark eyes. “I know this is frustrating, but I really think we're onto something here. Let's record your vocals for that song we were working on earlier after we've finished these bottles, alright?”


You just nod.



But you don't stop drinking after you've finished your bottle, and neither does he.

You keep sipping on the mixture of rum and coke Mike brought out after the two of you had finished off the six-pack of beer while he's dicking around on the keyboard, and you try to sing in an extremely high-pitched voice, which in turn makes him giggle uncontrollably.


"Ches, that's amazing", he laughs, hitting a clunker on the keys.


"Ches?", you repeat quizzically since he's never called you that before – but you like it, it sounds intimate.


"Yeah, I've decided that that's my personal nickname for you now, I won't let anyone else use it", he grins and goes back to playing the melody of the song you worked on before you decided to get trashed.


Your response comes out a lot more slurred than you'd like. "I'll call you Spikey then. Get it? Because your name is Mikey but your hair is all spiky."

He just laughs at how proud you look for making up such a thoughtful nickname on the spot.


You turn around to watch him play. You like the way he moves to the music, swaying from side to side ever-so-slightly, those nimble fingers caressing the keys with certainty despite him being drunk off his ass.

So you reach out and the music stops when you grab one of his hands. You don't know why, but you like the fact that it's a lot larger than yours.


He swivels around to face you, confused by the sudden skin contact. "What are you doing, Ches?",

he asks while you let your eyes wander across his face lazily, your gaze hazy from the alcohol in your blood. Your cheeks are hot and your body is buzzing pleasurably, having reached the perfect level of intoxication.


You can't help but think that his lips look kind of nice, too – so you push him down onto the bed the both of you are sitting on and press your mouth against his impulsively.


He giggles when you push him onto his back, but is successfully quieted by your exploring lips, the only sound heard from him a sharp gasp at the moment your faces collide unexpectedly.

It feels good – his lips are as soft as you'd imagined and he tastes like beer and peppermint chewing gum.


"I'm not gay", is all he says when you pull away – but contradicts himself a few seconds later by lunging forward to plunge his tongue into your mouth.


You let him pull your body up so you're completely on top of him, unmoving. Your lips meet a few times, both of you breathless, excited and curious in the face of this new sensation.


You laugh when you notice the deeply confused look on his face, pulling away for much needed air, the drunken state of your mind inhibiting you from grasping the reality of this situation.


“We're drunk”, he states stupidly.


“And you think too much, Spikey”, you laugh and bend your head down to touch your lips against the pulsing vein in his neck. “I'll stop if you really want me to”, you tease, trailing kisses along the delicate, tan skin of his neck up to his jawline. The way he digs his fingers into your back and the low, breathy moans escaping his parted lips tell you all you need to know as you continue exploring his body with your lips.


“Seriously”, you whisper and feel him shiver as your breath hits the wet spots where your lips just touched. “Do you want me to stop?”, the innocent tone of your voice is harshly contrasted by your hot mouth, now nipping and licking at his earlobe.


“No!”, he moans out, surprising the both of you, and he blushes a deep red at the sound that just came out of his throat.


Your mouth stretches into a sly grin, noting the spot behind his ear that makes him shake underneath you for future reference. He might be the one in control when you're making music – but this is your area of expertise, and you can't wait to show him a few things you're pretty sure he hasn't tried before.


He gasps when you slip a hand underneath the shirt that's a few sizes too big on him. You don't really get the that trend – why would you hide your body underneath clothing that makes you look like a sack of potatoes? You'd much prefer to see him in more form-fitting pieces – like, say leather pants and a wife beater? The thought makes your stomach clench and you turn back to the task at hand – running your fingers from the waistband of his boxers across his quivering stomach and up to his chest where your hand comes to rest above his heart. You can feel it thundering against his rip cage, causing your hand to tremble along with it.


“Relax, Mikey”, you try to calm him before you use your unoccupied hand to push his shirt up around his shoulders. He lets you pull it over his head but once it's off, he turns away sheepishly and moves to cover his body with his arms.


You can't believe how shy he's being. The guy that loves to boss everyone around when things don't go as planned, who is so aware of his artistic talent that it borders on arrogance – that same guy is now blushing wildly, trying to shield his body from your inquiring eyes. You don't get it. You think that he looks nice enough. Sure, he isn't ripped, but his skin is smooth and tanned and his body looks soft in all the right places. A least he's not a skinny freak like you.


“You look amazing”, is what you choke out when your hands start fumbling with the belt that's holding his oversized cargo pants up on his body. You say it partly because you don't want him to be embarrassed, and partly because that's what you honestly think in this moment. It might just be the alcohol heightening your senses, but you can't take your eyes off of his face, still flushed, teeth anxiously biting at his full lower lip. “You're actually really pretty.”


He buries his head in the crook of his arm and groans at your compliment. “Chester, shut up and take off your shirt.”


“Your wish is my command”, you grin and slip your cherished black Stone Temple Pilots shirt off of your body to throw it across the room dramatically.


You like the way his gaze seems to be transfixed on the artwork adorning your upper body, even though it's still way too bare for your taste. He snaps out of it when you touch a finger to the skin beneath his belly button and stroke it down across the trail of dark hair that leads down to his boxers. You pull his pants down and off of his body, dropping them onto the floor carelessly.


You lift your head and your breath catches in your throat. He really is a sight to behold – with his tussled black hair, hazy dark eyes, his boxers riding low on his hips, skin glowing almost a golden hue in the dim light from the lamp across the room.

You can't help but smile broadly when you lean down to plant kisses along his stomach, slowly wandering down to his quivering thighs. You can hear him gasp and feel his hands in your hair – not tugging or pushing, just following your movements. His reaction encourages you to be more bold, so you start nipping and licking and trailing kisses along the inside of his thigh. His breathing turns frantic with anticipation, his grip on your blonde locks tightening. You move both of your hands to the sides of his hips and push his body into the mattress firmly before lowering your head to his erection, concealed but obvious under his tight boxer shorts. He throws his head back and moans, desperately thrusting forward despite your strong grip on his hips.


“Damn, Mikey, when was the last time you got laid?”, you tease and start running your tongue and teeth along his length, eliciting another string of delicious moans from him.


He groans. “Fuck you.”


“I'd rather you'd fuck me, actually. It's a lot more fun that way”, you reply cheekily but don't give him a chance to reply before you pull down his boxers and swallow him down, working his length with experience. He screams out and his husky voice sounds so damn sexy you can feel yourself grow impossibly harder at the strangled, low moans that leave his parted lips with every exhale.


It only takes a few strokes before you feel his hand push against your shoulder and you lift your head up, looking at him questioningly. He just stares back at you, still panting rapidly, the dark hair now clinging to his forehead, lips red and swollen from the torture his teeth have put them through in the desperate attempt to stifle his moans.


“Why'd you make me stop?”, you prod, and he snaps out of his disoriented state.


“I was about to come”, he states plainly, clearly having lost all ability to beat around the bush the moment your lips came in contact with his dick.


You just stare at him for a moment – because he is nice to stare at, but you also don't really know how to best proceed as an awkward silence settles between you. It's obvious that he hasn't done any of this before, and you've generally relied on your dominant partners to take charge in the past. Despite the alcohol still clouding your mind, you are present enough to be aware of the fact that this being Mike's first time with a guy, any rash movements on your part could scare him off.


“D-do you want me to...?”, he leaves the rest of the question hanging in the air while he eyes you anxiously, waiting for you to tell him what to do.


You push yourself up to press a soft kiss to his lips. “You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with, okay?”, you whisper.


He nods and pulls you close starting with slow, tender kisses that soon turn into desperately passionate, sloppy touches as you start bucking against each other, elated by the feeling of your erections rubbing together.


“Fuck, Chester, I...”, he rambles and curls his fingers into the flesh surrounding your hip bones, pushing your lower body against his frantically. He throws his head back in breathless ecstasy and you take advantage by leaning forward and pushing your mouth to his neck, licking and biting at the already reddened skin. A surprised moan escapes your lips when he digs his fingers into your ass cheeks and starts pushing his hips up to meet yours with every thrust.


The way he starts taking control turns you on beyond belief and you move your lips to his ear to moan a feverish “fuck me” against his skin, which causes him to stop his movements so abruptly you almost tumble off of his body.


“I-is that really what you want?”, he gasps out, desperately trying to catch his breath, his fingers loosening their painful grip on your hips. You feel like you're on fire at this point, the arousal and alcohol cursing through your body creating a sensation so ecstatic you fear that you might explode if you don't get your release soon. So you just nod and push down your boxer shorts, no longer able to care about potentially scaring Mike off.


His dark eyes follow your every move, the battle of lust and helplessness obvious to you. They widen in shock when you take his hand in yours and a surprised moan leaves the back of his throat as you start sucking on his ring and middle finger, coating them with your saliva.

Once you're done, you turn to lay on your back and pull him on top of you, pushing your lips against his in a hungry kiss. You slowly guide his hand down your body, gasping against his open mouth when it grazes your erection that's desperately demanding attention.


He gets the hint and starts pushing one of his digits into you, his teeth biting at his lower lip as he anxiously observes your face for signs of discomfort. The expression on his face eases into a timid smile when you don't show any, and he dares to push a second finger into your tight heat.


“P-push your fingers apart”, you gasp, adjusting to the sensation of him moving inside you. His skin is flushed from your activities and his face is scrunched up in childlike curiosity as he scissors you, his teeth still gnawing at his lower lip. You're actually glad he hasn't found your prostate yet because you're almost certain you'd come right on the sport.


“That's enough”, you husk out after another minute of his stretching. “Fuck me now.”


The loss of his fingers has you groaning with anticipation, but Mike – instead of abiding by your orders – only moves his head forward to press his mouth against yours again, his tongue slithering out to play with your lip ring. His soft lips feel heavenly against your skin, your senses heightened to the maximum, every nerve ending sending out electric bolts across your body.


“Do it now”, you urge and push him away a little bit. “Just go slow, okay?”


You see him look at you nervously for one last time before you let your eyes fall closed, steadying your hands on his hips to guide his movements. You gasp when he enters you and take slow, deep breaths to counter the familiar feeling of pain spreading out throughout your lower body.


The blood is pounding in your ears, and you're pretty certain your fingers are drawing blood on Mike's skin – but you don't care, because the pain is slowly starting to subside, replaced with a mind numbing feeling of electricity coursing through your veins, rendering you unable to speak or think properly.


You open your eyes to his face – heavy-lidded dark eyes unfocused, his lips swollen and parted slightly, his black hair messy from the sweat and your hands running through it.


“Fuck, Mike... I”, you're not completely sure what you're trying say – but it probably has to do with the fact that you're being fucked by your up until now presumed very straight band mate. And with how amazing he looks and feels. And with the consequences that this little romp might have, the thought having only just crept up into your consciousness. But then he hits your prostate dead-on and all coherent thought is ripped from your brain – your eyes rolling back into your head, fingers scraping down his back, desperately searching for something to hold on to.


Your declaration of pleasure seems to embolden him, because he picks up his speed and bows his head down to kiss your chest, tracing the outline of the tattoo he finds there with his tongue slowly, deliberately.


“You like my tattoos, don't you?” you tease, barely able to catch your breath beneath the weight of his body.


“Mmmyeah”, he mumbles and buries his face in the crook of your neck, thrusting his hips against yours steadily.


You tangle one of your hands in his hair, and elicit a delicious groan from him when you pull on his dark locks. “Do they... do they turn you on?”, you gasp, your words coming out less smooth than you'd like.


“Fuck yeah”, he groans against your neck, tightening his vice-like grip on your hip as he starts pushing into you faster, more frantically.


“You know what I'll do?”, you moan out softly against his ear and a sly smile spreads out across your face at the goosebumbs now forming on his skin.


Mike hits your prostate again, making you see stars for a moment, so you don't catch his reply.


“Once this album comes out”, you pant and dig your fingers into his back sharply which in turn makes him hiss as he pulls you against himself even harder. “I'll get our band name tattooed across my lower back, right above my ass” The idea elicits a desperate moan from the depths of his throat, his frantic breaths hot against your skin as he presses his mouth to your upper body, covering as much of your skin as possible in sloppy, open-mouthed kisses.


“Just imagine”, you moan, this little fantasy of yours turning you on just as much as him, and you dig your heels into his ass to pull him into you even deeper, causing both of you to cry out. “We'll make it big. We'll be fucking rockstars -”, Mike slams into you with full force now, no longer able to contain himself.

“And I'll be on stage, shirtless, every night. You won't be able to take your eyes off my ass, off of that tattoo... you'll imagine yourself licking it... b-before fucking me... e-every night”, you gasp and it's too much for him. He grabs your neglected erection and cums with an animalistic growl that pushes you over the edge with him, waves of pleasure ripping through you as you arch your body against Mike's, lips meeting in sloppy, uncoordinated kisses before the both of you start coming down from your individual highs slowly.




For several minutes, you just lie there, gasping for breath in each others arms, heart rates slowing. Your eyes open in confusion, however, when you feel Mike's weight disappear and the bed dip a few seconds later. Your face creases into a frown at the cold now hitting your unshielded body, the heat from your steamy actions quickly evaporating. You decide that it's best to keep your eyes closed – if you can't see him, you won't be able to see the anger or guilt, or whatever “straight” dudes feel after fucking a man for the first time, on his face – and will be consequently able to ignore it. The sounds of your band mate rummaging around the room stop, and you mentally prepare yourself for an onslaught of accusations, but it doesn't come – instead, you hear another door click shut quietly and the shower turn on a minute later.

He's showering. That's good. Or maybe it isn't? Maybe he's trying to wash the sinful act he just committed off of his body?


The thought of Mike rubbing shower gel all over his bronzed body should be cheering you up – but it doesn't, because you're seriously starting to worry about what you've done. This guy has given you a once-in-a-lifetime kind of chance to be part of a band that might actually succeed – and it's so depressingly Chester-like to fuck that up because you couldn't keep it in your pants. What if Mike kicks you out of the band because he's too ashamed to look at you after what you let him do to you? Fuck.

For the next few minutes, you just lie there – mind spinning with angry thoughts directed at yourself, paralyzing anxiety slowly crawling up your body.



You jump when you hear him enter the room and yank your eyes open as your fight-or-flight reflex kicks in – only to be confronted with an equally as paralyzed Mike, watching your sudden movements with wide eyes like a deer caught in headlights. His hair is wet and he's put on a fresh pair of boxer shorts and a clean white t-shirt.


“Are you okay?”, he asks incredulously.


Am I okay? Is he okay? You examine his carefully blank expression suspiciously. You don't know him well enough yet to determine whether he is actually unbothered by all of this, or whether he's freaking out internally and waiting for the best opportunity to strangle you. You decide to play it cool for now.


You force a small smile and nod. When he moves to sit down next to you, you realize that you're still naked, and – much to your embarrassment – covered in remnants of your previous actions. Hastily, you grab a sheet and pull it over yourself to cover the love bites, scratches and, well, cum distributed across your pale skin.


When you turn to finally meet his gaze, Mike shoots you a shy smile, and you start to relax a little as he leans in and demands a quick kiss before pulling back slightly.

He touches the ring pierced through your lower lip, running his thumb across your lips gently.


“Have you kissed anyone with a lip ring before?”, you ask, the anxiety fading out of your mind. He doesn't look murderous to you, so your fear of being strangled diminishes greatly, and your natural curiosity takes over.


He smiles sheepishly at you, a stark contrast to the way his dark eyes were staring into yours unapologetically and filled with passion when he was fucking you just minutes ago. “No, I haven't.”


You decide that dancing around the elephant in the room would do neither of you any good, so you brace yourself as you ask “So you probably also never fucked a guy before, huh?”.


His face turns red at your question and he directs his gaze down to his trembling hands, his teeth biting at his full lower lip again. He seems to be doing that a lot when he's nervous, you note. You've never seen him like this before – blushing and stuttering and biting his lip. When you are working on music or talking about his art, he is completely in his element, confident in his capabilities. He is clearly out of his depth here, and while you found it funny at first, now that you are sobering up, you are starting to question whether going all the way and letting him fuck you was a good idea.


“You're not gonna freak out on me, are you?”, you ask, your voice expressing serious concern, cursing yourself for bringing up the subject so carelessly.


He takes several deep breaths before he answers “No. At least I don't think so? Fuck.” He shakes his head, as if willing his jumbled mind back into place.

After a few seconds of staring into space, he shakes his head again and rasps “I don't want to think about any of this now”, exhaustion bleeding into the tone of his deep voice. He slides down under the covers and turns off the lamp on the small table next to his bed, covering the room in darkness only disturbed by the light of the streetlamp in front of the window, shining through a crack in the curtains.


“Can I...”, the duvet makes a rustling sound as he turns around to face you. Even in the semidarkness, the blush creeping across his cheeks is noticeable. “Can I just hold you for now?”


You snort out laughing at his innocence. He really hasn't done this a lot. “So you like to cuddle, huh? Wouldn't have picked you as such a soft dude”, you tease. Your smile freezes over when you see the hurt look on his face as he turns away from you, muttering a soft “fuck you” to himself.


“Sorry, Mike, I'm a dumbass. Lets cuddle, okay?”, you try to apologize. When he doesn't respond, you slide down next to him and wrap your arms around his waist possessively, nuzzling your face into the nape of his neck. You breathe in the sweet scent of his shampoo mixed with the unmistakable smell of sex still hanging in the air and press your lips against his skin tenderly. You're relieved when he starts relaxing into your embrace.


“This would work better with you as the big spoon.”


He turns around and your eyes connect, faces only inches apart. For a moment, you get caught up in how dark his eyes look in the dim light, almost black. You can't really read the look he gives you, a mixture of exhaustion and confusion, but overlain by something softer, something tender. For a second, he looks like he wants to say something, but pulls you against his chest wordlessly and you settle your head against his arm comfortably.


You let your eyes fall closed as your fingers run along the side of his torso absentmindedly. His body is warm and solid against you. You press your face against the soft cotton of the shirt he's thrown on before lying down and inhale the familiar scent of his laundry detergent. You can't remember ever feeling this relaxed after a hook up. But then again, none of the guys (and girls) you've hooked up with had ever asked you to cuddle after. After cheating and abuse, you've learned to regard sex as more of a necessity, an itch that had to be scratched from time to time. You've closed yourself off emotionally from the act because it was easier that way. Tired of getting hurt, you've convinced yourself that you don't need this kind of affection, that a hook up here and there is enough. That being alone is less dangerous.

Lying there in the dark in Mike's arms, though, you can't deny how good it feels to be intertwined with someone else like this – not in a sexual way, but still more intimately than friendship would allow. Your heart clenches at the thought that this isn't going to last. Tomorrow's morning will send reality crashing into this room, undoubtedly destroying whatever it is that caused the events leading up to this moment.


“What are you thinking about?”, he whispers, his hand now mirroring your gestures, stroking up and down along the side of your torso playfully.


A timid smile spreads across your lips. “I was just thinking that you're kinda weird.”

You want to slap yourself as soon as the words leave your lips, but he just laughs. The sound makes his rib cage vibrate and your head shake lightly.


“I could say the same about you, Arizona boy. I think you're completely crazy, leaving everything behind just to sing for us”, the laughter in his voice fades and it turns serious. “I'm glad you did, though.” He squeezes you in his arms and for a reason you don't want to understand right now, you feel tears prickle at the corner of your eyes.


You know it's irrational, that he'll wake up the next morning regretting this – but you haven't felt this adored in a long time and decide to savor the moment.


For a few minutes, the room is completely silent apart from your breathing and the quiet rustling sound his hand makes as it runs across your back under the covers. The steady thumping of his heart beat against your ear calms you down, slowly lulling you to sleep. A comfortable sigh leaves his lips and you feel them press against the top of your head softly for a moment.


“Good night, Ches”, he mumbles into your messy curls, tiredness overriding his voice, turning it into a slight whisper.


You smile sleepily.



“Good night, Spikey.”




THE END

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