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It was a night like any other.
The stage lit up, guitar notes echoing through the arena. But behind the velvet curtains, among the dancing shadows, there was a tension—thick, electric. It had no name. Not until Ian Gillan gave it one.
Ian had always sensed something deeper about that man—the one most seemed to fear.
Ritchie Blackmore.
The irritable, commanding guitarist everyone in Deep Purple respected, but no one dared to provoke. No one… except Ian.
He’d been watching him for years. The way Ritchie moved onstage, how his fingers summoned fury and beauty from the strings with a quiet authority—it awakened something in Ian. But it wasn’t just admiration. No, it was an itch under the skin, a need to break through the glacial shell and find out what was hiding beneath.
Ritchie had the kind of eyes that could undress a man’s soul. Black, unreadable, but always sharp—too sharp. They saw everything, and Ian… Ian wanted to be seen. No, claimed.
The venue had emptied. The post-show adrenaline still hummed in Ian’s veins. The hallway behind the stage buzzed with flickering lights, the scent of sweat and electricity in the air.
That was when he saw him.
Ritchie stood alone at the end of the corridor, shirt open, leather jacket draped on the back of a chair, guitar propped beside him like a weapon at rest. He looked carved out of darkness itself.
Ian approached with slow steps, voice thick with intent.
“Feeling safe behind your armor tonight, Blackmore?”
Ritchie’s head turned. His eyes narrowed.
He didn’t speak right away, but his gaze said everything. Tension rippled between them like heat off asphalt.
“You do like getting under people’s skin,” Ritchie murmured, his voice low, sharp as broken glass and just as dangerous.
Ian smirked, stepping closer.
“No, Ritchie. I like unmasking people. Especially the ones who pretend they have nothing to hide.”
Ritchie’s expression didn’t change, but something in his stance did—a shift in weight, a slight tilt of the chin. He was listening.
“Think you’re gonna intimidate me with your mind games?” he asked, stepping forward, closing the distance with slow, calculated dominance.
Ian didn’t back away.
“Who said I’m trying to intimidate you?”
His voice softened, but the edge remained.
“Maybe I’m just wondering how far I can push before you stop pretending you don’t want this.”
That was it. The flicker in Ritchie’s eyes—desire wrapped in disdain.
And then, the storm broke.
Without warning, Ritchie grabbed Ian by the back of the neck and crashed their mouths together. It was brutal, claiming. Tongues clashed, teeth scraped. Ian groaned into the kiss, hands gripping Ritchie’s shirt, tearing it further open, needing to feel him—his heat, his strength, his raw power.
Ritchie shoved Ian against the wall, thigh pressed between his legs, grinding into him. Ian’s head fell back with a gasp, hips jerking toward the pressure. Ritchie’s hand slipped between them, fingers undoing the buckle of Ian’s belt with aggressive precision.
“Still feel like playing games, Gillan?”
His voice was rough, predatory, hot against Ian’s ear.
Ian’s breath caught.
“Fuck yes.”
Ritchie’s hand was inside his pants now, wrapping around him, stroking him with deliberate, punishing rhythm. Ian bucked into the touch, his moans muffled by Ritchie’s mouth claiming his again. Their hips moved together, the friction unbearable.
The air was thick with sweat and desire. Each groan, each gasp, each slick, filthy sound of skin on skin echoed off the walls.
When Ian came, it was with a choked cry, muscles tensing, body trembling against Ritchie’s. He collapsed forward, forehead resting on Ritchie’s shoulder, lips brushing his neck, still panting.
Ritchie didn’t let go. He held him there, possessive and silent, breathing hard.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Just the sound of two men who’d finally torn through every wall between them.
Then Ian laughed, low and hoarse.
“That was… reckless.”
Ritchie pressed their foreheads together, a real smile ghosting over his lips.
“I warned you.”