Biting is excellent

Snow White and the Huntsman

fools_game — Sun, 24 Jun 2012 01:36:45 GMT

I think most of this movie can probably be summed up by the frantic whispered conversation I had with Nath quite early on in the film - along the lines of "She's not seriously going to tame it with her beauty. They would be so.... aaaaugh no, she's actually doing it, she's taming it with her beauty and innocence, oh Jesus this is such a trainwreck." (By the end of the film we had given up whispering and I was shouting at the screen, heedless of the crowded cinema, which is why I can't go nice places)

Like. You guys know I have thoughts about fairytales, right? And when I saw the shorts for this version of Snow White (which has always been a super troubling tale vis a vis women and power and evil and beauty and virtue) I was all, that is a lady, and she is DOING STUFF. She is running for her life and wearing extremely functional armor and riding into battle and waving a sword around. Fairytales consistently place their heroines in situations of extreme passivity, and the Snow White story more than most, due to her being all dead and on display. So a Snow White who is being active, and has agency and power and moves around in the plot rather that being moved by the plot? Excellent. Super excellent. I liked that a lot!

I also liked the love triangle! No, seriously! It was part of the plot, but it was understated and in the background and generally pretty unresolved by the end (it ends with a coronation, not a wedding!). But the Huntsman character especially served to remind the audience that people can love more than one person. He genuinely did love his wife, and losing her shattered him. But he genuinely also loved Snow. And though Snow White never actually talks about love or picks a partner, she is extremely fond of both the Huntsman and her childhood friend William... and it's not until BOTH of them have kissed her that she awakes from her enchanted sleep. There's also no overt competition between the two men; they actually get along really well and share a whole comrades-in-arms thing, along with a yes-our-queen-is-kick-awesome understanding. I'm not gonna say "unconventional time-share relationship" but you all know I'm thinking it.

So that was stuff I liked a lot! Other stuff that was excellent included the visuals: costuming, special effects, the sets and locations. Stunning, oh yes.

And then of course there was the other stuff.

Look, a thing that has always been bad about fairytales is the fucked up way they portray connections between women, power, evil, beauty and virtue. And sadly, that fucked-up dynamic is pretty intact in this film.

So the general idea goes like this: beauty and virtue are linked, always. Also, marrying a man is something good women should do, and being a queen or princess is not bad either.

BUT. Actually actively striving to attain those things - beauty, a mate, power - rather than passively waiting for them to arrive, is something only bad women do.

So, in this film, Snow White is good (to insane, messianic levels of "She is life itself!" "She is connected to the land!" "She will save us all!") not because she is strong or smart or brave. Not because she's a good politician or a wise ruler or a strong soldier. She is good, she will save the kingdom, because she is beautiful and innocent.

But the evil queen is evil because she seeks actively strives to be beautiful and powerful, and she is powerful because she is beautiful. Like, overtly - her magic powers come from her beauty, and when they wane or she gets weaker, she gets old and loses her beauty and has to do horrific things to maintain her looks. (Which leads to a quietly horrifying sequence where Snow comes across a village of peasant women whose men have all ridden off to war. They've mutilated their faces, and their daughters' faces, so the queen won't want them.)

I mean, you can tell Ravenna is evil mostly because of all the murder and treachery and stealing people's youth and strength and the way she seems to be starving the peasantry to pay for her stunning wardrobe. But the beauty/power=evil thing is seriously disturbing thread that is straight out of the original tale, and has actually been made more explicit in the film - Snow is a threat to the queen not because she's the true heir to the throne or anything, but because she is more beautiful than the queen, which makes the Queen less powerful. And Snow White, as the only one who is more beautiful than the queen, is therefore the only one more powerful, and the only one who can kill her.

"I'm everything you're not," says Snow White to the queen, right before stabbing her in the heart, and it's true. Snow is given power and adulation like it's her right, because she's beautiful and noble, where Ravenna, a common-born girl, had to fight for every inch of respect and power she got, using every tool at her disposal. Snow's childhood and is coddled and adored, secure in the love of her parents and the knowledge that she will be queen, but in flashback we see the desperately impoverished Ravenna's mother tell her that her beauty will give her power, that she must use her beauty to protect herself, and casting a spell on Ravenna before she is dragged away screaming by soldiers. Yes, all the murder is indefensible, but Ravenna is a product of a system which privileges certain characteristics in women but punishes them for using them.

Anyway. I also had thoughts about the heavy thread of classism running through the film (are they actually using a mob of unarmoured peasants as a siege weapon?) and the weird juxtaposition of Catholicism and paganism BOTH being used to prove Snow White's virtue and goodness, and the seriously shaky wisdom of putting a war-ravaged kingdom in the hands of an uneducated teenager who has spent most of her life locked in an isolated cell with no human contact regardless of how totally pretty she is, you guys, and also what the hell was up with her rousing speech to the peasantry because I couldn't pick even one of those convoluted metaphors, but.

I think that's probably enough for today.

2012 is apparently my Stupidly Introspective Year

fools_game — Tue, 22 May 2012 07:44:40 GMT

So I’ve been thinking recently about things I’m supposed to do and how sometimes I don’t want to do any of them.

Like, I was looking at my little sister’s facebook the other day, where she’d posted all her engagement pictures, and my little sister is stunningly beautiful. Both my sisters are, actually. And sometimes I feel like the ugly sister in a fairytale. Which is not a bad thing! The ugly sisters were always interesting and ambitious and smart, it’s just that fairytales use “interesting and ambitious and smart” as shorthand for “evil, potentially has opinions” in women. So I’m okay these days with being the ugly sister - not actually physically ugly or anything, but the one who doesn’t do things the way they’re meant to be done, the one who makes people a little uncomfortable, who doesn’t fit into the ‘good girl’ category unambiguously.

(I’ve thought a lot about fairy tales. I never wanted to be Cinderella.)

So I have realised some stuff about myself, or maybe made some decisions. Like: I don’t want to have kids. I love kids! Anybody who’s ever seen me with a baby will tell you I love them. I’m one of those terrible gushy clucky baby-lovers who ignores all adult presences for the sake of making stupid faces at a six-month-old. I’ll patiently have conversations with barely-verbal two-year-olds and teach a kindergartener to tie their shoes. Like. KIDS, man, they are amazing and awesome and I never, ever want to have them. The idea of loving something that intensely, that inescapably, of having such total responsibility for it - no. No way. The thought actually makes me recoil in terror. (My commitment issues, let me show you them.)

I will be Auntie Em. I will be badassest maiden aunt ever, and my neicelings and nevvies will come to me and drink tea with me and I will teach them the ways of nerdery, feed them delicious things, pinch their stupid cheeks, and send them home.

And creeping in on the heels of THAT realisation was this: I have a hard time picturing a future where I have a partner.

I keep thinking I’d like to date? Maybe? But it’s been ten years since I haven’t backpedalled hard at the opportunity. Seriously. I have an online dating profile, and I chat to people, and the minute they suggest meeting up in real life I stop talking to them and ignore their messages and pretend like I have died in a car accident. I’m not good at noticing people flirting, but when I do, I pretend I don’t. I go out dancing with my girls and refuse to touch or make eye contact with anyone I don’t already know. A friend and I even tentatively agreed to try dating a couple of months back and I had a three-day freakout and called the whole thing off. (His response: “Are you seriously freaking out about this? You loser.” Heh.)

So CLEARLY there is some kind of disconnect between what I think I want (to date) and what my behaviour and feelings are saying (fuck no). My ten years of singledom, which I always figured was like a dry spell that would pass when I found somebody to date, has actually turned out to be a thing I am actively DOING because some invisible but very opinionated part of my brain has decided NO I DON’T WANT THAT. For whatever reason, I have no idea why! Maybe I have a broken brain and the bit of my brain that’s meant to want to pair-bond is busy thinking up rhymes for ‘dialectic’ and naming my future cats.

I’m overthinking it, of course. I am like Captain Overthinking It, it’s my superpower. That and procrastinating. But I go to dinner with my family - my mother and father, my brother and his wife, my little sister and her partner and my OTHER little sister and HER fiance, and I’m glad of my own life, glad I’m not part of a unit, one half of a pair. I’m glad that they’re happy but I don’t want the same things, and it’s only very recently I’ve come to realise it because my whole life I’ve always sort of assumed, well, I should want those things.

I don’t know if my feelings on the topic will change in future (part of me hopes they will; I’d like to have sex at some point in my life maybe). Maybe I’ll meet “The One” and all the bullshit romance novels will suddenly make sense. Maybe I’ll settle some other shit in my life and go to therapy and get myself to a place where I do want a relationship. Maybe it’s arrogant of me to give up on the idea before I’ve even had a serious crack at it. Maybe I’m just being lazy; relationships are serious work, I know that, and I honestly can’t be fucked.

Or maybe I’ll be Spinster Auntie Em forever. I can be the ugly one if I want; brash and aggressive and inappropriate so my sisters roll their eyes and get upset at me. I’ll have a house that’s just mine and my cats and be very bad at knitting and write filthy books I never tell my mother about, I’ll forget to call my friends for weeks at a time and then spend four solid days texting them every ten minutes so they know I still love them, I’ll plant a vegetable garden and forget to weed it, I’ll get fat and dare any person to give me shit about it.

That would be okay, I think.

The Tangible

fools_game — Sat, 21 Apr 2012 05:41:19 GMT

I have a confession: I used to eat books.

It drove my mother mad. Around age 7 I started collecting Enid Blyton books, so every time she went out shopping she would duck into a bookstore and pick up one I didn't have. They'd started republishing everything of Blyton's around that time, so there would be a new one out every week, and it was an easy thing she could do to make her oddest doesn't-like-sparkles-or-ponies daughter happy.

So I would get the book of the week, squeal, do a little dance, hug my mother, and sequester myself in my room with the latest tale of spunky loyal girls at a boarding school learning important life lessons, or spunky loyal children on a farm learning important life lessons (but not anything about, like, reproduction, god no) or spunky loyal children in strange twisted fairy-tale-fable adventures with anthropomorphised picture book illustrations. I would read it fast, and then slow, and then put it on my shelf with all the others. I liked that mum always took care to get the same cover themes, so they all looked lovely on my shelf. I like the hardcovers, the snap it made when I shut it. I liked the way my fingers went black when I'd been reading for hours, and the way I could tell that I'd been eating apples while I was reading because the pages got all wrinkled and stained.

And I liked to eat the paper.

I'm not sure if my parents already thought I was an odd little bird by this time or not, but I suspect so, and this only cemented their opinion of me. I'd left a book in the living room, and my mother picked it up and noted that all the corners had been torn from the pages. She asked me what I had done, and I shrugged, and said I had torn the corners out and eaten them.

You what, she said. Something in her voice made me cautious.

I like to... eat the paper?

Are you hungry?

No.

Does it taste good?

Not really. It doesn't taste of anything.

Then why?

I just like to.

Since this was not remotely the oddest thing nine-year-old me got up to (I spent several months in third grade sleeping on the floor next to my bed for no reason at all, refused to wear shoes, and stored sandwiches in my desk until they went moldy) and mother dearest had four other relatively normal children who never painted their ceiling navy blue or ate things that were manifestly not food or read the dictionary for funsies and also to figure out exactly what "promiscuous" meant, the subject was dropped.

Later, she wondered if I could eat newspaper or catalogues that were going to be thrown out, instead of my books. No, I said. It's not the same.

I don't have those Enid Blyton books anymore; they disappeared sometime during the high school years, and I don't eat paper anymore. But I still collect books like a packrat. I still love the feel of paper and the smell of it, the excitement and delight of turning that first page, the satisfying snap of the cover at the last page. I still wait twelve months for every new Terry Pratchett book so it can match the paperback collection I've got on my shelf. I value books as objects, as things I can hold, things I can display, things to have.

But. Books are the words contained in them. Likely the next big tech purchase I will make will be an ereading device of some kind; I think it will suit me down to the ground to have books at my fingertips anywhere and everywhere. I already read so much fic online, so god knows I know it is just as genuine and affecting and wonderfully written as a physical book; it loses nothing of consequence in the change of medium.

Except the taste of paper. (It's very dry, if you were wondering.)

Dear Catholic Church,

fools_game — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 08:37:59 GMT

You and I are no longer speaking.

Vatican Reprimands a Group of U.S. Nuns and Plans Changes

I have spent years of my life hanging onto the belief that the Church could and would change. I have argued in its defence. I have worked in its schools and nurtured its children.

But now I am done. The straw done broke the camel's back; and this is it.

I stuck by in the belief that action would be taken on the child abuse cases; I was wrong. I assumed that the church's stance on homosexuality would change; maybe it will, one day. I was raised in a community which told me that the voices of the women were heard as clearly as the men, but my adult experience tells me vastly different. The Church has made it clear - indeed, has been making it clear over and over for years now - that people like me are not welcome. Women who are attracted to other women need not apply; women who are attracted to both men and other ladies might actually be worse. Women who don't want to get married and have babies. Anybody who wants sex, but not babies. Anyone who wants babies but not marriage, or marriage but not babies. Gay people, trans people, people who don't fit the gender binary or don't feel comfortable there. People who are like me, people I love, people who deserve more fucking dignity than 'Change to fit our standards'.

And now, women who dare to fucking think for themselves and having fucking opinions and structure their organisation in a way that suits their needs, without first checking with their thrice-damned fucking overlords in the Vatican to make sure it's all not too feminist.

I just. I'm just done.

Fic: Yours To Miss

fools_game — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 23:26:22 GMT

Title: Yours to Miss
Author: fools_game
Bands (and/or pairings): PatD/Young Veins, Ryan-centric, gen with background Brendon/Sarah
Rating: PG-13 for cursing
Word count: 5040
Warnings: None
Summary: The invitation to Brendon’s wedding is stuck to his refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a brightly-coloured chicken. Ryan Ross is not in Panic! anymore. Ryan Ross is not doing much of anything right now.
Author notes: I volunteered to pinch hit and got a mix about Ryan Ross. I loved the mix, but what I knew about Mr Ross was mostly "Did not discover the Beatles until he had been a professional musician for several years" and "possibly a cokehead." I feel this has been journey of learning for me! I learned all sorts of funny little things about RyRo, for starters.

Written for spencertized's Mix A Minor Fall and Major Lift. Beta'd by lalejandra with baffling speed and wonderfulness considering I emailed her out of the blue with thirty-six hours to spare.

The invitation to Brendon’s wedding is stuck to his refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a brightly-coloured chicken. It’s heavy cream paper, but the font is some quirky, blocky thing, and there are more exclamation marks than is strictly proper for a formal invitation. The RSVP date had come and gone a couple of weeks back. Ryan hasn’t spoken to Brendon in six months or so.

“You should - I mean. He’d like to hear from you,” says Spencer. He’s been reading self-help books again; Ryan can hear how carefully he avoids telling Ryan what he should do.

“He has my number,” says Ryan.

“He has your address, too,” says Spencer. “I know he does. That’s where he sent the invitation.”

“Did he.”

“Ryan.” Spencer pauses, and sighs just loudly enough Ryan can hear it down the phone line. “I think he misses you. He’d like you to come.”

“Then why doesn’t he call me?”

“He invited you.” Spencer sounds frustrated. “He wants you to be there.”

Ryan hums noncommittally. “Maybe,” he says.

“I’d like you to come,” says Spencer quietly. “It would be nice to see you. Have us all together again.”

“Is Jon coming?” asks Ryan, more to be a dick than out of genuine curiosity.

Spencer hesitates briefly. “Jon’s invited,” he says.

“What about Brent?” asks Ryan, and Spencer’s exasperated huff explodes down the line.

“Ryan,” he says forcefully, then audibly chokes off whatever he was going to say. “Look, never mind. There’ll be a seat for you; come or don’t.”

“Okay,” says Ryan brightly. He’s sure he’s imagining the sound of Spencer grinding his teeth.

~

Ryan still lives in the same house he bought a few years back. The moat is kind of overgrown by now, but the views down the canyon are the same. He’s not sure he fits it anymore, but the idea of going through the process of selling it, finding a new place - a smaller place, he thinks sometimes, somewhere with pale walls and lots of light - is exhausting, makes him want to put his head under his blanket. He’s used to this place, anyway. Got used to it and then came to hate it and then got used to it again; it’d be a shame to leave now that he knows exactly how long it takes the ancient water heater to get his shower to an acceptable temperature. He’s timed his whole morning routine around getting in just as the water is perfectly warm and staying in just until it starts to chill.

“You could get a better water heater,” Z tells him. “You actually own the house, you’re allowed to do stuff to it.” She stretches on his couch, catlike.

“If I start fixing things,” he wonders, “how do I stop?” He thinks some more. “What do I fix first?”

Z eyes him sympathetically. “You’re overthinking it, honey.”

He shrugs. He knows he could replace the heater, but it isn’t really broken, and he kind of likes the clanking noises it makes from the basement as it struggles to get hot water all the way up to him. It’s like the sound his old dialup modem used to make, struggling to connect. The water heater isn’t really the point, though. “It’s kind of my thing,” he tells her. “Overthinking things.”

She rolls her eyes at him.

~

Ryan likes to keep things.

Not, like, hoarding or anything, he doesn’t have stacks of empty bottles or newspapers or whatever, he’s totally clean. But he hates throwing things out. There’s a room in his house stacked high with every book he’s ever read and all the ones he still means to get to, shelves on every wall and books lying in heaps on the floor, no particular order anywhere. The living room seems to be breeding DVD cases; his kitchen drawers are packed with odd little gadgets for peeling or slicing or opening bottles. Packrat, that’s it; magpie.

He’s got notebooks everywhere. He’d gotten into the habit of buying notebooks when he’d decided to be a writer, aged twelve and a half, and had started carrying one with him wherever he went, and never quite dropped the habit, even once he started doing most of his writing on his computer, or his phone, or recording phrases and snatches of music out loud instead of writing them down. It’s all good, he thinks, it’s all art.

Once, he’d half-written a song on the back of Brendon’s arm as he slept belly-down on a couch on a bus somewhere. Brendon had woken up before he was done, snorted and shoved him off, and then gone, “Oh, cool,” and made Ryan take a photo of it, because he couldn’t read it in the mirror. They’d never used those lyrics for anything – seriously, he'd been high as fuck when he did it – but Brendon had laughed and said it was excellent.

Anyway.

Now Ryan has a bunch of notebooks he hasn’t used and keeps accidentally buying more and then not writing anything in them. Oh, he writes. In a sort of desultory fashion, when the mood strikes him; when something particularly beautiful occurs or when he’s feeling especially sorry for himself, he’ll thrash it out in words and lay it down on paper and feel better.

But it isn’t habitual anymore, not like it was. He doesn’t carry a notebook anymore, doesn’t jot things down in every quiet space of his day. Somewhere along the line, writing turned into a hobby instead of a driving passion. Somewhere, the art that he'd left everything for stopped mattering, and he hadn't even noticed.

~

“Will you stop hassling me about the wedding,” is how Ryan answers the phone whenever he sees Spencer’s name on the screen.

Spencer doesn’t say anything, but Ryan can hear him breathing.

“Sorry,” he says after a minute.

“I think I’m gonna go back to Vegas this weekend,” says Spencer. “See my mom and the girls.”

“Yeah?” says Ryan. “Say hi to them?”

“You should call them,” says Spencer. “Mom worries about you. She worries if you’re eating enough, if you’re looking after yourself.”

“I’m actually a grownup now,” says Ryan.

“Did you pay your electricity this month?” asks Spencer.

”Fuck you,” says Ryan peacefully. His electricity hasn’t been turned off in ages, not since he remembered to call the company when his credit card expired.

“Maybe you could come home for Christmas this year,” says Spencer, and Ryan is sure, very sure, he’s not trying to be cruel, so he makes a noncommittal noise and changes the subject.

~

Ryan remembers being seventeen and thinking that he could hide all his hurting parts behind metaphor and cadence and nobody would ever know.

He remembers being nineteen and seeing his future laid out in front of him, everything he’d ever wanted, like it had been waiting for him and all he had to do was walk in and take it.

He remembers being twenty-two and being fiercely, quietly sure he would be this happy forever.

Panic was going to be everything, it was going to be his whole world. He’d said as much to Jon, once, maybe when they were stoned sometime. That they’d be sixty or seventy and still doing reunion tours, that baby bands would one day fight to open for them, shake their hands and call them an inspiration.

He has a google alert for Panic, and one for Spencer, among the mess that lands in his inbox every morning. He'd followed the success of Vice and Virtues grimly, determinedly. He’d secretly thought – not hoped, not even in his nastiest moments, but patiently expected -- that it wouldn’t work. Brendon would crack under the pressure, or the album would bomb, and they would see that he’d been right the whole time.

~

He runs into Pete in a Starbucks, of all places. He’s got a giant cup in one hand, his phone jammed between his ear and his shoulder, and he’s corralling Bronx with his foot. The kid seems pretty happy to be corralled, one hand hooked in Pete’s jeans pocket and the other jammed in his mouth, staring around at the coffee patrons with disinterest.

Pete’s eyes get big when he sees Ryan, and a goofy grin splits his face. “Hey, man!” he crows, and then, “No, not you, I’ll call you in a bit,” as he hangs up. “Heeeyyyy,” he croons, and grabs Ryan in a hug.

“Hi,” says Ryan awkwardly. It’s still a little odd that Pete is so much shorter than he is, and he now has a toddler standing on his foot, but he hugs Pete back anyway.

“Come sit with me, Ryan Ross,” says Pete. “Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“In a second,” says Ryan, and Pete rolls his eyes and taps his foot and waits while Ryan queues up and orders and waits for his drink, and they settle into chairs away from the window. Bronx has a crusting of milk from his babycino, all around his mouth, and Pete produce a wet wipe from his messenger bag and cleans him off efficiently.

“Touring is such good practice for parenting,” Pete tells him. “Well, touring the way we used to do it.” He snickers. “Don’t sweat the messes, you know? Drove Ash up the wall for while there. Now I make sure to clean him good before I send him back.”

“Kids get dirty, though.” Ryan’s sure he’s read that somewhere; kids aren’t really his thing.

“Yeah.” Pete grins down at his kid, finishes scrubbing his little hands off, and shoves a little cardboard book at him. “Here, practice your colors, dude.”

Bronx takes the book and examines in with practised, put-upon disdain. Ryan likes this kid.

“So, Ryan. Ryan Ross,” says Pete.

“Peter Lewis Kingston –“

“Shut up, oh my god,” says Pete. “Don’t start that shit, George.” But he’s grinning, and for a minute it’s like no time has passed at all, never mind that Pete’s sporting a buzzcut these days instead of purple bangs, that there’s creases around his eyes that don’t go away when he stops smiling instead of smudged eyeliner, that he keeps baby wipes and books about colors in his satchel.

“So tell me the things,” says Pete.

“What things?”

“All of the things,” says Pete. “Like, you. Man, I have not seen you -- you, like, dropped off the edge.” He cocks his head, and Ryan feels a flash of guilt for how much he’d blown Pete off, back when the split happened. Pete doesn’t look that upset about it, but Pete’s never been that good at being mad. “I bet you’ve been off writing the great American novel or some shit, haven’t you. The next Hunter S Thompson.”

“Not really,” says Ryan. “I mean, I’ve been writing some, but like, lyrics. Nothing really. “ He thinks about it, drumming his fingers on the table. “Nothing cohesive.”

Pete’s gaze sharpens, then softens. “Yeah. I know what that’s like.” He clears his throat. “Like, after everything.”

“Yeah.” He looks out the window. “Fuck it, we are depressing.”

“Don’t swear in front of my kid,” says Pete, and Ryan looks over, startled. Pete’s grinning his big stupid grin, and Bronx is chewing on the sleeve of Pete’s hoodie, slung over the back of the chair. “Kidding, dude.”

“I’ve been thinking about, like, getting back into it,” says Ryan. “Solo stuff, maybe, acoustic.” He hasn’t, but he’s never quite lost the desire to not disappoint Pete.

“That is excellent.” Pete points at him sternly. “That is the best news, Ryan Ross. You let me know, I will help you out.”

Ryan curls in on himself a bit. “But. The label?” It’s Pete’s imprint, sure, but that doesn’t mean Pete gets all the decisions, and even though they’d eventually settled everything, Ryan had walked out on his contract. He’s pretty sure his name is mud at DecayDance.

“Fuck the label,” says Pete, passionately. “Or, like, no. I love my label. But, dude, we’re still friends, right? I can help out. I know people.” He nods.

“I – sure.” Ryan swallows around the lump in his throat, and Pete looks sort of alarmed.

“Oh my god, don’t cry.”

“Fuck you,” says Ryan, with a guilty glance at Bronx.

“Did you think – oh my god, you did.” Pete shoves his coffee to the side, leans forward over the table, earnest. “Ryan, Ryan. Come on. The business shit is just business, man. And it’s ugly, sure, and it gets messy. But, fuck. You guys are, like, my guys, you know?”

“Brendon and Spencer are still your guys,” Ryan mumbles, annoyed at how petulant he sounds to his own ears.

Pete pinches his wrist. “You’re the one that stopped taking my calls.”

~

Fuck Pete Wentz, anyway. Seriously.

~

But Ryan goes back home and pulls out his latest notebook, ragged along the edge where he fidgets while he writes, and flips through it. A lot of it is crap. Like, a lot.

He pulls out a fresh notebook and starts over, flipping through what he’s got, picking out lines and phrases that are good or okay or need some tweaking, and when he’s done, he’s only got, like, a page and a half.

He goes into his office and grabs a stack of half-filled notebooks, heads out onto the patio.

The shit he was writing six months ago is morose and terrible; the shit he was writing a year ago is worse. There’s a chunk of time from right after Jon left where he hadn’t written anything at all, where he’d been caught up in the idea of being an artist for art’s sake and done a lot of drugs and had a bunch of sex and not really gotten any work done for months.

There’s stuff from earlier than that, though, from tour buses and recording and the early days. Nothing solid, nothing that he’d ever bothered to make into an actual song, make something of, but something. He can see snatches of his younger self, prickly and furious, sure that it would all be taken away from him at any moment. He finds things he doesn’t remember in his own writing, bits of emotion he put out he doesn’t remember feeling – something about Brendon tickling him, an incident he remembers vaguely, but not what he wrote about it, his bewilderment and happiness and annoyance all twisted together. Another page isn’t even lyrics, just Ryan thinking about Spencer growing up and getting all manly and confusing with the beard and the shoulders and his stupid deep voice, even when he was still doing that thing with his hips. Further back and there’s bit of his confusing, short-lived crush on Jon, and a tangle of feeling about his dad he doesn’t even read, just skips over -- he is done sticking his family issues in the top ten, thanks.

When he’s done, he’s taken five, six years of rambling thoughts and distilled it down to about forty scrawled pages of maybe. He feels like he’s walked into a wall. Repeatedly.

~

“This used to be easier,” he says out loud.

The living room makes no reply. He’s got a swimmy headache, like he hasn’t drunk enough water or slept or something. He had to find a cloth to wipe the dust off his guitar, and then he had to stop and tune it. His fingers have softened and the skin under his fingernails is stinging and his voice keeps cracking.

Writing is hard.

~

“Seriously,” says Spencer. “About the wedding.”

“Not now,” says Ryan, and hangs up.

He feels guilty immediately, which trips up his working vibe enough there’s no point not calling to apologise. “Sorry. I was working.”

“For fuck's sake.” The exasperation in Spencer’s voice is familiar. They’re probably not close enough anymore for Ryan to pull that kind of shit and expect Spencer to put up with it, but it makes him irrationally angry that Spencer’s so frustrated when Spencer know what he’s like when he’s working.

“I said sorry,” he says. “I’m really writing, though. I have a couple of songs now, I think.”

“Great,” says Spencer flatly. “About the wedding. Are you in or out? We need to know.”

“Are you the wedding planner now?” Ryan fiddles with a tuning knob. “Go-between?”

“Out, then? Okay. I’ll let them know.” His words are clipped, irritated, and Ryan doesn’t need twenty years of friendship to pick up on Spencer’s end-of-his-ropeness.

“Wait, no,” he says, and hears Spencer take in a breath, maybe to yell. “Just. Hang on.”

Spencer does, and there’s a couple of slow moments where neither of them say anything. Eventually, Spencer sighs again. “Look, Ryan. I get that you’re all... whatever.”

“Whatever?”

“Conflicted, whatever. But you – you said you still wanted to be friends, okay, and Brendon is trying, but if you won’t even, like – you don’t even have to talk to him, okay? You can just show up and smile and then leave.”

“I don’t,” says Ryan, but Spencer steamrolls over the top of him.

“Or don’t. That’s okay, too; I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s fine. But he wants you to be there. He’s trying to give you space, he’s trying to not start shit, but you’re all, oh, we’ll still be friends and you can’t even be bothered to fill out a fucking card either way and mail it, then fuck you, seriously, fuck you.”

Ryan pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it. Spencer is mad. And not, like, Spencer-mad, where he gets all shut-off and formal and narrow-eyed. Spencer is, like, furious. Ryan’s phone is practically smoking.

“Spence,” he says, but Spencer has hung up. He doesn’t answer when Ryan calls him back, so Ryan puts the phone down, picks up his pen and carefully writes down what he’s feeling. It’s important to form good habits, he thinks, and then goes to find his keys.

~

He gets ten minutes away from home before he realises he hasn’t showered in three days, and, okay, these guys have lived on a bus with him at the height of their collective stinkiness, but it’s probably rude to make house calls smelling like a hobo, and, of course, as soon as he notices that his scalp starts itching and he’s convinced he can smell his own underpants. So he turns around and goes home, showers and shaves and pulls on clean clothes. He wonders if he should take something, like muffins or something, but he doesn’t really have any food in the house and he can’t cook and he suspects flowers would be wildly inappropriate for this particular "Sorry I was a douche" conversation.

He’s never been to Brendon’s place, the one he shares with his fiancée, and he gets lost a couple of times even with his GPS, mostly because he keeps it on mute because the little voice creeps him the fuck out. There’s a couple of cars in the driveway, so somebody’s home. Unless Brendon has turned into the kind of rock star who buys lots of cars, but he suspects that kind of rock star would keep them in a garage or something, and also not live where Brendon does, in a two-storey place in the suburbs, with a big yard.

He sits in his car for a while, parked by the kerb. Drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Stares at the house like a creeper.

His phone chirps, startling him, and it’s a message from Brendon: icu. He’s still blinking at it in bemusement when it goes again: come inside dumass

Brendon is waiting just inside the front door. His hair is sticking up in stupid directions, and he’s wearing new glasses from when Ryan last saw him.

“Hey,” Ryan says, and waves across the threshold.

Brendon nods, and sort of tucks his shoulders in. “Come in,” he says, and Ryan follows him through to the kitchen. As they pass one door, he can hear a hammering, driving beat, like somebody’s taking all their anger out on a set of drums.

“Spencer’s here?” he asks, and Brendon shrugs.

“Yeah, he was helping out with some wedding stuff. We were going over the seating plan for the reception.”

“How’s the wedding planning going?”

Brendon grins then. “Venue’s booked, celebrant’s booked. Sarah’s got her dress. Even if everything else falls apart, we’ll still be married at the end of it, so. Just details now.”

“Like the guest list,” says Ryan, and Brendon looks at him strangely and offers him a drink.

A dog comes into the kitchen, investigates Ryan crotch-first, and leaves again, busily. Brendon sets a mug of green tea in front of him, sits down across the table.

“I’ll come,” says Ryan. His voice cracks. “To – is it too late to RSVP?”

Brendon smiles down at the table. “Spencer said you already had,” he says. “I kind of figured he was planning on kidnapping you to ensure it.”

“He’s pretty mad at me,” says Ryan.

“He’s not the only one.” Brendon’s still not looking at him, still smiling that funny nothing smile. “Because it never occurred to me, you know, that you just wouldn’t come. Because.” He looks up then, and away just as fast. “We’re still gonna be friends, right?”

“I wrote a song about you,” says Ryan.

Brendon cocks his head. “And then Spencer got so fucking defensive about it, like, he’ll come, he’s definitely coming, absolutely. Definitely. But I hadn’t heard from you, and it was like you couldn’t even be bothered saying no.”

Ryan stares at his tea. “It wasn’t that.”

“You know,” says Brendon. “I actually have other shit to worry about right now. I am planning my wedding. My actual wedding, to this girl who is the best thing in my entire life. You wouldn’t know. You’ve never fucking met her.”

“I’m sorry,” says Ryan. “I’ve been – I know I’ve been pretty messed up.”

Brendon snorts. “Like that’s new.”

Ryan taps his fingers on the table. “If I use a metaphor, will you throw something at me?”

“That was one time, god,” says Brendon. “Go on then, I know you feel better hiding behind literary devices.”

He’s riding the line between friendly teasing and actual nastiness, and Ryan is stung into being blunter than he meant to. “You’re Ursula the sea witch,” he says, and Brendon blinks at him.

“Wha – from The Little Mermaid? What?”

“It’s like you stole my life,” says Ryan, and now Brendon looks hurt, and mad, and still sort of confused.

“What the fuck, Ryan, I didn’t steal – I worked hard for this. I didn’t fucking take anything from you.”

“No, just – just fucking listen, would you? Can I finish?” Brendon subsides, flushed and angry. In the basement, Spencer is making so much noise, Ryan suspects he is just throwing things at this point. He hopes he’s not going to fuck up his hands.

Ryan breathes deep into his belly, lets it out carefully. “I had a plan when we got signed, you know. I was going to be in this kick-ass band, and write all the music, and be fucking famous, and be Pete’s little protégé -- and then his friend once he realised how awesome I was.” He swallows. “And me and Spencer were gonna be best friends forever. And then I gave you my songs to sing and it was like everything else went to you, too. I gave you my voice and you stole my fucking life.”

He looks up, and Brendon is sitting across from him, but he doesn’t look like he gets it. He looks furious, white to his lips.

“You,” he chokes out, and then stands up and stomps out the back door into the yard. The door crashes against the kitchen wall, and Ryan flinches.

He’ll follow Brendon in a minute, once he's had some time to cool down. Instead, he looks around the kitchen. There’s a bowl and spoon in the sink, some fabric swatches stuck to the fridge, a stack of papers and a bowl of fruit on the countertop. The curtains are yellow; the countertop is green marble. There’s no dishwasher. He wonders how much is Brendon and how much is Sarah, if they get a maid service in to clean, if Sarah eats meat or just indulges Brendon.

“What are you doing here?” He hadn’t noticed Spencer’s drumming stopping, but he’s leaning in the kitchen doorway, red-faced and sweating, hands taped up and shirt sticking to him.

“Making things worse, I think,” says Ryan, and Spencer snorts.

“Surprise.” Spencer brushes past him, pulls a glass out of a cabinet, and fills it at the sink.

“I lied,” says Ryan. “I hadn’t written anything in like a year, until last week.” Spencer shoots him an incredulous look over the top of his glass, and Ryan shrugs. “It seemed significant.”

“Oh my god,” says Spencer. “Could you be further up your own ass?”

Ryan flushes. “I’m trying, okay.”

“What did you say to Brendon, then?”

“That I shouldn’t have let him sing my songs, because he stole my voice and my whole life.” It had felt like an important thing to say, but Spencer’s widened eyes tell another story.

“Ass,” he says vehemently, apparently unable to find words to convey the exact depth and breadth of Ryan’s assishness.

“Yes,” Ryan agrees.

Spencer sits down at the table. “So you’re coming to the wedding then.”

“I’m not sure I’m invited anymore,” Ryan replies. He fiddles with his shirt cuffs a little. “It’s just. You know. Feelings? Like, I feel mad at Brendon, because he’s got all the stuff I wanted, even though I know it isn’t his fault, but I still feel like... that’s mine, I should have it.”

Spencer looks out the window; Brendon’s standing at the edge of the patio, his back to them, talking on his phone, with his shoulders slumped. “You’re the one that walked away, though,” says Spencer, quietly. “You’re the one that didn’t want his voice anymore.” Or my drums, he doesn’t say, and that stings because the knowledge that Spencer would never be happy making the kind of music Ryan wanted didn’t stop him from expecting Spencer to come with him anyway.

“It was just music,” says Ryan. It’s insufficient; music has never been just anything between them, but it shouldn’t have been big enough to put a wedge between them like this.

Brendon comes back inside, stands at the door staring at them. He looks tired. “So,” he says.

“So,” Ryan echoes. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Oh my god, you two,” says Spencer. “Seriously.”

Brendon sort of smiles, just at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry, Spence.” He kicks out a chair and sits down, and they all three sit there and stare at each other.

“Are you seriously mad at me about this?” asks Brendon. “Because, dude.”

Ryan shrugs one shoulder, uneasily. “I don’t know. I think I was.”

“That isn’t fair,” says Brendon. “It’s not my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was.” The tea is cold and overbrewed; Ryan drinks it anyway. “I want to – I want to try. And be friends with you guys. I don’t know.”

Spencer touches his wrist hesitantly. “That’s all we wanted.”

Brendon is scowling at the table. “You couldn’t have just said that,” he mutters. “You couldn’t have just – I don’t know, sent the stupid RSVP? Shown up at the wedding with some ugly place settings?”

“Of course not,” says Spencer gently. “He had to make a scene.”

Ryan glares at him, but Spencer’s hand is still on his wrist, and Spencer’s smiling, just a little, teasing.

“Stole your life, what the fuck,” says Brendon, but he’s grumpy instead of angry, exasperated.

“It looks better on you anyway,” says Ryan, and Spencer’s hand tightens to the point of pain.

~

Brendon marries his lady outside, under a big spreading oak tree, on quiet weekday, in the sun. When she walks across the grass towards him all in white, Brendon cries without any shame, big happy tears rolling down his cheeks, and Spencer presses a clean handkerchief into his hand and murmurs something Ryan can’t make out from three rows back.

He nudges Jon. “Hey. Bet that Spencer is gonna cry like a girl during his best man speech?”

Jon looks startled, a little wary. “Um,” he says, and glances back up the front. Sarah is laughing and helping Brendon to wipe his face. She’s radiantly pretty. “Nah. Spencer’ll keep it together until everything’s over and we’ll find him sobbing his face off at two am because everything went perfect.”

Ryan snickers. “Right. Control freak.”

Another guest shushes them, and Pete turns around to pull a mocking face at them and then breaks into giggles.

They’re both wrong. Spencer is sniffling before even the end of the vows. Brendon has his handkerchief, so Spencer ends up wiping his face with the cuff of his shirt while the Brendon promises to cherish and love and respect the beaming girl in front of him. Ryan touches the purple silk handkerchief folded artfully into his own breast pocket thoughtfully, smiles when he catches Spencer’s eyes.

Later, in the big tent, with all the flickering torches turning everything golden, after Patrick plays something sweet and low for the bridal waltz, and Pete bullies the rent-a-dj out of his booth for while, and Shane takes a gazillion photos and Spencer does, indeed, break down during his best man speech – after Ryan and Jon have a quiet, intense argument that’s broken up by Cassie getting offended at Jon for some obscure coupley reason – and after most of Brendon’s Mormon relatives have said their sober goodbyes and quietly left – Ryan borrows Patrick’s guitar and the MC’s microphone and climbs up on the makeshift stage.

“So I wrote a song,” he says, and there’s some good-natured catcalling from the guests who know him. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. So this one is for my brothers,” he says, and smiles over at them. Brendon’s hanging onto his bride like if she gets loose, he’ll lose her, and Spencer’s eyes are glowing with his smile. Jon is hovering, too, like he’s not sure he’ll be welcome, or if he’s included. “It’s about having no regrets.”

Spencer’s laugh is disbelieving, and Ryan pulls a face at him. It’s not true, of course. Ryan thinks too much to have no regrets, and he’s made too many stupid mistakes.

But this isn’t one of them.

Let's talk about the weather.

fools_game — Sat, 03 Mar 2012 02:44:54 GMT

In 2004 I worked in a position that had me living in a small country town in NSW and travelling around a lot to a bunch of even smaller country towns to work in their tiny schools. I was eighteen at the time and naive as fuck, and the country was in the grip of the harshest drought in decades.

To a country like this, weather is not just weather.

I have been to towns where you can fill a glass of water from the tap and watch the sediment settle to the bottom, because the town dams are below 5% and sucking up mostly dirt. Where you can't get clean, ever, not really clean, because the shower leaves a layer of grit on your skin and "hard water" actually means "just like H2O only crunchy".

I have met kids - not infants, but four and five year old children, who have never seen it rain. Rain is a TV thing, a book thing, as foreign as magic or the Queen. Something far away.

I have been to towns where there are suicide hotline posters in every store, and the ones who use them are the men aged 45+. The men who have sunk their lives and health and ambitions into land that is now little more than desert, into crops that flat-out won't grow or stock that is starving. And they can't afford to keep the stock, but nobody's buying because everybody's in the same boat and the market is so glutted some places are charging the farmers to take the cattle off their hands.

I have seen these men and women go hundreds of thousands of dollars into debt, throw literally every last resource they have, into getting just one more year. One more year that they plough and plant and pray for just one day of rain. Because that one day of rain could make the difference between scraping by for the next year, or losing everything.

And then it doesn't rain.

And then the ground dries out and the nutrients leech away and the top soil sets into a crust and that crust hardens and solidifies over a couple of years. And then it does rain, and the rain runs right the fuck off because the ground has forgotten how to absorb it. And if there's a lot of rain, you get floods. And then the rain stops and the sun come out and the water goes away and you're back where you started, but with flood damage and a moldy smell. And the dams are full or at least have water in them, but they're contaminated with algae or oil.

Fucking weather.

DEAR PIRATE KING

fools_game — Wed, 29 Feb 2012 00:45:39 GMT

In the spirit of the day.

Hawai'i 5-0

fools_game — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 05:49:47 GMT

1. Scott Caan can act his little face off, can't he? I absolutely believed that was a man thirty seconds away from a total breakdown the whole back half of the ep.

2. Notwithstanding that frankly odd scene on the stairs with Lori, the whole dynamic of the episode played out like. Well. Like Steve was desperately in love with Danno and everybody but Danno knew it. So everytime Danny and Rachel's relationship came up, everybody looked worriedly at Steve and Steve put on his brave little toaster face and looked resolute.

Not the most ridiculous show I watch, but certainly one of the gayest.

Kink, by a virgin: and essay of sorts.

fools_game — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 10:12:00 GMT

I sometimes wonder if the twin oddlinesses of remaining a virgin at the ripe old age of rapidly-approaching-twenty-seven and reading an awful lot of progressively more kinky fiction and other non-fictional writings in the past… oh, fifteen years, jesus, has it been that long - has left me with kind of weird approach to sex.

You know, theoretically. My current practical approach to sex is pretty pragmatic and involves a lot of AAA batteries and making sure my housemates aren’t in the next room because that’s always awkward.

But my sex life also involves a lot of doing whatever the fuck I want and not feeling ashamed or pressured or bad about anything I do that makes me feel good. If I want a quick orgasm, under the blankets right before I nod off to sleep, then by golly I have speedy, perfunctory sex with myself and sleep in the wet spot. If I want a leisurely night in, I pour myself a glass of wine and do it missionary-style. (Metaphorically.) If I want to spend my Sunday afternoon watching a shitload of porn and seeing how many times I can come before my housemates get home, I pump up the bow-chicka-wowow and get dirty.

And if I want to get off on putting a pretty boy in a skirt and knickers and doing him with a strap on, or being tied up and tormented by a man in a mask, or heavy petting with a shy girl in a school uniform, or totally vanilla married sex, or whatever, that’s between me and my right hand and my fevered imagination. No shame here! Nope! What gets me off gets me off and that’s all cool.

But where I am a little fuzzier about it is when another person gets involved. I mean, I hope one day to have another person in my sex life, that’d be neat! But, like, logistically? Part of what attracts me to kink is not just the kink of it, but the way the communities and writing surrounding kink communities have such a strong focus on negotiation and communication. I like that. I’m not good at reading people. I am epically, fantastically bad at reading people when it comes to sex or romantic interest. I have obliviously wandered away from everything from subtle innuendos to blatant propositions and one time a marriage proposal. Anybody looking to get in my knickers will have to be a) astonishingly patient and b) really really blunt.

And of course it is literally all theoretical to me. When I say virgin, I mean virgin. Anything beyond making out and a little friendly clothed grinding is here be dragons territory, and even that is in the dizzy distant past of my early twenties. And I know I want to try stuff! Heck I have a list, an actual list, of shit I want to try. But that list starts with, like, naked in front of another person. Oral sex! Fingering! And okay, also on the list is strap-ons and crossdressing and bondage and hairpulling and roleplaying and so forth, but it is all stuff I want to try with another person because I have no idea what I’m into. And the line between vanilla sex and kinky sex is pretty fucking blurry from where I’m standing, because it’s all under that heading of ‘sex I’m not having.’

I mean. I know what gets me off, fantasy-wise. But in real life? How the heck do I know without a person to try it out with? There is some stuff I am pretty sure I am not into. There is some stuff I am pretty sure I will like a lot. Everything else, a great big long list, is reply hazy, ask again later, preferably with a person to experiment with. Gets me off in fantasy maybe, but I don’t how I’ll like it in reality.

But I am pretty sure I am not set up for casual sex. It is all cool for people whose motors run that way, but I feel I am a sex-in-relationships person. Which would also be totally groovy if sex weren’t apparently an expected part of ‘relationships’ very early on, like, third-date early on, from what I can tell. Again, we go back to the kink communities with their communication and negotiation etc! Like, just once, I’d like a potential partner-shaped-person to go “So, what are your thoughts and/or boundaries on sex?” rather than assuming they pay for dinner three times and automatically qualify for entry to my vagina. Bluntness! So then I could say, hey, never have, would rather like to if you’ll be a bit patient with me here.

(Because for all my bold talk of lists and kinks and so forth, “Naked in front of another person” is still a BIG SCARY STEP. Patience, theoretical future sex-partner! Patience is key.)

I have lost my place in my morass of self-pity over why won’t anybody have sex with meeeeee. Wait.

No, I remember. I was reading some silly ladies magazine and they were like, spice up your sex life! Surprise your partner by tying them up with a stocking and gagging them or something stupid! Gasp, so kinky and daring!

And I was all, okay a) That is unsafe bondage practice, you do not tie somebody up without their consent or at least giving them a way to indicate nonconsent. I mean, God, people. Manners. Basic safety. One time I tied my sister to a table and she nearly strangled because I wasn’t watching her, but I was eleven and she was very annoying and I got in lots of trouble. Now I know you should never restrain somebody by the neck or leave a tied-up person alone.

And b) Wait, that’s considered tres shocking and kinky and daring? So shocking and kinky and daring that even talking about it is shameful and beyond the pale? Do people really have such difficulty using their words to communicate with the people they’re having sex with? And then I start wondering if I am really so far out on end of the sex-norm bell curve, because “Hey babe, I was thinking we could try some bondage maybe. How do you feel about being tied up? Or tying me up? Or - not both at once, obviously, because that would get awkward fast, but we could try both at different times, just to see!” actually sounds like a fun and interesting conversation I could have with a person I regularly share my body with. No?

And again, here is where my confusion with the difference between kinky and vanilla falls down. Theoretically, I understand that certain acts are considered mainstream and standard while others are non-standard and therefore ‘kinky’. And I understand, theoretically, that those mainstream, standard acts generally don’t get negotiated. Things like PIV sex or oral sex or whatever. But I think I want to negotiate those. Not to say no, but just to fucking talk about them, you know? “I am going to get inside your personal space and do [x] to your body” needs to be fucking talked about, whether [x] is “put my mouth on your genitals” or “tie you up and beat you with a riding crop”. It doesn’t have to be some big production, but, like, say it! With your words and everything!

And yes, I am saying all of this without any practical experience whatsoever in negotiating sex. Once I have a person with whom I have sex, maybe it will all be much clearer and more sensible to me. I hope so.

Because if our society has gotten to the point where talking about the sex we’re having with the person we’re having sex with is more taboo than actually having that sex, however vanilla, I don’t know what to do. I don’t want on that fun train. I talk a lot, I like talking. More to the point, I like things being clear and unambivalent. I like being able to say ‘yes to this, no to this, maybe to this let’s give it a shot.’ I can’t imagine that I would enjoy being with a partner and not knowing that they liked what we were doing. It’s not that just I’m bad at reading non-verbal cues. I can’t imagine just following a script because that’s what you do, knowing that any step outside that script - or even talking about the fact that you’re following a script - is transgressive. I am really really bad at ready non-verbal cues.

I don’t want to have the kind of sex you don’t talk about, so I guess I’ll be a virgin for long time.

NaNoWriMo Day One

fools_game — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 11:33:03 GMT

So I am doing NaNo this year! This is my first year. Very exciting. I’ve wanted to do it for ages, but in years past I’ve always had other shit on during November, big writing projects or school or stuff for church or depressive episodes.

However, I have just finished my Honours dissertation. No, that’s a lie, I finished that sucker back in May, and it was fabulous. But it burned me out pretty hardcore, and then I had a bunch of other stressful stuff going on, and with one thing and another, I haven’t sat down and actually done anything creatively for what feels like months. Because it is, in fact, months. So obviously what I need is another high-stress writing project! Except this one doesn’t have five years of study and thirty thousand dollars in student loans riding on it. Although I can’t promise it will be completely void of academic wank and lesbianism.

However-however, I don’t actually have a big project in the works right now that would suit as a fifty-thousand word National Novel Writing Month project. So instead I am going to do something else. I am going to sit down at my keyboard and I am going to write something every day. Some of it will be blog posts, and I will post those. I have been meaning to blog more, and this will give me the kick in the pants I need. I have material for at least five or six good long posts, that I have been meaning to do - wait, I will write those down I don’t forget them.

1. Sex and my sisters
2. Those annoying judgy posters I keep seeing around the mall
3. Lapsing Catholic
4. How to make a really awesome cup of tea
5. My intent to experiment with vegetarianism. Relatedly, why I’ll probably never be vegetarian.
6. Christmas shopping and why it is balls
7. Working in retail, especially at Christmas, and why it is balls
8. Being a grownup and why it is balls
9. My crazy hermity nature; or, Introversion: A Retrospective
10. Fandom and real life, and why sometimes they don’t mix
11. Career: I don’t really want one, thanks
12. You guys should make suggestions, because I will run out

Also, I will be doing my favorite thing and commenting on pop culture! I have been watching lots of movies in preparation for this, so movie reviews, TV reviews, book reviews. Maybe fanfiction reviews! Or a thing I have been thinking of trying, where I try to review, like, a fandom. Talk about the source material and the fic and how people approach it and how wanky it is and, like, fandom trends. It will be meta-meta, like, we have to go deeper, dude. Forget the fourth wall, I’mma be on the ceiling.

What else? I have a couple of projects I’m sort of half-heartedly poking at - some short stories, some fanfic, some scenes from my older non-fannish stuff that needs to be re-written wholesale. Nothing I’d feel super comfortable devoting a solid month of intensive writing to, but things that need doing and I’ve been putting off. I haven’t opened a word processor in my computer for over a month. Just having it open is a kick in the pants, especially as I’m making an effort to have not a lot of tabs open in firefox - so when I get bored, I click to my writing instead of to another tab of fic or youtube or whatever. Which is not to say I will be ignoring shows and stuff, in fact, they will often be what I am writing about! But I will be doing creative writing stuff as well. But probably not posting it. Half this shit won’t make sense without context, and the rest of it - well, quality isn’t the point of NaNo. Just getting your words out is, and sometimes that is the trickiest bit.

I will also be trying to get some of my damn long-form ideas down. There is this awesome thing I have discovered in bandom that they call not-fic, where you just sort of blurt out a very very rough draft, skimming over the bits that are boring or yet unplotted, and writing the fun bits, and like, describing what reaction you’re trying to evoke from the audience. To be filled in later. It looks like a very fun and free-form method of writing, so I’ll try that. Also, obviously, won’t be posted, but will be added to the word count, yay.

Also, I will commenting! I’m a dreadful commenter. So I am going to try and comment on as many posts as possible, and c+p them into a little file in my Scrivener doc. It’s totally not cheating, you guys. (You guys, it totally isn’t cheating.) My mild social anxiety extends to the internet. Commenting is scary. The other day I commented in a fanficrants post, and somebody commented back, and she was awesome, and now we are friends. And it was really exciting! Friends are hard. Conversing with strangers is hard. Conversing with friends, sometimes, is hard. So I’m going to do that, and it will be scary, so it fucking counts because I say it does.

(I will not be collating my tweets, though. I am not that desperate. Yet.)

By the by, I am using Scrivener (for Windows) for this whole mess of words. I can’t recommend it highly enough as a word processor. It doesn’t have Microsoft Word’s gazillions of fonts and tables and buttons that I can’t figure out, and it’s total pants at converting to anything printable, and the Windows version is still in beta, sort of buggy, and has a distressing tendency to strip the apostrophes out when I try and convert formats, but you guys. Scrivener is like the writing tool of my anal-retentive, excessive-drafting, multi-tasking heart. How it works is, you open a project, which is made up of multiple pages, which can be filed into folders, which you keep in a virtual ‘binder’ or pin to a virtual ‘pinboard’. You can attach notes to each file, and synopses, which appear on the notecards in the pinboard view. In pinboard view you can drag and drop your files around into different folders or change the orders within each folder. You can attach research files to each file - my supervisor Tony, who introduced me to Scrivener, was writing an action book when he demo’d it to me, and one chapter had, like, pictures of guns and PDF files about arrest procedures and what looked like a diagram of a whale? Anyway, stuff that was relevant to that chapter was clickable in one corner.

And then you hit ‘compile’ and the whole thing comes out as one document. (Well, theoretically, the Windows version is still giving me some grief.)

I loaded one of my older projects - a novel I wrote for Uni a couple of years ago - into Scrivener, and gave each chapter a folder, then I decided I didn’t like that and divided the chapters differently. And then each scene got a file, and the file got a little blurby synopsis thing, and I was able to pinpoint exactly where I panicked and ran out of time and the whole thing went to shit, and use the synopses to plot out the remainder of the plot I needed to rewrite, so I could do that at my leisure.

And the I went crazy and decided I needed to rewrite the WHOLE THING from the POV of the sidekick, so I’m a little afraid to open that project right now, but oh well!

Scrivener is an excellent tool for anybody writing anything longer than a single scene, or who has lots of inter-related texts they like to keep together (I have one ‘project’ for all my WIPs, and once something gets big enough, it gets it’s own project, which chapters and scene divisions and I can stick beta notes and stuff in there). It’s very user-friendly and streamlined. And since the Windows version is still in beta, you can get it for free at literatureandlattes.com.

(Also, handily, it displays a little word count at the bottom of the screen as you type, so you can watch it go up and up.)

And that is my plugging for the day done.

Also, that is my NaNo plan (in as much as “write more shit! Doesn’t matter what, just do it” can be called a plan) all ready to go. Yes, I am counting this post towards my word count, what of it. Look, I have a tendency to brevity. Conciseness. I’ll take what I can get, even long stupid posts I deliberately have not edited to take out all the muddliness and tangents and flippantness like a normally do.)

Since you have come this far in my deliberately-long, wordy, ridiculous post, you should get a reward! You won’t because I don’t have a reward for you and I’m tired and it’s time for bed, but you totally should. Pat yourself on the back.

I have to go unhook the cat from the screen door, drink some tea, and sleep before work tomorrow, but you should leave me a comment telling what I should blog about, or a story you want me to tell you, or fun writing exercises I can do! I promise I will. This month, at least.

Also, you should friend me on the NaNo forums, because I’m lonely and I can’t figure out how this writing buddies feature works. My username is Squirrelcat, after the dumbass currently chasing a massive fucking huntsman up a sheer door like she’d have any idea what to do with it if she caught it.

So, Glee

fools_game — Sun, 09 Oct 2011 01:50:42 GMT

Gets stupider every week. Still. I hate most of the characters and want to punch them in the face. I tend to skip-forward through the eps because I can't handle how dumb it is.

Like in the most recent episode, with Emma. At the end of last season, she started going to therapy and taking medication for her OCD; at the opening of this season, she's doing amazingly well, with her symptoms apparently very much under control, living with her boyfriend, starting to sort out her sex life. (It's not made clear whether or not she's overcome her illness enough to actually have sexual contact, but she's touching him casually and expressing sexual interest, and they're sharing a bed.)

But then her boyfriend does something amazingly stupid! (Her boyfriend is a cockface, which is not the point of this entry.) She tells him she isn't comfortable with him meeting her parents, but refuses to say why, so Cockface McDouchebag goes behind her back and invites the parents to dinner, because that is a totally logical and okay thing to do. And the parents are horrible racists who make fun of Emma's mental illness, and Cockface shouts at them, and the whole situation is very horrible, and triggers Emma, so she starts exhibiting OCD behaviours and general anxiety.

And things are not wrapped up tidily by the end of the episode! There is a dreadful musical montage where Cockface McTotalAsshole sings a stupid song badly while Emma prays and cries and tries so so hard not to do her little comforting counting rituals. And it's made extremely clear that, even though Emma is doing better, even though she's going therapy and taking her meds and coping, it's a day-by-day struggle, and it's not easy, and it can't be magically fixed. I was so sure that after the end of last season, they would drop that plotline, and Emma would be magically fixed! Hooray! But they haven't. And they're dealing with it with what looks suspiciously like tact and delicacy.

(I mean, for a given value of tact and delicacy. The parents are ridiculous caricatures - "Ginger supremacists" - because god forbid we treat a serious topic with anything other than over-the-top slapstick. And Will, despite being a massive asshole for the majority of the ~~WHOLE SHOW~~ episode, is supposed to be the 'good guy' because he kneels beside Emma and sings to her while she desperately prays her way through a panic attack HE CAUSED. UGH. You can't polish shit, Glee. Dipping it in glitter doesn't count. Will is a smug, arrogant, nasty, horrid man.)

fools_game — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 04:41:21 GMT

You guys, my new dentist is awesome.

She's this lovely little Indian woman, very softly-spoken, and before we got started on anything, she sat down with me and ran through all the things she be doing - checking for cavities, etc, then the scale and clean, the xrays, the fluoride bath. She confirmed the cost of the procedures, made sure I was OK with everything, and then asked about any issues I'd been having, pain or sensitivity, anything I was concerned about. I do have some sensitivity - not pain, but, like, I don't like to eat icecream because it makes my teeth feel sharp and intense, when they shouldn't feel at all. (On the flipside, I can always tell when the alcohol's kicked in because my teeth go numb.) She double-checked to make sure I would be okay with the cleaning, or if I'd like to "have a needle". (Um, no. I would prefer a bit of bright over-the-top ouchyness to you jamming a giant needle in my jaw and drooling for the rest of the day. But thanks for the offer!)

And THEN. She told me everything she was going to do before she did. Now I'm going to move the chair, now I'm going to check such-and-such, now I'll do your bottom teeth, tell me if I'm hurting you or you want to stop, are you sure you don't want a needle.

And then AFTER, she sat down with me again and told me what I needed (fillings) and also why, and how urgently, and gave me a quote for the cost, and offered me a letter of referral to an orthodontist for the jaw misalignment problem I have.

I wandered out of there kind of dazed. I'm used to dentists who don't even introduce themselves, you know? They come in, shine a bright light on me, do things with sharp implements that make my jawbone vibrate at a genuinely uncomfortable frequency, and then charge me hundreds of dollars for god-knows-what and say "come back next week for more VERY EXPENSIVE PAIN." This kind of service makes me very happy, and to top it off, the whole appointment only took half an hour. She was totally efficient! I'm definitely going back to her as soon as i have to money to pay for my fillings.

So Hawai'i 5-0 is one of those shows I watch now

fools_game — Tue, 27 Sep 2011 11:14:02 GMT

And it is dreadful. What a ridiculously awful show. Thank god it's pretty.

That said, I have a quibble.

This show actually tends to be better about its ladies than most. Yes, they - or at least Kono - were sexualised a fair bit, and I overlook the sheer ridiculousness of a ninety-pound Asian girl being the team's muscle only for the sheer awesomeness of... well, a ninety-pound Asian girl being the team's muscle. And Jenna being all obliviously fabulous. And the fact that both of them were taken seriously by the guys, and had their own personalities and storylines and whatnot.

And don't get me wrong, I was really really excited that, for a minute there, there was an even split of girls and guys on the team.

But.

Is it so very much to ask to have a female character who doesn't look like a model? Especially one who, I am expected to believe, has years of experience in high-ranking govt positions and is totes the best in her field, guys, and is able to take down a guy pointing a shotgun at her with her mad close-combat skills.

Why can't she be that and look it, too. Why can't she take down a guy without breaking a sweat because she's six feet tall and built like a linebacker? Why can't she look like she has the years of experience you're telling us about instead of like she's just graduated college? Why does this new female character have to be thin and blonde and exchange flirty glances with the male lead? Why can't she be slightly overweight, or have buckteeth, or in her forties?

Why can't she look like me, like the women I know?

Doctor Who

fools_game — Mon, 26 Sep 2011 11:01:31 GMT

So.... we are missing about two hundred years of the Doctor's timeline, here. At the start of the season, not!dead!Doctor was, what, nine hundred-some years old? And the Doctor who died - the Doctor wearing that daft cowboy hat - was about two hundred years older? Since he can't have lived that time when he had Amy and Rory, he must have been having an awful lot of adventures either a) when he left Amy and Rory to go and find Melody, between Demon's Run and Let's Kill Hitler or b) right before this episode, after he dropped them off at the end of the God Complex. Possibly both. What the heck was he doing? Even for the Doctor, that's is an awful lot of fucking time to just skip over. His reaction to Amy and Rory in the store suggests to me that a) is more likely; his guilt-ridden reactions to people he's abandoned get less intense with time, and this one looked pretty fresh.

Speaking of the magical Pond-Williams family: there are two of them now. If the Doctor dies 'tomorrow', then Amy and Rory - at the beginning of the season - are on their way to America to witness it today. Which means there are two sets of Pond-Williamses existing concurrently: beginning of season Amy-and-Rory, waiting around for the Doctor, who tracks them down and invites them to his wake, and post-God Complex Amy-and-Rory, who have sorted their shit out and are living a charmed life supported by Karen Gillan's flawless fucking complexion and amazing hair. The beginning-of-season ones will be taken away by not-yet-dead-Doctor soon enough, but how long have they been hanging around, bending time around their impossible selves? Jesus. Especially with Amy apparently famous enough to be accosted for autographs by little girls.

I had other thoughts about the episode, but they were mostly about the Doctor speaking baby and Matt Smith's stupid rubber face and impeccable comic timing, so.

I really must see this movie, when it comes out.

fools_game — Sat, 20 Aug 2011 09:05:39 GMT

Drive You 'til You Feel the Daylight: Six

fools_game — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 00:37:00 GMT

Adam cleans them up, and Tommy goes limp and lets him manipulate his limbs doll-fashion as Adam wipes him down. Adam teases him for a lazy brat, but kisses Tommy's hands and his belly and his cock and his mouth as he washes them, then cuddles up to him and kisses his face, his forehead and his closed eyes and his nose and the line of his jaw, little droopy lovey kisses that make Tommy feel like he's being covered up with affection, precious and adored.

"You've never done that before," says Adam eventually. He's counting Tommy's ribs with his fingers, up and down.

Tommy shakes his head. "Not that." After a moment of reflection he says, "I wasn't bad?"

"You were amazing," says Adam, heartfelt. "You' re so good, the way you let me touch you, you know?"

"I like it when you touch me," says Tommy. He's said it before, but he feels it bears repeating.

Adam smiles, a quirk of the lips, and rubs a hand over Tommy's chest. "But that's not the first time you've been with a man," he says.

Tommy blinks at him, his brain slow to catch up. He can feel his face getting hot. "I guess not," he says slowly.

And Adam doesn't say anything, just looks at him with this patient, calm expression until Tommy feels like squirming under it, all his lassitude and contentment burning away. He turns his face away, and Adam tsks and strokes his hair.

"I don't mean it like that, baby," he says. "But I feel like, maybe earlier in the summer, you were feeling a bit experimental."

Tommy shrugs. Adam's warm embrace, so comforting a moment ago, suddenly feels like a trap. He kind of thought he'd be wearing pants for this conversation.

"Not exactly," he says.

Adam sighs, and pulls away a little. "Okay."

Tommy wriggles free and sits up, pulling the blankets to cover himself some so he can face Adam properly. "I mean, it wasn't like I'd suddenly decided to experiment with guys," he says. "It wasn't like I'd suddenly decided anything, really. It all just sort of happened."

Adam props himself up on an elbow, and takes Tommy's hand - no, his wrist, a move that's become habitual by now without Tommy noticing. Tommy stares down at it, realises that Adam's still asking, he's been asking all along, for Tommy to trust him with this.

"I don't know how to tell you," he says in a small voice.

Adam looks stricken, vulnerable. "Is it that bad?"

Tommy shakes his head, swipes his hand over his leaking eyes. "I just want to make everyone happy," he says. "I wanted to make them feel good."

There's a pause. "Everyone," says Adam without inflection. "Tommy?"

He doesn't uncover his face. "A lot of people," he says. "It was a long summer. Do you want a list?" May as well get the worst out of the way; he's hurting Adam, hurting himself, but there's no stopping now.

"Did they hurt you?" says Adam. "You were - there were bruises. I saw them. You were so sad that day."

"No, I wanted that," says Tommy. "I asked for that." He looks at Adam again, finally. Adam's pale, wide-eyed, his mouth set and small. "They were careful," he says, awkwardly.

"I didn't realise," says Adam. "I thought - maybe once or twice?"

Tommy shakes his head. "But this is different," he says. "This, you and me - it's different, I swear."

Adam swallows. "Yeah." But he's pulling away. He rolls out the other side of the bed, pulls on some sweats, and Tommy clutches fists in the blankets.

"I don't understand," says Adam. "I just - can you explain it differently, maybe, because I don't think I'm getting it." But he doesn't look at Tommy, stands up and walks towards the minibar.

Tommy shoves his shaking hands under his bare thighs, fairly longs for a pair of pants. He's too sick-nervous to move, though. "I don't know how to explain it," he says. "I just wanted to help, I wanted to do something nice, and then it was this great big thing. But it felt good." He stares fixedly at the coverlet. "Making them feel good."

Adam pours a drink, something dark-amber and doubtless expensive, and stares at it. "Them," he says. "Do I want to know who 'them' is?"

"It's not their fault," says Tommy. "I offered. I wanted to."

Adam makes an odd wheezing noise and doubles over at the waist. "Jesus," he says, and tosses back whatever he's drinking like it's the cheapest rotgut tequila in town.

Silence falls.

Tommy's vision is blurring and his breathing's gone choppy and he's scared, horrible tight feeling in his chest like he's gonna be sick or pass out. Adam leans on the bar with whiskey spilling over his fingers and his hair hanging in his face, and the silence stretches on and on.

Shaking, Tommy pushes back the covers and gets out of bed. "I think I should not be here right now," he says, struggling to keep his voice steady.

Adam makes some sort of noise, maybe a sob, and nods his head. It takes a few minutes for Tommy to find his clothes and dress, shaky fingers fumbling on the buttons, and he knows he misses a few layers, but he has to go. He has to walk almost right past Adam to get to the door, and Adam doesn't move, doesn't face him.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" says Tommy desperately. "We can talk some more then, right?"

Adam's whole spine twitches, and a gesture that might have started out as a nod ends up as a violent flinch.

Tommy makes it all the way to the elevator before the tears blur his vision so bad he can't walk.

&&&&&

He calls Lane from the hotel lobby. He doesn't want to talk to anybody right now, and she won't ask awkward questions. She tells him he's rooming with Monte, and shows up a few minutes later with a room key.

"On my fucking day off, as well," she says, but he must look wretched because there's no force behind it, and she sort of pats him on the shoulder before she loads him back onto the elevator.

Monte's Skyping with his wife, barely looks up when Tommy enters, and he mumbles something about needing a nap and crashes straight into the bed that's still made.

He doesn't nap. He's done nothing but sleep and have sex for the past twenty-four hours, and he couldn't sleep right now if you beat him with chloroform. Instead, he stares at the wall and replays that fucking conversation over and over until he thinks he's gonna scream.

Monte leaves for dinner, and Tommy drags himself into the bathroom and showers, then stands under the shower spray and cries, fucking again, big heaving nasty sobs that wipe him out.

His phone's buzzing on the nightstand when he comes out, and he shoves it in the drawer without looking at it. There's something on TV, some mindless cooking show in French or something, and stares at it with his eyes stinging.

Monte comes back after a while, so Tommy figures it's late in the evening sometime.

"Y'alright?" Monte asks, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably.

Tommy nods; he must look pretty fucking awful. "Tired. Homesick. Not built for this weather," he says, and Monte shrugs and nods and doesn't press. Monte's awesome. He's never asked anything more of Tommy than to be the best musician he can, and it's very relaxing to be around him.

"The others were askin' after you, at dinner," he says. "Seems they thought you'd be with Adam until we left."

Tommy wipes his nose on his sleeve. "Nope."

"I didn't tell 'em," says Monte. "Adam wasn't there, so I guess they'll think whatever."

Tommy nods. "'preciate it."

The conversation lapses then, until Monte comments on the cooking show on the TV, and Tommy says something about meat jelly, and they pass time with inanities until Monte goes to sleep.

Tommy retrieves his phone, rejects all the missed calls and messages with a swipe of his thumb, and plays Solitaire until his eyes cross. Then he hunkers down under his blankets and waits for morning.

&&&&&

They're back on the bus the next day, a short hop to the next city. Adam's already up in his bedroom with the door shut, and when Tommy slinks onto the bus behind Monte, eyes hidden behind the biggest fucking pair of sunglasses he could find, the surprise in the air is palpable.

He still doesn't feel like talking, so he pulls out his black blanket and hoods up in the corner of the couch; that blanket's the clearest signal he's got for 'leave me the fuck alone' and everyone knows it.

Taylor comes and sits by him, twisting his hands together nervously, but he doesn't talk, so Tommy ignores him, hunches deeper into his blanket.

"Sorry," says Taylor after a while, in a low voice. "I was a brat."

Tommy shrugs at him. Taylor's little snit has mostly been forgotten, for the obvious reasons, but it seems to be bothering him. "S'all good," he says.

"Okay," says Taylor, and he sits next to Tommy and doesn't say anything else. After a while, Tommy shifts and unbends a little, and tilts over so he can lean against Taylor, and Taylor turns so Tommy can be more comfortable. It's not exactly snuggling and Tommy will still snap at anyone who tries to talk to him, but it's something.

He dodges Adam that afternoon as best he can, but he needn't have made the effort; in soundcheck, Adam is distantly polite to everyone and doesn't address Tommy directly at all. Tommy doesn't know whether to be relieved or not; he thinks not. He feels kind of sick.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sutan asks, in a quiet moment before they have to start gearing up.

Tommy shakes his head, and Sutan tuts and hugs him, even though Tommy stays stiff and unyielding. "Eat something, Tommy," says Sutan firmly. "I know you just want to be left alone, but I will hound your ass if I catch you making yourself sick."

Tommy shrugs him off, but when Cam shows up a while later with a couple of wrapped sandwiches, he takes one and lets her sit by him while he eats a careful half of it. She nudges her shoulder against his, companionable and undemanding.

"You okay?' she asks, and he shrugs and shakes his head and flinches. She nods. "You need anything?" Shakes his head. "Want me to kill someone for you?" That startles a laugh out of him, and she presses her hand to his shoulder, eyes warm with sympathy. "You know we're all in your corner, babe."

He blinks at her. "That's not," he says. "It's not, like, a contest."

"Just sayin'," she tells him.

But apparently it is like a contest, because over the course of the afternoon, Tommy notices a certain... frostiness. He's sitting in the green room, curled up in the corner of the couch with the dancers doing warmups on the floor and Isaac reading a magazine next to him and Cam writing something in a notebook at the table. It's quiet and companionable, and then Adam comes in, talking on his phone, and it's like the temperature actually plummets. Every head turns towards the door, and Adam's stride falters as he takes in the cool, blank glances of his team.
His mouth falls open a little, and then whoever's on the phone says something, and Adam shakes his head and backs out, and the moment's over.

"Guys," says Tommy. "Don't be mean to Adam, okay?" Various expressions of disgruntlement are turned on him. "No, I'm fuckin' serious. He didn't do anything wrong, leave him alone."

"We worry about you," says Brooke.

"Well, don't," says Tommy, suddenly mad. "I'm not a kid, and this isn't some 'me or him' bullshit, okay? Adam and my issue is Adam and mine. Butt out."

There's an awkward silence, and then Taylor raises his hand. "Can I be mad at him because I'm jealous you like him better?"

Tommy tugs his blanket tighter around him. "Okay. But as soon as you hook up with someone else, no more."

It breaks the tension, a little. Sasha slaps him on the ankle and wrinkles her nose at him, and the dancers go back to their stretches, and Isaac texts his wife and Cam starts humming a melody under her breath, glaring at the notebook. Songwriting, then.

He doesn't get to talk to Sutan before Adam gets there first, but while the local opening act is wailing away on stage, Sutan pulls him into a closet, looking solemn.

"What did he say?" says Tommy. "Is he still mad?"

Sutan shakes his head. "You guys have to talk," he says. "I don't know what happened, baby, and he wouldn't tell me much. I think he's trying to protect you."

"Protect me from what?" Tommy frowns, and Sutan arches one shoulder.

"I have a theory, but - look, you need to talk to him, okay? He's not mad at all, I think. He's upset and scared and really confused."

"What?" says Tommy. Sutan is making no sense; why would Adam be scared? Scared of Tommy, or scared for some other reason? Why is Adam trying to protect him, and from what? "I don't get it," he says, and Sutan pulls an unhelpfully sympathetic face.

There's no time for follow-up, sadly, as Tommy scrambles into his stages clothes and out on stage, off-balance and freaking out inside. Adam does his usual thing in the opening act where he stomps around the stage and gropes at Tommy, and Tommy lets him, goes as limp and tractable as possible, concentrates on not fucking up his playing rather than the heat and breadth of Adam behind him.

But then it comes to Fever, and Adam is standing at the top of the stairs and Tommy is suddenly terrified, for real. They don't often talk about this part of the stage play, and Tommy is usually happy to go along with whatever Adam wants, but today is different. His heart is pounding as Adam descends the stairs, and he feels frozen. Adam's voice is close, and Adam's hands turn his face up, and Tommy shuts his eyes, unable to look at him and Adam swoops in to kiss him.

But it's not what he's expecting. Adam's mouth on his is unspeakably tender, gentle, just a breathless little touch of a kiss that makes Tommy's knees actually buckle.

He doesn't open his eyes until Adam's gone, and Tommy has to fumble to take the bass beat away from Cam, slinking back to his corner, and the rest of the show passes in a blur, except the press of Adam's hand as he introduces Tommy to the screaming crowd he barely notices.

He can feel Sutan's eyes on him afterwards, but he dodges everyone and crawls into his bunk and tries to sleep.

&&&&&

He wakes early, too early, still dark as the bus rumbles along. A glance out the window shows the darkness lit with the regular flicker of fluorescents; they're in a tunnel.

"Be in England by morning," Neil tells him, yawning. The blue light from his laptop washes him out in the darkness of the bus. "Couple more shows. Wham, bam."

Tommy slides into the booth opposite him, puts his chin on his folded arms. "That soon," he says. "Didn't realise we were so close to the end."

Neil rolls his shoulders. "I'm counting down the days. Gonna take my paycheck and go travelling."

Tommy squints at him. "We've been travelling for months. I'm gonna take my paycheck and not come outta my room for as long as possible."

Neil bobs his head serenely. "That's you and me, bro. I can't be on the same continent with you losers for a while."

"You love me really," says Tommy, but he can't get over it. Tour's almost over. A couple of days, days, and he's gonna be out of this confusing morass of personalities and loyalties and expectations he's built for himself, he'll be back home.

He stares out the window as the bus emerges into the cold English dawn. "You okay?" Neil asks, but it's absent, there's no subtextual questions.

"Fine," says Tommy. "Just thinkin'."

They have a show in London, and a show in a different city, he can't remember, and then a show in Scotland - Tommy is still a little fuzzy on how England works, but he thinks Scotland is, like, separate - and then that's the end. They'll go home.

Tommy spends the day doing what he does best: huddling. He grunts at conversational attempts, avoids direct eye contact, and dodges Sutan like he owes him money. It works really well until about lunchtime; everyone scatters to go find non-bus-food and Sutan somehow follows Tommy and traps him in the corner of a pub with a meat pie and a pint of beer.

"I will," says Tommy before Sutan can say anything. "I'll talk to him, I will, but just. Give me time."

Sutan frowns. "Oh, honey. I know you're scared."

"I'm not." He is, though, but not how Sutan means. He knows he didn't explain it right to Adam, but what if he does explain it properly and Adam understands everything and still doesn't want him? Tommy doesn't exactly want to flay off his skin and lay himself bare only to get rejected again. "Screw him, anyway," he mumbles, and Sutan sighs, all long-suffering patience.

"Obviously I can't make you do anything, but would take some advice?"

Tommy shrugs, which seems to irritate him.

"Don't be a moron," says Sutan. "Don't lose out on something just because it's hard. You're worth fucking well more than that." He stands, impossibly tall over Tommy. "Talk to him."

&&&&&

In the end, it's Adam who makes the first move. In the backstage chaos after the London show - after another desperately sweet, earnest kiss - Adam grabs his sleeve. "Can we talk later?" he asks, face glittering in the dim light, hair falling in his eyes. "Come up to my room, after the show?"

Tommy nods dumbly, and thinks he must imagine the gratitude on Adam's face.

The hotel is fucking swank, all gilt and marble and bellboys with little round hats on. The concierge is absurdly obsequious, and Tommy wonders if it's Adam that's getting the respect, or if anybody with money enough to stay here would do.
Adam's in the penthouse again, of course, and he gets an entirely separate elevator to himself, so Tommy can't even be fucking subtle about the fact that he's going back to Adam's room. He trudges into the elevator under the knowing eyes of at least half a dozen people, plus the damn bellboy with his stupid, stupid hat, and slouches against the wall.

The suite is ridiculously opulent, of course, but Adam stares around it with a faint frown, like the deep carpet and designer leather couches and fabulous view are all in the way of something.

"So," says Tommy, once Adam's stood by the door staring at the room like he's forgotten something for what feels like forever. "Here I am."

Adam blinks at him, and a nervous little smile curves his mouth. "Yeah. Thanks. I wasn't sure if you'd want to talk to me."

Tommy shrugs, his gut churning. "Guess we gotta talk about this sometime," he says, aiming for casual and falling short.

Adam nods. "Come sit down," he says. "Do you want a drink?"

"Whiskey," says Tommy. "Actually, no, just soda or something if you have it." He sinks into the couch and it takes him a minute to catch his balance, and then Adam sits down beside him, a careful foot of space between them, and hands him a chilled bottle. He sets it down on the table without drinking, twists his fingers together in a nervous tell he can't seem to help.

"I don't," says Adam, and then seems to change his mind, shaking his head a little. "I've been thinking about what to say. It's all I can think about, you know."

Tommy nods, stares at his hands.

"I think I reacted badly," Adam continues. "I mean, I know I did. I wasn't really expecting any of what you said, but I should have listened better. So I'm sorry for that." He pauses, like he's giving Tommy a chance to talk, but Tommy says nothing. "Right. So. If there's anything you want to talk about, I'm totally willing to listen now. I swear I won't freak out again. I just - it was like, I had this whole idea in my head, of you, and how it would be, us together. So I guess it threw me some."

"Sorry," says Tommy softly.

"No," says Adam, "no, that's not what I mean, please look at me." Tommy does; Adam's face is open and sad and earnest. "I mean, I totally shouldn't have put those expectations on you, you know? I wanted to take care of you, but that doesn't mean I get to expect you to be, all, whatever."

"Whatever?"

Adam's face scrunches up in frustration. "Okay. I wanted to be your first," he confesses. "I had this whole - this damn fantasy about you, ever since we first met, about how - anyway. I guess I was upset, but it wasn't fair for me to be upset at you for it."

"Oh," says Tommy, taking this new idea and examining it. "I thought - I dunno." He swallows. "I was so scared to tell you. I thought you'd hate me or something."

"No!" Adam squeaks. "Fuck, no, I could never. It was, it was my thing, my stupid - and I was fucking jealous, okay, I admit it, because I had no idea any of this was going on, and I couldn't help thinking, like, why didn't you come to me? Or even tell me, if you didn't - didn't want me?"

Tommy breathed out. "It was complicated." Adam nods encouragingly. "Like, I didn't just wake up and go, yeah, sex with dudes, now who should I pick?"

Adam reaches out and takes his hand. "I know. I figured, once I'd cooled down a bit."

"I would have told you," says Tommy. "But." He doesn't have a good finish for that, so he falls silent, and Adam rubs the back of his hand with a thumb.

"Did you think the other stuff would freak me out?" he asks gently, and Tommy jerks his gaze up to Adam's. Adam touches his wrist - doesn't hold it, like he doesn't think he's allowed now, but touches it with enough deliberateness that his message is clear.

"No." Tommy pulls his hand away. "No, that was - unexpected. That happened kind of later." He frowns. "It was, like, a different thing. Or maybe it was the same thing. With me, like, wanting to please people." He rubs his nose, kind of embarrassed.

"Oh, honey," says Adam. "I was so worried when I realised, you know? I was scared you were hurting yourself, or letting someone hurt you. I don't mean that. I'm not saying this right." He covers his eyes, briefly, and Tommy can see how weary he is. "I mean. I didn't know. It was like this whole side of you I'd never seen, this whole thing you'd kept hidden from me and I thought," he looks up at the ceiling here, rolling his eyes, "I was jealous, again. I thought, nobody else could take as good care of you as me."

Tommy's heart crashes against his ribcage, and he can feel his cheeks heating. He's wondered whether Adam would ever want that, if maybe Adam would help him find that side of himself, but he sure as hell hadn't counted on it. "You would," he croaks, and Adam seizes his hand and kisses it.

"Oh, god, Tommy," he breathes. "I couldn't stand it. Maybe it makes me an ass, but I just - I hated the idea of you needing that, and not having anybody to turn to, of letting a stranger do that, when I would do anything -"

Ah.

He squeezes Adam's hand gently. "Hey. You know how you said you would listen?"
Adam blinks at him. "Yeah?"

Tommy takes a deep breath. " I need to tell you this, okay? And I want - I'm telling you this because I'm a little bit fucking in love with you, and you need to know this."

"You're - oh." Adam's eyes light up at Tommy's declaration, but his expression goes wary again afterwards. "I'm listening."

"I haven't been sleeping with strangers," he says. He has to turn his head and look at the wall, not Adam. "I haven't been letting strangers tie me up or any of what you're thinking."

Adam's hand tightens on his. "I don't understand," he murmurs.

"It was Sutan. He tied me up. But it wasn't his idea; it was Liz's idea. Allison wanted to use handcuffs, but Sutan wouldn't let them."

Adam makes a low noise; Tommy still can't look at him.

"It didn't start out as what it was," he tries to explain. "It was something nice I did for the girls, sometimes, every so often. I'd go down on them. That was all. Just, you know, giving them head, like giving them a backrub."

"The girls," says Adam.

"Sasha, Brooke, Cam," says Tommy. "Allison that one time, and Liz while we were still in America, and Val once or twice. And then Taylor." Adam startles with surprise but doesn't say anything, to Tommy's relief. "It was after he broke up with his girlfriend, he was just so fucking sad all the time, and I wanted him to be happy. So I. And then, um, Terrance."

He dares a look at Adam. Adam is staring at their joined hands, and Tommy can see lines of tension at the corner of his mouth.

"Sutan figured it out when he got back from doing that other thing," says Tommy. "And he - I think he realised pretty fast how it could get out of control. More than I did. So I guess he kind of took charge." He swallows. "The night - the night Alli's crew left us, when you went to bed early. That's when they tied me up, that's where the bruises came from."

He looks up, trying to evaluate Adam's reaction. The next bit is going to be harder. "I'd never felt anything like that before. They- fuck. Tied me up and just, they just used me. I wanted them to." He slips his hand free of Adam's; it's shaking. He tucks his hair behind his ear. "I liked it," he croaks. "I didn't know that I would but I did. And after that it was different, like, I couldn't help feeling like I was doing it for some sick thrill. Even though I wasn't getting off on it, except maybe that made it worse, like, what kind of freak."

Adam sucks in a breath like he's going to protest, and Tommy throws up a hand; he can't do this if Adam interrupts now. "And then you," he says, "you looked at me like I hung the fucking stars up, and the way you - your fucking hands on me." He's losing coherence, his voice is thickening; he's going to cry again. "And I wanted it to be different with you, and it was different, you know? You were so fucking perfect. So I fucking give it all up. I'll do whatever you want. I can't undo this summer, and I wouldn't, because I made a lot of people fucking happy and I'm not ashamed of it, but now, I'll do anything you ask. Even if you want me to go away."

He rolls to an uncertain stop as he runs out of words to say, his chest heaving like he's been running. Tears are welling out of his eyes and his nose is running, so he wipes it on his sleeve and immediately wishes he hadn't. He feels tiny and absurd and all wrong-angled, a road-filthy little punk-rocker crying in a lush hotel suite, begging - begging - to be loved, and Adam is just sitting there like some untouchable god not saying anything.

After what feels like utterly agonizing minutes of no sound but Tommy's harsh breathing and sniffles, Adam makes a little choked-off noise and suddenly Tommy is engulfed in the fiercest hug he's ever been in. Adam hauls him into his lap and wraps his arms around Tommy and holds him, and Tommy buries his damp face in Adam's neck and hangs the fuck on.

It peters out after a while, Adam rocking him gently, and Tommy goes limp against Adam's chest, catching his breath. Adam hasn't said anything, but the physical contact has eased the most pressing of Tommy's fears: he isn't going to lose Adam. Even if Adam doesn't want him, they'll still be friends, Adam's not going to drop him by the wayside after tour's over. Tommy presses his face into the soft fabric of Adam's sweater, listens to Adam's shuddering breaths.

Adam's hand comes up to cradle the back of his head. "Baby," he says, and his voice is so raw and soft that Tommy jerks up to look at him. Adam's - he's not crying, not exactly, but his eyes are red and his chin is trembling and Tommy made him look like that.

"Sorry," he whispers, rubbing a thumb on Adam's cheek, but Adam shakes his head.

"No, don't. Don't be. I'm glad you told me, I am." He smiles, just a little. "I'm glad."

"And?" says Tommy.

Adam's brow creases, and Tommy's stomach drops. "I don't know," says Adam. "I'm sorry, I just - this is so big, it's so much more than I thought." He cups Tommy's cheek. "What you're offering, I mean."

He kisses Tommy, the kind of light, friendly kiss they've been sharing all along. "Is that bad?" asks Tommy.

"No," says Adam. "It's just... big. It's important." Another kiss, gentler and deeper. "I need time," he murmurs. "I need... I need not to be on this tour, I need not to be so tired I want to cry all the time, I need to have you happy and not freaking out and desperate, don't look like that, baby, please."

Tommy duck his head so his hair covers his face. "It's ok," he says. "I can wait." His fingers twist in Adam's shirt, unwilling to let go.

"Will you stay with me?" says Adam. "Please? I want you here."

"Whatever you want," says Tommy. "Anything."

Adam sighs. "Just stay."

They stay on the couch for a while, until they're both drooping with tiredness, and then go into the bedroom. Adam tosses Tommy a pair of sweats and a henley, and Tommy changes without going into the bathroom, beyond embarrassment, watches as Adam's freckled skin is revealed and put away again. Then Adam turns out the light and they crawl into bed and Tommy finds Adam in the dark, curls up against him, and sleeps.

&&&&&

"The thing is," says Adam, "I would do just about anything to make you happy."

Tommy stretches and rolls over, blinking. Adam's sitting in the chair by the window, a steaming cup on the sill. "Hmm?" he says, sleep still slowing him down.
Adam looks over, smiles. In the clear morning, he looks very tired and drawn, purpling under his eyes even after a night of sleep. "I'm going to say yes," he says. "It feels like I've been waiting for you forever, so."

Tommy smiles at him, relaxing back into the pillows. "After tour."

Adam nods, sips his coffee. "After tour," he replies, and tilts his head back. "After we both sleep for a week and get the road off us."

"Go grocery shopping," Tommy yawns.

"Spend the day in sweatpants watching Next Top Model," says Adam wistfully.

"Sleep," says Tommy. "Sleep a lot."

"I like your thinking," says Adam. "I always knew you were a smart guy." He abandons his coffee and comes over, flops on the bed by Tommy. "We have to leave in an hour."

Tommy makes a face. "I have to shower," he says. "Also, I don't know where my clothes are."

"I can call down and have them sent up," says Adam. "Can I kiss you?"

"Answer's always gonna be yes," says Tommy, and tilts up for it; Adam's undemanding mouth, his coffee-breath, his morning stubble. "You got coffee," he mumbles. "Share."

Adam laughs. "Shower first, you. You're starting to turn a bit rank."

So Tommy hauls himself out of bed and showers, and by the time he's done and is wandering about the suite in a towel, his luggage has been delivered, along with breakfast, and they sit opposite each other on the bed and eat pancakes and eggs and Tommy ignores his coffee for the pink organic guava-breakfast smoothie crap Adam's ordered. Adam lets him taste it, and then Tommy refuses to give it back and the taste is still in his mouth when Adam kisses him, as they're leaving.

&&&&&

The tour ends with a crash, an explosion of glitter and lights and the pyrotechnics Adam somehow managed to finagle, huge jets of flame and fucking fireworks and hugs piled high to the ceiling. Tommy goes to sleep in a puppy-pile of affection on the bus floor and wakes up on an LA tarmac with a flight attendant telling him it's time to deplane, and Mike looks at him vaguely and says "Aw, yeah, you're back. I forgot."

And Tommy is home.

Really home, like, in his too-small room with faded band posters on the walls and the cupboard door that never shuts right and the sheets that haven't been changed and the roommate that grunts when you poke him, like one of those tickle-me-elmo dolls but emo. And cooking for himself, and driving, like, Tommy was pretty absent minded before but six months of being herded and driven wherever have turned him into a total space cadet and he backs into a pole and almost burns down the kitchen and floods the laundry room trying to wash his sheets and has a total fucking breakdown in the basement and calls Adam.

"Breathe, honey," Adam advises him, sounding way too serene considering the meltdown Tommy's having. "It's okay."

"I know it fucking is," Tommy snaps. He leans against the wall of the laundry and stares gloomily at his ruined shoes. "I just - fuck, man. I don't know what to do. I miss you. Like, tour, I miss tour, but I miss you."

"I miss you too," says Adam. "I'll have to bring you to Paris one of these days, properly. It's amazing. The food, oh my god."

"But you'll be back soon?" Tommy knows he sounds petulant.

"I leave the day after tomorrow, and I'll be home the day after that." There's a smile in Adam's voice. "I can't wait."

"I'll see you soon, then," says Tommy.

He goes and visits his mother, driving carefully. She's pleased by the weight he's put on, by the stories he tells her about Europe. Telling her about Adam happens almost by accident - "So, uh, Adam and I are gonna" - but she seems pleased by that as well, pats his hand and says Adam will have to come for dinner sometime.

And Tommy goes back home, and there are clean sheets on his bed and he manages to cook some pasta with setting anything on fire and feels amazingly accomplished doing so. Liz calls, and he arranges to meet her for lunch in a week or so, then thinks about it and texts Sasha and Allison to see if they want to come too.

Then he flops down on the couch by Mike and they play Left For Dead for a while, and Tommy revels in the do-nothing, need-nothing ease of it.

"So," says Mike, when they stop to get beer. "This tour, you get lots of tail?"
Tommy just blinks at him, then cracks up laughing.

"Dude, you have no fucking idea."

Master Post
Girls Boys Everyone Aftermath Adam Tommy

Drive You 'til You Feel the Daylight: Five

fools_game — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 00:36:04 GMT

"You seem better," says Adam, one morning. They're on the bus, somewhere bright and cold where Tommy doesn't speak the language and doesn't like the food. He's planning on not leaving Adam's bed until they get to the venue, and then getting straight back in it after the show. Tommy wasn't built for snow.

"Was I bad?' says Tommy sleepily. It's not the words he meant, but Adam smiles, close up, and touches his hair.

"No. You were something, I dunno what. Like you were all off balance." Adam wrinkles his nose. "Except not. I can't explain it."

"Better now," says Tommy. The little curtain behind the bed is half-open, and the light coming in is white, reflecting off the snow.

"Mm," Adam agrees. He reaches out to touch Tommy again, and it's a moment before Tommy realises that Adam's hand has curled around his wrist like a cuff, that Adam's asking him something.

"What about you?" he says instead. "You're not better. Tired all'a time."

"Over stretched," says Adam. "I'm okay, I bounce back. I'm bouncy."

"Weebles wobble," Tommy agrees. With his free hand, he touches the skin under Adam's eyes gently. He's as pale and wan as a consumptive Austen heroine, but he smiles at Tommy's tsking.

"Hey," says Tommy and kisses him, which is a stupid idea for making him feel better, but will probably go down better than "How about I give you a blowjob that will melt your brain" which is his current go-to cheer-up strategy.

Adam lets himself be kissed, which is new, and Tommy finds himself shy. But maybe that's it, maybe that's what Adam needs, is for somebody else to give him something. He slides his tongue into Adam's mouth and kisses like he means it, presses him back onto the bed and sprawls across his chest and just gives him all he's got, Adam spread wide and accepting under him, one hand still anchored around Tommy's wrist.

Later, the road still rolling under them, Adam draw his fingertips lazily down Tommy's spine over his tshirt, making him shiver and arch. "Is that what you wanted?" he asks, his voice husky.

"Mmm," says Tommy, snuggled into Adam's chest. "That was nice. Did it make you feel better?" Adam snorts, and Tommy lifts his head so he can look at him. "What?"

"Babe, you shouldn't do shit like that just because you think it'll make me feel good."

Tommy frowns. "You didn't like it?" Adam had seemed to like it, if the press of his cock up against Tommy's belly had been any indication. Tommy had vaguely considered doing something about it, but it had felt too good, kissing Adam and rubbing against him, lazy and not in any hurry. His own arousal had been something of a surprise, a pleasant one, and Adam had laughed when he'd felt it, delighted, and pulled him closer.

"I did like it," says Adam, sliding his fingers through the shorter hair at Tommy's nape. "You know I like kissing you. Did you like it?"

"Yes," says Tommy immediately.

Adam's chest expands with his breath, and slowly sinks again. "So what brought this on?" he asks. "Just felt like a bit of loving?"

Tommy doesn't answer for a while, draws absent patterns on Adam's belly until Adam catches his hand and presses it still. "I just wanted to," he says eventually. "Is that okay?"

"Sure," says Adam softly. "Is there - is there anything else you want, baby?"

There's a long, still moment in which Tommy is suddenly and sharply aware of his own body, cradled in the lee of Adam's arms, of the sweet ache in his still-hard cock, his hungry skin.

"Yes," he says.

&&&&&

But there isn't any time for what Tommy wants; before long, they arrive at the venue, and they have to leave the warmth of Adam's bed for the outside chill.

They're the last ones off the bus, and Adam grabs him just inside the door and kisses him gently, holding Tommys' face between his palms. "We'll talk later," he promises, and Tommy nods and goes up on his toes enough to kiss Adam's mouth again, marvelling that he's allowed, with nobody watching, nobody to please but himself.

The pre-show stuff goes as always, with the new added complication of having stagehands and hosts who don't necessarily speak English or understand it to deal with. Tommy's twitchy and distracted, finding himself with blank periods in the afternoon when he's got nothing to do and nowhere to be. Sasha catches his eye and he realises those dull patches are usually when he would be pulling somebody aside into a closet or and office or even just a fold of the thick stage curtain.

But he isn't, today.

Cam's the one who catches up with him, once Adam's gone off to do the meet-and-greet. She sits down by him on the ratty couch in the green room, tipping into his side and just sitting there, quiet and calm. Her solid presence eases Tommy's jitters. If it had been anybody else, it might not have worked, but Cam is so steady, so dependable. She feels like Adam, a little, to talk with.

"How's your day going?" she says after a while.

"Good." He chews on his thumbnail. "Adam, uh."

She hums a little, slings an arm around his shoulders. "I thought he wasn't part of this."

"He's not," says Tommy, staring at his chewed-up cuticles. "He's. He's something else, I think."

She nods, fiddles with the longer bits of his hair. Tommy waits. She takes her time thinking about things, always, but she tends to arrive at the right place.

"So this changes things," she says slowly. "Yeah?"

He nods, rubs his nose. "Think so."

"Does he know?"

Tommy shakes his head, then shrugs. "I haven't told him. I think he knows - you know, some things. He, um, he saw, after that night in the suite. My arms were all bruised. And he knew something was up. But not, like, um. Details."

"You gonna tell him?"

"Yeah," says Tommy. It hadn't even occurred to him not to tell Adam.

"Well," Cam sighs, "I will not lie to you, my friend. I am going to miss the fuck out of oral sex on demand."

"You guys should set up some sort of time-share arrangement," Tommy suggests. "Help each other out."

She pulls his hair. "You let us worry about that," she tells him. "Not your job anymore."

He smiles and tucks his face into the curve of her neck, where she smells of earth and sweat and girl. Maybe he's going to miss that scent, and the softness of curves and the way Cam's hair falls against his neck. Not Cam specifically, but girls, maybe.

On the other hand, Adam.

"Do you want me to tell the others?" Cam asks.

"Nah," says Tommy. "I can. I want to."

Terrance laughs and claps him on the back; Sasha pouts; Brooke hides a smile behind her hand. But Taylor goes red and scowls and storms off without a word, and there isn't time for Tommy to go after him.

"He's a little in love with you, poor pet," says Sutan, carefully applying glitter to the corner of Tommy's eye.

"Oh, damn it." He should have been more careful with Taylor; he's so young, feels things so hard.

"Should've seen that one coming," says Isaac, perched on top of a filing cabinet. He's twirling a drumstick in his fingers, having taken Tommy's announcement with the same laconic ease he took everything.

"Fuck you," says Tommy. "How was I meant to know, anyway."

Sutan pats him on the head, sympathetically, and Isaac drums out a rhythm with his heels against the cabinet.

"I have to talk to him," says Tommy.

"Talk to who?" says Adam, from the door. He's in full glam-mode, costumed and painted like some alien god.

"Taylor," says Tommy. "Tell you later, okay?" He can feel a smile spreading on his face, goofy, and Sutan sighs and tuts as his brush slips, but leaves with a wink at Adam and a kiss to Tommy's temple. Isaac dismounts with a thud and brushes by Tommy on his way out, pauses to bump fists with Adam, and then they're alone.

"You told them," says Adam, coming to stand behind Tommy. Tommy tilts his head way back against Adam chest and looks up at him.

"Yeah."

"Really?" Adam sounds absurdly pleased. "You're really okay with them knowing?"

"Uh-huh," says Tommy. "You gonna kiss me tonight?"

"Am I gonna - you shit," says Adam. "You little shit. I'm gonna eat your fucking face off." His slides his hand down to cup Tommy's tilted-up chin.

"Then let's do it," says Tommy, grinning.

The show is awesome. Adam does, as promised, eat his fucking face off, to the extent he drops the first verse of Fever and has to scramble to catch up with the dancers for the chorus. He's wild and seductive, making that big-ass voice of his do fucking backflips, groping Tommy at every opportunity. For the encore, he goes for a performance of 20th Century Boy that has him writhing on the floor, followed up with a sultry-hot acoustic Whole Lotta Love that makes a couple of women in the front row faint and leaves Tommy's hands a bit shaky.

He makes a half-assed effort after the show to track down Taylor, but it's a hotel night, so they're only on the bus for twenty minutes, and when they hit the hotel, Adam's sliding his fingers along the small of Tommy's back and smiling at him all hopeful, so Tommy resolves to find Taylor tomorrow some time.

Adam's got the penthouse suite, of course, so after the others get off the red-carpeted wood-panelled elevator he and Adam are alone, and Adam presses him up against the wood panelling and kisses him, gentle teasing nips along his jaw.

"You gonna treat me right?" says Tommy, breathless.

"Baby, I'm gonna be so good to you," Adam murmurs. "Tell me you want this, okay? Keep telling me."

"I want this," Tommy tells him, as the elevator chimes and the doors slide open. "Come on, move your ass, I want you naked."

The hotel isn't super-swanky, but the penthouse suite is kind of cute: all cream and wood with an open fire making it cosy-warm, big bay windows overlooking the snowy city, a wide four poster bed with thick coverings and red curtains. Tommy crashes onto it face-down, makes a delighted noise, and flops onto his back.

"I would sleep with you just so I could pass out in this bed after," he declares.
Adam's face appears in his line of vision. "You can pass out here even if you don't sleep with me," he says.

"Stop trying to give me an out," says Tommy, yanking him down. "Just. Just, would you please."

Adam hums and nuzzles his throat, slips his fingers under Tommy's jacket. Then under his sweater. After a minute of fiddling, he says, "Jesus, how many layers are you wearing?"

"I don't have much body fat," says Tommy. "I'm warmer this way." He sits up to shuck his jacket; Adam makes a happy little sound and grabs at his hoodie, which is quickly joined on the floor by his second hoodie, a thin sweater, a henley, and an old Metallica tshirt, leaving Tommy shivering on the bed in his undershirt.

"I thought you felt a little bulkier," says Adam, and Tommy frowns and tugs at Adam's clothes fretfully.

Adam being Adam, he gets distracted halfway through undressing by Tommy's nipples, visibly hardening through his thin shirt, and he abandons undressing in favour of kissing Tommy again, rubbing his knuckles over the stiffened peaks curiously. "Cold?" he asks against Tommy's mouth.

"Not exactly," Tommy replies. "Fuck, Jesus, hang on. Lemme get my shirt off, okay?"

"Oh, can I play with 'em?" says Adam, like it's Christmas. "Shit, I bet you're all sensitive, aren't you."

"Find out," says Tommy. "Come on, and you," and he grapples with Adam's clothes for a minute, pulling off a sweater and a shirt and maybe some necklaces in a tangle that Adam gets stuck in, emerges ruffled and pink-faced.

"God," says Adam and then Tommy's being kissed again, really properly kissed, dipped back into the thick soft pillows and held down by Adam's broad bare chest and totally plundered as Adam's hands wander over his body.

And Adam's hands are doing something to him, settling him, centring him. It's like everywhere Adam touches him, Tommy's a little more aware of himself, that the skin Adam's touching his skin, all over, the hands clenching in Adam's shoulder are Tommy's, the muscles and bones and the breath in his lungs and when Adam bends his head to bite at Tommy's nipple, yes, the pleasure singing through him is Tommy's too.

"You want this," says Adam, not like a question. His breath is hot on Tommy's skin, his damp nipple.

"Yes," says Tommy. "Yeah, I fuckin' want this." His slides his fingers in Adam's hair. "Come on, touch me. Please."

Adam ducks his head, smiling. "Anything for you," he says, hand already sliding low, Tommy's belly, the sagging waistband of his jeans. "Anything you want, baby, just tell me. Gonna make you feel." He cups Tommy's cock through the denim and Tommy surges up, beautiful, helpless.

"Yes," he hisses. "Yeah, do it."

He's glad of Adam's steady hands, that get him unzipped and halfway out of his jeans. He manages a shaky laugh at not taking his boots off, having to stop and unlace himself before he can get the rest of the way naked, then sits, feeling skinny and small, while Adam strips himself bare with what seems like an inhuman level of grace and returns to the bed, golden-gorgeous in the firelight.

"What do you want?" says Adam, and kisses him before he can answer, his hands confident and bold: Tommy's chest, his belly, his ass and thighs.

"Touch me," Tommy begs. "Adam, fuck, your hands, please."

"Mmm." Adam's hand closes over his cock, warm and sudden, bigger and softer than Tommy's when he touches himself. Tommy writhes with it, mouth open and panting, and Adam's can't seem to help but kiss him, even as he jerks him off slowly.

"That all, baby? Just my hands?" A shift in weight, a moment of cool air across his body, and Adam's other hand is rolling his balls, probing between his thighs lazily.

"Oh god." Tommy's drowning in Adam's touch and presence. Adam's hand on his cock is driving him crazy so fast, and he knows Adam's offering more, but more might kill him, he's been so long without. He sucks in oxygen, feel his spine bowing with the sensations. "Adam - gonna -"

"Holy shit," he hears, distantly, but it's unimportant. Sensation slams over him like a wave, his whole skin crying out with it, his body locked up tight with pleasure. And then it recedes in shuddery ripples, and Tommy is left wrung out and trembling, kitten-helpless in Adam's hands.

"Shit, Tommy," Adam's murmuring, his mouth sliding over Tommy's. Tommy turns his head to it, dazed. "Shit, that was beautiful. You're so fucking beautiful. God." He's covering Tommy with his body, swallowing him up, pressing him down. "Okay? You with me?"

"Mm," says Tommy. He'll be anything Adam wants right now, but he feels heavy and lax, doesn't want to move. With effort, he coordinates a hand enough to rub across Adam's belly.

"Easy, tiger," says Adam, smiling. He looks so happy, so sweetly content, like making Tommy come is everything he's ever wanted. "Take your time."

Tommy smiles back, wrinkles his nose. "Gimme a second," he yawns. "I'll. You know." He waves a hand vaguely. "Take care of you."

"Sure," says Adam. "Anytime." His mouth moves featherlight over Tommy's face, his jaw, down his neck, and Tommy drifts off, the weight of Adam across him like a warm blanket.

It's still dark when he surfaces again, his time-sense fucked by months of travel and shows and jetlag. He figures it can't have been too long; the lights are out, but the fire is still going, and Adam is stroking his hair. They're cocooned under layers of blankets, Tommy tucked safe against Adam's body. He stretches, feels the lassitude down to his toes, his lazy fingers.

Adam hums at the movement, presses fingers against Tommy's scalp. Tommy turns his head up willingly for a kiss, feels it press him tighter against Adam, the thickness of Adam's cock against his hip.

"Sorry," he mumbles into Adam's mouth. "I usually last longer."

"Don't be sorry," says Adam. "That was, like, the hottest thing I've ever seen." He brushes Tommy's hair back off his face. "You needed that pretty badly, huh."

Tommy considers that. His body is heavy and lax, humming with contentment. The strange, breathless feeling he's been carrying for weeks has dissipated, and he feels more at ease than he has since the night Allison's band left the tour.

"Yeah, I did," he says. He skims his mouth across Adam's jaw, rolls further into Adam's heat. One of his legs slides between Adam's thighs, nudging up against his balls, and Adam sighs and rolls with it, legs falling wider, so Tommy falls into the cradle of his hips. Adam's cock is blood-hot and thickening between them, and Tommy rubs against it lazily as he nuzzles into Adam's neck. He's considering sliding down under the blankets and getting it in his mouth, heavy, pressing his tongue back and filling his throat.

But he's warm where he is, and comfortable, and Adam's arms around him holding him close, so he kisses what he can reach - Adam's face and his mouth, his neck and the curve of his shoulder - and rocks against him, giving Adam his belly and hip to rub on. Adam makes a pleased noise and one hand slides down to Tommy's ass, squeezing and pulling him nearer, setting a rhythm, and Tommy gives it up and lets Adam move him. He turns his head and their mouths crash together again and Adam is, God, grinding up on him, pulling Tommy down on his dick. Tommy feels tiny, the way Adam's moving him so easy, surrounding him. He whimpers and wriggles a little, but Adam squeezes him tighter and moans his name.

"Thought you were gonna go to sleep for real," he says into Tommy's ear. "Thought I was gonna have to leave you here in bed all naked and go jerk off in the bathroom."

"You could - could have woken me," Tommy stutters. Without realising it, his hands have gone to Adam's biceps; he's hanging on for the ride, not really in control of anything.

"Mmm," says Adam. One hand slides into Tommy's hair, tugging his head back gently. "Could've jerked off on your face, too. Not very gentlemanly." He bites Tommy's bottom lip.

It's Tommy's turn to say something, but he's got nothing. Except, "I wanna," he gasps. "Adam."

Adam's holding him so fast he can't get his hand between them, and he wants to touch Adam, wants to get that thick cock in his hands, in his mouth, make Adam feel good. He wants Adam moaning his name in throes of pleasure, wants Adam to come, wants to be the cause of it, to see Adam's orgasm and the afterglow and know that he was the one who made it happen.

It takes a minute of shoving at Adam's chest, but finally Adam's grip loosens enough that Tommy can worm a hand down between, scratching through the scant hairs on Adam's belly and grabbing his cock.

Adam makes a breathily happy noise. "Yeah, Tommy." Both hands cradle Tommy's head, but Tommy bats him away.

"I'm concentrating," he complains, and Adam falls back, wide open, laughing.
Adam's big and thick, even more than Terrance, and the head is sticky-slick with fluid when Tommy palms it. Adam groans and runs his hands over Tommy's face, then drops them back to the bed, like he's remembered he's meant to be letting Tommy do his thing.

Tommy ducks his head, but he's not really concentrating, he just isn't sure he can watch Adam's face while he does this. Because if he sees the expression that goes along with Adam's moaning, hitching breaths, he's going to lose his fucking head. He concentrates on stroking Adam just right, his hands getting all sweaty in the warm space between their bodies, paying careful attention to what makes Adam tense up or cry out - he wants to do this right, wants to do it well, make Adam feel so good he'll never let Tommy go.

In the end, Adam can't help from touching him, can't seem to stop himself from putting his hands on Tommy face and shoulders, stroking his skin and murmuring nonsense words that devolves into nonsense sounds as he arches up and clutches at Tommy, spilling between them.

Tommy puts his head down on Adam's heaving chest and waits, sliding his fingers through the mess.

He brings his hand up to his mouth and licks it, and Adam makes a helpless little noise. When Tommy looks up, fingers in his mouth, Adam is glassy-eyed and shocked-looking, like he's surprised.

"You're something else," Adam says, touching Tommy's hair gently. "You're really something special."

Tommy shrugs. "I like you," he says.

"I should hope so," says Adam, the corners of his eyes crinkling up.

"No, I," and Tommy's not really ready for this conversation, hasn't got the words sorted out in his head, doesn't quite understand it himself yet. But he's got to tell Adam anyway. "I mean, you're special. You're different. This is different." He pats Adam's chest for emphasis, and Adam takes his hand, then curls fingers around his wrist.

"Yeah?" he says. "Is different good?" He squeezes slightly.

Tommy presses closer, shivering, not because of the cold. "I want you to touch me," he says. "Like, all the time. You make me feel." He spreads his fingers, tugs against Adam's grip. Adam doesn't give.

Adam exhales, shakily, and kisses his forehead. "Oh, baby. I want to take so much care of you."

"Yeah," says Tommy roughly. "Yeah, please."

&&&&&

The next day is a non-show day, but Adam's got promo shit to do. Tommy hates that, hates that Adam never gets a day off, not really. He wakes up to Adam singing in the shower, and lies still under the blankets, cheek pressed to the pillow that still smells like the expensive shit Adam puts in his hair.

The room is chilly; the fire's gone out, cold sunlight sneaking around the edges of the curtains. The shower shuts off in the other room, and a few moments later Adam emerges in a cloud of steam, patches of red-heat on his fair skin. He smiles when he sees Tommy blinking up at him.

"Morning," he says quietly, and come over to sit on the bed, lean down and nuzzle at Tommy's cheek, kiss him good morning. He tastes minty-fresh, and Tommy wrinkles his nose at what his own mouth must be like.

"Hi," he says. He gets a hand behind Adam's neck and holds him when he tries to sit back up. "No, come kiss me some more."

Adam does, laughing and open-mouth. "I've gotta get ready," he says, to Tommy's chin. "I have interviews at a radio station."

Tommy frowns. "Will it be long?"

Adam shakes his head. "You don't even have to get up. You sleep, I'll be back in a few hours. Just" he waves his hands at Tommy's general naked-in-Adam's-bed-ness, "stay just like that, beautiful."

Tommy flushes with pleasure at the compliment and falls back against the pillows, watching unashamedly as Adam gets ready. He wanders around naked for a bit, and Tommy makes a disappointed noise when Adam pulls his jeans on. Adam glances over, with a grin and a wink, and leaves them unbuttoned, sliding down to expose the lush curve of his ass in back, and the thicknening patch of gingery hair around his cock as he dries his hair and does his makeup. Tommy watches the whole process, fascinated, as Adam puts himself on in pieces, paint and leather. It feels like he's watching a secret, like a magician showing him just how the rabbit got in the hat.

Adam smiles at his curiosity, busses him with a light kiss on the way out. "For serious, though," he says. "Don't even move, okay?"

"Might have a shower," says Tommy. "Clean my teeth. But I'll be here." He cranes up for another kiss. "Hurry."

Adam's eyes go dark and wanting, but he pulls away and heads for the door. "I'll see you real soon, baby," he says, full of promise, and then he's gone.

Tommy does go back to sleep for a while, comfortable and drowsy, the bed big and comfortable and smelling like Adam. He gets up after a while - still no accurate idea as to the time - and showers, uses Adam's shampoo and body wash and toothbrush with an air of proprietary pride.

He figures out the fire is actually one of those fancy-ass gas heaters that only looks like a fire, and manages to get it going again with a bit of fiddling, sending waves of heat out, but it's still chilly enough he retrieves a pair of too-large sweats from Adam's bag and pulls them on before crawling back into bed and calling Sutan.

"You better be calling with some damn juicy details at this hour, bitch," says Sutan, and yawns hugely, right into the receiver.

"Just checkin' in," says Tommy. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"Phone woke me," Sutan grumps. "So was it everything you dreamed of when you were a little girl?"

"Don't be catty," says Tommy. "I know it's your thing, but don't, today. Okay?"

"So now you've got your dream lover, you're too good for Tranma? Fuck that. Dish, baby. I want the goss."

"There's no goss," says Tommy. "We came up here, we fooled around, we slept. He's gone to do promo stuff."

"Hmph." Sutan's sounding less irritated. "Did you talk to him yet?"

"No," says Tommy. "Last night - it wasn't a good time. I think today, we don't have a show or anything."

Sutan makes an I'm-listening noise, but doesn't say anything.

"It's just," says Tommy. "I'm a little nervous about telling him. Should I be nervous?"

"I guess," says Sutan. "I mean, there wasn't anything between you when it was going on, was there?"

Tommy stares down at the bedspread. "There wasn't nothing going on between us either."

"It's up to you," says Sutan gently. "Better to tell him now, I think, but it's up to you."

"I'm not ashamed of it," says Tommy in a small voice. "But what if he doesn't understand?"

He listens to Sutan breathing for a while. "The thing is," says Sutan, "you can't control him. All you can do is say your piece and let the chips fall."

"Maybe I should wait," says Tommy. "Maybe it would be better if I told him later, once things are more settled."

"Do you really think so?" Sutan sounds dubious.

Tommy presses his lips together. "No."

"Baby, you do what you gotta, you do what you can. But hiding something this big is not easy and it it's not healthy. For you or what you're tryin' to do."

Tommy nods, even though Sutan can't see him. "I know," he mutters. "I'm gonna."

"Attaboy. Now, you woke me at ass o'clock for a relationship pep talk. Give me sexy details or I'm gonna come up there and spank you."

"Like that's a threat," says Tommy. "I'm a taken man these days, didn't you hear?"

"It wouldn't be the fun kind of spanking," says Sutan darkly.

Tommy naps some more, wakes up totally starving, and orders room service. While he waits for it to arrive, he tweets something inane about the weather and the snowy view from his room. His twitter feed lights up with greetings and questions and a few crazy boundary-pushing nuts, which consumes his attention for a while. Adam tweets sometimes when he's bored just for the entertainment or his replies, and Brooke scolds him for it - she says his fans aren't toys to take out of a box and play with. But Tommy encourages it, likes the frenzied speculation, the cheerful friendly messages, the feeling of connecting with a crowd, the love - well, mostly love - that comes pouring his way.

The food comes, and it's amazing - delicious thick salty soup, crusty bread with real butter, a big bowl of roasted vegetables in some kind of sauce, and hot cider. Europe does stodgy food like it's going for the gold medal, and Tommy spreads it out on the flagstones in front of the big open-fire heater and eats until his belly starts protesting.

Adam texts then that he's on his way back, so Tommy stacks up the dishes on the table and crawls back into bed, not bothering to get undressed. He plays a couple of rounds of Angry Birds and fluffs up the pillows, considers going for some stupid cheesecake naked calendar pose, and he's laughing when the door to the suite opens.

Adam drops his keycard on the table by the door and kicks it shut, stands with his hands on his hips, surveying the room. "Comfy?" he says.

Tommy tugs the blankets further up around his neck. I'm a little hot dog, he thinks. Snug in a bun. "Awesome. How was your radio shit?"

"Shit," Adam echoes. "You know I love it, but man. I just wanted to be back here." He shoves back the blankets, ignoring Tommy's squeak of protest. "It was so fucking unfair, beautiful boy in my bed, and I had to leave."

He strips his shirt over his head and sits down to peel off his boots. "The whole time I was trying to be good and answer questions and concentrate and all I could think about was getting back here and fucking you." He glances over his shoulder. "You want that, right? You want me to fuck you?"

Tommy stretches his arms up over his head. "Yeah," he says. "Come on, let's do that."

Adam makes a wonderful growly noise and pounces, and they roll around for a while, giggling and wrestling each other to nakedness. Adam pins him to the bed and kisses him, deep and lush and wanting, and Tommy goes still and easy for it, letting Adam manhandle him, devour him.

Tommy sucks air into his lungs as the weight shifts off him, as Adam slides down and shoulders his legs apart. Adam is smiling the whole time, smiling while rubs his hands over Tommy's thighs, smiling as he mouths over Tommy's cock, practically laughing when Tommy jumps at the sneaky touch of his fingers.

"Relax for me, baby," he says, and Tommy tries. Adam kisses his thighs and his hipbones, murmurs comforting things, and through it all, there's the pressure of his fingers, so alien Tommy has no idea how to feel about them, so immediate he can't ignore them.

He thinks he says something, because Adam laughs and sucks a bruise onto his thigh and twists his fingers, and it suddenly gets ten times more intense, Tommy arching up off the bed, shaking. It's still not good, not by any definition he's ever known, but Adam gets a hand on his belly and presses his fingers deeper, and Tommy hears noise coming out of his own throat like his body's decided all on it's own that he likes it.

"Adam," he manages, and the pressure eases.

"Yeah, baby?" says Adam. It's only a respite; Adam's just paused to slick his fingers up again. He gazes expectantly up at Tommy, his thumb resting on the tender skin behind Tommy's balls, wet fingers rubbing over Tommy's hole.

Tommy swallows. "Take it easy, okay?" His voice cracks. "Just. This is a bit new."

Adam ducks a little smile into the crease of Tommy's thigh. "I've got you," he says, low and warm. "Didn't I say I'd take care of you?"

Tommy's chest hitches tighter. "Yeah," he says. "I know." Adam's fingers slip back inside, and it's less weird now, more - feels good, sort of. Or, not good, but he doesn't want it to stop.

"Oh, beautiful," Adam groans. Tommy feels the strain in his thighs, and realises he's pressing his feet into the bed, riding up into Adam's fingers. But then Adam's pulling away, and Tommy lets out a frantic noise, no, not yet, he isn't done.

"Shh," Adam says, "shh, I got you, here." His hands are on Tommy, moving him, rolling him onto his side, and then he moves away and it's a moment before he's back again, tucking up against Tommy's back. "Here, like this," he says, pulling Tommy's leg so his knee's tucked up against his chest. It opens him to Adam's gaze, and also it pins him in a tangle of limbs so he can't move, caged by his own body and Adam's heavy arm across him.

Tommy exhales, clutches at Adam's hand. Adam kisses the back of his neck as he presses inside, slow and steady, and Tommy shoves his face into the pillow with a high-pitched, strangled noise.

"Tell me," says Adam. "Tommy, tell me you're okay."

Tommy pants, digs his fingers into Adam's arm. "It's a lot," he says. "It's- fuck, Adam. You're."

Adam chuckles, strained. "You know just what to say, don't you." He tightens his grip, pulling Tommy firmly against his chest, and says, "Hang on."

Any reply Tommy might have made is lost, because what was huge when Adam was pressing it inside slowly feels like it's splitting him in fucking half as Adam starts fucking him, shallow steady thrusts leaving no room for air in Tommy's chest, no room for thought in his head. There's only Adam's cock, opening him up easy and smooth, Adam's low voice in his ear, Adam's broad body cradling and trapping him. Tommy gives himself over to it, what Adam's doing to him, dismantling his body and shredding his nerves. It stretches out and goes on, minute after minute, the wet sounds of their joined bodies, their breathing, the little uh-uh-uh noises Adam's driving from him.

It feels like the top of a rollercoaster, and he hates rollercoasters but it never felt like this, building and building and Adam murmurs a question in his ear and slides a hand down to cup his cock. Tommy cries out and his whole body leaps into the touch, and he'd get his own hand down there to help if it weren't tangled up with too many other limbs, but Adam's got it under control, jerking him and fucking him in counterpoint that Tommy can't keep up with, and he's swept away under the onslaught.

Adam holds him and rocks him through it, arms going fiercely tight as they tremble together. Tommy is being crushed, feels like Adam is actually trying absorb him, turn him into the same person, fused together like this, like they'll never be separated.

"Might make shows awkward," he says out loud, dazedly. Breathing's hard.

"Hmm?" says Adam, nuzzling the back of his neck. Tommy feels himself clench up as Adam shifts, and when Adam slips out, softening, Tommy shudders all the way up his spine.

"Ohhhh."

Adam's teeth hit the back of his neck. "Yeah. Huh."

Master Post
Girls Boys Everyone Aftermath Adam Tommy

Drive You 'til You Feel the Daylight: Four

fools_game — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 00:33:32 GMT

Tommy's wrists are bruised and tender the next day.

It's too hot for long sleeves, so he rummages through the pile of fan gifts until he finds a pair of studded cuffs that cover the damage fairly well. They're a little dressier than the rest of his outfit, but it's a day off, and he doesn't plan on posing for photos or anything. Sutan's careful vigilance paid off, though, and his hands aren't stiff or sore, he's having no trouble moving.

The cuffs press down on the bruises they're hiding, not painful, just so he's aware of the soreness. He can't help fiddling with them, all through the lunch they're having at a fancy restaurant, twisting and pressing and unsnapping them, restless. Finally Terrance, sitting next to him, reaches over under the table and puts his hand lightly on Tommy's wrist, over the cuff, meets Tommy's eyes with a little smile. Tommy heaves in a breath, holds it, exhales. He nods at Terrance, embarrassed, settles his hands in his lap. He manages to get through the rest of lunch without obsessing, and Immerman grabs him as they're leaving.

"Hey," he says, not quite meeting Tommy's eyes. "You got some time to talk?"

Tommy can't help the instinctive glance around; he catches Adam's eye and makes some kind of gesture. Adam seems to understand though, just grins and taps his watch: they have plans later, don't be too long.

They're walking distance from the hotel, so there's no car or anything to worry about, and he and Dave detach from the group and wander until they find a park, with trees and benches and a weird sculpture that they sit under. Dave still won't look at him, stares down at his hands instead, and Tommy fiddles with his cuffs and waits.

"Liz explained it to me," says Dave eventually. "Uh. I think she did, anyway."

Tommy nods; he doesn't doubt Liz was needlessly detailed in her explaining.

"So its true?" Dave presses. "You're sleeping with everybody?"

"No!" says Tommy, then pauses. "I'm sleeping with a lot of people. Not even that, really, I'm just. I'm helping them, okay? It's stress relief. I'm not dating everyone at once, that's a dick move."

"You're just letting them fuck you," snaps Dave, and stands up, starts to pace.

And the thing is, Tommy likes Dave, he really does. They get along amazingly, love the same music, the same movies, hang out all the time and jam. He's never fooled around with Dave simply because it's never come up, Dave's never indicated interest and there's never been a good time to offer.

"Why are you mad about this?" says Tommy quietly. The park is mostly empty, but he doesn't like having fights in public, if that's what this is.

"Why am I - Jesus." Dave stares at him for the first time today. "Are you kidding? I like you, Tommy."

Tommy actually flinches a little, and hates himself for it. "What."

Dave drops down next to him again, covers his eyes. "I was going to ask you out or something, months ago at the start of tour, thought maybe we could take care of each other, you know? Helping hand or some shit, on the road. But you were fucking straight. Everybody fucking knew it, Adam Lambert's pet straight boy, the tease of the fucking millennium. He'll kiss you like he means it, but don't be fucking fooled."

Tommy turns his face away. "Fuck. Dave."

"And now I find out, not only are you not fucking straight, you're banging everything on tour that isn't me."

Tommy presses his head between his hands. "You've got it wrong," he says in a small voice. "You're - Dave, if you'd asked, it could have been you too. I would've." He can see it in his mind's eye, jam sessions followed by lazy stoned blowjobs, making out and horror movies, never mind that's not anything like what he's doing with anyone else.

"I didn't know I could ask," says Dave. He sounds tired. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be taking this out on you. Just, last night, I thought you were kidding, I thought somebody was going to shout surprise, you know? Great joke, very funny. But they fucking tied you to the bed, I saw, and you - god, everyone acted like it was the most normal thing ever, have a drink, pass round a joint, use Tommy as a sex doll."

"That was the first time," says Tommy. "Before, it was something I did with Liz, something I did with Taylor. It wasn't, like, a group activity."

"The fact that you're sleeping with enough people to qualify for a football team," Dave starts, and Tommy's on his feet before he realises it, walking away.

For some reason, he expects Dave to come after him, but when he dares a look over his shoulder, Dave's just sitting there, under the ugly sculpture, too far away for Tommy to make out his expression.

He takes the long way back to the hotel, to clear his head and slow his pounding heart. He almost calls Liz, almost calls Sutan, rips off the cuffs in a pique and nearly tosses them out, shoves them in his pocket instead and finds a Taco Bell, even though he just had lunch an hour ago. The girl on the register takes his order without looking away from the screen and sure as hell doesn't notice his bruised arms, and that pisses him off as well, for some reason - he's displaying his perversity to the world, the least the world could do is fucking notice.

He tosses out his taco after two bites, heads back towards the hotel with his head down and his hands in his pockets. He's shaking, not sure whether to be mad or upset or what.

He thinks he should go talk to Sutan, probably. Sutan will have words for this, for what he feels, Sutan will talk to him in that clearheaded way and make him tea and hug him. Sutan will tell him that whatever he's feeling is okay to feel.

How he ends up knocking on Adam's door is a mystery.

"Hey," says Adam, then stops when he gets a good look at him. "Oh, Tommy. What happened?"

Tommy shrugs awkwardly. "Nothing. I was just talking to Dave. They're fucking leaving tomorrow, you know?" So he's probably never going to get a chance to make things right with Dave, now, not really.

"Aw, I know," says Adam, and reels Tommy in for a hug. "I know you've gotten close with them, too. I wish I could take them with us."

They'd talked about it, early in the tour, when it became obvious that they were taking it international. It's impossible for a lot of reasons. Tommy shakes his head. "Can I hide in here for the afternoon? I need some decompress time."

"Of course," says Adam straightaway. "I mean, I'm planning on holing up with True Blood, if you don't mind the company."

The fact that Adam's essentially asking permission to hang out in his own room makes Tommy want to hit something. "Of course it is. I'm not hiding from you."

Sutan texts while they're debating the merits of room service popcorn and bacon with syrup. You okay? Liz worried. Im worried.

All good. With Adam, don't wait up, he replies while Adam's on the phone, negotiating for bacon with low-fat syrup. Then he puts his phone on silent and drops it over the edge of the bed.

"I'm totally allowed to make incomprehensible demands, right?" says Adam, setting the phone back in its cradle. "I'm pretty sure that's part of my job."

"Sure," says Tommy. "Nobody'll think you're weird or bitchy or high-maintenance or anything."

Adam scoffs and pokes him playfully, and Tommy pokes him back, and when the room service arrives they're in the middle of an epic thumb war. Adam swears Tommy's cheating somehow; but Tommy just rolls his eyes and points out that he's a fucking bass player, his job is to have strong hands.

It's only once they've settled down to watch the DVDs, eaten half a bowl of popcorn, theorised on how vampires can have sex when they don't have blood pressure, and thrown some cushions at the TV, that Tommy realises he didn't put the cuffs back on and the marks ringing his arms are not only visible, but impossible to miss. Adam has to have seen them. They're hidden now, tucked into Tommy's sides as he leans against the pillows, but they were thumb wrestling, Adam was staring right at them, theres no way he didn't see it.

When the episode ends, Tommy excuses himself to the bathroom. He thinks he's going to be sick, but instead he just grips the sides of the basin and stares into it, willing his breathing under control. So Adam saw the bruises, so what? Adam hasn't said anything. Maybe he won't. Maybe having obviously bondage-inflicted marks on your body is not a big deal in Adam's world, not even worthy of comment.

He puts the cuffs back on before he leaves the bathroom, fumbles them out of his pocket and snaps them over the bruises. He doesn't care if Adam notices the change, he needs it covered up.

Adam is fiddling with his phone when Tommy emerges, looks up with a smile. "Hey. Ready for the next episode?" If he notices Tommy's accessories, he doesn't say, doesn't even look. Grateful, Tommy crawls onto the bed and flops down beside him, and Adam puts his hand on Tommy's head and leaves it there as he presses play.

He falls asleep pretty fast, he thinks, he sure doesn't remember any of the episode after the opening credits. When he wakes, the room is dim, though some light is creeping around the edges of the drawn curtains, and Adam is sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to Tommy, talking quietly on his phone.

"No, he's fine," says Adam softly. Maybe it was Adam's ringtone that woke him, or the sound of Adam's voice. "He just seems kind of tired, said he needed to decompress."

Adam listens then, and Tommy lies very still, eyes slitted shut. "No, he didn't say anything. He's just - Sutan, is there something you're not telling me?" Another pause. "Fine, I will. I don't think we're going to make it for dinner." He hits disconnect and puts the phone with deliberate care on the nightstand. Tommy feigns sleep as Adam turns to him, Adams breathing over the soft repeating whine of the music on the DVD menu.

He almost gives himself away when Adam touches him, the faintest brush of fingers on his arm where its curled against his chest. Adam traces the edge of the cuff with his fingertips, and Tommy has to concentrate on keeping his breathing steady and even, even when Adam takes his wrist in a very light, careful grip and lies down beside him.

He slips back into sleep like that.

&&&&&

It's properly dark when he wakes again, and he's tucked under Adam's arm with his face pressed into Adam's ribs. It's a really nice way to wake up, so he doesn't bother moving for a while, just enjoys the comfort of Adam's undemanding presence, the warmth of his body. Adam's still sleeping, his breathing deep and even. He doesn't stir when Tommy eventually wiggles out from his grasp, but Tommy just reaches over the edge of the bed to snag his phone from the floor and rolls back into the warmth of him.

He's got a couple of text messages and a bunch of missed calls, little icons blinking on the screen. With a flick of his thumb he scrolls through them - from Sutan and Terrance, checking in, from Sasha and Liz, wanting to play, from Dave. He skips that one without reading it, checks his twitter replies and then opens up some mindless game that involves popping brightly-colored bubbles, which he plays until the screen is an inch from his nose and his eyes hurt, which is when Adam wakes up.

"Mfffm. What're you doing?"

"Entertaining myself," says Tommy softly. "Didn't want to wake you." He startles a little as Adam rolls onto his side so he's almost covering Tommy, arm around him, leg across his, sleep-warm and heavy. He sort of nuzzles into Tommy's hair, and Tommy relaxes, let's himself be held. Adam's so relaxed, and he's not asking anything of Tommy but his presence, and it's calming, to have to do nothing more than lie in Adam's arms, half-asleep and protected.

"You gonna tell me what happened to your wrists?" asks Adam, eventually. His voice is blurry with sleep, and he sounds as if he doesn't much mind what the answer is.

"No," says Tommy, trying not to get tense and defensive. "Nothing bad. We were playing a game."

"Okay," says Adam, easily. "You want to get some dinner? I feel like Chinese." And just like that, the topic is dropped.

He spends the rest of the evening in Adam's room. The afternoon has gone so fast, with sleeping and lazing about, but Tommy is feeling bright-eyed and rested, so they eat, and Adam takes a shower while Tommy ducks back to his room for his acoustic guitar, and they sit around for a couple of hours playing with melody and lyrics. They've got nothing workable by the end of it, but its a nice way to unwind and fill a few hours, music and a friend, no place to be, nothing to do.

"We should sleep," says Adam around midnight. "Early bus call."

"I had, like, a four-hour nap," says Tommy. "I couldn't sleep now if you drugged me unconscious."

"We have to be up in five hours," says Adam, looking mournful. "We didn't think this through."

They compromise by going to bed anyway; MTV going quietly in the background as they curl up under the sheet, facing one another, holding one of those rambling, over-tired late-night conversations Tommy knows he won't remember in the morning. Some how Adam's hand is on his waist, through the covers, and their feet are tangled together, Adam's leg hair rubbing the wrong way against his calves. And then Adam is close, so close, their foreheads pressed together, sharing breath.

"Tommy," Adam murmurs.

"Mmm," says Tommy. Against all the odds, he's sleepy again, his eyes drooping.

Adam tilts his head so his lips brush Tommy's. "Hm? Nothing," he says. "G'night."

&&&&&

Tommy somehow manages to get up, back to his own room, dressed, showered, packed, and down to the buses without ever actually waking up. He comes abruptly back to himself curled up on the bus couch with Cam staring at him, an expression of profound amusement on her face.

"You're fucking adorable before coffee," she says.

"Fuck you," says Tommy, voice rough with sleep. "If you have coffee you're keeping from me, I'm going to. You know. Be upset and stuff."

Cam grins and hands over a cup of coffee, and Tommy pulls his knees to his chest and nurses it greedily. He's not an addict or anything, but without that kick-start in the morning everything's a little bit harder.

"How you holding up?" Cam asks, and the question isn't as idle as it seems.

"Okay," says Tommy. "Sorry I missed you the other night."

Cam wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. "No, I'm not into the whole, you know, group thing. I just meant, um. You weren't around much yesterday? I think Sutan was worried. He kept checking his phone."

"I was hanging out with Adam," says Tommy. That's not weird, is it? Except, oh. "So I didn't see any of you for the whole day."

So he's gone twenty-four hours without getting on his knees for anyone. Been a while since that's happened. "Oh, and I missed seeing off Alli and her crew this morning, shit."

"Yeah, but that's okay, none of us did," says Cam. "It was four-thirty in the morning, they weren't up yet. They're not leaving until later." She touches his hand. "I meant, how are you?"

Tempting as it is to blow her off with a fine answer, Tommy does her the courtesy of actually considering it. "I'm - okay, I think? I've got some stuff to think about, and I'll probably need some advice at some point. But I'm not, like, traumatised."

"Okay," she says calmly. "You let me know if you need anything."

He gets a lot of offers like that throughout the day. The band bus feels empty without Alli's crew there, and the dancers are still over on Adam's bus, so he's mostly just got Cam, because Isaac is finding it hard to meet his eyes without blushing. But when they stop briefly around mid-morning, Sasha and Taylor switch buses under the pretence of a sudden desperate need for Tommy's horror movie collection, but really to cuddle with him on the couch and bring him things and make sure he's okay.

Nobody asks him for anything.

"Are you cockblocking me, you bitch?" Tommy demands of Sutan after the show.
Sutan looks up from where he's packing away his brushes carefully. "Does it count as cockblocking if you're never actually getting off either way?" he asks mildly, and Tommy very pointedly does not throw a shoe at him.

After a moment, Sutan shakes his head. "I didn't say anything, but everyone agreed to step back and give you a couple of days," he said. "I think some people were taken by surprise the other night."

Tommy frowns, a tense knot forming in his stomach. "Surprised by what?"

"By how far you'd go," says Sutan carefully. "Breathe, honey." He crosses the room and puts a cool hand on Tommy's neck, soothing.

"Sorry," says Tommy, exhaling through his nostrils. "Sorry sorry sorry."

"Oh," says Sutan, and he puts an arm around Tommy and hugs him. "I guess you were a bit surprised, too?"

Tommy nods. "Never done anything like that before."

Sutan hums thoughtfully. "I know. You did amazingly, though."

"I liked it," Tommy says, fast. "Not the group thing. But, um. With the ropes. And you being in charge. I liked that."

"Yeah," says Sutan. "Okay, you and me have to talk. Come find me at the hotel, okay?"

So when the bus has taken them to the hotel and Lane has given out strict instructions for what time they're leaving and handed out the keycards and everybody's hauled all their shit upstairs and said goodnight, Tommy puts on his comfiest PJ bottoms and a hoody and pads barefoot down the prickly-carpet hallway to Sutan's room.

What follows is absolutely the weirdest birds and the bees talk he's ever had in his life. Its weirder than the one his mom gave him when he was eight, which left him with the impression that penguins could impregnate pandas by blowing pollen at them, and its definitely weirder than the talk from his dad when he'd caught Tommy, age fifteen and a half, with a girl - that one had mostly been stuttering and Dad shoving condoms at him.

Sutan, on the other hand, sits him down in an armchair and gives him tea and then starts talking in a calm, direct way about boundaries and safety and consent, about bondage and power play and subspace and pain and Tommy makes a helpless, high-pitched noise and thinks about the girl who does his piercings, back in Burbank, who teases him gently every time about the way his pupils dilate and he gets all trembly when she puts the needle in but lets him lie on the bench until he feels less like his brain is full of clouds.

"I don't know," Tommy croaks, and then Sutan's right there again, rubbing his back. "I don't fucking know, any of this, I can't right now."

"Okay, okay," says Sutan. "I'm sorry. Too much?"

"Just," says Tommy. "Uh. Cliff notes?"

Sutan chuckles, rich and warm. "Okay. You're not a freak or a weirdo for wanting this or liking it. There are no bad kinks, though there are dangerous and bad ways to indulge them. With me so far?"

"Got it," says Tommy. "Bad and dangerous how?"

So Sutan talks him through safety shit and the different ways it can get fucked up, and over and over he keeps saying how anyone can make it stop if they feel unsafe or scared, even if they're tied up or being punished or not supposed to talk or anything like that. He stresses the importance of safewords, and safety measures, and how its the person looking after Tommy's responsibility to make sure Tommy's okay no matter what's going on or what scene they're playing, and Tommy presses his fingers to his temples and blushes and blushes.

"God, why do people do this, then?" he blurts, and Sutan gets all quiet and thoughtful and Tommys a bit afraid he's going to say You're right, this is a dumb idea.

Except he just kind of chews his lip and says, "Because it's amazing," says Sutan. "It's the most intense thing, from either side of it, you know? To get that close to the edge with someone you really trust. There's nothing like it." He smiles and brushes Tommy's hair back, fondly. "Oh, you're going to make some bastard so lucky, Tommy Joe. Whoever gets to give that to you better fucking deserve it."

&&&&&

The first day on the Europe leg, Sasha and Terrance have a fight. Or an argument. Whatever it is leaves them sulking in opposite ends of the bus as Taylor goes back and forth from one to the other, looking worried, like a little kid trying to make Mom and Dad not mad anymore. Tommy finally intercepts him and pulls him into a bunk, yanking the curtain shut and pinning Taylor down with the weight of his body until the other boy is less agitated.

"It's not your job," he murmurs into Taylor's ear. "Just let them ride it out, it's okay, baby."

Taylor exhales noisily, because Tommy's hand is down the front of his shorts, jerking him off nice and slow. There is only a curtain between them and the rest of the bus, and even though everybody else on the bus except Tony, the driver, knows exactly what is going on and will probably be waiting their turn, Taylor's trying so hard to be quiet. Tommy kind of wants to make him yell, but that's mean, because Taylor gets embarrassed easily, and this is meant to make Taylor feel good, not freak him out.

Taylor buries his face in Tommy's neck and his hips start to rock up and then Adam says, "Hey guys, what're we watching?" about three feet away from the bunk and they both freeze. Tommy completely forgot that Adam was on their bus now, squirreled away in his room upstairs thinking rock star thoughts quietly, and now he's come out, and Tommy can see his shadow against the curtain separating them.

"Top Model," says Sasha at the same time as Terrance says "Californication," and even though the curtain's shut Tommy can tell they're glaring at each other.

"Aw, guys," says Adam. "Come on, don't fight. We got hours and hours on this bus. Plenty of time to watch both."

Tommy misses what happen next, because Taylor moves again, pushes his hips up into Tommy's hand. He smiles a little, pets Taylor's hair with his free hand.

"You'll have to be quiet," he breathes. "Adam doesn't know. Can you stay quiet enough?"

Taylor's breathing goes choppy when Tommy squeezes, and he nods, his floppy hair tickling against Tommy's neck. "Please," he whispers, and his voice cracks into the softest little whimper.

"Shhh," Tommy soothes, and shifts his weight so he can get a hand over Taylor's mouth. "I'll get you there."

Out in the main area of the bus, the volume of the TV goes up, Sasha or Terrance covering for them. Taylor squirms under him, breathing shallow and short, but he's so good, doesn't make a peep, all his need and gratitude in the way his body arches under Tommy, the clench of his hands in Tommy's shirt, the gleam of his dark eyes in the dim bunk.

Taylor's docile after, curls up against Tommy and naps. He's a pleasant warm weight against Tommy's ribs, trustingly limp, and Tommy lets himself nod off as well, the hum of the road under and the murmur of the television carrying him along half-aware.

&&&&&

Tommy hasn't slept alone since they left the US.

He's sure - pretty sure, anyway - that it isn't exactly deliberate, not really planned. It's not even a sex thing, really - like, yeah, he blows Terrance before he passes out on his shoulder, but it's more of a hey-how's-it-going-gimme-a-cuddle thing than a sex thing, and it's been a long day and his bed is so far away.

And okay, yes, the night he spends in Brooke's bed is pretty damn raunchy, eating her out for what feels like hours with her fiance on speakerphone, giving instruction, murmuring encouragement, while Brooke swears and trembles and goes gradually, steadily to pieces - and it's not exactly like she's gonna kick him out of bed after that, is it?

But he falls asleep on Isaac halfway through a conversation about shoes, of all things, and wakes up with his nose shoved in the smaller man's armpit, fully dressed, and even though he jerks Isaac off in the shower later, something about it makes him feel off-balance. Even more when, after a show, he heads back to Sutan's room and they drink wine and Sutan cuddles him and pets him and they go to sleep, Sutan's arm heavy over his chest, holding him in place.

Master Post
Girls Boys Everyone Aftermath Adam Tommy

Drive You 'til You Feel the Daylight: Three

fools_game — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 00:31:13 GMT

Allison's leaving them, and its very sad and all, so a few nights before the end of the tour, when they have a hotel night, Adam splashes out and gets his baby girl a suite, and they all pack into it and proceed to get drunk and cry a bit. Ever since Jive dropped her from their label they've all been a little bit extra protective of the spunky girl, and they want to make her send-off something special before she has to head back to LA and start the search for a new label.

Adam punks out early, pleading exhaustion, wiping Allison's tears away carefully with his black-tipped fingers before he kisses her goodnight and retires. The mood of the gathering shifts a little without Adam's manic energy at the helm, less cheerful, but also less high-strung. Within half an hour, Allison and Val are slow-dancing to some sultry blues on somebody's ipod, Allison's bright head tucked into the other girl's shoulder, and Tommy is snuggling on the couch between - he lifts his head to check - Immerman and Liz. Dave is petting his hair lazily, and Liz's hand is creeping up his thigh, somewhat less lazily, the little minx.

He captures the offending hand before it can get anywhere and returns it to her lap. "Behave," he admonishes, and she pouts.

"Mean," she complains.

"Greedy," he replies, and puts his head back on Dave's shoulder.

"He's not a sex toy, Liz," says Dave, sounding stuck between humor and horror.

"No, I totally am," says Tommy. He's not sleepy at all, but Dave is warm. "But some people need to learn to wait their damn turn."

"Maybe you should draw up a roster or something," says Liz thoughtfully. Dave chokes on nothing, and Sasha drops over the back of the couch in a tangle of long limbs and impossible bendiness, landing half on Liz.

"Dibs right after shows," she says brightly. "Damn, I love working off that energy." Tommy rubs the top of her head, grinning.

"Anytime, for you, honey," he says.

"I guess we know who the favorite is," Liz sulks.

"You're not actually serious," says Dave, louder than he probably intended. "You guys are kidding, right?"

Everybody in the room looks up. Monte's not here, he'd taken off to the airport straight after the show to go home to his family, but Cam and Brooke are sitting at the table over in the corner, and Terrance and Taylor are curled up on the rug giggling under Sutan's affectionately watchful gaze, and Val and Allison are watching curiously. Tommy runs through a mental checklist quickly Val's come to him once or twice, but been pretty casual about it, and Isaac's done everything but strip naked and throw himself at Tommy, there just hasn't been a good time. Allison's the only real wild card aside from Dave.

They're leaving the day after tomorrow anyway.

"It's just stress relief," he tells Dave, as lightly as he can manage. "Why, you want some?" He lets his eyelids droop, looks coyly up at Dave from under his lashes.

Behind them, Cam sighs. "This is a party, Thomas. Show some restraint."

"Now there's an idea," says Liz, sitting up straight. "Didn't that fan give you some handcuffs, Alli?"

"Um," says Allison. "Are you guys talking about what I think you're talking about?" She's blushing, looks like she wants to duck behind Val and hide.

"I'm talking about tying Tommy to that big bed you have there and taking turns riding his pretty face," says Liz bluntly.

Allison makes a shocked little noise. "Oh," she says quietly, and her gaze darts quickly around the room. Nobody else is protesting, or seems particularly shocked, except for Dave, who has gone tense under Tommy. "Oh, okay. You should do that, then."

So they do.

Allison produces the plain steel handcuffs blushingly, but Sutan takes one look at them and says, "No," very firmly and declares himself in charge of Tommy for the night.

"Would have ripped your wrists bloody," he mutters furiously. "Amateurs. Go wait in the bedroom."

Tommy goes, and Sutan comes in ten minutes later with a black bag and a big bottle of water. He strips Tommy to the waist and ties him to the bed with coils of silken rope from the bag, head propped up on some pillows and his arms open wide instead of pulled above his head. Sutan fusses and fusses over the knots, making sure they aren't too tight or digging in, and when hes finally satisfied, he presses a loop of the cord into Tommy's hand. "You can get yourself out," he says, which seems to Tommy to defeat the point, but Sutan's firm about it, and he makes Tommy pick a safeword and repeat it back and promise he'll call stop if anything gets too much.

Then he crawls onto the bed, unzipping his pants, and straddles Tommy's chest to put his cock in Tommy's mouth.

It's weird not being able to use his hands, and Tommy keeps catching himself pulling at the ropes, frustrated. Sutan's dick isn't jaw-breakingly thick the way, for example, Terrance's is, but its a decent mouthful, and Tommy's got absolutely zero control over the pace or the depth or anything. Even though Sutan's being really careful, watching his face closely and never going so deep Tommy can't breathe or anything, he still feels a little panicky thrill run through him. It's not fear, not even close, just a nice, helpless, out-of-control feeling.

Sutan murmurs a warning before he comes in Tommy's mouth, and Tommy takes it, swallows except for a little dribble he deliberately lets slide out of the corner of his mouth. Sutan laughs lowly, presses his fingers against Tommy's temple.

"Slut. You okay?"

"Mmm," says Tommy and smiles up at him, wiggling his fingers to demonstrate their continued circulation. "Bring on the adoring masses."

Sutan checks the ropes again first, cleans Tommy's face and holds the bottle so he can drink some water.

"You have to promise you'll let me know if it gets too much," he says. "Okay? Don't feel like you're obligated to keep going if you're getting tired or you want to stop. This only keeps going as long as it's still fun for you."

Tommy nips him on the wrist gently. "Quit fussing. You'll take care of me, wont you?"

"Oh Jesus, I'm in so much trouble," says Sutan, and goes to the door.

The genius of the way Sutan has tied him becomes quickly apparent when Liz bounces in. She can straddle his head easily without his arms getting in the way, kneels over him like she's doing anything other than teasing, holding herself out of reach. Tommy smiles up at her - she's so pretty and bold and fun, and he likes her so much despite her occasional brattishness.

Sutan leaves the door to the main room open, so Tommy can hear the laughter and music, and sits in the armchair by the bed. "Don't mind me, honey," he says to Liz.

"I don't," says Liz, smiling, and then she gasps prettily and squirms and squeaks and generally has a wonderful time. There's a burst of laughter from the other room, and Terrance's deep voice rumbling. Liz's thighs press against the side of his face, and she tastes so good, he could do this forever. When she squeaks and trembles, he's almost disappointed. If his hands were free, he wouldn't let her pull away, but Sutan clears his throat, and Liz rolls to the side with a sigh.

"It's gonna suck hardcore to be without you, baby," she says, retrieving her jeans and underwear from the end of the bed. He thinks he should come up with some kind of witty retort, but nothing springs to mind, so he just smiles lazily, and she sashays out the door as he floats along, getting his breath.

Sutan touches his cheek gently, grounding him. "Don't go under, honey. I don't think I'm ready to deal with you in full-on subspace."

Tommy blinks up at him, confused. "I'm not - what? Can I have a drink?"

Sutan's mouth quirks up like hes not sure if he should smile. "Anything you like. Hands?" Tommy flexes them obligingly, and Sutan gives him another drink, wipes his messy face with a cool cloth.

"Oh my gosh," says Allison. She's standing by the door with Sasha's arm around her, pink-faced. "Oh my gosh, I thought they were kidding!"

"Sasha," says Tommy, irritated. "Alli, there's no pressure, baby. Its just a game, and you don't have to play."

She shakes her head, staring. "Are you kidding? You guys have been hiding this from me all summer and I only find out about it the night before I leave?" She sounds annoyed as she goes for her belt buckle. "I am so getting in on this."

Sasha cackles. "Yeah, get it, baby girl!"

Tommy lets his head fall back on the pillows as Allison approaches the bed. Despite her bravado, there's some hesitance in her eyes, and he doesn't think he'll be able to let her take the lead the way the others have. "Come on up here, then, sweetheart," he says, making his voice as low and soothing as possible. Her blush grows a little deeper.

She shoots an embarrassed look in Sutan's direction, and Sutan raises his eyebrows and pointedly turns away. "You want me to go?" says Sasha, from behind Alli.

"No," says Alli. "Could you, uh?"

It's the prettiest thing Tommy's ever seen, maybe, the whole lovely pale length of Allison above him, naked but for the black lace of her bra, with Sasha's darker arms around her waist, Sasha's chin hooked over her shoulder, Sasha's velvety voice a counterpoint Allison's shocked whimpers and the little stifled cries she makes. She's tense and nervous, so it takes a while, and longer again because he can't use his hands to soothe and comfort, but Sasha's got that part under control, whispering in Alli's ear, stroking her back and her belly and cheekily cupping her breasts with a friendly little squeeze, and Allison finally sobs out her orgasm with her face turned to press against Sasha's.

"I hate you guys," says Allison. She's sitting on Tommy's chest still, leaning back in Sasha's arms and breathing hard. "I could have been getting this for months. For actual fucking months. You're all fired."

Sasha giggles, and Tommy turns and bites her thigh gently. "You could have. But right now, you're holding up the fun train."

"My turn!" says Sasha happily, and Allison pouts.

"Aw, I wanna go again," she complains.

"He's not a carnival ride," says Sutan, and Allison squeaks, still mostly naked. "Move, please, I have to check on him."

"I'm fine," Tommy protests, but Sutan makes him prove his hands are still okay, gently presses his shoulders to check for tension, and plies him with more water. "I'm going to float away if I drink anymore," Tommy complains. "Hey hey, bright eyes."

"Hey, pretty thing," says Sasha, moving into position above him. "How's your evening been?"

"Awesome," says Tommy serenely, and then he can't say anymore for a little while, but that's okay, because Sasha's so fucking appreciative every time, like riding Tommy's face is the greatest thing since the invention of the rollercoaster, and Tommy realises he's straining against the ropes, desperate to touch her, get his hands on her, if it'll get her to keep making those little noises.

Somebody rubs soothing at one of his arms, and he realises Allison's still watching, and Sutan's beside the bed, ready to step in if Tommy needs, and somebody else, too, over by the door, he can't see, he's tied up half-naked in a roomful of people and as Sasha swears and lets her head thump against the bedframe, he's never felt safer.

He expects, when Sasha's done, that she and Alli will leave and somebody else will replace them, maybe some of the boys. Instead, Sasha sort of topples to the side and snuggles up with Alli like puppies in a pile, and Taylor sits down on the bed next to him, legs kicking against the side.

"How's it going, Tommy?" he asks, and Tommy tries to shrug, wobbles his head from side to side. His neck kind of aches.

Sutan notices straightaway, and hurries over. "Your neck, honey? Okay, hold still a second." He unties Tommy and helps him sit up. Tommy gingerly rolls his shoulders and head around just stiff, not really hurting. "Go clean up in the bathroom," says Sutan. "They'll have to wait."

"Aw," says Taylor, looking disconsolate.

"You're not the boss of me," Tommy grumbles, and goes. He uses the bathroom, washes his face, drinks some more water, and carefully avoids his own reflection. When he comes out, Taylor's sitting against the headboard, threading the rope through his hands over and over, and Allison is examining the cuffs she's put on her wrists with open curiosity.

"Metal's no good if you're going to be tugging, see?" says Sutan, pulling her arm so the handcuffs catch tight. She winces. "Too unyielding, it leaves bruises, even shreds the skin. Of course, some people like that effect, but you can damage the tendons. It's not very responsible. Rope is good, especially this kind, but in terms of doing the least amount of damage, you want good wide leather cuffs, the padded kind, with d-rings. I didn't bring mine, or we'd have used those."

"Tommy'd look pretty in leather cuffs," says Terrance, leaning against the doorframe.

Isaac peeks around his bulk. "Are we tying him up again?"

Everybody looks at Tommy. "Your call," says Sutan, and Tommy hesitates.

"Maybe - maybe not to the bed, this time?" he says.

Terrance kisses his face and holds his trembly arms in place while Sutan ties him this time, at the small of his back, with the soft rope criss-crossing up to either elbow. It isn't painful, though it pulls his arms back, but he's breathing hard by the time they're done, and he leans against Terrance gratefully and slides to his knees before he can think it through.

"Oh, boo," says Terrance, petting Tommy's hair as he nuzzles against his fly. "Hey, settle, settle, I gotcha." He cradles Tommy's cheek as he quickly unbuttons himself and gets his cock out, feeds it into Tommy's waiting mouth.

It feels like all the air's gone out of the room, like everyone there has inhaled all at once and sucked the oxygen away. There's dead silence except the lewd, wet sounds Tommy's making, the helpless choking noises when he gets too ambitious and takes more than he can handle. Terrance's moan is obscenely loud, but it seems to break some sort of spell, because noise comes rushing back in.

"Jesus," Isaac breathes, and, "Tommy, Jesus."

He wants to make a smart assed remark, but Taylor makes a stifled noise that suggests that the minute Tommy's done with Terrance hes going to get tackled by the littlest dancer, and Terrance strokes Tommy's hair back from his face and cups a hand under his chin and breathes heavily and pushes, pressing Tommy's mouth open and bumping against his throat.

"Gonna come," Terrance says, his voice gravelly and shot like Tommy's never heard it. "Ready, boo?"

Tommy makes a noise that must sound affirmative, because moments later Terrance's hands tighten in his hair and his mouth is flooded with salty fluid.

Somewhere in the room, somebody breaks into sarcastic, hastily-muffled applause. Tommy feels very small suddenly, and he presses his cheek against Terrance's hip, trying to hide his face. He's sharply aware that he's on his knees and they're all waiting very patiently to take their turn with his mouth.

Before his shyness can overtake him, Taylor lands on his knees on the floor next to him and pulls him into a fierce hug. "You're fucking amazing," says Taylor. "You have any idea? Shit, Tommy."

Tommy shakes his head, speechless. It's supposed to be a fucking game, and he's in over his head, he's pretty sure. Just from being tied up, tied up and watched, like he's putting on a show, it's never bothered him before. Taylor rubs his back and whispers "You want me to untie you? Send them away?" Tommy shakes his head, hides his face in Taylor's neck.

"Just need a minute," he says, muffled.

Sutan crouches down behind him, touches his wrists. "You still with me, baby? Deep breaths."

"I'm okay," says Tommy. "I'm just - that was kind of intense."

Sutan rubs his arms. "Okay. Go lie on the bed with Tay-Tay for a minute."

Taylor helps him up, and Tommy follows him, blind and stumbling, to the bed, and falls gratefully against him. He can hear Sutan moving around the room, talking quietly to the others, but Taylor runs a hand down the line of his back, distracting. "Are you sure you don't want to stop?" he says quietly. "I wouldn't mind. I think I'm gonna be jerking off to those memories for a long time."

Tommy laughs, and a little of the tight, panicky ache in his chest recedes. "You pervert," he says. "And here I thought we had a connection, but you're just using me for jerk-off material."

Taylor giggles and presses in closer, like a cuddly puppy. "I wanna make a joke about how its totally just sex," he says softly, "but I'm not going to, okay?" He kisses Tommy's forehead.

The door to the bedroom closes, and Tommy turns his head to take in the rest of the room, letting his sense of space expand again, feeling safe with Taylor anchoring him. Sutan's apparently kicked almost everyone out of the room, because it's him, Taylor, Terrance and Isaac now. Isaacs on the bed with them, sitting cross-legged and looking uncertain, and Terrance is in the chair, and Sutan is standing by the bed gazing down at them with an expression Tommy can't quite decipher.

"Back with us, Tommy?" he says, and Tommy nods sheepishly.

"Sorry," he says.

"Don't," says Sutan sharply, and sighs, sits down on the bed. "It's not your fault, baby. You didn't do anything wrong." He touches Tommys hair. "I'm taking care of you, okay? I just don't think it's a good idea for you to get too deep right now."

Tommy presses his head up into Sutan's caress. He can totally see Sutan's point. He hadn't expected his own reaction to what's happening, and in the middle of an insanely busy tour is not the time to be exploring his surprise submissive side with a bunch of over-tired fuck buddies. Sutan seems to know what he's doing, and Tommy trusts him, and if Sutan says he's going too deep for safety, Tommy will take his word for it.

"You're not making me stop, are you? I can finish, I swear. I'll stay in my head."

Sutan smiles. "Sure, honey. I've sent the girls away, though, and I want you to take your time."

Tommy makes a private note to track down Cam and Brooke the next day, maybe touch base with Val, so they don't feel neglected. "Tomorrow's a free day," he says. "I've got nothing but time. I wanna show Tay what you taught me the other day, can I do that?"

Sutan's face lights up with laughter. "You absolutely can. Tay, honey, go take a shower."

Taylor looks back and forth between them. "This is going to be totally dirty, isn't it." He gently shifts Tommy's weight off him; Tommy's hands are still tied, so his balance is a little precarious as he sits up and Taylor slithers of the bed. "Be right back."

Sutan checks his hands while they wait, and Isaac crawls up behind him to give him some water. "Totally not how I expected this to go," says Isaac. He doesn't sound bothered; he's a pretty chill guy.

"Yeah? You were thinking, like, wine, candles, maybe some rose petals?" Tommy teases, and Isaac snickers.

"I was thinking more beer, nachos and making out on the couch," says Isaac. He wipes a dribble of water from the corner of Tommy's mouth and presses his strong little hands into Tommy's shoulders, rubbing the tenseness there with his thumbs.

Tommy shakes his head. "I don't. I don't do that."

There's a pause. "Beer?"

"Making out," says Tommy. "Not for this. This is something different."
He can't quite make out Isaac's expression. "Okay," says Isaac carefully. He leans over and kisses Tommy, just the corner of his mouth, very gently. "Whatever you like."

Tommy smiles and leans back against him gratefully. He can see Sutan looking approving, even as he doesn't look up from his hushed conversation with Terrance.

Taylor emerges from the bathroom, pink and well-scrubbed, with a towel around his waist and his clothes in his hand. Tommy directs his dreamy, contented smile at Taylor, who looks kind of nervous.

"Alright, honey," says Sutan. "Towel off, up on the bed. Tommy, you need your hands for this?"

Tommy considers it, but it seems a bit unsporting by now. Taylor crawls up on the bed without removing the towel; he's blushing hard, and Tommy kisses his cheek. "No, leave it, I think," he says. "But Isaac, stay close? I don't want to lose my balance."

Isaac grins and hooks a hand in the back of Tommys jeans, under where his hands are tied. "I gotcha," he says.

Taylor swallows, wide-eyed. "How should I - should I lie down, or?"

"Face down," says Tommy. "No, wait. On all fours. Is that okay?" The question is addressed to the room at large, but Taylor nods and shuffles so his back is to Tommy, before he drops down onto his elbows without taking off his towel.

Off to the side, Terrance makes a rumbly noise of appreciation as Tommy leans down and grabs the edge of the towel in his teeth. He tugs until it loosens and slips down over the curve of Taylor's ass, and then Tommy has to stop for a moment and appreciate that sight, because damn. Taylor's ass - well, the whole back of him, really, from the defined shoulders to the narrow waist and the delicate curve of the small of his back and his muscular thighs - it's a thing of beauty. Tommy's torn between being jealous and wanting to take a bite out that luscious flesh, but Taylor makes a small embarrassed noise and his head drops down. Tommy's protective instincts take over and he ends up leaning up to press himself against Taylor's back, pulling against Isaac's grip and covering Taylor's nakedness. "I'm so fucking jealous, dude," he murmurs to the back of Taylor's shoulder. "I wish I had an ass like yours. I mean, I wish I had an ass full stop, but if I had one, I'd like it to be like yours. It's fucking epic."

Taylor gives a breathless little laugh. "You got a plan, or are we gonna cuddle all night?" he says. Tommy kisses his shoulder, smack, and then lower down, the pretty curve where his spine dips, and then Taylor makes a surprised noise as Tommy's mouth skims over the top of his ass, lower, lower, and the surprise turns to something that sounds like it's being torn out of him, and Tommy knows straight away nobody's ever touched him like this before.

"Oh god," says Taylor faintly. "Oh my god, Tommy, that's, oh."

Sutan had liked it when Tommy rimmed him, but Taylor sounds like he's being totally dismantled, hoarse, breathless noises and squirming, hands fisting in the sheets. He keeps trying to talk, to say things, but mostly what gets out is Tommy's name, oh god, and a string of half-formed curses. Tommy relaxes, hanging against Isaac's grip on him, pressing his tongue deeper. Taylor lets out a sharp scream and grabs wildly at a pillow, burying his face in it as his hips jerk.

It's somehow so much dirtier than it was with Sutan. Taylor's so young, and he's so shocked by what Tommy's doing to him, so affected by it. And the taste is dirty too, that same organic edge that had been almost hidden when it was Sutan, but on Taylor it's stronger, not washed away by soap and clean water. It's not like eating out a girl, not like sucking cock, not like anything else, the way he's opening Taylor up so sweet and easy, the way Taylor's giving up to him, ragged, hitching breaths and his body tensing and relaxing. The noises he's making ramp up, louder and more desperate, and when Tommy presses his tongue deep, rigid like he's trying to actually fuck inside him, Taylor's whole body jerks hard as he comes all over the sheets.

He slumps forward, and only Isaac's hand on Tommy's belt stops him from following. Taylor is making little hurt sounds, though, like breathing's an effort, and Tommy says, "My hands- I need," tugging at the ropes futilely.

"Be calm," says Sutan, and Tommy jerks, because he'd almost forgotten their audience. "Terrance, could you?"

"Got him," says Terrance. And as Sutan's cool hands loosen the ropes binding Tommy, Terrance kneels on the bed and scoops Taylor's smaller form up, pulling him into his lap. Once Taylor is being properly cuddled, Tommy relaxes a little, lets Sutan check his wrists and shoulders and pull him into a hug. "You did good, baby," Sutan murmurs. "You did so good, that was beautiful."

Ridiculous as it is, Tommy can't help arching into the embrace, purring like a kitten at the praise. "It was fun," he says. "Taylor's so pretty."

"Yeah he is," Terrance chuckles. He strokes Taylor's spine, where he's cuddled, still apparently non-verbal, against Terrance's shoulder. Taylor waves a hand feebly.

Sutan kisses Tommy's face, his nose, his eyes. "You're doing so well," he says. "You got one more in you?"

Isaac shifts a little, not trying to press the issue or anything, even though Tommy can tell that he's being restrained. Isaac has been amazingly fucking patient tonight, but his hard-on is tenting the front of his jeans, and Tommy would be a total dick if he left Isaac hanging now after Isaac's been so good about helping keep him grounded. Tommy's not even that tired, even though the muscles of face ache quite a lot.

"So long as I don't have to, like, move," he says, with a put-upon sigh and eyeroll. Taylor rouses enough to giggle a little, and Tommy shoots a fond, conspiratorial look at him.

Isaac ends up sitting against the headboard with Tommy's head in his lap. They don't tie him up again, though Sutan sits and holds Tommy's wrists behind him in a loose grip, more a reminder than a restraint. Isaac's sweet and gentle, pets Tommy's hair and smiles and breathes hard when Tommy licks the slit of his cock, suckles on the head. It's probably not he best blowjob he could have given - his face hurts, and he's got a headache, and he's tired - and he feels kind of guilty about that, because Isaac deserves something totally stellar. But he seems to like what Tommy's got left in him, and it doesn't take long before he comes with a low groan, and Tommy can let his head fall onto Isaac's leg.

He drifts for a little while, Isaac's hands in his hair, Sutan still holding his arms, everything fuzzy around the edges. At last, Sutan gently pulls at his hands, touches his face. "Up you get, honey. Let's get you cleaned up. Say goodnight."

"Goodnight," says Tommy obediently, and lets Sutan take him into the bathroom. Sutan carefully unbuttons and pulls off Tommy's jeans and socks, helps him under the warm spray of the shower, then strips his own clothes and climbs in there with him.

"We gotta stop meeting like this," says Tommy tiredly, and Sutan chuckles and reaches for the shampoo. Tommy leans against his chest and lets Sutan wash him, head to foot, careful gentle hands that feel so good.

"You were amazing tonight," Sutan tells him. "You really were."

"I don't want to do that again," says Tommy. "Oh, not in a bad way," he adds, when Sutan goes still. "It was good, it was all good. I liked it. I just don't want to do it again."

"Hmm," says Sutan. "Okay, that's fine. Tommy?" His hand is on Tommy's hip, fingers loosely curled, an inch or two from Tommy's half-hard cock. He's asking a question, but Tommy's addled brain cant quite parse it.

"No," he says, just on principle. "No, hey, give me a second." It's unexpectedly strange to touch himself with somebody else there, with Sutan crowded up against him, holding him with those long arms and pressing gentle kisses to his face. Tommy fumbles when he looks down to see the reddening marks on his wrists, squeezes his eyes shut and strips his cock with brisk, ruthless efficiency. He feels guilty for it, and then feels stupid for feeling guilty, and he doesn't realise he's crying until Sutan's arms close tight around him. He doesn't shush or tell him that its alright, just hugs him and rocks him until he finishes, then shuts off the water and helps Tommy out, wraps him in a fluffy white towel.

"I can do it," says Tommy, trying to hang on to the last shreds of his dignity.

"I know you can," says Sutan. "But I just tied you up and let my friends gang bang you. Let me take care of you." And he does, his hands all gentle as he rubs Tommy dry and dresses him in soft sweatpants that he brought with him in the black bag with the ropes. (There's other things in there Tommy thinks he wasn't meant to see - a first aid kit and a gag and something in bright blue silicone that he can't quite see the shape of.) Everyone is gone when they get out to the main room, except for Terrance, who is pulling off the slightly soiled coverlet and turning down the sheets.

"We kicked Alli out of her room," Tommy says, and Sutan snorts.

"She doesn't mind," says Terrance. "She said to say thanks, she's sleeping in with Liz, and to order room service."

"So quit worrying," says Sutan. "Do you want us to leave?"

"Fuck, no," says Tommy. "I need to be cuddled like I'm the worlds sluttiest teddy bear."

He falls asleep pillowed on Sutan's skinny chest with Terrance's broad body spooned against his back.

Master Post
Girls Boys Everyone Aftermath Adam Tommy

Drive You 'til You Feel the Daylight: Two

fools_game — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 00:29:51 GMT

A couple of days later Taylor gets all mopey and sad and it takes Tommy about thirty seconds to get the breakup story out of him and then Taylor's snuffling sadly into his shoulder, which is kind of gross. He pets Taylor's hair and gives him beer until he falls over, and spends a couple of days sneak-attack-hugging him in between bouts with the girls, because Taylor's woeful face is possibly the wrongest thing in the whole world and Tommy just wants to make it better.

He wants to make it better so much that he blows off everyone else, including Liz and her determination to get them arrested, to hang out with Taylor on their day off, even though what Taylor mostly wants to do is stay in bed and watch weird French films because his ex used to love them. It's so pathetic Tommy doesn't last very long before he starts poking Taylor to annoy him, which devolves fairly quickly into a stupid wrestling match, all tangled up in Taylor's sheets because he hasn't even gotten out of bed or anything. The sheets are the only reason Tommy has the upper hand for a while, but Taylor has brothers and about twenty pounds of lean dancing muscle on Tommy.

And it's not like Tommy minds getting pinned, because Taylor's laughing again, finally, grinning and sweaty as he holds Tommy down with his hands and the weight of his body. But then the smile drops away right at the same instant as Tommy registers Taylor's dick poking him in the belly, and Taylor practically levitates off him and Tommy has to grab him to stop him from falling off the stupidly high bed and breaking his arm or something.

"Sorry," Taylor gasps, trying to squirm free, but Tommy yanks him closer by his t-shirt. Taylor's so red his face might catch fire, and he's gone from playfully happy to totally miserable in two seconds flat, and that is not okay. Tommy gets an arm around him and pulls him close, and Taylor wriggles unhappily. "Don't - don't Tommy, please."

"'m not doing anything," says Tommy. "It's okay, it's okay." Taylor gives one more anxious squirm and goes still, and Tommy pets his hair. "See, it's fine."

"I didn't mean," says Taylor. "I mean. She was - she said that about me, and I couldn't tell her she was wrong. And I know it's not wrong. I mean, generally. But I fucking loved her, man, and then I was on tour, and just, everyone on this fucking tour, man, and she wasn't there, and I just," his voice cracks, and Tommy hugs him a bit closer.

"Oh, honey," he says. "You could have said, you know. It's not like anybody round here would be shocked."

Taylor shivers and presses his face in Tommy's neck. "Tried talking to Adam," he confesses in a small voice. "But I think I said it wrong, because he thought I was coming on to him and he looked like I'd asked him to fuck a tree."

Tommy makes a quiet strangled noise. "Shit." He scratches his nails across Taylor's scalp. "Would you want to come on to him?" he asks, and Taylor doesn't say no, just starts to twist in his grip again. "Shh, shh," says Tommy, and Taylor whimpers, and he's still hard, between them, despite his embarrassment. And he's just a kid, and he's confused and upset and Tommy just wants to make him feel good.

Taylor makes some inarticulate noise when Tommy reaches down between them, rubs up his thigh through the thin cotton of his sleep pants. He shivers, sharp and jerky, and doesn't pull away. When Tommy presses his hand against the clear outline of his hard dick, Taylor's hands make fists in the fabric of Tommy's shirt, but he doesn't lift his head from Tommy's shoulder, so Tommy can't actually see what hes doing.

"Okay?" says Tommy. "Come on, Tay-Tay. You gotta tell me it's okay. I just need you to say yes, and then you can,"

"Yes," Taylor blurts, and he grabs Tommy's wrist to hold his hand where it is. "Tommy, yes, please, just,"

"Shh," says Tommy. "Okay, it's okay. Lie back."

Taylor does, back against the pillows, throws an arm over his eyes. His legs are all splayed out, the hard curve of his dick clearly visible, his chest jumping with his harsh breaths.

And okay, Tommy's experience with guys is probably not that much more extensive than Taylor's, but he knows full well how awesome it is for someone who isn't you to touch your dick, even if they're basically doing the same thing you would be. He rubs at Taylor through the cotton, just to watch his chest heave and face go redder, and then he leans down to mouth against the damp spot at the head. Taylor clutches at his hair, a little desperately, but he's not pulling or shoving or being rude, so Tommy lets him.

He tugs Taylor's soft cotton pants down just enough to uncover him, and Taylor hiccups in alarm. Tommy glances up to see that Taylor's staring down at him, wide-eyed, but he looks turned on more than freaked out, so Tommy pats his belly comfortingly and gets back to it.

He's never given a blowjob before, but he knows what he likes. Taylor seems to approve, moaning when Tommy suckles on the head, plays with his balls a little, draws back to jerk him. He pets at Tommy's hair, gets out half-formed words and pleas, but he's good and doesn't buck his hips up or anything. Tommy tongues below the glans and Taylor makes the best noise ever, a sort of strangled yelp, and he pushes Tommy's head away and their hands tangle together to finish him off.

Taylors breathless and disbelieving after, staring down at his semen-stained tshirt and cock hanging out like he's blacked out the last half hour and come to post-coital with Tommy gnawing affectionately on his hip. "Okay?" Tommy asks.

"Um," says Taylor. "Yes?"

He is okay, and after about thirty seconds of awkwardness they end up squabbling over the remote and Taylor gets him in a headlock until they settle on some Doctor Who reruns on cable. Taylor snuggles up to his side and they make fun of the Doctor's bowtie until Adam calls to ask them if they're coming to lunch or not.

&&&&&

It gets a little awkward when Taylor walks in on him and Brooke in the dancers' dressing room a few days later. Tommy's a little bit fucking busy at the time, doesn't even hear him come in, only lifts his head when the door slams shut, and Brooke says something garbled and pushes him back down. It's a while before he can go find Taylor, and then Liz pulls him into a storage closet full of, like, cleaning supplies and crusty mops and it's a little awkward because these are new jeans and can't she ever want it somewhere clean and comfortable? He ends up bending her over the sink and getting her off nice and quick with his fingers, her tight jeans shoved down so they hobble her around the knees while she hangs onto the faucet and swears her face off.

"Sorry to love you and leave you," he says to the back of her neck while she's catching her breath. She waves a lazy hand and starts pulling her pants back up, and Tommy goes to find Taylor, except he walks right into him leaving the closet.

"We should talk," he says, grabbing Taylor's arms, and Taylor looks kind of stricken, and then Liz comes out after him and saunters off and Taylor looks like he might die of embarrassment.

"I don't," says Taylor, and Tommy rolls his eyes and pulls him into the closet Liz just vacated and hugs him hard.

"Shit, I totally should have talked to you about this," he says. "Oh, don't be upset, please? It's totally not what you think, I swear."

And then he has to explain about the girls, and how he helps them, and Taylor's eyebrows go up and down sceptically and he doesn't look convinced. "I just want you guys to be happy and, like, feel nice," says Tommy. "I couldn't stand seeing you so sad the other day."

"And you thought a blowjob would help?" asks Taylor.

"Well, yeah," says Tommy, "want another one?"

Taylor blinks at him, and then cracks up laughing. "Oh my god, Tommy," he says. "You crazy fucker."

"Hmm?" says Tommy, and he's sliding to his knees, smiling up at Taylor. He puts his hand on the front of Taylor's jeans and waits.

"Okay, fine, yes, fuck," says Taylor, and his head hits the door with a thump as Tommy unbuttons and unbuckles and swallows him down. It's a little easier, now he's had a bit of practice, to keep his teeth covered up and work out sucking and moving his head and breathing. He thinks with a little more time he could get really into it, like he does with the girls, doing this for somebody and getting their reactions, the power of it, the rush.

Taylor swears a lot, under his breath, gets louder as he gets closer. Tommy pulls off to tell him to quiet down and then Taylor makes an urgent noise and comes all over his face. It's hotter in porn than in reality; warm and slick quickly becoming cool and sticky and kind of gross, and Taylor looks totally mortified and apologises in frantic whispers. Tommy just laughs ruefully and wipes his face against Taylors tshirt, and Taylor curses him but doesn't push him away.

He gets back on his feet and Taylor leans into him sweetly and they stay like that for a while, hugging, until there's a knock on the door and Sasha says "Hey Tommy, Liz said you were - oh, you're busy, I can come back?"

"This isn't my fucking office, gross," says Tommy. "I'm not having sex with anyone else in this stank pit. I'm drawing a line."

Sasha goes "Awww," in this disappointed little voice and Taylor blushes madly and Tommy shakes his head at both of them and goes to get lunch. Though he does finish up early and take care of Sasha in the empty sound booth later on while Adam's practising his acoustic set, Aftermath all deep and velvet-smooth through the speakers almost drowning out Tommy's enthusiastic wet noises and Sasha's squeaking and sighing.

&&&&&

After that everything just kind of snowballs a little. He has sex with Terrance, for example, genuinely, honestly by accident, which he thought was not a real thing that happened. He's watching a movie with Terrance and Taylor in their room and falls asleep with his head in Terrance's lap, cheek pillowed against the thin cotton over his muscled thigh, and when he wakes up he's shifted so he's kind of nuzzling against his hardening dick and Terrance is saying "Uh, Tommy, honey," in this high, worried voice. He sighs and opens his mouth sleepily against the bulge, feeling it swell up, the fabric going soaked and transparent with his spit.

A door closes somewhere nearby, which stirs him a little further into wakefulness, but if he stops now it's just going to be awkward, and Terrance's hand in his hair isn't exactly trying to pull him away. So he just lifts his head, fumbles with the elasticised waistband of Terrance's pants, and settles in. Terrance is bigger than Taylor, and his jaw starts aching almost immediately, and Terrance hisses and swears when Tommy accidentally lets his teeth touch down a couple of times, but he's really patient too. He doesn't pull Tommy's hair or try to push his head around or anything, not even when Tommy has to stop for breath and makes a little face at the taste of the clear fluid leaking from the head. He doesn't buck his hips up either, which is more control than any of the girls have managed, and Tommy's got the aching nose to prove it. But Terrance is totally still aside from his heaving chest and the occasional helpless twitch of his hips.

He lasts way longer than Taylor, too; long enough that Tommy comes fully awake and gets to mess around a bit with technique, letting Terrance's noises of approval guide him. He tries going a bit deeper and regrets it immediately when he chokes, but Terrance just pets him and makes shushing noises and murmurs for him to relax and swallow, and after a couple more tries he manages to get Terrance's cock pressing into the back of his throat without gagging. He's totally proud of the effort, so he does it again, and then again, a little deeper each time, and Terrance is making seriously the best noises ever over his head and actually pulling his hair like he's losing control, and even when he comes in Tommy's mouth, like, hello, rude, it's not enough to dampen Tommy's sense of accomplishment.

"Yay," he says, after he's swallowed. He rolls onto his back and smiles up at Terrance. "That was fun."

"Um," says Terrance. He's wide-eyed, looks kind of alarmed. "Sure? I guess? That kind of came out of nowhere."

Tommy frowns. "Are you always this tense after you get off? That doesn't seem right."

Terrance releases all his breath in a whoosh. "Do you always going around sucking cock like that, boo? Cause I gotta tell ya, I did not see that coming."

"Its a new thing I'm trying," says Tommy. An awful thought occurs. "Oh, shit, did you not want me to? I know I didn't exactly ask."

"Like I'm going to turn down a blowjob from someone as pretty as you," says Terrance, rolling his eyes.

The bathroom door opens and Taylor's tousled head appears, tentatively. "You guys done?" he asks, sounding more curious than upset.

"Oh, shit," says Terrance. "Tay, I'm so sorry." He's tucking himself hastily away; pushing at Tommy's shoulder like he wants Tommy to sit up, but Tommy just flaps a hand at him.

"All done," he says. "You want some, baby?" Terrance squeaks, hilariously, like he's scandalized.

"I'm good," says Taylor, blushing. "You guys were making a lot of noise." He glances guiltily back towards the bathroom, making it obvious what he's just been doing, and Tommy laughs out loud and holds out his arms, demanding affection.

"Am I missing something?" says Terrance hesitantly, as Taylor comes in for the snuggle. Tommy tilts his head back and smiles, so relaxed and awesome.

"I love you guys, thats all," says Tommy. He rubs Taylor's back and plays with his hair a bit. "'s not a big deal." Taylor kisses his neck, wet and sloppy so Tommy giggles, and Terrance's hand falls into his hair again, and he makes them put the movie back on to where it was before he fell asleep, but he's unconscious again before ten minutes have passed, and never does manage to watch the whole thing through.

&&&&&

When Sutan gets back from whatever secret project he had to run off to, he figures out what's going on in under six hours. It's actually kind of impressive.

Adam takes them all out to dinner to celebrate Sutan's return and farewell Jeni, who Tommy admits is totally awesome. Taylor follows him to the bathrooms between entrée and main course, and Cam, sitting across from him, goes cross-eyed while Tommy eats his dessert - some kind of honey-toffee custard thing with an unpronounceable name and a lot of cream that is so delicious he has to lick up every last bit. She looks annoyed once she realises what she's doing, but she doesn't stop watching his mouth, either.

He intends to take care of her once they get to the hotel, but Liz emerges from her room and innocently asks if Tommy can come help her with something and once she's got him in her room she falls on him like she hasn't gotten off in weeks, when he knows for a fact she had three awesome orgasms that morning in the car on the way to the mall.

"Greedy," he scolds, and pins her to the bed, shoves one of her legs back without even bothering to take her panties off.

"You know it," she smirks, smug little fucker, and he's quick and kind of rough about it, annoyed. But she moans and bucks and has a great old time anyway, and squeaks happily when he slaps her thigh.

"Don't be selfish," he tells her. "I have to take care of all my girls, okay?" She pouts a little, but he gives her a stern glare and snaps the elastic of her panties against her hip before he leaves. Boundaries are important, okay, and Tommy's got a limited amount of time and energy and lots of people who need his attention.

Cam's prickly and annoyed when he finally catches up with her, and he has to play gentle and sweet and coax her into it, up on the counter in her hotel bathroom. He always wants to take his time with Cam, and he's a bit annoyed that he can't tonight because they're expected in Adam's suite for drinks. He doesn't like to be rushed, okay. Doesn't mind rushing, if he's in the mood, but outside time constraints are annoying.

"I owe you one better," he says, propping her up against the sink when her knees give out. "Collect at your leisure."

She squints at him, rubs her thumb over his lower lip all shiny with her. "Better? Baby, I may not survive better."

"You say the sweetest things," he tells her, and shoves her toward the shower cubicle.

They're a little late to the party, just Adam's crew this time, with Alli and Ori's people all elsewhere. So half the guests don't seem to notice Tommy and Cam showing up late and freshly laundered, and the other half look smugly knowing and Sutan looks back and forth between them, puzzled and a little suspicious.

Sometime between Sasha and Brooke going all pink-faced and giggly when Tommy sticks his tongue in a shot glass and Taylor going bright red and excusing himself Tommy downs half a bottle of beer without taking a breath, his throat working, Sutan sits up very straight and suddenly looks extremely interested. Tommy just smiles and snuggles up under Adam's arm, making a happy noise when Adam starts petting his hair without even breaking his conversation with Lane. Adam smells awesome, and feels awesome, all big and warm and strokey, so Tommy stays there for the rest of the evening, playing with Adam's necklaces and rubbing his head against Adam's chest, until he eventually dozes off.

He's in Adam's bed when he wakes up, and it's morning. He blinks stupidly around at the sunny room, Adam's shit everywhere and the beer bottles and chip packets and somebody's discarded platform boots detritus of the night before. Adam's gargling tunefully in the bathroom, comes out wiping his mouth.

"Morning sweetheart. You passed right out last night."

"Long day," says Tommy. Adam is just wearing black jeans, his bare painted toes against the carpet. Tommy can't help letting his gaze drift over the broad, freckled chest, the way the muscles move as Adam turns and bends and rummages through his bag.

"You're working too hard," says Adam. He ruffles Tommy's hair as he goes past, and Tommy leans into it, helpless. "You gotta take time for yourself, honey."

"Sure," says Tommy. "I'll get back to you on that."

Adam slumps a little, and he sits down next to Tommy. "I'm working you guys too hard, aren't I?" he says.

"Don't be silly," says Tommy, and crawls over to hug him. Adam's skin is smooth and bare and he tries not to touch too much, resist the urge to stroke him a little. "I'm just over-extending myself, it's not the show. It's just all the people, you know how I get."

"My little introvert," says Adam fondly. He leans into Tommy. "You know you can chill out in my room if it gets too much on the bus, right?"

"I might," says Tommy, and Adam kisses his cheek and has to go to an interview then, so he curls up in Adam's bed and sleeps some more.

&&&&&

"I hope you know what you're fucking doing," says Sutan. They're in Sutan's room, which somehow manages to be quiet and peaceful and classy when everyone else's are depressingly generic. Sutan's long, elegant hands are folded on his crossed knees, and he's observing Tommy over the tops of his glasses. It's disconcertingly teacher-librarianishly hot.

Tommy shrugs and fiddles with his phone. "It's not a big deal," he says. "It's just, you know."

Sutan sighs. "Is there anyone in the band you're not fucking?" he asks.

"Adam," says Tommy smartly. "Monte. Longineu, before he left. I don't really know Isaac that well yet." Though he suspects Isaac might come to him sooner or later, young guy like that, away from his wife for so long. He hadn't been shy about flirting with Tommy, for sure. "Actually, it's pretty much just Cammy, from the band."

"Plus all the dancers," says Sutan.

"And Liz, you know, from Allison's band? And Val that one time. I like Val, she's sweet." Tommy counts on his fingers deliberately. "I think that's everyone."

Sutan's eyes are a little wide. "How has your dick not fallen off, sweetie?"

Tommy blinks at him. "I'm not using my - uh." He rubs the back of his neck. "I just. I really like giving head? To girls? And apparently to guys also."

Sutan rubs his forehead, carefully. "So. Let me get this straight."

So Tommy spends a couple of minutes going over the past few months on tour for Sutan, who looks shocked, disturbed, impressed and finally a little turned on by the recitation of events. He's quiet after for a while, and Tommy waits patiently while Sutan sips his tea and looks out the window.

"Tommy," he says eventually, hesitantly. "Sweetie, if somebody were - were making you, or trying to,"

"No!" says Tommy, horrified. "God, no, are you kidding?"

"But you would tell me, right?" says Sutan. He shuffles over on the couch, touches Tommy's shoulder gently. "I'm just looking out for you. I don't want to see you in something you couldn't get out of if you wanted."

Tommy leans into him, comfortable and easy. Sutan's kind of bony, but he hugs like it's an Olympic sport and Tommy's not turning down that kind of skill. "I don't want to," he says. "I mean, I don't want to get out of it. I'm not good at, like, talking to people, you know? Making people feel good, like Adam is. I just want to make everyone feel good."

"Thats a little dysfunctional," says Sutan, and Tommy snorts. "Honey - you know we love you, right? You don't have to do that shit for everyone here to want you around. You're the sweetest thing, we love you bunches."

"You say the sweetest fucking things," says Tommy. He kisses Sutan's cheek. "I know you're just looking out for me, but it's okay, I swear. I love my life, and I love my friends, and its all good."

Sutan breathes out and cuddles him some, rubs the back of his neck. "You know you can talk to me anytime," says Sutan eventually. "Right? If you have any questions, or just need to talk."

"I know," says Tommy, and something occurs to him. "Oh, hey, there was one thing I wanted to know about. I was going to ask Terrance, but I guess you'd know too."

"What is it, honey?"

"I was reading about rimming the other day. Isn't that kind of unhygienic?"

Somehow, Tommy isn't surprised when half an hour later he's squished into Sutan's little shower cubicle with him. Sutan's leaning his elbows on the wall, but looking over his shoulder curiously, the fall of water plastering his hair to his forehead.

"Gently, honey, at least to start with. It's - oh, shit. It's sensitive - Tommy, Jesus." He presses his face to wall and pants, and Tommy smiles to himself.

It's different from going down on a girl, for all that it's that same. Sutan hitches a leg up and cleans himself with meticulous care first, murmuring something about enemas that makes Tommy wrinkle his nose, and then turns to face the wall as Tommy sinks to his knees. He feels weirdly vulnerable, naked with somebody else for the first time in so long, Sutan's long, lean body in front of him. He presses curiously with his fingers first, having watched Sutan be very thorough with his soapy hands, just touches gently, testing the feel of it, the way the little knot of muscle twitches and Sutan cusses at him.

He thinks he's probably put his mouth worse places, though none come to mind, but it doesn't taste that bad when he gets around to using his tongue. Sutan makes a strangled noise at his first tentative attempt, and all he can taste is soap and skin, so he does it again and again, and there's some other taste there, something dark and nasty, and Tommy can totally do dark and nasty, presses a little deeper chasing it. And its really, really nothing like eating out a girl- it's simpler, in some ways, less messy, despite the automatic ew gross factor, and Sutan is clearly fucking loving it. He's gasping into the cradle of his arms, pushing his ass back against Tommy's mouth, his dick hard and heavy between his legs, and Tommy uses his hands to hold Sutan open for him and licks deeper. Sutan lets out a long string of curses and starts jerking himself off, quick and frantic.

Tommy reaches up and bats his hand away to do that himself, and Sutan makes a high whining noise. Now, here's a challenge; coordinating the awkward angle of his hands on Sutan's cock with the still-unfamiliar way he's pressing tongue between the cheeks of Sutan's ass and the way Sutan is trying so hard not to squirm, not to shove back against him, not to take over and get himself off. His hand covers Tommy's, squeezes as they stroke him and Tommy presses the tip of his tongue hard and feels Sutan open up to him.

For all that he's noisy, Sutan goes quiet when he comes, streaking the tiles. His knees buckle for a moment, and Tommy wraps his arms around Sutan's thighs carefully and holds him until the trembling stops.

Sutan turns around and hauls him upright. For a minute Tommy thinks he's about to kiss him, but Sutan just hooks an arm around his neck and pulls him in for a shaky sort of hug. And even though he's naked and wet and pressed all up against the dude whose ass he just ate out, it's such a strangely platonic embrace, his face mashed into Sutan's skinny chest while Sutan hangs on like Tommy's a little kid who needs to be thoroughly hugged for proper functioning.

Master Post
Girls Boys Everyone Aftermath Adam Tommy

Drive You 'til You Feel the Daylight: One

fools_game — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 00:26:58 GMT

"The thing is," says Adam, halfway through the tour. "The thing is, it’s like the worst blue balls ever, right? I need to get fucking laid. Aren't you guys desperate to get laid?"

The question hangs in the air like a big pink cloud, and there is the distinct sound of everybody in the room very carefully and deliberately not looking at Tommy.

"Denial is good for the soul," says Tommy brightly, and Sasha gives a shrill, helpless little giggle.

&&&&&

He doesn't mean for it to happen. In fact, a couple of days before the tour starts, he propositions Adam, because he figures if he's going to be rubbing all over him like a cat in heat for a few months he may as well take the opportunity to experiment with gay sex, right? And who better than Adam, who is astonishingly hot for a dude who wears sparkly zebra-print pants unironically, and also a total fucking sweetheart, and is undoubtedly very good at gay sex.

But Adam reacts with a panicked rejection that might be kind of insulting except that he’s obviously really upset and a lot tempted. "I don't want you to feel like you have to do that," he says, with actual, like, tears in his eyes. "You don't owe me anything, Tommy, especially not that." He looks so miserably earnest that Tommy doesn't even try to explain, just hugs him, because Adam gives awesome hugs. He resolves to find a better moment to raise the issue, and also maybe a better opening line than "So, you wanna fuck me, right?"

So they head off on tour, and it's insane, fucking intense, like nothing that's ever happened to Tommy before. He's been performing his whole life, but it's never, ever been like this, like when Adam slings an arm around him and the audience screams his name and Tommy can't help rubbing up against him to make it happen again. He feels totally alive, buzzed like he could go forever, but he only goes about a week before he hits the wall, passes out and wakes up sprawled across the couch in the bus feeling like reheated ass. The bus is still, parked, and daylight coming in the windows, and something banging in the bunk section, and Tommy stretches lazily and considers going and getting some food.

"Fuck!" Sasha snarls, storming out of the bunks. "Motherfucking - oh, hi Tommy." She looks vaguely embarrassed, thumps the wall with a hollow noise. "You feeling better?"

"Mmm." He smiles up at her. "S'matter?"

She chokes out a little laugh, and drops onto the couch, shoving his legs to make room. "I left my goddamned vibrator at the hotel." She covers her face, but she's grinning, helpless. "This is going to be the longest three months of my life."

Tommy can't help it; he laughs, and keeps laughing even when she hits him with a cushion. "Aw, sweetie. That's fucking tragic, really." She moans a little, dramatically, and he pokes her with his toe. "Let me know if you get desperate, I'm happy to help." He sticks out his tongue and waggles his eyebrows to make her laugh, and she does.

"Oh, fuck, don't," she giggles. "It's been that fucking long since I had anyone do that. Shit, I can't believe I just told you that." She's all pink, can't quite meet his eyes.

"Now that is a fucking tragedy," he declares. "I would go down on you any day of the week, no joke. I love that shit." The bus still feels like I'ts moving, weirdly, and she's staring at him, wide-eyed.

"Fucking hell, Tommy." She wipes a hand over her face, flustered. "If that's a serious offer," she breaks off, staring at his mouth.

What the hell, though. He rolls off the couch and winces as his knees hit the floor, and Sasha squeaks a little, slumping back in her seat until her hips are right at the edge of the couch. "I had this girlfriend once," he tells her, shuffling closer. He grabs a cushion, because the floor's hard. "She had, I dunno, issues or something. Sex wasn't fun, and it was hard for her to get going, but she was an awesome chick, you know?" Sasha's breathing hard, and he runs his hands up her calves, asking permission. Her knees fall open without any urging, and he slides his fingers up under her frilly little skirt. "But it was worth it, all the effort. I'd go down on her for fucking hours, man, and when I was done, the way she looked, you have no idea." He hooks his fingers into her panties and pulls them down, grins up at her. "I fucking love this."

She makes this desperate, breathy noise when he gets his mouth on her, and he lays straight in, not starting off slow or shy, goes right for the prize. He sucks hard on her clit, licks at the gathering wetness, slides a couple of fingers up inside. He knows damn well that he's good at this, and it's only a few minutes until she's squirming and grabbing at him, flexing around his fingers with her heels scrabbling and pushing at the floor.

She arches up when she comes, her whole body a gorgeous arc, and he urges her through it despite his eyes watering from how she's yanking his hair. It's a thrill even now, to see her looking all sweaty and sated and somewhat stunned, and think I did that. Fucking awesome. He pats her thigh and staggers to his feet, ducks into the tiny bathroom to wash his face, and comes back with a clean washcloth and a glass of water, sits patiently while she collects herself.

"Fucking hell, Tommy," she says, flailing her arms a little, and he nods.

"I know, I'm awesome." He grabs her panties off the floor and passes them back to her, and she blushes as she quickly cleans herself up and slides them on. He grins when their gazes connect, and she laughs, a little shyly.

"Do you need me to, uh?" She waves a hand in his general direction, eyes dropping, but he shakes his head, presses the heel of his hand to his groin.

"Nah, I'm gonna sit with this a while. Where are the others?"

"Getting food." She blushes again. "Uh, they'll be back soon, we have another couple of hours to go. I wasn't hungry, I get sick on the bus."

"Awesome, I'm starving," he says, but before he can find his shoes, the door opens and Longineu lumbers in, grunting what might be a greeting. Outside, they can hear Lane calling for everyone to get back on the bus because they are leaving right now, and Tommy falls back on the couch with a faint thwarted cry of hunger as the rest of the crew pile on the bus.

Adam is last, having apparently encountered some fans at whatever backwater fast food joint they stopped at. He has a Sharpie behind his ear and the remains of a strained smile on his face, and he stops next to Tommy and ruffles his hair.

"You feeling better, baby?" he asks, and Tommy smiles up at him.

"A million bucks."

"Guess you don't need this then?" Adam drops a takeout bag in his lap, still hot and noticeably burrito shaped. Tommy practically squeals with delight.

"I love you, you're my favorite," he declares, hugging the only part of Adam he can reach, which is his thigh. Adam pets his hair fondly, scratching behind his ear, and manages somehow not to fall on him when the bus starts moving.

&&&&&

Tommy thinks that's probably the end of it, that warm afternoon in the empty bus, but they have a hotel night not long after, one without a show so they've actually got time off, and everybody settles in for some serious communion with beds that don't move. Tommy joins Adam in his room and they watch Labyrinth, their old standby for they're too tired to be bothered with anything new. Adam drops off to sleep right around the trippy scene with the ballroom in the tacky paperweight, when Tommy turns to him to suggest that they incorporate some cool masks into their costumes. His face is softened in sleep, freckled and relaxed, dark hair sticking up in all directions. Tommy smiles fondly and turns the volume down, pulls a blanket over Adam and watches the rest of the movie with the dialogue only a memory.

He's on his way back to his room when he remembers that he's still got Brooke's ipod, which she'd stuck into his pocket when she went to wade in a fountain with Terrance earlier, so he retrieves it from his room and heads up towards hers. He can hear giggling behind the door, which gets abruptly louder when he knocks, and when Brooke opens to door it becomes extremely clear that he's interrupted something. On the wide bed behind her are Sasha, Cam, Liz and Val from Allison's band, and many tiny bottles of alcohol. Sasha gasps when she sees him and hides her face to another round of giggles, so Tommy gets a fair idea of whats going on.

"Bragging?" he asks. "Yeah, I would be too."

Sasha throws a pillow at him. "They don't fucking believe me," she giggles.

Tommy clutches his chest. "I'm hurt, girls, truly hurt. I give fucking amazing head."

"I'd believe it," says Liz, bouncing a little on her heels. She's tiny and dark-haired and obviously not wearing underwear, and Tommy helplessly tracks the movement of her breasts as they jiggle. "Look at him, of course he's incredible at it." Her gaze is frankly assessing, and Tommy smiles at her as he leans on the doorframe.

"Want a ride?" he asks, and ducks the empty cup which goes sailing past his head. "Why's everyone throwing stuff at me?"

"Such a line," Cam says, hiding her eyes. "Such a boy."

"Well, we have to settle the debate somehow," says Liz, and she sounds so casual it takes Tommy a couple of seconds to realize what shes said.

Brooke groans. "I'm surrounded by total perverts," she complains, and drags Tommy inside, shutting the door behind him.

"Uh," says Tommy, but Liz is already taking off her sweatpants. "With an audience, huh?"

"You don't get stage fright, do you?" she asks directly, thumbs hooked in her underwear, and he bristles.

"Lets do this." Cam and Sasha scramble out of the way as he backs her up against the bed and drops her against the pillows with a hand at her waist, dark hair all spread and long pale legs. He crawls onto the mattress after her, presses her legs open, settles down. She's still wearing panties, but that's okay, he's not in a hurry. She's got his back up, he's got something to prove, wants to put on a show, so he presses his mouth against the cotton and lets the heat of it sink through the fabric, licks until it gets damp and clinging and Liz wriggles impatiently and shoves at him.

"Can't rush art, sweetheart," he says, and she yanks on his ear. He can hear somebody giggling nervously, over his shoulder, and shifts his weight backward so he can strip Liz down and get down to business.

He fucks around a bit, just because he can, teases her with light little flicks of his tongue and not nearly enough pressure until she's writhing and swearing and frustrated. Its a good thing he's never minded having his hair pulled, because she's really direct about what she wants, but when she nearly kicks him in the kidneys, he pinches her thigh, pins her hips to the mattress and buries his face in the warm wet heat of her. She actually shrieks, clutches at him and struggles to buck her hips up, but he holds her down and licks into her, presses the flat of his teeth gently against her clit and then his tongue, alternating between that and sucking gently. She's completely feral and he daren't let her go without risking a broken nose, so he's just working with his mouth. But it turns out that's enough, and she's messy when she comes, smearing all slick and shiny across his face and down his chin.

He pulls away when she whimpers and bats at him, rolls onto his back with his hair spilling over her thigh. "So you know," he says to the ceiling. "I am always available for a bit of light stress relief."

Cam's face appears in his field of vision. "I don't like boys that way," she points out.

He pulls her hair gently. "Me either, but I wouldn't turn down a blowjob from a friend."

She laughs a little disbelievingly and shakes her head, petting his hair.

&&&&&

And in any reasonable universe that would absolutely be the end of it, a drunken hookup that's a little more public than he usually goes for, except the next day Brooke corners him before he can leave the bus and says "Look, I really love my fiancé, okay?" and he goes to his knees then and there and it's only sheer luck that nobody else sees him hitch her up onto the tiny sink behind the tiny bathroom and wrap her fucking amazing thighs around his head. She's quiet, little choked noises and the sharp flexing of her body the only clue aside from the blunt taste of her on his tongue.

She's sweet as pie after, kisses his cheek and never mind the mess, wraps her arms around him and cuddles him a bit. "I really do," she says, a bit breathless and swaying.

"I know, sweetie," he says, his cheek against her gorgeous hair. "It's okay."

"You're fucking good at that," she mumbles, and he laughs, a little dizzy, and says "I think I'm going to get a fair bit of practice."

And because his life is unbelievably amazing, he turns out to be right.

Sasha starts lingering pointedly in doorways, and Brooke turns up in odd corners of rehearsal and Tommy was apparently very good in a past life because Liz turns out to be completely insatiable and a total fucking exhibitionist, and takes to accosting him at really inconvenient times. She grabs him as she's coming offstage once and he's standing in the wings waiting to go on, and he shoves his whole hand down into her jeans and gets her off in about thirty seconds flat, two inches away from being visible to the six thousand screaming fans in the audience, not even bothering to hide from Cam, who just raises her eyebrow and looks away. Theres nothing to clean up with after, and he has to lick his wet hand clean as he stumbles onto the stage, and when Adam grabs him by the neck and nuzzles his cheek during the opening to Fever, he nearly goes blind with the thought that Adam can probably smell her on him and has no idea.

If Liz is a wildcat, then Sasha's his sunshine girl, all smiles and laughter. She pets his hair fondly and rubs her fingers over his mouth when he's done, and she laughs sometimes when she comes without a trace of self-consciousness, like it makes her so happy. She only offers once more to return the favor, and he bites her on the soft skin of her thigh and shoves her back down the couch in the back room of the venue and makes her come again until she's got a fist shoved in her mouth to muffle the sounds. She doesn't say it after that, but the offer's still there, he knows, she would if he asked, but he won't.

He can't shake the thought that it would ruin it, this thing. He likes going down on girls, on these girls, loves that they come to him when they're stressed and tired and when he's done they're all blissed out. He loves the smell of them and the taste of them, how dirty it is to go from snarling Liz to sweet Brooke without a break, tasting both at the same time.

&&&&&

"Sasha says you don't ask her to do anything."

Cam's stretched out on the top bunk, curtain pulled so only her head and shoulders are showing. Her gaze is sleepily curious, and Tommy shoves his jeans back in his bag, search for his wallet forgotten. "Yeah, I guess."

She frowns. "How come? Guys don't do that. Guys always want stuff."

He rests his elbows on the edge of the bunk. "You're a lesbian, honey. How would you know what guys want?"

Her expression goes withering. "Oh, you're not really a lesbian baby, you just haven't found the right cock yet, come here and I'll show you what a real man can do for you, how about you bring your girlfriend as well, just let me watch."

"Uh-huh." He watches the bitterness in her face. "Guys are assholes, it's true."

She doesn't say anything, just looks at him quietly, like a challenge. He shrugs, unable to quite find words for the line he's drawn, even inside his own head. "I want you guys to feel good, you know? I hug you when you're tired, and I braid your hair, and I bring you coffee, because I'ts a nice thing I can do that make the days go a bit better."

"So cunnilingus is your contribution to crew morale?"

He smiles shyly and licks his lips, notices the way she tracks the movement. "Sure. I also really just like it. Girls are pretty."

She laughs a little, the lines of tension easing out of her face. "You're a weird one, Tommy Joe."

He kisses his fingertips and touches them to her nose. "You love it, don't front."

She flops onto her back, one foot poking out from behind the curtain. "I'm just having a bit of trouble wrapping my head around it."

He rests his chin on the edge of the thin mattress. "Cammy, it's not compulsory. If you don't me want me to, I won't. I'll even try make sure Liz doesn't grab me when you're around, if you don't want to see. I promise I won't be offended."

She shuts her eyes, face turned to the ceiling. "And if I do want you to?" she says, low. She's blushing.

"You can do my nails tonight, if you want to feel like it's a trade." He pushes the curtain back. She's just wearing an over-long tshirt to sleep in, and when he skims his fingers up her pale thigh, she's not wearing underwear. "Cammy. Cammy, you sleep like this? On a bus full of boys?"

She shakes her head, not opening her eyes. "Just this morning. Wanted, uh." She breaks off as he tugs on her ankle, pulling her so she's right at the edge of the bunk with her hips a little turned and open. The bunk is the perfect height, a convenient chin-height on him, and he makes a note that maybe Cam's love of sleeping perched up high like some suicidal monkey is not so crazy after all.

She's wet already, which makes him smile, like she's been lying up here on her little bunk getting all worked up thinking about it. He touches his fingertips to her and she opens up so easily, inhales sharply. "You just wanted," he says. "Right now? I'm supposed to be at breakfast."

"Stole your wallet," she confesses breathlessly. "You can have it back when we're done."

"Camilla, you budding mastermind," he laughs. "I'm impressed."

She hooks an ankle at the back of his neck. "Would you please quit fucking around?" she whines, and he does.

She's noisy and wonderful, pulls his hair and gasps out apologies, bucks her hips up and he has to wrap an arm around her so she doesn't come tumbling down off the narrow bunk.

Her swinging heels jabs him repeatedly in the kidneys and he doesn't care, shoves her legs further apart and eats at her until she's keening and breathless.

She's sleepy when she's done, and he cleans her up and pulls down her nightshirt and tucks her back into her bunk while she mumbles distractedly and ruffles his hair.

"You want me to bring you back some breakfast?" he asks, and she rouses with a sigh.

"Coffee?" she requests, and he taps her nose.

"Anything for my girl. Pass me my wallet?" She retrieves his wallet sheepishly from under her pillow, and he blows her a kiss and heads out to the diner for food.

Adam scolds him playfully for his tardiness, but Sasha and Brooke take one look at him and have to go and giggle over by the free coffee refills for a little while.

Master Post
Girls Boys Everyone Aftermath Adam Tommy

Fic: Drive You 'til You Feel the Daylight

fools_game — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 00:21:08 GMT

Title: Drive You ‘til You Feel the Daylight

Author fools_game

Length: 30,000 words what is wrong with me

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Tommy/Sasha, Tommy/Liz, Tommy/Brooke, Tommy/Cam, Tommy/Taylor Tommy/Terrance Tommy/Sutan Tommy/Allison Tommy/Isaac Tommy/Val (mentioned) Tommy/Dave (onesided) Tommy/Adam (eventually)

Warnings: Contains some exploration of D/s play and the resultant power dynamics, mild humiliation, scenes of bondage and group sex, and gleeful, dedicated non-monogamy.

Summary: Tommy just wants all his friends on tour to be happy and relaxed and feel good, even if he has to take matters into his own hands. See pairing information and warnings.

Notes: Though this takes place on a tour that looks a lot like the Glamnation tour, it isn’t. I made this shit up with pretty much no reference to observable reality, so please don’t worry that I skipped the Asian-Pacific leg of the tour or real-world events. Credit and love to the peerless janesgravity for cheerleading, handholding and encouragement. Title from Drive by Melissa Ferrick.

Master Post
Girls Boys Everyone Aftermath Adam Tommy

Fun with technology

fools_game — Thu, 30 Jun 2011 07:57:39 GMT

So, my faithful old desktop finally crashed. All my data was backed up, fortunately, and I got a very shiny new laptop without too much difficulty, but all my settings etc are gone! Lost forever!

So, suggestions for what I should go with? Specifically I'm thinking, like, Firefox extensions, but suggestions for other stuff you like to make you computing life a bit easier are welcome. LIke keyboard shortcuts! I've only got a touchpad mouse now, it's new and different! I'm running Windows 7, Firefox - I don't have Microsoft office, though, because I don't use it that much, I prefer to do my writing in Scrivener these days.

Terrible TV Shows: Glee

fools_game — Sat, 11 Jun 2011 04:22:38 GMT

So I watch some TV sometimes. And for some reason I seem to find myself watching - and loving - things that are terrible and awful and occasionally actively offensive.

Like Glee! Glee is a dreadful show. I do not have words for just how dreadful it is. It is epic levels of awful. It fails on every level. The plots are banal, the writing is weak, the characterisation is practically schizophrenic. There are plotholes you could drive a truck through, not the least of which is the entire conceit of the show - a glee club so downtrodden and strapped for cash that they manage to put on professional-level shows for no audience at all with a full professional backing band so ubiquitous that I played the "random backing band drinking game" and only got through half an episode before I fell over.

And of course there is the problem where I hate all the characters. The main 'love triangle' used to gain some kind of weak dramatic tension is stupid and contrived and I can't bring myself to care about it at all because every character involved in it is awful. Rachel is self-absorbed, thoughtless, and arrogant, Finn is stupid and hypocritical, and Quinn is manipulative and narrow-minded. Rachel and Finn are supposed to be the main POV characters but they are such appalling, classless human beings I can hardly stand to watch them. Quinn is actually marginally more interesting, in that she's a sheltered, beautiful girl who's having to learn that being sheltered and beautiful doesn't actually guarantee you anything when you're fifteen and pregnant in a conservative town, but come season 2 she's continually reduced to nothing more than a shallow schemer with shallow motivations.

And of course, let's not forget the other incredibly horrid main character: Will. Will is a fucking awful human being, but since he is the protagonist, the writers continue to think of him as 'the good teacher'. This is the guy who ignores or enables the bullying of his students, who manipulates and shames a mentally ill friend he's romantically interested in, who uses his influence over the students in his care to play out his own adolescent fantasies and adult issues. He pays lip service to dreaming big and creating a supportive team, but fails to give his students any actual tools to acheive their goals, relying instead on wild weekly assignments with no actual value, his teaching style creates unnecessary conflict, and he plays favorites. Blatantly. I tend to throw things and shout whenever he's on screen, he's so appalling.

The thing about Glee is, the things I like about it are not the things that are front and centre, they are background, throwaway things. And I don't want them brought front and centre, because the writers are total fucking morons who use a sledgehammer when a scalpel is called for.

So here, in no particular order, are some things I like about Glee. (That terrible, terrible show.) With lots of caveats, because to be frank this dreadful show doesn't deserve my unqualified admiration.

As always when I'm watching an ensemble cast, I prefer the background characters. But Glee is not good at background characters at all. The Asian kids have an Asian relationship, and squabble about their Asian families! (But are otherwise adorable and conflict-free, and have what seems to be the healthiest sexual relationship on TV) Mercedes has major storylines about food! Artie at least has started getting storylines that aren't about his disability, but it took them a while.

I like the character of Puck, who has actually had a fairly solid arc happening quietly in the background. Possibly by accident. I've seen people complaining that he's acting out-of-character, but I don't think so. He's a teenage boy dealing with depression and upheaval and starting to figure out that his sexy bad-boy image gets him in trouble and leads to bad shit but being emotionally honest and loving people genuinely is way better as well as how having a partner who he respects and who challenges him is so much more awesome than easy-lay status-symbol sex. Also it means Mark Salling gets to pull the most amazing faces and clutch his chest and be all ~moved by the music~ and puppy-dog-eyed in love with a girl who could break him in half. Neither he nor the actress playing Lauren are the strongest, but they bounce off each other amazingly well.

I like Kurt/Blaine. I hated the bullying storyline - yes, homophobia sucks and so does bullying, but it doesn't have to escalate to death threats in order to be psychologically damaging. The show pretty heavily singled Kurt's bullying out as bad, while everything else was comic relief. Tina gets dragged around by the hair by a teacher, Puck gets locked in a port-a-potty overnight in the middle of winter, Artie is surrounded by guys twice his size who dump icy water all over him and humiliate him. But only Kurt's bullying is taken seriously in the show, and that's at least partly because Kurt is a self-insert on the part of one of the writers.

So I hated that storyline, and I hated the way Kurt turned into St Kurt the Patron Saint of the Single Perfect Tear. But I loved seeing these two dumbasses get their flirt on. I liked that they were a friendly support system first, and that they didn't go straight from confession of feelings to OMG IN LUH FOREVER and yes, okay, I liked the two adorable teenage boys flirting their stupid faces off on my TV. Also Darren Criss. I always knew that kid would go places.

Santana! I like Santana. I mean, as a person, she's nasty, vindictive, manipulative and cruel. As a character, she's top-notch, consistently written, with motivations and internal conflict and character growth. She and Brittany are also these wonderfully unashamedly sexual characters, who refuse to be shamed because they like sharing orgasms around but haven't quite figured out that whole monogamy and communication thing yet.

I liked that the show finally started treating Emma's OCD as a serious mental illness instead of a character quirk. I get the feeling it was always meant to be this cute, quirky thing about her, for Will's free-wheelingness to play off, and they wrote it as such for a long time. I'm glad they didn't try to stick with that once it started to have in-plot consequences - like the destruction of her marriage - and there's this heartbreakingly wonderful scene of Emma in therapy that's just so beautifully acted and written.

I like Sam! He's an adorable goofball. He pretends to be all suave and cool and then he breaks out the made-up languages and impersonations and Justin Bieber impressions and he's totally sweet and chilled out and geeky. His storyline towards the end of s2 was handled with surprising delicacy. As much as Glee ever handles things with delicacy, which is to say; it was a fairly realistic situation, handled without blame and with consideration for consequences. I didn't like the episode; the "let's all force this kid to reveal a shameful secret and then then pity him for it" thing. But I liked the nod to the fact that they're a public school in a non-affluent area, and some families are going to be struggling, and Chord's performance was nice.

I also liked the Sam/Mercedes thing developing quietly in the background, that was cute. I hope this means they give Mercedes more to do as well. Girl is fierce. I hated that her only storylines this season were offensive "You better not take my fried food away from me" bullshit.

There is more stuff I wanted to say about Glee! But this entry is insanely long already, so I won't. Suffice it to say: Glee is a terrible, terrible show, not because it doesn't have good stuff about it, but because it ignores or sidelines the good, interesting, original plots and characters for tired, offenseive tripe, and sacrifices characterisation and internal consistency for shiny musical numbers and cheap moral didacticism.

So there, Glee.

sidles in

fools_game — Tue, 24 May 2011 07:25:21 GMT

So, my last entry was March 3rd.

What's going on, guys? Anything good?

I finished my dissertation! Bound and submitted yesterday. (Academics are kinky, yo.) Final title was 'Stepmothers, Witches and Servants: Interfeminine Relationships in the Brothers Grimm.' The major creative piece was a series of short fairy tales with a decided Sapphic theme entitled 'The UnBroken Bride', which I am inordiately proud of. It's the skeletal beginning of a much bigger, more sprawling story that I want to expand and unpack to full novel-size. It's going to be awesome.

Fandom-wise, I sort of drifted a wee bit. I haven't watched a single episode of Supernatural this season, and I was saving all of Merlin S3 to watch after the dissertation - so I guess I can do that now - but I have been keeping up with other stuff, like Doctor Who. And, um, Glee. And I have a thinky-post on Glee upcoming, so, watch out, I guess? Also the Adam Lambert Fandom (At Least It's Not Bandom, Yo) proceeds apace. People over there are awesome, but God help me can they wank.

I'm dealing with some fairly significant real-life stresses at the moment that are boring and whiney to write about but headachey to deal with (Money, housemates, work stuff, etc). But I've spent hours on the phone today talking those out and I'm totally over it.

Oh, I also got a Twitter! http://twitter.com/#!/foolish_games Foller me! I promise I won't forget to update it for three months.