Archived comment fics
Title: Comment Fic
Author: kissoffools / wakeyourheart
Pairing: Various - half are American Idol 8 and half are Canadian Idol 6.
Date Posted: April 17, 2009
Rating: Varies between PG and 14a.
Summary: Friends gave me prompts. I wrote said prompts.
Disclaimer: If you actually think I'm claiming to own anything here, you're nuts. Also, please don't sue me.
Notes: I never wrote half of the prompts that were given to me. Whoops. Also, these were written months ago and I just realized now that I haven't archived them here. So if this pops up on your flist, you've probably already read some of them. Also, I forgot capitalization. Whoops.
AMERICAN IDOL 8:
Ficlet 1: Kris Allen/Matt Giraud, "falling slowly". For novelized .
the first time, kris could've sworn it never happened. and really, it barely did. they'd been hanging out all of hollywood week, rehearsing and trading tips and learning everything they could about their families and their lives. so when matt leaned over and offered him an earbud from his ipod, kris didn't think anything of it. and when matt leaned over further and ghosted his lips over kris', pulling away immediately and fiddling with the ipod wheel, kris didn't know what to think.
the second time, kris could've played it off as an accident. they'd been at a party after the top 13 announcement, and kris had had maybe one - okay, or two - too many beers. they met in the dingy hall below the club, kris on his way to the bathroom, matt just leaving. kris stumbled over something - a lump in the carpet, an uneven doorjamb, his own feet - and crashed into matt, and it was only a matter of seconds before their lips crashed together as well, teeth and tongues and lips, and then kris pushed himself back, regaining his balance. he didn't look matt in the eye as he stepped around him and headed towards the nearest toilet, his stomach heaving.
the third time, kris knew exactly what he was doing. it was matt's elimination night - well, his supposed elimination night, the guy was a pro at escaping - and they found themselves alone in the living room, long after everyone else had gone to seek out sleep. alcohol had nothing to do with it when matt scootched over on the couch, far too close to kris to be excused, and when he laid his body down over kris', he knew where it was headed. but he didn't stop him. clothing was pushed aside and hips moved and hands tangled in hair and all kris kept thinking about was the patch of sweat that had developed on matt's upper lip and how salty it tasted when he licked it off.
the fourth time, kris instigated it. he couldn't quite believe he'd done it, just hopped on a plane out of nowhere and found himself in michigan a few hours later. he didn't know how he found matt's house - he had no idea where anything was in that god damn town - but he remembered bright eyes behind a closed front door and a jacket left on the hallway carpet. but mostly he thought about after, their bodies gleaming with sweat and lying together in the glow of the late afternoon, and matt's mouth moving to his ear as he whispered "next time, i'll come see arkansas."
the fifth time, katy came home early.
Ficlet 2: Adam Lambert/Kris Allen, "play that funky music". For narcolepsy9girl .
"can you teach me?"
kris looked up from his toes at adam's words, a confused expression on his face, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. "wha?" he asked, trying (and failing) from letting any toothpaste fall from his mouth and onto the bedroom carpet. kris had little flaws like that.
adam held up kris' guitar, his expression so imploring kris figured he could use those baby blues to get away with murder if he wanted to. "everybody else plays stuff," he explained, although that wasn't exactly true, "and... teach me?"
kris was a sucker for puppy dog eyes, always had been, and it wouldn't have surprised anyone that he nodded agreeably, returning his toothbrush to the bathroom and then settling next to adam on one of the beds, showing him how to position his fingers. kris was a nice guy like that.
but half an hour and many analogies later, adam still wasn't getting it. his fingers were clumsy and almost too big for the strings, and he couldn't stop the guitar from sliding down his thigh. kris eventually took pity on him, taking the guitar back and settling it against his own body. showing him how to play some simple chords would help, he figured. kris was helpful like that.
his fingers, surprisingly strong and steady, picked out the most basic chords, the first ones adam would have to learn if he had any hope of playing a song. but the more he played, the more adam encouraged, the more he showed off, playing little riffs and licks and choruses from popular songs, adam's eyes shining as he watched. kris was captivating like that.
and eventually, with the words "you have no idea what this is doing to me", adam's mouth finds kris', black-tipped fingers reaching up to cup his cheeks, tongue delving forward faster than he would dare with most other people.
the guitar is moved out of the way, delicately still because it's kris' baby and not even adam's teeth at his lip can make him forget that. and as adam bends his back over the bed and melds their chests together, fingers stroking his hips, kris smirks gently against his mouth. because kris is tricky like that.
Ficlet 3: Adam Lambert/Danny Gokey, "someone save my life tonight". For
ch_ch_chinatown .
danny usually takes a half an hour away from all the others after the performance shows. he goes off by himself wherever he can, sometimes hiding in a stairwell or the bathroom or even the pantry once - wherever he can find some time alone to breathe and think.
he wouldn't admit this to anyone, because he was getting plenty of votes and the judges practically drooled over him ever week, but sometimes it felt like this competition was kicking his ass. he'd obsess over his song choice right down to the very last second, sometimes preparing two or even three because he kept second-guessing himself. and somehow he always hit one or two sour notes and he couldn't help himself when he kept replaying those in his mind for hours afterwards. that's who he was. he'd taken a chance and snuck onto the internet, googling his name even though everyone warned him he shouldn't, people were cruel and unforgiving on the internet, and he repeated that to himself over and over as he read article after article. not that that stopped it from hurting any less.
that's why he needed time alone like this. he needed to use it to reevaluate what he was doing and where he was headed - why hadn't he been happy back home in wisconsin, going to church and running the foundation? was this some sort of glorified plea for self-affirmation? sophia would know. she wouldn't let him sit in this dark room after a show, she'd be taking him out for a big dinner with their family and friends and celebrating. but somehow he couldn't - didn't want to? - imagine celebrating without her.
when the beam of light fell across his feet, he looked up, startled and squinting at the tall silhouette in the doorway.
"daniel, are you hiding from us AGAIN?" adam asked in a voice bordering on whiny, one eyebrow cocked.
danny couldn't even protest before adam was stepping into the room and laying a heavy hand on his shoulder. "look. i know we all need our down time to decompress and stuff... but tuesday nights are for partying. there's no sense in enduring this whole thing if you don't take the time to have fun with your friends, right?" he paused, studying danny's downtrodden expression, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. "she'd be proud of you, you know."
that was the last time danny hid on a tuesday night.
Ficlet 4: Adam Lambert/Matt Giraud, "i don't want to be your friend". For
ch_ch_chinatown .
"matt!"
fuck. fuck. fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
he wasn't even supposed to know you were THERE, let alone that you'd seen him. because really, you had no business being at a gay club at two in the morning in downtown los angeles, not when your curfew was ten and your girlfriend was coming to visit the next morning. but of course, you saw him sneak out through the back garden, and no matter how many times you tell yourself that you're just going after him to make sure he gets home safe, the sight of him grinding up on a guy with a faux-hawk and his tongue down his throat still sends you reeling out the front door of the club.
with adam hot on your heels, unfortunately.
you don't want to stop - maybe if you keep walking, he'll let you go, you can deal with this in the morning - but he grabs your arm and wheels you around to face him. he's bigger than you, after all. "what the fuck are you doing here?"
i wouldn't still be here if you'd let go of my arm, you can't help but think bitterly, but "i wanted to make sure you got home okay" rolls more easily off your tongue.
his eyebrow twitches and you know you're not getting off that easily. "the guy from michigan wants to take care of the native californian in LA? bull. try again."
"you were making out with him." the words slip out before you can put a filter on them, and you sound more like a kicked puppy dog than you maybe should've.
his sigh is exaggerated and his eyes gleam a little, mocking. "if you came all the way down here to talk to me about my sexual preference, i'm afraid you wasted your cab fare, matty."
you don't know how to respond to that, so you don't, because god dammit, the fact that he likes guys is one of the last of your problems. and maybe there's something in your expression, some kind of emotion you're not hiding well enough, because longer he watches you, the more his face changes. the playful glint is gone when he speaks next. "it was only once. are you still seriously thinking about that?"
and dammit, you kind of want to hit him for that. because maybe he hooks up and flirts around and it doesn't mean anything to him, but he's not you. he's always teasing you about being a gentleman and a softie, how could he think he'd be exempt from all that? "maybe. i guess. so?" now you're turning defensive.
his hand moves through his hair as if he's almost ashamed, almost embarrassed, but of course not. adam lambert takes responsibility for his actions - embarrassment isn't a word in his vocabulary. "matt, you're straight. you've got that pretty brunette coming in -" a quick flick of his wrist lets him check the time, and fuck, you even find that endearing - "eight hours. the last thing you should be doing is standing out front of a gay bar and berating me for hooking up with someone who isn't you."
something gets to you, and you're not sure if it's the mention of the girlfriend or the gay bar - maybe it's both in the same context - but you're done with this. if he's not going to take this seriously, if he's just going to brush you off like what you're saying doesn't matter, then fine. you're done.
"fuck it," you mutter darkly, and he flinches. there's more of a people-pleaser in adam than he lets most people believe.
"matty, come on." he takes a step forward and his tone is softer, but his words are patronizing and you're feeling petulant. "don't let this screw everything up. we've still gotta see each other every day, and i mean, we're friends."
"sorry adam. not anymore."
you have no idea what he does once you turn the corner, whether he calls a cab or gets a drink or has sex in a bathroom stall. but you? you dry heave into the shrub on someone's front lawn and hate yourself for wondering.
CANADIAN IDOL 6:
Ficlet 1: Drew Wright/Mookie Morris, "broken and beautiful". For thingsunsaid44 .
twelve o' clock.
you know you probably shouldn't be here. the night is cold and foggy, and your shirt is too thin to do you much good anymore (it had been warmer before nightfall). somewhere, in a better area of town, a big clock is probably chiming midnight.
but somehow all of this doesn't stop you from ringing the bell.
and then he's there, and one look at you changes his whole face - it clouds over and his blue eyes are deep with worry, and despite the fact that you haven't seen each other, haven't even spoken in months, he ushers you inside the apartment.
lindy's gone, he explains as he settles you on the couch, drawing an afghan around your shoulders. she's at a movie with some girlfriends tonight. this makes you feel a little better, you feel a little less guilt for intruding - at least you hadn't interrupted their night. he asks you what's wrong but the words stick in your throat when you try to respond, and it isn't until he presses a mug of strong coffee into your hands that you realize you're shaking.
half an hour and a whole lot of caffeine later, you manage to choke out some of your story. the issues you've been having with earl lately that you didn't tell anyone about. the big blowup tonight at dinner after uncovering the voicemail you weren't supposed to hear. heated words and even more heated palms, scorching as it seared across your cheek. and then the night. the cold gave you goosebumps.
and it's like each word you say just twists a knife deeper into his gut, the pain evident in his eyes as he listens. he doesn't speak, doesn't once interrupt, and when you're done and all your words are used up, he's speechless. he can't play the big brother, the adoptive parent, because he's never had to deal with this before and he doesn't know how. so when he leans in, you wait for the hug, the reassuring pat on the back, the "it'll be okay". but instead his lips find yours, and you know it's not going to help, how could this help, but he's responding the only way he knows how.
so you kiss him back. this will do more harm than good and later you'll probably have a hard time looking him in the eye. but he's on your side. and right now, really, that's all you need.
Ficlet 2: Theo Tams/Jesse Cottam, "jump on it". For sublymonal .
he hadn't expected this when they'd shown up at much music for the finale party.
sure, he'd expected the red carpet, the dozens of interviews, the fans wanting to pose for pictures. he'd expected to go inside with his friends and dozens of people he'd never met in his life, and schmooze and drink and celebrate the summer they'd all had.
he hadn't expected to end up in a supply closet with his hands in jesse's hair and his cock down his throat. but then again, that's jesse for you.
jesse was humming down there, sending vibrations through his body and making him feel like every nerve was on fire. soft meweling noises left his lips, sometimes giving way to breathless gasps, his fingers massaging jesse's scalp, urging him deeper, more, ohgodohgodjesse...
jesse kissed him and zipped him at the same time, tongue lazily dancing around theo's mouth, taking all the time in the world even though they really had none at all. that's how jesse was.
and when he opened the closet door a smidge to check if the coast was clear, and he turned his head and whispered back into the dark, "congratulations, baby. knew you'd win it all in the end", theo smiled. that's how jesse was, too.
Ficlet 3: Mookie Morris/Earl Stevenson, "now comes the night". For writinchica2k .
if anyone was to actually ask you, you'd have to say yes. you do like being on the show. maybe something about it appeals to your inner child, the one who used to tie a blanket around his shoulders and carry a plastic sword, playing knight and superhero all at once. or maybe it had more to do with upping that self-esteem of yours that got so knocked around in high school by people calling you stupid and weird and a space cadet. you weren't sure what it was (nor did you particularly care) but you enjoy being on that stage, up in front of millions of people, being recognized and signing autographs and morphing into a larger-than-life version of yourself.
but it's the nights you enjoy the most. after everyone comes home from a long day of rehearsals or promotion and raids the fridge, you see earl cock an eyebrow at you from across a bowl of mint chocolate chip and somehow the words "i'm really tired" are falling from your lips.
when you retire to your room for the night, theo watches you go, his gaze lingering longer than anyone else's. he's always been the most perceptive one of the bunch, and you're not sure if he expects earl to rise from his seat a minute later, but the look he gives you says that you're caught. but he never tells.
but when earl joins you in your room, locking the door and wrapping those big arms around you, theo and his judgemental gaze is the last thing on your mind. you're with him every night, fingers grasping and sweat building and breaths gasping, and you never tire of it. because when your body is spent and you're tucked against his side, he places a gentle kiss to your temple and this, right here, is what you're living for most.
that's even more true weeks later when the competition's down to the wire and your spirits have bottomed out. you know it's gonna be you this week. you hadn't raised the bar as high as everyone else, had tried to get by on your teenaged rockstar shtick and nobody was buying it this time, least of all yourself. so that night when he presses a kiss to your temple, you whisper "i'm done here, you know."
"don't say that. you don't know."
"i do, though. it's gonna be me tomorrow night."
his arms curl protectively around you and for the first time in god knows how long, you feel the bridge of your nose stinging as you fight the tears with all your worth. you're not crying for the show, you'd never cry over the show. but the strong boy with the slow drawl and the browned skin and his chin on your shoulder? him, you'd cry over.
you have to reassure him, because what else can you do? "i'm gonna be okay, you know."
you hear him exhale loudly, and the hairs at the back of your neck tingle from his breath. "i'm an ass... but i'm more worried about me than about you. about me without you."
you worry about him too the next night when your name is called. and you worry even more when it's next week and it's his own.
end.
Author: kissoffools / wakeyourheart
Pairing: Various - half are American Idol 8 and half are Canadian Idol 6.
Date Posted: April 17, 2009
Rating: Varies between PG and 14a.
Summary: Friends gave me prompts. I wrote said prompts.
Disclaimer: If you actually think I'm claiming to own anything here, you're nuts. Also, please don't sue me.
Notes: I never wrote half of the prompts that were given to me. Whoops. Also, these were written months ago and I just realized now that I haven't archived them here. So if this pops up on your flist, you've probably already read some of them. Also, I forgot capitalization. Whoops.
AMERICAN IDOL 8:
Ficlet 1: Kris Allen/Matt Giraud, "falling slowly". For novelized .
the first time, kris could've sworn it never happened. and really, it barely did. they'd been hanging out all of hollywood week, rehearsing and trading tips and learning everything they could about their families and their lives. so when matt leaned over and offered him an earbud from his ipod, kris didn't think anything of it. and when matt leaned over further and ghosted his lips over kris', pulling away immediately and fiddling with the ipod wheel, kris didn't know what to think.
the second time, kris could've played it off as an accident. they'd been at a party after the top 13 announcement, and kris had had maybe one - okay, or two - too many beers. they met in the dingy hall below the club, kris on his way to the bathroom, matt just leaving. kris stumbled over something - a lump in the carpet, an uneven doorjamb, his own feet - and crashed into matt, and it was only a matter of seconds before their lips crashed together as well, teeth and tongues and lips, and then kris pushed himself back, regaining his balance. he didn't look matt in the eye as he stepped around him and headed towards the nearest toilet, his stomach heaving.
the third time, kris knew exactly what he was doing. it was matt's elimination night - well, his supposed elimination night, the guy was a pro at escaping - and they found themselves alone in the living room, long after everyone else had gone to seek out sleep. alcohol had nothing to do with it when matt scootched over on the couch, far too close to kris to be excused, and when he laid his body down over kris', he knew where it was headed. but he didn't stop him. clothing was pushed aside and hips moved and hands tangled in hair and all kris kept thinking about was the patch of sweat that had developed on matt's upper lip and how salty it tasted when he licked it off.
the fourth time, kris instigated it. he couldn't quite believe he'd done it, just hopped on a plane out of nowhere and found himself in michigan a few hours later. he didn't know how he found matt's house - he had no idea where anything was in that god damn town - but he remembered bright eyes behind a closed front door and a jacket left on the hallway carpet. but mostly he thought about after, their bodies gleaming with sweat and lying together in the glow of the late afternoon, and matt's mouth moving to his ear as he whispered "next time, i'll come see arkansas."
the fifth time, katy came home early.
Ficlet 2: Adam Lambert/Kris Allen, "play that funky music". For narcolepsy9girl .
"can you teach me?"
kris looked up from his toes at adam's words, a confused expression on his face, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. "wha?" he asked, trying (and failing) from letting any toothpaste fall from his mouth and onto the bedroom carpet. kris had little flaws like that.
adam held up kris' guitar, his expression so imploring kris figured he could use those baby blues to get away with murder if he wanted to. "everybody else plays stuff," he explained, although that wasn't exactly true, "and... teach me?"
kris was a sucker for puppy dog eyes, always had been, and it wouldn't have surprised anyone that he nodded agreeably, returning his toothbrush to the bathroom and then settling next to adam on one of the beds, showing him how to position his fingers. kris was a nice guy like that.
but half an hour and many analogies later, adam still wasn't getting it. his fingers were clumsy and almost too big for the strings, and he couldn't stop the guitar from sliding down his thigh. kris eventually took pity on him, taking the guitar back and settling it against his own body. showing him how to play some simple chords would help, he figured. kris was helpful like that.
his fingers, surprisingly strong and steady, picked out the most basic chords, the first ones adam would have to learn if he had any hope of playing a song. but the more he played, the more adam encouraged, the more he showed off, playing little riffs and licks and choruses from popular songs, adam's eyes shining as he watched. kris was captivating like that.
and eventually, with the words "you have no idea what this is doing to me", adam's mouth finds kris', black-tipped fingers reaching up to cup his cheeks, tongue delving forward faster than he would dare with most other people.
the guitar is moved out of the way, delicately still because it's kris' baby and not even adam's teeth at his lip can make him forget that. and as adam bends his back over the bed and melds their chests together, fingers stroking his hips, kris smirks gently against his mouth. because kris is tricky like that.
Ficlet 3: Adam Lambert/Danny Gokey, "someone save my life tonight". For
ch_ch_chinatown .
danny usually takes a half an hour away from all the others after the performance shows. he goes off by himself wherever he can, sometimes hiding in a stairwell or the bathroom or even the pantry once - wherever he can find some time alone to breathe and think.
he wouldn't admit this to anyone, because he was getting plenty of votes and the judges practically drooled over him ever week, but sometimes it felt like this competition was kicking his ass. he'd obsess over his song choice right down to the very last second, sometimes preparing two or even three because he kept second-guessing himself. and somehow he always hit one or two sour notes and he couldn't help himself when he kept replaying those in his mind for hours afterwards. that's who he was. he'd taken a chance and snuck onto the internet, googling his name even though everyone warned him he shouldn't, people were cruel and unforgiving on the internet, and he repeated that to himself over and over as he read article after article. not that that stopped it from hurting any less.
that's why he needed time alone like this. he needed to use it to reevaluate what he was doing and where he was headed - why hadn't he been happy back home in wisconsin, going to church and running the foundation? was this some sort of glorified plea for self-affirmation? sophia would know. she wouldn't let him sit in this dark room after a show, she'd be taking him out for a big dinner with their family and friends and celebrating. but somehow he couldn't - didn't want to? - imagine celebrating without her.
when the beam of light fell across his feet, he looked up, startled and squinting at the tall silhouette in the doorway.
"daniel, are you hiding from us AGAIN?" adam asked in a voice bordering on whiny, one eyebrow cocked.
danny couldn't even protest before adam was stepping into the room and laying a heavy hand on his shoulder. "look. i know we all need our down time to decompress and stuff... but tuesday nights are for partying. there's no sense in enduring this whole thing if you don't take the time to have fun with your friends, right?" he paused, studying danny's downtrodden expression, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. "she'd be proud of you, you know."
that was the last time danny hid on a tuesday night.
Ficlet 4: Adam Lambert/Matt Giraud, "i don't want to be your friend". For
ch_ch_chinatown .
"matt!"
fuck. fuck. fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
he wasn't even supposed to know you were THERE, let alone that you'd seen him. because really, you had no business being at a gay club at two in the morning in downtown los angeles, not when your curfew was ten and your girlfriend was coming to visit the next morning. but of course, you saw him sneak out through the back garden, and no matter how many times you tell yourself that you're just going after him to make sure he gets home safe, the sight of him grinding up on a guy with a faux-hawk and his tongue down his throat still sends you reeling out the front door of the club.
with adam hot on your heels, unfortunately.
you don't want to stop - maybe if you keep walking, he'll let you go, you can deal with this in the morning - but he grabs your arm and wheels you around to face him. he's bigger than you, after all. "what the fuck are you doing here?"
i wouldn't still be here if you'd let go of my arm, you can't help but think bitterly, but "i wanted to make sure you got home okay" rolls more easily off your tongue.
his eyebrow twitches and you know you're not getting off that easily. "the guy from michigan wants to take care of the native californian in LA? bull. try again."
"you were making out with him." the words slip out before you can put a filter on them, and you sound more like a kicked puppy dog than you maybe should've.
his sigh is exaggerated and his eyes gleam a little, mocking. "if you came all the way down here to talk to me about my sexual preference, i'm afraid you wasted your cab fare, matty."
you don't know how to respond to that, so you don't, because god dammit, the fact that he likes guys is one of the last of your problems. and maybe there's something in your expression, some kind of emotion you're not hiding well enough, because longer he watches you, the more his face changes. the playful glint is gone when he speaks next. "it was only once. are you still seriously thinking about that?"
and dammit, you kind of want to hit him for that. because maybe he hooks up and flirts around and it doesn't mean anything to him, but he's not you. he's always teasing you about being a gentleman and a softie, how could he think he'd be exempt from all that? "maybe. i guess. so?" now you're turning defensive.
his hand moves through his hair as if he's almost ashamed, almost embarrassed, but of course not. adam lambert takes responsibility for his actions - embarrassment isn't a word in his vocabulary. "matt, you're straight. you've got that pretty brunette coming in -" a quick flick of his wrist lets him check the time, and fuck, you even find that endearing - "eight hours. the last thing you should be doing is standing out front of a gay bar and berating me for hooking up with someone who isn't you."
something gets to you, and you're not sure if it's the mention of the girlfriend or the gay bar - maybe it's both in the same context - but you're done with this. if he's not going to take this seriously, if he's just going to brush you off like what you're saying doesn't matter, then fine. you're done.
"fuck it," you mutter darkly, and he flinches. there's more of a people-pleaser in adam than he lets most people believe.
"matty, come on." he takes a step forward and his tone is softer, but his words are patronizing and you're feeling petulant. "don't let this screw everything up. we've still gotta see each other every day, and i mean, we're friends."
"sorry adam. not anymore."
you have no idea what he does once you turn the corner, whether he calls a cab or gets a drink or has sex in a bathroom stall. but you? you dry heave into the shrub on someone's front lawn and hate yourself for wondering.
CANADIAN IDOL 6:
Ficlet 1: Drew Wright/Mookie Morris, "broken and beautiful". For thingsunsaid44 .
twelve o' clock.
you know you probably shouldn't be here. the night is cold and foggy, and your shirt is too thin to do you much good anymore (it had been warmer before nightfall). somewhere, in a better area of town, a big clock is probably chiming midnight.
but somehow all of this doesn't stop you from ringing the bell.
and then he's there, and one look at you changes his whole face - it clouds over and his blue eyes are deep with worry, and despite the fact that you haven't seen each other, haven't even spoken in months, he ushers you inside the apartment.
lindy's gone, he explains as he settles you on the couch, drawing an afghan around your shoulders. she's at a movie with some girlfriends tonight. this makes you feel a little better, you feel a little less guilt for intruding - at least you hadn't interrupted their night. he asks you what's wrong but the words stick in your throat when you try to respond, and it isn't until he presses a mug of strong coffee into your hands that you realize you're shaking.
half an hour and a whole lot of caffeine later, you manage to choke out some of your story. the issues you've been having with earl lately that you didn't tell anyone about. the big blowup tonight at dinner after uncovering the voicemail you weren't supposed to hear. heated words and even more heated palms, scorching as it seared across your cheek. and then the night. the cold gave you goosebumps.
and it's like each word you say just twists a knife deeper into his gut, the pain evident in his eyes as he listens. he doesn't speak, doesn't once interrupt, and when you're done and all your words are used up, he's speechless. he can't play the big brother, the adoptive parent, because he's never had to deal with this before and he doesn't know how. so when he leans in, you wait for the hug, the reassuring pat on the back, the "it'll be okay". but instead his lips find yours, and you know it's not going to help, how could this help, but he's responding the only way he knows how.
so you kiss him back. this will do more harm than good and later you'll probably have a hard time looking him in the eye. but he's on your side. and right now, really, that's all you need.
Ficlet 2: Theo Tams/Jesse Cottam, "jump on it". For sublymonal .
he hadn't expected this when they'd shown up at much music for the finale party.
sure, he'd expected the red carpet, the dozens of interviews, the fans wanting to pose for pictures. he'd expected to go inside with his friends and dozens of people he'd never met in his life, and schmooze and drink and celebrate the summer they'd all had.
he hadn't expected to end up in a supply closet with his hands in jesse's hair and his cock down his throat. but then again, that's jesse for you.
jesse was humming down there, sending vibrations through his body and making him feel like every nerve was on fire. soft meweling noises left his lips, sometimes giving way to breathless gasps, his fingers massaging jesse's scalp, urging him deeper, more, ohgodohgodjesse...
jesse kissed him and zipped him at the same time, tongue lazily dancing around theo's mouth, taking all the time in the world even though they really had none at all. that's how jesse was.
and when he opened the closet door a smidge to check if the coast was clear, and he turned his head and whispered back into the dark, "congratulations, baby. knew you'd win it all in the end", theo smiled. that's how jesse was, too.
Ficlet 3: Mookie Morris/Earl Stevenson, "now comes the night". For writinchica2k .
if anyone was to actually ask you, you'd have to say yes. you do like being on the show. maybe something about it appeals to your inner child, the one who used to tie a blanket around his shoulders and carry a plastic sword, playing knight and superhero all at once. or maybe it had more to do with upping that self-esteem of yours that got so knocked around in high school by people calling you stupid and weird and a space cadet. you weren't sure what it was (nor did you particularly care) but you enjoy being on that stage, up in front of millions of people, being recognized and signing autographs and morphing into a larger-than-life version of yourself.
but it's the nights you enjoy the most. after everyone comes home from a long day of rehearsals or promotion and raids the fridge, you see earl cock an eyebrow at you from across a bowl of mint chocolate chip and somehow the words "i'm really tired" are falling from your lips.
when you retire to your room for the night, theo watches you go, his gaze lingering longer than anyone else's. he's always been the most perceptive one of the bunch, and you're not sure if he expects earl to rise from his seat a minute later, but the look he gives you says that you're caught. but he never tells.
but when earl joins you in your room, locking the door and wrapping those big arms around you, theo and his judgemental gaze is the last thing on your mind. you're with him every night, fingers grasping and sweat building and breaths gasping, and you never tire of it. because when your body is spent and you're tucked against his side, he places a gentle kiss to your temple and this, right here, is what you're living for most.
that's even more true weeks later when the competition's down to the wire and your spirits have bottomed out. you know it's gonna be you this week. you hadn't raised the bar as high as everyone else, had tried to get by on your teenaged rockstar shtick and nobody was buying it this time, least of all yourself. so that night when he presses a kiss to your temple, you whisper "i'm done here, you know."
"don't say that. you don't know."
"i do, though. it's gonna be me tomorrow night."
his arms curl protectively around you and for the first time in god knows how long, you feel the bridge of your nose stinging as you fight the tears with all your worth. you're not crying for the show, you'd never cry over the show. but the strong boy with the slow drawl and the browned skin and his chin on your shoulder? him, you'd cry over.
you have to reassure him, because what else can you do? "i'm gonna be okay, you know."
you hear him exhale loudly, and the hairs at the back of your neck tingle from his breath. "i'm an ass... but i'm more worried about me than about you. about me without you."
you worry about him too the next night when your name is called. and you worry even more when it's next week and it's his own.
end.