So if I do still owe you something, please throw a rock at my head! (Metaphorical rocks only plz! flung gently! ;)
First, a few short-shorts:
for amproof: Kris/Adam, needy sluts in equal measure
"So, touring kinda sucks," Kris said afterwards, muffled, face down in the sheets.
"Touring is amazing," Adam said, smacking Kris's bare ass. "It's not getting laid during tour that sucks." Kris made a small half-hearted complaining noise and squirmed, which was adorable, so Adam smacked his ass again, just for fun, and then rubbed it in apology, which was just as much fun.
"Some of us don't even get makeout sessions on stage," Kris said grumpily, rolling over. Oh, look, he was ready for another round. Adam made a note to explore the possibilities of spanking more seriously after they'd taken the edge off. In a few days or so.
"You can't blame me for making solid marketing decisions," Adam said serenely, and caught Kris by the ankles to tug him back in.
for scarlettlynn, Adam/Tommy, tour bus
Tommy had planned on getting laid a whole lot on tour, but not exactly like this, face down in the bottom bunk on the bus with the engine going underneath and Adam's hips going above, cock sliding in and out of him in a steady rhythm, one sweet little fuck after another making Tommy whine for it. There had been girls in the plan, heavy-lidded groupies in thick eyeliner all set to go off on a dime after the show, easy and easy-to-please. Not Adam laughing at him, kissing him like a doll and pushing him away, cock sliding out from under Tommy's hand on his crotch, refusing to take him seriously until Tommy crowded him up against the wall and went to his knees.
"This what you want, baby?" Adam's voice, low and a little angry in his ear, and Tommy spread himself out for an answer, opened up more, taking it, getting it, road growling under them.
for audrarose: a Kris/Adam first kiss, kind of romantic and funny
"What exactly do you think is going to happen?" Kris said, a little exasperated, when the guys made reluctant noises about going into the bar: yeah, so there were boys making out in corners; there were boys making out with girls, too, and he wanted to listen to the guy belting it out on stage. This was the point of coming to L.A., trying to get a feel for the scene in a pond bigger than Conway.
Okay, so the guy was also palming his crotch and moaning, but he was moaning on key and up and down at least an octave in a single breath, so Kris was still impressed.
"Yeah, I bet you are," Mike said, wagging his eyebrows, because he was twelve in spirit.
"Man, only one of us is paying attention to what he's got going on above the waist, and it's not you," Kris said, although fine, it was hard to miss. There was a rhinestone outline.
The band took a break after the song, and Kris went up to say hi, because why not. "Okay, man, we'll be here if you need rescuing," Chase said.
Kris rolled his eyes and stepped up to the bar where the singer was talking to the bartender. "Hey," he said. "Just wanted to say, that was pretty amazing."
The singer turned and blinked smoky, glitter-stained eyes at him and said, "Oh, shit, go with me on this, okay?"
"Okay?" Kris said, and then the guy was kissing him, hand cupping the back of his head and another hand on his collarbone, tipping him back and pinning him at once, mouth sweet with tea and honey and tongue sliding deep, and, well, the rhinestones were even more impressive when Kris could feel them against his thighs.
"Wow," the singer murmured. He was sitting down and Kris was sliding into his lap, which worked a lot better than it should have.
"Uh," Kris said, clearing his throat. The guy's hands were on his ass, tugging him in. "Why are we kissing?"
"Well, originally there was an ex-boyfriend-with-hot-date emergency involved," the guy said. "But I feel like we've progressed past that stage of our relationship by now."
"I don't actually know your name yet?" Kris said. Then he noticed he'd said yet. Also he hadn't gotten out of the guy's lap.
"Adam," the guy said, and kissed him again.
and a couple that went longer:
for binkleywtf, Adam blindfolded? at a party in a bedroom, speed ~dating, he doesn't know who's going to come through the door. (Also for my "film/photography" kink bingo square! :D)
"Okay," Adam said, "Lane, honey, I love you, you know that."
"Why does there seem to be a but coming at the end of that sentence?" she said.
"How could you get me into this?" Adam said plaintively.
"We showed you the numbers we'd get with more TV exposure," Lane said. "You approved everything on the list."
"I don't think the plot for this show was made sufficiently clear to me!" Adam said.
"It's not our fault you sneaked off and went tripping at an underground party the night before a business meeting," Lane said unsympathetically. "Your signature's on the dotted line already, baby, so suck it up and get ready to do some blindfold dating."
"It was my first night off from tour!" Adam whined, but feebly, because it looked like there was no way out of it that didn't involve lawsuits and amounts of money that sounded really scary, no matter how well the tour had done, and after all, it wasn't going to kill him to kiss a bunch of cute boys in the dark.
"They are going to be cute, right?" he said warily. "There are to be no bears in my dating pool. Also no Scorpios."
"We got all your preferences in the casting files, don't worry," Lane said, so Adam resigned himself.
"So, uh," the producer said, after the second candidate.
"Hmm?" Adam said, stretching happily. He really needed to send Lane some flowers. Why had he ever thought this would be a bad idea? It was feeling almost zen, really—kissing an unknown, no commitment and no emotions, just getting down to the simple physical nature of the thing.
"See, um," the producer said. "Look, Adam, the thing is—"
"Yes?" Adam said. "Can I take off the blindfold?"
"What? Oh, yeah, sure," the producer said, and Adam peeled it off and blinked at him against the lights. The production crew seemed to have gotten a lot bigger since the start of the day's shooting, and everyone looked kind of hot and uncomfortable.
"Is there not enough zing?" Adam said. "There could be more zing."
"No!" the producer said. "Uh, no. No, lack of zing is not the problem. Just, you know. Maybe—maybe if you kept it just to—maybe a little more friendly. You know, start out with a kind of a getting-to-know-you kiss."
"I thought I was...?" Adam said.
The producer sighed and said, "Adam, this isn't pay cable. We need to cool things down enough so we can film you below the waist."
"Ohhh," Adam said. "Okay, I can do that."
Except the next one was just sort of shy, barely brushing against Adam's lips, like a boy who'd never really been kissed right, a little hint of stubble and some soft fuzz on his upper lip, aggressively minty with mouthwash. When Adam tried to draw him out with a few gentle nibbles, the boy's breath came startled and quicker, and his hands clutched a little in a desperation that was oh so familiar from his own early days struggling.
Adam couldn't help it, he really couldn't, just sliding a hand around into the soft, unstyled hair, tugging the boy in and holding him still for it, giving it to him right and feeling him yield to it. And it was good, it was so good, nuzzling into the boy's neck, soft flannely shirt under his hands and hips that curved a little, sweetly, and Adam laughed happily and bit him on the jaw, and heard him gulp out, "Adam—" a half-choked, scared sound, and he sat up and yanked off the blindfold and stared at Kris lying sprawled and wild-eyed on the bed with him.
"What the fuck!" Adam squeaked, unashamedly shrill, because seriously, what the fuck.
"Uh," Kris said, sounding kind of vague. "It was a—joke?"
"A joke?" Adam said. He pushed Kris flat and crawled over him, glaring. "A joke?"
"A—a—publicity thing-slash-joke?" Kris said, his head falling back to give Adam access to bite at his throat. "Oh." His legs spread to cradle Adam's hips.
"Does this feel funny?" Adam said, shifting his weight strategically.
"Mmrm," Kris said.
"Well," the producer said, after a while, "maybe we can sell it to HBO?"
= End =
Music of the Night
for ladyelphaba, Adam/Kris Phantom AU
Kris shut the door to his dressing room, blocking out the noise of all the people who wanted to congratulate him, the same ones who'd looked straight past him yesterday. The women in their fine jewels suddenly eager to be introduced, the Opera managers suddenly talking loudly of his future engagements—it would be nice if they'd bothered to talk to Kris about those, first. Even Lady Katherine—he'd imagined sometimes seeing her again, talking to her again. It should've been amazing to have her come backstage on her father's arm, smiling at him, giving him her hand, recognizing him. Except she hadn't recognized him in the chorus, the last six months.
Matt knocked on the door and looked inside. "Hey, there's more flowers for you," he said, grinning, and stopped when he saw the look on Kris's face. "What's the matter? You don't look like the new foremost tenor of all Paris."
"No, it's—I—" Kris said, helplessly, and took the flowers. From an old friend, the card said, in Katy's copperplate handwriting. "It's just a little strange."
"Oh, really?" Matt said. "Because I thought most chorus boys woke up one morning and started singing like Rubini without lessons."
"I've had lessons," Kris said, too tired to be cautious. At least no one was going to make fun of him for pretensions of grandeur right now.
"From who, the Opera Ghost?" Matt said, laughing. "I've got to go before my father kills me, he wants the whole orchestra to go over that part in the overture we messed up before he lets us go for the night. I'll come get you for dinner after, all right?"
Kris waved a hand and let Matt go, glad to be alone again. He put the flowers down. "Aren't you going to say anything?" he asked, in the empty room.
"What is there to say?" the voice came, more singing than speech, high and beautiful and unearthly. "It was a triumph. You deserved every accolade. Every flower." There was a little bite to the word, and it made Kris smile a little; the angel could be jealous of anything that took him away from music.
"You said you'd let me see you," Kris said. The voice was silent. "Angel, you promised—"
"I can't," the voice said.
"Please," Kris said. "I've listened all this time—I did everything you said."
"And if what you find isn't what you want to see?" the voice said, dropping low and sad and soft. "If it's not what you imagined, hearing me speak to you from the dark?"
"I still want to know," Kris said, his heart pounding. "Angel, I need to know." He'd asked, and asked, and the angel had never told him what he'd see—a spirit, or the angel Kris told himself it was, or—or something else. He'd given in anyway, and listened, and obeyed. He'd been so lonely and alone, since his mother had passed away. It had been everything when the angel had started to speak to him, whispers in the dark corridors of the Opera, just for him. But—
"All right," the voice said quietly. "Come then, if you will," and the huge shining mirror on the wall, framed in gilt, swung silently open like a door and let in a cool, damp draft that stirred all the flower petals to trembling. The space beyond was dark, but down the hall there was a glimmer of candle-light, held high.
Kris stared, and took one hesitant step, and then paused to look down at himself, nothing but the dressing gown over his breeches and boots from the stage.
A knock came on the door behind him. "Kristopher?" a voice called—clear and familiar. Katy. "Kristopher, I slipped away from my father a moment, can I come in?"
Kris turned, startled, but the mirror shuddered and began to swing shut again. "No, wait," Kris said, but it was closing fast, and he dived through just in time as it slid into place behind him, sealing shut tight, not a faintest crack of light left around the edges.
The candles gleamed, up ahead. Kris walked towards them, one hand on the damp cool stone of the wall, and the light retreated a little, leading him on down a long corridor, hearing muffled voices below, strains of music—the ballet girls talking, the orchestra sullenly practicing. The corridor curved, and the sounds died away. The candlelight led him down a long flight of stairs, always too far ahead to really see, but Kris could start to make out from moment to moment a figure tall and shrouded, and a hand holding the silver branching candelabra, light gleaming off many rings.
Mist rose up in the corridor as they went down, more and more, and then Kris started to hear the sound of lapping water growing stronger. He was stepping out onto a wooden pier, the heels of his boots making a hollow sound, and the figure was standing at the end wreathed in mist, not moving away anymore. There was a boat, bobbing gently in the water.
The angel turned and stepped into the boat and turned back to wait. Kris walked slowly closer, trying to see into the hood, but the angel had the candles held up to the side, casting deep shadows. The angel held out a hand as he came up to the boat, and slowly, Kris reached out and took it.
He would have expected almost anything—cold, undead flesh, or for his fingers to pass right through, or some strange electric shock—anything but the warm, living grip which tightened with startling strength on his when Kris stumbled in surprise, and guided him down the step into the boat, to a heaped pile of silken tapestries and cushions in the bottom.
The angel turned away when Kris was seated, and went to stand in the prow. The boat started to move, gliding over the lake even though no one was rowing it along. Kris heard a low grinding noise like gears somewhere off in the distance, under the regular lapping of the water. The boat was rocking gently, and he was dazed and tired, lying back against the pillows. He faded gradually into sleep, his eyes still on the tall silent figure in the prow.
Kris woke lying in a huge bed, nestled in silken sheets. There were chandeliers hung everywhere, sparkling lights, and the bed was gilded and draped around with purple velvet, outrageously lush. There was music coming from somewhere nearby, and singing, and he climbed out of the bed and crept to the door.
The angel was facing away from him, playing at an enormous organ, pipes rising out of sight overhead into the darkness of the chamber. The hood still hung over the angel's head, pushed back a little, and Kris couldn't help himself. His bare feet didn't make a sound on the cold marble floor, and as the music rose he reached the organ bench and pulled the hood away and down.
The angel startled and jerked away and looked at him—and wasn't an angel at all, was—and then Kris wasn't sure; he couldn't make sense of the face at first. Unnaturally beautiful ice-blue eyes rimmed in kohl, full lips painted and cheeks rouged, not for the stage but delicately, like an expensive courtesan—but the features too strong for a woman's face, with a man's jaw and broad shoulders.
He—he?—was wearing jewels pasted on his face in great sweeps, almost like a mask around his eyes, sparkling, but Kris could see that beneath them they were hiding scars—ridged and shiny skin, as though from a terrible burn, and the burns ran down the sides of his face and beneath his collar. Kris stared at him, baffled and the angel—the man—said, anguished, "Why did you do that? Now I can't ever let you go back."
He rose up from the organ bench, the cloak falling away, and beneath he was in cloth-of-gold and silver, like something out of a fever-dream from the days of Versailles, coat cut away from his chest and falling full-skirted to the floor. "I don't—I don't understand," Kris stammered, taking a step back. "You're—why are you down here all alone?"
The man laughed. "Do you think there's anything for me up there?" he said. He reached out and cupped Kris's cheek. "But there could be something more here," the angel whispered, and the stroke of his thumb somehow made Kris's breath stop in his throat, caught like a bird trembling in a cage.
= End =
yay! actual stories! posted! *takes slow-mo victory lap to chariots of fire music*
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