The Write Place

Over at the Torquere LiveJournal Today

Sun, 29 Jul 2012 15:58:19 GMT

I'm hosting the Torquere LiveJournal Community today, talking about Emerging Magic, the sequel to A Hidden Magic, and anything else that comes to mind. We have candied bacon, so come on over and hang for a while.

I'm going to do a drawing tomorrow for a $10 Torquere gift certificate; for every post of mine you comment on over there today (up through noon Pacific time tomorrow) you'll get a slip in the drawing. I'll be posting throughout the day, so check back a few times, or just wait till later and do it all at once -- maybe during a gap in the Olympics coverage or something. :)

Angie

Rec: Proving a Point

Sat, 14 Jan 2012 17:30:36 GMT

savageseraph wrote a fun fic for me for the slashababy fest this year. (Last year? Anyway, the most recent one. :) ) It's called "Proving a Point" and it's about Sean and Viggo, with Harry and Karl (all right, mostly Harry) deciding he has something to prove. He did, but maybe it wasn't quite what he was expecting. [pets Sean and Viggo] This is a great story, and it deals with jealousy and temptation and trust and love in exactly the way I like. Check it out.

Angie

Fic: In a Perfect World, 2/2

Fri, 13 Jan 2012 13:32:48 GMT

Title: In a Perfect World, 2/2
Author: AngiePen
Recipient: afra_schatz
Pairing: Eric/Viggo
Rating: R
Request: Eric Bana/Viggo would be awesome but Orlando/Sean B., Karl/Sean B., Karl/Viggo or Bernard/Sean B. are great as well. Requested genres: (well, some of this is only sort of a genre :)) contemporary AUs, NZ timed fic, smut, and/or est!relationship. I'm not much for angst, h/c and really kinky stuff.
Summary: AU; Eric's trying to break into acting while doing comedy clubs and some modeling to pay the bills. Just after he's met a guy who might become someone special, if only he has time to find out, he gets a chance at what might be his big break, but it'd force him to stay locked in the closet for years.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone you recognize. I know nothing about their social lives or sexual activities, more's the pity. This is fiction, period. It is done as a labor of love and I make no money from it.
Notes: Written for the 2011 slashababy fic fest for afra_schatz. I'd never thought about Eric and Viggo together before, but I like both of them, so I decided to give it a shot.

Part 1

Viggo sort of invited himself over for dinner on Tuesday. Not really in the sense of, "Hey, I'm coming over for dinner, make something nice," but they'd been talking on the phone and the conversation had wound around this and that and they'd just sort of agreed that they wanted to keep talking and that they were both getting kind of hungry, and putting those together resulted in Viggo coming over with a bottle of wine and platter of tamales. Eric had ice cream in the freezer, and that was dinner.

The subject of Eric's upcoming decision to either come out of the closet or lock himself in for a few years never came up. They'd both circled around it as effectively as if they'd agreed ahead of time. They had plenty to talk about -- Viggo'd been out at dawn taking pictures of things with frost on them, leaves and tree bark and window screens and whatever else, plus he filled Eric in some on the upcoming catalog shoot -- and everything had been perfectly mellow and comfortable. They'd just stayed away from that one gap in the future.

They cleaned up and had a couple beers, then fell into bed for sex. When they were all panting and sweaty an hour and a bit later, Eric asked, "You leaving?"

Viggo said, "Nope. Staying right here." And he did.

Eric lay awake listening to Viggo breathe and wondering if he was a complete nutter for wanting to read more into that statement, because seriously, how pathetic could a man get?

The next morning, Viggo and Eric headed to the studio together and opened up. Viggo loaded his cameras while Eric, who'd carried in a couple of flats of water, stuffed the bottles into the fridge in the corner. There were a bunch of cardboard boxes sitting against a wall next to the prop tables and Viggo pointed out which ones they'd need for that day. Eric saw that a bunch of the boxes had DONE scrawled on them in marker; Viggo must've been working with other models Monday and Tuesday.

"A lot of these things need basic item photos," Viggo said, waving a bright blue silicone dildo as an example. "I'll do those after; it's assembly line work. Wearables need to be modeled -- that's where you and the others come in."

Eric held up a French maid's dress with a noticeably flat front and said, "You mean like this? I'm pretty sure it won't fit me. I'm hoping it won't fit me!"

Viggo laughed and said, "Yeah, I've got a couple guys who are a pretty standard size large; I have them do most of the fitted clothes. Some of it's stretchy, though, and some of the sizing is more forgiving; you'll be getting in and out of spandex bikinis and thongs tomorrow."

"Christ, you're not joking, are you?" Eric had to laugh, and was trying to figure out how to use the idea of a bloke his size modeling spandex thongs in his act. "Better than having to model one of these." He waved a set of anal beads with little smiley faces on them -- the smiles got wider as the beads got bigger, which Eric had to admit was clever, if you were the sort of person who liked a good laugh in the bedroom.

Eric was that sort of person, actually, but he'd still just as soon not have to have his picture taken with the beads in his bum.

They were almost done sorting through the items when there was a loud knock on the door, then it slid open and a gorgeous young man came striding in. He said, "Hey, Vig! Hi, new guy!" while pulling off a knitted hat and scarf and peeling out of a leather jacket.

"Hey, Orlando. This is Eric. Eric, Orlando." Viggo made introductions over one shoulder while tossing tubes of lube into one box and fluffy handcuffs into another.

Eric waved and Orlando gave him a looking over, accented with a flirty grin. "I get to pose with you today? All this and they pay me too -- I must've been an extra good boy this year."

Eric let his eyes go big and round and said, "Woyte, you get pied? Loik, real money? Voiggo!"

Orlando collapsed into a chair, giggling, and Viggo turned around to glare at them both, but he couldn't maintain and started cackling. "Damn, Orlando, you had to blab! Now I'll have to pay him too!"

They all cracked up, and Viggo gave Orlando a play swat upside the head. Orlando smacked him back, then ducked out of range and hid behind Eric.

Viggo smirked and turned back to the prop tables. Orlando peeked out from behind Eric's shoulder, then said, "Heh. Crazy old man." He looked up at Eric with a grin. "You do a great Aussie accent."

Eric grinned back and said, in perfect deadpan American, "Nope, I do a great Yank accent."

"You're actually from Australia? Cool."

"All right," said Viggo, "Enough socializing. Here, go get changed and let's do some work." He handed Orlando a silky looking poet's shirt and a vest made of fake leather patchwork. Eric got a solid fake-leather jerkinish thing and a bandana.

Eric followed Orlando into the partitioned space in the corner. It was set up as a changing room, with a bench and a clothes rack and an empty bookcase. They got dressed, then headed back out. Eric felt a little silly, but Orlando jogged over to a set with a pale blue backdrop where Viggo had lights on and a row of cameras at hand on a table, and saluted. "Arrr, Cap'n, reporting for duty!"

Viggo grinned and tilted his head at Eric. "He's your captain -- attention on Eric." He positioned Eric where he wanted him, standing just slightly off center, then balanced it with Orlando. "Eric, look haughty and a little evil. Orlando, worshipful."

Eric thought, Okay, pirate, scourge of the seven seas, and drew himself up to his full height, arms crossed across his chest. The sleeveless jerkin set off his broad chest and muscled arms, he knew, and that seemed to be what Viggo was looking for.

Orlando said, "Oh Captain, my Captain," with a flirty smile, and draped himself against Eric's side, letting the camera capture most of Eric's outfit. Viggo clicked off a couple of shots, then Orlando put a hand on Eric's left biceps, showing that his fingers could barely wrap around half of it. Click-click-click.

"Orlando, face front."

Orlando obeyed, turning to face the camera while leaning against Eric's chest. Eric put an arm around his waist and the other on his shoulder, looking down at his "crewman" with a small smile. He knew the attitude would communicate all the way down his body, and show even without his face in the picture.

"Good." Click-click-click.

They went through more costumes -- doctor and patient, riding outfits complete with crops, cowboys, construction workers, cops, soldiers, firemen... everything Eric had ever seen fetishized in gay porn and a few he'd never thought of. They wrapped up with biker outfits right before lunch.

Eric changed back into his own clothes, then huffed out a sigh and flopped down into a chair. "Damn, this is hard work. I'll stick with acting, thanks."

"Most models I know want to act," said Orlando. "But doing both means eating twice as often." He sat down next to Eric and took a slug out of a bottle of water. "Been in anything?"

"Some walk-ons, a couple of commercials. I had a minor supporting in Bayou Demon -- not exactly an Oscar contender, but it paid some bills."

Orlando nodded. "I've done some stage work. I prefer the theater, but there's not as much opportunity unless you're willing to work for peanut shells, which my landlord won't take for some reason."

"I hear you." Eric watched Viggo reloading cameras for a minute, then said, "We going to lunch together, or foraging on our own?"

"Let's go to Green Village," said Orlando. "They have a great soup and salad bar."

"Whatever you two want to do," said Viggo. "I'll be done here in a few."

They ended up in a not-quite-vegetarian place Eric had never been to before. Their bean and ham soup was good and hearty; Eric had two bowls of that and two plates of salad.

"I wish I could eat like that," Orlando said with a smirk. He'd gotten the vegetarian squash soup and visited the salad bar once. He was slender enough, Eric imagined it'd be easy to overdo it and then all his modelling work would dry up and blow away.

"Hey, it takes a lot of fuel to maintain this body!" Eric flexed his arm and put on a fatuous, in-love-with-himself look. Viggo smirked and Orlando laughed.

"No wonder you're so desperate for work -- it probably costs a thousand a month just to keep you in groceries."

"Not quite, but sometimes it seems close." Eric rolled his eyes and took a big bite of salad.

"You know, I have a friend who's trying to get a film made, he does little independent things, but he's working on a project about returning veterans and he's looking for some soldier types." Orlando poked his fork across the table at Eric and added, "I could give him your number if you want to try for it."

"Sure," said Eric. "That'd be great, thanks." It never hurt to have more work lined up, and an independent film might not get out the gate for a year or two or even longer, depending on how long it took to line up financing. He dug a card out of his pocket and handed it to Orlando. "If you're ever interested in TV or movies, let me know and I'll give you my agent's number. You do a good job getting into character, and you've definitely go the looks."

"Thanks. I... it's not something I've dreamed of, you know? But expanding on possibilities makes it easier to pay bills."

"Amen to that," said Eric, and he toasted Orlando with his iced tea glass.

The afternoon was devoted to less costumey, more fetishy shots. Viggo put Eric into an outfit that consisted mainly of a set of leather straps across his chest and arms and a fake-leather half mask. He'd had Eric bring his biker boots, and he had a set of leather pants for him.

"Those are rented," Viggo said. "Don't mess them up."

Orlando was the one going through multiple changes for the rest of the day, modelling different styles of bondage gear. Viggo shot him alone sometimes, and at other times with Eric playing Dom.

Some time after three, they took a short break for water (for the models) and camera reloads (for the photographer) and Orlando said, "How come I'm always the bottom? I think Eric should have a turn on his knees."

Eric was pretty sure he was joking, or at least half joking, but Viggo looked up and gave Eric an intense stare, then Orlando, then Eric again.

"All right," he said. "We'll shoot a few like that and see how they turn out."

"Hah!" Orlando did a fist-pump, then grinned at Eric. "It'll be fun having you at my feet."

"Hell, even kneeling I'll be taller than you," Eric shot back.

"Are not!" Orlando laughed and splashed some water at Eric. Eric retaliated, until Viggo called, "Rented pants! Cut it out!"

They chorused, "Yes, Sir!" then looked at each other and cracked up again.

"Why did I think having you two together would be a good idea?" Viggo grumped.

"'Cause the really good photographers are all crazy," Orlando shot back.

Viggo snorted and said, "Point."

When it was time to get back to work, he had Orlando put on the black jeans he'd come in wearing, and his leather jacket over his bare chest. Eric lost the leather pants, got a fake leather jockstrap in its place, and kept the half mask. They spent the next couple of hours with Eric modelling the binders, spreader bars, and a bondage bench, while Orlando played Dom with floggers, paddles, vampire gloves and his bare hands.

Finally, Viggo said, "Okay, good day's work. I'll e-mail some proofs of these shots to Stan and Mike and see if they like the role reversal. I think they will, but if not then I'll schedule another half day to redo those items with Orlando on the bottom."

"I think they'll go for it," said Orlando, who was working on another bottle of water. "Not all Doms are big, brawny guys, and there are plenty of big, brawny guys who are bottoms and appreciate seeing guys who look like them in that role. Breaking the stereotypes will get the catalog talked about."

"Likely," Viggo agreed. "I'll let you know."

Orlando de-sweated with paper towels, then got back into his street clothes, waved to Eric and gave Viggo a kiss on the cheek before taking off. Eric dawdled a little, wanting some time with Viggo, and wondering whether he'd want to go get dinner or something.

He copied Orlando with the paper towels before getting dressed, then wandered over to the tables to help Viggo, who was sorting through items again.

They packed all the costumes into boxes and taped them up and wrote DONE on them, then stacked them out of the way. Most of the toys stayed out, though.

"Didn't we shoot all this stuff today?" Eric asked.

"Yeah, but we'll do most of it again with you or another model alone," Viggo said. "I'm just the photographer; Mike puts the catalogue together. He gave me notes on what kinds of shots he wants, but he likes having a variety. Any given item that's being modeled might be shown with one model or two, depending on how the shots turn out and what Mike wants to do with a page."

Eric nodded and said, "Okay, makes sense. Wouldn't it be cheaper to just do one shot of each item, though?"

"First, we never take just one shot. You always take multiples and choose the best one. Amateurs who are doing their own photography because they don't want to pay a pro are the only ones who think one shot is enough, and their finished product looks like it. In general, though, you're right -- it'd be cheaper to just decide ahead of time for each item whether we want it alone, or with one model or with two, and run through getting just those shots. I'm pretty fast, though, so taking multiples isn't as expensive as it might be with someone else.

"And Mike and Stan know their catalog sells for its photos as much as for what it advertises; they charge ten bucks for it, with a rebate if you buy something. Half their sales are to guys who don't want to buy anything -- they just want to look at the pictures." Viggo gave him a sideways smirk while packing a dozen styles of fake-leather cuffs into a box. "They make a lot of extra money because their catalog is good, and they want to keep it that way."

"So a few hundred guys are going to be wanking off to my picture, then?" said Eric. He wasn't really bothered by it, but it was sort of weird.

"Try a few thousand, but yeah. If you'd let me show your face, you'd be famous in a few months."

Eric snorted. "Thanks, but I'll pass. Not quite what I wanted, and definitely not what the producers want in their actors."

"Your choice," said Viggo, mellow and agreeable as always. "You looked good in the mask, so being shy won't hurt anything."

"Well, good, I'm glad."

Eric was still wondering what was up with Viggo. He just didn't seem to get very excited or upset about anything; he was like the ultimate even-tempered guy. Which could be good if you didn't want a lot of friction or drama in your personal life. Eric knew a few people who flew off the handle any time life wasn't perfect, which was practically all the time. That wasn't the kind of person Eric wanted to share his life with.

But some excitement was good, right? Some passion? Some strong feeling one way or the other, to make a fellow feel like he matters at least a little, that you give a damn? Eric didn't know whether Viggo gave a damn, not really. He said he "liked" Eric, and that their thing had potential, but there was none of the new-lover passion or intensity Eric was used to, at least not out of bed. He didn't know what to think, and he'd felt like enough of a dufus asking straight out the one time; he didn't want to ask again, like some teenager whining for constant reassurances.

He didn't know what to do and didn't want to look like a fool doing it, so he did nothing.

They finished packing up, tossed all the empty water bottles into the recycle bin, then headed out. While Viggo was locking up, he said, "Feel like dinner?"

Eric smirked and asked, "How far will I have to walk to get it?"

Viggo snickered. "No walking this time. You'll need to change, though -- coat and tie, or some appropriate substitute if you want to try to set your own style. A few people will be doing that; they always are."

"Where are we going, exactly?" asked Eric, who'd had enough experience with Viggo's invitations that he wanted to be sure he wouldn't actually need pitons or an ice axe.

"Gallery opening. A friend of mine's got some pieces in the show, and Pritchett's always lays out a nice spread, small plates of foodie type food, like hors d'oeuvres on steroids." Viggo gave him a sly smile and added, "You could probably put on a mile or two walking around the gallery if you wanted to, but you could also find a seat somewhere and park, especially if we get there early."

"Oh." Eric thought about it and nodded. He wasn't really into modern art, but he'd been having some new experiences with Viggo; so long as he didn't actually have to eat spiders, he figured it'd be fun to try once. "Sure. Tux or just a suit?"

"Whichever you want," Viggo said. "You wouldn't be the only man there in a tux if you have one and want to wear it, if you want to make that big a splash."

"Suit it is, then. Art isn't my environment; I wouldn't want to give the wrong impression, then have folks decide I'm some pathetic poser."

"Wise choice," said Viggo. "Meet at my place in about an hour?"

"Sure," said Eric, "See you then," and they separated in the parking lot.

Pritchett's Gallery was a series of interconnected rooms laid out like a maze; Eric was pretty sure it was bigger than it seemed at first, possibly a lot bigger. He wandered through with Viggo, munching on this and that from the trays being circulated by young people all in black.

Viggo obviously knew about more than photography. They passed through the rooms, pausing to look at ink sketches, oils and acrylics, collages, and some "fiber art" that reminded Eric of the macrame hangings one of his aunts had hanging around her house, except more abstract and without any knotted owls.

Walking with Viggo reminded Eric of an art appreciation course he'd had at uni, only without the urge to snooze. Viggo was saying something about dynamic negative space and pointing to examples in the drawing they were looking at, when someone said, "Mortensen! Good to see you -- what've you been up to?"

Eric saw a man coming up behind Viggo, short and chubby, maybe fifty-something, in ski pants and a white turtleneck. Apparently this was one of the people who dressed to attract attention.

Viggo said, "Hey, Albie. What's up?" and gave the guy a one-armed hug, holding his glass of champagne out a safe distance with the other.

"Same as always," said Albie. "One of these days we're going to have to blow up all the studios and start over from scratch."

"Easier to start your own," said Viggo. "Less prison time that way."

"Oh, I suppose. Not as much fun, though."

Viggo snickered and said, "Well, don't expect me to bail you out. I'll bring you cigarettes, though; you can get anything on the inside if you have cigarettes to trade."

"Oh, thank you so much." Albie gave Viggo an exaggerated scowl, then glanced at Eric and said, "Who's your friend? You obviously left your manners in your other pants again."

Viggo said, "Albie, this is Eric Bana. Eric, this is Albie Bronsen. Eric, Albie makes movies. Albie, Eric acts. Also models, which is how we met. You two could probably help each other out."

Eric tried hard not to flush at Viggo's blatant... well, it was too blatant to even be called schmoozing. He said, "Hello, good to meet you," and held out his hand.

Albie shook it while looking Eric over. "You certainly make a powerful physical impression. Can you actually act?"

"I'm not practicing my Oscar speech yet, but I've been working on the craft for a while. I had my own TV show in Australia for a couple of seasons -- sketch comedy."

"Built like an action star but with a comedy background? That's unusual." Albie dipped a hand into his pants pocket and held out a card. "Have your agent send me your file."

"I'll do that, thanks." Eric gave Albie a big smile and pocketed the card.

"Good, good." Albie nodded to Eric, then turned back to Viggo and asked, "So, what's worth buying here? You know my taste in art sucks rocks."

Viggo chuckled and they all wandered off, the conversation reverting to art. Eric hoped his grin wasn't too big or stupid; he was trying his best to maintain.

They spent the night at Viggo's place, and it was just as much fun as it always was. The sex wasn't the problem -- it was fantastic. The problem was Eric's mental blithering about committment.

Not that he'd usually be thinking about any such thing when he'd known a bloke for less than two weeks, but the circumstances were rushing him. Annie was waiting for an answer, and the Rising Tide people were likely expecting him to sign on, with maybe a quibble or two about minor contract points. He had to decide, though, and within a few days. Time was pressing down on him, and whenever Eric thought about it, he felt a strong urge to just start driving and see if he could outrun all the conflicting pressures in his life.

He left Viggo's early the next morning, saying he needed a change of clothes, which was true enough. He also took some time to Google Albie Bronsen, and e-mail Annie, passing on the contact info from Albie's card.

Albert Bronsen was a maverick film maker who worked outside the big studios. He'd had a couple of box office hits, and half a dozen of his films had won awards Eric had actually heard of, mainly from film festivals. A little more digging showed that he'd worked with openly gay actors before.

Was that why Viggo'd taken him to the show? Had he known Albie would be there?

And did it make any difference if he did? Did it mean anything? It could be a favor for a new friend, or it could be an attempt to give a new lover an alternative that'd let them stay together without having to hide for the next few years. Eric had no idea which it was, or might be, or whether Viggo was likely to have even thought about deliberately pulling strings like that.

A glance at the clock sent him scrambling out the door. Whatever else might be going on, he still had a job and didn't want to be late.

It was just him and Viggo that day, shooting pictures of items Eric wore or held. Eric was in those spandex thongs Viggo'd teased him about earlier, and spent most of the morning going from one bondage position to another.

Just as Eric was getting tired of being curled up, Viggo had him lie across a piece of furniture shaped like a half cylinder. It flexed his back the other way, and the stretch was a relief. There were cuffs attached to the thing at either end for his wrists and ankles, but his back felt so good he didn't care.

"You're too relaxed," said Viggo with a grin. "It's not nap time." He knelt down next to Eric and kissed him silly, while playing with one nipple with his fingers. Eric made a startled sound into Viggo's mouth, and reflexively tugged on all four cuffs, but he was stuck in place.

By the time Viggo stood up again, Eric was anything but relaxed, and his body was responding in a way that was kind of embarassing when there was a guy with a bunch of cameras in the room.

"Perfect," said Viggo, and he got back to shooting pictures. Eric hoped that the slightly frantic urgency he was feeling was something the clients would appreciate. He also hoped Viggo would be willing to help him out some time soon.

At least they didn't have to worry about him ruining a pair of rental pants that day.

That evening, Viggo had something to go do -- he mentioned something about a fire and Eric didn't ask because Viggo might actually tell him -- so Eric spent the night alone at home. He was feeling restless and moody, and ended up calling Ross.

They'd known each other since about two weeks after Eric arrived in the States, and had spent a lot of telephone hours listening to each other gripe and rage and vent and whine. Eric felt like doing most of those that night.

He explained what was going on, which took a while, then said, "So what do you think? Am I going mental? It seems like this should be a straightforward decision, right?"

"Nothing's straightforward when your brain and your heart and your prick are in conflict," said Ross. "Trust me -- it's the same for guys who are into women."

"Wow, thanks. Next time I'm looking for encouragement I'll know right where to come."

"Your problem is you're looking for some absolute, guaranteed answer. There aren't any. You just have to have faith."

"Come on, Ross, I'm not into that and you know it."

"I know you're not religious, but that's not the only kind of faith there is. Believing in yourself takes faith. Believing things can get better takes faith. Believing you can take action and make things better takes faith. Do you have any of that kind of faith?"

"I...." Eric trailed off and thought for a bit. He hadn't considered any of that to be faith, but he could see where Ross was coming from. "I do. I mean, yes, I believe things can get better, especially if you work for it. But I don't know what to do to make it better."

"What do you want?" asked Ross.

"What do you mean? I want to know what to do."

"No, what do you want? If you could have your life be any way you wanted, if some genie gave you a wish, what would you want?"

"Well, let's start with all this homophobia bullshite going away. I want to be able to be myself in public and still get work, good work, as far as my abilities will take me without people type casting me as the gay best friend. And I want this thing with Viggo to go somewhere and mean something. I want to be sure about what's what, instead of flailing around like I'm doing right now."

"Okay, that's what you want. So act like it's so."

"That's it? I should pretend the world is perfect? That's your advice? Good thing you're a comedian, is all I can say." Eric was half joking, but only half, because after all that, Ross's advice was a huge let-down.

"No, look -- you want things to be a certain way, right? If you act like they're not, then you're not helping them change. And you'll be in less of a position to take advantage of change when it comes. What if you get all famous and then come out later? There'll always be the sneering about how you were a chickenshit back when being gay was hard. If you're out, though, then when the world comes around to your way, you can just stare it down and say, 'What took you so long?'"

"Assuming it does come around to my way. That's the trick, ain't it?"

"The world is changing, man. Come on -- fucking Iowa has gay marriage. Who'd have imagined, huh?"

"California had gay marriage too, and couldn't hang onto it."

"Yeah, but the momentum is slowing down for the fucktards. I've got some Mormon friends, and they weren't happy about what their HQ did, messing around in politics like that, trying to slam a bunch of folks who never hurt anyone. Mormons are big on family, and gay people want to have families like everyone else. They had a petition going around protesting their church's involvement in Prop 8, and a lot of rank-and-file Mormons signed it. If the church backs off, that's a huge chunk of the homophobic right's money gone -- poof."

"If they back off. That's a pretty big if, Ross."

"Sure, but my point is that people are changing. Younger kids don't know why this is even an issue, and it's an issue for less and less of the country, even among older folks. It's gonna change. If you have faith that it will change, you can be there to meet it."

"Easy for you to say," Eric muttered.

"Eric? Who are you talking to?" Ross sounded kind of pissed off, and he added, "How many Asian comedians do you know up at the top of the list? Margaret Cho and...?"

"She's not the only one," Eric protested. "There's Henry Cho, and Russ Peters, and... Lee, Bobby Lee...."

"Sure, but if you stopped people on the street and asked, whose names would they be able to come up with besides Margaret?"

"Yeah, you're right, but you're talking household name level."

"Damn right I am. Why's she the only one? How many white comedians are household names? If we listed them all we'd have to break for breakfast tomorrow morning, then maybe finish it off by lunch. There's a bunch of black guys too, household names, everyone's heard of them. And one of these days, Russ Chang's gonna be up there with 'em. I have faith that I can make that happen, and I work for it every day."

"But--"

"But nothing. That's what you're looking for -- you want to be a household name. If you didn't, you wouldn't give a shit whether the world changed. You'd be fine with comedy clubs and the occasional supporting role. That's not enough for you, though -- you want at least a chance at making it big. I do too. Right now, that's almost impossible for an Asian comedian. There are actually more gay actors who are household names than Asian comedians, but I'm still out there, waiting for the world to change. And when it does, I'm gonna say, 'What took you so long?' How about you, Eric? Where are you gonna be when the world changes?"

"I don't... shite. I know where I want to be, but I want to make good decisions on the way. It's a business, and you can't just dance around like it's dreamland and you can just wish upon a star."

"So don't wish. Act. Make it happen. Or don't, but then admit to yourself that your world is gonna suck forever and you're just making the best of it. Those are your choices -- pick one."

Eric snorted. "When did you get so damn philosophical?"

"All comedians are philosophers. We're the jesters of society, the thinkers, the only ones who can tell the king he's fucking up without getting our heads whacked off. You just need to start doing your job."

"I'd like to be able to eat in the mean time."

"Hey, it's your priority list. Just figure out what your priorities are, and own 'em. All this flailing bullshit isn't buying you anything."

"Yeah, yeah." Eric sighed. Joshing and snarking wasn't going to work that time; Ross was determined to turn him into a crusader. Eric wasn't sure he wanted to go charging out with his sword. "Thanks. I mean it. That's a lot to think about, you know?"

Ross sighed and said, "Fine, whatever works for you, man. See you Monday."

"Monday," said Eric, and they hung up. He knew Ross was disappointed that Eric hadn't picked up the gauntlet right away, but Eric wanted to be sure that if he did join the charge, it wouldn't be straight off a cliff.

Friday was his last day working with Viggo, at least on the catalog job. Viggo hadn't mentioned any others, and while Eric modeled silk boxers and leather armbands and a few fancy chain collars, he wondered whether that'd be it. They hadn't made any plans for the weekend, so maybe it was just a fling for the duration of the job?

On the other hand, Viggo didn't seem like the kind of guy who made plans way in advance. His invitations had usually been of the "Wanna go do this right now?" type, or maybe with an hour or so's notice, like the gallery show.

And... Eric finally realized that all the invitations had come from Viggo.

Eric had never invited Viggo anywhere. That was... well, fuck, that was embarassing. Eric had been studying Viggo's actions, trying to figure out what they meant, what he felt or wanted, watching to see what Viggo said and did so Eric could figure out how to react. Viggo'd probably been thinking about Eric's actions too, and wondering whether Eric ever planned on taking the lead on, well, anything.

When they wrapped up for the day, Eric pocketed his check, then stayed to help straighten up again. When they were done, Viggo said, "Well, I guess that's--"

Eric cut him off with a kiss, slow and deep, with a full body press. He sank into it, letting himself forget all the bullshit and just feel, just enjoy being with the man in his arms. It was good, and he wanted more of it. He only wished he knew whether he could have that.

When he pulled back, he said, "Doing anything tonight?"

Viggo shook his head, and waited.

Eric reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a ticket. "Come see my show tonight?"

Viggo gave him a bright smile and took it. "Sure. That'd be great, thanks. I haven't been to a comedy club in ages."

"There are some good folks playing tonight."

Viggo nodded. "Looking forward to it. See you after?"

"Sure. We can go get some dinner or something. I'm always too worked up to eat right before a show."

"That works," Viggo said with a nod. "I'll see you there."

"See you." Eric leaned in for another kiss, then left.

The four hours leading up to the show vanished in a haze of talking and pacing and last-minute fiddling with his new material. The wording had to be right, and the timing, and the way each gag flowed from the last and into the next. What if he fell flat? He always worried about new jokes and most of the time they were fine, but not always; no one got a hit every time.

What if he bombed the one time Viggo was there to see him?

Eric paced back and forth in his living room, practicing, trying to get it all just right. He knew he couldn't make any more significant improvements without audience feedback, but knowing didn't change the churning in his gut.

Finally he hit the shower, got dressed, and drove out to the club.

It was a medium size place out in Santa Monica. He'd played there before and mostly had good shows. He liked the audience there -- appreciative, discerning but not too tough. Some audiences were just nasty, but the Straight Line wasn't usually like that.

Of course, 'not usually' wasn't the same as 'never,' but Eric shoved that out of his mind.

He got there about twenty minutes before the show started, and he was the third performer on the list. He allowed himself one drink before a performance, and that night it was Scotch. Just one, to relax; more than that and his timing would fall apart.

When Viggo came in, Eric spotted him at once. He watched his lover move through the crowd and sit at a tiny table to one side, a couple rows back from the stage. Someone else came by, gestured at the chair, and Viggo nodded. The guy sat down and they started chatting.

Just as well; Eric wasn't in any shape to go over and talk just then.

Time dragged until the show started. The first comedian was an old-timer. Eric knew her casually, and enjoyed her routine. The second was a newbie; he was okay but still had some rough spots. He did a good job playing the audience, though; he could do well if he stuck with it.

Then it was Eric's turn and the MC announced his name. Eric put on a big smile and went bounding up the four steps and strode across to the microphone, waving at the audience.

He turned up his Aussie accent about six notches and said, "Evenin'! Moy, we do have a foin crowd of blokes and sheilas this evening, aye?" That was enough to clue most of the audience in that the guy up front talking weird was from Australia and not England; Yanks couldn't always tell unless you hit 'em over the head with it.

Eric scanned over the crowd and made eye contact with Viggo for a second. He was smirking, like he was enjoying the contrast between how Eric usually was and his stage persona. That was a good sign.

"Oi been listenin' and Oi thought those two were fair dinkum, no? Let's have another hand for me cobbers!" There was more clapping and some whooping, and Eric figured "fair dinkum" clued in the other ten percent who hadn't caught on to "sheilas." Foundation laid, he got on with it.

"As you foin folks might've noticed, Oi'm not from around here." Pause for some laughs and a few comments of the "no shit" variety, which Eric ignored. He barrelled on, his first few jokes old reliables about surprises for the new arrival in America and contrasts between the US and Australia. It was good material and he got laughs and whoops and groans and icks in the right places. He'd slipped into his groove and was cruising on the almost manic high he got when he was in front of an audience.

Every half minute or so he glanced at Viggo. He laughed along with the others, sitting back with his drink and looking downright admiring. Viggo caught him looking and raised his glass, giving Eric a bright smile and a nod.

Eric was almost half way through his routine; he'd get to the spot where he'd inserted his new material in about a minute. And suddenly it hit him that Viggo might not appreciate those jokes.

Fuck. He kept going on autopilot but behind the flow of words he was frozen. When he'd come up with the new jokes, it hadn't occurred to him that Viggo'd be there to hear them. Some people didn't like recognizing themselves in a comedian's material, even if they weren't named. Eric should've talked to him about it, should've thought before fucking inviting him. That was the problem -- he'd been feeling, not thinking.

He looked back at Viggo. The man's face was relaxed, mellow, full of absolute confidence in Eric.

Faith. Russ's words came up to the top of Eric's mind. Belief that things would get better and you could make it happen.

Maybe part of it was the performance rush, but Eric looked back out over the audience and had no doubts at all when he swung into his new material.

"So Oi've been here a little while now and Oi've met someone, roight? Oi've got this new boyfriend, and he calls me up at some ungodly hour and says, 'You wanna get some coffee?'"

A ripple of surprise went through the crowd at the word "boyfriend" but Eric kept right on going. Some heckler shouted "Faggot!" when Eric was looking right at him, but the guy's girlfriend smacked him and leaned over to whisper something harsh into his ear.

Eric kept rolling, and when he got to the line about "spoidas" being just like cherries but crunchier and with eight stems, the room lost it in a combination of laughter and "Eeewww!" Only one person's reaction was important at that moment, though, and Viggo was cracking up along with everyone else. Eric shot him a grin and Viggo grinned right back, with a forefinger drawn across his throat in promised retribution.

Eric went on with his routine, riding the crowd and the laughter and the high of it all. He wrapped it up to a cresting wave of applause, took his bow and left the stage smiling and waving.

While the MC introduced the next act, Eric slid through the crowd, heading for Viggo. He stopped here and there for people who wanted to say hi or ask for an autograph, but a couple of minutes later he'd arrived at his target. There weren't any empty chairs, so he squatted down next to Viggo's and whispered, "So, what'cha think?" with a huge grin.

Viggo smirked at him and smacked him upside the head, although not with his full strength, which Eric took as a good sign. "You were great," he whispered back. "But you're also going to pay for that. I think I should get at least half the take for inspiring your best jokes."

"Hah, as if, you wanker!" Eric leaned forward and kissed him, right there in the middle of the crowded club. Granted the lights were still low, but there were still folks watching him. Eric didn't care.

Eric shoved Viggo over and they shared a chair for the rest of the fourth comedian's act, then got up when he was done, when it'd be polite to head for the exit. They were almost at the door when a young woman put a hand on Viggo's arm and said, "Oh my God, you're his boyfriend?!"

Viggo grinned up at Eric, then said, "Yep, that's me," to the woman. Then he leaned in a little, like he was about to confide a secret, and said, "He was just making up the part about the spiders, though."

Eric, standing a little behind Viggo, shook his head vigorously, eyes wide and mouth twisted up, and raised his hand to make a wiggly-legs gesture with his fingers. The woman had a screechy giggle and she put both hands over her mouth while she laughed.

Viggo glanced up at Eric and poked him in the ribs. "You are so getting it."

"Oi sure hope so!" Eric said, wiggling his eyebrows at the young woman. She giggled again and waved while they headed out the door.

Once they were out in the chill night, Viggo asked, "So, what did you want to do for the rest of the evening?"

Eric said, "Well, I figured I'd go get some dinner with my boyfriend, and then maybe spend the night at his place."

Viggo gave him a teasing grin. "Maybe your boyfriend would rather skip the dinner."

Eric slung an arm around Viggo's waist and said, "Maybe my boyfriend has a brilliant notion."

Viggo poked him again, and they chased each other out to the parking lot, hooting and laughing and shouting threats, and Eric was perfectly happy because the world was exactly the way it was supposed to be.

Fic: In a Perfect World, 1/2

Fri, 13 Jan 2012 13:25:06 GMT

Title: In a Perfect World, 1/2
Author: AngiePen
Recipient: afra_schatz
Pairing: Eric/Viggo
Rating: R
Request: Eric Bana/Viggo would be awesome but Orlando/Sean B., Karl/Sean B., Karl/Viggo or Bernard/Sean B. are great as well. Requested genres: (well, some of this is only sort of a genre :)) contemporary AUs, NZ timed fic, smut, and/or est!relationship. I'm not much for angst, h/c and really kinky stuff.
Summary: AU; Eric's trying to break into acting while doing comedy clubs and some modeling to pay the bills. Just after he's met a guy who might become someone special, if only he has time to find out, he gets a chance at what might be his big break, but it'd force him to stay locked in the closet for years.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone you recognize. I know nothing about their social lives or sexual activities, more's the pity. This is fiction, period. It is done as a labor of love and I make no money from it.
Notes: Written for the 2011 slashababy fic fest for afra_schatz. I'd never thought about Eric and Viggo together before, but I like both of them, so I decided to give it a shot.

Eric checked the address on his phone one more time, noted the building across the street, then went to find a place to park. While roaming the nearby streets, hunting for a gap in the cars lining the curbs, a panicky voice in the back of his head was babbling at him to turn around, go back home, get a day job flipping burger's at McD's or stocking shelves at WalMart or something else, anything else.

He told that part of his mind to shut the fuck up.

After having come halfway around the damn planet looking for a shot at the movies, he needed flexibility in his schedule, and huge corporate behemoths weren't known for their flexibility, especially when it came to peon-level employees.

Besides, asking people if they wanted fries with their burger was just... no. He might as well go home to Australia if he was going to sink that low.

He spotted a spot a couple of buildings farther on, and managed to beat out a woman in an SUV. Hah! You lose today, lady!

While he hiked back to the building he wanted, his brain tried to work on him again.

What if this gets out? the voice in his head asked. It's exactly the sort of thing that always does, or seems to. It'd haunt you for the rest of your career.

On the other hand, a slightly different voice pointed out, if you get tossed out of your apartment and end up living in your car, you'd have a hard time building any kind of career in the first place. He imagined trying to get ready for an audition from inside his Volvo. Yeah, no.

You could drop your gym membership, said the not-quite panicked voice. That'd pay for the surprise rent increase, thank you very much Mr. Brasswell you bastard.

Sure, the second voice snarked, but as an unknown Aussie actor in a sea of American and Canadian actors all scrambling for parts, your buffed-out bod is a selling point; you can't afford to lose that.

Aha -- there was the right address. He'd been on the wrong block.

He trotted up the steps to what looked like yet another industrial conversion. A scuffed up directory on one side of the narrow entry way sent him to a freight elevator and up to the fourth floor where Mortensen Photography was shooting a calendar.

You can still go home, the voice in Eric's brain nagged.

Shut up, fuck off, leave me alone.

You'll be sorry, said the voice.

Shut up!

He knocked on a big steel door, and half a minute later it slid open. A middle-aged guy with messy brown hair and smile lines around his eyes looked him up and down and said, "Bana? Awesome. Head shot doesn't do you justice. Come on in."

"Umm, thanks." Eric had to grin as he stepped inside.

See?! said the second voice. You need that gym membership!

The first voice just sulked.

Inside, the studio was one huge space. Right in front of the door, a small reception area had been blocked off with a couple of rolling partitions. The desk was a six-foot folding table, with a phone and a laptop and a scattering of papers and letters and folders and other office supplies on it. There was a four-drawer filing cabinet next to it, and an empty rolling chair behind it.

The guy, who Eric was just assuming was the photographer, Mortensen, since he hadn't introduced himself, grabbed a folder off the table and shoved it into Eric's hands, then led him around the partitions to the bulk of the space. More tables were piled with files and prints and boxes, a few cameras, some odds and ends of what looked like props and costume bits, and stuff that might be parts of lights but Eric wasn't sure. In a corner that had to be right on the opposite side of the reception area was another space about the same, blocked off with more partitions, and next to that, up against the an outside wall, was a fridge lined up beside a table that had a coffee maker and associated stuff on it.

Two main photo areas were set up, each with its own stands and lights and different colored drapes. One featured a kingsize bed made up with messy red silk sheets, looking like someone -- or maybe several someones -- had just rolled out of it. The other featured a huge armchair, extra wide and deeply upholstered in black leather.

The chair had two sets of handcuffs on it, like someone had taken them off and tossed them onto the seat before walking away.

Eric's first brain-voice was back and it was screaming again.

He reminded it how much living out of his car would suck, and it faded to some vague grumbling and dire predictions of how sorry he would be that he hadn't listened.

"If you could fill that out," said the guy who was probably Mortensen, "we can get going."

Eric looked around, then squatted down in front of a semi-clear spot on one of the tables, pulled out a pen and started filling in forms.

"You said you'd done this before, but didn't give a lot of details."

It was just a comment, but Eric felt obliged to answer. At least he didn't have to look the guy in the eye, since he was still writing. "I said I've been in front of the camera before, and I have. I've done some acting and a lot of comedy -- I had a sketch comedy show in Australia for a couple of seasons -- so I know about hitting marks and not freaking when the camera's on me. I haven't actually modeled, though, not as such."

"I bet whenever you say that, the person asks you to say something funny."

Eric could hear the smile in the guy's voice, and had to smirk in agreement. "Yeah, mostly. I got a few lines I use -- wanna hear 'em?"

"Nah, just wanted to make sure you were prepared."

Which made Eric grin wider, 'cause that was a joke itself and not a bad one for an amateur tossing something off the cuff. "As prepared as I could be. Your ad said you were looking for beefcake, and I guess I qualify. I'm thinking of it as an acting job, and managed to convince myself I could play it." Which was a joke back, although not really, and he hoped the guy didn't get mad. Eric had known plenty of folks who could joke around about someone else's work, but turned into divas if anyone joked about their own.

"You'll do fine," said the guy. "If you've done acting, TV or film, you should be able to pick up the basics of still camera work. There's some overlap, and so long as you don't get a weird look on your face when I point the lens at you, I'm sure you'll do great."

"Umm, about that...." Eric was very glad he was still scribbling info onto a form, because this last bit might just get him thrown out. "I, umm, was wondering if there was any way you could, like, maybe not show my face? I mean, you're going for the bod anyway, right?"

There were a few moments of silence, then the guy said, "Depends. When you're done there, strip down and let me see what I've got to work with."

"What?" Eric stood up and turned, forms forgotten. "Wait, I don't need it that bad! I mean, if that's the price of--"

"Chill out! For chrissakes, you're jumpy! I meant what I said -- if you don't want your face to show, then I'm going to have to emphasize something else -- shoulders, arms, chest, abs, ass, legs, some combination of the above. From what I can see through your clothes, that shouldn't be an insurmountable problem, but I need to take a look before I'm sure."

"Oh. Umm, sorry, I just... I'm nervous and it's making me a bit stupid. I guess." Eric felt his face heat, and he ducked back down and picked up the pen once more, hoping the blush would go away before he was done.

"No problem. I've worked with a few newbies before. Sometimes it's worth it and sometimes it's not. Just your shoulders and ass alone should be worth it."

"Umm, thanks," Eric said without looking up. He was wondering whether he could ask for any more forms to fill out, because his blush felt like it was going to stick around a while.

Despite his best procrastination, Eric had to turn around and hand the folder back far too soon. While the guy flipped through the sheets, Eric said, "Just to check, you are Viggo Mortensen the photographer, right?"

The guy blinked at him, then laughed. "Yeah, sorry. I get distracted sometimes and details get left behind. Okay, you hit all the blanks. So, let's see what we have to work with?"

Oh, right.

Eric looked around, not sure what he was looking for, but whatever it was he didn't find it. There wasn't anyone else around, though, and the only windows were high up overhead, so what the hell. He pulled his T-shirt off while toeing off his sneakers.

"Mmm, very nice. Good definition." Viggo was circling him, a slow step at a time. Eric fumbled with his trouser button, wondering yet again whether he was being stupid, but when Viggo came back around into view, his expression was thoughtful instead of leering, so... come on, keep going.

Button, zip, shove, kick. He hesitated a second, then shoved his boxer briefs off and forced himself to stand straight, arms a little spread and definitely not covering up his junk, 'cause that'd just be stupid and unprofessional and would make him look like a squeally little girl, right?

Viggo took another prowl around him, then said, "Not a problem at all. In fact, if the calendar shots go well, I could probably give you some more work on another project."

"Great, thanks." It seemed the right thing to say, but Eric was wondering exactly what kind of work Viggo meant.

"All right," said Viggo, grabbing one of the cameras from a table and checking... whatever it was professional photographers checked. Eric took pictures with his phone and that was about it. Viggo waved a hand toward the bed and continued, "Hop on up and give me some poses. Pretend your lover has just walked in the door."

"Eep?" said Eric.

Viggo grinned. "I want to see how you move, what your instincts are like, what shapes you make when left to yourself. I don't really expect anything usable to come out of this first set, but if so, great. I'll crop your face out if it shows; I already said that wasn't a problem."

"Um, naked? I didn't know it was that kind of calendar. I mean, beefcake yeah, but the, uh, full monty?"

"I'll crop that out too," said Viggo. "Damn shame, and it might not leave much of the picture after it's gone, but I'll do what I can." He gave Eric a twinkling smile and Eric did his best to smile back.

He was blushing again, he could tell. At least he didn't have to worry about that being immortalized for posterity.

Eric turned away and looked at the bed. It was big and messy, but the sheets weren't stained, or even really creased. It looked like someone had made it up with clean sheets, then deliberately mussed it about just for the look of it, rather than actually slept -- or whatever -- there earlier. And since when had Eric gotten that dainty?

What the fuck, just go for it.

He yelled, "Hee-yah!" and threw himself onto the bed in a flying leap, arms and legs spread and knees bent just enough to keep from mashing anything vital. He hit in a roll and ended up against the half-dozen pillows up near the headboard, spread out and grinning.

Viggo was snapping off shots. "Great, keep going."

What the hell, this was just warm up anyway, right? It wasn't like anything would be good enough to use this soon.

Eric remembered the last time he'd had a steady lover, the last time they'd had sex, the hot, sticky fun of it all, and gave a wicked smile. Click-click-click. He rolled over onto all fours, glanced over his shoulder, then shifted so he was lying across the bed on his side.

He rolled onto his stomach again, then stretched out, long and slow and tight, fists straight out over his head and toes pointed and everything in between taut and arched. Then he relaxed and let his head droop off the side of the mattress, hands dangling toward the floor.

Click-click-click.

"Great, good stuff. I think you're warmed up enough -- any more and the bed'll catch on fire."

Eric had to laugh, and he turned his head in time to catch Viggo smirking from behind the camera lens.

Viggo walked over to a table and picked up a length of holly garland, then approached the bed. "Turn so you're facing the headboard, on your stomach. Diagonally just a little. Good, now spread your legs -- no, not that much... right there, yeah."

Eric settled into the position, and a moment late he felt the holly being draped across his thighs. He yelped at the pointy leaves poking into delicate skin, but Viggo said, "Just hang on, once it's settled it'll just itch a little. There."

The holly felt like it was spread across the tops of his thighs, just below his butt. The garland would leave his ass showing, but hide anything that might make the calendar NC-17. He heard Viggo's footsteps backing away, then click-click-click again, from different angles.

"Great, now roll over."

Eric obeyed, and Viggo draped the holly over his junk.

"Christmassy fig leaf?"

He got a wink in responses, and "More or less."

Viggo took a few shots, had Eric sit propped up on his elbows, then put his arms and hands into various positions -- over his navel, just beside it, just above it; over one nipple, over a nipple but with his fingers spread, on and on while the camera clicked.

There seemed to be an endless supply of props -- a Santa hat, a reindeer-antler headband, a little tuxedo-thong with a tiny poinsetta flower in one corner, a dozen walnut-sized jingle bells strung on a leather strap....

Viggo took a dozen shots of Eric on his stomach and on his side with his wrists bound behind him by the jingle-bell strap, which had a very sturdy buckle. That one had Eric kind of fidgety; he'd never been into bondage type stuff at all, but his cock was half hard by the time they were through and the contradiction was something he'd have liked to have some private time to think about.

Models didn't get private time, though, so after a brief break for a bottle of water, they were on to the next prop, which was a huge red bow draped across Eric's hips, covering what Eric assumed was meant to be the present. Viggo didn't say anything about Eric's semi-swollen state while adjusting the poufy bow, and Eric was incredibly grateful.

By the time they were done it was almost dinner time and Eric was worn out. "Move" and "Stretch" and "More" and "Hold that" were a lot harder work than he'd thought they'd be.

But finally they were done. Viggo unwrapped the mile and a half of tiny colored lights Eric had been wrapped in for the last set of shots, then said, "That's it. I know I'll get something good out of that. Hell, I could probably make a whole calendar with just you, and the customers would be clamoring for copies."

"Umm, thanks." Eric was back to blushing. He turned away to get dressed, while Viggo packed props and fussed with his cameras behind Eric's back.

While pulling on his slacks, Eric noticed that he was getting dressed a lot more slowly than he would've a few hours earlier. Spending... he checked his watch and stared at the time -- four and a half hours naked or mostly naked in front of someone, feeling their very professional and impersonal hands on you on and off for the entire time, had done a lot to get Eric to relax about the whole naked issue. That was good, right?

"Good job," said Viggo from right behind him. Eric jumped just a little, then turned around and saw him standing there, holding out an envelope. "I'm definitely interested in working with you again, if you want more modelling jobs."

"Umm, yeah, it was interesting." Smooth, Bana, Eric thought with a mental wince. "I really wasn't sure what I was getting into, and I think it pushed some of my boundaries a little, but that's always good, right? It's another performing art, and the skills feed each other."

Viggo nodded and said, "Yeah, I imagine they do. And you definitely loosened up as we went. Mostly." Eric caught a fraction of a grin and Viggo's crow's feet deepened for just a second. "I was going to head out to get some dinner. Want to come along? If you have plans, that's fine."

"Uhh, sure. That sounds good. I didn't have anything in particular planned, and I'm definitely hungry."

"Great. Let me clean up here and we can head out."

An hour later, Eric was sitting in a booth across from Viggo in a little place that'd be a gastro-pub if it were newer or hipper. As it was, they had a nice dark beer on tap and a short menu of good bar food, plus a few things Eric had never heard of. The remains of a swiss-mushroom burger and steak fries were strewn around a paper-lined plastic basket in front of Eric, and a half-full pint -- his second one -- sat to one side. Viggo was still working on a rice-and-chicken dish called paiella that'd come in a shallow metal pan a good foot across.

They'd been talking about work -- comparing jobs, shallow stuff, nothing really specific -- and then segued over to movies they liked, some sports talk, and then an enthusiastic conversation about politics, where Eric insisted the US needed mandatory voting and Viggo argued that if a government couldn't inspire its citizens to participate then it needed more of an overhaul than mandatory voting could give it. After they disagreed on that for a while, Eric changed the subject to cars, then Viggo shifted it to horses.

Viggo seemed to be a good guy, the sort of man Eric wouldn't mind hanging out with to drink beer, watch football (even if they'd be rooting for opposing teams) and all that.

While Viggo was scraping the bottom of his pan, though, he said, "So what do you think of modelling for me again? I have another job lined up next week that you'd suit, and I could use another guy."

Eric switched his brain back into work mode and asked, "What kind of job? Another calendar? I imagine it's the season for it."

"Actually, most calendars were shot a couple of months ago, latest. This one you just did is going to sell as a fund-raiser for an AIDS hospice. Smaller organizations usually run on shorter schedules; they take more time to get the money together, and once they're ready to go, they don't have as much bureaucracy to hack through as the bigger corporate clients."

"Makes sense, I guess. I never really thought about it. So what's the next job?"

"Adam and Steve Forever's spring catalog. Another small company, but they have some good products."

Eric blinked. "Umm, I've never heard of them. What do they sell?"

Viggo grinned, and leaned forward on his folded arms. "Sex toys, sexy clothes, some bondage gear. Nothing seriously hardcore, but it's always a fun shoot."

Eric stifled a snort and gave Viggo a suspicious squint. "I'm surprised you didn't wait till I was taking a slug of beer."

"Spit-takes are only funny when you're more than a couple of feet away," said Viggo with a perfectly straight face.

"Lucky for me, I guess." He eyerolled and took a deliberate slug of beer. "I don't suppose you'll be using any female models?"

"Nope. They have a companion catalog, Addy and Eve Forever, but we shot that one last month. And you wouldn't have qualified for that job anyway."

"No, I don't guess I would've." Eric thought about up-coming auditions, about his comedy club schedule, about living on the street in January instead of December. Even in LA, it got cold at night in winter, and he was still too tall to be able to sleep in his car for more than a quick nap.

Besides, he'd done some kinky stuff already, right? Some of the poses that day had been damn blatant, and bondage with jingle bells was still bondage, yeah? So he'd done it already and it hadn't been bad. He needed the money and... well, that was sort of it.

Maybe not all of it -- Viggo was a nice looking bloke, in a rough-around-the-edges sort of way, and Eric's gaydar was pinging. It wasn't always completely reliable, but Viggo didn't seem to be trying to hide. He didn't swish, but he wasn't trying to hide, either.

"Sure, if it fits my schedule. When next week?"

Viggo's smile widened. "I'd need you on Wednesday and Thursday, maybe Friday. All day, eight to five, with an hour break for lunch."

"That works," said Eric. "I have a club date on Friday, but not until eight."

"Great, I'll expect you then, 8am."

Eric nodded and pulled out his phone to make a note.

Viggo finished his beer while Eric was entering his note on the calendar app. When he was done, Viggo said, "I have some better beer back at my place. Want to come over and try it?"

Well, that was... not really direct, per se, but pretty clear. Viggo was sitting back in his seat, relaxed and mellow, like he was okay with whatever Eric answered. And he'd said Eric could have more work before bringing up anything else; he didn't seem like the kind of guy who'd try to spring a trap and pull a casting couch play, either.

And he was nice looking. Older, but in good shape, nice smile, and just a good feeling about him. To Eric, that was more important than a perfect face or ripped abs.

"Sure," he said. "Always interested in trying a new beer. Or whatever."

Viggo smiled and said, "Cool." They paid the bill and headed out.

Eric followed Viggo out to a small, comfortably shabby house in Venice. The lawn needed mowing and the bushes were kind of raggedy, but it had stained glass windows with modern, abstract patterns and the front door looked like a custom job, different colors of hardwood pieced together into a mosaic that suggested wood grain, but magnified about twenty times. Eric thought it was gorgeous, but he was mentally piecing together a joke to tell about it -- I met a guy who spent five grand on a hand-made hardwood door done in a mosaic pattern to make it look like... wood. Not quite, but something in the neighborhood. The idea was a crack-up, even if the result in real life was beautiful. He'd have to remember to jot that down in his note pad when he had a chance to be discreet about it.

Viggo let them in and took Eric's jacket, which he tossed onto a bench near the door with his own. Then he said, "Beer now or later?"

Eric had to grin. "How about after?"

"Suits me." Viggo stepped forward, slipped a hand behind Eric's neck to coax his head down, and kissed him. Eric wrapped one arm around Viggo's waist, smoothed the other one over that messy hair and kissed back.

Just by how he looked in his clothes, Eric had known that Viggo wasn't chubby or anything, but feeling him, with a hand on his back and their fronts pressed together, he could tell that the man was lean and tight. Not ripped, so far as Eric could tell, but solid.

Viggo took a step backward, pulling Eric along. He broke the kiss long enough to say, "Bed," and then took another step. Eric followed, and they made their way through the entry way, down a hall and into a messy bedroom. It was slow and awkward, but the kissing and touching was enough to hold his interest and Eric didn't mind the delay in getting to the main event.

Viggo tugged Eric's T-shirt off while Eric worked on Viggo's buttons. That worked about as well as you might imagine, and they ended up in a laughing, grabbing, grappling tangle that eventually worked out to two naked men on a pile of discarded clothing, with a minimum of bruises.

Eric tried to crawl up onto the bed, but Viggo grabbed him halfway, when his body was up on the mattress but his knees were still on the floor. Eric felt his thighs pushed apart, and then one of his balls was suddenly sucked into a hot mouth that tightened down just enough. He yelped and saw stars.

As soon as Viggo opened his mouth for a breath, Eric scrambled forward and turned over, laughing and panting. "Get up here, you looney!"

"What?" Viggo asked with a smug grin. He crawled up onto the bed and over Eric's legs, running his hands up and down Eric's thighs. "You seemed to be having a good time."

"I'm glad you could tell, but I'd rather be able to reciprocate, at least a little. C'mere." Eric grabbed him under the arms and hauled him up so Viggo was lying flush on top of him, and latched on for another kiss while his hands roamed down Viggo's back and got a good grip on his ass.

Viggo hummed approval and scooted till he was sitting on his knees, his back bent to keep the kiss going. That gave him leverage to start rubbing his cock against Eric's, slow and firm. Both were erect and hard, and Eric felt like he could feel every molecule of Viggo's cock against his own. Viggo'd made some comments during the shoot about Eric's equipment, but from what Eric could tell by feel, Viggo didn't have anything to be ashamed of either.

He felt his balls tightening and he pulled his lips free to say, "Hang on, I don't want to come yet."

"No, that'd be bad," said Viggo, obviously in an agreeable mood. He leaned down and sucked one of Eric's nipples, then gave it a quick bite. Eric yelled and tried to buck him off just out of reflex, but Viggo had a good hold.

"You prick," Eric gasped. "Want this to last!"

"Fussy," teased Viggo. Then, "You pitch or catch?"

"Either, both, whatever," said Eric.

"Awesome." Viggo leaned over to rummage through the drawer of a nightstand, and came back with a tube of lube and a box of condoms. He squirted out a handful of slick and started working on his own passage, which... well, that was kind of surprising, but not in any kind of a bad way.

When Viggo was ready to go, he ripped open a condom and rolled it over Eric's erection, which definitely hadn't shrunk any while watching Viggo lube himself. Eric sat up, meaning to roll over on top of Viggo in whichever position the other guy preferred, but Viggo stopped him, and pushed him back down flat with both hands on his shoulders.

With a grin, Viggo straddled him, used one hand to aim, then sat back a little, with just a light pressure on Eric's cock. He shifted his hips with a satisfied "Hmmm..." sound, then leaned forward again and pinned Eric's forearms to the mattress on either side of his head.

Sparks zinged through Eric's nerves. He was bigger than Viggo, and more muscular; Viggo wasn't really "holding him down" in the strict sense of the term, and Eric knew that. He was sure Viggo knew it too. But still -- Viggo was holding him down. And fucking himself on Eric's cock, very, very slowly. All Eric could do, without using his strength to completely disrupt the configuration, which wasn't any kind of desirable option, was lie there and feel.

What he felt was torment -- hot, tight, maddeningly slow torment.

Viggo'd lubed himself up, but hadn't actually prepped; he wasn't stretched. He was stretching himself out on Eric's cock, one tiny, slow shift at a time, with an occasional wiggle thrown in just to drive Eric crazy. Eric was just barely inside him; he could tell the head of his cock hadn't passed through the still-tight ring of muscle yet. It felt like it was too tight -- much too tight -- like it wasn't going to fit and nothing could make it. But with every other breath, a tiny bit more slipped inside.

A circular rotation of Viggo's hips had Eric moaning, with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. Viggo ducked down and teased a nipple again with his lips and tongue, and a spasm jolted through Eric's body, jarring both of them.

"Whoa, boy!" Viggo jerked forward and ended up flat against Eric's chest, laughing and gasping.

"Then stop biting!" Eric ducked down for a kiss. Viggo tipped his head to meet him, and started easing himself down again.

"Uhhh.... I'm gonna pop, mate. Seriously, I am."

"Is that a complaint or just an observation?"

"Warning!" Eric bucked his hips and it was Viggo's turn to yelp as he came down a good inch and Eric felt the head of his cock slide all the way through.

"That could've used a warning, damn!"

"You complaining?" Eric echoed.

"Not really." Viggo sat up again and shifted his weight, then slid the rest of the way down until his ass bottomed out against Eric's pelvis, a long, slow slide that had Eric moaning again.

"There we go." Viggo stared down at him, his gaze intense and devouring, then started to move, fucking himself.

He was still holding Eric pinned. Eric had to move, needed to move, to touch and feel and hold, but when he tried to pull free, he found he couldn't. He still wasn't using his full strength, but Viggo clearly meant to hold onto him unless he did.

It was... weird, but hot. Since he could get away, it was voluntary, like he was agreeing to let Viggo hold onto him, and because it was his choice, he could get into it, let himself feel what a turn-on it was to just let someone else be in charge of giving him pleasure. Eric was usually careful to be a generous lover, putting in the effort to make sure his partner had a good time. But Viggo didn't seem to want that, at least not at the moment, and if letting Viggo have a good time meant letting him control what happened -- even if he wanted to control what Eric did and felt -- then Eric was willing to let him have it.

He sank into the feelings, the hot-tight-slick-friction-faster-tease-bite-zing feelings, free to focus on himself and his body and watch the guy who was taking him over the edge and into freefall. Shining blue eyes were the last thing he saw before the pleasure surged up and forced rational thought completely out of his brain.

Thursday took Eric to a shabby industrial block for an audition. It was a third-round call-back, and he sat in one of the metal folding chairs with a few dozen other tall, brawny actors, plus a few dozen busty, sexpot type actresses, all trying to get lucky in a Rising Tide film. RT was only a few years old, but they'd got some buzz on the festival circuit and industry analysts thought they were poised for a hit. Eric -- and every other struggling actor within a hundred miles of LA -- wanted his name on their posters when they did it. If they did it. They might not, of course, but that's what it took to make it in the business -- trying over and over and over and hoping to luck out.

Eric and all his rivals there that day had already had more luck than most actors saw in a year, just making it that far through the audition process. Eric had a feeling about this one -- they were looking for an action type guy who could shoot the bad guys and romance the girl while doing some of his own stunts, and Eric was up for all that. So was every other guy waiting with him.

What gave Eric an edge, though, was that the hero was also supposed to be funny, at least enough to toss off wise-cracks and make some bad puns -- in character, on beat, without going over the top. That was comedy, and comedy was all timing and control of expression and body language through the arc of the joke, however long or short that might be. Hitting it right took experience, and Eric was pretty sure he had more comic experience than any of the body-builder types who were his competition.

He hoped so, anyway.

All he could do was sink into the character and give them his best, and that's what he did. When he was called in, an assistant pointed him to a clear spot in front of a long table lined with people along one side. Eric recognized the director, a couple of producers, an exec from Rising Tide, plus there were a couple of new faces.

They had him run through a scene with an assistant reading the other parts, then another similar scene. Then they brought in one of the actresses and had them do a scene together a couple of times. They paired him up with four other actresses for the same scene, and by the time they were done Eric was ready to fall into bed, and was pretty sure he'd be dreaming the scene over and over when he did.

On Friday morning, Viggo called him up at an ungodly hour and said, "Wanna get some coffee?"

Eric squinted at the clock on his nightstand and was ready to say "Fuck no," only not quite so polite. But then he remembered how early he'd gone to bed and realized that he actually was ready to get up.

"Okay," he mumbled into the phone. "When? Where?"

"Give me your address and I'll pick you up in twenty minutes. Sounds like you shouldn't be driving yet."

Eric managed to recite his address with minimal errors and repetitions, then hung up and stumbled out of bed, heading for the shower.

When the doorbell rang, Eric was dressed and working on getting his hair dry. He tossed the towel aside and headed for the door.

"Hey, morning." Viggo gave him an appreciative glance up and down, then tilted his head back toward the parking lot. "C'mon, I'll drive."

Eric grabbed his jacket, then said, "Sure, good. Morning," and was kind of proud of himself for managing to be polite and remember the jacket.

"You really need coffee, don't you?" Viggo grinned and steered Eric over to his car with a hand at the small of his back. "Feel free to nap on the way."

"Nap? Where we going? There's coffee right up the street."

"We're going for good coffee."

Eric buckled in and decided to enjoy the ride. Which was just as well, because forty minutes later they were winding along up the coast, passing mostly cliffs and surf and the occasional house. The scenery was great, but it seemed a little over the top for a going-for-coffee type trip. The weather was overcast and gray, and they drove through occasional drizzles and one good shower.

Viggo eventually turned off on a side road that headed out closer to the water, then drove another five minutes to a cluster of weathered wooden buildings and parked. "Coffee."

"This'd better be some bloody good coffee," Eric muttered, but he gave Viggo a smirk and a smack on the shoulder while they walked up to one of the buildings. It had a flaking sign outside that said Gull's Nest Cafe.

The area was pretty and the air was fresh. Eric had come awake enough to be able to appreciate the trip, even if he still thought it was kind of silly to drive for... he checked his watch and snorted. Almost an hour and a half away to get coffee.

They headed inside and Viggo said, "Hey, Rachel."

"Hey, Viggo. You made good time." Rachel was a middle-aged woman with short, graying hair, wearing a sweatshirt and a knitted hat, which she needed because the cafe was chilly. There was a big brown bag on the counter in front of her, and she pushed it over toward the two men.

"Not much traffic," said Viggo. He handed her some money and took the bag. "This is Eric. He's still half asleep, but he's usually a nice guy."

Rachel laughed and Eric glared. "I'm more than awake enough to be nice," Eric said. He gave Rachel a big smile and said, "Great to meet you."

"Ooo, an Aussie! Love the accent!" Rachel gave him a flirty look, then said, "Viggo always finds the cute ones."

"Down, girl," said Viggo with a grin. "How're they doing this morning? Good day for watching?"

"Great!" said Rachel with a smile. "At least half a dozen pups now."

"Awesome, thanks for the call."

"Welcome! Have fun!"

They said goodbye and Eric followed Viggo out the door. Viggo would've kept going, but Eric clamped a hand on his shoulder and said, "Coffee?"

Viggo snickered, but set the bag down on one of the battered tables out on the porch. He dug an extra-large, insulated cup of coffee out of the bag and handed it to Eric. "There's sugar in here somewhere, and pumpkin muffins. Are you a milk person? I should've asked -- if you want milk, we can go back in."

"Nah, just some sugar's fine." Eric doctored his coffee the way he liked it, then took a good slug and felt life seeping into all the cells of his body. He knew it was mostly psychosomatic and didn't give a damn. He dug a muffin out of the bag and took a bite. Pumpkin wasn't something he'd have chosen, but it was good -- moist and pumpkiny, with ginger and cinnamon, and pumpkin seed bits sprinkled on top.

"All organic," said Viggo, waving a muffin of his own. "Rachel grows her own pumpkins at home, then purees most of them and freezes it so she can make muffins for the next few months."

"Good stuff," Eric agreed, taking another bite. "So, coffee and muffins? Do you come up here every morning?" He was only half joking; the other half was wondering whether Viggo might actually go that far up the coast for coffee regularly. Rachel certainly seemed to know him.

"Not every morning, but sometimes." Viggo stuffed the bag into his car, grabbed a camera and hung it around his neck by its strap, then said, "Come on," and headed off down a dirt path with his own coffee in one hand and his muffin in the other. Eric followed, twice as glad he had his jacket.

The path led out to the edge of the cliff over the beach, then turned to run along it. There was a weathered rail fence right up at the edge, but Eric wouldn't want to have to trust it if he tripped and needed to grab something that'd hold his weight.

The surf pounded into the base of the cliffs, sending white, salt-scented spray fountaining up nearly to the level of the path.

"Someone have puppies out this way?" Eric asked. "You thinking of getting one?"

Viggo sent a grin over his shoulder and said, "Yes and no. Hang on, we're almost there."

They walked another couple hundred meters before the breeze brought a far-away barking sound. Whatever was barking, there were a lot of them. And because he wasn't completely thick, by the time Viggo stopped and pointed down to the beach below, Eric knew they weren't there to see dogs.

A rocky beach stretched out below the cliffs, an isolated curve tucked into the base of an inlet. The beach petered out in sheer cliffs on both sides, and Eric didn't see any path leading down; it was isolated unless you had either a boat, or a sturdy rope and decent abseiling skills.

Which was just as well because clustered on the beach were about thirty seals, including the half dozen seal pups Rachel had mentioned.

"Do they come here to give birth?" asked Eric. He was leaning on one of the sturdier fence posts and couldn't stop smiling.

"Yeah, some of 'em. The big event for elephant seals is up at Año Nuevo, but a few come here every year." Viggo'd finished his muffin on the way, and he set his coffee on the ground so he could use his camera.

The click-click-click reminded Eric of their photo session, which reminded him of that night, which helped warm him up in the chilly wind.

The seals were mostly huddled on the beach, adults Eric assumed were the mothers minding their pups. Some of the bigger ones were barking at each other with deep voices, and occasionally a couple of them would come together in a scuffle over territory or females or whatever else huge seals had to argue over.

Eric sipped his coffee and finished his muffin, alternately watching the seals and watching Viggo. He moved up and down the railing -- standing, kneeling, lying down, getting every possible angle and fiddling with what Eric assumed was the zoom on his lens. Most of his photos were of the seals, but he aimed his camera out at the ocean, too, and up at the sky, and back at the rugged landscape, and at Eric.

They stayed out for over an hour, watching the seals and each other, before they hiked back and went to get breakfast. Which wasn't as much of an adventure as going for coffee had been, but Eric enjoyed it anyway.

He enjoyed dinner Saturday night, too, which had begun with an invitation to go for a walk. The "walk" had been a winding ramble that must've been at least a couple of miles long through West Hollywood. They stopped at a Chinese place for steamed buns as an appetizer, a diner for the best beef-barley soup Eric had ever had, a food truck for spicy fish tacos, a butcher shop with a take-out counter for fajitas, a fancy restaurant Eric was barely dressed for to get a mixed-vegetable gratin that made the stop much less of a waste than Eric had originally expected, and a tiny bakery for really awesome cheesecake brownies.

Eric figured if Viggo ever invited him to go for a hike, he should run out and buy a set of pitons and an ice axe.

Sunday morning, Eric's phone woke up the both of them by playing the chorus from Abba's "Money, Money, Money." It was his agent's ringtone and Eric struggled to untangle himself from both the bedclothes and Viggo before fumbling through his trousers -- found halfway under the bed.

"Annie, morning," he said, managing to enunciate well enough to be understood, at least by his agent, who'd known him for three years. "What's up?"

"Hey, Eric, I've got a late Christmas present for you. I just heard from Rising Tide -- they want you for Matt."

"They-- whoa! That's awesome!" Eric flopped back onto the mattress with what he was pretty sure was a really stupid grin on his face.

"Damn right. I e-mailed you a PDF of the contract. I made some notes on it, but it looks good. Read it, call me with any questions, and be ready to sign next Tuesday. Carol's taking us to lunch, and Larry'll probably be there."

Larry Burkhardt, the director, had been at Eric's second and third auditions, but Eric hadn't really had a chance to talk to him. Going to lunch with him would be a great opportunity to start getting to know him and get a feel for what it'd be like working with him. "I'll get right on it as soon as I'm home. Next Tuesday at noon?"

Viggo touched Eric's shoulder and muttered, "What's up?"

Eric turned his head and said, "Nothing, business," most of his attention still on his phone.

"Eleven-thirty," Annie said. "I included the address in the e-mail." She paused a moment, then said, "You going out with a guy, Eric?"

"Uh, yeah, I met someone recently. Why?"

She sighed. "That's an issue. There's a morality clause in the contract, and from what I've heard, RT doesn't negotiate on those."

"A morality... so wait, what does that mean? I can't have a boyfriend while I'm working for them? They're aware this is the twenty-first century, yeah?"

"One of their major backers is a conservative Christian whose older brother is in politics -- they piss him off and the whole production company crashes. Look, it's not that you can't have a boyfriend, but you're going to have to stay in the closet. We've talked about this before, and nothing's changed in the business since then."

"Right, I know, but.... Shit. It's just, it wasn't a big deal before. I mean, pick-ups and casual stuff... I didn't care, they weren't really important. But now--"

"Now you've met someone important? Damn, Eric, your timing stinks." She made a low humming noise Eric recognized as her thinking mode. Eventually she said, "I can't decide for you; this is your choice. I'll say that this could be a major turning point in your career. I'll also say that, twenty-first century or not, it's not going to be much different anywhere else. There won't always be a contract clause that specifically prohibits you from being out, but if you do come out it'll affect what parts you get. You know that."

"Yeah, I know, I do. It's just... fuck."

He did know that. That was why he hadn't wanted his face to show on that calendar; he'd explained it to Viggo, and he certainly understood the business himself. He knew he couldn't be out if he wanted a shot at the kind of career he'd been working for.

It still sucked, though. He hadn't really noticed when he'd started thinking of Viggo as a potential boyfriend instead of just a good looking guy who was great in bed, but somewhere in there it'd happened.

Nothing might come of it -- he had no idea what page of the manual Viggo was on; did he want to sabotage his career for something that might be nothing? But what if it was something?

"I'll think about it," he finally said. "I'll look over the contract, and decide what I want to do. I'll let you know before the meeting."

"You think hard," she said. "If you're going to come out, whether it's for your current guy or for someone else or just on principle, that'll change our career strategy."

"I know, I know. Thanks, Annie. I'll talk to you later."

He disconnected and tossed the phone back down onto his crumpled trousers.

Viggo sat up, scrubbing his fingers through his hair, and said, "Problems?"

"Yeah. No, but yeah. Usual stuff. It just didn't...." Eric trailed off and turned to look at Viggo. "Can I ask you something that'll make you think I have no social skills at all?"

Viggo grinned. "Sure. Not like mine are all that great -- ask anyone who knows me."

"You're eccentric," said Eric, who found himself grinning. "This is just... kind of pathetic."

"I get it, you're about to embarass yourself. So shoot."

Eric glared at him, then looked away. "Okay, so, we just met recently, but I've been having a good time, and not just in bed. I think this thing, whatever it is, has... potential. So I was wondering if you agreed, or if it was just sort of--"

"So what you mean is, do I like you, circle yes or no?"

Eric could tell from his tone that Viggo was grinning at him. Eric clenched his jaw and said, "Yeah, I guess."

"Yes."

Eric waited, then said, "That's it?"

"Yes, I do like you. I've been having fun too; that's why I asked you out for coffee and dinner. You're a good guy, you don't have a stick up your ass, you're not full of yourself like a lot of hot actors, and the sex is great. So yes, I agree, this whatever-it-is has potential."

"Oh. Okay, good." It was awesome, really, except it didn't solve his immediate problem. It would've actually been easier if Viggo'd said no, that it was just a few days of hanging out and fucking. Which wouldn't have been good, but--

"So what's up? I assume your phone call is what brought all this up?"

"Yeah. That was my agent, I have an offer of a part. It's not a big movie, like expected to be a blockbuster or anything, but it could be a springboard to bigger things, you know?"

Viggo nodded. "That's good news. I take it our 'thing' is an issue?"

"Yeah." Eric pulled his legs back up onto the bed and flopped down on his back, staring at the ceiling. "It's always been an issue in this business, but in this case there's a morality clause in the contract, and one of the production company's major backers considers being gay to be immoral. I've always been discreet, but I'd have to be completely in the closet for the duration of the contract."

"That sounds pretty much like what you've been doing."

Eric sighed. "Except that now... now I need to know if that's okay with you."

"With me? Sure. I promise I won't throw all your stuff out the window if you don't take me to the Oscars as your date."

Eric poked Viggo in the stomach, getting an "Oof!" out of him. "I doubt that'll be an issue. It's more that we'll have to be careful in public. We won't even be able to be seen together much, unless I get a beard or something. I mean, I could -- Annie has a client who's a lesbian and we've gone out a couple of times when Jerrie had paps following her. This time it'll be for me, though, and if we're both covering, it'll probably need to be turned into a bigger production, you know?"

"I do know," Viggo said. He still sounded calm, which was good, mostly. "I've probably worked in this town longer than you, and you're not the first actor who's done modelling to pay the rent in between parts. I know a lot of people in the industry and I do get it. I think the question is whether you can handle it. I've seen guys go down that road before. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. You'll be on stage twenty-four-seven, with no breaks. That tends to grind a person down."

Eric could imagine it. If the movie just sank then it wouldn't matter much because no one would be paying any attention to him. If it was a success, though, if there were other successes after it, the better Eric's career went, the more thoroughly he'd have to play the part of a straight guy who ogled tits instead of cocks.

He'd known it, but had never really faced it before.

Viggo leaned down and kissed him, drawing one gentle finger across Eric's cheekbone. "You think about it. It's your life, and you need to be the one at the wheel." Then he got up and started rummaging around in his dresser for clothes.

Eric spent the rest of the day at home, reading his contract and thinking and pacing.

In a way, having a week and a half to think about it just made it worse. If he had to decide fast, right then, he'd just... well, decide something and then it'd be over with and he'd be committed. But with a week and a half to consider it, he'd drive himself around the bend before it came down to the wire.

He'd already changed his mind half a dozen time. The idea of being completely closeted, of having a fake girlfriend -- eventually, probably -- as a regular thing rather than just occasionally was repulsive. Having to look over his shoulder all the time, having to make sure all the blinds were closed before he kissed his boyfriend in his own living room.... He knew a lot of guys lived like that, and women too, but the thought of doing it himself? For years?

At the same time, the only thing forcing him to make a decision right then was Viggo. Eric could face the idea of living closetted for a couple of years, through filming and the release and promotion, on his own. If he were still single, it'd be no decision at all -- he'd take this step in his career and accept that he wouldn't be able to come out publicly for a few years. If he made it big, he'd have a better chance of weathering a coming-out storm later, when he wouldn't be in breach of contract. If he came out while he was unknown, he wouldn't even get a chance to approach the big, fancy doors, much less to walk through.

Later was always there, was always another chance. Except he didn't have later.

Or maybe he did. Because Viggo hadn't seemed terribly concerned one way or the other about what Eric did. Eric was pretty sure he'd be willing to strike out and wave the rainbow flag if he had a reason, but he wasn't sure he had a reason.

What if he made an irrevocable step and then Viggo said it's been fun, see you sometime?

Fuck it. Eric changed into shorts and a T-shirt and headed to the gym. Maybe some mindless sweating would bring the answer out.

Monday evening was beer and bullshit night. Eric got together with some friends, other comedians, to drink and hang and try out new material. That week they were at Ross Chang's place, a cheap apartment near UCLA where, as Ross said in his act, you didn't need a clock 'cause the gunshots went off every hour and the sirens every half hour.

Eric was standing in the center of a circle of seats and saying, "So Oi've got this new friend, roight? He calls me up at some ungodly hour and says, 'You wanna get some coffee?'" Eric always cranked up the Aussie accent when he was performing; it won him some points with audiences, who seemed more willing to laugh at someone who talked funny. "So Oi haul my arse outa bed an' he picks me up and we start driving. And we're driving and we're driving and pretty soon we're clear out of LA and heading up the coast, and Oi'm thinking, what, did someone poison Los Angeles's coffee supply?"

He paused and got a few grunts and smirks out of the gang, which was pretty good for them, 'cause pros were always a tough audience.

"So we end up in a woid spot in the road at the top of a cliff, in a little cafe barely hanging onto the last piece of dry land on this end of the continent. I thought as soon as we walked in the extra weight would send the whole building crashing down into the surf, roight? But no, the owner thought of that. They had a couple of employees who, the second we came in the door, dashed out from behind the counter and ran over to our soid of the room while we walked back to the register." Eric illustrated the dashing and walking and crossing in the middle with sweeping gestures as he talked. "So they were, like, counterweights, roight? They got minimum wage to make sure everything balanced -- the owner said the insurance company'd sent 'em over, 'cause it was cheaper than paying to replace the building."

That one got groans and eyerolls. "No? Okay, I'll come up with something else for that bit." Eric scribbled a note on his pad, then continued.

"So a few days later he calls up and asks if Oi wanna grab some dinner with him. Oi say foin, and he comes to get me. And we're driving and we're driving and pretty soon we've left LA and we're driving through the countryside, and Oi'm thinkin', what, did the Health Department crack down on all the restaurants in LA or something?"

"That's a good guess," said Stacy with a smirk.

"It'll happen one day, you watch," added Ross. "The perfect storm of cockroaches."

"Some day, sure, but it hasn't happened yet, 'cause me friend is driving along and pulls onto this dirt road, and a few miles later we stop at what looks like an army camp or something, with a couple huts and a big tent all in camouflage, and I'm thinking, damn, we drove three hours to eat army food?" Eric made a disgusted face and rolled his eyes.

"But believe it or not, that would've been preferable to what we had, 'cause what this was, was a survivalist type of training camp. You know, places you can go to learn to shoot a machine gun or set traps with hand grenades or drive tanks...? That kinda place? Could be fun, roit? But we were there to eat, so this pot-bellied guy in khaki hands us a full color pamphlet and points us out to the bush. We spent the next two hours foraging for food." Eric waited a beat, then said, "Did you know spoidas are edible? No joke. You use your pocket knoife to remove the poison glands from their arse and then you pop 'em in your mouth by the handful. They're just like cherries, except they're crunchier and they have eight stems."

That got a chorus of groans and a couple of barf noises and even some actual laughter. Eric smirked and waited for the noise to die down.

"So me friend, he asked me if Oi wanted to meet him next Saturday and go for a walk." He waited about a second and a half, then said, "Oi've got a set of pitons and an ice axe on order."

Eric took a bow to more groans. A couple of people gave him a few claps, which was awesome. They spent the next fifteen minutes or so tearing it all apart, and Eric scribbled a lot of notes on his pad, ideas to tighten it up and improve the flow and the timing. Then he sat down and it was Morty's turn.

Even if nothing else came of it, Viggo'd given him some good material.

Click to: Part Two

Orlando Sighting :D

Sat, 22 Oct 2011 19:39:31 GMT

Okay, not quite, but at least a mention.

Howard Taylor does Schlock Mercenary, the best SF web comic I've run into. He also does movie reviews, and today he posted one about the new Three Musketeers movie. He mentioned Orlando in a way I thought people over here would get a kick out of:

I did have some complaints. This movie only has one Orlando Bloom in it, but it needed three, or maybe four. In fact, it looked like at least two of the non-Orlando-Bloom swashbuckling, slender, dark-haired men were trying really hard to BE Orlando Bloom -- weird, since he's already in the movie.

LOL! Maybe we could get a petition going, asking for an All-Orlando version of Three Musketeers? I'll bet Howard would sign it! Or maybe not. But plenty of folks around here would, yes? :D

Angie

Marriage in New York (orig. posted 27 July 11)

Wed, 03 Aug 2011 21:01:10 GMT

[A post that should've gone up while LJ was down.]

The Guardian UK did a beautiful photo piece about gay couples getting married in New York. Look at the pictures, read the captions; I had tears streaming by the time I was halfway through. Especially check out the fourth photo -- Myron Levine and Philip Zinderman have been together for fifty-one years and were finally able to get married. That's so awesome. And now I'm tearing up again.

Huge kudos to the people of New York. This should be happening in every state.

Angie

Baratunde Thurston on Trump and the Birth Certificate Fiasco

Fri, 29 Apr 2011 07:50:18 GMT

Yes, this.

Now We Know How Bad it Has to Get for the Republicans to Disown Someone

Thu, 17 Mar 2011 07:12:11 GMT

Clue delivery for Jack Davis: You know you're a radical wingnut when even the folks in charge of the modern Republican party dump your butt because you're embarassing them.

[Caveat: yes, I know there are plenty of thoughtful, intelligent Republicans in this country. They're just not the ones in charge of the party right now, and that's a major problem for the US in the 21st century.]

Jack Davis has been pushing for a congressional seat for the last few elections, and threw his hat into the ring when Chris Lee resigned over an internet sex scandal, necessitating a special election to fill his newly empty spot. Things were apparently going well until Mr. Davis suggested, in public, "that Latino farmworkers be deported -- and that African-Americans from the inner city be bused to farm country to pick the crops."

Wow. Seriously.

Because clearly 1) all Latino farmworkers are illegal aliens, and 2) rounding up black people and forcing them to the fields to do agricultural labor worked so well for this country last time we did it.

W. Curtis Ellis, a Davis spokesman who apparently needs to look up "damage control" in the political dictionary, said afterward:

"It may not be politically correct and it may not be racially correct, but when you have African American people in Buffalo who do not have jobs and are out of work, why are you bringing people into this country illegally to take jobs?" Ellis asked.

Wow again. Apparently Mr. Ellis agrees with Mr. Davis that the whole forced-agricultural-labor thing turned out well enough in the early days of our country that it's worth trying again. (And with the "fact" that all Latino farm workers are illegal aliens.) Note also that Mr. Ellis's statement is a classic example of how, when someone says that something "may not be politically correct," the subtext is "This may well be grossly offensive, but I agree with it anyway because it's my privilege to do so." At least Mr. Ellis is working for a candidate whose world view and position he can wholeheartedly support.

Having been dumped by a Republican party leadership that's proven even it has limits, Mr. Davis is trying to collect enough signatures to get onto the ballot as the Tea Party candidate. It'll be interesting to see whether they have limits.

Thanks to the Field Negro for linking to this.

Angie

Fic: Releasing Tension

Sat, 08 Jan 2011 11:24:15 GMT

Title: Releasing Tension
Author: AngiePen
Fandom: Actorslash
Pairing: Karl/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Harry's been so wound up and stressed out lately that it's starting to affect his health, and Karl's worried. He has an idea that might help Harry let go, but he's not sure Harry will go for it, or that it'll even work if he agrees to try. Karl thinks it's worth a shot, though, and it'll likely be fun regardless.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone you recognize. I know nothing about their social lives or sexual activities, more's the pity. This is fiction, period. It is done as a labor of love and I make no money from it.
Notes: Written for savageseraph for the 2010 slashababy fest.

Karl knew it'd been another bad day when he didn't hear Harry come in.

On good days, the rapid-fire thudding of boots up the wooden steps, the rattle-clatter of the screen door and the creak-slam of the back door -- on good days, all those noises in quick sequence told Karl that the day's shoot had gone well and that Harry was in a good mood. A relaxed and upbeat Harry was open and noisy, as though the good mood had to spread to the world around him.

Quiet meant Harry was holding it all in.

When a flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye, Karl looked up from the sofa and watched Harry close the door, then cross the room slowly to the closet. He took off his jacket, the old tan one that Karl had threatened to throw out who knew how many times, and hung it up, each move precise.

Watching Harry like that -- eyebrows and mouth and shoulders and arms, everything slanted down -- made Karl twist up inside.

He got up and moved behind Harry, wrapped his arms around him and squeezed. It was like he was helping Harry hold everything in, and Harry always seemed to appreciate it. He leaned back into Karl's embrace, tilted his head up and gave Karl a tight smile.

"It's good to be home."

Karl nodded, because saying that it was good to have him home would've been just way too fifties sitcom. Instead he asked, "Did you eat?"

"I grabbed something at the craft table," Harry said with a vague nod. Karl knew that could've been hours earlier, maybe even lunchtime.

"Are you hungry? I made a couple of steaks -- there's one for you, and some salad."

The grimace on Harry's face gave Karl the answer before Harry said, "I don't think I could eat anything. I'm just tired."

He didn't look tired. Or rather, he didn't look like his body needed sleep. It was the exhaustion of keeping everything locked onside, of not yelling profanities, not throwing anything, not punching through any of the walls of the set, when things were going pear-shaped and the frustration roiled and fizzed, struggling to get out in an explosion that would send everyone scurrying for cover.

Harry never let himself go off when he was working, though. Considered it unprofessional, an inexcusable indulgence. Karl had worked with one or two directors who did it regularly, but he had to agree with Harry that it didn't make for a pleasant set. Nor did it create an atmosphere where the actors felt safe sinking into their characters, thinking and experimenting and letting their performances flow. Some directors liked to have everyone on edge and jumping to give exactly what the director demanded, no more and no less.

Harry wasn't like that, though. He was great to work with, for actors with enough confidence to play with the part and accept the failures that inevitably came with experimentation, knowing the director would accept them too. That was what multiple takes were for, after all. Well, one of the things, but in Karl's opinion, one of the better things.

It didn't always work out, though. There were always bad days, and that was when Harry ended up standing tense and tight in Karl's arms, unable to let it all go even at home.

Karl'd been cooking up an idea for a while, a possible way to fix things, but he'd never tried to get Harry to go along, or even mentioned it. It wasn't the sort of thing Harry was into, and Harry would be reluctant at best, possibly pissed of, and maybe even offended to the point of making things really awkward for a while. Karl had bought the stuff he'd need to do it -- wasn't the internet great? -- but he'd never actually got to the point of discussing it, much less giving it a shot.

Harry'd never been quite so wound up since the idea had appeared, though, so Karl thought that night was probably a good time to try. If Harry was too tense to eat, that was the start of a downward spiral that led to exhaustion and collapse, and Karl wasn't about to let it go that far. Not again.

He gave Harry another squeeze, then rotated him around and nudged him in the direction of the bedroom. Harry went along, didn't really notice at first, most likely, then asked, "Where we going?"

"Bed," Karl said. "You're going to let me take care of you.

"I am, huh?"

"Yeah, you are." Karl aimed them to Harry's side of the bed and stopped, then got busy unbuttoning Harry's shirt.

Harry shrugged but let Karl keep going. "I don't know if I have enough energy for much more than a blowjob, but I'll give it a shot."

"I don't think a lack of energy is the problem right now."

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm pretty damn tired." Harry glowered down at Karl, who'd knelt to undo the buttons on Harry's jeans.

"I know you are," Karl replied, keeping his voice calm and even. "But that's not the main issue. You're all wound up, so tense you're about to snap." He squeezed Harry's thigh, poked his belly, tried to knead his forearm; every place he touched was rock-hard.

He saw Harry glare down at him, like he was about to snap out something harsh. Then Harry's face went blank and he looked away. "Exactly. Stress."

No you don't, Karl thought. Harry was hiding again, suppressing, building up more pressure.

Shoes and socks came off. "There, sit." Karl urged Harry back onto the bed, then bent down and kissed him. It was a slow exploration to see how he'd react, how much of himself he'd let out for a kiss. When he was relaxed and in a good mood, Harry'd try to take over a kiss, and they'd end up battling for dominance in a way that was fun no matter how it turned out. Right then, though, it felt like Harry was phoning it in.

When Karl backed away, Harry sighed and said, "Sorry, I'm tired. Maybe in the morning?"

You're not that tired, thought Karl. Aloud he said, "Just relax a minute. I want to try something and I need some stuff."

Harry swung his legs up and flopped back onto the bed. "Stuff? What kind of stuff? I told you, I'm not up for anything fancy. I'm sorry if you had plans, but can it wait?"

Karl dug a plain cardboard box out of the back of the closet and set it on the floor next to the bed. "The whole point is to do it now. The problem isn't the tired, it's the tension, and we're going to take care of that." He fished a wide, leather cuff, padded on the inside with sheepskin, out of the box and dangled it where Harry could see it if he opened his eyes.

Harry opened his eyes and sat up so fast he bounced. "What the fuck, Karl? You want to strap me down or something? Where the hell did that come from? We never even talked about getting kinky that way, and you want to try it out now?"

How to completely fuck up an offer....

Karl sat down on the side of the bed and tried again. "That's not the point. I mean, I don't want to get kinky or anything, not like that. Well, maybe later, but-- Okay, look. You've been holding in all the frustration and anger all day, and for however many days before this, and the pressure's built up in you like a bomb and you're fighting so hard to hold it all in, you're about to crack."

"So what? What am I supposed to do?" Harry snarled. "Is this stuff for you, then? You want me to strap you down and let all that tension out on you? Fuck that! I'm not putting you in hospital just so I can let off some steam!"

"No!" Karl looked away and pushed a stiff-fingered hand through his hair, trying to figure out how the hell to explain. "No. See, that's the problem -- you're a big, strong guy and you're afraid -- you know -- that if you let go on someone when you're mad, you'd end up hurting them, probably pretty bad, right?"

"Exactly, so--"

"No, shut up a minute. You need to be able to let go, but you need to feel like whoever you're with is safe when you do it. The stuff is for you, but I don't want to whip you or whatever. I want you to feel like it's all right if you let go, like you can struggle or thrash or kick as hard as you want, because you can't hurt me. This--" and he held up the cuff again "--is for you to fight against, something you can use all your strength on without hurting it, or anyone else."

Karl paused, but Harry didn't say anything. He was scowling, but there was an odd look in his eyes.

Karl went on and added, "You need this. You're tense and you're not eating and you can't sleep and you're going to be the one in hospital if you don't figure out how to let off all that steam. This'll do it. Try it. Just once. If it doesn't work, then fine, we'll think of something else, but it's the only thing I could--"

He stopped when Harry reached over and squeezed his wrist.

They just looked at each other, then Harry said, "You know you're a nut, right?"

Karl couldn't suppress a smirk. "It happens to people who hang out with you for too long."

It was his standard come-back, one of those auto-play exchanges they acted out regularly. The very commonness of it made the tight, nauseous fist that'd been clenching in Karl's own gut relax some, though. If Harry felt like playing one of their old back-and-forth routines, then he couldn't be really mad. Anymore. That was good.

"So, how's this supposed to go?" Harry asked. He looked kind of skeptical and kind of intrigued and a whole lot wary. "You strap me to the bed, and then what?"

"Well, then whatever you want. You can talk about all the shit that's been bugging you that you couldn't yell about on set, and just let go when the mad comes back." That'd been pretty much the extent of what Karl'd been thinking, but Harry had that look in his eye and suddenly a few other ideas were popping up. As it were. "You can struggle, fight, thrash, try to hit -- whatever you want. Whatever you need. You can let go and stop trying to hold everything in, and I'll be right here but you won't have to worry about hurting me."

Harry sat there and looked at him for what seemed like a long time. There was a question on his face, like he was trying to figure out what Karl really had planned, or what it all meant.

Everything Karl meant had pretty much been said, though; if Harry was assuming Karl had every step planned out, with multiple levels of hidden goals, he was giving Karl way too much credit.

Finally Harry shrugged and held out his wrists. Karl felt a weight vanish off his back at the gesture; at least Harry was willing to try.

Karl unbuckled the first cuff and wrapped it around Harry's wrist. He buckled it on, careful to get it snug but not tight. The skin on Harry's inner arm was fine and smooth, and Karl couldn't help pressing a kiss to it, just above the cuff, before turning to get the next one.

They both stayed silent while Karl cuffed Harry's other wrist, then both ankles. He got four lengths of heavy cord from the box, fed those through the rings in the cuffs, then tied each one to one of the bedposts, using a quick-release knot he'd practiced. If anything went wrong, if Harry got hurt somehow or panicked or anything at all, Karl wanted to be able to release him within a few seconds, without having to unpick knots or fumble around with a knife or scissors.

When he was done, Harry was spread out on the bed in an X shape. He looked down at his still-basically-clothed body, then eyed Karl and asked, "Not planning to have any fun later on? There's some distance between whips and canes and basic sex, you know?"

Karl scowled at him, then kicked the mostly-empty box into a corner and sat down next to Harry once more. "I didn't want you to think this was just some sneaky way to get you to...." He trailed off and waved a hand at Harry's cuffed limbs. "You know, just for sex. Just for me. It's not for me."

"If you think it's just for you when we have sex, you haven't been paying attention."

"Cut it out!" Karl smacked Harry on one thigh. Harry was still holding in the anger, burying it under teasing. He was trying to just skip the whole letting loose part by distracting Karl with sex, and he was doing a decent job of it.

Fine. If Harry was going to fight dirty, Karl could fight back.

He stood up and yanked his T-shirt off over his head, then shucked his shorts and briefs. Ignoring Harry's wolf whistle was tough, but he managed, and half a second later Karl was straddling Harry's hips and leaning forward, his own hardening cock grinding into the unfastened but not quite open fly of Harry's trousers.

A low grunt escaped Harry's tight lips and he tried to thrust up to meet Karl, but he couldn't move enough to make much difference, between his stretched-out position and Karl's weight pinning his hips to the bed. Karl smirked down at him and worked on getting Harry's clothes out of the way.

He pulled the shirt open as far as it'd go, then shoved Harry's T-shirt up until it bunched around his shoulders. It wasn't pretty, but it exposed a nice swath of chest, and the very awkwardness of the look -- obviously not something Harry'd ever have chosen -- was kind of sexy.

"Now what?" Harry was still maintaining, but Karl could see stress lines around his eyes and the tight muscles in his throat.

Karl raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. "What what? It's up to you now -- I'm just hanging out, waiting for you to get started."

"Don't be a prick. You've got me here, at your mercy and half naked -- and the wrong half, by the way -- so I'd say the next move is up to you. And the one after that, and probably a few more. You wanted to be in charge, so do something with it."

"You're still thinking this is about me," Karl said. "It's all yours."

Harry glared up at him and jerked at his tethered wrists. "Not much I can do from here."

"You just did." Karl nodded toward one wrist, then the other. "Keep going."

"Oh, fuck that!" Harry jerked again, arms and then legs, sharp and powerful. "Come on, I get enough frustration on set, I don't need more at home! You've got me where you want me, so get going already!"

"Still not about me." Karl smirked, suppressing a full-out laugh. Harry was obviously chasing the wrong rabbit, but that was fine, the frustration would work as well as anything else. "What's up on set? You never gripe about it, but it's obviously something major."

"We're going to talk about the project now? This is bullshit and I don't appreciate being messed around like this. I need one fucking thing to go right today -- is that such an impossible request?"

"I don't know, is it? What went wrong?"

"I'm not going to give you a list of every piece of annoying shit that rained down on me today. Are we going to fuck or not?"

"Later. And I don't need a list. What I need is to see you raging about it. Come on, Harry, you're furious! I can tell." Karl bounced up and down a couple of times, taunting more than tantalizing. "Let it out!"

"Oh for the...." Harry opened and closed his mouth a few times, like he wanted to slash Karl to ribbons for being a dumbshit but he couldn't think of anything bad enough. Karl watched the frustration build until Harry squinched his eyes shut, opened his mouth and bellowed.

There were no words, at least no full words. Karl could make out a few syllables here and there, but most of it was just pent-up rage and frustration exploding outward. Harry's body thrashed, his muscles bunched and strained, and his head flailed back and forth. The bed jolted and creaked under them, but it was sturdy and Karl was sure it'd hold fine no matter how much Harry needed to vent on it.

After about half a minute, though, Karl started to worry that he might not've had such a great idea. He leaned down with a hand on either side of Harry's head and got as close as he could without being in danger of being knocked out by a head-butt. "That's it," he murmured. "Let it all go, get rid of all that shit...." Low and coaxing, encouraging but not inciting, he tried to give Harry something else to focus on and hoped the outflow of emotional putrescence would wrap up soon.

The outburst finally peaked and the noise eased back to intelligible words. It was mostly cussing, but that was okay.

It wasn't all about work, either. Every dumb-ass little thing that'd gone wrong or just pissed Harry off had joined the pile and it was all pouring out -- the damn transmission going out eight days after the warrantee expired, the pizza place being out of shrimp, Karl forgetting to do the fucking laundry, and okay maybe he hadn't forgot about it exactly, but who the hell knew it'd be such a huge deal?

Sweat poured off Harry's forehead and ran down his chest. His voice was rougher and Karl could see that his wrists were all red around the cuffs, even though they were supposed to be soft enough not to chafe.

Guess anything can do damage if you fight it hard enough.

Which was exactly what Harry'd been doing. He'd been fighting against all the shit going on, big stuff and little stuff and whatever else came along, instead of dealing with it and then letting it go.

He's slown down to an occasional jerk and a stream of low muttering. That was good, right? Karl wasn't sure, but he thought it might be.

Karl leaned on one arm and reached up with the other to brush sweat-darkened hair off Harry's forehead, then ran his knuckles lightly down one cheek.

"Sodding wanker," Harry muttered.

He looked wrung out, but refreshed at the same time. Relaxed instead of wound up. Perfect.

Karl leaned down and kissed him, and Harry kissed back. At first he let Karl take the lead, but then he seemed to find some new reserve of energy, and he strained up against his bonds to reach him.

One more kiss, then Karl reached up to yank on one of the knots, but Harry snapped out "No!"

Karl blinked down at him and Harry looked away.

"Leave it. Please?"

"If you want." Karl kissed him again, on the cheek that time, then bent down and aimed a playful kiss at his nose.

"It's just, it's like I'm... not really tired, you know, but mellow. I'm fine right here, basking in my newly achieved relaxation. You can do the work this time."

Karl snorted out a laugh. "There's the bottom line -- you just want to be able to lie there and make me pleasure you."

"Blame me?"

"Nope."

Harry shifted again, flexing his hips under Karls. "Or maybe you could let me up so I can get undressed, then, you know, put it back?"

Of course, that suggestion bought Harry only an evil grin.

"I don't think so. You want to just lie there, you can lie there as you are." Karl scooted down a little and ducked down to lick a line up one salty-damp collarbone, then kissed the depression between the two. His free hand shifted down Harry's chest and started pushing aside his open trousers.

"Seriously?"

Karl ignored him and jerked on the trousers. They went about a third of the way down Harry's thighs before hanging up on the spread of his legs. Boxer briefs followed, and made it down about half as far as the trousers. That was fine; everything important was in the clear.

Harry's swelling cock got a light rub, then the hand skimmed through wiry hair and up onto Harry's belly, while Karl kept most of his attention on Harry's chest. His lips brushed through more hair, enjoying the rough texture against the background of smooth skin.

"Karl? You've gotta be fucking kidding me!"

"Kidding, no. Fucking, yes. Eventually." Karl gave him a teasing glance, then sucked hard on a stiff nipple that just happened to be within easy reach.

Harry regressed to inarticulate noises and jerked on his bonds again. Karl pulled back just long enough to check that everything was okay -- confirmed by a "Don't stop, dammit!" from Harry -- before going back to his previous occupation.

"Other one! Come on, I've got two! I'm sure you noticed at some point?"

Karl snickered, which resulted in a bite harder than he'd ever tried deliberately. Harry yelped, then moaned long and low, so Karl followed his lover's not-terribly-polite request and turned attention to the other nipple.

A now fully hardened cock poked at Karl's belly, and he could feel Harry straining to thrust. Harry wasn't getting much friction -- Karl knew that much for sure because he wasn't either -- but he was giving it a shot.

More bare skin called Karl farther down. He kissed and sucked, drawing up a trail of dark dots, marks that'd stay a while. Harry's navel got a long tease with the tip of Karl's tongue, and the familiar scent of perspiration and musk and pure Harry enveloped him, sending a heated throb all the way down to his balls.

Harry's cock brushed a sticky streak across the underside of Karl's chin. He wiped it off with a quick swipe of one hand, then looked up to meet Harry's bright, passion-dark eyes while he licked his fingertips carefully clean.

Harry gave another groan and a hard buck, brought up short by the cuffs. "Fuck me already! Now!"

Karl didn't even bother to squelch his laugh that time. He shifted into position while remarking, "You're not really into this whole submissive thing, are you?"

"Who the fuck is submissive? You kept saying this is about me and I'm in charge, so fine, do what I tell you!"

"All right, damn, hang on!" Karl grabbed the lube from where it lived on a night table, slicked up with a couple of practiced jerks, then lined up and pushed inside, slow but steady. Harry never needed or wanted much prep, and after about half a minute of slow persuasion, his inner muscles finally got with the program and relaxed. Karl slid home, then paused before withdrawing just as slowly. The pressure was maddening; it sent a fizz of excitement out from his cock to every nerve in his body and back again, and he revelled in it.

"Harder, dammit!"

Karl choked out another snicker, but pushed in a little harder. Then again.

"Karl! Ferfucksake, faster! Like you mean it? Some time today?"

"Next time I'll just get you a damn dildo!"

"At least it'd do what I told it!"

"Not if you were fucking tied down!" Karl pulled Harry's hips up to a better angle and thrust in hard. Harry's harsh cry of startled pleasure echoed off the ceiling and filled the room.

Karl rode him hard, his whole world shrunken down to just their bedroom, then just himself and Harry on the bed, then just the tight space where their bodies locked together, rocking in urgent spirals of frantic passion until Karl pressed his forehead hard into Harry's neck and spasmed his climax into Harry's clenching ass.

"Don't you dare stop now you bloody wanker!" Harry jerked and thrashed under Karl, and managed a feeble forehead bash -- wrong angle to do any real damage, which was probably just as well for the both of them -- and kept up a stream of curses and demands until Karl gathered enough brain cells into one place to figure out that, oh yeah, he still needed to take care of his partner.

Harry was so close to going off that it only took about twenty seconds of blowjob to get him spurting into Karl's tight mouth. The sweet-sour-musk flavor was as familiar as his own spit, and Karl lapped it up like chocolate syrup while Harry collapsed back onto the bed, eyes closed and body limp with afterglow.

Karl's own body was insisting that it needed to go sessile, like, immediately, but Karl climbed back onto his knees long enough to reach the four corners of the bed and release Harry's bonds with four quick jerks. The cuffs were still on, but they weren't too tight and could stay for a while.

Hell, Harry was free; if he was that eager to get rid of the cuffs, he could damn well do it himself.

Harry apparently was no such thing because he didn't move at all aside from heavy breathing, and a languid shift to flop an arm over Karl's back when Karl snuggled in with his head on Harry's shoulder.

"My turn next time," Karl mumbled.

"Like hell." Harry opened one eye and gave Karl a sleepy, suspicious glare. "This was your idea, so you can just stick with it."

"Fuck." Karl gave Harry a sour look, then suggested, "Flip you for it?"

"Poker," Harry muttered.

"Fuck."

Karl wasn't going to win that one, and in his current state he didn't even feel like arguing anymore. He'd created a monster.

A relaxed, soundly asleep monster. He watched Harry breathe for a minute or two; the smoothed-out lines and slight smile made him lean over, slow and careful, and kiss Harry's lips -- lightly, so as not to wake him up. He needed the sleep.

Ian Being Awesome (and Funny)

Thu, 02 Dec 2010 20:22:50 GMT

Just a quick drive-by, and I haven't read my Flist in ages so I'm hoping this hasn't already made the rounds here [grin/duck] but I had to share this.

Ian up in front of a film festival audience and talks about filming the balrog sequence in Rings. It's short and funny -- check it out. :D

Angie

A Lost Boy, Chapter 39/39

Mon, 08 Nov 2010 12:55:09 GMT

Title: A Lost Boy
Author: AngiePen
Pairing: Liam Neeson/Orlando Bloom, minor Liam/Johnny Depp, plus a few other pair-ups among the supporting characters.
Rating: NC-17 overall
Summary: Slave Orlando's been taken and the kidnappers aren't interested in ransom. And of course Master Liam's thundering rage is only at the personal insult, that someone would disrespect him by daring to touch his property.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone you recognize. I know nothing about their social lives or sexual activities, more's the pity. This is fiction, period. It is done as a labor of love and I make no money from it.
Notes: 1) Set in poisontaster's Kept Boy universe -- FAQ here. See Chapter 1 for more notes.
2) This is it, then end. Wow! I want to thank everyone who's commented and stuck with me for these two-years-and-a-bit. This is one of my favorite stories, in a really wonderful universe, and it's been great getting to play in poisontaster's sandbox and share the result with all of you. Thanks so much! {{{}}}

Previous Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Twenty-One, Twenty-Two, Twenty-Three, Twenty-Four, Twenty-Five, Twenty-Six, Twenty-Seven, Twenty-Eight, Twenty-Nine, Thirty, Thirty-One, Thirty-Two, Thirty-Three, Thirty-Four, Thirty-Five, Thirty-Six, Thirty-Seven, Thirty-Eight

Margaret knelt on the kitchen floor next to Samantha, waiting. Their master had come in through the kitchen door and commanded the two of them and Johnny to kneel there and wait while he brought in his new body-slave.

Gloria was sitting at her table to wait, and Margaret couldn't help resenting it. She knew that if Gloria knelt on the floor for any length of time -- certainly for the several minutes it had already been -- she'd need help getting up and probably wouldn't be able to walk at all for days, but it didn't help much. Margaret knew it was an uncharitable resentment but couldn't banish it, and all things considered she wasn't about to worry too much about it.

She had no idea why Master Liam had decided to introduce the new boy to the kitchen staff first. The kitchen staff plus Johnny, and that other new boy, Kevin, whose purchase Margaret hadn't been able to figure out yet. Why did it matter if they met him first, that particular group? Why not all the slaves in the household, if there was to be a big introduction in the first place?

Margaret would just as soon not meet him at all, this boy who was going to be taking Orlando's place in the household.

Commerce-trained, this new one, and probably all full of himself, pampered and demanding. Or maybe broken and needing coddling and tip-toeing around him -- who knew? She didn't think Master Liam would choose someone like that, but over the last months she'd given up any notion of being able to predict his behavior.

But her knees were sending shooting pains up her thighs and down to her ankles, and her back ached, and she had a cheese sauce on the stove that she was sure was going to curdle despite the flame being turned down as low as it would go and this was all just so stupid because who cared about the new boy besides Master? All Margaret knew was that he'd given up searching for Orlando, just abandoned him to whatever--

Master Liam stepped back in through the kitchen door and stopped. He glared at everyone in the room, meeting Margaret's eyes before moving on, and then commanded, "Silence!" His voice cracked out, as harsh and angry sounding as she'd ever heard it, and Margaret found herself with her head halfway down to the floor before she stopped herself and knelt back up on her heels. Before she could wonder what had him in such a harsh mood, he stepped farther into the room and ushered in a stranger, obviously his new body-slave.

She stared, and opened her mouth to say... something, but before she could get out a word, Master Liam said, "Don't make me repeat myself, Maggie," and she shut her mouth again.

And Master said, "This is David, my new body-slave. I expect everyone here to treat him with proper respect."

But it was Orlando. It had to be. The pretty young man had medium-blond hair, short and spiky, and when he glanced up at her -- only for half a second -- his eyes looked blue or maybe blue-grey, but it had to be Orlando. The nose was straighter and sharper, the chin a bit blunter, but.... She stared at him, trying to see, to make the minor differences fade away like an optical illusion suddenly snapping into focus and becoming something recognizable.

Master Liam was saying, "--know everyone here knew and cared for Orlando. He pleased me very well, and when I went searching for a new body-slave I deliberately chose one who resembles Orlando somewhat." He glared around at everyone once more, as though daring them to comment on that. Of course, no one did.

The boy -- David -- was standing there, still and silent, with Master Liam's hands on his upper arms. Orlando would've been leaning back against the master's chest, cuddling as much as he could. And the master would've been pressing Orlando toward him, his hands clasping more of Orlando's skin, straying down his arms, covering as much of him as he could, here in the privacy of home. Margaret hadn't been happy to see the attachment between them when Orlando was younger, but given that her son was a body-slave -- and as beautiful as he was, it had been inevitable that he would be -- she'd eventually reconciled herself to it, and become pleased to see that he cared for Master Liam, and that their master seemed to care for him too, on some level. It could have been much worse and well she knew it.

But this, this was different. And the distance between them -- not just the slight physical distance but the emotional distance -- made her wonder whether the boy's resemblance to her son and her own desperate wish to see him again were playing tricks on her. Because watching the two standing there, it didn't look anything like Orlando-and-Master. It looked like a man and his new slave, still not sure how they fit together, still learning one another.

"I realize this might cause some difficulties for some of you," Master Liam continued, "but I want to make it clear that I won't tolerate any nonsense from any of you. I expect that David won't be harassed or hazed or otherwise bothered. Nor do I expect that anyone who might miss Orlando particularly badly would try to make David into some kind of substitute, resemblance notwithstanding. Anyone 'mistakenly' calling him by the wrong name will be thrashed."

Margaret's eyes widened at that. Master Liam had never been a particularly tolerant man, but neither had he ever punished beyond what was reasonable for the crime, and a thrashing just for mistaking the boy's name was... was--

"I'll make this clear one time," he said, his voice still low and harsh. "Commerce does not recognize stolen slaves. So far as they're concerned, any slave who isn't where his master thinks he should be is a runaway, period. No questions, no exceptions. David's provenance is clear, but if anyone who heard someone slip in addressing David ever got the idea that he might be Orlando and decided to cause trouble, David could be taken away from me just on suspicion and I would be extremely displeased. Likewise, if Commerce has stopped searching for Orlando, that's just as well, and I would rather no one stir up their interest again. Is that understood?"

Margaret said, "Yes, Master," in chorus with the others, but her mind was spinning with new information. Was Master Liam actually hinting or was it her motherly wishful thinking?

The master walked through the kitchen and out into the main part of the house, one hand still firmly on... David? the small of David's back. David kept his eyes down and let Master Liam steer him without looking at anyone. And then he was gone and Margaret still didn't know whether or not her son had been found.

David ate with his master in the study, the food served off of a tray Samantha brought from the kitchen. It was more private than the dining room, and Master Liam had said something about wanting to be alone and get to know one another.

Samantha fetched the TV trays and transferred plates of food and cutlery and glasses and napkins and such to them, arranging everything just so while trying to stare at David out of the corner of her eye without looking like she was doing it. That didn't work very well, and Master Liam finally sent her scurrying out the door with a snapped rebuke. And then they were alone.

Except they weren't really alone. Or they couldn't assume they were. Someone might be listening, whether one of the other slaves or a free employee skulking or eavesdropping or just walking in at the wrong time, or someone with the government listening even more covertly through a microbug. You never knew, and most people just forgot about it as well as they could. David had never thought about it much before, but then he'd never had a huge secret that could cost him a horrible death before.

The thought churned his stomach as it always did and he imagined it would for a long time. He ate anyway, though, because if he'd refused to eat while at the training center, a handler wound beat him with a shock wand until he ate or passed out, one of the two. It had taught him to ignore a queasy stomach whenever physically possible.

His mother -- no, Margaret, he had to remember that -- had made a ham with fried potatoes and gravy, and glazed carrots, with a blackberry cobbler for dessert. It was all wonderful, and it all reminded him forcefully, from his nose and his tastebuds straight to his brain -- that he'd grown up on this food and loved it.

He and his master ate, appreciating the food but not talking much. Not that they'd ever rambled on for hours, but they'd always been comfortable before in their silences, and that comfort was gone. David was still tense, and he could tell his master was as well.

Master Liam finally started talking about the household and the property and the people on it, giving David a summary just as though he hadn't grown up there. The whole thing -- the whole day, for that matter, from the time Mr. Thewlis had steered him into his new master's presence and there he'd been -- felt unreal, like he was unconscious and trapped in some crazy dream.

When his master asked him if he'd ever ridden a horse, and gave him a hard stare to go with the question, it took David a moment to pick up the cue and admit that no, he never had.

"We'll take care of that, then," Master Liam said. "It can feel a bit awkward, learning as an adult, but I'm sure you'll catch on eventually. Might even come to enjoy it."

"I'll try my best, Master," David said, feeling even more detached from the real world.

They finished their dinner, then Master Liam said there was work to do. He set David to reading through the last month's worth of his business mail, explaining that he needed a body-slave who could function as an assistant and that David would need to learn the ropes as quickly as possible.

Master Liam sat down to go over a quarterly review agenda for one of his electronics companies; that was the rest of the evening for both of them.

Getting undressed later on felt surprisingly un-awkward. David still had a feeling of watching himself move through a dreamworld, and his body had plenty of muscle-memory for getting undressed quickly and gracefully. When his master came up behind him and grasped the tops of his shoulders, on either side of his throat, David flinched away before he could stop himself.

The horror of that insulting, unforgiveable mistake sent him slamming down to his knees quicker than a thought, twisted around in mid-fall so his forehead pressed to the top of his master's naked instep. "I apologize, Master."

"David? Get up. I don't want you making full obeisance unless you've done something serious." His master sounded impatient, and that sent David scrambling to his feet as fast as he could, even moreso than the mere command.

"I'm sorry, Master."

Master Liam eyed him for a few seconds, then asked, "Did that hurt?"

"Y-yes, Master. I'm sorry, Master."

His master stepped closer and ran a light fingertip along his collarbone. There were no scars there, David knew, and that light a touch didn't hurt, but he tensed anyway out of reflex.

"Surgery?" Master Liam asked.

"Yes, Master." His master gave him an expectant look, so he added, "They did something to make the bones longer, cut through and extended them, then grew new bone to fill the gap. Just a little."

Big hands drifted across his shoulders from neck to deltoid. "So it's not just muscle, then?"

"No, Master."

"Will sex hurt?"

The automatic response was, "I'm happy to serve you in any way you might wish."

"I didn't ask that," Master Liam pointed out. "Will it hurt?"

David thought quickly. No one had fucked him since he'd left the center -- the body shop really had been a first class place -- so he had to make some guesses. "I don't think so, Master. Or not much? If... it would probably be painful if you used my shoulders to pull...? And, um, my face is still tender." Master Liam's kisses could get violent. David loved them, but he was still healing and didn't want to chance another flinch away from his master.

"Easy enough to work around," Master Liam said with a short nod.

He ran a much gentler hand across one of David's shoulders, then slid it up into his short hair and tilted his head back for a kiss. This one was light, gentle, getting firmer over the course of a minute or two, but not too much.

David couldn't help letting out a whimper and relaxing completely into his master's body. If this was a dream then he never wanted to wake up. The feel of his master's broad chest, his strong hands, his warmth, the scent of him -- David had missed all of it, and been so sure he'd never have any of it again.

Master Liam steered them toward the bed and laid David down on it, gentle and easy, careful not to squeeze too hard or push too hard or let too much weight rest on him. David had missed that big body pressing him into the mattress, though, and he wrapped his hands around his master and pulled, coaxing, begging for more, just a little more, until the pressure was perfect. Completely covered and held down like that, he felt safe -- safer than he'd ever felt anywhere else. He could stay there forever and be blissfully happy, whether it was real or not.

"David," his master murmured. "David, David, David...." It sounded like he was practicing, and he probably was.

"Master," David moaned. "Let me please you, tell me what you want, fuck me, take me, keep me, keep me....

He squirmed under his master, wanting to feel that body rubbing against every part of his. Master Liam growled deep in his throat and practically attacked him with a kiss. It hurt, David's chin and cheeks and nose aching, his teeth twinging in sympathy for just a moment, before his master remembered and eased the pressure. David pushed his hands into his master's hair and held him, refusing to let him go too far away.

"David, fuck, David, David...."

David could feel his master's hard cock pressing into him, rubbing and grinding. David's own cock was just as hard, his balls high and tight and aching for release. It felt like he hadn't really had sex in months -- all the training, the practice, being raped in everything but name over and over and over, none of that counted. That was just something done to his body; this was real sex, like their nerves were entwined and zinging with pleasure. They weren't even really fucking yet, but it felt to David like he was about to explode so hard it would turn him inside out.

"David, David, fuck, ahhhh!"

His master arched and spasmed and came, then stroked David to orgasm before collapsing onto the mattress next to him.

As soon as David had caught his breath, still sizzling with afterglow, smelling his master all over him and feeling like he was floating six inches off the mattress, he sat up and tried to roll out of bed. He needed to get a warm washcloth from the bathroom, but his master pulled him back down.

"Later," he said with a long sigh. "Stay."

"Yes, Master." David willingly lay down once more and snuggled close. It was almost the same, almost perfect, and more than he'd ever thought he'd have again.

Master Liam threw an arm across David's back and pulled him closer, shifting until they were pressed as close as they could get without crawling into one another's skins. His grip was tight, tighter than it'd ever been after sex. Usually he went boneless and drifted off to sleep, but that night he was clutching David closer with both arms. He wrapped a leg around David's legs and surrounded him completely.

He took a deep breath, then another, huffing each one out against the crook of David's neck. David realized just then that he was trembling, tense and shaking and struggling with it, but his iron willed master wasn't able to stop.

His shoulders gave a quick hitch, then another. He sucked in another long breath and gulped hard.

"Fuck...."

"Master?" David rubbed lightly up and down his master's back, unsure what to do.

"I-- won't lose you." He sucked in another breath. "I won't."

"I'm here, Master," David said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Whatever they did to you, we'll fix it. Whatever it takes, I'll take care of you."

David stopped breathing for a moment, as if his lungs had forgotten how to suck in air. They finally remembered, on the edge of a lightly hysterical panic, and he whispered, "I know you will, Master."

The man in his arms shook again, a fit of trembling the greatest will in the world couldn't stop, and David felt drops of sweat running down his left shoulder. Then a last twitch, and a long, gulping breath, and then the big body cradling his relaxed.

David waited another minute, staring out into the darkened room, then whispered, "I love you too, Master," and sank into sleep.

Liam woke up before David and eased out of bed, careful not to wake him. After what the boy had been through in the last months, plenty of sleep somewhere familiar and safe would be good for him. Liam had lain awake for a long time in the dark, though, and had done a lot of thinking. He'd examined some of his oldest beliefs and assumptions, including things like "I'm responsible for taking care of my slaves" and "I am capable of protecting my slaves," and had decided that the first was true but the second wasn't, which threw the whole damn system out of whack.

The whole damn system. That was exactly what it was, wasn't it? I had saved the nation from collapsing into a dirt-grubbing third world country, dead broke, complete with starvation and rioting. It had worked, and it had helped. But then, so had communism, at first, in other nations. When a situation got dire enough, just about anything that prevented utter collapse could be seen as better. But short-term solutions didn't always work in the longer run, and slavery was particularly susceptible to corruption.

Liam wrapped up in a robe, then settled into a chair beside the fireplace with his phone. There was someone he'd heard about, never met but had seen once or twice, one of those people there was gossip about. He'd never been interested in an introduction before, but that was before.

The system was sick. It'd served its purpose, and there might actually be a few people who benefitted under it. Although when he tried to think of specific examples among the slaves he knew personally, he couldn't come up with any. That surprised him, honestly.

He could think of counter-examples, though -- plenty of those. Maggie was skilled at her trade and a hard worker; she'd have no problem making a life for herself as a free woman, given the chance. She'd raised Samantha the same; Liam had no doubt she'd do well on her own. Johnny had a sharp head for business and was a shrewd negotiator, even acting under the handicap of being a slave, and having a limited set of tools available to him when he was on his own. Lord Sinclair's Karl, Mark Vincent's Paul. Tasha had kept competent slaves around the house, even if her taste in body-slaves was questionable. Liam would've been happy to employ any of them for a good wage, if they'd been free.

But they weren't, and there was no legal way to free them. They were a constant drain on the state, if only in the need to keep records on them and maintain some oversight to prevent abuse -- for however well that worked -- and it was completely unnecessary. A waste of tax money.

Surely anyone fit to be responsible to own another person should be competent to judge when that person was fit to own him- or herself? To suggest it, at least? Nominate competent slaves for some sort of review board? There should be some path to manumission. At least for slaves born to it, or those enslaved as children, where the fault, the irresponsibility, wasn't their own.

Something. There should be something, because what they had was broken in too many places.

Aha, that was the name. He'd been spelling it wrong.

He spent some time carefully wording an e-mail, then sent it. He didn't expect a response immediately -- it was still ridiculously early, after all -- so he spent the next few hours alternately reading a book and watching David sleep, his thoughts drifting to all the things wrong with the world and how they could possibly be fixed, short of mass murder or armed revolution.

He got a Bing! of response just as David had begun to stir.

Liam was composing another message when David slipped out of bed, pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms and slipped out of the room. He returned with coffee within a few minutes; Liam looked up at him with a small smile and said, "Get a shower and get dressed; we have to be on the road within the hour."

"Master?" David set a mug of coffee down on the small table next to Liam's chair, then knelt next to him, looking up with a question on his face.

Liam reached out and brushed a hand across David's short, light hair. "You have an appointment with a Dr. Blanchett," he said.

David said, "Yes, Master," and hurried off to get ready.

A Lost Boy, Chapter 38/39

Sun, 07 Nov 2010 10:57:11 GMT

Title: A Lost Boy
Author: AngiePen
Pairing: Liam Neeson/Orlando Bloom, minor Liam/Johnny Depp, plus a few other pair-ups among the supporting characters.
Rating: NC-17 overall
Summary: Slave Orlando's been taken and the kidnappers aren't interested in ransom. And of course Master Liam's thundering rage is only at the personal insult, that someone would disrespect him by daring to touch his property.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone you recognize. I know nothing about their social lives or sexual activities, more's the pity. This is fiction, period. It is done as a labor of love and I make no money from it.
Notes: 1) Set in poisontaster's Kept Boy universe -- FAQ here. See Chapter 1 for more notes.

Previous Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Twenty-One, Twenty-Two, Twenty-Three, Twenty-Four, Twenty-Five, Twenty-Six, Twenty-Seven, Twenty-Eight, Twenty-Nine, Thirty, Thirty-One, Thirty-Two, Thirty-Three, Thirty-Four, Thirty-Five, Thirty-Six, Thirty-Seven

Liam sat on a rock next to a picturesque (and rather loud) cascading waterfall, reading mail on his phone and deliberately not looking at his watch every forty seconds. He wasn't up pacing, either, or looking over his shoulder at the driveway leading up to the Monterey Clipper Inn where he'd booked a room, although he didn't expect to stay the night. The small hotel was near to where Thewlis would be picking up his new body-slave, though -- Thewlis, who'd finally surfaced, battered but alive, a few days after Liam had returned from India with ghostly blood on his hands and grim satisfaction in his gut -- and they were all meeting at the hotel, outside on the grounds where it was cold but peaceful and private, him and the young man he'd purchased.

Remember that, he reminded himself. It's a new boy. Orlando will never be back, he's gone and he's better off wherever he is.

He felt a wave of depression soak into him, his shoulders sagging just a degree or two, his face tightening into a slight wince.

Waiting. Mail. Check industry news. Stare out past the view for a while. Check mail.

Life at home was going to be... delicate for a while. He'd thought it'd be better if he met the new boy elsewhere first, let them at least begin to settle in before tossing the young man into a house full of strangers, all of whom would be staring and watching, and several of whom were still mourning his predecessor. This first meeting was likely to be emotional, on both sides. Best get it done in private.

Stare out at the bay, through the trees. Check mail. Play solitaire, losing over and over.

When a car finally pulled up the drive and stopped a ways away, Liam knew it was Thewlis. It was probably a subconscious recognition of his engine sounds or some such thing, but it felt like a fist to the gut. He didn't turn around, just put his phone away and sat, looking at the white curtain of water plunging down an ornamental arrangement of rocks into an icy-looking pool.

Footsteps. Thewlis's tall, lanky form came into view first, then the young man he had firmly by the arm. A blue-eyed young man with short, dirty-blond hair and a look of blank shock on his not-quite-familiar face.

"Lord Neeson, this is David," said Thewlis, his voice formal and respectful but perfectly calm. "David, this is your new master, Lord Neeson."

Liam said, "David," and looked him over.

Whatever initial scarring there might've been from the facial surgery had healed beautifully. As it should; actors and other celebrities frequented the same body shop, which was reputed to be the best in the world. For what they charged, Liam frankly expected perfection.

The face was a bit blunter in shape. The nose was straighter and a little narrower, giving it a sharp look. The old hair would've been removed so it could grow in its new color; it was shorter than Liam liked, but time would fix that.

They'd adjusted David's metabolism as well, and stimulated his muscle growth -- another treatment popular with male celebrities. He wasn't brutish, but he was subtley muscular in a way he never had been before, no matter how hard he tried, and for a year or so in his early-twenties, he'd tried rather hard.

His olive skin had been lightened a couple of shades, to go with the lighter eyes and hair. All in all, the effect was subtle.

Perfect. Just the thing to have attracted a pining fool of a master who was stuck in the past and hunting ghosts, but not so much of a resemblance as to arouse suspicion.

David opened his mouth once, twice, then said, "Master?" That one word was near to bursting with an agony of emotion, and the boy jerked in Thewlis's strong grip, as though he'd tried to lunge forward..

Before David could say anything else, Liam interrupted him. "Yes, I'm your new master. I'm sure you'll work hard and serve me well, and we'll get along just fine."

Liam glanced back at the waterfall, and Thewlis said, "My Lord, perhaps if you and David took a walk...?"

He was right; moving was better.

"Good idea. There's a path down to the beach." It was also windy, and the surf was making enough noise to be heard up a fifty-foot cliff. It would probably do. Liam took David's other arm in a grip just as solid as Thewlis's, to prevent David from doing what Liam wanted just as much -- to crush them together in a hug that'd probably crack bones. That wouldn't do, however. Not yet.

He hauled David toward the steps leading down to the sand, and heard Thewlis say something about waiting inside, at the bar. Fine.

When they got down near the water, enough to feel the stinging-cold spray, Liam said, "I assume Thewlis told you about my previous body-slave."

"Yes, Master." David sucked in a breath, hard; Liam could feel the tension in his body, from heart to arm to hand to heart. If the boy didn't relax soon, at least a little, something was going to break.

"You understand, then, that there can never be any confusion between the two of you. I realize you resemble him somewhat -- that's one of the reasons you were chosen -- but if there's ever any question of who you are, Commerce is likely to confiscate you first and investigate afterward. That would be... inconvenient for me. I've already been without a body-slave for considerably longer than I like."

Liam looked over and saw David swallow hard, then nod. "Yes, Master. I do understand." He paused, then added softly, "There was... an incident during my training. One of the handlers made Commerce's policy on that subject very clear."

It took a strong act of will not to grab David and demand an explanation. Liam could only imagine what David might have done to prompt such a lesson, or how it might have been taught. Instead he pushed the thought away, searched frantically for some other topic, and said, "I've never been a body-slave's first master before -- a body-slave fresh out of Commerce's training. I hope you found it useful. Interesting." He knew he sounded like an idiot but he couldn't help it; he had to ask.

David's step faltered for a moment, and Liam was alarmed until he realized the boy was laughing. It was a quick, harsh laugh, just as quickly stifled.

"I apologize, Master. The training was very thorough. Efficient. I'm sure... I hope my skills will please you. If you require anything I've not been taught, I'll do my best to learn quickly."

Liam swallowed and turned his head to stare at the surging water. "I'm sure you'll please me very well. And... I'm sure it will take you some time to become accustomed to me. Although I'll tolerate no disrespect, I won't expect you to show... to display particular affection right away, until you've settled in, and we've been together for a while."

David looked like he was about to protest, then nodded and said, "Yes, Master. Thank you, Master." They walked on for another minute, then David said, "Master? May I ask a question?"

"You may."

"Mr. Thewlis said that... that your old body-slave had family in your household. Are they, that is, will they likely be still mourning? Missing him? I-- I wouldn't want to cause them any pain."

And that, of course, was part of the reason they were there, meeting away from home. How to explain it?

Liam had been trying to figure out how to say what he needed to say for hours. Days, weeks even, if he were honest. And if he was smart as well as honest, he knew that talking around a subject was pointless. Anyone who might be listening to a purpose would be able to decode the vague phrases just as easily as the people speaking; Liam's companies held enough classified contracts for him to know that basic tenet of security. If it was safe to talk around a subject, then it was safe to talk out in the open. If it wasn't, well, they were already fucked.

He stopped and turned, taking the young man by the shoulders, lowering his voice out of irrational and unconquerable reflex. "David. You know what happened. This is the only way I could have you; if you're discovered, you'll be taken away from me and killed. You know, I know, Thewlis knows. Kevin will figure it out but he'll keep his mouth shut or I'll sell him to a toxic clean-up crew, promise be damned. Don't let on you know him, by the way -- he helped me find you, but he's a conniving little bastard so don't trust him. But that's all -- no one else can know."

David looked confused for a moment while Liam warned him about Kevin, then visibly dismissed the question and said, "But my mother? Samantha? They'll recognize me, I know they will. So will Johnny."

"They might. They might think they recognize you, but if they do, it can't ever be acknowledged. You know what surveillance is like -- there might well be bugs at home and we'd never know. You're David, you have to be David forever, and that's the end of it.

"This will help," he added, running one hand through David's short hair, then brushing a finger along one eyebrow, down his cheek and neck and out across one slightly-broader shoulder. "If they come to doubt their memories, to truly accept you as David, then that's all to the good. If not, they have to be made to keep any suspicions to themselves. Even in private. It's important, David. I won't lose you again and anyone who even hints that you might not be my David will be punished harshly. I will not lose you."

David coughed on whatever he'd almost said in response, then instead said, "Yes, Master."

That should've been the end of it, but what the hell. If they were under surveillance, then someone would be listening as well as watching, so it didn't matter. He pulled Orlando-- David! David-David-David! --to him, arms tight around his back and waist, and wrapped him in an enveloping hug. David latched on, hugging back, and Liam heard a faint, hiccuping sob. He rocked back and forth, pressing a kiss into David's bristly hair.

"You're mine," he whispered. "I'm keeping you, if we have to go to fucking India and defect."

Another hiccup, this time around a laugh. David murmured, "Yes, Master." And that was that. They turned and walked back up the beach.

It was nearly noon by the time Thewlis saw Lord Neeson and David coming across the lobby. Thewlis finished the last swallow of beer in his glass and headed over to meet them.

"You two hit it off?" he asked when they met and paused in the middle of the marble floor. It was a bit more informal than he usually was with Lord Neeson, but if there was anything wrong, he hoped his Lordship could figure out a way of getting that across to him. Anything that needed fixing, needed fixing immediately.

"Well enough," Lord Neeson replied. "It'll take some time to adjust, but that's normal. I'm sure David will learn how to please me quickly enough."

"I'm sure he will," Thewlis agreed, hoping that meant everything was all right. "Did you want to head right home, then, or...?"

"Let's get some lunch first. I don't have any appointments this afternoon, and if anything burns down, people know how to contact me."

Thewlis grinned and tossed Lord Neeson a teasing salute. "That they do. Food sounds good."

David had been standing silently by his master's side while the free men talked. His posture was graceful, his position pleasing, and his expression suitably neutral, but he looked... off. Thewlis had never known David before, but he'd seen photos and a couple of vids, and the smiling, flirtatious young man was just a vague memory when compared with the still, tense slave standing before him. Probably just as well, all things considered -- the more points of difference the better, especially in the crucial first year or so -- but still, it was sad. Thewlis could only imagine how it felt for Lord Neeson, if even a stranger was noticing.

They started across the lobby toward a small but chic restaurant when what looked like six months' worth of baggage piled on top of a luggage cart teetered and fell to the floor with a crash.

In the middle of a bellhop diving after the cases, the guest who (presumably) owned the cases babbling in an angry voice about damage, and a manager-type rushing over to expedite the clearing up of the mess and the smoothing of feathers, David had slammed to the floor on his knees, with his forehead on the marble.

Lord Neeson stared down at him with a puzzled scowl. Thewlis went down on one knee and coaxed David back up to his feet. "New slave," he said over his shoulder to Lord Neeson. "They're fairly rigid in their discipline, and they drill until the reflexes are embedded down to the bone. If you don't plan to require the same standards, you'll need to work with him, and it'll probably take some time to re-train him. He really can't help it right now." There was also a generous helping of fear in the boy, but Thewlis could only hope time and being back home -- however strange the situation -- would ease that. After what he'd likely been through, though, healing from it wouldn't be quick.

David looked like he was about to kneel again, this time to his owner. "I apologize, Master," he murmured to Neeson's shoes. "I didn't mean to make a spectacle of myself."

And sure enough, when Thewlis looked around, he saw that there were just as many people staring at them as at the fiasco with the scattered luggage.

Lord Neeson stared at the boy for a few seconds, his jaw clenched. He finally nodded and said, "Forgiven. We'll work on it." Then he turned on his heel and continued on to the restaurant.

David automatically knelt next to Lord Neeson's seat, getting up only to serve his master when new courses came, or to refresh his drink. Lord Neeson fed David off his own plate; it wasn't something Thewlis was used to seeing, but his Lordship seemed to be doing it automatically, without any particular thought, and Thewlis noticed that David was... well, maybe not quite so tightly strung by the time the server came around to offer dessert.

"Will you need me for anything else, my Lord?" Thewlis asked, after ordering an espresso. Lord Neeson had ordered the creme brulee to go with his own coffee.

"No, I think we're finished," he said. "You might not've been able to find my boy for me, but you gave it a solid effort. And you did find me a replacement, so I'll count that as a good job. You can keep whatever's left on the retainer, and feel free to use me as a reference."

"Thank you, my Lord. That's very generous."

"You earned it." Lord Neeson sat back in his chair and cocked his head at Thewlis. "Do you have anything else lined up?"

Dave gave him a wry smile. "Well, I've actually been in contact with Mr. Vincent over the last month or so. He's insisting he wants to hire me as soon as you no longer needed me. I tried to explain that I have very few contacts on the eastern seaboard, but he doesn't seem the sort of man who takes no for an answer with any equanimity."

Lord Neeson smirked and said, "No, he's not and never has been. I suggest you give in gracefully." He paused for a moment and frowned, staring into Thewlis's eyes like he was trying to see the back of his head. He hesitated for long ticks of the clock, then he said, "You may tell him," and that was the end of that conversation.

Next Chapter: Chapter Thirty-Nine

A Lost Boy, Chapter 37/39

Sat, 06 Nov 2010 11:09:10 GMT

A Lost Boy, Chapter 36/39

Fri, 05 Nov 2010 10:23:32 GMT

Title: A Lost Boy
Author: AngiePen
Pairing: Liam Neeson/Orlando Bloom, minor Liam/Johnny Depp, plus a few other pair-ups among the supporting characters.
Rating: NC-17 overall
Summary: Slave Orlando's been taken and the kidnappers aren't interested in ransom. And of course Master Liam's thundering rage is only at the personal insult, that someone would disrespect him by daring to touch his property.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone you recognize. I know nothing about their social lives or sexual activities, more's the pity. This is fiction, period. It is done as a labor of love and I make no money from it.
Notes: 1) Set in poisontaster's Kept Boy universe -- FAQ here. See Chapter 1 for more notes.

Previous Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Twenty-One, Twenty-Two, Twenty-Three, Twenty-Four, Twenty-Five, Twenty-Six, Twenty-Seven, Twenty-Eight, Twenty-Nine, Thirty, Thirty-One, Thirty-Two, Thirty-Three, Thirty-Four, Thirty-Five

Cage was two minutes late the next evening. It was long enough to be disrespectful, but little enough that it might be just a difference in watch settings. Liam despised that kind of game-playing, but he was used to ignoring it. If an adversary was trying to get an emotional reaction, giving it to him would be stupid.

Liam let Cage in with a civil nod and led him to a small table under the window where a spice-scented meal had been spread only a few minutes earlier. They didn't bother pretending to be pleasant or friendly; Liam spread out the contents of his file on Csokas and they both shovelled down food while going over it.

Despite his abrasive attitude and wrong-headed ideas, when he buckled down to work, Cage had some good suggestions to make about approaching their mutual goal. By the time they finished it was just full dark -- time to leave.

There was still plenty of traffic in the streets, so they didn't stand out the way they would have if they'd waited till the small hours of the morning. At quarter till eight, they were just two more men on their way to an evening of leisure.

Liam drove his rental car to within a quarter mile of Csokas's bolthole, then pulled over in a well lit spot and parked. He scanned the locals and spotted a group of boys hanging out, as boys always did and always had when the opportunity presented itself. He chose the one the others seemed to be orbiting, a boy in a neatly wrapped turban and a T-shirt with some Bollywood actress's face on it, and called, "Young man! You, in the yellow shirt. I'll pay you if you'll watch my car for an hour."

The young man smirked at him, said something to his friends that got them all laughing, then sauntered over. "Sahib needs service?"

Liam knew he was being made fun of, but under the circumstances he didn't particularly care so long as he got what he wanted. He pulled out a wad of bills -- pre-counted earlier so he wouldn't have to fumble with money -- and said, "Here, twenty thousand rupees. I'll give you the same when I come back if my car's still here and in good shape." It was a lot of money -- almost a thousand in imperial dollars -- but all Liam cared about was the car still being there when he and Cage were finished. The young man was still smirking, but he took the money and his friends looked eager.

"One hour, sahib. I have an appointment then, so if you're late then your car will have to protect itself."

"It's good to be punctual," Liam retorted with a smirk of his own. He added, "Thank you," then turned and strode off up the road, Cage next to him.

"Wow," said Cage, "you really have a knack for fostering good will and friendly relations with people from other cultures. You should teach classes or something."

"He wants money, I want the car to be there when we need it," Liam said flatly. "We both got what we wanted; that's how business works."

He heard a snort from Cage, but they walked on without speaking further and got to their destination a few minutes later.

Csokas's place was on the outskirts of huge, sprawling Mumbai, set back behind lush foliage and a high wall and invisible from the street. That suited Liam just fine. Satellite photos on the net had shown that the wall around the property was broken down in several places; he and Cage entered through one of the breaks, off a dark footpath.

Lord Smith's contact had insisted that there was no significant security around the property, that it was just a a rental estate like any other, popular with foreigners; most of the neighbors, when they were in residence, were businesspeople from Indonesia, China and Korea, who travelled to oversee companies, partners, deals. That there were no guards, cameras or alarms, no motion sensors or laser beams, not even a dog running loose inside the fence.

Liam hadn't believed the report, of course. A man who'd made his fortune stealing from rich nobles used to getting their way and crushing whoever opposed them had to have taken some precautions. Careful inspection of the perimeter, the wall, and the gap in the wall turned up nothing, however. The barely-visible path, a scant thinning of the dense foliage between the gap and the house, was only that -- a path hardly anyone ever used. Taking care not to make too much noise nor cause too much swaying of branches over their heads slowed the two men down, as did searching for lenses and trip-wires and microphones and sensor plates which didn't exist.

By the time they came within a few meters of the house, Liam was convinced that Csokas was insanely confident. Or maybe he was just that certain that he'd gotten away clean, that no one would be after him, that he was perfectly free to enjoy the rest of his life in luxury.

Pity, that.

Except not really. Liam was looking forward to teaching him just how mistaken he was. And he was fairly sure that Cage was more than willing to explain any details Liam himself missed during the first go-round.

Cage leaned in until their shoulders were pressed together and whispered, "Too easy."

Liam nodded, tapped Cage on the arm, and pointed around toward the other side of the house. Cage nodded and vanished into the darkness.

After a count of fifty, Liam stood up straight, stepped out of the cover of the foliage, and strode up onto the wide, covered porch, to the glass-paned front entrance. It was a pair of tall double doors, flanked by tall windows in the same style. They were all topped by fan lights. A dim glow shone through the glass, and from up close Liam could see a darkened entryway, with light shining through a doorway at the far side of the entrance hall.

The house was quiet, with no sound of conversation, or even music or television. Nothing indicated that Cage had been discovered. Well, if Csokas was that insanely confident, the direct approach would likely work.

Liam rang the bell.

He'd counted twenty-two seconds before he heard footsteps approaching. A dark silhouette appeared in the doorway, paused, then approached and opened the door just a few inches. "Yes? What can I do for you?" The voice was low and pleasant, the man himself tall -- within a couple of inches of Liam's own six-four -- and slender but solid. He looked like a perfectly normal person, the sort of man you'd do business with, have a drink with. Liam wasn't impressed; he could project exactly that same harmless aura himself if he cared to, and it meant exactly nothing.

"Mr. Marton Csokas?" he asked, putting on a friendly and slightly self-conscious smile. "One of the concierges at my hotel said you'd moved here recently -- from the Empire -- and I'm having some difficulties with a business deal and asked about someone who might be able to give me some advice about how things work here, so he gave me your name and directions...." Liam let his voice trail off, looked away for a moment, then back at Csokas and shrugged. "I realize I'm a stranger asking a favor, but I thought maybe for a fellow Imperial, you might be willing to give me an hour or so of your time, just explain a few things? I'm sorry if I'm intruding."

There, he thought with an internal snort. You're not the only one who can play harmless.

"And you are...?" Csokas asked.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I don't usually-- I mean, this is just so, you know." Liam shrugged and laughed at himself, taking a step forward, making sure his sturdy shoe was over the threshold. He'd spotted another dark figure approaching over Csokas's shoulder, and forced himself to stay relaxed. "Neeson," he said. "Liam Neeson."

Csokas immediately stiffened in clear recognition, scowled, and tried to slam the door. What he thought it'd do to have the mostly-glass door closed instead of opened Liam didn't know, and didn't particularly care. The door bounced against his foot and he moved forward, but Csokas was faster. He backed up several steps and jerked a pistol out of his jacket pocket.

"How the fuck did you find me?" he snarled. His lips were tight with anger and agression, but there was fear in his darting eyes. Without waiting for an answer, he said, "Never mind, I don't care. I can move again -- I have enough money to go anywhere I want!"

He extended the pistol, gripping it with both hands, and Liam made himself stand and hold Csokas's gaze. One, two, three....

Cage slipped up behind Csokas and slammed his doubled fists into the man's temple like swinging a sledgehammer or a baseball bat. The pistol went off with a thundering BAM! that blew splinters out of the doorjamb just past Liam's shoulder, and Csokas collapsed down onto the tiled floor.

Liam let out a breath, careful to do it quietly. He wanted to tear a strip off of Cage, but the man's smirk was fully in place and Liam knew he was just waiting for an explosive reaction. Damned if Liam would give him the satisfaction.

He stepped forward to where Cage had Csokas mostly pinned on the floor, planted a heavy foot on the one wrist that was still free and flailing, and commented, "I don't suppose it would've bothered you if that'd hit me."

"Not a bit," said Cage with a cheery grin. "Marty's hands on the gun and all, it would've been unfortunate but not my problem."

"You're a cold bastard, Cage."

"From you I'll take that as a compliment," Cage retorted.

Keeping his attention on Csokas, Liam took a pair of leather gloves out of his jacket pocket. It was too warm to be able to wear them without drawing attention, but he needed them then. He pulled them on, one at a time. They were heavy enough to provide some protection, but light enough not to impede movement. Specifically, the kind of movement required for fingers to curl into a fist.

Csokas was squinting up at Cage, peering into the dim as though there were something wrong with his vision. Likely there was, after a blow like that. "Nick? Fuck, is that you?"

"Sure is, Marty." Cagegave Csokas a smirk and kicked him hard in the hip. Csokas gasped out a pained noise. Cage's grin widened. "You know, I didn't think you were even paying attention when we had meetings at our place back when. All you ever did was bitch that we were disturbing you while you tried to study."

"At least I did something with it," Csokas retorted. His voice was tight with pain, but he was clearly trying to put on a good show. He jerked his wrist out from under Liam's shoe and scooted back until he could prop himself in a seated position against the wall. "More than you bleeding-heart whiners ever did."

"Maybe you're right. Of course, we wouldn't exactly advertise it if we ever had."

Liam broke up the class reunion by grabbing the front of Csokas's shirt and hauling him halfway to his feet. Without any warning, he landed a hard, precise punch to the man's nose; he felt cartilage crushing and bone breaking under his fist. Csokas gurgled out a pained cry as he crashed back down to the floor, with an intermediary bounce off the wall.

"Wha' you wan?! Fuh, teh me wha' you wan!" Csokas had one hand on his blood-spattered nose and the other flailing in front of him, as though trying to fend Liam off.

Liam said, "I want you never to have touched my boy." He kept his voice under tight control, cold and hard. He knew that if he let his roiling emotions out, unleashed the lava-hot fury bubbling inside him, he'd start shouting his anger and that would attract too much attention. Control, always. "I can't have that, though," he continued, "so I'm going to have to settle for making you regret it very strongly." He hauled Csokas up again and buried a fist deep in the man's diaphragm. Csokas bent at a sharp angle around the fist in his midsection, every molecule of air shooting out of his lungs. He couldn't make any noise after that one sharp whuffing sound.

Still cold and methodical, Liam slammed him against the wall, then crushed the man's genitals with a knee.

Csokas opened his mouth to scream, but still didn't have any air. He crumpled to the floor once more, clutching himself and gasping for breath.

"Fuck, man, leave some for me." There was no snark or attitude in Cage's voice; he sounded shocked, and Liam doubted he let that show very often.

"You'll get your turn." Liam didn't bother looking at Cage while he spoke, but kicked Csokas hard in the face with a sturdy, thick-soled boot, adding more broken bones and teeth to the already crushed nose.

Another yank upright, and then Liam aimed a jab right into a kidney, then again into the other one. A third punch aimed at Csokas's stomach grazed off a rib and Liam felt pain radiating through his hand. He ignored it and kept going.

Csokas couldn't speak anymore, barely had breath to whimper. Liam pulled back a fist, the leather of his glove smeared with gore, but before he could get in another blow, Cage grabbed his wrist.

"Neeson! Enough! Come on, man!"

Liam's head whipped around and he glared at Cage, jerking his hand away. "I'll decide when I'm finished."

"You're gonna kill him!"

"That was the idea, yes. Did you want another shot at him before we finish it?"

Cage just stared. His gaze was stark and expressionless. He shook his head, slowly. "Punishment is one thing, but murder is something else," he said, his voice low and tight and neutral. "Enough already."

"I take care of what belongs to me." Liam glared at Cage, a hard, assessing stare, calculating whether he was going to become another obstacle. "My boy is in a processing center right now, at this exact minute, getting raped and beaten and taught to eat shit with a smile on his face, or whatever the fuck they teach body-slaves in those places. I don't give a god damn whether you think this asswipe has had enough. It's not your choice, I don't want your opinion, and if you try to interfere I'll take you down too before finishing up with him. Am I going to need to do that?"

There was a long silence, and Liam tensed -- surprised that it was possible for him to tighten up any more than he already was -- ready to fend off an attack. He had the feeling Cage was the sort of man who, if he did decide to attack, would just lunge without warning.

Eventually it became clear he'd decided not to; he shook his head again, took a slow step backward, and said, "No." He stared at Liam for another moment, searching his face, then walked past him, past the quivering body of Csokas curled on the floor, and continued on out the door.

Some men didn't know how to handle violence, no matter how much they thought they wanted it, said they wanted it, claimed to be looking forward to it. Cage had talked a good talk about wanting to find Csokas and punish him for what he'd done. Liam had believed him, thinking his abolitionist sentiments -- wrong-headed as they might be -- would carry him through the reality of eliminating the man who'd perverted all their ideas for breaking slaves out of the system.

No guts, he thought with some scorn. No backbone when it comes down to reality.

Liam didn't have that problem, and he picked up where he'd left off without a second thought.

Next Chapter: Chapter Thirty-Seven

A Lost Boy, Chapter 35/39

Thu, 04 Nov 2010 10:31:25 GMT

A Lost Boy, Chapter 34/39

Wed, 03 Nov 2010 09:41:53 GMT

A Lost Boy, Chapter 33/39

Tue, 02 Nov 2010 12:47:46 GMT

I FINISHED A LOST BOY!!! :D

Mon, 01 Nov 2010 08:08:29 GMT

Holy sheep, for a while there I thought I'd never get through it! [beam] I just got to a point, like breaking a logjam, where it all flowed from there, it was almost like October of '08, when I started this thing and wrote 40K in two weeks. Wow, that was two years ago!

So it's done. It's 39 chapters long, and 89,536 words. That's not counting "Turf Battles," by the way -- only the main novel. "Turf Battles" would add another 17,494 words, for a total of 107,030 words. Whoa. [stares at number for a while]

What I'm going to do now (after going to bed) is read over the chapters I still have to post (33-39) and apply sandpaper as needed. That shouldn't take more than a day or two. So on Monday or Tuesday I'll start posting, and I'll post a chapter a day until the whole thing's up; it'll take one week. And then we'll be done, OMG! :D

If you need to refresh your memory [cough] the first chapter is here, and the last posted chapter (32) is here. All the chapters link through to previous and next, and each chapter has all the previous chapters linked in the header, so however you prefer to read.

I want to thank everyone who's been reading, and especially everyone who's commented, for your wonderful support and saintly patience. I love this story and I've loved sharing it with you all, and I love this verse, so thanks as well to poisontaster for letting us play in her sandbox. You're all awesome. :)

See you again in a day or two. [wave]

Angie

This Is How it Happens

Wed, 20 Oct 2010 09:43:27 GMT

Harriet Jacobs at Fugitivus made this pretty awesome post about how most women in our society are socialized, how we're taught to behave and relate to others in social situations, and how that leads to a culture where way too many women end up getting raped and then blamed for it. I'm going to quote the core list, because it really needs to be spread around, but I encourage you to read her whole post. I had to stop myself from just going on and on and on with the copy hilighting, because it's all true and it's all important.

If women are raised being told by parents, teachers, media, peers, and all surrounding social strata that:

* it is not okay to set solid and distinct boundaries and reinforce them immediately and dramatically when crossed (“mean bitch”)
* it is not okay to appear distraught or emotional (“crazy bitch”)
* it is not okay to make personal decisions that the adults or other peers in your life do not agree with, and it is not okay to refuse to explain those decisions to others (“stuck-up bitch”)
* it is not okay to refuse to agree with somebody, over and over and over again (“angry bitch”)
* it is not okay to have (or express) conflicted, fluid, or experimental feelings about yourself, your body, your sexuality, your desires, and your needs (“bitch got daddy issues”)
* it is not okay to use your physical strength (if you have it) to set physical boundaries (“dyke bitch”)
* it is not okay to raise your voice (“shrill bitch”)
* it is not okay to completely and utterly shut down somebody who obviously likes you (“mean dyke/frigid bitch”)

If we teach women that there are only certain ways they may acceptably behave, we should not be surprised when they behave in those ways.

And we should not be surprised when they behave these ways during attempted or completed rapes.

Most of that crap never took with me. I've always been loud and agressive and out there, even as a kid. Most of the times I got punished, it was for something I said rather than something I did. If I didn't like someone, or what someone was saying or doing, I made it really clear. That made for a lot of awkward social situations. I've never been The Popular Girl, never had a lot of boyfriends, never really fit in perfectly with the people around me. But you know what? I've never been raped, I've never felt unsafe out in public with strangers, even late at night on lonely streets. I know where to draw lines, I know how to say no, I know how to make it clear from the start that I'm not interested in talking to someone. Polite women are the ones who get raped, and I never have been; I can't regret that. :/

Ironically enough, the only time I've ever felt unsafe in that way was at a party at my mom's house. I was in the kitchen doing dishes and a sort of second-tier family friend (Gusto? I think that was his name) was drunk and insisted on getting close and touching me. He was feeling "friendly" or whatever, and wanted to hug me and press against me. I gritted my teeth and let him have one hug, but he wanted to keep on hugging and after the first one I wasn't having any. He was sort of a friend, though, and I didn't want to make a fuss. (Don't get loud. Don't set boundaries. Don't be mean to someone who's just being friendly.) I was saying no and backing off, but I ended up cornered against the counter with a big wooden meat platter with spikes on it between me and him like a shield, spikes out. He was kind of confused for a minute or three, like he was trying to figure out how to get to me around it, but he finally got a fucking clue and wandered away.

You know, I knew nothing "serious" was going to happen. There were like a dozen people around and I knew I wasn't actually going to get raped or anything. But it was frightening anyway, and I can't even really explain why except that this guy I had no interest in whatsoever, even as a friend because he was frankly a creep from pretty much all angles, was trying to touch me and get way more in my space and way more intimate than I wanted to, and I didn't know how to make him stop without making more of a fuss than would've been socially acceptable. There's nothing wrong with not wanting to be groped, but what do you do about it when it's someone's friend and you're right there and there are people around and no one else seems to think anything is wrong? It's exactly like the paragraph in the post above about the woman at the bus stop who's being hit on by a guy. My brother Sean was right there and didn't do anything, didn't say anything to Gusto, even though he was his friend (I think he was; I know he was the friend of someone in the family, and it wasn't Mom or me; maybe he started out as a friend of a friend, but he came to our house a few times over the years) and afterward, after Gusto staggered off, when I expressed that that'd been upsetting and kind of scary, Sean was very eyerolly and dismissive. He said that if anything had "really" happened he'd have stopped it, but nothing happened and there was nothing to be upset about. It was just a hug after all, nothing to make a fuss about. He sounded kind of angry, just a little, that I'd even vaguely imply that Gusto might've done anything wrong, even though Sean was there pretty much the whole time I was being stalked around the kitchen and trying to fend the guy off with no luck.

But that's the problem -- unless it's some stranger jumping out from behind a bush to drag a woman into a dark alley and rape her, it doesn't count. Nothing less than that is worth making a fuss about. And if a woman does make a fuss about something not worth making a fuss about, then you're back to "Mean bitch," and "Crazy bitch" and "Stuck-up bitch" etc., all that social pressure to be Nice and to be Polite and to be Ladylike and to not upset anyone, to just put up and deal and smile and pretend it's all okay, because you're the woman and that's your job. I have no doubt in my mind whatsoever that if Gusto had tried to stick a hand into my bra or down my pants, Sean would've been right there to haul him away and maybe smack him around a bit. But just wanting to hug me, to touch me in a way I didn't want -- that doesn't count and I had to be pressured into agreeing that it was no big deal. So I'm supposed to be nice and polite and go along when some drunken creep wants to touch me against my will. Keep doing that and eventually you do get raped, and everyone around you is saying, "But you didn't protest when he groped you!"

And this was ME. Loud, aggressive, social-bull-in-a-china-shop Angie, who (usually) takes no shit from anyone, and still I ended up in a situation where I felt pretty strongly the social pressure to go along, be polite, not cause a fuss in a crowd when some creep was trying to touch me. My fear of the social consequences with my friends and family if I'd shoved him away or cussed him out or raised my voice at him took away effective options, made me seriously afraid because I couldn't think what to do, and reduced me to a passive defensive action behind a spiked cutting board until the guy trying to grope me gave up and went away. What kind of a chance do normal women have, the ones who've actually been successfully socialized in all the nice, polite, ladylike behavior, when some determined, smiling guy wants more than a drunken hug and grope? Not much.

This is why rape happens as often as it does, and this is why so many people jump in to deny that it was "really" rape, because the woman didn't yell, didn't punch or kick, didn't tell him to leave her the fuck alone, didn't even protest too much when he first groped her. This is how it happens, and this is how it's dismissed.

Angie, who's very glad all that quiet-polite-ladylike stuff never really took

Bullies and Other Predators

Fri, 01 Oct 2010 19:08:42 GMT

Cindy Potts over on LiveJournal posted this, and I felt a great need to ask permission to repost, rather than just linking as I usually would. I love Cindy's fiction, but her blog is really awesome. This post rings with TRUTH in a way that's very rare to read. I wish I could round up all the people who think that bullying is "just kids being kids" or that it's "only words, just ignore it" or that "if you ignore the bullies, they'll get bored and go away" and tie them to chairs and read this aloud to them, until they get it.

===============

A Note on Personal Responsibility

And so, it is said to me, you can't really bully someone to death. You can certainly make them miserable, but that choice, that ultimate final choice to end it all, to leap from the bridge, to borrow Daddy's gun, that's out of your hands. That's beyond your power, beyond your responsibility, beyond anything you could conceivably be held accountable for. The blame in suicide lays always upon the person who kills themselves, for they always have another choice.

A fatal reclamation of personal power, as it were.

I read all these stories of freshly dead children and I say bullshit on that.

Around here, there are what are called (by me, at least) coy dogs. A mix of coyote and good dogs gone bad, feral creatures, they live on the fringes of society, not wholly wild, not nearly tame. No one cares for them. They are self-sufficient, or they die.

Coy dogs are generally small and scraggly. They stand perhaps two feet tall at the shoulder - a few bigger, some very few smaller. They're perpetually thin. On their own, they'll get by. There's garbage, there's house cats, there are slow bunnies and roadkill and dinner snatched secondhand from pampered pet's dishes.

When they work together, though, they can feast. A pack of coy dogs will go after larger prey - goats, sheep, llamas, calves, ponies, deer. It's here, in the hunt, that the coy dogs are at their most primal. You don't see even vague vestiges of the creatures that would once happily follow people around, begging for scraps. Here, it's speed and pursuit -- chasing, chasing, chasing. And coy dogs bark when they hunt -- not like wolves, who mostly keep silent. Coy dogs keep up a constant cacophony of death, announcing imminent demise with every stride. One coy dog will keep in close pursuit, the others hanging back and resting, preserving their strength until it's their turn to take point, to present some fresh new horror, to add another element of terror to the chase. They all take a turn.

They don't actually bite the prey all that much. A nip at the heels, a few ambitious leaps to worry shoulders, haunches, beefy necks. They don't have to. Once the blood starts running, all they have to do is keep the prey moving, moving, moving, until exhaustion and fear do their magic. It doesn't take long. The point will come where the prey doesn't have the strength to fight anymore. The hooves that should kick away, flinty hooves that can crush a skull, if the strength is there, do not have the strength. It's over, the coy dogs have won, and the end of the game is as much surrender as capture -- even fighting to the last, the prey's been run too hard, too long, to win.

That is what bullying is. Pure and simple, what we're seeing is humanity taking on that coy dog aspect. No one person has to do that much -- what's a comment? what's a shove? what's possessions trashed, families threatened, rumors started, video shared? It is the aggregate effect that kills, the preponderance of hate, delivered daily, hourly, inescapably. Animalistic behavior, the basics of human decency abandoned for the thrill of the chase, the toxic exhilaration of pursuit -- and above all, the embrace of the group, the knowledge that you have a place in the pack. You don't have to do so much, really. Take a turn in point position, if you've the stomach for it, but that's not even truly necessary. All you have to do is hiss little comments. Or laugh. Or look away and do nothing.

And at the end of it all, is there blood on your hands? You can look in the mirror, examine your muzzle, look for the flint-scented evidence that yours was the hate that mattered the most. Will you see it? I guess it depends on the light you choose to stand under.

But deer don't run themselves to death.

Funny thing, that.

==============

Note that it's worth reading the comments too, particularly this thread.

Anniversary Contest

Wed, 01 Sep 2010 01:12:54 GMT

Torquere has been around for seven years in September, which is, like, practically pre-Gutenberg for a small e-press. :) They're having a contest to celebrate -- a scavenger hunt, with a Nook as the major prize, plus a bunch of smaller prizes. Check out the contest page (the last link below, at the bottom) each day in September to participate in the anniversary celebration and try for some great free stuff. :)

==========

Torquere Press Celebrates 7th Anniversary!

Seven years?! No, we can hardly believe it either. Seven years of bringing readers the best, the sexiest, the most romantic GLBT fiction. And to celebrate, we're giving away prizes -- great themed gift baskets, gift certificates for free books every day, and a scavenger hunt that will give readers a chance to collect a deck of cards that will win big -- a Nook from Barnes & Noble!

Readers will get the chance to "collect cards" by visiting each participating author's website, blog, or Facebook page. By collecting all the cards and filling in the form, players have the chance to win free books daily, a gift basket once each week, (including BDSM, werewolf and ménage themed baskets), and be entered in the grand prize drawing for the Nook.

We'll also be having random sales via our blog GLBT Romance, Facebook, and Twitter

With bestselling GLBT romance authors like Chris Owen, Tory Temple, Kiernan Kelly, P.D. Singer, Sean Michael, and B.A. Tortuga, you'll have a blast playing along. Just log onto Torquere Press's website, check out the contest page, and start hunting!

So, ya feel lucky, dude? Let's play!

Reason #829 Why Ian Rocks

Thu, 12 Aug 2010 10:16:04 GMT

I just found LGBT Laughs through someone else's blog, and found this pic, which I had to share:

Woot! :D May it be prophetic, all the way to the Supremes.

Angie

It's Started :(

Sun, 25 Jul 2010 03:34:29 GMT

I knew it would. I guess I was hoping it wouldn't, but it did, and I'm sighing a lot.

I'm referring of course to the "OMG my OTP is destroyed and I'm so depressed!!!" type responses to Orlando and Miranda's marriage. We all knew it'd happen, right? :/

First, a caveat -- I started writing the main body of this post as a comment to someone's fic. It was nobody I knew, and I'm a couple of days behind on my Flist, so if someone I know posted a story or a discussion or whatever to which this might apply in the last couple of days, I'm not talking about you specifically. I couldn't say what I wanted to say without getting a bit sharper than is appropriate in a comment to someone's fic, though, especially someone I don't know. So I lifted it out and I'm posting it here. Although I guess we can consider this an "If the shoe fits" sort of statement. So.

To the People Lapsing Into a Decline Over Orlando's Marriage:

All I can say to that is, seriously? You're really and truly depressed or upset because some celebrity got married? Let's bring some reality into the situation.

All the slashy stories are fantasy. It's fiction and it always has been. It's a great fantasy, don't get me wrong -- I've written plenty of Orlando/Whoever verbage myself, and I have an Orlando/Liam novel on hiatus at the moment which I still pull out and work on around other projects, and I have no intention of packing it in. The fact that all this is a fantasy means there's no reason to stop just because realspace!Orlando is married now. But getting depressed because of that marriage is just... I don't even know what word to use without being horribly offensive.

Orlando and Miranda have looked happy together since they started hanging out, and from what I can tell (based on incredibly scarce data, because they've protected their privacy, as they should) they seem to be good for one another. She seems like a perfectly nice young woman, he's a cool guy, and there's every reason to think they'll have a happy marriage. I hope they're together for the next sixty years and have fifty great-grandchildren. Be happy for him, then go back and write your slashy smut. Enjoy your fantasies, and let Orlando enjoy his reality.

And if we're his fans and claim to be all into him and support him, it seems to me that should extend to supporting his choices and his right to make his own decisions about his own life. Sure, he'll make some mistakes. But nobody who isn't a close friend or family member has enough information to ever say that this choice or that choice is a bad one until the actual crashing and burning. I see neither crashing nor burning, nor even any wobbles, in his relationship with Miranda. If Orlando's happy with her, as he must be to have actually gotten married, then I for one support him and wish the both of them many years of joy.

And seriously, do you for one second imagine that Orlando himself would be at all pleased or happy to hear that some supposed fan of his thinks he made a horrible mistake in marrying the woman he loves? Take a minute and imagine what Orlando would likely say about that, if he heard. (Which I hope he never does.) Because that's got to be a sure-fire way of getting your adored idol to like and appreciate you, by dissing his brand new wife. [smirk]

We say we love Orlando. Let's show we respect him as well.

Angie

ROFLs from the Past

Tue, 06 Jul 2010 21:13:06 GMT

“Try harder. This shoot is grueling enough without all the sexual tension adding to the fun. Much as you boys might find it hard to believe, I DID NOT set out to cast this film with the horniest bunch of gays, sorta gays, maybe gays and straight-but-interested good-looking men on the planet. It just happened that way. I expect you all to behave.”

pecos is reposting her fic, and I'm copying stuff to files and doing some rereading. The quote above is from Too Many Heroes, which just went up and I'm spending the afternoon reading. Great stuff -- that quote is pretty much the foundation concept of our entire fandom. Poor PJ! :D

Angie

Wonderfully Funny Video

Fri, 02 Jul 2010 10:39:54 GMT

I don't even own a cell phone, so I have no horse in this derby. Heck, I've never even heard of the other phone in this cartoon. But my husband found the video and I was LOLing through most of it, 'cause yeah, I've known people who were like this about whatever the must-have product was way before iPhones came out. Watch and laugh -- it just keeps getting funnier. :D

iPhone 4 vs HTC Evo

Angie