Title: Light of Day (Beware! RPS!)
Author: Janet F. Caires-Lesgold
Feedback to: firstname.lastname@example.org
Archive: Mailing list archives only--others please ask permission!
Category: Story, angst, romance
Timeframe: The fall of 2002 - sequel to "Waking Up".
Rating: NC-17 for language and m/m sexual behavior
Summary: The day after that
DISCLAIMER: This story is just for the entertainment of my online friends and myself, not for any profit. It is pure fantasy and does not intend to reflect on the actual behavior or personalities of the people named herein. Please do not sue me for my little bit of fun!
DEDICATION: For the beautiful people in FA, especially Tiff!
COPYRIGHT: (C) April 27, 2003, Janet F. Caires-Lesgold, email@example.com
Please don't redistribute or alter this story in any way without the express permission of the author. Thank you very much.
It's another morning on the set. You fall asleep twice in the makeup chair, but you dream of the night before, so you don't mind missing the quiet crew chatter a bit. Even though you didn't get nearly enough sleep, the lingering warm glow of spending hours wrapped lovingly in Tom's arms sustains you and gives you hope. It hurt like hell to get up and leave him behind, but television is a cruel taskmaster.
Kristin comes in an hour later, reading a script and chomping an apple loudly, so your nap is finished. You suddenly wonder if the rest of your co-workers might be able to tell what you did last night just by looking at you, which causes you to panic and startle a little, sending the artist's brush painfully into the shell of your ear. He apologizes and you settle back into the chair.
"Everything okay over there?" Kristin hollers over with a chuckle.
"Fine, Flyspeck. Mind yer own beeswax," you snarl teasingly, making her laugh hard enough to need to cover her mouth so she doesn't spray the mirror with apple mush.
Taking a moment when you can dig into your own reading matter, you locate the day's script to review your big scene. Oh, great--the fight with Clark. While you look forward to spending the day working with your best friend, you had really hoped the material would be a little tamer.
At last you're on set, and there's Tom. He looks fine--maybe a little tired, but that might be your own feelings reflected on him. He's somewhat closed off at the moment, but he does this when he's preparing, so you don't bother him.
Eventually the director calls for a walk-through, and you say your words and watch your co-star carefully as you move around the desk in your "office". In one reality, this boy challenges what you know about the shooting of your father, and you evade his questions and tell him to leave. However, at the same time, you try not to look hard into his eyes for fear you will break character and check if he's still okay with the monumental change in your relationship.
With the cameras rolling, you become Lex, Clark Kent's friend and future nemesis, and Tom really isn't quite Tom, either. All at once, something clicks in your heart, and you know: no matter what red herrings or outright lies Lex may tell Clark in this scene, they run a distant second to the friendship, even love, between them.
Somehow you try to put this into what you're doing, and almost as if he were psychic, Tom picks up on it. He is still playing "angry", but with a new depth of caring and concern that wasn't there in the previous take. Those pale green eyes spark, and you give it even more, feeling Lex's heartbreak and defensiveness and longing all as if it were your own, which it almost is.
As you tell him, "Get out, Clark!" you hear a voice inside your head adding, "I'm sorry." Tom walks out the door, and the director yells "Cut! That's a keeper!" The all-clear horn honks, and you almost don't hear it, still being in the moment and a bit of a wreck besides.
Nobody tells you to clear the set just yet, because they know you sometimes need time to simmer back down. Somebody approaches you, though, and you look up just in time to see Tom, smiling and casual, coming up to you. You've seen him hug the girls after a rough scene, so you're not really that surprised when he gives you a quick, manly embrace.
But wait! He's saying something. Whispered words drift past your ear, and then he's gone. You could swear he's said, "I forgive you," probably for yelling at him in the scene, but then you mentally replay the tape. Nope--he's said, "I love you." Wow...
For a moment, you can't quite catch your breath, but then you hear the director at playback. "We've got it--it's good!" he shouts. "Take sixty!"
A general exhalation roars over the crew in the studio, so you shake yourself alert and get into lunch mode. First, though, you want to follow those huge boots and get a little more affection wherever you can.
The trailer closest to the set belongs to Tom, so you knock on his door on your way to lunch. Unfortunately, he's either not in there, or not answering, so you wander a little dejectedly past Kristin's tin box to your own. Throwing a glance over your shoulder at Tom's still-closed door, you open your private dressing room and go inside.
BAM! You are practically tackled by a big, warm, heavy body, distinguishable from that of a huge, enthusiastic dog only by the expensive cologne it wears.
"Tom?" you bluster as you are held firmly against the inside of your trailer door by thick, strong arms while your neck is nuzzled with more than indifferent attention. "I'm glad to see you, too, but..." The rest of your sentence is swallowed by his mouth pouncing on yours for a deep, probing kiss.
After a few moments, he slows down and finishes tasting your tonsils, though you're not sure you still have them, especially not after the past three minutes. "Hi," he huffs, out of breath as only the damn-welled-kissed can be. "You weren't in my bed this morning."
"Yeah. I had to get up and go home so I could come to work--remember?" He releases you at last, and you roll your shoulders and bend your neck, which emits a good, loud crack. "I wanted to stay, but I couldn't. Hey--we don't have a lot of time. Do you want them to bring us lunch?"
Nobody will think twice about the two of you lunching together in your trailer--you're probably running lines or singing karaoke--so he agrees and you call in an order to catering. The moment you hang up the phone, though, you realize that there won't be much line-running going on today: Tom's teeth are nibbling the edge of skin just beneath the back of your collar where there isn't any makeup. His hands clutch your body, holding your back against his powerful chest, as he humps your ass sloppily. You can even feel his erection rub between your wool-clad cheeks through too-tight denim.
Almost reluctantly, he allows you to turn around in his arms, and you kiss him thoroughly once more. Once you can speak, you warn him, "I don't know if we have time to get naked, beautiful. Maybe we ought to wait until after we have lunch..."
Desperate passion flashes in his eyes. "Dammit, Michael! I have had a hard-on practically since I woke up this morning, and I've had to pretend that everything was normal all goddamned day. I fucked you last night, for the very first time, and I don't think I can wait to do it again! Don't you want it, too?"
Carefully, you grab his arms and steer him backwards to sit down on your couch. Sitting down beside him, you take his hand and squeeze it tight. "We can't risk people finding out about us, Tom. I don't know who we can trust... Maybe we can't ever fuck while we're at work."
His eyebrows knit together as if he's in pain, and his other hand grabs the bulge at his crotch to squeeze it into submission. "Okay," he groans sadly.
He looks so miserable that you find yourself feeling bad for him. "Wait--I'm sorry," you apologize, "let me help, all right?" You lean in to kiss him softly, then move your hand to cover the one still in his lap. "I love you, Tom, and I'd love to suck you off. Would you like that?"
"Mmmm-hmmmmm," he nods, letting you draw his hand away from his fly and shutting his eyes tight.
Very slowly, you unbutton his jeans and lower the zipper, just a little thankful that he's not wearing a belt. You know you don't have much time, so you realize that it will be easier to get him tucked away in a hurry afterwards if there are fewer things to fasten. Inside his pants, there's no tighty-whities today--just some blue-and-white cotton boxers with the hard head of a purple dick peeking out of their flap.
With the teeth of his zipper pushed as far out of the way as you can get them, you reach for his perfect cock. Your fingers slide gently around him as you ease him out into the air. Pre-ejaculate is already beading at the tip of his hardness, and you swirl it against the head with your thumb.
"Want you," he says through a throaty moan, making you look up at his face.
His eyes are still tightly shut, so you go about changing that. "Look at me," you request, stroking him lightly but not tasting just yet. As if he's waking up from a deep sleep, his eyes slide open with effort. To make it worth his while, you smile at your lover and bend over his open trousers with some ceremony, clutching his cock tenderly and kissing it as softly as you can.
Emitting a satisfying groan, he forces his eyes to watch you as you lean over him and part your lips to allow him inside. He is everything you love about doing this: his skin like musky velvet, his muscles throbbing and hard with hot blood just under the surface. It feels so good to let the head of his cock slide back and forth on your tongue, to relax your throat and slip his length inside you. Blunt fingers skim over your scalp but hesitatingly reach for your shoulders, probably afraid of hurting you.
"God, you're good," he sighs deep in his throat as he thrusts his hips up just a bit. "Wanted to come in your mouth for ever..."
A little more suction, a little more pressure, some teeth along his length, and you can feel him holding back. To coax him to take you more roughly, you move harder and faster on him, but you realize that in this position, this is the roughest you will get. Maybe next time... Your eyes catch his, which are dark and hungry, while his mouth hangs open gulping air raggedly.
"So hot," he murmurs, and you feel perspiration bead on his stomach above your face. His thighs, held so tense against your shoulder, tremble as his climax builds, and the heel of one of his heavy boots clunks against the floor rhythmically. Fingertips dig hard into your shoulder muscles, and a cry of "Jesus Christ!" rings out over your head. "Gonna come," he warns a second before he is gushing down your throat, tasting bitter and hot and clean. "Oh, yeah!" he exclaims loudly.
"Holy shit!" As you swallow Tom's ejaculate, you realize that that wasn't his voice, and that it in fact came from behind you. Pulling off of his still-firm cock, you turn to see Allison at the door of your trailer, a makeshift cardboard tray of styrofoam lunch containers in her hand. She stands dumbfounded, her mouth as wide open as the door.
"For God's sake, Alse, close the damned door!" you bluster, sitting up and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as Tom grabs for a blanket to throw over his lap.
She still waits there for a moment, then seems to make a decision as she shrugs and comes in, shutting the door with her shoulder. "Jones owes me fifty bucks," she says in wonder.
"What?" you shout, then amend your request to, "What are you doing here?" Tom blushes for real as he fumbles to zip up his jeans.
"I heard them putting your order together, so I offered to bring it over," she explains. "Guess it's a good thing it was me and not catering, huh?"
"Why the hell did you come in?"
"I knocked, but you must not have heard me." You suddenly remember the banging of Tom's boot on the floor and decide that might be very possible. "I thought I heard him tell me to come in, so I did." Recalling his reactions to his orgasm, you see how they could have been misunderstood. "Do you want me to go?"
"No, it's okay--put that down for a second," you suggest, and she does so, plopping herself down in a chair at the table and reaching for her soda cup.
"Wait till I tell Sam! He's gonna be pissed..." she marvels to herself around her straw.
"You can't!" exclaims Tom as he flings the blanket aside but doesn't quite seem to know what to do next.
Her earlier comment comes back to you. "Wait--you guys had money on this?"
"It's not like that, Michael. He didn't believe me when I told him I thought you guys were doing it, so he bet me fifty bucks that I was seeing things. Well, sure enough, you guys are doing it! Loserrrr," she singsongs to no one in particular.
"But--but up until last night, we weren't!" interjects Tom as if that negates everything and makes it all better.
"What?" she asks, her hand stopped in mid-reach for some potato chips. "Wait a minute. You mean you just got together last night?"
You nod resolutely, feeling guilty and exposed and upset, until Tom, who must realize how his explanation sounded, reaches across the space between you and takes your hand, squeezing it affectionately. Welcoming the sense of strength his touch gives you, you answer quietly, "I love him," only realizing after the fact that he's said it right along with you. You continue, "It just took us awhile to figure that out."
"Wow..." she responds, looking from one to the other of you in awe, "you mean I knew before you did?" She gives you a victorious grin, but it is full of warmth and caring. Her expression shifts to one of serious concern as she asks, "So--does Jamie know?"
"Yeah," answers Tom sheepishly, cutting off your attempt to cover for him. "She was there when I sort of let it slip at dinner the other night..."
"Man, Michael--you were right! I did miss a pretty 'interesting' party!" She grabs for the chips at last and crams some into her mouth, though you suspect they won't keep her quiet for long.
"Look, Alse--you can't tell anybody, okay?" you beg desperately. "I think we'd better keep this secret."
"Even Sam? Wait a minute," she interrupts herself again through her mouthful. "If you guys haven't been doing it all along, he was right, and I've lost the bet. Fuck!" she mutters, washing down the chips with a slurp of soda.
"You promise you won't tell?" Tom pleads, his eyes in full heart-melting gear.
She stands and picks up her own lunch container and her cup. "Allll riiiight," she drawls like a grumpy little girl, then brightens perkily. "What'll ya give me to shut me up?" she grins at him.
It must be an ongoing game between them, for he stands before her and grabs her head, giving her a hard, showy kiss that ends in a loud smack. "Thank you, Alse. You're a peach."
"Yep, that's me all right: soft and sweet with a heart of stone. I'll see you lovebirds later!" she calls as she heads back out. She makes an obvious show of closing the door, still grinning in at you, as she takes her leave.
Tom starts poking around the other lunch containers, though he doesn't eat anything. "I guess you're right about not fucking at work..." he admits glumly.
You are on your feet at once, grabbing his shoulder to connect yourself to him. "Maybe so, but we'll find someplace to be together--I promise." Stretching up to him, you seal your vow to him with a slow, warm kiss. When you break away, you regard him adoringly but amusedly. "We can probably even fool around in here, provided somebody remembers to lock the door!"
He ducks as you swing your open hand playfully at him, then grabs it and presses a kiss inside your palm. Just as your eyes lock on each other and you start to move in for experimentation, there is a knock at the door. "Fifteen minutes, Michael," calls the script girl.
"Okay," you answer, disappointedly letting go of Tom and reaching for your food at last. "Guess we'd better eat--after all, it is lunch."
"Yeah," Tom groans, opening the lid of one of the boxes and carrying it silently to the couch.
You sit beside him, chewing hurriedly but thoughtfully. "There's always dinner break," you suggest wistfully.
He snickers with his mouth full, giving you a beautiful smirk as he chews, and you can't help thinking that maybe this thing between you will work out after all.
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