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ihearthings_iiTommy/Sutan, lipstick, mentions of sex, ~1300 words. Thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
adelate for the once-over.
Tommy imagines that if he closed his eyes and listened really carefully, he would be able to hear everything. Hear the rain falling outside, hitting the old concrete of the building, crumbling at the corners, hear it even from down here, in their basement-level hide-out. Hear the fans, outside, laughing and singing despite the rain, screaming for them, all of them, not just Adam. He thinks he can hear the whir of Adam’s exercise bike, hear Sasha and Allison’s whoops as they chase Taylor and Terrance down the halls, boots pounding on the floor, sound bouncing off the walls. He could, if he wanted to.
Tommy doesn’t.
Instead, he focuses carefully on the room he’s in. Tiny space, Sutan’s giant-ass, portable make-up station taking up almost half the room, graffiti all over the walls, a rickety picnic table with a tea-towel hastily thrown over it, the bottled water and a platter of crackers and fruit shoved to one side to make room for Sutan’s aromatherapy oil burner. Everything smells like lemongrass, and it’s something Tommy has come to associate with Sutan.
Sutan’s breathing is calm and even, soothing. He sounds almost like he’s meditating, some zen state of being that Tommy envies. Tommy listens to Sutan’s breathing, his own, sounding so loud and ragged in comparison, the quiet rasp of brushes, the plasticy clicks of make-up being opened and closed, compacts sliding together.
Tommy can feel the firm, certain brush strokes on his eyelids, dark, maybe some purple tonight --- Tommy can do this himself no problem, but he prefers when Sutan does it. Sutan does too. It’s never quite verbalized, but there’s something about this, faces so close together, breathing like shot-gunning, touching that isn’t meant to be sexual --- there’s just something about it that rattles Tommy in the most delicious way possible.
Sutan lines his eyes in black, pencil eyeliner followed by sure, even strokes of the smudging tool and Tommy looks up, looks down, looks to the sides at Sutan’s commands, although he knows the routine by heart.
Sutan curls his eyelashes and Tommy loves the way it makes his lashes look but he’s still terrified of the thing, sure it’s going to pinch him. He looks down when Sutan brings out the mascara, looks up for the lower lashes. Eyebrows are next, dark dark dark, a fine, angled brush, and Sutan extends them way out. Tommy relishes in the routine, is comforted by how reliable it is, when everything else around him is so chaotic and stressful.
Sutan puts foundation on him, pale pale pale, Tommy knows, and he keeps his eyes closed, can predict where the brush goes next. Then setting powder and the big, fluffy brush. Tommy loves that brush the most. Probably because of that one time when Sutan got him high and made him come just by stroking his dick with it.
Sutan runs the brush over Tommy’s face, and Tommy doesn’t miss the way Sutan’s lips quirk up at the corners, knows that he’s remembering, too.
Cheeks comes next, high and pink, and he knows how his skin looks, perfect, like a china doll’s. (Sutan loves to mess up his own work after, later, when Tommy’s still got the show thrumming right under the surface of his skin ad he can’t sit still. Sutan will put his hands on Tommy’s face, draw the pads of his fingers through the dark smudges at the corners of his eyes, kiss the lipstick off his lips and onto everywhere else.)
Sutan dips his fingers in the jar of glitter gel, brings it up to the left side of Tommy’s head and rubs it into the short hair there, combs the residue through his bangs with trained fingers. Tommy leans into the touch and Sutan snorts.
“Slut,” he says fondly, and Tommy hums. The glitter gel is Sutan’s own secret blend and he won’t tell anyone how he mixes it. Sometimes he says it’s the same as KFC’s secret recipe but usually he’ll says it’s sperm sample.
It’s all over the buses, too, there’s glitter on everything; on the food in the mini-fridge, on the toilet-seat, on Isaac’s camera, on the ceiling in lounge area, on the roadies, on the venues even before they arrive, on everything any of them even think of touching, like some weird, glittery Midas touch.
Tommy wonders if he’s going to wake up, ten years from now and still find glitter from tonight, from this moment, from this tour from this insane whirlwind that is his life right now. He doesn’t think he would mind.
“Hmmm,” Sutan says, fingers tightening on Tommy’s jaw, eyes going dark.
“I think ----,” and then he reaches for the black eyeliner again. Tommy shivers and parts his lips automatically, licks at them nervously, like some fucking Pavlovian dog and it would be embarrassing if it didn’t turn him on so fucking much. Sutan ducks his head a little, but Tommy still sees the knowing smile. Tommy might as well go out there tonight, buck-naked and Sutan’s name branded into his skin, and he fucking loves it, it thrills him to the very fucking core.
Sutan carefully lines his lips with the eyeliner, completely focused.
Tommy shivers, he never really thought about it before, and in the past, it always annoyed him when girlfriends got possessive, made him wear the jewelry or clothes they bought for him, they way they would cling around other people but with Sutan it’s different, with Sutan, Tommy craves it.
Sutan pulls out a lipstick, glossy and blood-red, and paints it carefully onto Tommy’s parted lips with a small brush. Tommy wants to kiss him, wants to mark Sutan up the way he’s being marked for the world to see but it will have to wait. After. Later.
*
They’re holed up in the green room, Tommy just lounging on the couch, Isaac is wired and talking a mile and minute and Brooke is whipping the other three through some painful looking stretches.
Adam comes through the door in his first outfit and full make-up and the sound from the crowd intensifies, then dulls when he closes the door.
'Bad Romance' comes on, and Adam grins at Tommy, wide and a little crazy at the corners and then his eyes narrow. He puts the pads of two fingers under Tommy’s chin and angles Tommy’s head up, tilts it into the light.
“Awh,” he says, “No kissy-kissy tonight, then. Sutan’s such a greedy bitch.” Adam raises his voice on the last part and Tommy hears the door open, and Sutan says, “Like I don’t share him with you plenty, hunty,” and Adam grins at him over Tommy’s head.
Sutan hooks his fingers in Tommy’s collar and pulls, firm and steady and Tommy relishes in the pressure on his throat before stumbling off the couch, turning, falling blindly into Sutan’s arms.
“Hotel night,” Sutan says, eyes dark with filthy promise, and Tommy shivers.
”Yeah,” he says, and he hopes he doesn’t sound too eager, pushing into Sutan’s hands.
“Don’t ruin my hard work,” Sutan says, and sends Tommy off with a slap on the ass.
*
All through the show he can feel Sutan’s eyes on the back of neck, but every time he tries to peer into the shadowy darkness in the wings, he’s gone.
During 'Fever', Adam comes over and nuzzles at his face, bares and snaps his teeth at Tommy and smirks, nodding a little over Tommy’s head, and this time when Tommy turns to look, Sutan is standing there, arms crossed, waiting.
The show can’t end fast enough.
*
(4:10 - 4:13)
adelate for the once-over. Tommy imagines that if he closed his eyes and listened really carefully, he would be able to hear everything. Hear the rain falling outside, hitting the old concrete of the building, crumbling at the corners, hear it even from down here, in their basement-level hide-out. Hear the fans, outside, laughing and singing despite the rain, screaming for them, all of them, not just Adam. He thinks he can hear the whir of Adam’s exercise bike, hear Sasha and Allison’s whoops as they chase Taylor and Terrance down the halls, boots pounding on the floor, sound bouncing off the walls. He could, if he wanted to.
Tommy doesn’t.
Instead, he focuses carefully on the room he’s in. Tiny space, Sutan’s giant-ass, portable make-up station taking up almost half the room, graffiti all over the walls, a rickety picnic table with a tea-towel hastily thrown over it, the bottled water and a platter of crackers and fruit shoved to one side to make room for Sutan’s aromatherapy oil burner. Everything smells like lemongrass, and it’s something Tommy has come to associate with Sutan.
Sutan’s breathing is calm and even, soothing. He sounds almost like he’s meditating, some zen state of being that Tommy envies. Tommy listens to Sutan’s breathing, his own, sounding so loud and ragged in comparison, the quiet rasp of brushes, the plasticy clicks of make-up being opened and closed, compacts sliding together.
Tommy can feel the firm, certain brush strokes on his eyelids, dark, maybe some purple tonight --- Tommy can do this himself no problem, but he prefers when Sutan does it. Sutan does too. It’s never quite verbalized, but there’s something about this, faces so close together, breathing like shot-gunning, touching that isn’t meant to be sexual --- there’s just something about it that rattles Tommy in the most delicious way possible.
Sutan lines his eyes in black, pencil eyeliner followed by sure, even strokes of the smudging tool and Tommy looks up, looks down, looks to the sides at Sutan’s commands, although he knows the routine by heart.
Sutan curls his eyelashes and Tommy loves the way it makes his lashes look but he’s still terrified of the thing, sure it’s going to pinch him. He looks down when Sutan brings out the mascara, looks up for the lower lashes. Eyebrows are next, dark dark dark, a fine, angled brush, and Sutan extends them way out. Tommy relishes in the routine, is comforted by how reliable it is, when everything else around him is so chaotic and stressful.
Sutan puts foundation on him, pale pale pale, Tommy knows, and he keeps his eyes closed, can predict where the brush goes next. Then setting powder and the big, fluffy brush. Tommy loves that brush the most. Probably because of that one time when Sutan got him high and made him come just by stroking his dick with it.
Sutan runs the brush over Tommy’s face, and Tommy doesn’t miss the way Sutan’s lips quirk up at the corners, knows that he’s remembering, too.
Cheeks comes next, high and pink, and he knows how his skin looks, perfect, like a china doll’s. (Sutan loves to mess up his own work after, later, when Tommy’s still got the show thrumming right under the surface of his skin ad he can’t sit still. Sutan will put his hands on Tommy’s face, draw the pads of his fingers through the dark smudges at the corners of his eyes, kiss the lipstick off his lips and onto everywhere else.)
Sutan dips his fingers in the jar of glitter gel, brings it up to the left side of Tommy’s head and rubs it into the short hair there, combs the residue through his bangs with trained fingers. Tommy leans into the touch and Sutan snorts.
“Slut,” he says fondly, and Tommy hums. The glitter gel is Sutan’s own secret blend and he won’t tell anyone how he mixes it. Sometimes he says it’s the same as KFC’s secret recipe but usually he’ll says it’s sperm sample.
It’s all over the buses, too, there’s glitter on everything; on the food in the mini-fridge, on the toilet-seat, on Isaac’s camera, on the ceiling in lounge area, on the roadies, on the venues even before they arrive, on everything any of them even think of touching, like some weird, glittery Midas touch.
Tommy wonders if he’s going to wake up, ten years from now and still find glitter from tonight, from this moment, from this tour from this insane whirlwind that is his life right now. He doesn’t think he would mind.
“Hmmm,” Sutan says, fingers tightening on Tommy’s jaw, eyes going dark.
“I think ----,” and then he reaches for the black eyeliner again. Tommy shivers and parts his lips automatically, licks at them nervously, like some fucking Pavlovian dog and it would be embarrassing if it didn’t turn him on so fucking much. Sutan ducks his head a little, but Tommy still sees the knowing smile. Tommy might as well go out there tonight, buck-naked and Sutan’s name branded into his skin, and he fucking loves it, it thrills him to the very fucking core.
Sutan carefully lines his lips with the eyeliner, completely focused.
Tommy shivers, he never really thought about it before, and in the past, it always annoyed him when girlfriends got possessive, made him wear the jewelry or clothes they bought for him, they way they would cling around other people but with Sutan it’s different, with Sutan, Tommy craves it.
Sutan pulls out a lipstick, glossy and blood-red, and paints it carefully onto Tommy’s parted lips with a small brush. Tommy wants to kiss him, wants to mark Sutan up the way he’s being marked for the world to see but it will have to wait. After. Later.
They’re holed up in the green room, Tommy just lounging on the couch, Isaac is wired and talking a mile and minute and Brooke is whipping the other three through some painful looking stretches.
Adam comes through the door in his first outfit and full make-up and the sound from the crowd intensifies, then dulls when he closes the door.
'Bad Romance' comes on, and Adam grins at Tommy, wide and a little crazy at the corners and then his eyes narrow. He puts the pads of two fingers under Tommy’s chin and angles Tommy’s head up, tilts it into the light.
“Awh,” he says, “No kissy-kissy tonight, then. Sutan’s such a greedy bitch.” Adam raises his voice on the last part and Tommy hears the door open, and Sutan says, “Like I don’t share him with you plenty, hunty,” and Adam grins at him over Tommy’s head.
Sutan hooks his fingers in Tommy’s collar and pulls, firm and steady and Tommy relishes in the pressure on his throat before stumbling off the couch, turning, falling blindly into Sutan’s arms.
“Hotel night,” Sutan says, eyes dark with filthy promise, and Tommy shivers.
”Yeah,” he says, and he hopes he doesn’t sound too eager, pushing into Sutan’s hands.
“Don’t ruin my hard work,” Sutan says, and sends Tommy off with a slap on the ass.
All through the show he can feel Sutan’s eyes on the back of neck, but every time he tries to peer into the shadowy darkness in the wings, he’s gone.
During 'Fever', Adam comes over and nuzzles at his face, bares and snaps his teeth at Tommy and smirks, nodding a little over Tommy’s head, and this time when Tommy turns to look, Sutan is standing there, arms crossed, waiting.
The show can’t end fast enough.
(4:10 - 4:13)
