#him gratuitously explaining everything buck says ever >>>

[cowboyshit]

Stay the Night

I started writing this lil ficlet awhile back, right around Revolution. I decided to write a purely smut-filled one-shot just for indulgence sake, where a FOC would basically use sex to "take care” of Adam and make him feel a little better. Since I like using FOC’s who I’ve already established whenever I can, I figured Fawna Rose from Some Real Cowboy Shit fit the bill for this one perfectly. There’s a little angst as we catch up on why these two aren’t together, but for the most part this ficlet is purely self-indulgent smut.

Ship: Hangman Adam Page x Fawna Rose (FOC)

Summary: After their initial encounter, Adam and Fawna started to get close. Close enough that she was pulled in to the storm of his insecurities and, not able to handle the idea of not being the only man in her life, they decided to stop seeing one another. However, the night after Revolution, even though Adam and Kenny won and beat the Young Bucks, Adam finds himself holed up alone in his hotel room, drinking. Lonely. He makes a stupid, drunk decision and despite what unsolved aches lay between himself and Fawna, he decides the only thing that can help him is the chance to see her again.

Rating: NC-17 (Gratuitous smut)

Warnings: Alcohol use, smut

Length: 5,982 words

Available below the cut

There was still a ringing in his ears. An ache in his chest. No matter how much he drank, he couldn’t get it out of his head. The footage on the titantron in front of him. Matt, Nick, and Kenny. All three poised to superkick him after he and Kenny won the tag team titles. 

Kenny. The man who held the other half of the tag team titles alongside Adam himself.

But it was supposed to matter that they didn’t kick him, right?

That’s what he kept telling himself. Beer after beer. Shot of whiskey after shot of whiskey. It was becoming apparent that no amount of drunkenness was going to ease what was burning in his heart and that was when, drunk, a careless, reckless, and absolutely stupid idea popped into his head.

There was a sharp and sudden clatter as his clumsy, big hand swept a little too hard and tipped one empty beer can to crash into three more, sending them bouncing off the coffee table and onto the floor below. He muttered a curse and looked at the mess, noticing a few splatters of beer had spilled out and were soaking into the carpet. Unable to care enough to do anything about it, he made a nose of discontent in his mouth that was something like a grumble and returned to what he’d been trying to grab: his phone.

The bright screen made him wince as he unlocked it, but he soldiered on, mind set on one conquest and unwilling to give in until it did what was necessary. He navigated (with difficulty) to his contacts, scrolled, and clicked her name.

FAWNA ROSE

Their last text conversation popped up, long bubbles of thoughts they’d sent back and forth over a month ago, and her last words to him shone vivid and bright. He knew what they said – he’d read this conversation enough to memorize it – but he still forced his eyes to focus and read them again.

If you can ever find it in your heart to accept my situation, I’m here. Until then, I don’t think we should talk or see each other anymore. We’re just hurting ourselves by dragging this out Adam, and it isn’t fair to either of us. I care about you.

 I care about you.

He sucked in a hard breath and held it, broad chest lifted and lungs slowly beginning to ache. His eyes ran over those four words one more time and he exhaled in a heavy, sudden breath. Too drunk to think through what he was doing he clicked her name, clicked audio, and clicked the button to call her. He held the phone against his ear and stared wordlessly out the window from his hotel room and tried to keep his breathing low and slow. He didn’t know what he was going to say when she picked up (if she picked up). He didn’t know why he was calling.

 Yeah, he did.

The phone clicked and the ringing stopped but didn’t roll into the voicemail recording. She was there on the other line, but she hadn’t said anything. He pressed the phone a little harder to his ear, wanting her close, wanting to hear her breathing. His lonely heart ached and not just for the way he missed her, but for everything. For himself. The loneliness that chased his lashing out at men he’d once called brothers. The emptiness that no amount of alcohol seemed to fill, try as he might. The sting at the words echoing back at him in real time, with Nick’s and Matt’s voices, joining that of his insecurities and making it all harder to fight and to ignore.

“Adam?” She spoke first after enough silence passed between them.

He inhaled, tried to say something – even something as little as a hello – but found his throat was suddenly too tight to work anything through it at all. That air he sucked in hitched, betraying the shaky way he was struggling to hold his composure.

“Text me your hotel and room number, okay?” There was a gentility to her tone that stung his eyes with tears and made him pinch the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb to hold them at bay. The ache inside was a chasm ripped asunder and it begged to be filled with the care she so freely gave him. “Adam?”

“Okay,” he barely managed to speak, voice hoarse. He cleared his throat after and tore the phone away, ending the call with his heart pounding hard and his inebriated mind spinning.

After sending her the hotel and his room number, Adam glanced around and lumbered to his feet. His large frame swayed with instability, but he started to snatch and shove discarded towels and clothes around the room in an attempt to tidy up. He wasn’t necessarily a slob, and it was hard to make a hotel room messy after just a day when you spent your time in it completely alone, but drunken carelessness had him less clean than he’d normally be. He knew Fawna worried about him, too. Wouldn’t do for her to come in and see a bunch of beer cans lying carelessly around.

He didn’t call her because he wanted her pity, nor did he want to be lectured.

They’d gotten close after their first encounter. Close enough that she knew what he was going through. Close enough that when he started letting the fear of everyone close to him turn on him become true, he’d taken that out on her, too. Because he didn’t like that someone he was beginning to get real feelings for was already married. Because he was already feeling inferior everywhere else in his life, and no matter how many times she explained polyamory and her unique situation, he couldn’t shake the voice in his head that reminded him with her, he’d always be second.

 Always second.

He was so tired of being second. Or third. Or fourth. Or fifth.

When the fuck was it finally going to be time for him to be first?

There was a knock on the door and Adam jerked, realizing he’d been standing in the middle of the hotel room, holding the television remote, staring off into space as he drifted in and out of painful, misery-fueled thoughts and inebriated numbness. Shaking himself back to reality he glanced at the remote, frowned, and set it on the hotel entertainment center before making his way to the door. His weight lurched and he struck a palm on the door to steady his body and keep from toppling over. It was then he realized he hadn’t thought to put on a shirt and hesitated, just briefly before he slid his hand down the flat surface to the handle, pulling it open and glancing down his front at her.

Seeing her after a month of no contact brought up feelings he didn’t have the mental stability or sobriety to process. He sucked in a breath and tried to think about what to say, but his drunk tongue took over and robbed him of the chance to save face.

 “I miss you.” His brow pinched, and he swallowed back hard.

“I know.” She said, but gently, like she was cradling him carefully, minding his current fragility to keep him from shattering apart. Her autumn brown eyes on his put butterflies in his stomach and made him sway where he stood. Did she see the way she affected him? “I miss you too.” She admitted, volume a little smaller, like she knew she wasn’t supposed to say it but understood how badly he needed to know that. He felt guilty, then, making her go against everything she’d explained to him about how they couldn’t see one another unless everyone was on-board and okay with their situation.

He worried she was going to ask him if he’d changed his mind. His bleary blue eyes jumped with sudden sharpness between hers, waiting for it.

 “Can I come in?” She asked instead, gesturing to the hotel room behind him he was blocking with his thick figure.

 “Oh, yeah.” He said quick, stumbling back and out of her way. Adam held the door as she walked inside and then turned to close it, back to her as he tried to sort through everything and get a better hold of himself. Calling her here had been a drunk mistake, but he was still too drunk to take responsibility and send her home. He had her here. He needed her.

Adam turned around, hoping when his gaze met hers, he’d have a stroke of brilliance and know just what to say. “Fawna, I –”

“Shh,” she said, effectively quieting him as he frowned in confusion. Fawna drew close enough to lay her palm over his heart, and a smile tilted the edges of her full, sinfully kissable lips. “I can feel how hard your heart is beating,” she whispered, and it sounded like a roar in his ears with the way his blood rushed.

 “Wait. I can’t do this to you.” He’d lifted his hands to pull hers off him but let his fingers curl around hers and was holding her hand between them. “I still don’t think I like the thought of sharing you, I just…” Words failed him because he knew he was wrong. He knew it was wrong to ask her to stay anyways, to let them keep complicating things because he just wanted to feel good for a minute.

He was using her the same way he used alcohol.

 “Adam, it’s okay.” She said, surprising him. He frowned at her and she slowly pulled her hand away from his. 

She pressed her fingers onto his chest and though she didn’t have the strength to physically move him, he allowed himself to be moved at her insistence and stumbled backward until she had them turned with his back pointed toward the bed. When he glanced questioningly at her, she raised one dark, shaped brow as if to say: Do you really want to fight me on this right now?

It was easy to give in since it was what he wanted. Adam let her guide him backwards until he fell on the bed, and when he tried to speak as her hands went to his belt buckle, she clicked her tongue with gentle chiding and let their eyes meet.

 “Let me take care of you tonight, Adam.” She said.

Fawna waited for his nod, and relief swept immediately through his body. He laid back on the pillows and breathed hard through his nose as she released the tension of the belt, snapping the buckle and pulling the strap through. The sound of his jean zipper tugged down overpowered the jingle of her leaving his belt undone, and he groaned deep in his throat as she slipped her fingers beneath the elasticity of his boxer-briefs and wrapped her fist firm around his cock. The blood was rushing to fill it quickly, and he pressed his chin to his chest and watched with desperate eyes as she gave him that little smile that claimed innocence even as she behaved licentiously.  

 “Ohh,” he squeezed tight passed clenched teeth, “fuck.” A quick hiss sucked air hard into his lungs as she dipped and put her soft, wet mouth over the head of his cock and slipped him down her tongue. His body tensed and his hips arched upward, greedy, stuffing more of his inches and stretching her lips wide around his girth. His fingers curled and dug hard into the comforter over the hotel bed and his eyes, wild, jumped over the top of her head and watched her please him.

 A desperate, shaking hand unclenched the grasp it had on the comforter and moved instead for her hair. He pushed the strands out of her face, wanting to have a clear line of sight to his cock bulging her cheek at the same time he felt it running between her tongue and the warm, ridged roof of her mouth, the tip pushing between the warm wet walls of her throat before she pulled back up. His groans filled the room and mixed with the little wet noises of her lips and tongue servicing his cock.

 A little pop as she pulled up off his head, sucking back the saliva that left it glistening.

 “Feels good, baby?” She purred, and Adam’s fingers slipped to frame the back of her head, curling tight around the strands.

 “Mhm,” he grumbled, nodding as he pushed her head down, eagerly wanting her mouth on his cock again.

That soft, wet tongue of hers knew just how to stroke the skin, just where to curl and flick the sensitive lip of the head of his cock, and as badly as Adam wanted to keep watching her he was victim to the way his eyes rolled back in his head. Fingers still curling in her hair – pulling the strands a little too hard, his knuckles gone white – he pushed her down further and further, stuffing his cock inside her warm mouth until her lips kissed the base. He felt her struggle to hold his cock so deep and pictured the way they’d look from the side, where he’d be able to see the bulge of its shape down her throat. She choked again, body jerking, tender, wet skin squeezing his girth and making him moan deep in his chest.

Adam’s eyes snapped forward and he released the pressure of holding her down, watching as she slipped quickly up, little bits of spit bridged between her lips and the head of his leaking, desperately red cock. As she brushed the saliva away, Adam’s eyes traced the wetness glistening over her eyes and admired the way they shone in the soft white hotel light coming from the bedside lamp. He liked it like this - lights on - able to watch and see everything.

Fawna curled her fingers around his erection and used her spit and his precum as lubricant as she stroked with perfect pressure. Adam’s chin jutted outward, jaw clenched tight as another desperate, heavy moan ripped through his lungs and pressed between his teeth. She bent and he felt the tip of her tongue run down the blood-filled veins of his shaft toward his balls, and when she latched her lips around them and sucked the tender skin of his sac he made a desperate sound and curled his fists hard into the sheets at his side. Sweat dappled his forehead, sticking his crown of blond curls to his skin.

“Oh fuck, Fawna, baby,” he panted heavy and fought to keep his eyes forward when all they wanted to do was roll back again.

“Mmm, mhmmm,” she moaned and murmured while still sucking and licking the most sensitive, pleasurably spots, fingers rolling over the tingling, needy head of his cock. She sent vibrations through his cock as she did it and caused him to glance desperately down his body toward her head bent between his legs. 

“Wait, wait,” he breathed heavily, like he’d just finished performing an intense match in the ring, his large sweat-damp and lightly blond-hair dusted chest rising and falling with staggered breaths. As Fawna slowly pulled her mouth off him and looked with confusion, Adam was sure to move quick and shoved at his denim jeans to push them further down his thighs. He wanted them off, same with his boots and socks. Once Fawna realized this she pushed his hands away - she’d said she wanted to take care of him - and undressed him herself. 

She slipped off the bed and when his glazed eyes followed her with helpless confusion she answered with a little curve to her smile and slowly started to undress herself. “Stay put,” she commanded with a sweet murmur, and practically peeled the material off her skin inch by inch until his blood was roaring in his ears and the beat of his heart was pounding distinct enough to count. His fingers curled into the reprieve of the comforter again, needing to grab something since she’d told him he wasn’t allowed to reach for her. Hungry blue eyes nearly gone black, void of any softness they could otherwise have, ate up his delectable little treat as she - at last - peeled the lace lavender bra she wore and dropped it to the side. She curled her fingers in the elastic of her matching panties and made sure to turn about as she slipped them down and off her body so he’d have ample view of her ass as she did it.

It made him growl, more beast than man. His ass clenched as his hips lifted instinctually upward, wishing they were buried between those thighs he couldn’t pull his gaze from.

When she returned to kneel on all fours between his spread legs, she bent and angled her head inward, laying a slow, lingering, sensual kiss against the inside of his thigh. She trailed those affectionate, sweet touches up his skin to where his cock jerked and twitched, so hard it almost hurt, pre-cum beading and dribbling desperately down its head.

After pausing to wet her fingers she began to service him again, being careful to let off when it was clear she was building him too quickly toward the peak. The tease - the way she edged him - was the most glorious torture he’d ever experienced. He fought the instinct to put his hands on her hair and hold his cock in her throat until he made her gag on his cum by instead bruising her body with how rough he handled her. He grabbed fistfuls of the soft fat over her hips before he ran his calloused palms down her chest and over her nipples, pinching and pulling them just enough to make her squeak in that way that made a smug grin push into his round cheeks.

His sac sucked tight to the base of his cock as she bobbed her head in a quick, rapid motion over his sensitive, throbbing head. He felt the tight curl in his abdomen for the fourth time that night and his thighs tensed, the hard muscles beneath the natural fat showing. Fawna, used to the way his body communicated during sex, popped her lips off his head just before it was too late. He groaned long and low, mixed with an almost growl-like noise of frustration as his hips arched up and his cock leaked desperately, but he still didn’t cum.

“Are you trying to kill me, woman?” His voice was strained. Weak. He was a mess of heavy breaths and a sweat-sticky body. 

And she smiled that little smile with her lips red and swollen from how they’d sucked and licked at his cock for so long. That playful little innocent seeming smile that told you she knew she wasn’t pure at all. It made his eyes dark with hunger and his fingers cramp, wanting to curl hard into her skin and flex his strength over her. She leaned back on her calves, sitting upright between his legs, and slowly wiped the little glisten of saliva and precum from her lips before she fixed her eyes on him again.

“Of course not, baby. I’m just enjoying you.”

A shiver of pleasure rushed down his spine and a flood of pride filled his body. That was something Fawna did well from the very beginning; make him feel important. Needed. She could be anywhere in the world, even back home, with her husband, but she wanted to be here, squished between his hairy, thick thighs, making him writhe and moan and nearly cum before letting off and going again, drawing everything out for as long as they physically could.

“Besides,” she said, tone playfully matter-of-fact as she started to climb up him, knees on the mattress at either side of his hips, drawing her eyes back up to his, “those moans of yours have me drenched, and you’re not going to finish until you’re inside me.” His nostrils flared, jaw clenching tight enough to make the muscle jump beneath his closely trimmed blond beard.

She pressed back on his thick cock, the head slipping between her pussy lips but not yet allowed inside. He could feel the truth - how wet she was - and it made him groan as his cock slid up with ease between them and rubbed her clit. She ran her hips back and forth, slow and languid, teasing her clit to rise and making herself whimper and moan above him. Adam’s fingers bit into her hips and drove the pace a little faster, wanting to milk more and more of those trembles out of her body and hear those needy little cries she couldn’t help but make.

Fuck, she was so wet. He could feel it coating their thighs; sticky.

Before she could make herself cum by rubbing his cock over her clit, Fawna pulled her hips up and reached back, positioning him so that when she sat back, the leaking, red head of his erection buried an inch inside her. She sank her hips slowly; down, down, down until he was comfortably lodged deep and they both stilled for a moment, adjusting to the way they breathed with shaky, desperate breaths. She ran her hands down his bare chest and started to move, rocking her body slowly to stroke his cock a few inches in and a few inches out. She was building him again, content to make his head spin and keep his only focus on the love and sex that filled the space between and around them.

The moan from his chest was deep and yearning. He arched his hips up as she sank down, and his fingers readjusted where they gripped her. He was trying to reach through fat, through muscle, to bone. She moaned and Adam felt he’d never heard a sound that made him happier. The way her cries bounced off the corners of the hotel room and reverberated back, tangling with his own passionate grunts, the shifting of their bodies atop the sheets, was driving him toward a lack of control. He wanted it all, then and there. He wanted to flip them around so she was beneath his shadow, he wanted to push his palms hard against her thighs and roll her hips up until her knees touched her temples. He wanted to drive his hips hard and fast into her over and over and over until he bruised her and left her aching for days. This possessive beast inside him was nearly impossible to deny, and his hands gripped tighter on her hips, his own driving faster up into her. He forced his eyes open, though they wanted to clench shut from the pleasure tingling through his entire body, and watched the way her face pinched in pleasure, lips caught wide open, their edges still glistening wet from when she’d been servicing his cock.

He grunted and drove his hips up harder, readjusting his grip on her hips, happy to see the red and white marks of his hands in the fat there. Would it bruise? He hoped so. He hoped she’d have the marks of his fingerprints in black and blue across that pretty flesh, and think about this moment. How good it felt to have him deep inside her, stretching her.

Suddenly, she resisted him. Before concentrating, Adam was the hive of restless need, and only forced his grip on her a little tighter, trying to make her ride him to the rhythm he decreed. But, when she stayed firmly resolute against being drilled by his pace, his eyes met hers with question. She slipped her hands down his sweat-damp chest to where he held her body and curled her fingers around them. Lifting, she pried them off her body and set them atop the comforter cushion. Her eyes met his and she smiled.

“My pace, cowboy. Remember?” She grinned as she said it, stopping him once again from getting carried away and driving them to the orgasm his cock was desperate for, twitching and leaking inside her. The breathless quality to her voice, the way she seemed to need to catch herself for a minute, was more than enough evidence to see how he’d affected her and nearly threw her off her game plan for the evening.

Adam could barely smile, every muscle tense and tight, but still flashed her an impish one.

“Can you blame me?” He choked out as she brought the pace back slow, sliding languid up and down his length, head never falling from her drenched lips. He shifted his body beneath her, peeling his skin from the damp comforter and drew a ragged, needed breath deep in his lungs. His tongue swept his lips and he took another breath, letting the tension in his muscles slowly leak out. “You’re driving me insane.”

“Aw, I’m sorry baby,” she said with a purr in her voice and a look in her eyes that said she was definitely not sorry. “But tonight I make all the rules.” She kept that pace, that way she stroked the entire length of his cock up and then down. Moving her hands to either sides of his shoulders she leaned her body over his and let him be trapped in her shadow. Her nipples brushed his chest and made a shiver ripple through his body. Every slow shift back and up of her body rubbed them against his skin and made him want to make a mad grab for them. Instead, his fingers curled desperate into the sheets where she’d placed them.

Fawna lowered, but didn’t reward his lips with a kiss. Instead she left tokens of her affection on his neck, kissing, licking, down to his chest and up the other side. She suckled, not enough to leave any permanent marks, but enough to let the blood rush hot and tingles to race up and down his spine. As she nibbled at his earlobe she whispered huskily into his ear, “I’m here to take care of you tonight, baby. I’m going to make it worth your while.” And she dropped her lips back to his neck, kissing where the muscles jumped because he swallowed so hard at her repeated promise. She lifted her mouth from his neck and hovered over him. One of her hands reached so she could gently grasp his bearded chin, tilting his blue eyes to meet hers. “That means I decide when we cum and everything we do before then.”

A shiver ripped through him like a tremble and the satisfied look in her eyes made him bite back a groan. 

The slowed pace had taken him off the edge he’d been desperately at, and Adam wasn’t sure to be thankful or to curse her. Fawna slowly sat back and his cock twitched, buried inside her. He looked up her body, every imperfection on display by the glowing lights all turned on in the hotel room. She wasn’t shy - he loved that about her - and smiled at him watching her, lifting her arms and arching her body sensually. Her pink nipples were hard, and it took everything he had not to demand she bring them to his mouth where he could suck, lick, bite and give her beard burn on her breasts. His eyes fell down them to her belly, to her hips and thighs where his greedy fingerprints were still visible on her skin and back up again. When he’d had his fill of admiring her, Fawna began to move her hips again.

Adam wasn’t sure how much time had passed since she first came to his hotel. Time seemed to stand still in this place, even though he logically knew he didn’t. Nothing existed but himself and Fawna. Not the alcohol, not the turbulence in his self-identity and his questioning of the love and loyalty of men he’d once called brothers on his tongue and in his heart. None of it. He existed only in pleasure with her rocking hips, in the pressure of her pussy wrapped around his hard, pulsing, desperate, cock, and the sore tightness of his balls sucked up to the base of his shaft, needing that final release. They were both glistening with sweat, their hair stuck to their foreheads, temples, and neck.

Fawna pressed her palms against his chest gently and lifted her hips off him until his cock slid out, patched in creamy white from her own slick. It twitched, longing for the warm home it’d been enveloped in. She didn’t rob him for long, instead gingerly moving her body so she stood bedside and reached for his hand to tug him off the bed too. The sheets stuck to his sweat-damp body, his thick figure a frame in the comforter from how hard he’d been pressing himself into it.

“What idea do you have in that head of yours now?” He asked, but his voice was roughened by the relentless continuance of pleasure and the denial again and again and again of final satisfaction.

“You’ll see,” she said, and leaned over the bed, pressing one of her forearms atop it for leverage. She reached back, hand on his, and pulled him to stumble forward until his hairy, muscular thighs pressed against her legs and his cock slipped up between her cheeks, leaving a trail of his precum and her wet. When she let his hand go it was natural for it to fall to the ample curve of her ass and for the other to join it. His fingers pressed and curled into the give of the fat there and that hungry look passed his face again.

Fawna arched her back and moved herself into the cushion of the mattress and then back, squeezing him inside her cunt with ease, as if they were pieces of a puzzle meant to fit. Adam leaned his head back, letting the end of his curls brush his shoulders, and arched his hips into her pace. His fingers slipped up the curve of her ass with the intent to tighten a grip on her hips but then, unable to help himself, he lifted his right palm and brought it down hard, open-palmed, over her ass. The ripple of skin, the soft sting of red in the shape of his hand and the little squeal of pleasure and pain she made pushed his hunger back to the forefront once more. He raised his hand and brought it down again, making the fat jiggle and the skin redden.

This time Fawna did not stop him from choosing the pace and the more she let him get away with, the more he let the hunger inside take. His hips crashed with hopeless abandon into hers in quick, needy bursts. He knew he was going to bruise her, but he didn’t care. He wanted more and more of those whore sounds to moan out of her throat and bounce around his hotel room and back into his ears, filling it until it was the only sound he could hear. 

His fingers curled their grip into her skin and used it to forcibly pull her back hard on him, to assist the thrusts as he shoved his cock needy and deep inside her. He fucked her into the mattress, one hand reaching up her back and shoving her down into it between her shoulder-blades, pushing her ass more up toward him so he could fuck her deeper and make her cry out and moan even more loudly. His name joined her cries and it made him even more ravenous than before. Sweat dripped down between his chest and still, he kept driving his hips to crash hard into hers, shoving his cock relentlessly again and again inside her red, swollen pussy lips.

By offering him the final power - allowing him to answer that needy call inside himself to be the one in control for the final act - she gave him exactly what he needed.

But he could hold off. Just long enough.

The hand that had previously pushed her into the hotel bed lifted and instead snaked between her body and the mattress, fumbling as his fingers reached with greed and without apology for her raw, raised clit. He slipped past it momentarily, almost cruel as he pushed two fingers inside her, along with his girthy cock still stretching her. A devilish grin curved the corner of his mouth at her little cry and long moan of pleasure that followed. He pulled his fingers free and used the wet he’d drawn from inside her to circle around her clit, petting her harder, synching it with the thrusts of his pulsing cock inside her. Just a little longer… just a little longer… he could hold off, he could…

“Adam!” Her cry ripped audaciously loud before her thighs began to shake and her body convulsed, the muscles of her cunt gripping tight around him. 

A low groan crawled loudly from his throat, his jaw locked and he bent halfway over her before his own body could be denied no longer. Buried inside her Adam came, decorating her insides with ribbon after ribbon of hot, sticky cum. For a long moment, almost long enough to make them look like carved statues of exhausted lovers, they stayed still like that. Adam leaning over her body, his palms flat on the mattress, her body trapped under his, their skin glistening with sweat that caught the lights.

Dragging a deep breath into his lungs that smelled like sweat and sex, Adam slowly lifted himself to stand straight and gingerly pulled his sensitive, still semi-hard cock from between her red, dripping pussy lips. She crawled onto the bed and turned herself around to look at him, that same exhausted, happy expression relaxed onto her features. Before reality could stab into this sinful haven they’d created, Adam gestured toward the bathroom with a tilt of his head.

“Want to rinse off with me real quick?”

“Yeah,” she said with a smile, gingerly moving to set herself on her feet. When she swayed, he reached out to catch her, though his reaction was a little slower than it’d normally be. They exchanged smiles, amused at how they’d thoroughly exhausted themselves.

She yawned as they padded barefoot and naked around the bed and toward the bathroom. “Is it okay if I stay here with you tonight?” She asked, and though her tone sounded innocent, as if she’d just now thought of it, Adam had to wonder if she’d planned it all along. If she’d had the forbearance to know he didn’t want to spend the night alone, and all the sex in the world wouldn’t stop that emptiness from coming to steal away his happiness as soon as she left and he was the only one in his hotel room.

He wouldn’t put it past her.

Adam pulled her by the hand to stop her from walking into the bathroom and crashed her body back into his. His free hand reached to gingerly tuck a lock of her frazzled, tangled hair behind her ear and fell into tenderly holding her face. This was what made things hard between them. The way his heart beat for her. The way it wasn’t just sex.

“Yeah.” He said, and a faint, tired smile touched his lips. “I’d like that.” He leaned down, his hand slipping to pinch her chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding her face up toward him as he brushed his lips gently against hers and then sank in for a deep, passionate kiss that’d leave them both dizzy by the time it was through.

[mylovelymarvel]

Paint My Sins Away (Part 2)

Pairing: au!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: She continues to paint, but what happens when she says Hello? Soulmate au

Warnings: brief mentions of sex (it’s like barely there and not at all explicit in any way), more angst, and swearing

WC: 2.4k

Part 1 Current Part Part 3

   Six silent days pass before Bucky feels like he can breathe again. Recovery comes slow. He mopes around the tower, though he’d never admit he “mopes”, and there are bruise like bags under his eyes. The long sleeves have made a comeback and he tries his best to avoid everyone.

    Steve doesn’t allow him to be alone for too long though. He quietly brings him food throughout the days and the occasional new book. He doesn’t pester him to talk or to explain his sudden regression, and for that, Bucky is grateful. The blonde super soldier is persistent though. He finds him no matter what inconspicuous room Bucky has tucked himself into into for the day.

    Bucky has a hunch that FRIDAY has been tattling on him.

    After a long day of training and therapy, Bucky finds himself nestled into bed, burrowed under a mountain of blankets with a novel in his hand. It’s nearly nine and the sun has long since set.

    A thick book with a bright red cover sits in his hand. Outlander, it’s called. He’s only about 300 pages in, but he’s already enthralled by it. It whisks him away to another time, to a fantastical universe where he can lose himself. There are whisps of his own time sewn into the story, remnants of the 1940’s before the main character, Mrs. Claire Beaumont, is thrown 200 years into the past. The story is still violent, and he has to skip those parts, but he still loves it.

    Reading has become another way to cope, though he won’t admit it. He has his own bookshelves set up in his room with hundreds of novels sitting on them. I’m trying to catch up on the modern world, he says. Everyone knows it’s bullshit, but they smile and nod and continue to find books they think he’d enjoy.

    It’s sweet and he appreciates it.

    He’s turning to page 332 when he notices the paint appearing again. It’s a sliver of green that tangles around his fingers and clenches painfully around his heart. He chokes out a strangled gasp and closes his eyes. He lowers his hands to his lap and it’s a few moments before he can open his eyes again. When he does, he tucks a Lord of the Rings bookmark between the pages of his book and sets it on his bedside table. With shaking breaths, he rips the blankets from his body and staggers into the bathroom to wash the paint away. Air can scarcely make its way through his constricted throat to his burning lungs.

    His metal shoulder clips the doorway as he stumbles forward and a dull thunk echoes through the cold bathroom. He can barely breathe, but he is trying so, so hard to stay calm. He switches on the hot tap and holds his hand under the running water. He scrubs at his skin, scrapes at the paint, before returning to bed. He sits on the covers and reaches a quivering hand to his book.

                                                  ***

    His book sits abandoned on the comforter next to him. He has his arm laid out in front of him and his gaze is fastened to the scene being created on his skin. He tries to keep his mind empty, to focus on the art. He cannot think about the person poised behind the brush. He tries so desperately to forget about her, to keep his mind from the implications of what this means.

    Instead, he focuses on the way she layers the paint on his palm, hues of blues and purples settling in the creases of his hand. Quiet breaths slip from his lips and there is a steady beat drumming inside his chest. It’s extraordinarily fascinating to watch, relaxing even. His eyelids are droopy and he’s yawned more times than he can count, but he doesn’t quite want to fall asleep yet. She continues the repetitive, calming brush strokes and he doesn’t remember when his eyes close, but suddenly he’s asleep.

                                                   ***

    The paint has disappeared when he wakes up.

    The next couple of weeks follow the same pattern of training, therapy, and painting. He’s not quite sure when he becomes used to her painting. It slips into his schedule, quiet and relaxing, and suddenly he knows what to expect every night before bed. He is curled up in bed by the time she starts and she lulls him to sleep every night. The nightmares are still ever present, but for once, he wakes up well rested. He’s thankful she washes off the paint before he wakes. The long sleeves are still the only shirts he’s willing to wear, but he no longer needs the gloves. It’s progress.

    He still forces himself not to think of her, to think of her as someone who actually exists somewhere out in the world. It is painful, but if he falters, it never fails to send him into an all consuming panic, a pathetic fit of weeping and shaking. He hates how weak he is. A fleeting thought of a girl and suddenly he’s crying. Pathetic. So he ignores it, forgets about her as best as he can.

                                                  ***

    He can tell she’s getting impatient. Nearly a month and a half has passed since she first felt him, but it still hasn’t gone further. He makes no attempt to contact her.

    She usually sets aside a couple of hours every day before bed and paints for him, but today is different. Today she starts much earlier than usual, but balanced between her fingers is a pen rather than a brush. Today she writes on her arm, a simple hello in a pretty blue color. And then she waits.

                                                  ***

    Panic ensues when he notices the blue greeting inscribed on his wrist. Bile rises in his throat and it’s all he can do to keep from vomiting. There’s a gratuitous amount of unwarranted anger that flashes in his eyes as he stares. It was comfortable. It was peaceful. Why did you have to ruin it? Why couldn’t you have left well enough alone?

    He licks his thumb and rubs it away, smudging the ink until he’s left with a blue smear on his skin. He yanks his sleeve down and tries to continue with his day.

                                                  ***

    There’s no paint that night and Bucky can’t find it in himself to blame her. It’s well into the early morning when he finally falls into a restless sleep. When he wakes, he wants nothing more than a steaming cup of coffee. It’s six in the morning when he wanders to the kitchen, stretching and rubbing his eyes as he goes. He’s clad in flannel pajama bottoms and a soft sweater that’s much too big for him.

    Steve’s gloves are strewn onto the counter and one of Sam’s jackets are slung over one of the chairs, and it feels just a little more like home.

    It takes a bit to work to fire up the coffee machine and although it can be frustrating, he finds it interesting. He adores these “high-tech gadgets”, as he calls them, and although Sam teases him over and over about that, he enjoys that too.

    He’s leaning against the counter, a warm mug cupped between his hands when she writes again.

    “Hello,” she writes in blocky script. His face crumples into a grimace as he wipes this greeting away too. He’s quiet the rest of the day.

                                                  ***

    For the first time in a long time, Bucky leaves the compound on his own. Within minutes, he’s walking into a building where the air is heavy with sweat and alcohol. He heads straight to the bar.

    He drowns himself in a pretty brunette with green eyes that night. It’s the only way he knows to distract himself, and so it follows. She writes to him, every day now, about anything and everything, and every night he’s in a different girl’s apartment. The writing comes at all times of day. Sometimes she writes when he’s around others and he hurries to stuff his hands into the gloves he always has sitting in his pocket. Other times he’s buried in another pretty girl from the bar.

    Sometimes the girls notice. Often times, they’re surprised or outraged at the ink that dances across his skin and they push him away. He leaves when this happens. On hard nights that he can’t get her out of his mind, he stops. He stutters to a halt and he can’t help the shudders that slide down his spine. On these nights, he apologizes, kisses the girls goodnight, and leaves. When he gets home, he curls into bed, clutching the blanket around him in hopes that the shaking will stop.

                                                  ***

    It’s 3 am and Bucky is in the kitchen. He’s shrugging off his jacket, tugging off his gloves, and his movements are choppy. He’s tired from his walk home after another rejection. She’s getting more persistent and frequent with her writing, and tonight she covered his arm in ink. He tosses his jacket onto the counter and stuffs his gloves into hi pocket. All he wants is his comfy pajamas and something warm.

    He’s reaching up to grab something from the cupboard, and his sleeve is slipping down his arm when he feels a presence behind him. Bucky whirls around, a box of hot chocolate clutched to his chest with his metal hand already placed delicately on the knife strapped to his waist. He breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes it’s only Steve.

    There’s a calm, calculating look plastered on Steve’s face that makes him uneasy. It’s only when he takes his hand off his knife that he realizes Steve’s gaze is fixed on his exposed arm. There’s a sharp inhalation, but Bucky pretends he’s fine as he tosses the box onto the counter behind him and yanks down his sleeve.

    Steve is quiet. He’s leaning back on the kitchen island, arms crossed and he’s still staring. He waits, waits for Steve to yell or get upset, or really, to say anything at this point. But he stays in the same position, watching the way Bucky shifts uncomfortably. The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Were you going to tell me?”

Bucky flinches at the sound of the blonde’s voice, too quiet and level. There is a small edge to it, a hint of anger and hurt. Buck averts his eyes, instead choosing to look at the floor as he shifts his weight.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, shrugging. “Probably not.”

    “You have a soulmate, out of nowhere,” he replies, struggling to keep the quiver out of his voice, “and you weren’t going to tell me.”

    Bucky gives a one shouldered shrug.

    “Yeah, I guess.” His voice is low and there’s a note of uncertainty in it.

    “What do you mean “Yeah, I guess”,” Steve bristles, pushing off the counter. Bucky’s eyes harden and he straightens up.

    “What do you want me to say, Steve? ‘Hey, by the way, I suddenly have a soulmate after over 70 fucking years. I don’t know what the fuck to do and I don’t know why she appeared all of a sudden and I’m terrified and I don’t know what this means.’”-He takes a step closer to Steve- “Is that what you want to hear?”

    “Jesus, Buck, no, that’s not what I want and you know it. You finally have a chance at your happy ending, at love, and you weren’t going to tell me? We’re best friends, man.” He stands his ground, unphased by the challenge in Bucky’s voice. He runs a tired hand through his hair.

    “Come on, Steve,” he sighs, casting his gaze down with a flat chuckle. “You really think that’s how this works out? I get some “fairytale ending” with this girl who doesn’t know who I am or what I am? That’s not how this works, okay? I don’t get the happy ending, Steve. I shouldn’t.”

    “Buck, stop it,” he demands in a hard voice as he steps forward. He’s met with a derisive laugh.

    “You stop it. I don’t deserve a soulmate, Steve, it’s not that hard of a concept,” he taunts, a sneer in his words and on his lips. “But you wouldn’t understand that.”

    Steve cocks his heads and narrows his eyes at the accusation that layers the brunette’s words.

    “What is that supposed to mean?”

    “Oh, absolutely nothing.” His tone is mocking as he turns away and runs a hand through his hair. “I just don’t think you would understand, you know, with you being Mr. Perfect. You’ve got the perfect life and the perfect soulmate, right? I mean, Sharon’s just great, isn’t she?”

    Steve knows, he fucking knows that Bucky’s just trying to get a rise out of him, but he can’t help the sharp gasp that escapes. It takes a few moments of silence and all his self control to keep from decking Bucky. There’s a deep sigh as he closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and biting the inside of his cheek.

    “Okay asshat,” Steve starts, his voice low. “I don’t know how you get off on being a dick and acting like a selfish asshole, but what about your soulmate? I’m not saying you don’t deserve one, because you do, but let’s say you don’t. Even if you don’t, what about her? Doesn’t she get a chance at a soulmate?”

    Steve opens his eyes and blows out a frustrated breath before walking to Bucky, putting his hand on the his shoulder. He ignores the way he tenses up and yanks, pulling Buck to face him. He tugs at his arm, pulling harder when he’s met with resistance, and rips his sleeve down.

    Please just talk to me, is written in small print along his forearm, and Steve scoffs, tossing his arm back at him.

    “Does she deserve to be alone?” He continues, pressing a finger into Bucky’s chest. “Doesn’t she deserve a choice in this? Because all you’re doing right now is taking that choice away from her, and I really thought you’d be the last person to take someone’s decision away from them.”

    To this, Bucky has no reply.

    “When you get your head out of your ass, Buck, you know where to find me,” he mutters, shaking his head as he stalks past the silent, long haired brunette. “In the meantime, just fucking talk to her, man.”

    He leaves the kitchen and once again, Bucky is alone.

@itsholyholland @hootyhoobuckaroo @lunafandomhitwoman @chloe-skywalker @mydragulesebastian @lordemjay @tannyator @nerdydragonwarrior @i-honestly-dont-care-anymore @rebelmosh @peter-parkerman

Those who’s urls are striked out couldn’t, for some reason, be tagged. I’m really sorry :(

[magnumversum]

Do Unto Others... Season 1 Episode 3: Kindness doesn't run in the family. That is why I lead the mafia.

Make no mistake: Armani Jones is a cruel, empty hearted murdererer. He’s not my brother.

Lesson of The Day #1: Kindness doesn’t run in the Jones family.

I learned that our family isn’t keen to love. We steal, we cheat, and we scam, and lie, and hate, and hold grudges. If there’s a lesson to be learned, it’s that the Jones do everything but love. I learned that the hard way: through being stolen from, cheated, scammed, lied to, hated, and begrudged. But if there is one thing our family hates the most, it’s traitors. That’s why I’ve been sent after my brother: the infamous Armani Jones. He was easy to find, surprisingly. He was standing right there, right outside of my doorstep. I said, “What are you doing here?”

He asked, “No- what are you doing here?”

I was in disbelief. The guts he had- to barge onto the porch of the establishment of my mafia, and ask, “No- what are you doing here?” I was furious. My blood was boiling. I was ready to hand him over and let The Spud deal with him in the worst way possible: d-e-a-t-h.

“This is crazy.” I shouted. “This is absolutely crazy! You have the guts to do this?! You- shameful!” I heard footsteps. It was my hired gun: Maseel. He was awfully loyal, so I perked my ears in and let him whisper.

“I don’t like him,” he uttered. “Should we use our ‘secret weapon’ on him?” Armani looked at Maseel, and then looked at me.

I looked at Maseel, and then looked at Armani, before whispering to Maseel, “No. Don’t. Not yet, anyway. We have other uses for him.” He seemed wary, glancing from me, to Maseel, then to the floor. He tilted his head back up, readjusted his coat, and paced to me.

He whispered to me, “Listen. I’ve had enough of your antics. I have business to attend to- so if you’d kindly run along and never get in my way again- I’d be more than a bit gratuitous in return… in a green way…”

I repeated mockingly “More than gratuitous in return. Like what? You’re gon’ do something for me?”

“Who knows?” Armani said, gaining my curiosity slowly. “I may be inclined to pay off some of the debts the mafia owns to the International Press Banking Corporation on your behalf.” He had me hooked. Now all he had to do was reel me in. He went on, “If you need extra incentive, I’d be happy to throw in some cash just for you to keep.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Maseel warned. “We don’t know what he wants.”

“You’re right,” I agreed. “We can’t be sure of his true intentions.”

Armani yelled, “All I wanted was to leave!” I tried to hold back a smirk. “No- really- all I want is to leave! I was going to pay you both ten bucks, but now I’m regretting ever even thinking of it!”

“Ten bucks?” I cried. Even I couldn’t resist the allure of ten sweet, crisp one dollar bills- or one, sweet, crisp ten dollar bill.

“I’ll pay off your debts to the IPBC too,” he said. “Just let me go first.” I thought very carefully about this. I didn’t want to make any hasty decisions regarding the infamous Armani Jones. He had pulled similar scandals like this before- some of which almost got me killed. The International Press Broadcasting And Communications, IP-BAC abbreviated, televised the scandal, using some of the footage cobbled together from CCTVs as well as their own actors to recreate the drama which spread like wildfire.

I remember saying to Maseel that day, something along the lines of, “Maseel, I haven’t seen a damn of my brother in person. I sure as Heldor wouldn’t like to.”

“Me neither,” Maseel replied. “He’s a terrible influence on the children.” I paused in my tracks.

“What do you mean?” I asked him.

He explained, “You see, children are seeing what he does… robbing banks for example- and are doing the same. Since his rise to power, crime has increased fifteen-point-three-two-three-one percent precisely.” Remembering this made me hesitant to take Armani’s “ten dollar bargain.”

“Brother,” I muttered. “I believe you to be a liar- a poor one at that. That’s why I’ll give you a chance. He looked at me, surprised, as if I hadn’t seen through his lies from the start, and further I said, “You have one chance to run away and never come back. Take this chance and leave my house with your life.” Unbeknownst to him, I was videotaping this entire debacle from a hidden security camera. Had this situation gone off the rails, I’d have my mafia-men retrieve the footage and post it on the internet forum WikiSearch, where it would gain momentum- hopefully enough momentum to have him reincarcerated.

“You’re a bothersome one,” he accused. “Maybe you should step back in your place.”

“You’re at my home,” I repeated. “This is my place. You should be the one to leave.”

“Guys-” Maseel said, interrupted.

“I WILL NOT LEAVE!” Armani hollered. “I AM THE RIGHTFUL HEIR TO YOUR MAFIA! MY MOTHER SAID SO IN HER WILL!” Armani rifled through his satchel, unveiling a legal document. “Here,” he said to me, surprisingly calm. “All of the paperwork is right here. The rest of the documents are in a binder in a vault in my attic.” I didn’t have time for this. I briefly scanned over them, before telling him what I thought.

“This seems like hooey,” I argued. “I can’t be sure you didn’t forge our mother’s signature, or of course- the documents themselves.”

He argued, “You can’t be sure it’s fake either." He scavenged his pack further, retrieving more documents and shoving them in my face.

“Alright- alright!” I shouted. “Anyone can see just fine from where I’m standing!” I looked over the other papers, before saying to him, “I still cannot be one-hundred percent confident in your reliability. As far as we’re concerned, I’m the leader of the mafia, until proven otherwise.”

Lesson of The Day #2: I lead the mafia.

[avanneman]

James Franco’s The Disaster Artist: Hollywood Caught In The Act Of Kissing Its Own Ass

Greg Sestero’s now reasonably famous book The Disaster Artist, co-written by Tom Bissell, is much better than Producer/Director/Star James Franco’s quite famous movie The Disaster Artist, each telling the story of the making of Tommy Wiseau's all-conquering cult classic, The Room. Book beats film! Book beats film! Book beats film!

Well, not necessarily, but the supposedly non-commercial Franco1 has taken a remarkable piece of material, the only in La La Land partnership of Tommy and Greg (played by James Franco and his brother Dave), and turned it into an unremarkable piece of Hollywood schmaltz, though it’s still pretty funny. Because anyone who could make an unfunny film about Tommy Wiseau would be—okay, I’ll go for it—would be less talented than Tommy Wiseau.

For Hollywood winners like Franco—and virtually anyone else who’s really “in the business”—both Sestero and Wiseau are “touching”—or would be touching if The Room had never reached the screen and, almost as important, if The Disaster Artist had never been written. If these things had not happened, Greg and Tommy would have stumbled through Hollywood like a latter-day George and Lennie2, so not getting it—Tommy the gigantic, misunderstood genius whose problem is that everyone does understand him, understands that he has utterly no talent, and Greg the buff, vacuous pretty boy whose career peaks when he gets the lead in Retro Puppet Master—shot in Romania, direct to video and seventh in the series—an actor so bad and so unknown that he can’t even be used as a punchline. “Gary Busey called. He wants his je ne sais quoi back”? Funny! “Greg Sestero called. He wants his je ne sais quoi back”? Say what?

No one of any importance would have known either man, but they all would have known “a Tommy Wiseau”, “a Greg Sestero,” that pathetic kid in acting class who would never shut up, who woke up every morning thinking “next year I’ll be a star!”, who never realized how achingly terrible he was, how utterly unsuited for the Hollywood shark tank, who never got eaten because he was never worth the eating.

Franco’s film gets about half of that, in particular when we see Tommy and Greg genuflecting at the scene of James Dean’s death. Dean is their Christ. He suffered for them! He died for them! Through His death they are transfigured! They must suffer as He did, and if they do, if they suffer as Christ, they will become as Christ, or rather, as James Dean. They will become stars! They will move others as He moved them! But only if they are worthy! Only if they dedicate their lives to the holy craft of acting!3

And so they did, and so The Room did get made, thanks both to Wiseau’s bizarrely bottomless bank account and his bizarrely bottomless ambition to make a film—the story of an utterly good man surrounded by betrayers and ultimately crucified by them4—which overcame even his almost bottomless ability to sabotage every aspect of his life, constantly driving people away with his naïve, unrestrained egotism but pulling them back in with his naïve, unrestrained neediness—and his naïve, unrestrained bank account.5

As I say, Franco gets about half of this, but he constantly interlards it with self-congratulatory Hollywood schmaltz. There’s an utterly gratuitous bit when one of the actresses asks the old lady playing Lisa’s mother why she gets up at five in the morning and drives across town so that she can spend hours waiting for Tommy to show up. “Because the worst day on a movie set is better than the best day not on a movie set,” she says, and everyone sighs in agreement. We’re making a movie! We’re in heaven! We are the stuff that dreams are made of! We are our dreams!6

It gets worse, naturally, at the premiere of The Room. In “real life,” as Franco tells us via text, The Room cleared $1800 over a showing that lasted two weeks (Tommy paid to keep the film in the theater for two weeks so that it would qualify for the Academy Awards), which means an average audience of about 50 a day, though Tommy paid for a full house for the premiere.

Rather remarkably, Sestero doesn’t tell us how the premiere went, but Franco isn’t so shy. He shows us the crowd roaring in delight at the film's badness, though in real life, since they had been paid to be there, one can wonder if that’s what happened. But Franco isn’t interested in what happened in real life. He’s channeling Hollywood’s vision of itself—as shown, for example, in Sullivan’s Travels, Preston Surges’ tongue in cheek take on the “genius” Hollywood director who wants to “make a statement” only to discover, while watching a rapt audience dissolve into happiness while watching a “Pluto” cartoon, that what counts is helping people forget their troubles. We make people happy, gosh darn it! And that’s pretty gosh darn good thing to do!7

Of course, Tommy’s not pleased to see the crowd laughing at his own crucifixion—that’s me up there on the cross, goddamn it!—but Greg rather remarkably, and unconvincingly, talks him down. They love it, Tommy! They love your film! You’re a star now, big boy, and everybody knows it! So go out there and enjoy it! And so, of course, the film ends with a delighted Tommy standing up there and proudly acknowledging the crowd’s standing ovation.8

The conclusion of The Disaster Artist is reminiscent of that of several other biopics of show biz outsiders, Tim Burton’s Ed Wood and Miloš Forman’s tribute to Andy Kaufman, Man on the Moon. Ed Wood, of course, is long dead, and so are the people who knew him. Tommy Wiseau, and his friends, are all very much alive. But Andy was dead when Man on the Moon was made, while those who knew him were living. Andy, unlike both Ed and Tommy, was talented—his early reading of The Great Gatsby was one of the greatest bits I’ve ever seen—but everyone who knew him, it seems, hated him. Yeah, Hollywood loves its oddballs. But, you know, Hollywood oddballs are like everything else in Hollywood. Don’t look too close.

Afterwords Woody Allen, not often accused of sentimentality, except about himself, pays tribute, in Broadway Danny Rose, to show biz losers, those sweetly but completely untalented misfits he met on the way up. Much of BDR is very funny, but Woody naturally has to “explain” to us at the end that all women are lying, betraying sluts—um, sort of like the message of The Room. Rent BDR and stop watching about ten minutes from the end. You’ll enjoy it much more.

See the movies, read the book Half the fun of The Disaster Artist is the lovingly recreated bad scenes from The Room, so why not just cut to the chase and see The Room itself? Also, read the book! Sestero may look like an original cast member of The Real Poolboys of Beverly Hills, but his book gives a remarkable portrait of a man whose longing to express his passion was at once utterly false and utterly real, a real-life Don Quixote who drew Greg's Sancho Panza along in a mixture of both admiration and pity.9 There's so much in the book that it should have been a mini-series, six to ten hours, to allow audiences to really marinate in Tommy's manifold weirdnesses, though, of course, the real story of Tommy's weirdnesses would not always be funny. As Sestero tells it, for both Greg and Tommy, the "key" film for interpreting Tommy's life is not Rebel Without A Cause but Anthony Minghella's 1999 adaptation of Patricia Highsmith's ode to a homicidal shape-shifter, The Talented Mr. Riply.

Franco has directed short films and presented a variety of multimedia projects, including “Collage”, featuring live dance, theater, music, and poetry. He directed a 90-minute documentary on the early 20th-century American poet Hart Crane, which I haven’t seen. He’s published a book of short stories, has exhibited “installations” at art museums, has done just about anything and everything guaranteed not to turn a buck. ↩︎

Dunno if kids still have to read Of Mice and Men. Wiseau is an interesting combination of George and Lennie, both monster and mastermind. Fortunately, Greg never had to blow Tommy's brains out. ↩︎

The “center” of The Room comes when Johnny/Tommy cries out “You’re tearing me apart!” in explicit homage to Dean in Rebel Without A Cause. ↩︎

Tommy’s arms outstretched death scene is clearly intended as such, though Franco doesn’t emphasize it. ↩︎

Particularly touching is Sestero’s description of the famous rooftop scene that Tommy keeps bungling over and over again. He reaches out desperately to Greg for support. His whole life has been leading up to this point! If he can’t nail this scene, if were better he had never been born! Miraculously (as Sestero tells it), Greg saves him! “Thanks, man! I owe you! [beat] Your check bounced? You think I’m Santa Claus? Hey, bro! Go fuck a reindeer!” [Laughs] ↩︎

Anyone who’s read “the making of” accounts of classic films, ranging from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (unpaid cast and crew sweating through 14-hour days in the Texas sun while the one actress with tits sits in an air-conditioned limo) to Apocalypse Now (unpaid extras and crew starving amidst filth while enduring tropical monsoons) can doubt this. A lot of people got fired by Tommy and one can wonder if they ever got paid. Of course, anyone connected with a “classic shoot” will want to tell stories, but are the stories true? Truth in Hollywood? Say what? ↩︎

Other nits I'd like to pick: Franco's use of stirring, "Chariots of Fire" music whenever Greg and Tommy talk about their dreams. You don't have to tell us they're talking about their dreams, Jim! We can hear the dialogue! Also, some "star" perogatives: In the book, it's Greg who suggests driving to the site of James Dean's fatal crash. In the movie, it's Tommy. Also, Tommy does all the driving, though in the book it's almost always Greg at the wheel, with Tommy, a handkerchief over his face, zonked out in the passenger seat. ↩︎

Lots of films show the leads receiving a standing ovation. I’ve never believed in any of them. ↩︎

However irrational it is—and Greg can see how irrational it is—Tommy's boundless self-confidence always energizes Greg. Hey, maybe I can make it after all! And when Tommy's self-confidence flags, Greg panics. Say it ain't so, Tommy! Say it ain't so! ↩︎