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Glam Kink Meme Post #1

The Glam Kink Meme Post #1 is now open.

Have fun prompting, writing, reading, and feedbacking. :)

ETA: All prompts are listed here.

ETA2: All filled prompts are archived here.

ETA3 This post is now CLOSED to new prompts.

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Page 238 of 311
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Dec. 1st, 2010 11:42 pm (UTC)
Re: Tommy!sandwich, dancing
OP: OK, I lied. I suck at delayed gratification. Can I please take a peek? Please? We can pretend I'm your beta!

... pleasepleaseplease?
Dec. 2nd, 2010 12:02 am (UTC)
Ohhhhh I want that even more than my prompt lol
Dec. 2nd, 2010 12:04 am (UTC)
Yes Please!!
Dec. 2nd, 2010 02:41 pm (UTC)
Re: Adam/Tommy NON D/s
I agree with that last sentence, I'm just saying that I most enjoy porn that feels like how they would act if they WERE really fucking, which they indeed probably aren't. In fanfics the characters are based on real people, so it makes sense to sort of go with what their personalities seem to be like, otherwise you might as well write about fictional characters right? I'm not saying I think it's 'wrong' to write stories where Adam does stuff he would never do in real life, it's only fiction and it's just for fun, I was merely talking about my own preferences.
Dec. 2nd, 2010 06:02 pm (UTC)
Re: Adam/Tommy NON D/s
I totally respect you stating your reading preferences, bb, but I'd like to point out that we are writing (and reading) fictional characters - there's no way for us to know how Adam and Tommy are irl unless we ARE Adam and Tommy. So, in all fairness, you're stating that you'd like to read something with their characters written in a way that aligns with your perception of them. Which is completely fine, that's how most of us are - I just wanted to make you aware that everybody has a different interpretation of how Adam and Tommy act ~realistically.
Dec. 3rd, 2010 02:07 am (UTC)
Adam+Tommy, secretly kinky Tommy
For some reason Adam(and crew?)'s hanging out with some of Tommy's old friends. Someone makes one of those inside jokes, that ends up with "you are a sick little boy, Tommy Joe", or something to that end. Tommy blushes scarlet and declares that he doesn't do that anymore/is out of the game/ whatever. Of course Adam can't leave it alone.
Dec. 3rd, 2010 02:08 am (UTC)
Re: Adam+Tommy, secretly kinky Tommy
Or it could be anyone in the glamily. I just want it to end in porn
Dec. 3rd, 2010 03:33 am (UTC)
Re: D/s, BDSM Adam/Tommy
OP here: That would be amazing! Take your time. Good fic is always worth waiting for.
Dec. 3rd, 2010 03:46 am (UTC)
OP: Or a Jennings device or a Whitehead gag.

The jennings hurts though.
Dec. 3rd, 2010 03:50 am (UTC)
Re: Filled
!!!!!! i kinda stayed away from it because of angst and whatnot but i couldn't stay away any longer! so beautiful!
Dec. 3rd, 2010 03:59 am (UTC)
Re: Fill: Lace
Dec. 3rd, 2010 05:25 am (UTC)
Play With Me, 1/??
It's so typical.

They're laid out on Adam's blanket, the one he insists on dragging into every single hotel they stay at, Neil's head on Adam's stomach because using Adam as a body pillow without permission is one of the few ways he can be a total dick annoying younger brother without putting in a whole lot of effort. Teasing Adam about the blanket is another, but he's running out of creative snide remarks and Neil hates repeating himself. It doesn't help that it's a pretty nice blanket, either; some fan found some of that microplush fabric patterned like peacock feathers and made Adam a full quilt out of it. If it didn't look like it belonged on the bed of a twelve-year-old girl Neil would totally want it, so he makes a point of telling Adam as often as he can how completely lame it is.

Except it's really not lame, he thinks, turning his head to the side as he takes a hit off the last joint they got at the local marijuana café. It's actually really pretty, especially viewed through a slow haze of white smoke he doesn't have to share with Sasha and Taylor and Tommy anymore (and he and Sasha are going to fucking talk tomorrow, she still owes him the five bucks she said she'd put in for this) while Adam's iPod puts out a weird mix of Bowie, Goldfrapp, and Lady Gaga, not that he's going to tell Adam that. Instead he rubs the bottoms of his bare feet over it, pulling it around with his toes so he can rub the tops of his feet against it without rolling over and planting his face right in Adam's crotch.

"So what the fuck was up with you guys tonight?" Neil asks, except he doesn't really have to ask. He was at Burning Man, he knows how Adam and pot mix. Fuck, Adam's probably the only adult male alive to ever get jabbed in the ribs in the middle of sex by an irate younger brother telling him to quiet the fuck down because other people in the tent were trying to sleep, thanks.

"Nothing. Just . . . got into it. Really into it," Adam amends, as Neil does his best to shoot a well-honed glare up Adam's chest. "'s fucking Amsterdam. I could totally do that again."

"Twitter's freaking out," Neil says, and he's pretty sure there was a point to be made there, but he rolled over to make it and now he's just staring at the pattern on the blanket, running one hand over it and feeling all the little strands under his fingers and watching how the colours glint in the light from the shitty motel lamp. "This blanket is really fucking lame."

"Twitter always freaks out. It was just, you know, a moment, okay?"

"Uh-huh." Neil takes another drag off the joint, and between the length of the drag and how long Neil holds the smoke it's probably half a minute, or maybe an hour or no time at all, before he speaks again. "Any moments on the bus and I'm gonna wake up Taylor and tell him it's your fault." Taylor is fucking small and little in the young kind of way and—there's really no nice way to say it, Neil was almost tempted to just "accidentally" give him Adam's keycard on the first hotel night until he heard Taylor talking about his girlfriend because Jesus wept, Taylor acts gayer than Tommy and Adam combined most of the time—but interrupt him sleeping and it's a little like watching a tiny force of nature unleashed. Hurricane Taylor, and anybody who laughs does so at their own fucking risk, because Neil is so not putting his personal safety in question to save their sorry ass.

"Tommy's straight," Adam says, and Neil waves the hand with the joint in it in disgust.

"God, you're such a fucking idiot sometimes I wonder how you live."

"No I'm not!" Adam protests. He makes a swipe at Neil's wrist and misses.

"You totally are. If your spelling was verbally rendered it'd be like living with a gay hippie pacifist George Bush." And then, because Amsterdam weed is really fucking good and Neil's feeling charitable, he amends it to "a better-looking gay hippie pacifist George Bush" and then, because he can't help himself, tacks on "who gets all starry-eyed over a fucking sparkling vampire."
Dec. 3rd, 2010 05:26 am (UTC)
Play With Me, 2/??
This time Adam actually gets the hand with the joint in it, and pulls Neil's hand to his mouth to take a drag before Neil can protest, the joint already so low Neil's fingers are brushing Adam's lips when he inhales. By the time he gets his hand away there's not enough left for a drag even if they had a clip, which of course they don't.

"Fuck you, that was the last hit," he says, and wonders if there's still anywhere open at two in the morning and if it's worth not having Adam's blanket under his calves where he's rolled up his jeans to go find out.

"Aww, should I have shared?" Adam asks, and it's kind of choked because he's still holding the drag, so—and even though he's kind of pissed Neil takes pleasure in noting it—it's missing about 99% of the effect he was probably going for.

He's opening his mouth to be a piss by telling Adam so when suddenly Adam's moving and their mouths are pressed together and that breath Neil was going to take to laugh at Adam with is instead straight from Adam's lungs and full of heavy smoke, and he'd gasp except that would mean wasting probably the last hit he'll get legally for a long fucking time, and being shocked or pissy would take too much concentration he needs to hold his breath with.

Neil's just letting the smoke trickle out, between their lips and back into Adam's mouth and wherever the fuck it wants to go, really, he's as happy as he ever gets, and then he feels Adam's tongue flicker against his lips and he thinks what he tried to say is "Adam, what the hell?" but even though he could probably slither out from under Adam on the peacock blanket it just feels like too much effort for just a kiss after a really good fucking hit, it's not like they're murdering babies or conducting illegal warrantless wiretaps here.

Adam tilts his head and this time when their lips touch it's a full-on kiss, no pretext about sharing a hit here, just heat and wet and tongues and Adam's hand on the side of his head, probably looking for hair to tangle in that it's not going to find, and Neil really should stop him, and he finally reaches up to push Adam away. If Adam was anyone else on the tour—male or female, gay or straight, Neil's not quite as indiscriminate with his makeout partners as Adam is but he doesn't really restrict himself if the chemistry's there, either—it'd be different, but there's something bizarre about frenching the guy who taught you how to tie your shoes.

Except they're in fucking Amsterdam in a top-floor hotel suite with an actual God-honest minibar and the entire city open to them, if they want it—because no matter how exclusive the club, how discerning the guest list, Adam's name has become a magic word on par with "open sesame," and they could be inside anywhere they wanted with nothing but the quick flash of Adam's driver's license—and they're riding the world on their own fucking terms, it's like that one song Neil only heard when he got to preview the album, don't give a damn about your cold calculation, they're writing the master plan, and—fuck it, Adam's warm and there and not a bad kisser, for what small experience Neil has kissing guys, and instead of shoving Adam's shoulders he just kind of lets his arms drape around them.

But something's got to change if they're going to be making out, because Neil is so not a fan of being pinned to the bed, even by a decent (okay, a really fucking good) kisser.

So he hooks a leg around Adam's knees and flips him, just like they're twelve and fifteen again and about to get freaked on by Dad for messing around in the house.

Adam pulls back, but not like he plans on really going anywhere—more like he's confused by having suddenly moved both farther and way faster than either of them have moved in a good two hours. "Neil . . . ?"
Dec. 3rd, 2010 05:29 am (UTC)
Play With Me, 3/??
"'s good now," Neil answers, and this time he's the one in charge, sliding his tongue past Adam's lips and finding out what's in that mouth that's driven so many thousands of men, women, and teenagers of all gender descriptions and orientations into fucking hysterics, tangling his fingers into Adam's hair and not really paying attention when it tugs. Adam tries again for hair that isn't there and settles for a hand on the back of Neil's head, other hand rubbing all over Neil's back apparently looking for a place it likes. Neil touches the side of Adam's face and gets a hum of approval as they settle together on the blanket, bodies pressed against each other and bare feet companionably tangled.

He's not really sure when he becomes aware his jeans are way too fucking uncomfortable to keep laying this way, but finally he shifts his weight so he can at least take his belt off and get the buckle out of the way, and then he realises where the pressure is greatest and stares back down at Adam with the kind of blurry not-really-surprise he's only ever gotten high. Oh.

Adam's lower lip is swollen, and he doesn't open his eyes when Neil pulls away. Instead he sighs.

"You should get going," he says, and Neil blinks down at him.


"Because . . . " And Adam sort of waves a hand around and in the general direction of their legs, and after staring at him blankly for a few seconds—because why? It's not like Neil's problem is hurting anybody, except himself—he gets it. Adam's too high to get hard just kissing, but that won't last forever.

And when it passes, he's not sure it'll stop at kissing.

" . . . oh."

Neil thinks about his bed, a floor down and a corridor away. There's no pot in his room. There's none up here, either, but there's also not a warm body in his room inviting him to play, and that is up here, so after a moment's thought he completely ignores Adam suggesting he leave and lies back down to kiss again, working a hand between them until he can rub the heel of his hand over Adam's jeans.

Adam moans into his mouth and reaches a hand down to shove Neil away, but it's a halfhearted push that only lasts about as long as it takes Neil to thread the fingers of his free hand back through Adam's hair, and then Adam's fumbling for Neil's zip before breathing a "sure?" into a break between kisses.

Neil pauses—considers for a second, because there's "it was the weed" and then there's "well, this is a clusterfuck" and this definitely counts as the second—and makes some kind of noise he hopes comes across as affirmative, because just why not? Why the royal fuck not? Hell, even if someone manages to trip the lock and walks in it's not like they can be arrested, thank you, Napoleon Bonaparte and Neil's World History classes in college. Why not take advantage of every one-time-only legality they can? It's not exactly like either of them can catch pregnant, and as he thinks it he finds Adam's zip and pulls it.

Adam's having trouble making it to even half-hard, so Neil rubs the flat of his hand over Adam's cock as Adam makes an approving noise into his mouth and pushes Neil's jeans off his hips before lifting his own to make Neil's job easier and then, as Neil settles between Adam's newly-bared legs, rocking his weight to one side and then Neil's looking up at Adam for the split second before Adam sets to kissing the side of Neil's neck and nuzzling his head there like some kind of housecat.

"Adam, what the hell?"

Adam lifts his head. "What?"

Neil gestures between them, and he could scream for frustration, he really could, when the beginnings of Adam's confused-hurt-puppy look start seeping onto his face.

"You said you wanted to?"

"I'm not getting ridden like a fucking horse," Neil answers, and now he squirms, because Adam's not moving, maybe not getting it at all, how fucking thick can he be? Adam puts one hand flat on Neil's shoulder to hold him, keep him from getting up.

Dec. 3rd, 2010 05:30 am (UTC)
Play With Me, 4/??
"And you're not topping unless you wanna be my gopher tomorrow 'cause unless you got a real big secret I don't know about yet, you don't know how and it'll be your fault I can't walk."

Neil considers if he could get his free hand around enough to actually hit—because he will totally fucking take Adam's head off if it comes to that, he seriously will—and then Adam rolls off him, dragging Neil along with him, pulling them chest to chest flush on the bed, sliding his hands under Neil's shirt and pulling it off over his head in a single easy movement, leaving him bare.

"Adam, I am so not fucking kidding here—"

"Shh," Adam says, and runs his fingers over Neil's scalp. "Trust me on this one, okay? I've been doing this way longer than you." And Neil would make some kind of sassy comeback, but Adam cuts him off by sitting up and stretching and pulling his own shirt over his head, reaching behind him for what Neil can only assume is the nightstand.

He topples over backward in slow motion, and Neil starts laughing at the look on his face, almost vaudevillian surprise at the concept that leaning too far backward will make someone . . . fall backward, and scrambles on top of Adam before he can get up, aware even as he plans his guerrilla attack of the exquisite, intimate slide of skin on warm skin.

"Hand it over."


Neil's ready to grab his jeans and go, except he's still high and Adam still feels warm and good and he's an asshole older brother but he's the only one Neil's got, and there's one thing Neil completely can't deny: asshole or no, Adam could have left him in New York, and instead he paid Neil's overdue cell phone bill and took him on a trip around the world and went out of his way to find something for Neil to do that's going to look absolutely killer on his resume. Adam takes care of the people he loves; it's that simple.

Neil will deny it on his deathbed if anybody asks, but it's true: Adam is probably right.

Which doesn't mean he has to go down without a fight.

"I'm not—"

"I heard you the first time," Adam says, and it's close enough to bitchy for Neil to feel that twinge of triumph only a younger sibling can feel. Adam's buttons: pushed. "I'm still not letting you tear the fuck out of my ass."

"So I'm supposed to let you tear the fuck out of mine?"

"Not if you trust me. Let me up." Adam looks up at him, just looks, and finally Neil takes his hands off Adam's shoulders and draws back. Adam sits up, legs folded into a loose approximation of what elementary school teachers called "Indian-style" when Neil was eight and called "crisscross style" less than twenty years later when he found himself working with said teachers, fuck you, political correctness, and reaches again for the nightstand drawer, scrabbling around in it before drawing his hand back with the white tube of a cap showing, and then he reaches out and pulls Neil into his lap.


"You need to learn to get creative," Adam tells him, and he pulls Neil against his chest again. "Relax."

"What are you doing?"

"Telling you to relax." Adam kisses the side of Neil's neck, hands running over his back. "You smoked at least half that joint, enjoy it."

He keeps on docilely stroking and scratching Neil's back, letting just that casual brush of fingers on bare skin sink in, and as Neil finally slides his arms around Adam's waist and rests his head on his brother's shoulder—Adam isn't winning this round, he's not, but Neil can afford to chill for now—Adam rests his cheek on Neil's head and nuzzles back.

Then he spins the top off the lube, and Neil tries to pull back and protest again.

"Don't," Adam tells him. "I've got this one figured out."

"Glad I could help," Neil answers, trying for biting and sarcastic. He's too mellowed out for biting to come through, but the sarcasm works just fine. Then he's getting bitten, like actual fucking teeth on his shoulder, and he hisses.


"Are you going to chill or not?"

"I told you I'm not going to—"
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