--Hook for higher education. That's right: instead of taking out student loans for grad school, turn to prostitution. This will spare you much aggravation later on. It will also prepare you to be fucked when you join nasty, underappreciative editorial departments.

--Don't be illiterate. Stay in school, kids! You'll make a lot of people happy when you learn how to spell big ol' words like "receive". I know "i before e except after c" is very hard to remember, but with a little application, I'm sure you'll manage it.

--Don't use ellipses in every written sentence. You doubtless don't realize this, but every time you use an ellipsis, the Punctuation Fairy steals a year from your life and sacrifices a puppy in Satan's honor. Trust...me...it's...really...very...annoying...

--Be nice, and if you can't do that, be an asshole with style.

--If you own a major book chain, don't arbitrarily pull from the shelves books that you don't like. We call this "censorship," and maybe if you read books instead of banning them, you'd understand.

--If you're a cab driver, don't make a crabby guy in black stand for half a fucking hour in front of a supermarket holding a 16-pack of toilet paper. People will think that he has bladder-control issues, and, despite his many other woes, said guy is at least continent.

--Don't go on a mailing list and talk about the proper uses of assholes. Granted, you're obviously somewhat of an expert on the subject, but just 'cos you can't squeeze a pin from yours doesn't mean the rest of us can't have some fun.

--Can we have a moratorium in fanfic on eyebrow action? "He raised an eyebrow." That has to be the most overused action in the history of slash. No more eyebrows! Let's say it together now: "All hail Bry's great wisdom. He is all-knowing and wise, and we must obey his wishes, so no more eyebrows in slash, unless they're being set on fire or used in a kinky sex ritual."

Survey stolen from someone out there in LJland. And no, I don't think anyone gives a monkey's shiny ass about what my current desktop picture is. It was just fun to indulge myself and think about fluff. I like fluff. It's good in a world full of ignorance and stupidity. (Okay, and I admit that I like reading them. Is that a crime? I'm nosy. Voyeuristic. Defensive, tonight, too. *g*)
__

Current mood: Guilt-ridden, angst-tinged, lusty fatigue.

Current music: Pilgrimage (an ensemble that combines medieval songs with modern electronica). If I believed in such things--and I don't--I'd believe that I was a monk in another life. It's really wishful thinking.

Current taste: A sinfully rich piece of chocolate cake.

Current clothes: Grey t-shirt and undies (TMI, I know).

Current grievance: That I won't be alive when humans reach the stars.

Current smell: A lavander-scented candle. I had sandalwood-scented incense going before.

Current longing: To have someone dedicate a story or a poem to me; to have someone new go wow for my writing; for people to stop dying (not in that order, natch).

Current thing I ought to be doing: Editing manuscripts (bad, bad me!); answering emails; thanking Mila for her gorgeous LoC that made me so happy I almost cried.

Current windows open: Microsoft Word, where I've got about half a PB story done; Firefox, where I'm typing this; my torrent client, where I'm downloading porn; Poussin's The Inspiration of the Poet at the Webgallery.

Current desktop picture: Eighteenth-century painting that shows Daedalus encouraging his son Icarus to fly.

Current book: John Irving's Son of the Circus.

Current cds in stereo (or in heavy rotation): I'm a slut for medieval/ethereal music, especially when I'm writing, so Pilgrimage, Dead Can Dance, La Reverdie, Qntal, Sequentia, Loreena McKennitt, The Early Music Consort of London...

Current refreshment: Cold Earl Grey.

Current worry: Environmental pollution. Overpopulation. Tropical rainforest destruction.

Current crush: Too embarrassing to admit, because I think he's married, and possibly a closet case; we just have these very sexy online conversations that leave me quite swoony. He's very proper, too, but has loosened up a bit because I'm such a smutty pig, and we both have the same love for psychological and erotic power struggles.

Current favourite celeb: Went Miller, the stud-babe who plays Michael Scofield.

Current time-wasting wish: If this question is about what I'd most like to be doing, I'd say it would be sitting on a bench at Rievaulx Abbey in Yorkshire near dusk with a battery-operated laptop on which I'm writing slash, a thermos of Earl Grey, my cat Gina, and a blanket. Oh, yes, and Went holding me in his embrace. Though I wouldn't just write about blowjobs if I had him there. ::sighs happily at the thought::

Current hates: Liars, hypocrites. People who can't admit that they have flaws. God, that drives me crazy. It doesn't seem fair that I have to know every single one of my millions of failings, while these freaks go around believing in their own perfection.

It's the goat. Every time I go to input a new entry at www.livejournal.com, the goat is there. One day I'll have to figure out why. It must be a symbolic goat. Maybe the LJ guys are Satanists, and this is how they attempt to recruit followers, by showing us a benign and cuddly form of the Evil One. But I digress, due to extreme fatigue and a generally blathery mood.

Get your return to topic here! You know what the goat says to me? No, it's not, "Worship me, for I am evil and can bring you the world and fulfill your harem fantasies if only you will kiss my nether region." He fixes me with his goatish stare and bleats, "Baaaad."

Why does my brain insert a "D" where no "D" should ever be? I'm having a self-defeating week. Nightmares, always nightmares when I'm immersed in my fic. Doubts. Evaluations. I submit a story and all the publishers turn me down. I make beginner's mistakes. I can't find the right words. I suck.

So I'm up at 3am staring into the light of my lamp, like that yellow glow will protect me from my own fear of failure. Is it to fool myself into thinking it's daylight? But I've always loved the night, even though her beauty is treacherous. You can't trust it. You can't control it. I want to tie Night down and whip her into submission. Bleed for me, Night. Be my bitch. Work with me, baby. Maybe that's the trick: Night and I need to do aerobics together, some good cardio workouts. Then she'll love me forever, and I'll write with starry inspiration and in moonlit peace.

Kiss me, Night.

Good thing there are no pools around, or I'd be drowning right now.

I'm wearing a chocolate coloured shirt and a pair of dark blue jeans. The denim is tight and smooth, showing off some long legs and a damn fine bum. If I weren't me, I'd buy me a drink and take me home.

Ed. Note: This might look like a profound statement of Bryan's narcissism, but in fact it's really a witty commentary on constructions of gender in the new millennium. Men, Bry means to say, are under an illusion about their sexual power; instead, they're simply reproducing and indeed endorsing conventional reduction of people to body parts. Really.

Ed. Note 2: Return of the Killer Ed. Note: The above statement in no way is meant to mitigate the original implication that Bry has a very nice arse.

Ed. Note 3: Revenge of the Ed. Note: While this plethora of editorial comments might suggest that Bry is bored out of his gourd, or perhaps simply out of it together, this would not be the case. In truth, he's very meaningfully engaged in important literary matters, and only appears to be having a psychotic breakdown. Which, interestingly, is apparently being shared by his roommate, who has just shouted, "Chocolate? Did someone say 'Chocolate?'" (<---true story)

"It's time you felt the full weight of Bacchus' rod. Stop shirking. Start a major work." --Ovid

I'm feeling Roman. I ate brownies richer than Croesus, stuffed full of butter, sugar, chocolate and pecans. I'm reading Ovid, who's beautiful, snide and dirty, and I'm rewatching Rome, that's lavish and wonderfully decadent. I have no slave boys to kiss the shadowy parts of my body, but I have cats, and they do nuzzle well. I'm listening to Orff's Carmina Burana, which is German but with a Latin title and subject matter.

I should write more Roman slash, Lucius Vorenus and Titus Pullo, or Caesar and Mark Anthony, all about power and violence and sex. Caesar had epilepsy as a boy, and his father died young. He thought he was descended from the goddess of love and he loved the king of Bithynia. He also brought Vercingetorix to his knees. How can I not write about him?

I want to live in Rome in a villa with frescoed walls and floors with dolphin mosaics. I want to wear a simple white shift, gold jewelry and sandals that tie up my calves. I want to bribe an acting troupe so they'll come to my fabulous villa and perform Plautus for me, all of them naked and perfumed with jasmine oil.

I want to whip everyone who annoys me, give piles of coins stamped with the emperor's profile to everyone who pleases me. I want to leave the skin of a lion at the altar of Hercules in the Forum Boarium, and celebrate the festival of Mars Invictus, watching the priests toss the argei into the Tiber.

I want a scribe who will edit the Vesuvian flow of mediocre manuscripts that drown me....

Just a little drabble this time, as a taste of things to come... ;)

So many things in the room are unnecessary. The rope around his ankles. He won't run, or try to flee. Michael wants to be here, in my room. He always wants to be here, and will tuck his hands behind his shaved head when I order him, and keep them there while I feed him my cock. That makes the cuffs unnecessary, too, but I like them, like to run my fingers over the cold silver metal; they kiss my skin, ruffling tiny hairs on my chest when he touches me. He shivers with me, kneeling there, his head bowed because I ordered it. If I lick the soft skin at the base of his neck, he'll moan, and the cuffs will whisper. You know how, when you're a kid, you lie on the ground in the summer, maybe under a tree, and you can smell the earth, so rich and musky you think it's alive? That's how Michael smells when I nuzzle him.

After I've been with him, and he's gone and I'm just a Secret Service agent again, I always look in the mirror. I expect my face to be smeared pale. It never is. I always look the same, except flushed, with my lips a little swollen, my hair a little messy. At first, I was glad Michael left no trace on me; I could pretend then that he was one of those unnecessary things. Not like his brother. I've gone to great lengths to ensure that Lincoln's execution proceeded as planned, made him too necessary, and when he defeated me, it... hurt. Michael was supposed to be revenge, and fun, and then there was one of those shifts in the order of things, like a change in the weather that you don't notice until the sun's so bright it blinds you.

I won't tell him, though. You can say it's about fear, and Lincoln, or Caroline and getting broken again. I don't know. Maybe. Or maybe I figure that he knows, and that's why he lets me do what I want to him. Hell, maybe next time I'll tell him. "You're necessary," isn't the most poetic declaration, but I think he'll understand.

Happy birthday dalmatica_78!
May hot Russian men shower you with the love and adoration that you deserve! Sve najbolje!

*smooches*

Overture
I'm a very operatic writer. Everything is huge and agonizing, writhing around on the stage in gorgeous death throes. Only in RL, that stuff just pops into my brain, pops onto paper, then I'm off to dinner with a friend, or to kiss my cat, or thank Fortuna for giving me all this energy. I scream, I lament, I die. Then it's over two minutes later, and I call my sister to talk about Big Brother 2.

Dammit, writing just gets my juices flowing! And now I will rant about serialized stories.

Aria
I open a dozen digests, and I'm struck blind by Hieronymian visions of (mostly) atrocious writers wrapping their aborted stories in soggy dishtowels and parading them as real babies. I'm not opposed to serials in theory, but when the whole world is writing them, the stench is overwhelming.

Recently, I tried a vaguely-interesting story, but missed one chapter and lost the whole point. Serial stories are too often formless blobs, with the writers making up the story as they progress, so the narrative lacks the internal coherence, the tight plot and consistent characterization of stories that have been edited and reedited to reflect changes.

Feedback is great, and I understand the desire to roll repeatedly in a steaming juicy pile of it, especially when you're starting out. Why not hold back and keep the story, polishing it until it's blinding, then toss it up? Why cheat yourself of a really kick-ass story to suck at the feedback teat?

Lieto Fine
Cut the cord, kids. Let your heart grow three sizes that day.

And can I say, lest anyone think I've lost my edge, that Pat Robertson is a fucking moron. I want God to show up in Robertson's bedroom late one night and say, "Look, you slimy piece of shit. I love faggots! I love dykes! I love bitches! What part of the whole 'God is love' thing don't you get? Now listen, and listen good. What I don't like--" and here God would jab His finger into Robertson's pounding chest-- "what I don't like is hatemonguering little pissants like you." And God, who is wily and really kind of hot, would gather Robertson in His arms and kiss him, long and hard and deep, until Robertson is fainting with love, until he is panting with it. God would smile, and say, "Now go tell everyone how wrong you were."

Babbliophilia: n. (Bryanisian) The study of the nonsensical, disjointed thoughts produced when a writer has not had sufficient sleep.

*I'm reading Simon Winchester's fascinating The Professor and the Madman, about two of the key figures behind the Oxford English Dictionary, one of whom, unbeknownst to the other, lived in an asylum for the criminally insane. Dr. Minor, the officially crazy one, shot a man whom he believed had come into his rooms to "abuse" him, one of his recurring paranoid delusions.

*I'm tempted to make another series of wishes, because the last time I did, they came true. It's precisely that kind of conjunction of wish and event that makes me want to peer under the world's skirts to see if Fate is lurking there, even though, rationally, I know it's not. Still, how 'bout an end to world hunger and lots of unconditional love for me? *g*

*Sometimes I like to speak in code, leaving hidden messages like the pieces of the puzzle, just to see if anyone pays enough attention to pick them up. It's one of my weird little pleasures, the elegant enigmatism of my introvert nature. And to be elegant is to be subtle; I cannot be obvious.

*I find it strange how some people will send me lovely private feedback, but not say a word about my fic in public. I get whispers and secretive pats on the back instead of opinion spoken out loud. It's all rather befuddling, and quite likely not very flattering to me.

*I'm obviously channeling some repressed Victorian school mistress today, with words like "unbeknownst" and "befuddling." I do like that last one, though; it makes me think of being wrapped so tightly and warmly in the softest cotton that I can't properly engage with the outside world.

I wore leather and velvet today. Long black coat. Felt a little wicked. Flirted.

Had someone call me "boy" and ask to what school I'm going. It made me giggle, especially because he wasn't joking. Had friends say I should be an actor. Not sure what it meant, but the vibe seemed good.

I'm in love with my cat. If I'm sitting at the computer and I squeeze her, she purrs and licks my arm. But that's the only place I'm allowed to squeeze her.

I helped someone today, and her face changed, the kind of blankness I see on them sometimes faded and she opened. My oyster. I felt good.

Must sleep.

You follow breadcrumbs to the witch's house, a Victorian monstrosity constructed entirely of eternally-fresh gingerbread. If you open your mouth and tilt back your head, sweet white icing will drip from the gables onto your tongue. And you're hungry after that trek through the dark wood.

When you push open the door, you see a crinkly-faced granny with a round belly full of hungry wanderers. Behind her, a fire burns in a massive fireplace, hellishly bright and hot.

With a crackle that reveals fanged gums, she reaches for you. Freaked, you try to kick her fat granny ass into the flames. Only you're too weak, and more than a little confused.

What are you doing here, after all? What's your friggin' motivation? Are you the hero, here to kill the old bag and save future kids from her vampiric dentures? Or is that really an evil witch, or your kindly grandmother under a spell? Maybe you should wait for a handsome prince to come along and fix this mess...

Eventually, overwhelmed, your head explodes, and you splatter all over the gingerbread interior. RIP.

"What happened?" you ask, as you drop down to hell, in a bleak inner ring. On the wall, a sign reads, in scorched black lettering, "Underdeveloped Characters."

"Sorry, Sugar," the devil says, sharpening his pitchfork. "Blame your creator. He forgot that you had to be a fully-developed character, not a composite of fandom cliches and Marty-Sue traits. But, on the good side," he adds with a grin, taking aim, "this should build some character."

Halfway through a story I undergo a mid-fic crisis, where I'm convinced that I need a newer, better model because the old one is dull and dusty. It's a pattern I should be used to; my feelings on my own abilities are subject to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, as certain Shakespearean anti-heroes would say.

Nothing demoralizes me more than seeing great feedback for okay work (work by other people, naturally, not by me). The truth hits: I must be a worse writer that the mediocre one, since I'm not getting this feedback. To be a worse writer than X or Y is... Wow. Just horrible. I'm flatter than a slug, slimy and sticky on the bottom of your shoe. Except slugs don't engage in fits of ontological heartburn.

I want to be not-crap, but I think I should just tear off the blinders and head to the Realm of the Talentless Freaks, where bad fic hangs in mossy cocoons from strangled trees and authors stroll beneath in blissful ignorance of the monsters they've spawned.

'Course, then I look around and realize I'm there already.

Bugger.

I'm simultaneously writing about pleasure, and experiencing it. Sounds faintly rude, like I'm reading porn and masturbating--which I suppose is very rude, and a pox upon these confounded social boundaries because I have no idea what's rude and what's not anymore!--but my pleasure right now is gut-centered. I always write when I'm seething like Charybdis, so I thought I'd try something new.

I'm breathing life right now into a certain Emperor as a pleasure-loving whore about to meet his leather-clad destiny (Ed. note on metaphor: Bryan is tripping on a God-author paradigm, so please excuse his excesses). Suetonius has inspired me with his slashy gossip about a young Caesar and the king of Bithynia, and I like the idea of using Caesar's hard-on for conquest as an archetype for my character, marking his transition from slut to conqueror.

Some stories flow like blood, like you've run a razor over that blue vein in your wrist, and it's raining hot and red. Best thing is you're not dying, but coming, as the fic slurps it all up. My muse, it seems, is a vampire, which explains a lot.

So, pleasure, man, writing, Suetonius. Life is good.

You know how it is: you build something up in your mind, get really psyched, then are hugely disappointed when you actually experience it.

And then there's me and Prison Break.

Oh my fucking god. I'm so in love. With all of them.

Michael. It's not just that he's beautiful. Plenty of hot guys around. But he's so goddamn ripe, so succulent and ready. It doesn't matter that Wentworth Miller's acting is a bit wooden; he has this ability to project this repressed, complex, masculine vulnerability. Stupid bunch of adjectives can't do him justice, can't treat that beautifully sullen face adequately. He's shot from every angle, in different light, and each time I see something new. I don't blame Sara for wanting to take a bite.

Sucre. Oh, my. Latin charisma. Heat. Maybe I'll just say that he's sex on two feet--with that phallic head and hunky body, that works pretty literally. And then there's Sucre and Michael. Mmm. It's a power thing, too, without question: Michael is the dominant one, and Fernando accepts him in that role quickly. Fernando is so simple and honest, and Michael is so beautifully complicated. Together, they're...

:::purrs:::

Then there's Sara. I like her quite a bit--almost to the point where I wouldn't mind writing some smut about her and Michael. Sara always gives Michael these almost startled looks, like she's fascinated by him--which, of course, she is, curious to know everything, who he is and what makes him tick. Veronica was funny (but also irritating sometimes), Lincoln is cool, Franklin is groovy--as I said, I love them all.

And as the series progress, I found myself strangely attracted even to some characters that I hated at the start--most notably Bellick, whom I find quite amusing, and T-Bag, who even started to look kinda hot, in that ugly/disturbing sort of way (I love how he licks his lips when he's thinking or doing something bad :D).

But I have to confess that Kellerman is the one I have a secret crush on. I don't know why, I couldn't stand the guy before. Now, as soon as I see him I'm thinking dirty thoughts. In fact, I think that, if I'm going to write more PB slash, it's going to be Michael/Kellerman. There's something so wrong there, I just have to explore it. Especially because so few have dared to do it.

The only one that I really dislike is Mahone. The actor is just too ugly, and his character irritates me, which is a shame, because there's that arch-nemesis chemistry going on between him and Michael; love-hate thing, which is so full of potential for horny slashers like me. But still, ew. If only the guy was a bit prettier...

The show itself is fantastic. I keep calling it "Passion Break" in my head. :) I like the mix of crime, drama, suspense and action, but these cliffhangers are killing me. Oh, and the fact that every other character dies. They killed off more people than Martin in his wonderfully bloody A Song of Ice and Fire. I keep wondering who's next and I don't like being afraid for those I love. Still, it's one of the best shows that I've ever seen. And when you put that many hotties together, you can't expect anything less.

I've been barking as much as Lassie tonight, but really, Woof! just says it all.

I have died and gone to Heaven tonight. A Gothic Heaven, which looks strangely like a smoky underground club full of booze and people in black clothes, drinking and dancing with absolute abandon to the rhythms of a passionately melancholic sound that floods the place like the tide of moonlight, washing the shore of night with the waves of longing... It is the sound that seduces and scares, hurts and heals; the Diary of Dreams, open like a naked body, bleeding. I'm part of it, I know what being born feels like. I have seen my Angel tonight.

In some Renaissance paintings of the Annunciation, like the one by Simone Martini painted for the Siena cathedral, Gabriel impregnates the Virgin by speaking into her ear, visually represented by a gold scroll across the canvas. "Ave gratia plena domnus tecum," he whispers with that potent voice. "Hail thou art full of grace, the Lord is with thee."

So Mary, doubtless a little freaked out, her belly swelling, went back to her pad and told Joseph and Elisabeth about her little problem. Medieval literature, notably the lyrics and carols, usually show Joseph in a freaked-out state, like someone in an old country song, huffing and puffing a chorus of "You cheatin' whore." Not surprisingly, he's a tad skeptical.

Elisabeth, though, should show support. "I feel your pain, Mary," she'd say. "Okay, God never knocked me up, but, well, Joseph and I... Don't worry, dear, it was years ago. I support you. We'll get you through this. You didn't encourage him, though, did you? Maybe wear a short skirt? Flirt a little?"

Deborah Tannen, a socio-linguist, says that women, when they're confided a problem, provide reassurance based on what they present as similar experiences. Men, according to Tannen, respond with, "You shouldn't feel bad because your problems aren't so bad."

What Tannen doesn't say when she's constructing these gendered listening paradigms is the way some women can sometimes undermine their apparent nurturing skills with little digs. Her intent is to suggest that men, while they seem relatively callous in their listening techniques, do actually pay attention, but simply don't have the warm, maternal sweetness of women-auditors--an obvious holdover from the fifties, where women were sugar 'n' spice and everything nauseatingly nice.

Tannen's article came out about fifteen years ago, and I wonder if in the intervening years, with the opportunities afforded for widespread studies of communication techniques on the internet, she's revisited her original position, realizing some of the stereotypes that informed her conclusions in Sex, Lies and Conversation.

'Cos women, like men, can be great, empathetic listeners. But they can also jab you with oral stickpins.

...you have the stomach flu. I'm hoping this will distract me, so maybe I can sleep at some point, but eep! I feel like I'm dying. Mind you, does anyone ever feel positive and empowered at six in the morning?

::ten minutes of staring at screen, stomach churning, brain not::

I'm starting to think that a 6am self is a very different self than a 6pm self. Maybe every time generates a new self.

That's a faintly intriguing thought, surely worthy of at least a few jokes, but....

Disclaimer: This snippet contains reasonably graphic depictions of two guys fucking, say a 5 on scale where 0 is Jesus' diary and 10 is Annie Sprinkle's. There's some dirty language, including the word "screw," which might not be dirty at all, if you think that Michael maybe has a hardware fetish. The word "fuck" does appear, but since I've just used it I should've probably included a pre-disclaimer to warn for this disclaimer. There's no mpreg, because that's just icky, but the story could be considered blasphemous in the traditional sense, in that Michael obviously worships Fernando and not the big guy upstairs. He never takes the Lord's name in vain, at least not out loud, although I do think that he's secretly going, "Yeah, God, fuck, Jesus, yeah," as people often do when they're fucking. It's pretty consensual, although Michael *does* push Fernando down, and sticklers for equity might feel that he's taking advantage of Fernando's emotional fragility. Fernando never says "no," but maybe it's in his eyes and we just don't want to see it. The ending's a tad angsty, somewhere between Hamlet and Cinderella. No one dies, although they will, someday, but hopefully with quiet dignity, at a ripe old age, with their loved ones at their side.

Michael pushes him onto the bed. Doesn't say a word--words just screw things up, and besides, Fernando isn't listening. He's quiet, which is weird, like he's still a little stunned and maybe wanting so hard he doesn't know what to say. His legs are spread wide, which helps Michael's conclusion, and his cock is very hard, protruding defiantly underneath the soft fabric of his trousers, which pretty much confirms it. Michael's never, you know, because Fernando always gets there first, inside him before he can breathe.

And he loves it, but tonight's different. Maricruz is going to marry another guy, and Fernando is sore, ready for something different. A distraction. Michael doesn't mind, and kneels beside the bed, pushing Fernando's legs wider apart. Unzips his pants, then strips them down his legs along with his briefs. Tongues him from his ankle to his balls, while Fernando grips his shoulders. Still quiet except for the sighs as Michael licks again, a long, slow sweep from the knee up, only he doesn't stop but keeps going, licking another wet line right up Fernando's cock.

Then he goes wild and sucks, just sucks as hard as he can, so hungry for it that he's moaning louder than Fernando. Salt in his mouth, more when he strokes and licks at the same time, and Fernando is starting to thrust, nice and deep, and his hands are tightening.

Then it happens.

"Fuck me," Fernando says. "Do it. Fuck me hard."

Spit on the hand, spreads it fast everywhere, and Fernando's legs are around his neck, and,

there.

Inside.

Fernando so open for him, so ready, and it's so hot it might even hurt. Noises now, sounds he's never heard, so low and rough that he could come even without Fernando's ass so tight around him. Engulfing his being.

"Harder."

And Michael does it, finding this rhythm that's like Fernando's voice when he gives orders. Hard, but with this smooth warm edge like wood burning or this.

And he kisses Fernando, not like before, not sweet and wanting but "Yeah, you're mine," and he might bite him, and Fernando is writhing now, his cock caught between them, and-- "Come," Michael says. "Come for me."

When Fernando does, just like that, like Michael's want is enough, he does, too, his tongue as deep as his cock.

After, as Michael rolls off him, Fernando tries for irony.

With the dim neon light somewhere below in the prison hallway, Michael can see it coming, and puts his hand over Fernando's mouth. "No. You loved it. Just this once, let it go."

"You..." But he doesn't go on, just lets Michael lie with his head on his shoulder.

And they lie together, quiet in the dark.

No, I'm not counting the minutes until the download of Prison Break S2 is completed, and I'll no longer have to molest my magazine but can go back to licking the TV. Please. I'm way too cool and mature for that. I passed thirteen a long time ago. Michael. Lincoln. Yeah, whatever.

*whistles casually*

Yep, just sitting here being respectable. Prison Break's just a TV show. It's not a lifestyle. Take it or leave it. No big deal either way. I'm not addicted or anything.

Nope. No Prison Break junkies in this house.

*implodes*

Okay, so, it's like, wrong, to want to roll up a magazine and have my wicked way with it, right? To rub it all over my body, and, maybe, kind of lick it?

I'm a grown man, sort of, but that Wentworth Miller is one pretty, pretty bloke.

Fernando must have sex with Michael. Must throw him down on a table and ram his cock in. Maybe that will be enough to keep me away from the magazine.

Woof.