nobody's looking for a puppeteer in today's wintry economic climate
Tom/Sean || 3000 words || nc-17


Sean is sick. Tom is drunk. They have sex. End of intriguing summary.




Dear Tom & Sean. I write porn because I love! ;_;

Many thanks to bkm5191 for the beta. Title from Being John Malkovich.




Sean’s usual MO in the event of coming down with something is to swallow down half of the medicine cabinet and hope for the best. Average efficacy varies between mostly unspectacular to efficacy? what efficacy?, with one memorable case of puking his guts out at a truck stop somewhere in West Virginia.

Sean isn’t easily discouraged, though. He hates being sick. He also hates going to the doctor’s, so that kind of narrows his options down to whatever he can self administer. Sean’s supply of NyQuil, in all of its variations, is truly impressive.

It also tends to shrink rapidly whenever he actually gets sick, and by the time they play a show at Subterranean – and Sean really, really needs to be upright and at least remotely coherent – he's down to half a bottle of NyQuil D and three Liquicaps. Sean makes Ryan drive around until they find an open drug store and stocks up like the apocalypse is coming. It’s going to be a long weekend, he can already feel that.

The show is okay but not spectacular by any means. They have to cut the set to nine songs because Sean is starting to lose his voice (NyQuil Cough comes in handy but it’s not enough), and even if the audience doesn’t seem to mind all that much Sean still feels pretty shitty about it. Someone from the crowd yells, “Get better, man!” and a girl from the front row smiles at him like she wants to take him home and make him chicken soup for a week. Sean is a little tempted.

He manages to resist, though, and helps the guys pack the van. Al hands him a lukewarm beer with a sympathetic pat on the back, and shoos him off. Acetaminophen interacts with alcohol, and interacts badly. Sean knows it, but he ignores it, too thristy to resist. He must be running a temperature already. Sean downs half of the bottle in one go. He doesn't immediately throw up all over the place, so he figures he's going to be okay.

He dozes on and off during the drive home, hopped up on NyQuil and a little tipsy. Tom shakes him awake when Max drops them off at their place; Sean grabs his acoustic from the trunk and follows Tom up the stairs. Tom huffs and swears his way through a curse word dictionary before he manages to unlock the door.

“One day,” Sean says contemplatively, “One day, Conrad, we’re gonna change the damn lock.”

Tom huffs a laugh and kicks the door the open. “Sure,” he says. He sways a little.

Sean manages it as far as the couch in the den before he decides he’s too fucking tired to go any further.

He doubles over to retrive the blanket from under the couch. There are dust bunnies all over it; Sean can’t remember the last time either of them vacuumed. He dusts it off, then wraps himself in it head to toe.

“What’s on?” Tom asks, coming from the kitchen with a bag of chips. He throws it on the couch, and goes to switch the TV on.

“Do I look like TV Guide to you?” Sean says, making himself comfortable against the arm of the couch and fishing for the remote between the cushions. Tom turns around with a raised eyebrow. Sean’s never learned that trick.

“Fuck you,” he says, kicking his legs to pull the blanket over his feet without having to let go of the remote. He knows Tom will grab it the second he lets it out if his eyesight and they’ll end up watching TV Market or whatever weird-ass porn Tom got from Nick lately. Sean is not in a mood for either one.



They end up watching porn anyway. Figures, it’s just Sean’s luck. It’s not like he’s opposed to porn, in general, the problem is Tom’s usual source for this kind of stuff is either Nick or Louis, which means it's either a. animal porn or b. dress-up porn, neither of which Sean is particularly fond of. Because, seriously.

“Dude, this is awful.”

Tom cackles. “I know!”

The girl onscreen is wearing what looks like a squid outfit. Or maybe Sean needs more NyQuil.



The CD is packed with ten-to-fifteen-minute clips, and a thirty-minute movie that they eventually settle for on. It features a girl dressed up as a girl scout, her fourty-year-old superior, and a wide range of other dudes. There’s even something resembling a plot. It mostly evolves around the girl wandering around trying to sell cookies and then accepting a fuck as a form of payment, but still.

“He’s totally going to pull her by the pigtails, isn’t he?”

Tom laughs over a mouthful of chips before handing the bag over to Sean. “God, I hope so.”

There’s mostly just crumbs left in the bag, so Sean grabs a handful and throws it into his mouth. It crunches satysfyingly between his teeth.

“I’ve got to piss,” Sean says, getting up. The blanket gets tangled around his calves and he nearly falls over, face down onto the coffee table.

“You’re gonna miss the ending,” Tom says, putting his feet on the coffee table as soon as Sean gets past him.

“Spoiler alert.” Sean says. “He’s going to come on her face.”

Tom boos him off. Sean laughs.

He’s kind of cold now that he’s out of the warm cocoon of the blanket. He must be running a temperature again. And sure enough, there’s a smudge of pink high over his cheeks when Sean looks in the mirror in the bathroom. He sighs. Being sick sucks.

He pees, and he has to wrestle with his dick a little so as not to get piss all over the wall. He’s half-hard; bad porn is still porn and sick Sean is still a guy.

Sean washes his hands and splashes some water on his face. His eyes in the mirror are glazed over and kind of unfocused. Sean grabs the NyQuil and drinks straight from the bottle, not bothering to measure. He’s totally going to OD on NyQuil and die but he can’t really bring himself to care.

He runs his tongue over his teeth to get rid of the residual aftertaste, then switches the light off.

When he gets back in the living room Tom’s switched to That 70s Show. Kelso is standing in the doorway, pushing at it with his hands.

“I gotta try this someday,” Tom says as Sean tucks his feet under his thighs and pulls the blanket over himself.

“I did, when I was a kid,” Sean admits. “It works.”

He wiggles around until Tom rests his hand atop of his calf and says, “Stop it.”

Sean does, even though he’s still not entirely comfortable. He knows it ticks Tom off sometimes, though, so he tries to keep still.

Tom drums his fingers on Sean’s leg, then curls them a little just under Sean's knee. His hand is warm, even through two layers of fabric. Tom’s hands are always warm.



After That 70s Show, Colour Me Kubrick comes on. Technically, Sean should probably just go to bed and sleep this whole flu away, but he hates staying in bed when he's sick because it makes him feel even worse.

“You’re totally gonna want to watch this, aren’t you?” Tom snickers as soon as John Malkovich’s name flashes across the screen.

“Fuck you,” Sean mutters but his voice is lacking heat. He kind of does have a boner for John Malkovich, there’s no denying it.

There’s a scene in the restaurant about thirty minutes in and suddenly Sean realizes that he hasn’t eaten a proper meal since – well, yesterday would be about it. He waits it out until a commercial break comes on, and goes to fix himself a sandwich.

He’s puttering around the kitchen when Tom appears in the doorway. Tom sways a little on his last step and that’s how Sean knows he’s still at least a little bit buzzed from earlier. Sean’s never been good at telling whether people are drunk or not. Usually, it needs to be something completely obvious to let him in on the person’s state of sobriety.

He turns around to glance at Tom and asks, “You want anything?”

“Nah,” Tom says. He doesn’t say anything else so Sean goes about his business. He’s almost done with his sandwich when he sees Tom move in his peripheral vision.

It doesn’t exactly come as a surprise when Tom steps up behind him, one hand on Sean’s hip, even though it maybe should. Tom noses at the back of Sean’s neck and it might be completely innocent, except Sean know it isn’t. The metal of Tom’s nose ring is cool against his skin.

“Tom,” he says, half a warning and half a question. He's not sure himself. Tom hums something in response and he’s so close Sean can almost feel the vibration on his skin. He shivers. There’s heat blooming from where Tom’s hand is, having slipped under the fabric of his shirt. Tom rubs his thumb over the skin there and Sean squirms a little. He’s still feverish and his skin is a little over-sensitized.

“Sorry,” Tom mutters, his movements stilling. His lips brush the side of Sean’s neck and Sean can’t help it, he tips his head to the side. It’s kind of fucked up, how well Tom knows how to push his buttons.

Tom uses his free hand to push the fabric of Sean’s hoodie and t-shirt aside and presses his lips against the juncture of Sean’s neck and shoulder. His lips are warm but compared to how hot Sean’s body feels, it’s almost a relief.

When Sean turns around slowly, both of Tom’s hands slide down to rest against his hips. There’s nothing demanding about it and it’s kind of fucked up, too, that Sean knows exactly what Tom is doing; he’s waiting.

Sean sighs. It’s not a thing, what they do. It’s just – well, whatever it is, Sean hasn’t said no yet, not once.

He runs his hand through Tom’s hair. It’s a little greasy and sifts through his fingers easily. Sean curls them around the back of Tom’s head and keeps his hand there when Tom leans in and presses his lips against his collarbone. There’s a soft hum of the TV coming from the living room and the clock above the door ticks its way to 2 a.m. Sean can hear himself breathing if he focuses on it, the rhythm a bit off.

“Is this shit contagious?” Tom mutters from the vicinity of Sean’s chin.

Sean laughs. “No idea. But yeah, probably.”

“Well, fuck it. I really want to kiss you right now.”

And Sean should probably know better, be the responsible adult here or whatever, but he opens up for Tom easily. Letting him run his tongue over his lips, his teeth, the roof of his mouth. They’re both perfectly still apart from that, and it’s quite a turn-on.

Sean shifts a little because the edge of the counter is digging into his ass, and Tom pulls back. He looks at Sean questioningly. Sean shakes his head, nothing.

Tom unzips his hoodie but doesn’t take it off, just slides his hand under Sean’s t-shirt. His hands are gentle and it’s still weird, knowing that Tom can be like that.

“Can we like, change scenery?” Tom asks.

“I don’t know,” Sean ponders, “I’m still pretty hungry.”

“Fuck you, van Vleet.”

Sean laughs. “Come on.”

They end up back in the living room with John Malkovich strutting across the screen in green polka-dot socks.

“It’s a totally weird-ass fantasy of yours, isn’t it?” Tom mumbles into Sean’s neck. “John Malkovich watching you have sex.”

Sean cracks up. “Shut up, seriously.”

Tom looks like he might say something so Sean puts a hand over his mouth. They just look at each other for a moment, the bluish light from the screen flickering over Tom’s face in an irregular pattern.

Not breaking eye contant, Tom pushes his tongue flat against the center of Sean’s palm. He tilts his head to the side and licks a long flat line until his tongue dips in the space between Sean’s fingers, then pushes. Sean pulls his hand back with a breathless laugh. His skin is damp and warm and it feels kind of nice, even if a little gross.

Sean shifts around, lets his legs fall apart, and pulls Tom between them. Tom’s neck is a little prickly already when he runs his hand over it, fingers scraping over the stubble. Tom tips his head back, leans into it. The movement pushes his hips into Sean’s and Tom rocks a little, as if testing how much space this allows him.

Sean can feel himself getting hard. He presses his thumb against Tom’s jaw and pulls him in for a kiss. This time, it’s open-mouthed and kind of sloppy, but still pretty languid. Sean doesn’t think he could make his body do anything more than that, really.

If Sean were to decide what happens next, he’d be perfectly happy with the two of them rocking against each other until they wear themselves out. Tom, apparently, has different plans.

He slides off the couch and pulls at Sean’s leg until he sits up properly, then slides in between Sean’s legs, curling one hand under Sean’s knee to pull himself closer. He doesn’t bother getting Sean’s pants all the way off, just pulls them down some.

Onscreen, John Malkovich is rocking a white fur coat.

“Dude, seriously,” Tom huffs, reaching blindly for the remote and turning the TV off.

Sean means to protest but Tom picks this particular moment to wrap his mouth around his dick. Sean was totally watching, so what. He’d give up Malkovich for Tom’s mouth – for Tom, really - any given day. But Tom doesn’t need to know that.

Tom can be a real cocktease sometimes but apparently today he's showing mercy to Sean. He doesn’t fuck around, just swallows Sean’s dick nearly all the way down. Sean can’t help but to buck up a little. It makes Tom throw his arm over Sean’s hips. “Don’t do that.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Sean says, breathless.

He grips at the backrest and tries not to black out when he comes. The blood is rushing through his veins like he’s about to have a heart attack, a steady, kind of painful buzz in his head. Sean is possibly tripping a little. The NyQuil should have kicked in by now but apparently it hasn’t.

It takes him a moment to get back to reality. He feels waves of hot and cold running through his body and it’s a serious fucking problem, keeping his eyes open.

“I can suck you off,” he offers feably, “Just, in a minute.”

“No,” Tom says firmly. “I don’t want your bacteria anywhere near my dick.”

“You want me to jerk you off?”

“Yeah. I’ll take a raincheck on that blowjob, though.”

So Sean does. He lets Tom curl against him and jerks him off fast and rough. Tom bites into Sean’s shoulder when he comes and that’s ow, definitely too much stimulation. Sean’s skin aches like someone beat him up with a baseball bat.

Sean runs his hands over Tom’s face, his neck, his shoulders when Tom comes down. Tom likes being touched after he’d come, Sean knows.

It’s strangely quiet without the TV, just the two of them breathing and the distant noise of the city behind closed windows.

“I’m going to pass out any second now,” Sean warns, entwining his fingers at small of Tom’s back. He wouldn’t mind staying like this but his body is a fucking bastard traitor.

“Yeah,” Tom sighs, pulling back. There’s a tint of post-orgasmic blush on his cheeks. Sean kind of stupidly likes that look on him. “Just get into a bed first, will you?”

Sean would also love to take a shower but no way that is happening anytime soon. He really feels like he might collapse the second he gets up. “Yes, mom.”

“Way to ruin the mood, asshole.”

“We had a mood?”

“Yes, fuck you. Somewhere between John fucking Malkovich and you calling me mom, yes, there was a mood."

Tom is grinning though, so it’s not like he’s really pissed. Sean gets up, feeling kind of dizzy all of a sudden; his vision swims a little. “Fuck, I really hate being sick.”

“Uncle Tom’s patented treatment will you get all better, no worries.”

“A mood, huh?”

“Shut up,” Tom grins. “Come on, I’ll tuck you in.”




When Tom knocks at his door the next morning, Sean’s just drifting awake. He mumbles, “Come on in.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Tom announces, walking in. His voice sounds like it’s about to break.

Sean wants to laugh but he’s pretty sure Tom would actually end him if he did.

“Well,” he says patting the bed, “hop in. We can die together. There’s a bottle of NyQuil on the floor, help yourself.”

“Sweet,” Tom rasps, but he gets under the covers anyway. He’s warm, alarmingly so, when he curls on his side next to Sean.

“Which one of us is going to call Max and cancel the practice?” Sean asks.

Tom flaps his hand listlessly. “Not it.”

“I’ll do it later,” Sean sighs. That was not going to go over too well.

They lay in silence for a while. Then Tom says, “On the upside, we can have a shitload of sex now. Nothing to lose at this point.”

Sean laughs. “I like the way you think, Conrad.”