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The Todd/Janssen Real Person Slash Archive | ![]() |
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Loose CannonAuthor's note: This is a work of RPS (Real Person Slash) containing explicit homosexual content about actual people. It is fictional. Were it a real transcription of Todd and Janssen getting it on while on a college bowl trip in Boston, they would be even more annoying than they already are. Consider yourself warned on all counts. It is 2:30 AM in the not-so-fair city of Boston. NYU's college bowl team started out the evening going strong, but by now nearly everyone has retreated from the "loud room" into the "quiet room," where they are piled onto the double beds or sleeping on the floor wrapped in hotel-issue velour blankets. Only two people remain in the loud room, and yet it is nearly as loud as it was at the height of the evening. The television is on, and Todd Harris has the remote, perusing everything the hotel's sixty-odd channels have to offer at this ungodly hour. He flicks past a tourism video clip, an Eggwave infomercial, the Ananda Lewis Show. He has seen this last in a previous round of channel surfing and takes this as his cue to flip back to ESPN. Janssen Choy is talking about economics for some reason as obscure and unfathomable as the terms he is throwing around. Doubtless he will remember none of this in the morning should an economics question come up, but he seems quite full of his own expertise right now. The only thing that distracts him from this absorbing topic is when he catches the briefest glimpse of a slanted face with piled-up hair and oversized eyes on AMC. "Breakfast at Tiffany's, turn it back, turn it back!" Janssen shrieks, finding a piercing register infrequently employed by either males or females. Ordinarily, he can be heard through walls; when Audrey Hepburn is involved, he can no doubt be heard throughout the Back Bay Hilton. "God, haven't you seen that movie hundreds of times?" Todd drawls, settling back in front of the sports highlights he had been searching for. "You can always watch Audrey!" Janssen squeals indignantly. "She's so pure..." Todd snorts as Serena Williams backhands a tennis ball across the court on the screen. "Pure?" Janssen is looking as dreamy as his facial features permit. "So pure..." he repeats stubbornly. "Didn't she have two disastrous marriages with old men and an affair with some other guy after that?" Todd asks lazily. "So pure." Janssen reaches across for the remote, but Todd is having none of it. "We watched all that stupid sci fi shit earlier and didn't see the end of the game." "The Next Generation isn't, like, hardcore sci fi! It's totally mainstream! And everyone else agreed to watch it!" Todd can carry on this argument and watch SportsCenter at the same time, so he does. Janssen makes another attempt on the remote. Todd bats him away with one hand. In a second Janssen is on his feet and launching into his usual martial arts routine, making choppy movements with his chubby hands and bouncing on his white cotton socked-feet like a cartoon frog, defending the purity of Audrey Hepburn and his right to revel in it vicariously at any time. He terminally has no discretion or sense of proportion, and he follows through with a chop aimed at the hand firmly gripping the remote. Todd catches his arm and restrains him before the travesty of Asian heritage can continue, but the roused Janssen spins around and tackles him with the force of all of his weight. They roll over on the bed, Todd trying to fend off 250 lbs of thrashing fanboy while keeping the television in his line of sight. He eventually loses track of the sporting news, although he does manage to pin Janssen underneath him, flailing ineptly, making incoherent high-pitched threats with a hint of desperation, and Todd can hardly help but notice the pressure of an erection against his own thigh. With a semi-detached amusement, he straddles the younger boy, who has an expression of horrified fascination, like the hapless mouse caught in the hypnotizing gaze of the snake. Except that, really, Todd wasn't the one being provocative. Well, until now. Janssen licks his lips nervously. The proposed strip game of several hours previously had fizzled, mostly due to Janssen's whining, but now Todd wrestles him out of his blue pants with the pleats in them and his striped sweater with nothing but a token struggle. In the wallet he pulls out of the pants he finds the single, lonely condom he expected, acquired some time previously with the edges of the packet worn with the years of not being used. Janssen whimpers at this find, squirming like the fucked-up lapsed Catholic with a crush on the supposed purity of Audrey Hepburn that he is, but his cock (short and fat, just like the rest of him) only protrudes at a jauntier angle. Todd smirks as he does a bit of a striptease himself, only somewhat hampered by keeping one hand firmly pressed down against Janssen's chest at all times. The ESPN chatter in the background goes unnoticed as he prepares to tackle the quivering virgin sprawled out on the faux-Native American bedspread. A good beginning, he decides, is to flip him over, and he does so, somewhat challenging considering his girth and semi-cooperativeness. Honey-colored legs are spread wantonly. He makes up for Janssen's half-assed preparedness by producing his own tube of lubricant, which he smears judiciously on his right fingertips. Ordering him to relax produces no noticeable effect, so Todd figures he will simply have to learn that lesson for himself. He pushes the inexperienced boy's legs further apart, forces his ass into the air and then inserts an exploratory finger. Not as difficult as it might have been. Pressing it deeper prompts another of those high-pitched whimpers, filled with inchoate longing, and a second finger joins the first with surprisingly little resistance. The third finger is always awkward, but Todd manages a few slow thrusts with only a brief though deafening screech in response, and he has had, he thinks, enough of that. Better to keep going swiftly now than to think. With a hasty application of condom and additional lube, Todd kneels behind Janssen, causing the mattress to buckle. Janssen has apparently regained the power of speech somewhat, and says, belligerently, "I'm not gay, even though everyone always implies it just because I'm pathetic and never successful with women." Todd could make a few choice comments about these delusions, but instead he says "Shut up, Janssen," and Janssen does, or at least until he feels the pressure of Todd's cock nudging at his anus, which causes him to make another one of those noises. Ignoring him, Todd commences the ravishing with a swift thrust that elicits a porn star moan. That thumping sound is either the headboard smashing into one side of the hotel room wall or an angry neighbor banging on the other, but the two enmeshed on the bed couldn't care less about such petty concerns and they fuck and moan and yell. Janssen is repeating a litany that sounds like it might be a name, perhaps even "Audrey," but it turns out to be "Not gay, not gay, not gay." In contradiction to the words themselves, however, he is crescendoing towards climax as Todd fucks him, now finding the angle that drives him mad, now missing it and frustrating him even more. Finally, Janssen jerks and shudders and spurts all over the sheets, and Todd, after a few additional, slower strokes, does likewise with a primal howl. They collapse, and their hearts race, and they both feel as though they should perhaps say something or even clean up. For once, though, both of them are silent, if only because they are drained of all energy and rapidly falling asleep, to wake up sticky and disarranged when the phone shrills at 7:30 AM for their wakeup call. When the rest of the team meets their eyes as they pack up to leave the hotel, they are all smirking. |
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