He's bad, he's bad, you know it.
"I'm bad, I'm bad, you know it."
Michael wasn't particularly bad, except as a singer, especially of Michael Jackson songs, Tom thought with a sigh. He certainly was nowhere near as bad as Lex was supposed to be in the episode they were filming, although there was that incident in Las Vegas to consider.
The one with the purple fuzzy dice, gold lame hat stolen from a senior citizen and the near keg of beer drunk at a local steakhouse but while that was all bad, it wasn't exactly /evil/.
Except maybe for the fuzzy dice.
It had taken hours for Tom to untangle them from his rear view mirror, forget about explaining the collection of used casino shot glasses that somehow mysteriously ended up in the back seat.
Along with Tom's underwear.
"Your butt is mine, gonna tell you right ... "
At this, Tom looked up. Michael was doing a piss-poor version of the moonwalk, sliding backward through the prop straw gracing the Kent barn, one in the latest barn sets they'd rented just the month before. "What did you just sing?" he asked Mike curiously. "Those aren't the words."
"They sure are," Michael replied, not missing a beat. More straw was destroyed beneath his feet. "Come on, lay it on me, all right ..."
"Those are not the words."
"I'm giving you, on count of three, to show your stuff ..."
"If they are, they're awful."
Michael ignored him, if only to hit a particularly high falsetto. "Because I'm bad, I'm bad, come on. Really, really bad, you know it."
It was early enough that they were alone except for a few bleary crew members circling the coffee truck, a good hundred yards away from the outside of the barn. They always put the snacks there as not to distract from the hard work and Tom was feeling rather grateful for it as he snuck up behind Mike and looped his arms around his slim waist, trying unsuccessfully to stop his dancing.
Instead, Mike swayed in his arms, still singing that godawful song albeit much more softly. "I'm giving you on count of three to show your stuff ..."
"What stuff would you like to see?" Tom whispered in his ear, before leaning in to nibble on it. Michael tasted, as usual, better than the best breakfast ever -- better than pancakes, waffles and sugar-encrusted breakfast cereal in cold milk combined.
So Tom kept at it, nibbles turning into licks then a hard suck to the soft lobe waiting for him right above Mike's collar. Then down to his neck, all smooth, with only a little bit of stubble near the jaw, scratchy and hot and delicious.
This seemed to stop The Human Jukebox, at least down to a hum. Mike leaned back into Tom's embrace, grinning slyly, eyes half closed. "I'm bad, I'm bad ... really, really bad," he sing-songed, for only Tom to hear.
Tom took that as a good sign. Good enough anyway for him to run his hand down Michael's stomach, past the artfully crinkled white dress shirt and into his pants.
The already half-hard cock twitched at his touch and Tom felt his own jerk in response. He ran his fingers up the delicate underside then over the head, spreading the wetness he found there in little circles, before sliding up the length, fist closing tight.
Michael laughed softly and his hips moved sinuously in a new dance, one he was infinitely better at than the moonwalk.
Keeping one eye on the 'barn' door, Tom kept the motion going, tightening his fist with every up stroke. Soon, Mike was moaning loudly ... shamelessly ... and the thought that a crew member might run in any minute to see what the hell was going on made Tom sweat in both the good way and the bad.
He couldn't help but grind his cock against the cleft of Mike's ass, tightly covered in black ... God, what the hell did the wardrobe people give Mike to wear again ... Armani silk? Wool? Brushed cotton?
Whatever it was, it felt amazing and Tom closed his eyes, not pausing in either activity, not even when Mike cried out his name, spurting hotly all over Tom's tight fist. He didn't stop until he felt his own orgasm coming and then rutted against Mike relentlessly, not caring that wardrobe would have his head in exactly five, no four, no ...
Make that less than three seconds.
Breathing hard, Tom pulled his sticky hand out from Mike's pants, laughing softly at how disheveled they'd both become in such a short amount of time. Maybe they could fake some outfits for the next scene or maybe no one would care what they wore -- it's not that consistency was a high priority on the set these days anyway.
Ever the professional, Mike looked down at his ruined pants with a horrified expression, one that eventually melted away into affection.
"You're bad," he joked, pulling Tom down for a quick kiss. "Really, really bad."
"You know it," Tom replied with a quiet chuckle, before returning the kiss in full, hoping the snack truck would hold off the invaders for a couple precious minutes longer.
Until they could be good again.