Title:  "Freedom" (1/1)
Author:  FatJoey
Email address: fatjsteel@ureach.com; send feedback on list or private.
LiveJournal: fatjoey, and fatjoeyfic
Rating:   NC17
Fandom: Pop RPS / American Idol
Category: Slash
Date:     August 8, 2003
Archive:  Will eventually end up at www.boybandfic.org (I hope) and at http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=fatjoey
Disclaimer: Okay, this is just my own little fantasy and not meant to offend or interfere with any copyrights or anything. I don't know Ryan Seacrest. I don't know him. I really don't know him. (Shit!)
Summary:  Ryan Seacrest looks for emancipation in all the strangest places.
Dedication: For my pals Peter & Ryan who are not going to read this for a few days. Hope you guys are having a great time!
Beta: Thanks, Nik, for taking the time. You rock!
Warnings:  This may seem harsh. It may seem like rape. It isn't really, and it's not that raw. But consider yourself warned, anyway.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second. It was great to just let go, to forget he had to smile or look pleasant or interested because at this particular moment no one could see his face.

Even though he was pretty sure his hair was still well-coifed, it didn't really matter. He could run his fingers through it and muss it all up, and there wouldn't be someone rushing over and clucking at him while it was being refurbished. And he could press his palm against his forehead, as he did now, without fear of any makeup getting smudged.

There was a certain amount of freedom in this moment. He concentrated on that freedom, reminding himself that he had the choice of what to do and what to say. There was no director present and no viewing audience watching or listening. His harshest critic -- himself -- might even relent a little.

Ryan Seacrest almost smiled at the thought.

He took another deep breath and wrapped his arms around the plush cushion of the sofa. His pants were around his ankles and his shorts were bundled in front of him, forming a little pillow for his johnson. His rump was raised over the arm of the couch, and he tried not to imagine what that must look like when he felt the stiff finger pressing into him.

"You like that?" came the question. The deep voice was a little anxious, like its owner really cared about the answer.

"Uh, yeah," Ryan said, concentrating on not clenching his burning muscle on the invading digit. "It's great. Really."

'Really.' Now there was a word nearly always used to cover a lie.

Ryan moved his butt a little, not to incite, but to try to alleviate his discomfort. The motion had the wrong effect.

"You want something bigger?" This time the voice was more insistent, the English accent making Ryan imagine he heard "bugger" instead of "bigger."

(Made sense, actually.)

"In a minute," he answered, willing his muscles to relax, especially the one between his ass cheeks. It certainly wasn't the first time in his life he had taken it from behind, and he was surprised to find himself feeling so virginal. He was annoyed that it seemed so difficult.

"I know exactly how you like it," he heard, and he fought the desire to tell the owner of the voice to just shut the fuck up for a minute. If he could concentrate, just get his mind in the right place, his body would follow. He needed some time to relax, some time to fantasize. He needed silence.

"Shhhhh," he said, trying to sound soothing. "Do that a little longer."

Do what? Move that finger around like it was looking for another way out? Push on his butt like there was some kind of magic button somewhere that would automatically give him pleasure? Why did so many men (and even some women) believe this fiction?

The finger seemed to revolve inside him like a corkscrew and the sensation was invasive and a little sickening; he started to despair that he would be able to find a way to tolerate any further assault. In fact, assault was exactly what this felt like. He wasn't about to be made love to, that was certain. He was about to be raped . . . albeit date raped.

Ryan was going to have to put on his best poker face, in a figurative sense. He was going to have to fake this big time, grit his teeth against any real pain and just make noises to cover his rapid breathing. It would be like the times Simon had actually hit home with some of his unrehearsed zingers when they were on the air and he couldn't allow himself to show his hurt or anger -- or like the rare occasion he had been so hung over after a late night that he was still sick during afternoon drive time but had to sound upbeat and perky and perfectly Ryanesque anyway.

Thank God his johnson was hidden in the folds of his shorts, not that it was the focus of any real attention, anyway. But he didn't want any sort of speculation about whether he was feeling excited and whether he might actually manage to come.

He doubted anyone cared.

"Say you want it, Ryan. Tell me."

It was a god-damned order.

Ryan flashed back to his initial thoughts about the freedom of this moment, and he was surprised at the pang in his chest. The very least he could do right before he was about to be buggered by a man he hated was to be honest with himself about the situation.

He wasn't free. He was bending over because he had to. Being able to hide his face in a cushion didn't offer him any freedom, except the freedom not to care what the hell he looked like at that moment.

But he wasn't being raped. He was doing this because he wanted to be the host of 'American Idol' so badly, because he craved the success it entailed. He was whoring himself.

How many cups of coffee and croissants, how many morning papers, lunch orders, loads of dry cleaning and late birthday cards had he fetched during his relatively short career? How many pussies had he eaten and cocks had he sucked?

How many times had he been a chauffeur or a personal shopper?

How many times had he been a whore?

Certainly he had been the latter over and over in the past 18 months as he reached for this particular star. And now that he was pretty much secure in his spot as the one-and-only 'AI' host, it could probably be argued that he didn't have to perform this particular service anymore. He didn't need to drop his drawers and spread his cheeks and act like he liked it.

He was free to say 'fuck off.'

As he felt something larger than the finger pressing insistently against his anus, Ryan did not feel any freedom at all. He felt trapped. He felt somewhat desperate. He hoped to God the bastard was wearing a condom.

He mentally cursed at himself as tears welled in his eyes.

"Yeah, do it," he suddenly encouraged. "Fuck me. You know how I want it. You know how I like it. Get it in."

"You're . . . so . . . tight today. I can barely get in."

Ryan pushed back, forcing his sphincter to open. "Yes," he said. "You can get in. Just do it! Fuck me. I love to be fucked, I love it," he continued, trying to convince himself. He closed his eyes and imagined someone else standing behind him trying to press his hot flesh inside. He pictured a face, a very masculine face, eyes closed and mouth stiff with desire. He couldn't stand to let himself see the truth, not even in his mind's eye.

He gasped as his anus gave way. For a few seconds every part of his body wanted to convulse and expel the invader; he had to fight back the natural reaction. The sensation wasn't pain as much as extreme discomfort and a sense of violation. He wasn't sure he could stand it.

But he could. As long as he believed it was someone else -- as long as he pretended he was getting it from someone he wanted like mad -- he could calm his protesting rectum enough to allow the entry. And once the damn thing was far enough past the muscle, he could stand it.

If only he could manage to believe the fantasy.

"Don't pull it out," he pleaded, knowing this would sound like he wanted it, even though he simply didn't want to have to deal with having his muscle fucked again.

"Don't worry . . . baby . . . I won't," came the panted reply.

Thank God.

"Oh, Jesus . . . that's wonderful, Ryan!" At the sound of things, it would be over very soon.

It was.

Ryan nearly cursed aloud this time when he felt wetness spilling out of his backside, confirming there had been no condom. He reached down and grabbed at the shorts under him, pulling them away and using them to scrub between his cheeks.

"Don't be in such a hurry. Turn around here and tell me how that felt."

Shaking with emotion, not caring at all now what his face looked like, Ryan straightened and turned. He clutched his soiled boxers to his crotch as though they were some kind of shield. He looked up at the man and inexplicably found himself wanting to smile.

"That felt like shit, actually," he said. "And I'm never doing it again."

"What?"

Ryan pulled up his pants and reached for his shirt. "I'm done. I don't want to do this anymore. I'm free."

"Ryan, wait a minute --"

Not stopping to listen to any protests or warnings, Ryan nearly ran out of the room, slamming the door behind him. He careened down the hall and fumbled at his dressing room door before he got it open. He looked around quickly and saw his cell phone lying on the coffee table.

He sank down on the couch and picked up the phone, punching in one of the stored numbers. Sighing, he waited for the long signal, the ring and the familiar voice to answer.

"Hullo?"

He breathed in. "Simon?"

"Seacrest, is that you?"

"Uh huh."

"It's past midnight here. What in bloody hell do you want?"

Ryan's hands were shaking so hard, he nearly dropped the phone. He was afraid he was going to cry, something he just couldn't let himself do.

"Simon --"

"What is wrong with you, man? Speak up!"

"Nigel fucked me. I let Nigel fuck me. It wasn't the first time. But I'm not going to do it again." Tears spilled down his face, but he managed not to sob.

"What?"

"I needed to tell you."

There was silence on the other end of the line.

Then Simon Cowell calmly but firmly said, "I'll kill the bastard."

A sense of relief mixed with a sort of perverse pleasure flooded Ryan. He started to breathe more naturally.

Simon cleared his throat. "Take your time and tell me all about it. And don't worry about Nigel. He won't bother you again."

Ryan found his voice and started to describe to Simon what he had done and why he had done it. As he talked and revealed his terrible secret, a tremendous sense of freedom came over him.

This time he really was free.

Wasn't he?

"When I get back to America, you and I are going to talk about this again, Ryan. I promise you that," Simon said.

The End