Birthdayfic!
(Reposted because it was showing up weire)
Today is the fantabulous
missapocalyptic's birthday, and in her honour, here is some fic!
Fandom: Slings and Arrows/RPF
Pairing: Paul Gross/Geoffrey Tennant
Era: Preshow, pre Ellen
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 1500ish
Geoffrey/Paul Gross
“Movies, Paul?”
Paul absently threw a handful of grass at him. “Don’t be so fucking puritanical,” he said, turning to him with the grin that either meant he was going to do something terrible, or he had had fabulous sex the night before.
“Puritanical? I could hardly be said to-”
“Yes, yes, I know, drunken duels in college, smoking when it’s someone else who provides the cigarettes. But artistic vision, Geoff, that’s where you’re whiter than white. It’s endearing, in a hopelessly dishevelled way.”
A surge of affection, clamped down upon with ruthless precision, replaced with annoyance. “Fuck off.”
Not with as much conviction as it should have been, of course, but Paul could have seen through an attempt ten times as good. And it was a compliment, delivered in a typically offhand way. “Is it the money?” he asked, propping himself up on one elbow.
Paul thought, still relaxed, eyes squinched tight shut against the hot midday sun. “Some of it will be, of course. But there’ll be things that are more for…vision, the need for a story, the need to tell people. You’ll wonder about some things, I guess. But the stage will always be there. Unless the government bans theatres…”
He grinned, and even though his eyes were closed, Geoffrey knew he could see his expression of horror. He ignored Paul’s snicker, with dignity.
“I’ll be the one with integrity then. You can be the pretty one.”
Paul shrugged, not seeming to mind being called pretty. “You’re pretty too then,” he said looking up at Geoffrey with a lazy smile that inevitably looked sultry, inviting…He kept silent, hoping for inscrutable, not aroused. “My distinguishing features…rich, successful, attractive, married…”
It was only fair that Geoffrey tackled him then, kissing him as he giggled, squirming in a way that seemed to make every inch of their bodies rub against each other. “It would take a special sort of woman to put up with us,” he whispered, licking the outside of Paul’s ear so he jerked underneath him. “There’s probably only one of them.”
There was a reason Paul chose a field in the middle of nowhere to go through lines, and it had a lot to do with the way neither of them could rehearse a whole scene without ending up like-
“Like this?”
Paul’s hand was deft on his shirt, unbuttoning it, not at all distracted by Geoffrey nuzzling his collarbone- well, maybe a little, the way his hands shook and he gasped when Geoffrey nipped the skin. “We always end up looking so disreputable,” Paul mused, smoothing hands down Geoffrey’s back under the now undone shirt. He tried to nod as he was pulled up for a kiss. Paul kissed well, of course, thorough and teasing, not at all impatient. Paul’s getting laid strategy was based solely on his kissing abilities, as well as whispering a line of Shakespeare into his intended victim’s ear in as deep a voice as he could manage then looking wistful. Geoffrey sometimes wondered if things wouldn’t be easier for Paul if Geoffrey just stood in the middle of the room at parties and announced his kissing abilities to the room in general, then took names from the queue.
Geoffrey knew a lot about how Paul kissed. Once, in the boarding house, they had skipped rehearsals and kissed for the whole day, languid, unhurried until everything felt as if it were underwater, slowed down, seen through a green tinge. The stubble burn and the chewing-out from the director had been worth it. Paul didn’t really worry about how fast they actually did anything, it was more…when Geoffrey had tried to rush him, he would murmur ‘Ithaca’ into his ear and kiss him until he wanted to die from want and need.
Inattention. He found himself flipped over onto his back, hitting the grass with an ‘oof’ before his protests were muffled once more by Paul’s mouth, tongue running over his lips, tracing them, retreating, playing and teasing, acting out some unknown strategy. He hooked his leg over Paul, drew him closer so there were only a couple of layers of fabric separating them. There was a line between teasing and resisting sex for no good reason, and Paul was about to cross it, so he slipped his hand between them, pressed his palm gently to the bulge in Paul’s jeans and grinned as he swore, fervently, breathlessly.
“That shouldn’t be legal,” he murmured, breaking the kiss, straddling Geoffrey and sitting up.
Geoffrey resisted the obvious quip, yanking Paul’s t shirt over his head, ignoring his muffled protests, moving straight to Paul’s jeans because they needed to be fucking yesterday, and if he waited any more, if he resisted grabbing and taking any more then this would be over, and everything would change, and-
“Sssh, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”
Pulling off his shirt so his back was bare on the warmed grass, undoing his flies and then it was there, it was them, together, skin to skin, Paul haloed by the blinding sunlight, naked in the open air, stupid, dangerous, uncaring, free-
perfect.
“I want- can you- need-”
Paul smiled, got out the battered looking tube of lubricant from his jeans pocket- optimism and routine- and his smile softened, blurred. Geoffrey looked at him, into his eyes, the motions of him dribbling lubricant into his palm secondary, irrelevant. He was mirrored there, in those eyes, like and yet unlike, all that they were and weren’t, divergence, convergence. Paul’s fingers, slick and cold with lube, the press and slide of it as Paul’s other hand closed around his cock, a loose fist, enough arousal for the intrusion of his fingers, no more than needed. Another finger, twisting and scissoring and Geoffrey moved, wanted to move closer and further away, pinned, head arched back and the sun in his eyes, hands fisted in the grass.
Relentless, this moving and stretching, hand moving from his cock to his chest, tracing idle lines from chest down, too light to satisfy, too heavy to tickle. He moaned again, ran his own hands over Paul’s back, the thin sheen of sweat cooling, skin soft, smooth, slick. At last the fingers withdrew, he pulled back from the brink, allowed himself to be manoeuvred so he was on Paul’s lap, Paul kneeling. He braced his elbows, wrapped his hands around the grass, lowered himself carefully, incrementally, blunt head of Paul’s cock pressing against him, Paul’s hands supporting him as he was opened, allowed it, the edge of pain fleeting as they were joined, connected, as sat up, wrapped his arms around Paul, kissed him so they were entangled in each other, each small movement feeling huge, each shift sending shockwaves.
They moved together then, clumsily, free of finesse. Just needing to touch, to move, anything but stillness, hazy arousal punctuated by lightning bolts as Paul’s cock brushes his prostate, erratic at first, then regular, learning it, learning him. They moaned into each other’s mouths, time ebbing and flowing, elastic and lazy, arousal spiralling upwards and outwards, orgasm inexorable, drawn sweetly from him as he hid his face in Paul’s shoulder, crying out onto his skin, arching, stiffening, slumping. Paul moved through it, faster, jabbing almost, breathing heavy, shallow pants. Geoffrey kissed him again, kissed him and ran his hands down his back, Paul’s hands grasping his hips in a grip that would leave bruises as he tensed, coming, pressing their foreheads together, closing his eyes.
Geoffrey watched his face relax, rolled them both onto the grass again, started separating out their clothes and pulling on his boxers. They basked once dressed- fear of discovery without arousal was a cold gripping reminder of what they could lose. Shirts stayed off- Geoffrey used Paul’s t shirt and cheerfully pointed out he could wear his ridiculous leather jacket to preserve his modesty.
They lay there for a while, talking around everything and about nothing. Paul picked daisies, made a daisy chain and put it on his head. Geoffrey wondered if he would ever play Oberon, or Mark Anthony, or-
“Hamlet. If you ever get the opportunity, you have to play Hamlet.”
Paul didn’t ask why, just nodded, cleared his throat and threw another handful of grass. When the time came to walk back for rehearsals, Paul didn’t bother to preserve his modesty, instead walking through New Burbage wearing only a pair of jeans and shoes, a daisy chain crown at a rakish angle on his head. Geoffrey told him he was born to play Titania. Finding there was no grass to throw anywhere, Paul just simpered, told him he was welcome to be a fairy too.
Wasn’t such a terrible idea, really. The resulting tussle over Paul’s crown meant they were ten minutes late for rehearsals.
Again.
At least he got the crown