Romany (romanyg) wrote,
Romany
romanyg

Okay, someone weave me a handbasket with the letters R, P, & S.

So yeah, I guess I just popped my RPS cherry. I got to looking at the prompts over at oxoniensis's place for the Porn Battle. So I wrote and it got too long. *sigh*

I'm a bad, bad person. Just don't tell me that in my LJ though, okay? *g*

Well, anyway.

Title: Just a Hint of Dirt
Author: Romany
Fandom: CW RPS
Pairing: TW/MR
Rating: Adult, NC-17
Length: 1702 words
Spoilers: Spoilers? Not really.
Warnings: slash, real people
Disclaimer: Not mine, seriously. Their lives and their thoughts are their own. This is completely made up.

Summary: What're a couple of RPS clichés supposed to do but get on with it? In a trailer!



Just a long fucking day, and Michael can't wait until Mr. Lookie Me Now Director Hot Shit Welling and his funky-ass self can kick back in the trailer and light one up. Cause he and Tommy are cool like that. Just pass it back and forth and let the day just wash away. Goof off.

"Beer?" Tom says, bent over and ass sticking out, as he looks through the mini-fridge.

Michael just leans back on the couch and gets one going. "That light crap? I'd rather drink my own piss."

"That mean no?"

Michael exhales, long and slow, coughs. "Hell, no. I drink my own piss all the time. Gimme."

Tom kicks the door closed, hands over the bottle, and just sprawls out. Leaves like, maybe, two inches of room between them. Eyes closed, he wiggles his fingers and Michael just passes that J over. Sucks in and sinks back more.

On the exhale, "It's a lot different behind the camera, Mike. I think I can really do this. Gonna see the dark side of thirty soon, and I could really live without the workouts of death and protein shakes, you know?"

Yeah, says the guy who'd probably be able to line'em up to get laid when he's eighty. "That why you do the scary-ass hiatus beard, Grizzly Adams? Get all Gentle Ben? Bet the wife loves that."

And Tom just turns, looks at him, eyes already getting red from the good shit and says, "Let's not."

"Let's not what?" he says. And man, does Tom have pretty eyes when he gets all soulful, like he's about to say something meaningful. They just get all big and swallow him down. You know, just an aesthetic thing, but Michael knows pretty when he sees it.

"Talk about her."

"Okay," he says. So they just sit there and smoke it up, no TV even, and drink the Rocky Mountain piss.

Tom finally says, out of nowhere, "The trick is to know what you want and just take it. I think you get that."

Michael just laughs. "Yeah, right."

"What? I mean it!"

And he's just this side of droopy, but he can muster up a bit of hyper for his point, "Okay, let's just say I'm looking at your ass and I grab it. I'd just end up sitting on mine and figuring out how to put my jaw back in my face."

So he's doing the Mr. Grab Ass hands in the air, and Tom just rolls a bit and practically sticks the butt-end of his Levis right in them. "You mean like this?" Tom just looks over his shoulder and smiles, slow.

The thing about Tom is that he's got the whole Ivory Soap with just a hint of dirt thing going for him. Like he's clean for everyone else but he'll be dirty just for you. Lady in the street, freak in the bed. Except Tom's all dude.

All dude with Michael's hands on his ass. And he'd have to be wasted off his ass to even think about getting his freak on with him, since he's never even so much as touched an ass that didn't have tits on the other end.

Well, maybe his hands aren't so picky as all that. Because his brain may be saying 'oh hell no!' but his hands seem to have already bought a ticket on that train—and they're moving way down that track. And liking it.

"You trying to gay me up here, Tommy?" There's nothing soft about Tom's ass, all muscle, and his hands are just digging in.

"We're just playing, Mikey. It's okay," Tom says, leaning up and back into him. "Whatever you're comfortable with."

And shit, Tom's neck is right there, and it's so warm under his tongue. "Okay," he says and just goes along with it, moving one hand around and up to the no-boob zone called pecs. And what the fuck? When it comes to the gay, besides jokes on the set and yucking it up on the party scene, the thought of actually making out with a guy has been filed under 'never gonna happen' and cross-referenced with 'not in this lifetime'. It's not like he's hard up or anything. But he knows, when it comes to looks, that he's skating PeeWee and Tom's fucking NHL. That probably counts for something.

And his dick is saying, 'Fuck yeah, count me in. I'm good.' Next thing he knows, he's dry-humping Tom's ass. Tom's ass and oh fuck.

"We're not fucking," Tom says.

"We're not fucking," Michael agrees as he's pumping up against him and his grab-ass hand slinks around and just rubs and, fuck him, but Tom's huge. "Whatever you want to call it, fine by me." He says this while undoing the top button of Tom's jeans by feel, reaching his hand in. Somehow he's gone from 'no way' to 'pushy', and he's not walking out of here without getting laid.

But he thinks about it, hand wrapped around Tom's dick while he's pushing both their pants down. Now he's got his dick riding Tom's crack and he's good with the rubbing. He hasn't even kissed him, and he's one minute from shoving it up Tom's ass no matter what he says. And maybe...maybe that's not cool. "Hey, are you okay?" he says.

"We're not fucking," Tom says again, rubbing back and arching.

So he slows down, puts his forehead between Tom's shoulder blades. "If you keep doing that, you'll make me a liar." He takes one breath, shakes a little. "I lie to women all the time, Tommy. I...I don't want to lie to you."

And he doesn't want to. He respects the guy. They hang out and do stupid ass shit together. Maybe sorting him into the 'people I fuck' category isn't the best idea. He could put it away, hard as he is, even now. He isn't that big of an immature asshole.

Plus, they work together. Fuck. This just...just blindsided him.

So he falls back on the couch, sweating. And fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck, he almost ass-fucked Tom. Jesus, what's he thinking?

But Tom's sliding down, spreading his legs, with the toothiest grin on the planet. And okay, maybe Tom hasn't been saying 'stop!' but 'let's do something else, asshole'. Aren't guys supposed to be more direct? The whole read-my-brain thing is so chick.

"You gonna blow me, Tommy? Are you pulling a Clinton?" And Tom sucking him off sounds like a hell of an idea. He can't think of the straightest arrow that wouldn't want those lips wrapped around their dick.

"You know," Tom says, just breathing lightly on Michael's dick, "Lewinsky's problem was that she didn't swallow all the evidence."

"Ha ha. Jesus, just suck it!" He tried to be nice earlier. He was going to stop when Tom had started the whole thing because he thought Tom was going to freak, they'd gone too far. No more nice. Nice doesn't get your dick sucked.

Tom just opens his mouth. And the tongue, oh God, so big and wet and Michael's pumping and fuck, who'd ever thought Mr. GQ here could be this good of a cocksucker? God, he just wants to grab that hair and ride that mouth. Michael couldn't remember when he had hair that long, and never that thick.

So yeah, Tom's sucking him, but he's got his eyes closed, humming a little, and maybe far off.

"Tommy, hey," he says, voice shot to shit from piss beer, weed and this. "Tommy, look at me."

Those eyes open, and he's looking, and Michael's just a goner. Shoots his load right there. Cause yeah, he's the kind of guy that doesn't warn about crap like that. But he would've. This time. Because it's Tom. He just couldn't think. Not with those eyes.

He leans back. "You said you swallowed, right? Because I am not sorry." Oh man, he's just earthquake city, all twitchy.

Tom doesn't say anything, just slides up next to him and kisses him. And having his tongue in Tom's mouth is just a scale of ten freakier than sticking his dick in it. Especially with the spunky aftertaste. But it's...nice. So he deals.

"My turn," Tom says, wiggling back and getting comfortable.

And, um, that would be the polite thing to do. "Tommy," he says, "you're supposed to ask the straight man to suck you off before he comes. It's called incentive."

"Mikey..." he warns. But he puts his hands behind his head and grins while he says it.

"No way out?" he asks.

"Nuh uh," Tom says, nodding towards his huge dick. "Down, boy."

Okay, now he's been accused of having a big mouth, but this might be a problem. "Just don't give me a report card for this," he says and goes down.

"You get the easy part," Tom says. "It's not gonna take much."

What the hell? Just do it. So he licks the head and Tom just whimpers and he licks again. Opens his mouth and takes what he can. Moves up and down while moving his tongue side to side. Tom puts those huge hands on his bald head and just sort of vibrates until the back of his mouth gets blasted a few seconds later. Swallows because what the fuck else is he going to do?

Ha! Fucker didn't warn him either. Guess he deserved that. And Tom tastes better than him. All that clean living, maybe. Not exactly a handful of M&Ms, but doable.

"Mikey...God," Tom says and chuckles just a bit. "C'mere."

So he gets up off the floor and sinks into those ripped open arms, leans in. "Can we not talk about this?" he says.

"Not a problem." And then Tom laughs—shit, it is funny—and kisses him.

This time, he doesn't freak.
Tags: cw rps, fic, rps
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