Fic: One Week
Feb. 5th, 2004 11:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lierdumoaTitle: One Week
Fandom: QaF RPS
Pairing: Gale/Randy
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Vintage clothing, borderline behaviors, and Randy Harrison at the center of it all. Also? Glasses are sexy. Just in case you didn't already know.
A/N:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
phangurl told me that Gale was involved with Michelle in real life. I had no idea, so any references to her in this story are purely coincidental. For the purpose of reading this, let's just assume that both Gale and Randy are single.
I go shopping with Gale on the weekend. I find myself in a vintage clothing store, waiting for him from outside the dressing room. He never asks if he looks good in anything. He looks good in everything, and he knows this the same way that he knows his hair is brown. Instead, he asks "What should I wear this to?" -- first shrugging into a poet's shirt, then a pair of gray slacks that sits low on his hips, then a well tailored jacket made out of --
"Snakeskin?"
Sometimes I think he has exquisite taste in clothing. Then I remember that he looks good in everything, so really, it only seems that way.
He frowns at my scoffing tone. "Yeah," he replies. "I like the color." His lips pull together in a pout, and I don't know if I should laugh or apologize. I choose to do neither, instead taking a moment to consider his original question. It's not exactly the sort of clothing item that can be worn anywhere. Finally, I turn back towards him to say, with a fair amount of confidence, "Wear it to the wrap party." I can't imagine anyone objecting. The dress code policy at that sort of function is pretty much 'anything goes.'
Gale nods in agreement, and we stroll together to the checkout counter. The woman at the register gives me an odd look, and I self-consciously take note of my own appearance. Glasses, floppy blond hair, and a conservative ensemble of tans and pastels. I'm sure she's wondering what I'm doing in a shop like this. I'm beginning to wonder the same myself. Gale lifts an elbow up onto my shoulder and uses me as a leaning post while he waits for his receipt. I try, ineffectually, to shrug his arm off. When that doesn't work, I just cross my arms over my chest and turn my head to glare at him. I think, for a moment, of all the less annoying people I could be spending time with on a Saturday afternoon.
"Remind me why I let you bring me on these little shopping trips," I hiss as we leave the store. Gale turns to me with a grin. His skin is pale in the cold sunlight and his mouth is warm with cheer and his eyes are brown, brown, brown.
And I remember.
It's back to work on the Monday. I busy myself going over lines in the hours before work. In the late morning, I take a coffee break with the rest of the cast. Gale finds a nearby café with odd furnishings, and small tables really only designed to fit two people. He manages to squeeze together three to a table, despite the limited space. I find myself sitting across from him, with a wall to my right and Michelle to my left. She flips back a lock of hair while Gale watches. I wonder, briefly, if he's ever tried hitting on her, or thought about it.
After fifteen minutes or so, she gets up to use the restroom. I watch her disappear around a corner, then turn back to find Gale staring at me, a strange look in his eyes. He reaches across the table suddenly, lifting his hands to the sides of my face. I'm too startled to move as he trails his long fingers over the tops of my ears, tucking back stray strands of hair. He reaches behind my lobes to grip my glasses between his thumbs and forefingers and lift them from my face.
It's not what I was expecting him to do, but then, I don't really know what I was expecting. He brings the lenses close to his face, turns them over in his hands, folds and unfolds the arms with a scientific curiosity. I wait for him to return my glasses. Eventually he tires of his game, and I hold out my hand, expecting him to hand them back. He ignores the gesture, and instead returns them to my face in the same manner in which he removed them. He trails his knuckles against the back of my jaw before pulling his hands back. The touch is swift and brief, nearly imperceptible.
And I shouldn't still be feeling it.
Sometimes, I think Gale forgets about little things like personal space and privacy boundaries. He forgets that some things just aren't allowed. That it isn't right to borrow things and play with them without asking. That he can't just...he can't...
I watch him as I blink my eyes back into focus. I stare him down, and for a while, he refuses to meet my gaze. A minute goes by. Then, he lets out a short, guilty laugh, and all at once, everything is back to normal. Gale returns his attention to his coffee. I clear my throat and do the same. Michelle comes back to find us exactly as she left us.
Honestly, it's not like this sort of thing hasn't happened before.
Thursday night's the easiest night of the week. I don't really have any lines to go over. I go to bed early. Friday morning I take an hour to mentally prepare myself for the day's work. I'll be filming a love scene with Gale. It's shower sex this time. I know exactly how the filming will go. The director will signal the go-ahead. Gale and I will strip each other of clothing. We'll move in a prescribed path about the set, and eventually find ourselves in the shower. The water will be kept close to lukewarm, to prevent the glass from fogging up. Gale will be naked, and wet, and perfect. I will be pathetically grateful that I'm not sixteen anymore, because rampant, persistent hard-ons just aren't professional. Sometimes, a room full of cameras isn't nearly the turn-off it should be.
I suppose I can blame my exhibitionist streak for that.
Self control is a game of pretend. I never think of these scenes in terms of me and Gale. Instead, I think of them in terms of Justin and Brian. It's the easiest way to keep myself detached and impartial. Justin and Brian act out the scene. I observe from the outside. I thank the powers that be that I don't have a hidden voyeuristic streak as well. Once I've overcome all personal hangups, the acting itself is rather easy. It's not that complicated to fake an orgasm. The scene will run like clockwork. The director will yell, "Cut!" Gale and I will dry off, get dressed, and go home.
I have it all planned out in my head. I've cultivated the proper mindset. Nothing could possibly go wrong.
After all, it's just acting. This is what I tell myself as Gale pushes my face against the shower door and mouths the vertebra at the very top of my spine. This is what I tell myself as his body leans flush against mine. As his nipples press into my upper back. As his palms slide down over my stomach. As he grasps my hips and pulls me back against the slow, rolling motions of his hips. This is my mantra that I repeat, and nothing can break my train of thought.
But then something does. I'm not sure what, at first. And then it registers. Gale is half hard. Gale is half hard. He's sliding against the crease of my ass, and the head of his erection is nudged damply against my inner thigh, and I can't tell if the moisture is from water or...
Or...
I'm standing there with my eyes squeezed shut and my head thrown back and my groans suddenly much more heartfelt than they were ten seconds ago. My inner muscles are clenching and unclenching around nothing. A hundred tiny internal spasms, and I'm so empty it fucking hurts and Goddamnit Gale, this isn't fucking fair. Because I really can't get hard. The camera men are directly in front of me, with absolutely nothing obstructing their view. And oh, I know they would never say anything if I were to show a visible reaction to this situation, but really.
Rampant, persistent hard-ons just aren't professional.
Gale is still pressed against the curve of my buttocks when I feel him slacken against me. He manages to will away his arousal in a matter of seconds. Funny how it seems longer than that. The director yells, "Cut!" It's easy to pretend that everything went exactly as planned.
Some days, my job is simple. Scenes are easy to shoot. A little humor on the set keeps things in perspective. The work runs smoothly. Other days, my job is hell. No one can seem to shut up. My lines refuse to come out right. Gale is a wet dream turned nightmare, and ending a scene feels like waking up screaming. But I've learned how to deal with the strain. I set goals for myself.
For example, my goal for tonight is to find a large cache of hard liquor. Vodka is my friend. Camera men are my enemies. Shower sex is the devil.
And Gale? Is also the devil.
Fuck him, and his big brown eyes, and his well defined abs, and his cock. Fuck his little shopping trips and his total disregard for personal space. I want to fuck him. I want it so badly I'm losing my mind. Half the vodka is gone and my hands have worked their way beneath my boxers. I've got my palm wrapped around myself, and I'm pulling so hard it hurts. My other hand has slid round back, and I've worked three fingers into my ass. The stretch burns. The rough manipulation of sensitive skin is like slow torture and it isn't enough. It's never enough. I could get my whole fucking fist in there it wouldn't be enough. I want too much.
Too fucking much.
I know how it goes. I'll come, I'll clean myself up, and I'll pass out on top of my bed without ever getting under the sheets. I won't dream. Tomorrow I'll wake up with a hangover.
Because vodka is the devil.
Gale calls me up Saturday afternoon. He found an interesting bar, and plans on inviting the rest of the cast. Mostly, he's using the outing as an excuse to wear his new snakeskin jacket. The wrap party is weeks away, and Gale isn't exactly what anyone would call patient. I'm not particularly interested in going out, but he harangues and cajoles me into coming. The selling point of his argument -- "It's not like you have anything better to do."
I try to remember a time when I had a life outside of Gale. When dating was more than a quick fix for my unrequited lust.
Okay, so maybe this is more than lust.
And maybe I have a masochistic streak hidden somewhere, because there's no other explanation for why I'm spending yet another evening with Gale and his unnerving tactility. I get to the bar a bit late, and everyone's already there. It's nice, I suppose, to just hang out with the rest of the cast once in a while. Hal tells jokes, and everyone laughs. Gale puts in his fair share of ruthless teasing. I'm still cute, and I'm still the youngest, so I still get fawned over a bit. It's nice.
Or, it would be nice, if I weren't so close to killing myself. Fruity alcoholic beverages begin to make the rounds. I refuse to drink anything stronger than sangria, as I'm not about to wake up with a hangover two mornings in a row. Everyone around me begins to get slightly tipsy. I retreat into an empty corner of the bar, bitter and sober, and hope that no one will find me. It's a bleak hope. After all, Gale is bound to find me. He always does.
I'm leaning against a wall, staring into a nearly empty glass of water when he sidles up to me. His hair is disheveled, and the bottom two buttons of his shirt have come undone. He smells of cigarette smoke and lime juice, and ever so faintly of spirits. It's a subtle combination. A delicate mixture of colors and textures and scents. Beautiful, as always. Everything about him is painfully beautiful.
The jacket is slung casually over his shoulder. "I was looking for the coat rack," he says, before swinging an arm around my shoulders and draping himself across the left side of my body.
"It's not here," I whisper against the curve of his ear.
And then I cup his face in my hands, and bring his lips to mine, and pray, pray, pray he won't hate me for this in the morning.
It starts out just like the kisses we film, and Gale kisses me back automatically. The strangeness of the situation doesn't really register with him until I've worked my lips away from his mouth and halfway down his throat and I murmur his name. His name. And he finally gets it. He pulls back, startled, his gaze wide with shock. I know I've fucked up, for real this time, and I don't think I can bear his rejection without my brain short circuiting or my chest imploding or something else that results in spontaneous, ghastly death.
I'd like to close my eyes and pretend this isn't happening, but this whole situation is like a car wreck -- I just can't seem to look away.
Which is a good thing, really. Because now I'm looking at the corners of Gale's mouth lifting up into a tenuous smile. A few moments pass and he's leaning in again, and I can feel his breath against my lips, and my mouth is falling open. His tongue is slipping in to curl around mine, and tiny strangled whimpers are emerging from my lips, and finally.
Finally.
Many thanks to my lovely betas,phangurl and queenofalostart, for helping make this readable. Also, thanks to lelenevity, for the pre-read, visbot, for listening to me bitch, and rhiannonhero for sucking me into this fandom in the first place.
Fandom: QaF RPS
Pairing: Gale/Randy
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Vintage clothing, borderline behaviors, and Randy Harrison at the center of it all. Also? Glasses are sexy. Just in case you didn't already know.
A/N:
phangurl told me that Gale was involved with Michelle in real life. I had no idea, so any references to her in this story are purely coincidental. For the purpose of reading this, let's just assume that both Gale and Randy are single.I go shopping with Gale on the weekend. I find myself in a vintage clothing store, waiting for him from outside the dressing room. He never asks if he looks good in anything. He looks good in everything, and he knows this the same way that he knows his hair is brown. Instead, he asks "What should I wear this to?" -- first shrugging into a poet's shirt, then a pair of gray slacks that sits low on his hips, then a well tailored jacket made out of --
"Snakeskin?"
Sometimes I think he has exquisite taste in clothing. Then I remember that he looks good in everything, so really, it only seems that way.
He frowns at my scoffing tone. "Yeah," he replies. "I like the color." His lips pull together in a pout, and I don't know if I should laugh or apologize. I choose to do neither, instead taking a moment to consider his original question. It's not exactly the sort of clothing item that can be worn anywhere. Finally, I turn back towards him to say, with a fair amount of confidence, "Wear it to the wrap party." I can't imagine anyone objecting. The dress code policy at that sort of function is pretty much 'anything goes.'
Gale nods in agreement, and we stroll together to the checkout counter. The woman at the register gives me an odd look, and I self-consciously take note of my own appearance. Glasses, floppy blond hair, and a conservative ensemble of tans and pastels. I'm sure she's wondering what I'm doing in a shop like this. I'm beginning to wonder the same myself. Gale lifts an elbow up onto my shoulder and uses me as a leaning post while he waits for his receipt. I try, ineffectually, to shrug his arm off. When that doesn't work, I just cross my arms over my chest and turn my head to glare at him. I think, for a moment, of all the less annoying people I could be spending time with on a Saturday afternoon.
"Remind me why I let you bring me on these little shopping trips," I hiss as we leave the store. Gale turns to me with a grin. His skin is pale in the cold sunlight and his mouth is warm with cheer and his eyes are brown, brown, brown.
And I remember.
It's back to work on the Monday. I busy myself going over lines in the hours before work. In the late morning, I take a coffee break with the rest of the cast. Gale finds a nearby café with odd furnishings, and small tables really only designed to fit two people. He manages to squeeze together three to a table, despite the limited space. I find myself sitting across from him, with a wall to my right and Michelle to my left. She flips back a lock of hair while Gale watches. I wonder, briefly, if he's ever tried hitting on her, or thought about it.
After fifteen minutes or so, she gets up to use the restroom. I watch her disappear around a corner, then turn back to find Gale staring at me, a strange look in his eyes. He reaches across the table suddenly, lifting his hands to the sides of my face. I'm too startled to move as he trails his long fingers over the tops of my ears, tucking back stray strands of hair. He reaches behind my lobes to grip my glasses between his thumbs and forefingers and lift them from my face.
It's not what I was expecting him to do, but then, I don't really know what I was expecting. He brings the lenses close to his face, turns them over in his hands, folds and unfolds the arms with a scientific curiosity. I wait for him to return my glasses. Eventually he tires of his game, and I hold out my hand, expecting him to hand them back. He ignores the gesture, and instead returns them to my face in the same manner in which he removed them. He trails his knuckles against the back of my jaw before pulling his hands back. The touch is swift and brief, nearly imperceptible.
And I shouldn't still be feeling it.
Sometimes, I think Gale forgets about little things like personal space and privacy boundaries. He forgets that some things just aren't allowed. That it isn't right to borrow things and play with them without asking. That he can't just...he can't...
I watch him as I blink my eyes back into focus. I stare him down, and for a while, he refuses to meet my gaze. A minute goes by. Then, he lets out a short, guilty laugh, and all at once, everything is back to normal. Gale returns his attention to his coffee. I clear my throat and do the same. Michelle comes back to find us exactly as she left us.
Honestly, it's not like this sort of thing hasn't happened before.
Thursday night's the easiest night of the week. I don't really have any lines to go over. I go to bed early. Friday morning I take an hour to mentally prepare myself for the day's work. I'll be filming a love scene with Gale. It's shower sex this time. I know exactly how the filming will go. The director will signal the go-ahead. Gale and I will strip each other of clothing. We'll move in a prescribed path about the set, and eventually find ourselves in the shower. The water will be kept close to lukewarm, to prevent the glass from fogging up. Gale will be naked, and wet, and perfect. I will be pathetically grateful that I'm not sixteen anymore, because rampant, persistent hard-ons just aren't professional. Sometimes, a room full of cameras isn't nearly the turn-off it should be.
I suppose I can blame my exhibitionist streak for that.
Self control is a game of pretend. I never think of these scenes in terms of me and Gale. Instead, I think of them in terms of Justin and Brian. It's the easiest way to keep myself detached and impartial. Justin and Brian act out the scene. I observe from the outside. I thank the powers that be that I don't have a hidden voyeuristic streak as well. Once I've overcome all personal hangups, the acting itself is rather easy. It's not that complicated to fake an orgasm. The scene will run like clockwork. The director will yell, "Cut!" Gale and I will dry off, get dressed, and go home.
I have it all planned out in my head. I've cultivated the proper mindset. Nothing could possibly go wrong.
After all, it's just acting. This is what I tell myself as Gale pushes my face against the shower door and mouths the vertebra at the very top of my spine. This is what I tell myself as his body leans flush against mine. As his nipples press into my upper back. As his palms slide down over my stomach. As he grasps my hips and pulls me back against the slow, rolling motions of his hips. This is my mantra that I repeat, and nothing can break my train of thought.
But then something does. I'm not sure what, at first. And then it registers. Gale is half hard. Gale is half hard. He's sliding against the crease of my ass, and the head of his erection is nudged damply against my inner thigh, and I can't tell if the moisture is from water or...
Or...
I'm standing there with my eyes squeezed shut and my head thrown back and my groans suddenly much more heartfelt than they were ten seconds ago. My inner muscles are clenching and unclenching around nothing. A hundred tiny internal spasms, and I'm so empty it fucking hurts and Goddamnit Gale, this isn't fucking fair. Because I really can't get hard. The camera men are directly in front of me, with absolutely nothing obstructing their view. And oh, I know they would never say anything if I were to show a visible reaction to this situation, but really.
Rampant, persistent hard-ons just aren't professional.
Gale is still pressed against the curve of my buttocks when I feel him slacken against me. He manages to will away his arousal in a matter of seconds. Funny how it seems longer than that. The director yells, "Cut!" It's easy to pretend that everything went exactly as planned.
Some days, my job is simple. Scenes are easy to shoot. A little humor on the set keeps things in perspective. The work runs smoothly. Other days, my job is hell. No one can seem to shut up. My lines refuse to come out right. Gale is a wet dream turned nightmare, and ending a scene feels like waking up screaming. But I've learned how to deal with the strain. I set goals for myself.
For example, my goal for tonight is to find a large cache of hard liquor. Vodka is my friend. Camera men are my enemies. Shower sex is the devil.
And Gale? Is also the devil.
Fuck him, and his big brown eyes, and his well defined abs, and his cock. Fuck his little shopping trips and his total disregard for personal space. I want to fuck him. I want it so badly I'm losing my mind. Half the vodka is gone and my hands have worked their way beneath my boxers. I've got my palm wrapped around myself, and I'm pulling so hard it hurts. My other hand has slid round back, and I've worked three fingers into my ass. The stretch burns. The rough manipulation of sensitive skin is like slow torture and it isn't enough. It's never enough. I could get my whole fucking fist in there it wouldn't be enough. I want too much.
Too fucking much.
I know how it goes. I'll come, I'll clean myself up, and I'll pass out on top of my bed without ever getting under the sheets. I won't dream. Tomorrow I'll wake up with a hangover.
Because vodka is the devil.
Gale calls me up Saturday afternoon. He found an interesting bar, and plans on inviting the rest of the cast. Mostly, he's using the outing as an excuse to wear his new snakeskin jacket. The wrap party is weeks away, and Gale isn't exactly what anyone would call patient. I'm not particularly interested in going out, but he harangues and cajoles me into coming. The selling point of his argument -- "It's not like you have anything better to do."
I try to remember a time when I had a life outside of Gale. When dating was more than a quick fix for my unrequited lust.
Okay, so maybe this is more than lust.
And maybe I have a masochistic streak hidden somewhere, because there's no other explanation for why I'm spending yet another evening with Gale and his unnerving tactility. I get to the bar a bit late, and everyone's already there. It's nice, I suppose, to just hang out with the rest of the cast once in a while. Hal tells jokes, and everyone laughs. Gale puts in his fair share of ruthless teasing. I'm still cute, and I'm still the youngest, so I still get fawned over a bit. It's nice.
Or, it would be nice, if I weren't so close to killing myself. Fruity alcoholic beverages begin to make the rounds. I refuse to drink anything stronger than sangria, as I'm not about to wake up with a hangover two mornings in a row. Everyone around me begins to get slightly tipsy. I retreat into an empty corner of the bar, bitter and sober, and hope that no one will find me. It's a bleak hope. After all, Gale is bound to find me. He always does.
I'm leaning against a wall, staring into a nearly empty glass of water when he sidles up to me. His hair is disheveled, and the bottom two buttons of his shirt have come undone. He smells of cigarette smoke and lime juice, and ever so faintly of spirits. It's a subtle combination. A delicate mixture of colors and textures and scents. Beautiful, as always. Everything about him is painfully beautiful.
The jacket is slung casually over his shoulder. "I was looking for the coat rack," he says, before swinging an arm around my shoulders and draping himself across the left side of my body.
"It's not here," I whisper against the curve of his ear.
And then I cup his face in my hands, and bring his lips to mine, and pray, pray, pray he won't hate me for this in the morning.
It starts out just like the kisses we film, and Gale kisses me back automatically. The strangeness of the situation doesn't really register with him until I've worked my lips away from his mouth and halfway down his throat and I murmur his name. His name. And he finally gets it. He pulls back, startled, his gaze wide with shock. I know I've fucked up, for real this time, and I don't think I can bear his rejection without my brain short circuiting or my chest imploding or something else that results in spontaneous, ghastly death.
I'd like to close my eyes and pretend this isn't happening, but this whole situation is like a car wreck -- I just can't seem to look away.
Which is a good thing, really. Because now I'm looking at the corners of Gale's mouth lifting up into a tenuous smile. A few moments pass and he's leaning in again, and I can feel his breath against my lips, and my mouth is falling open. His tongue is slipping in to curl around mine, and tiny strangled whimpers are emerging from my lips, and finally.
Finally.
Many thanks to my lovely betas,
phangurl and queenofalostart, for helping make this readable. Also, thanks to lelenevity, for the pre-read, visbot, for listening to me bitch, and rhiannonhero for sucking me into this fandom in the first place.
