Satisfaction
By: Glittering Syn
Here be RPS smut, MR/TW. It's PWP, some humor and I will now present my usual RPS disclaimer in rhyme form:
"It's all pretend
It's all in fun
If RPS offends
You'd better run!"
Okay, it sort of rhymes. But the idea is there. And here's the fic.
Asking Michael to stay still was like asking an overactive puppy to play dead so Tom didn't bother trying, not even at the ungodly hour of five a.m., sixty minutes before make-up was set to begin, a good three hours before the first take would roll.
Instead, he curled up further into the old back lot couch, focusing his concentration on the script in hand. He was going to get this thing down cold if it killed him.
Which it might, considering the inane lines he had to memorize, but . . .
And Michael still wouldn't stop.
Tom put up with the jumping -- first on one foot, then the other -- the pacing, as well as the mumbled singing of bad disco songs until something in his brain snapped and forced his arm to reach out, almost of its own volition. The limb wrapped itself around Michael's waist and pulled him down onto Tom's knee, pinning him there with a determined hold.
"Stop it," Tom said, not looking up from the script pages, his grip tight around Michael's middle.
Michael didn't seem to mind his new perch. He settled back with disconcerting ease, resting his stubble-covered head on Tom's shoulder. "I want to go to L.A. You want to come?"
"Sure. After the schedule's done. Which will never happen unless I get this stupid thing memorized."
A decidedly wicked tongue peeked out from between Michael's lips and tickled the top of Tom's ear. "Let's go now," he whispered, between licks. "We'll call in sick."
"Uh, huh." Tom nudged him back playfully with the side of his head. "I love being hunted down by studio lawyers for breech of contract. Should we burn our SAG cards as we go?"
"Only if we use them to set fire to other things." Michael yawned and wriggled deeper into Tom's lap, the most ample part of him -- his ass -- settling right into a very sensitive area.
The most sensitive area. "What are you doing?" Tom asked shortly, his entire personal space filled with Michael, the script dropped.
"Your knee was going up my ass. It was annoying me," Michael replied. "If something has to poke me . . . ."
"You're a brat, you know that?" Tom sighed, then put both arms around Michael's waist, trying not to laugh as Michael wiggled more, then ground against him, with little breathy moans. "And you fake it with aplomb. The Academy is impressed."
"You like me!" Michael whimpered, rubbing his head against Tom's cheek like a deranged cat channeling Sally Fields. "You really like me!"
"No, I do not," Tom said, with a raspberry to Michael's neck.
This got him a hurt look. "Why not?"
"Nobody likes a cocktease," Tom replied easily.
"I like them." Michael pouted, then considered. "Up to a point."
"That's the problem. They're great, right up until . . . . " Tom shifted with a groan, his cock definitely feeling the effects of someone's teasing at that very moment. "They're not. If you know what I mean, Monsieur Cocktease."
"Are you speaking French to me?" Blue eyes wide, lashes batting. "Do it again."
"You're going to have to get off of me in about a minute," Tom winced. He was hard as a rock and it made him vaguely irate, since he knew the only relief he was going to get was from his own hand -- if history was any indicator.
Michael, damn him, was a royal cocktease.
"Did I do something wrong?" Innocent look, and Michael reached back to feel between Tom's legs, ignoring the gasped protest. A huge grin filled his face. "Hey, I did! Or is that something right?"
"It's not right unless you do something about it. Shit," Tom groaned, as Michael's fingers tickled his cock with careless abandon. "Stop that! I'm going to kill you, I swear."
Only a chuckle in reply, and oh, to regret the day he'd drunkenly told Mike about his and Jamie's "understanding" when it came to the occasional same-sex indulgences on the side. Michael had been absolutely fascinated, listening intently to Tom's admission of his bisexuality and questioned him closely about all aspects of it, from what Mike had called "soup to nuts to cock."
Tom thought he'd just been curious. But it soon became apparent that Michael was being … well, Michael.
A fun-loving little bitch, who'd found his newest and most favorite victim of them all ... Tom.
What followed were mock-kisses, lilting hugs -- even neck nibbling was fair game now. A born flirt, Michael practically wound himself around Tom like a seductive mink, only to pull back at the last minute, laughing at Tom's bemused frustration.
In front of the crew too, damn it!
Tom vacillated between wanting to punch him in the nose and wanting to throw him onto a bed and show him what he was playing with, but Michael's innate sweetness threw him off course every time.
Tom would get mad, really mad, only to be confronted with more laughter of the "just kidding" variety and another hug, this one sincere and loving.
Mike was just kidding. He was a pal, a good co-worker and an all-around nice guy, but nothing else.
What the hell was wrong with me, Tom would always end up berating himself. I should be smacked for thinking otherwise, he swore over and over again.
Until the next time it happened.
Like right at that moment.
With Michael licking -- yes, licking -- Tom's neck and those slim fingers still fondling his cock with short, teasing strokes.
Okay, this was it. As good as it felt, the joke was over. "Mike . . . " Tom warned. He pulled back and looked his friend straight in the eye. "You've got to cut the shit. I like you a lot as a person, love you as my friend, but either put out or stop it with the busy hands … and tongue. I didn't tell you I was bi with an agenda, so don't think you can play me for kicks and then walk away leaving me hanging. That's not what friends do to each other."
Michael actually had the nerve to look abashed, something that rarely, if ever, happened. Hey, score one for me, Tom thought, surprised, as Michael seemed to mull over what he'd said.
"I'm sorry," Small voice, and Michael's cheeks flushed a light shade of pink, almost all the way up to his scalp. He pulled his hand away from Tom's cock. "I was just . . . just . . ."
Tom sighed. "Flirting." He reluctantly unwound his arms from Michael's waist. "I know. You do it to everyone and everything."
"No, no!" Michael protested. "Only things . . . uh, people I want to sleep with!"
Tom rolled his eyes. He was definitely going to kick someone's skinny ass. "That eighty-year old lady in the coffee shop? You flirted with her, remember? Did you want to sleep with her? That three-hundred pound biker guy who was our substitute gofer for the day, the one whom you kept calling "hot stuff." Did you want to have sex with HIM?"
Michael blinked. "Uh . . ." He blew out a long breath. "I dunno," he shrugged, the impish laughter lurking. "Do you think they wanted to? I think he might have. Not so sure about her though."
A flare of aggravation bubbled inside Tom's veins. He was finally at the end of his rope. One quick shove and Michael was off his lap and sprawled out over the ratty old studio couch, the one everyone laughingly called "The Casting Director."
Tom pounced on Michael before he could slither away and tugged at his pants zipper, roughly pulling the jeans open. Two could play at this game, Tom thought, ready to show Michael a mean tease of his own, when he looked up . . .
And saw Michael gazing up at him through lust-lidded eyes, a tiny smile playing at the corner of his lips. His legs were spread; inviting. "I think you want to have sex with me. Do you, Tom?"
Tom's mouth went dry. He nodded dumbly. "Yeah. I do."
"Then don't let me stop you."
That same ingratiating grin, but with real affection behind it and Tom found himself hard . . . achingly hard, again. He looked down, and God, Michael was hard too, his long cock swollen and outlined through his underwear.
Tom wondered when that had happened. Maybe Michael had been as turned on as he was all those times they'd fooled around together?
The thought made his own cock twitch. He glanced around to make sure they were alone before tugging down the briefs, Michael's cock bobbing up and tapping him on the cheek.
Michael was a big boy, and Tom's mouth actually watered at the thought of sucking him off. An experimental swipe of his tongue across the shiny head, and Mike arched up into the tentative touch with a loud moan, pounding his fist into the dusty cushion.
Oh, he's a screamer, Tom thought giddily. He went to work, licking all along the length, playing across the dark veins and taut folds of velvet skin as Michael thrashed beneath him, loudly wanting more, wanting it now and please cut the teasing because he was going to lose his mind and . . .
Tom sucked him down whole and Michael shrieked. "Oh, God!"
Tom pulled off slowly, enjoying the look of horror in Michael's eyes when he let the long cock pop out from between his lips.
He ignored the frantic head shakes and pleas and curses. Instead, he deliberately pulled Michael's jeans down past his knees, yanking them right off his ankles, a pair of old tennis sneakers getting caught up in the tangle of denim before being tossed on the floor.
"Spread your legs if you want more," Tom ordered and was immediately obeyed. Strong legs parted and he admired defined muscles, the soft inner thigh skin and a dark cleft leading to a place he might want to go someday . . . but not now.
Not when other things waited. Tom pulled his shirt off, enjoying the brush of Michael's legs over his sides and back before settling in between them and taking his balls in his mouth, one after the other, tasting and playing with them, listening to Michael's moans.
There wasn't anything humorous about those noises and Tom felt a tiny surge of triumph, licking further back, behind the salty sacs to the softest skin, tasting the musky bitterness against his tongue. His own cock was demanding attention, but he ignored it, intent on getting Michael to beg some more, which he did shamelessly.
Not that Tom ever thought Michael had any shame, but . . .
It was still fun to listen to. "Uhnuh. God. Tom . . . please." Louder. Breathless. "Come on, man. You're killing me. Oh, God!"
Tom bit the inside of the warm thighs, soothing them with long licks before hauling himself up on his elbows so he could swallow down Michael's cock, this time in earnest.
Michael was moving frantically and Tom had to hold down slim hips that were arching off of the couch, stilling them in an attempt to finish him off without getting a broken nose in the process.
One, two more thrusts and . . .
He smiled around the base of the pulsing cock, swallowing fast, enjoying the salty heat that slid down his throat. Michael was gasping, his eyes huge and Tom didn't remember the last time he'd had this much fun.
Until he was hauled up by strong arms and kissed, this time for real. It was hot, sloppy and Michael licked away the few drops of come clinging to Tom's lips before reaching down between his legs, grinning wildly.
"I knew this guy," Michael whispered, pulling the zipper down . . . slowly. "His pal would always call him a cocktease." He licked his lips meaningfully, blue-gray eyes glittering and wicked. "That was until . . . ."
Warm fingers wrapped around Tom's cock. He bit his lip in anticipation. "Until?" he gasped, bucking into Michael's touch.
"Until one day he actually got a hold of his friend's cock." Another slow stroke, and Michael slid down the couch until his mouth was directly beneath Tom's cock. "And you know what he called him then?"
A wet kiss to the tip, and oh, that felt great. "No, what?"
Michael smiled evilly. "A god."
Tom's laughter was loud, but short, soon replaced by muffled groans as the teasing, thankfully, finally came to an extremely satisfying conclusion.
He didn't think he'd ever ask Michael to stay still again.
fin
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