Fast Show RPS
Feb. 6th, 2010 02:13 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
nicodeimus.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
rareslashtitle: With My Reputation?
author: Demus
rating: NC-17, for language and explicit sex
fandom: The Fast Show/RPS
pairing: Paul Whitehouse/Charlie Higson
summary: They only ever share brief, snatched moments in dressing rooms and trailers, but here is Paul, in his bedroom n the middle of the night; what the hell does that mean?
Disclaimer: Nothing depicted here is true
“Me? The thirteenth Duke of Wybourne, here? Left alone, here, in the bedroom of one of Britain’s finest comedians, at three o’clock in the morning? With my reputation?”
Charlie groaned and threw a pillow in the direction of the voice. “Paul,” he whined, “Please tell me you’re not wearing that damned moustache? Make-up’ll go spare!”
“I’ve got the cigars as well,” the Leslie Phillips-inspired voice said, over the distinctive rustle of foil and the pop of a pressurized cork. “And would I forget to bring the appropriate lubrication? Ladies are so very fond of champagne.”
The Duke’s smooth purr slid over Charlie with suggestive ease, tickling down his body as surely as the fingers that began to trace a slow pattern on his bare neck, fingers that pulled the sheets with them as they stroked down the writer’s back. Charlie hissed his displeasure; Paul’s touch was icy from the champagne bottle, exposing him to the chill of the room, and he rolled onto his side to bat the hand sleepily away. “You’ve gone soft in the head if you think I’m a lady,” he grumbled, peering up into the gloom; the only source of light was the dim orange glow from the street light outside, filtering through a gap in the curtains, but Paul’s silhouette was unmistakable.
The soft whisper of a drink being poured was his answer, that and the firm hand that guided his fingers to grip the thin curve of a cup handle. “Soft in the ‘eart, more like,” came the reply, this time in Paul’s natural tones. “Get that down you, I had to sneak it out under me coat.”
Resigning himself to the fact that his co-worker and flatmate was unlikely to let him go back to sleep, Charlie sat up, drawing the covers with him single-handed, and took a generous gulp of the liquid. “It’s warm,” he complained, swallowing the fizz with a little difficulty. “And it’s not bloody champers, you tit, it’s cava.”
Paul shrugged. “Same difference; it gets you pissed in half a second, that’s all that matters.”
“Maybe if you didn’t serve it in mugs-“
“Now, what would be the fun in that, ey? Drink up, you’ve got half the bottle to get through.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow at his friend, watched the false moustache twitch as Paul grinned, and took a second obedient gulp. “And why are you trying to get me pissed at three o’clock in the morning, dressed as the 13th Duke of Wybourne?”
Slim fingers, cocked at an oddly-sensual angle around both the cigar and the balloon glass that Paul had no doubt lifted from the set, caught Charlie’s attention as they lifted the glass to his co-writer’s lips. “Simplicity itself, dear boy,” drawled the Duke. “You’re so much easier when you’re drunk.”
“Charming,” Charlie grunted, but he knocked his drink back nevertheless, warm fizziness sparkling in his stomach, trembling woozily into his brain, and held out the cup for more.
Clinksplashgurgle.
Paul’s eyes were dark in the secondhand light, inscrutable, but they burned on Charlie’s skin as he drank. “I don’t know why you do all this,” he said, to fill the intense, interested silence. “It’s always costumes and booze and surprising me in trailers; you could just ask.”
“’m not a poof,” his friend answered, puffing on the cigar to cover- whatever emotion had twisted his lips. “You’re not one, neither. Vicky’s a lovely girl.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “She’s also in Scotland for three weeks,” he said, pointedly, sweet cava cloying on his tongue, sticking suddenly in his throat. “And here you are. How’s Fiona?”
“I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Oh no? But you’re quite happy to leave her in the middle of the night to drug and bugger your mate-“
“Did I mention buggery? Freudian slip, old thing, I merely suggested a seduction.”
Charlie scowled, swallowed, held out the mug again. “Stop doing the voice, it’s creepy,” he complained.
The 13th Duke of Wybourne cocked his lips in a smirk, sipped from his glass, idly fiddled with the ends of his bow tie. “That didn’t bother you last time.”
“Last time we’d locked ourselves in the production office and only had fifteen minutes before Geoff came to get us, I wasn’t paying attention to the minute details.”
The bed dipped beneath Paul’s weight as he sat, resting his weight on an arm, his hand next to Charlie’s hip. “You might not have been,” he breathed, leaning in close, “but a certain special something in your underpants definitely was.” The man leaned in as he spoke, head tilted, eyes watchful.
It wasn’t often that they took the time to kiss. They had sex in trailers and offices and, on one particularly memorable occasion, a haystack, settings deliberately contrived to remove the messy, awkward intimacies, to negate any possibility of time to spare, time to share, time to really look at each other…But here was Paul, in his house, in his bedroom, studying him in light that was far too dim for any sort of contemplation; would the moment shatter if he turned on the lamp? Would his friend blink and shrug and laugh off the whole thing?
Lips halted Charlie’s thoughts, lips and the press of another body. Paul had somehow contrived to set his props aside and, as his tongue made its first tentative overtures, he moved to straddle Charlie’s waist, all bones and sinew, warm and heavy through the blankets. The false moustache tickled against Charlie’s upper lip, made him squirm, but Paul’s weight sinking down into his lap stilled his protests; a man’s tongue in his mouth, a man’s hands drawing the sheets away from his chest, another man’s cock nestling against his stomach; Charlie shifted his hips, felt Paul’s hitch of breath, smirked through the kiss.
Unhurried like this, able to properly taste for the first time, Charlie found himself regretting the head-spinning sickliness of the alcohol- God, head-spinning already, Paul knew him too well, he couldn’t cope with cava, he just couldn’t, and with oxygen-deprivation on top of that- Paul explored his mouth with leisurely ease, enticing his tongue into a sensual, coiling game of tag. He was a skilled, obliging kisser, with a skill that was to be expected of a man possessing so many different voices. Charlie had kissed his fair share of men (being a musician in the eighties introduced him to a whole new scene beyond even the liberal world of university) and not one matched his friend for oral dexterity.
The need to touch, to hold, drove Charlie to lift nerveless hands, place them on Paul’s suited arms, grasp; the actor hummed his approval, slowed his ministrations and, with a final, lingering twist of his tongue, pulled back to grin. Charlie, a little breathless, matched the smile with one of his own and felt the cava-buzz (or was it desire?) tingle on his lips. “You did that like someone who knew what they were doing,” he teased, impishly.
Paul’s reply was a second clash of mouths, swift with violence, harsh, demanding; Charlie answered the demand with supplication, as he always did, grunted at the rough touch of questing hands that bared him once again the room’s chill. Paul’s hips began to move in tiny, rhythmic circles, slight movement that Charlie couldn’t help but answer. The blankets were too rough on his skin for this to continue overlong, however, and he writhed beneath his friend, tugging pointedly at his lapels until Paul eventually acknowledged his wish and backed off, just enough for Charlie to cast off the bedsheets and rise up onto his knees in one movement.
The two men met once more, both upright this time, balanced on their knees, arms reaching around each other, perverse grind of pelvises, breath tangling, mouths entangled, Charlie’s hair on Paul’s brow, Charlie’s hands fumbling at Paul’s clothes. The taller man struggled clumsily with the zip, a producer’s siren blaring in his head ‘please don’t damage the costume, please don’t damage the costume’ even as Paul tilted his head, there, to that perfect, fleeting angle, click, and they should never have denied themselves this, this wonderful urgent intimacy.
“I think,” Paul huffed, suddenly, mid-clinch, lips catching on Charlie’s as the latter reached for his boxers, “that it shall be a trousers-up sort of affair, dear boy.”
Charlie blinked stupidly up at him; and he didn’t comprehend the man’s meaning for a moment, then as realization struck Paul smirked, kissed his outraged gape and wrapped a sure, slick hand around his cock.
‘Where in the name of all hell did he get lube?’ Charlie mused, abstractly, even as he moaned and spread his legs with a whore’s instinct. Paul took immediate advantage of his muddled state, hurriedly scrambling behind him to push him down onto his hands, all the while keeping up a casual, unhurried stroking, and he laid himself over Charlie’s body. Pressing close, overwhelming presence, the slide of his cock between Charlie’s legs, all jolted in the latter’s veins, caused him to arch his back and gasp, and the hand on his dick squeezed tighter, pumped faster in momentary reward.
Paul had to strain a little to fasten his mouth to Charlie’s neck (he felt the tension in those whipcord thighs pressed oh-so-close to his), but once there, he latched on to the curve where neck became shoulder and sucked hard. Charlie moaned, sharp teeth combined with heavy body and skilled hand, damnit, the bastard still had all of his clothes on and had Charlie writhing about under him like a Catholic schoolgirl. It was downright embarrassing.
“Paul-“
“Ah, ah, ah!” came the admonishment, accompanied by a slowing of that talented hand, frustration enough to force a wild buck from Charlie’s hips. “The correct form of address is ‘My Lord’.”
Charlie couldn’t believe his ears. “Oh, you’re insane,” he groaned, tossing his head back, hair flying back from his sweat-sticky forehead. “You’re insane, and I’m- ah!- even more insane to- uh!- to put with you.”
Paul chuckled, low and rumbling against his back. “’Up’ being the word,” he joked, with a pointed squeeze of Charlie’s eager cock. “How d’you want it?”
“Milk, no sugar.”
For that the hand slowed, nearly stopped, drawing a surprised yelp, then sped up, effortlessly melting any synapses attempting clear thought. “How d’you want it?” Paul repeated, the evidence of his own arousal pulsing between Charlie’s thighs.
“You’re a bastard,” Charlie choked out, shuddering as long fingers curled a little tighter, began to twist with every pump. The fuzziness coating his brain rippled with the ever-thickening fog of lust, and he found that he was pushing back into the firm body against his with every move of Paul’s hand. “Anything, I don’t care!”
“Tart,” Paul breathed, fondly, and lightly smacked his thigh with the air of a huntsman greeting his horse. “You make a cracking filly.”
“I hate you,” Charlie grumbled, tossing back his head to eye his co-star, balefully.
“Doesn’t feel like you hate me,” his co-star purred, with the Duke’s tongue. “Now be a good boy, or you shan’t get your special treat.”
Charlie huffed. “You need to be sectio-oh God, don’t stop.”
“Your wish is my command.”
Buggery, like kissing, was something they rarely had time to appreciate. It was usually rushed handjobs, desperate blowjobs, wild frotting, flesh on flesh and dirty, filthy, swift gratification, but nothing akin to the feeling of being opened by another man’s fingers, of being spread wide and claimed, cold slither of lube and eager push of searching fingers…Charlie moved restlessly, uncomfortably; sure, he’d had more than his fair share of homosexual trysts, but he didn’t often spread his legs like this, didn’t like being vulnerable, so unprotected, and so blind, on all fours like a bitch waiting to receive.
It was Paul’s voice, in the end, that began his undoing. Whispered reassurances, thin hands on his hips, the first, agonising push…and Paul’s voice, right next to him, hot caress of breath soft on his cheek, unlike the hard, insistent, relentless pressure that filled him, slow as falling in love, slow as snowfall, slow as an ITV audience, and he wasn’t a poof, but Lord there was noting like this…
Neither of them lasted long, in the end. They came in almost-silence, both of them Charlie first and Paul a fervent second, collapsing into a tangled heap on the blankets, somehow hopelessly entwined, somehow curling up close.
They never had sex like this. Never. Not ever.
Charlie wondered if they ever would again.
author: Demus
rating: NC-17, for language and explicit sex
fandom: The Fast Show/RPS
pairing: Paul Whitehouse/Charlie Higson
summary: They only ever share brief, snatched moments in dressing rooms and trailers, but here is Paul, in his bedroom n the middle of the night; what the hell does that mean?
Disclaimer: Nothing depicted here is true
“Me? The thirteenth Duke of Wybourne, here? Left alone, here, in the bedroom of one of Britain’s finest comedians, at three o’clock in the morning? With my reputation?”
Charlie groaned and threw a pillow in the direction of the voice. “Paul,” he whined, “Please tell me you’re not wearing that damned moustache? Make-up’ll go spare!”
“I’ve got the cigars as well,” the Leslie Phillips-inspired voice said, over the distinctive rustle of foil and the pop of a pressurized cork. “And would I forget to bring the appropriate lubrication? Ladies are so very fond of champagne.”
The Duke’s smooth purr slid over Charlie with suggestive ease, tickling down his body as surely as the fingers that began to trace a slow pattern on his bare neck, fingers that pulled the sheets with them as they stroked down the writer’s back. Charlie hissed his displeasure; Paul’s touch was icy from the champagne bottle, exposing him to the chill of the room, and he rolled onto his side to bat the hand sleepily away. “You’ve gone soft in the head if you think I’m a lady,” he grumbled, peering up into the gloom; the only source of light was the dim orange glow from the street light outside, filtering through a gap in the curtains, but Paul’s silhouette was unmistakable.
The soft whisper of a drink being poured was his answer, that and the firm hand that guided his fingers to grip the thin curve of a cup handle. “Soft in the ‘eart, more like,” came the reply, this time in Paul’s natural tones. “Get that down you, I had to sneak it out under me coat.”
Resigning himself to the fact that his co-worker and flatmate was unlikely to let him go back to sleep, Charlie sat up, drawing the covers with him single-handed, and took a generous gulp of the liquid. “It’s warm,” he complained, swallowing the fizz with a little difficulty. “And it’s not bloody champers, you tit, it’s cava.”
Paul shrugged. “Same difference; it gets you pissed in half a second, that’s all that matters.”
“Maybe if you didn’t serve it in mugs-“
“Now, what would be the fun in that, ey? Drink up, you’ve got half the bottle to get through.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow at his friend, watched the false moustache twitch as Paul grinned, and took a second obedient gulp. “And why are you trying to get me pissed at three o’clock in the morning, dressed as the 13th Duke of Wybourne?”
Slim fingers, cocked at an oddly-sensual angle around both the cigar and the balloon glass that Paul had no doubt lifted from the set, caught Charlie’s attention as they lifted the glass to his co-writer’s lips. “Simplicity itself, dear boy,” drawled the Duke. “You’re so much easier when you’re drunk.”
“Charming,” Charlie grunted, but he knocked his drink back nevertheless, warm fizziness sparkling in his stomach, trembling woozily into his brain, and held out the cup for more.
Clinksplashgurgle.
Paul’s eyes were dark in the secondhand light, inscrutable, but they burned on Charlie’s skin as he drank. “I don’t know why you do all this,” he said, to fill the intense, interested silence. “It’s always costumes and booze and surprising me in trailers; you could just ask.”
“’m not a poof,” his friend answered, puffing on the cigar to cover- whatever emotion had twisted his lips. “You’re not one, neither. Vicky’s a lovely girl.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “She’s also in Scotland for three weeks,” he said, pointedly, sweet cava cloying on his tongue, sticking suddenly in his throat. “And here you are. How’s Fiona?”
“I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Oh no? But you’re quite happy to leave her in the middle of the night to drug and bugger your mate-“
“Did I mention buggery? Freudian slip, old thing, I merely suggested a seduction.”
Charlie scowled, swallowed, held out the mug again. “Stop doing the voice, it’s creepy,” he complained.
The 13th Duke of Wybourne cocked his lips in a smirk, sipped from his glass, idly fiddled with the ends of his bow tie. “That didn’t bother you last time.”
“Last time we’d locked ourselves in the production office and only had fifteen minutes before Geoff came to get us, I wasn’t paying attention to the minute details.”
The bed dipped beneath Paul’s weight as he sat, resting his weight on an arm, his hand next to Charlie’s hip. “You might not have been,” he breathed, leaning in close, “but a certain special something in your underpants definitely was.” The man leaned in as he spoke, head tilted, eyes watchful.
It wasn’t often that they took the time to kiss. They had sex in trailers and offices and, on one particularly memorable occasion, a haystack, settings deliberately contrived to remove the messy, awkward intimacies, to negate any possibility of time to spare, time to share, time to really look at each other…But here was Paul, in his house, in his bedroom, studying him in light that was far too dim for any sort of contemplation; would the moment shatter if he turned on the lamp? Would his friend blink and shrug and laugh off the whole thing?
Lips halted Charlie’s thoughts, lips and the press of another body. Paul had somehow contrived to set his props aside and, as his tongue made its first tentative overtures, he moved to straddle Charlie’s waist, all bones and sinew, warm and heavy through the blankets. The false moustache tickled against Charlie’s upper lip, made him squirm, but Paul’s weight sinking down into his lap stilled his protests; a man’s tongue in his mouth, a man’s hands drawing the sheets away from his chest, another man’s cock nestling against his stomach; Charlie shifted his hips, felt Paul’s hitch of breath, smirked through the kiss.
Unhurried like this, able to properly taste for the first time, Charlie found himself regretting the head-spinning sickliness of the alcohol- God, head-spinning already, Paul knew him too well, he couldn’t cope with cava, he just couldn’t, and with oxygen-deprivation on top of that- Paul explored his mouth with leisurely ease, enticing his tongue into a sensual, coiling game of tag. He was a skilled, obliging kisser, with a skill that was to be expected of a man possessing so many different voices. Charlie had kissed his fair share of men (being a musician in the eighties introduced him to a whole new scene beyond even the liberal world of university) and not one matched his friend for oral dexterity.
The need to touch, to hold, drove Charlie to lift nerveless hands, place them on Paul’s suited arms, grasp; the actor hummed his approval, slowed his ministrations and, with a final, lingering twist of his tongue, pulled back to grin. Charlie, a little breathless, matched the smile with one of his own and felt the cava-buzz (or was it desire?) tingle on his lips. “You did that like someone who knew what they were doing,” he teased, impishly.
Paul’s reply was a second clash of mouths, swift with violence, harsh, demanding; Charlie answered the demand with supplication, as he always did, grunted at the rough touch of questing hands that bared him once again the room’s chill. Paul’s hips began to move in tiny, rhythmic circles, slight movement that Charlie couldn’t help but answer. The blankets were too rough on his skin for this to continue overlong, however, and he writhed beneath his friend, tugging pointedly at his lapels until Paul eventually acknowledged his wish and backed off, just enough for Charlie to cast off the bedsheets and rise up onto his knees in one movement.
The two men met once more, both upright this time, balanced on their knees, arms reaching around each other, perverse grind of pelvises, breath tangling, mouths entangled, Charlie’s hair on Paul’s brow, Charlie’s hands fumbling at Paul’s clothes. The taller man struggled clumsily with the zip, a producer’s siren blaring in his head ‘please don’t damage the costume, please don’t damage the costume’ even as Paul tilted his head, there, to that perfect, fleeting angle, click, and they should never have denied themselves this, this wonderful urgent intimacy.
“I think,” Paul huffed, suddenly, mid-clinch, lips catching on Charlie’s as the latter reached for his boxers, “that it shall be a trousers-up sort of affair, dear boy.”
Charlie blinked stupidly up at him; and he didn’t comprehend the man’s meaning for a moment, then as realization struck Paul smirked, kissed his outraged gape and wrapped a sure, slick hand around his cock.
‘Where in the name of all hell did he get lube?’ Charlie mused, abstractly, even as he moaned and spread his legs with a whore’s instinct. Paul took immediate advantage of his muddled state, hurriedly scrambling behind him to push him down onto his hands, all the while keeping up a casual, unhurried stroking, and he laid himself over Charlie’s body. Pressing close, overwhelming presence, the slide of his cock between Charlie’s legs, all jolted in the latter’s veins, caused him to arch his back and gasp, and the hand on his dick squeezed tighter, pumped faster in momentary reward.
Paul had to strain a little to fasten his mouth to Charlie’s neck (he felt the tension in those whipcord thighs pressed oh-so-close to his), but once there, he latched on to the curve where neck became shoulder and sucked hard. Charlie moaned, sharp teeth combined with heavy body and skilled hand, damnit, the bastard still had all of his clothes on and had Charlie writhing about under him like a Catholic schoolgirl. It was downright embarrassing.
“Paul-“
“Ah, ah, ah!” came the admonishment, accompanied by a slowing of that talented hand, frustration enough to force a wild buck from Charlie’s hips. “The correct form of address is ‘My Lord’.”
Charlie couldn’t believe his ears. “Oh, you’re insane,” he groaned, tossing his head back, hair flying back from his sweat-sticky forehead. “You’re insane, and I’m- ah!- even more insane to- uh!- to put with you.”
Paul chuckled, low and rumbling against his back. “’Up’ being the word,” he joked, with a pointed squeeze of Charlie’s eager cock. “How d’you want it?”
“Milk, no sugar.”
For that the hand slowed, nearly stopped, drawing a surprised yelp, then sped up, effortlessly melting any synapses attempting clear thought. “How d’you want it?” Paul repeated, the evidence of his own arousal pulsing between Charlie’s thighs.
“You’re a bastard,” Charlie choked out, shuddering as long fingers curled a little tighter, began to twist with every pump. The fuzziness coating his brain rippled with the ever-thickening fog of lust, and he found that he was pushing back into the firm body against his with every move of Paul’s hand. “Anything, I don’t care!”
“Tart,” Paul breathed, fondly, and lightly smacked his thigh with the air of a huntsman greeting his horse. “You make a cracking filly.”
“I hate you,” Charlie grumbled, tossing back his head to eye his co-star, balefully.
“Doesn’t feel like you hate me,” his co-star purred, with the Duke’s tongue. “Now be a good boy, or you shan’t get your special treat.”
Charlie huffed. “You need to be sectio-oh God, don’t stop.”
“Your wish is my command.”
Buggery, like kissing, was something they rarely had time to appreciate. It was usually rushed handjobs, desperate blowjobs, wild frotting, flesh on flesh and dirty, filthy, swift gratification, but nothing akin to the feeling of being opened by another man’s fingers, of being spread wide and claimed, cold slither of lube and eager push of searching fingers…Charlie moved restlessly, uncomfortably; sure, he’d had more than his fair share of homosexual trysts, but he didn’t often spread his legs like this, didn’t like being vulnerable, so unprotected, and so blind, on all fours like a bitch waiting to receive.
It was Paul’s voice, in the end, that began his undoing. Whispered reassurances, thin hands on his hips, the first, agonising push…and Paul’s voice, right next to him, hot caress of breath soft on his cheek, unlike the hard, insistent, relentless pressure that filled him, slow as falling in love, slow as snowfall, slow as an ITV audience, and he wasn’t a poof, but Lord there was noting like this…
Neither of them lasted long, in the end. They came in almost-silence, both of them Charlie first and Paul a fervent second, collapsing into a tangled heap on the blankets, somehow hopelessly entwined, somehow curling up close.
They never had sex like this. Never. Not ever.
Charlie wondered if they ever would again.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 10:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 10:48 pm (UTC)Must be just you and me interested in these two having sex, huh? *grin* Thanks for the feedback, I appreciate it!
no subject
Date: 2011-04-04 11:36 pm (UTC)