Title: Waking Up (Beware! RPS!)
Author: Janet F. Caires-Lesgold
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Archive: Mailing list archives only--others please ask permission!
Category: Story, angst, romance
Timeframe: The fall of 2002 - sequel to "Out on the Table".
Rating: NC-17 for language and m/m sexual behavior
Summary: The next day
DISCLAIMER: This story is just for the entertainment of my online friends and myself, not for any profit. It is pure fantasy and does not intend to reflect on the actual behavior or personalities of the people named herein. Please do not sue me for my little bit of fun!
DEDICATION: For Tiff and the guys.
COPYRIGHT: (C) March 7, 2003, Janet F. Caires-Lesgold, firstname.lastname@example.org
Please don't redistribute or alter this story in any way without the express permission of the author. Thank you very much.
When you got home last night, you couldn't sleep. The insides of your eyelids kept showing you selected scenes, in excruciating detail, of your dinner at the Wellings: the half-eaten food on your plate, Jamie's injured frown, Tom's drunken leer. Yes, you told yourself--it happened. It had all been real, not some Mexican soap opera.
But then there were the flashes that left you warm rather than chilled: Jamie's blessing on your pursuit of her husband, Tom's rude suggestions and his innocent kiss, as well as his amazement when he realized that you wanted him, too. All of these images vied for your attention until you succumbed and fantasized yourself to orgasm, then slept for a few hours without dreaming.
The car comes to pick you up for work at the crack of dawn as usual whether you've slept enough or not. Your first call is for a scene with Glover, so you know you'll pick up energy from him when the cameras start rolling. He takes one look at you when you come onstage, shakes his head at the dissolute life he assumes you must lead, but says nothing aside from a friendly "Good morning" when you're within earshot. You're twenty minutes into blocking and rehearsal before you realize that Tom isn't there watching you, as he always does.
When there's a break in the schedule, you go check the call sheet--no Clark scenes until tomorrow. While you envy him having the day off to rest, you can't overlook a veneer of disappointment that falls over your mood. Most people leave you alone for the rest of the day, except for Allison, who passes you with a quizzical look over her omnipresent coffee carafe while you're waiting behind the camera for John to finish a close-up. She cocks her head to summon you along, then waits out of the way until you join her.
"Sorry about blowing you off last night--boyfriend stuff," she whispers as soon as you're in range. "So, dinner?"
"Dinner," you reply without inflection.
"Painful?" she asks.
"No," you have to admit, "not painful. Interesting."
"I'm glad I wasn't there?" she states in question form.
"It would have been a different party had you been."
Blinking like a little Allison-bird, she gives your eyes a very hard once-over. "You okay?"
Going into detail would just depress you more, so you answer, "Yeah," though you can't hold back the tired groan behind it.
"Michael!" somebody calls from the other side of the wall. "Get your ass on set, please!"
"On my way!" you call, exchanging a look with your costar, who, mindful of your respective makeup jobs, carefully kisses the pad of her middle finger and holds it out for yours, which you offer slowly but gratefully. Pressing your own finger to your lips, you smile at her as you head back to work.
In between shots, you find yourself genuinely missing Tom's presence. It would make you feel better if you could look in his eyes and see that his whole performance wasn't just due to alcoholic overindulgence. But as time passes, you start to wonder if he's not here because he's avoiding you--is he ashamed to show his face now that he's sober, and did he really mean anything he said last night? Eventually you decide that all that matters to you is that he still considers you his friend--you can forget about the proposition, the lewd posturing in front of his wife, even the private, arousing kiss if he's decided that he's changed his mind about being anything more than that. As long as he's still speaking to you, that's enough.
The next break, you bolt to a quiet area and scramble for your cellphone, stabbing the speed-dial almost by touch alone.
Jamie answers. "Oh, hello, Michael!" she greets you, adding a cheery note for your benefit.
"Hey, James--thanks again for dinner last night. Everything was very nice." You figure there's no need to go into the theatrics unless she does. "Is Tom there?"
Hesitating, she pulls her mouth away from the phone a bit. "I'm sorry--he's a bit indisposed at the moment." All you can assume is that he's still hungover and miserable, and you hurt for him automatically.
"Well, can you tell him I--"
"Wait," she interrupts you. "He told me to invite you over when you get done there. Don't let me keep you away: I'm helping with a slumber party for a friend's daughter's birthday, and will be out all night."
A grin crosses your face in spite of your mood. "Oh? Which birthday?"
You can hear her smile back over the phone. "Kasey's gonna be ten, so she's having ten friends spend the night."
"Oh, man!" you marvel, honestly envious for a moment. "That sounds like a blast! Eleven little girls running around giggling and screaming! Wish I could be there!"
She chuckles and asks, "You wanna come? We can get you your own marabou-trimmed tiara..."
"Naw, that's all right," you reply, with a trace of wistfulness in your voice. "Think I'll come over and keep your husband company in your absence, if that's all right with you."
Her warmth does not diminish at your suggestion, though she grows quiet. "That would be fine, Michael. Please come over. Tom really wants to see you. It's okay--I know you'll take good care of him."
"Thank you, Jamie. Tell him to feel better soon, and I'll be by as early as I can."
"I'll let him know. Work hard!" With that, she is gone, and you realize that you are feeling better yourself, so you go back to the soundstage to follow her instructions.
The sun is long gone from the sky when you finally emerge from the studio lot, thanks to a tedious bout of relooping. You've been keeping your stomach from growling with nibbles from the caterer's table, but you have really been waiting until you could have dinner with your date. It stuns you for a moment when you realize that you have been thinking of Tom as your "date" for the evening all day long. While it would be nice to show up with a pizza, you're not quite sure how he'll be feeling after last night's display, so you decide to order something in once you get to his house.
Soon, for the second night in a row, you're standing on the stoop of the ranch-style house and ringing the bell, but this time, there's no answer. You consider checking the garage, but then peek as best you can around the blinds in the front window. Sure enough, there flopped back on the sofa in jeans and a work shirt, his bare feet propped on a coffee table, is Tom, sound asleep.
Using the car keys in your hand, you tap sharply on the glass, rousing him at last from his impromptu nap. He takes a few seconds to assess his surroundings, then spots you outside the window and stumbles to the door to let you in.
"Mike--hey!" he welcomes you, shutting the door once you're inside and working a knuckle against his eye. "What time is it?"
"Eight-thirty," you answer, checking your watch. "So sorry I'm late! You know how the work piles up sometimes."
"That's okay. It's not a problem." He pauses for a moment, looking not quite sure what he should do next. Suddenly, he fixes you solidly with his eyes and grasps your shoulders in his hands. Without further fanfare, he bends and kisses you firmly on the lips. "Hi," he begins again, smiling sheepishly. "I'm sorry I'm not ready. I was gonna be dressed all sharp and special for you, but I guess I fell asleep."
It's your turn to say, "That's okay. It's good to see you. I don't care what you're wearing." He still hasn't let you go, and you're kind of glad he hasn't. Seizing your opportunity, you tip your head up and kiss him briefly, making a quick connection. "How are you feeling?"
This breaks his gaze a little as he looks away, then back at your eyes. "Not great. But better, now that you're here." His smile, though slightly woeful, flicks a little switch on inside your chest.
Smiling back at him, you raise a hand to stroke his cheek, which is golden despite his lingering pallor. "Have you had anything to eat? Could you eat something if I ordered food? I'm starving..."
His eyes slip closed to relish your touch as he answers, "I don't know. Like what?"
"If I get Chinese, I can get you some egg drop soup, and maybe a box of rice. Do you think you could handle that?" you ask, the fingers of your other hand resting carefully on his stomach.
"Yeah, I think so," he replies without opening his eyes at first. In a moment, though, his eyelids creep up in a slow tease that looks so much like you imagine he'll look in bed that you can chart the change in course your blood flow makes. Before you say something completely idiotic, however, you lunge up and kiss him again, letting your lips rather than your words express your thoughts.
This kiss is longer, slower, more sensuous, and you almost don't want it to end, but you're still standing at the front door in your jacket. You pull away reluctantly, offering, "Do you want me to order dinner?"
"Yeah," he sighs, his expression conveying a hunger not easily fulfilled by mere food. "Chung Tsao's menu is on the fridge door. They're pretty speedy here. Order whatever you want--maybe get me an egg roll along with the soup and rice. I didn't even get the chance to take a shower before. Let me go do that, okay?"
"Sure," you answer, waving him off to the swinging door to the back of the house as you deposit your jacket on the coat tree near the front door. A nearby wall mirror attracts your attention, so you give yourself a quick checkup. Makeup all gone for the day, five o'clock shadow everywhere, eyes tired but sparkling with possibilities--you pass inspection, so head off to find a menu and the phone.
The person taking your order promises that the delivery will be there in twenty minutes, and you check your watch again, then look around the kitchen, careful not to step in the big bowls of doggy kibble by the back door. As an afterthought, you think of beverages, determined not to rely on liquor tonight.
Almost shyly, you wander into the big bedroom where a pair of jeans and a work shirt litter the floor, along with some tighty-whities, which make you grin amusedly at the thought of Tom wearing them. The sound level of the water in the shower make it impossible for you to talk normally through the door, so you knock on it as loud as you can.
"What?" he yells from inside.
"Do you want tea?" you yell back.
"What?" He obviously can't hear you.
You find yourself closing your eyes and swallowing hard before you open the bathroom door. Much to your relief, the shower curtain is mostly opaque, so you ask again, "Should I make tea?"
He sticks his drippy head out, grinning, from behind the curtain. "Hey, why not?" he asks, watching you intently. "The kettle's on the stove." His eyes give every indication that he's trying to convince himself to invite you to join him under the warm spray, but you don't want him to say those words just yet.
"They said they'd be here about nine. I saw some teabags on the counter. Are those okay?"
A flicker of disappointment crosses his face, but he says nothing besides, "Yeah. Be out in a couple minutes." He ducks back inside the curtain and continues splashing in the water.
You hesitate a second, but proceed back to the kitchen in pursuit of tea. One of the dogs is waiting for you when you return to the room and put on the kettle, so you amuse yourself with ear-ruffling and doggy talk until the doorbell rings.
The delivery guy looks at you like he thinks he ought to recognize you, but you don't encourage him. On the surface, there's nothing gossip-worthy about your presence at the Wellings' house, but you aren't really sure what your comfort level is with this whole situation just yet. It shouldn't be any big deal. You've been here before. You've even been here before all alone with Tom. You've just never been here before intending to spend the night in his bed.
The bedroom door opens again as you're taking little boxes out of the restaurant bag. Tom has blow-dried his hair when he appears in the kitchen, though he hasn't bothered to get dressed, instead wrapping himself in a royal blue bathrobe. "Damn," you mutter, "they forgot chopsticks."
"Hang on," he interjects, turning to dig through a silverware drawer, allowing you to see the back of his robe.
"Who gave you that robe?"
He turns from the drawer with two pairs of chopsticks in his hand and the world's hugest grin on his face. "Jamie, a couple of Christmases ago."
"You're kidding." There, between his shoulderblades, is a very familiar logo in red and yellow. "You mean to tell me that you owned a Superman robe before you ever got cast as Clark Kent?"
"Yup," he snickers. "Who was I to argue with her?"
That's it. Whatever tension was left in the room dissolves as you crack up into goofy laughter with your best friend over his sartorial appropriateness.
Both of you are a little out of breath when the moment dies down at last, and you stand there shaking your head at the man, still chuckling at his simultaneously amused and embarrassed expression. His cheeks flushed with humor, he finally opens his arms to you. "Come here," he summons softly with a sweet wrinkle of his nose.
Putting down the tub of soup, you walk to him and fall into his embrace. No matter what else may happen here tonight, you take the most comfort from being held tightly against his warm-from-the-shower body, his hands petting your back up and down to soothe any fears you might still have. You rest your cheek against his shoulder and murmur "I love you, Tom" to his closest ear.
"I'm glad," he replies, quietly but genuinely. "I wasn't sure you'd still feel that way after last night, but I'm thrilled that you do. I love you, too."
You're enjoying the view so much that you don't even want to kiss him right this minute. Unfortunately, parts of you are too impatient to let you take pleasure in this moment for long, and your stomach growls loudly.
This provokes another round of giggling and makes you say, "Oh, yeah. Food first."
"Food first and fuck later?" Tom asks, his gaze still full of love and laughter.
"You bet," you answer, going back to the bag of Chinese goodies.
Watching Tom sample his soup like it might bite back, you eat chow mein greedily, slurping up the soft noodles from your chopsticks without much regard to table manners. He asks you about the day's filming and snorts appreciatively at your spot-on imitation of Glover's impatient sotto voce growl when the lighting guys ruined three takes in a row. You pass along Allison's regrets at missing dinner half-heartedly, too, as you know you wouldn't be sitting here now, thinking the naughty thoughts that have never quite left the corners of your mind, had she come along.
Eventually, little remains of the food but greasy boxes and a puddle of duck sauce on Tom's plate. "How's that sitting for you?" you ask intimately, noting that he's emptied out all the containers you got him.
"Staying put, thank god," he smiles, reaching for one of the wrapped fortune cookies. "So, what have you got?" he asks, tipping his head toward the tiny strip of paper in your hand.
"'Many opportunities will now be open to you'," you read aloud.
"...in bed," he adds, playing the old game with his eyes intently on yours. "I like that one."
"How about you?"
"'A new friendship will bring you happiness'... in bed!" His grin has taken on a generous supply of heat, especially as he notes that you've recited the last two words along with him. "You think that's a hint?"
"More like a command," you answer with a wicked grin of your own. Tossing the trash into the covered garbage can so the dogs don't get into it, you neaten up the table, then stand up tall and suggest, "Shall we?"
"I'd be honored," he replies with just a little quiver in his voice.
He holds the doors for you as you move into the master bedroom from the kitchen, the fingertips of one hand grazing your nearest hip every step of the way. Once the bedroom door is closed behind you, you note the open bathroom door and excuse yourself briefly to make a pit stop. Unfortunately, it's tricky to pee, because you're already starting to get hard. Silently, you give yourself a little pep talk, swallowing down any lingering nervousness while reassuring yourself that Tom wants you to be here just as much as you want the same thing.
Finally, you flush and wash your hands, then take a deep breath and step back into the bedroom. Your best friend waits patiently for you on the edge of the turned-down bed, and stands when he sees you.
"Hey," you say softly, and he says the same in reply. His hands rise to cup your head tenderly, his fingers stroking the soft places just behind your ears as he moves your face closer to kiss you. The breath over your lips is warm and inviting, and you open your mouth to allow more of it inside. Shyly, his tongue brushes yours, so yours presses back to encourage it to explore further.
After the long, slow dance of your tongues, he pulls back, still holding your face securely in this hands and capturing your eyes securely with his own. "Are you sure, Michael? Is this what you want?" he asks in a deep, throaty voice.
With the smallest of nods, you gasp just a little from his kiss and answer with a single word: "Please."
His eyes shine with arousal and delight as he draws you in and places one more kiss on your lips, then moves his hands to the buttons of your shirt. You find your own eyes slipping closed while his fingers steal between the gaps in the fabric and slide against your skin as more and more of it is exposed to the air. Quick motions at your wrists, and the shirt comes off of your body, leaving your nipples uncovered to peak and harden in the suddenly-cool room. His lips reappear against your chest, placing soft kisses on each tan bud and opening to swirl his tongue around them and through the hair that has finally grown back.
You feel yourself pushed back inch by inch until the backs of your knees bump the edge of the mattress. A flurry of fingers unbuckles your belt, then lowers your zipper tooth by cautious tooth. Soon your pants are pushed down, and you lift your feet one by one to allow him to yank off your shoes and socks before you are left naked but for your boxers. Another kiss engages your mouth, whereupon you are guided to sit on the bed and scoot back to lean against the pillows.
Tom stands back for a moment, just looking at you, as you note when you open your eyes and return his searing gaze. "God damn it, you are so hot," he sighs sexily, making you wish you'd thought to say it first. An impish twinkle lights his eyes as he grins, reaching for the tie of his robe. "Do you wanna see me?" he offers, teasing like a little boy, which makes your pulse throb in your cock.
"Yeah--show me what you've got," you purr, your gaze shifting from his open face to his big hands as they grasp the ends of the bow at his waist.
You've seen his chest before, but you can't resist a quick though appreciative visual exam before he drops the robe completely. Suddenly, all of your attention is drawn to the black curls between his legs and the curve of his cock rising from them. It is dark with blood, ridged with barely-visible veins, and capped with a perfect head almost exactly resembling an inverted velvety rose blossom. You want to say something profound or dirty, but your mouth hangs open stupidly letting your tongue dry out so that you cannot speak at all.
Immediately, his hand clutches at his shaft, stroking just a little as he watches your face. "Michael," he says hoarsely, "have you ever had a man inside you?"
"A couple," you answer truthfully. "I've never wanted anyone as much as I want you, though." As fast as you can, you raise your hips off the bed and yank your boxers off, dropping them over the edge to join the rest of your clothes. "Touch me--I need to feel you..." you groan, sliding down to lie flat on the mattress.
His gentle smile warms you differently than the thought of his hands on you heats your blood. Your cock bobs eagerly above your body until he lies down beside you and stills its motion with his right hand. Pumping you slowly, he watches the progress of your flesh through the ring of his fingers and thumb. With a blink, he glances up at your face again and asks, "Can I take you in my mouth?"
Losing the facility for words altogether, you nod furiously, your eyes slamming shut once you see his elated grin an instant before he lunges for your crotch. Satiny lips press against the tip of your penis, then part and slide down with nearly-agonizing slowness. The same tongue that had felt so comfortable in your mouth now tastes its way along your organ, learning the territory as if to memorize it for a return trip.
Wordless moans rise from your throat as he swallows you down and rolls your balls delicately in his fingers. Somewhere in the back of Tom's throat, he starts to hum softly, and the vibrations reverberate through your belly. The sensation is so intense, you almost lose all control, but promise yourself that you will not cry, no matter how good it feels.
To prove to yourself that this is really happening, you force your eyes open to look down at the dark head working in your lap. His eyes, however, are closed in rapture, his perfect lips curling around you with a dreamy smile. Finally, he applies a long, thorough suck to your hard cock, running a finger down your perineum and around your hole, and you are a goner. Creamy strands pour out of you into his mouth, and you let out a raw sob in spite of yourself. Drinking your essence, he licks you clean, all the while petting your chest to quiet your pounding heart.
When he is finished, he raises his eyes to regard you brightly. You reach out for him and he is at once in your arms, caressing your head and kissing every inch of your face he can reach. "I love you," he murmurs between touches of his scalding-hot lips. "Want you... need you..." he nearly babbles in a rhythm matching his fondling hands. "Want you now, please. Let me fuck you," he begs desperately.
"Yesssss," you hiss once you have caught your breath. Your hand reaches between your bodies to find his cock, which is smooth and hard and leaking hot pre-come. "I'm ready for you, sweetness."
With a wink, he darts to a side table to grab a condom and some unscented lotion. The plastic packet puts up a bit of a fight, but he is soon sheathed and lubricated with the hand cream. "This stuff is nice when I'm all by myself, but it's gonna feel even better when I do this." He punctuates his words with a jab of a slick finger inside your puckered opening, and you tense around his digit reflexively. "Come on, Michael," he croons in your ear as he works his way into you, "relax for me. Let me in."
The muscles of your thighs tremble as he opens you up, making it obvious that it's been a long time since anyone has made love to you like this. "God, Tom," you grunt helplessly, "make me yours--make it hurt if you have to..."
Raising up on the elbow of his free arm, he scowls darkly. "Never," he growls. "I never want to hurt you." One more stretch, and he's satisfied that you're loose enough for him, so his fingers vanish to be replaced by the blunt head of his penis. "See?" he murmurs with a long, slow thrust of his hips which ends with his balls touching your backside and your passage filled completely with his slippery heat.
Time and motion stop for a moment when neither of you dare to breathe, whereupon you mouth the words "Fuck me" soundlessly as he watches your face intensely.
Out he slides, then back in, rolling his pelvis to add a flourish to his stroke inside your body. His hand is still moist as it once again grasps your cock, which got hard almost without going soft in between. Deeper he pushes in, and harder he pulls at your dick, monopolizing your senses and making you unable to decide if you should close your eyes to let the feeling overwhelm you, or to open them and watch his beautiful features damp with sweat and straining with the effort of seeking his release.
Eyes open wins out, and you feel him speed up his thrusts when he catches your eye and grins raggedly at you. Knowing he is very close, you say, just loud enough for him to hear you over his guttural noises, "Come for me, Tom. Come inside me." He throws back his head, grimacing with exertion, and fulfills your demand to the letter. Warmth floods your gut, and you come again, spilling your seed weakly over his hand and your stomach.
"Oh, god," he moans at last, letting his head droop onto your shoulder in exhaustion. "That was so good..."
"Yeah," you breathe with a satiated sigh. "Why did we wait so long to do that?"
"Because we're stupid?" he answers with a chuckle.
"I love you, stupid," you declare, kissing him sweetly. "Let's get cleaned up."
"Don't wanna move," he groans.
"If we clean up this mess fast, we can get to sleep, then wake up in the morning in time to do this again before we have to get to work."
"Doesn't the car pick you up at home at 3:30? I don't know about you, but I could just use some sleep."
"You have a point," you yawn, almost unintentionally. "I want to sleep here with you tonight, anyway. Is that okay with you?"
"I'd like that a lot," he says, watching your eyes with what could be longing if it didn't have the tinge of deep satisfaction running over it. "But you want to get together and do this again soon?"
He smiles at that almost shyly, then gradually begins to rise from his collapsed position. A serious expression clouds his eyes for a moment, and he leans up to kiss you once again. "I love you, Michael," he says sincerely. "Do you forgive me for embarrassing you last night?"
"I think I have to," you reply with a warm smile. "We wouldn't be here if you hadn't. Thank you for everything."
"You're welcome," he smiles back. "Thank you, too. Which side do you sleep on?"
Just as you realize it's the truth, you answer, "It doesn't matter as long as I wake up next to you."
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