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The knock is a surprise. They're always coming after him for something, even after they've finished for the night, but they almost always call first, and he can't figure out who'd be knocking like this without calling his name and making excuses even before he's opened the door which he does without looking through the peephole to see who it is.
It's Paul, which is a bigger surprise. Despite all the joking around on the set and with the cast, afterward, drinks with everyone and dancing, bumping into one another on the crowded dance floor, in a wild group, they haven't even talked about getting together after shooting. And despite all the laughing and joking around, Paul has been just this side of too respectful, as if perhaps he wouldn't dare, while Russell...well, Russell hasn't dared either, but for what he suspects are entirely different reasons.
"Hi," Paul says, and holds up a six-pack, and Russell moves aside to wave him in. In the morning he'll find the beer untouched on the table where Paul sets it down now. He moves across the room, somehow awkward and graceful at the same time -- big, almost too tall for the doorway, with legs that eat up space as he steps. Without asking he takes off his jacket and steps through to the bedroom to toss it on the bed before turning back to Russell.
"You," he says, leaning in the arch between the living and sleeping area, "are an almighty cock-tease."
The statement is so astonishing that Russell laughs. Nobody talks to him like this, not even his old friends anymore. Paul can be so astonishingly dry in his humor, so damnably British, that the words might mean their precise opposite, and his expression is difficult to read; shoulder slouched casually against the arch, head tilted slightly, self-mocking, yet his eyes are very, very dark, and his legs positioned in such a way that Russell has the sudden impression that he's trying to hide the swelling in his jeans.
"What makes you say that?" Russell asks, feigning offense -- if he were truly offended, Paul's collar would be under his hands by now, and doesn't his own dick wake up at that image -- and, at the slow smile that's the only reply Paul offers, shrugging and grinning back: "It's not that I'm teasing, mate. I just can't help being charming."
So Paul has noticed. Russell isn't surprised; his flirting hasn't been at all subtle, though it has been under guise of being in character much of the time. What's surprising is that Paul would say anything, and it's quite shocking, really, that he'd come to Russell's room and confront him, before even opening the beer. Russell wonders whether he should, in fact, be offended, but the warning pulse in his lower body makes him play it cool.
Seems Paul is even cooler, though. "It's not very nice, Russell," he says in smooth European tones, a cross between schoolteacher and aristocrat, thumb in a pocket of his jeans with his fingers hanging suspiciously close to where his dick might be. "If you want something..." His voice trails off, suggestive and threatening.
The smart thing to do, Russell knows, would be to laugh at him and then find a polite reason to throw him out. Sleep, for instance: they both have early calls. Or needing to make a phone call halfway around the world. He could ask Paul to dinner the next night instead, nice and simple. Unfortunately knowing the smart thing to do has never kept Russell from doing the dumb thing. Sauntering across the room, he smacks Paul in the shoulder, not altogether gently. "You been drinking, mate?"
"Don't," Paul orders, "call me mate." And within a matter of moments Russell finds their positions reversed, himself pressed into the doorframe with Paul holding tightly to the wrist of the hand that punched him, and pinning his other hand at his side for good measure. There's a surge of adrenaline, a rush of genuine anger, but he cannot simply break free and hit the guy, and in the moment it takes to bring the temptation under control, Russell finds himself filled with admiration. Paul played him perfectly, took the risk, stood his ground...he obviously has been watching him, knows him better than Russell had guessed.
And that's like an intimate admission...quite arousing really. "Yes, sir," Russell replies, ducking his head in mock-submission, which elicits a delighted laugh from Paul. The grin Russell gives him is genuine, not mocking, not flirtatious. He's relaxed, happy, completely unprepared when Paul leans in suddenly and kisses his mouth.
"One of these days," Paul says very distinctly, "someone is going to give you the fucking you deserve." Then he smiles, lets go of Russell and starts to walk toward the door, unhurried, as if to demonstrate that he's not particularly afraid of being roughed up for it.
Russell is in such a state of shock that he doesn't even think about grabbing him until Paul is out of range. His mouth is still tingling from Paul's lips, tasting of cigarettes but not nearly enough beer to signify drunkenness. Paul knows exactly what he's doing. Except for one thing. "Don't you want your coat?" Russell calls after in a voice that's quite steady, unconcerned, even though his heart is beating twice as fast as it should be. He jerks his head toward the bedroom, and leaves it there, inclined at that suggestive angle, as Paul reddens slightly and turns to approach him again.
Russell backs inside the arch to give him room to pass, then takes two steps into the room behind him, so that Paul's too close when he spins back around holding his coat. They both freeze, and then they both know what will come next unless Russell backs off. Which, again, would be the smart thing to do -- either that, or get in Paul's face and shove him and tell him in a deadly polite voice that if he ever fucks with Russell again, he'll be eating his own balls for dinner. But Russell doesn't back off, and he finds himself hoping that Paul has the guts to finish what he started, or rather what Russell started during the shoot as a kind of an inside joke, but Paul has very definitely taken to the next level.
One minute they're staring at each other, and the next, Paul's coat is on the floor and it's Russell he's tossing on the bed, not roughly but with evident intent. "Is today the day, then?" he asks, in a voice that would sound casual if it didn't shake suddenly on the last word which turns to a whisper against Russell's face as Paul's lips descend, remaining this time, parting Russell's lips in a warm slide that lets his tongue escape and brush in for a taste. They're both moaning before their mouths seal together, cutting off sound. Paul tastes like something stronger than beer and cigarettes and it's a hungry taste, like he's been fortifying himself for this, and it must have worked because his hands are curious and unhesitating, pressing Russell to the mattress, stroking along a thigh until they find the rapidly growing proof that yeah, Russell's an almighty cock-tease.
"Payback time," Paul whispers, stroking him through his jeans. And Christ, even though Russell had assumed he was straight -- as straight as most actors, anyway, because there's usually some leeway -- he's obviously got some experience with this at least, because he has Russell on the verge of wailing within thirty seconds. Paul knows it, too, and chuckles smugly. "This is an ambush...mate," he assures Russell, pressing him down and spreading out over him, unfastening his jeans with one confident hand. "Now you get what you've been asking for."
"Paul...!" gasps Russell, wondering where in hell the sarcastic, somewhat shy Brit has disappeared to. Craning his head, he manages to catch Paul's eye, and for a moment he sees that guy, the one he's been watching for weeks with the vulnerable smile when he gets caught watching back; then Paul's head lowers, moving his mouth against Russell's throat, and the guy who's about to make him come in his pants is back, instead. Quickly, for better or worse, the pants are pulled away, followed by his shirt, then Paul's shirt, and Paul's jeans are around his ankles, and the hot firm head of his dick is prodding Russell's belly, leaping eagerly when Russell takes it into his hand.
"Want to put that in you," Paul whispers, shocking Russell into groaning aloud and thrusting mindlessly against Paul, his body long since having decided what it would like. Paul fucks his palm with small deliberate rocking movements, letting out soft sighs, spilling pre-come and sliding in it, so fucking hot that Russell cries out more from that than from Paul's fingers on his own dick. "Need to move for a second..." With a grunt Paul shifts around, keeping most of his torso in contact with Russell's as he seeks out his coat on the floor.
To Russell's astonishment, Paul has condoms and lube in a zippered pocket. He tosses them on the bed and goes back to wanking Russell, eyeing him hungrily, not in any apparent hurry, as if he's planned for this entire night. "D'you always walk around with..." Russell forces himself to ask, but Paul grins to hide his flushing cheeks and shakes his head, displaying the first hint of real embarrassment he's shown Russell all evening.
"Bought it just for you, at lunchtime, just in case." Russell wants to ask why today -- what did he do today that gave him away so badly, different than yesterday -- but he can't speak as Paul flips open the cheap drugstore tube and squirts a thick clear stripe between two fingers, spreading and warming the lube with his thumb.
"Oh God," Russell whimpers, the thrill of panic closing his throat and making further speech impossible. There are things he should explain -- things he should have said before Paul ever touched him, actually -- but his voice is gone and his dick is communicating all by itself, jerking and twitching in the air over his belly. Paul watches this with a knowing smile as he pulls first one and then another pillow from above Russell's head, urging his hips up with his arm and pushing them beneath. Part of Russell is relieved that Paul apparently intends to go straight to the sex; he thinks that if Paul put his mouth on his cock, he'd come all over Paul's lips the very first second. But Paul obviously intends to fuck him -- ready or not, here I come -- and isn't that a fucking shock.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," says Paul, and when Russell holds his eyes, trembling slightly but keeping his legs where Paul left them after shoving the pillows beneath him, Paul leans over him and touches a finger to Russell's hole. That gentle, straightforward contact makes Russell cry out helplessly, and the muscles contract and press against the fingertip in ways Russell hadn't even realized they could move. Smiling at this, Paul whispers, "Relax," and pushes in -- fingertip, first knuckle, second, and it's strange and clinical for a moment before it's embarrassingly pleasurable and surprisingly dirty. He's done this many times before with women and a couple of men, but it's completely different with Paul's long, long finger curving up inside him and Paul's cock pointing up at him, pulsing, waiting for what they both know will happen unless Russell gets too freaked out to continue.
He thinks he might, the first second that Paul moves a second finger inside him. The hole stretches uncomfortably around the broad knuckles and he feels suddenly so open, completely exposed. A blow job and a finger in the arse is pretty much the same no matter who's doing it to you but Paul's obviously determined to fuck him right now first time they've ever touched each other, to put that big dick in him and drive into him until he comes, and even with that, it's one thing if you try it a few times because you're curious, either with one of your mates when you're both drunk or with someone you'll never see again where it doesn't mean anything, but this -- fucking someone you might like a little too much, who noticed you watching him, who knows you're not just curious -- this is something else.
With his other hand Paul reaches out to stroke Russell's chest, where the nipples have tightened into dark firm peaks. His fingers move in and out, making a thick squelching noise that's embarrassing but Paul doesn't seem to notice, or at least to care. His smile hasn't wavered, it's triumphant and predatory, and there's no trace of urgency even though his dick is as hard as Russell's and a whitish drop of fluid is hovering at the tip. "Ready?" he asks, the most obscene question in the world, because if Russell didn't say yes then this would be Paul's choice, not his, but as afraid as he is of this being his own fault, he's even more afraid that Paul won't do it if he doesn't say yes, please, do it to me, and so he nods.
Paul pulls out his fingers and sits back, just looking at him with an unreadable expression. And fuck, maybe all Paul ever wanted was that consent, maybe this was all a mind game and he never intended...but then Paul lowers his eyes, nods too and tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth. And Russell wonders what in hell he was looking for, just staring at him like that, and what it means if he saw it.
Lube in the condom, around the foreskin, then it's on and more lube on the outside and Paul leans over him, urging his legs up and out, and Christ if this isn't the scariest position in the world, with that dick (ohfuck it feels huge) pressing up against him. "Russell," Paul says, that's it, just his name, in a low hoarse voice Russell's never heard Paul use before, a world of potential meaning in those two syllables. Then, while he's trying to figure it all out, thoroughly distracted from the reality of the moment by the word and the look on Paul's face, the sharp burning pressure and oh Jesus he's being split, Paul's eyes fluttering and disengaging from his until there is nothing but the dick sinking into him, so deep that he's sure it will leave a mark somewhere inside.
The pain isn't bad, it lets up after a few seconds, though the stretch still feels terrifying, just-this-side of being torn open, astonishing fullness in places he hadn't known he was empty. The first thrust is gentle, almost hesitant, yet it blinds him, making the room flare red before his eyes, and it's only as Paul begins to withdraw that the aftershock coalesces into frenzied pleasure. A burning pain sears Russell's throat and knows that he must have screamed. He shudders helplessly, clutching at Paul, who looks right back at him.
And now Russell can see through the guise of control and the knowing smile; Paul's pupils are dilated, his breath coming fast between reddened, parted lips, and when Russell involuntarily raises his hips again, desperate to move, even if it means making Paul fuck him harder, faster, Paul's eyes widen in surprise. Then the control is back. Paul puts one hand on Russell's dick, the other reaching to tug at a nipple. The noises spilling from Russell's lips would be humiliating were he not too desperate to care.
A mighty surge forward, forcing Russell's thighs higher and further apart, and Paul is fucking him steadily, pumping in and out of him like he's been programmed for it, eyes glazed over and glassy, hand moving with relentless assurance on Russell's dick. The cries torn from his throat are just as even in their rhythm, though jagged, edged with panic; Russell can feel the need to come rising in him, a wave that will break and drown him, making him shudder, making him scream, and he knows that he would say anything, promise anything, if Paul were to ask him right now.
But Paul doesn't speak, and his relentless rhythm falters suddenly as his body trembles over and around and inside Russell's. His balls have tightened -- they're no longer bouncing against Russell's arse -- and his nipples are dark spots on his chest like a second pair of eyes, forcing Russell to gaze at their fierce tight centers.
Russell thinks that if he could lift one hand to touch Paul anywhere, he could make Paul come apart; but just imagining that, the final jerking thrusts and low cry and then Paul finishing, filling the condom inside Russell with hot jets...Russell hears himself scream again, feels Paul tug simultaneously on his nipple and his dick as, within, Paul deliberately presses the spot that makes the room disappear, and the red haze wipes out everything but the pulsing of his cock and the terrified ecstatic cries in his head.
When the room reforms around him, the violent swelling motion has stopped and Paul is heavier upon him, eyes clenched shut and mouth open, with sweat dripping down his face. He looks and feels post-coital, pulled over by the contractions and the raw power of Russell's screams of pleasure, the evidence of which is slicking both their bellies. The dick inside Russell, still filling him to the point of discomfort, no longer seems so hard or impassive, and despite the growing ache that burns around his entrance, Russell clutches his damp thighs against Paul's slippery body to try to keep him inside for a moment longer. Paul groans, Russell replies and feels his throat protest; he wonders if people might have heard him outside in the hallway.
"Fucking...incredible," Paul gasps, holding him tightly around the waist and making Russell realize that most of the trembling that's shaking the bed is not his own. "Oh fuck, wanted that so bad..."
Moving an arm across the soaking shoulders, Russell holds him. "Yeah," he agrees. Paul slips out before he can speak further, and Russell gives a slight moan of disappointment. "Really glad you...came over..."
Hanging on to each other thus, they roll together to the side, and Paul lets his head fall back enough to look at Russell. The determined, confident expression has vanished, replaced by the guarded vulnerability with which he often regards Russell, and it jolts Russell anew, though not in the same way as the hungry possession he's just experienced. "You know, Paul, if you wanted a date, you could have asked," he smiles. Paul blushes furiously, in such marked contrast to his previous demeanor that Russell can't help laughing before he leans in to kiss him. "Unless of course you only wanted revenge for the teasing. In which case, this seems a bit excessive, don't you agree?"
The shy smile is back, but it's so obviously heartfelt that Russell kisses him again. "I think you got what you had coming to you," Paul murmurs when they pull apart, but his fingers are gentle in Russell's hair. "And if you think that was a bit excessive, well..."
"...I think you owe me now, and I'm coming to collect tomorrow," Russell interrupts. Paul bites his lip to hold back his grin. "As for tonight...I still think you have some explaining to do, so you'd better stay."
And Paul lets the grin out, and does.