Jan. 23rd, 2005 10:24 pm
2004 Christmas version, Joel/Hugh
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lovely_ambitionAll right, more things.
For the twelve days of Christmas, my ONE TRUE PAIRING love gave to meeeee:
Twelve Bors exaggerating,
Eleven Dagonets smashing,
Ten Vanoras singing,
Nine Guineveres swooning,
Eight Romans dying,
Seven Saxons crying,
Six Tristans kicking ass,
Five bottom Galahads!
Four Gawains with axes,
Three wise Merlins,
Two Lancelots bitching,
AND AN…
Arthur with a shiny phallic symbol!
“He speaks for him,” Hugh says from his pint of Guinness, the words echoing and absorbed by the bitter, dark liquid. “Tell me that doesn’t mean there was something more.” He’s got his feet draped over Joel’s lap when half their group had retired early for the night, leaving them with a vast array of free space. Every once in a while, Joel’s gaze slips to Hugh’s socked feet – toes curling and occasionally poking him in the stomach. “And besides, even if not, Antoine wants us to play it that way,” he suppresses a belch as he takes another sip.
Joel nods, taking the pint from Hugh when it’s offered. He takes a sip and strangely, he can smell the cologne Hugh’s been wearing around the rim of the mug. It’d been amusing. Hugh had almost shown up tonight in the tunic, citing that he’s become so comfortable in the damn thing that he might as well wear it around the clock.
“Yes, but Arthur and Lancelot,” Ioan argues, leaning forward on his elbows. “Now that’s history.”
Joel raises a doubtful brow. “I, uh…I don’t think…”
“Arthur and Guinevere were history,” Hugh interrupts Joel’s stammered speech and picks it up eloquently. “Lancelot and Guinevere were history. Arthur and Lancelot are Harlequin History and wishful thinking.”
“Oh, is that what you wish at night,” Clive taunts Hugh with a smirk on his face.
“Oh, Clive,” Hugh shakes his head. He shifts a little and Joel is forced to shift too if he wants to remain at least slightly comfortable. Hugh’s feet have also caused some interesting friction and for the fourth time that night, Joel’s left recalling Cathy’s words to him on the phone about how he shouldn’t feel confined since she’s not there yet and that she wouldn’t mind so much if he indulged so long as he told her. “To even imply that I don’t just dream of you all night is blasphemy.”
“I’ve trained you well,” Clive replies proudly. “I don’t see why we can’t spice this up.”
“I’m sorry?” Ioan mutters, placing his pint down a little firmer than he’d probably intended to. “Spice what up? We’re not exactly preparing a cooked dish, we’re making a film. We’re not paprika…or, or oregano.”
There’s the distinct sound of laughter and it’s coming from Hugh. “Oh…oh god, Ioan. Say paprika again,” he encourages between laughs and Joel takes a look at the number of pints they’ve all consumed.
“Cut him off,” Ioan slurs. “He’s obviously had too much.”
“I’m serious!” Clive insists. “Why can’t we have a little bit of fun?”
“Define fun,” Joel asks, trying to shake the dreads out of his face. The people in Hair swear that he’ll get used to the extensions just as Hugh’s gotten used to the tunic, but it isn’t happening as quickly as he’d like. Hugh seems to like them; he’s been playing with the strands all night. It’s an odd sensation to feel everything so fully and then to have the feeling taper off as Hugh’s fingers traverse to the parts that are less than real. He leans into the touch – not so much because he yearns for the contact, but more that he doesn’t trust Hugh not to yank when he’s so intoxicated.
“Let’s camp it up,” Clive announces childishly, a mischievous smirk on his face.
“What?” Ioan, Hugh, and Joel reply in outraged, yet confused tandem.
“Camp. It. Up.”
“Oh god,” Ioan groans, head in hands. “Oh god,” he repeats, even as Clive grins brilliantly as though he’s discovered how to make cold fusion power the entire world. Joel thinks that maybe he’s a little too drunk, because he’s caring a lot less than he really ought to. Perhaps it’s that Hugh’s feet are massaging at his thighs and it feels really quite good. Hugh seems to be mulling it over.
“Okay.”
Joel’s eyes widen a little. He hadn’t been outraged, of course, but he’s not in line to sign up for this. He turns to Hugh almost immediately, his hair flying and smacking him dead in the cheek as he stares.
“I’m sorry, don’t I get a say?”
“Come on, Gawain,” Hugh teases, his eyes wide and glinting with mischief – or possibly inebriation. “You’re not really going to let these two outdo us? We’ve got directorial approval to pull stunts like this.” Hugh exchanges a mischievous grin with Joel before shifting over and pressing his hip to Joel’s, arousing a lot more of those thoughts that just might benefit a camped-performance.
“You’re on,” Joel agrees.
“My hero,” Hugh simpers, batting his eyelashes. Another round of Guinness is delivered to the table and when Hugh forfeits his pint to Joel, there’s trouble on the horizon. But it’s all right. Joel’s in the mood for trouble tonight.
*
Hugh walks him home through the drizzling damp of Ireland at two A.M. with only the moon to guide them and only the leftover remnants of alcohol in their system to warm them – no coats to speak of. The streets are familiar under their feet and the pavement, though wet, is familiarity to Joel’s feet, he chooses to walk back to the pub usually to the flat he’s renting out.
And then there’s the door, where Hugh pauses, the rain coming down a little harder and nestling in between Joel’s extensions and Hugh’s curls, their beards frizzing in the damp existence of Ireland. Hugh smiles, looking punch-drunk, acting half-drunk and leans in to invite himself in when the heavens nearly open up atop them. Strange, though, that when Joel should be considering more pressing matters, the only thing coming to mind is how hard it will be to film atop the horses when the ground is so soaked.
Joel opens the door and Hugh steps in like he’s home, shaking off his hands on the foyer rug before he turns to Joel, leaning his body against the archway and looking Joel’s body over.
“How’s Annie?” Joel asks amiably. Hugh doesn’t ever take his eyes off of Joel.
“She’s good,” he replies evenly. “Says hi. Asks that I don’t get into too much trouble while she’s not here to bail me out.”
Still, Hugh doesn’t take his eyes off of Joel. Though this should make the situation more than a little uncomfortable, it becomes quite natural quite quickly. Joel finally gets his shoes off and heads for his kitchen, looking to put on some coffee to stave away the impending hangover, but Hugh’s arm curls around his waist and tugs him back, bringing their bodies pressed flush together.
“Hugh,” Joel exhales, feeling Hugh’s breath on his neck as the other man studies that whole area with quite a bit of intensity. “Hugh…you’re…”
“Shh,” Hugh quiets him with two fingers pressed to his lips and leans in – his arm still wrapped around Joel’s waist – and presses his lips to the place where shoulder meets neck. His beard bristles against Joel’s skin and it’s barely there and ghostly and it feels good. For the first time since the beginning of shooting, Joel really, really wants to thank Antoine for forcing them to grow beards.
Hugh wraps his other arm around Joel’s waists and they go stumbling back through the hallways and towards Joel’s bedroom. For a moment, Joel wonders exactly how Hugh can guide them. They’ve never been together here before, but then Joel remembers that they have been there, but not together-together like this. He’s had the guys over for coffee or drinks or dinners. So clearly, Hugh would know where the bedroom is.
And clearly, Hugh knows that it’s silk sheets he’s going to find.
So when Hugh pushes Joel on top of the silk-sheets in Joel’s bedroom, it’s all very much clear. He lunges into a straddle, stripping away layers of unneeded, unwanted clothing without so much as a second though, the layers and barriers between them disappearing by the second. Joel’s shirt goes the way of his trousers and the same applies to Hugh’s clothes before they’re both very much naked.
And then Joel’s breath catches at the sight of Hugh atop him, spreading his thighs with both hands acting so gently, and each finger nearly burning as they press into the pale skin of his thighs, mouth descending and kissing Joel hard. And almost as if time stops, Joel can’t even recollect the moments before Hugh pushes into him, but he will always remember that first sensation of Hugh in him, Hugh’s warmth pushing into him, his hands clasping Joel’s thighs hard, as though ferreting out the muscles.
And he pushes in, one hand stroking his cock, in no kind of time or rhythm whatsoever, but Joel’s cries of pleasure would have distracted any sort of clumsy rhythm they could have set. Hugh pushes in faster and faster, as though spurred on by the sounds Joel is making and soon, Joel’s cries are joined by Hugh’s moans and gasps and the two of them are thrusting and arching and making noises together and it’s cacophony and it’s harmony and it’s perfect and it’s wrong and it’s all happening now.
Joel climaxes with Hugh’s thumb brushing the head of his cock, finger circling and pressing hard to the underside, with Hugh pushing in deep and finding that perfect angle. Joel climaxes with a grunt, his teeth gritted together as his back arches in a spasm towards the ceiling and takes Hugh with him, groaning and moaning brokenly on his own. Soon, Hugh is whispering words and he’s climaxed himself, sweat rolling down and dripping off his face, a testament to the sheen they’ve both worked up.
And Hugh collapses on top of Joel, their chests breathing together and sharing sweat as Joel tries to get his mind to think again, but can’t quite accomplish that.
Instead, he clumsily wraps an arm around Hugh’s back and uses his other to grasp one of the heavier blankets, wrapping their bodies in it and exhaling hard, his lips latching almost accidentally to Hugh’s shoulder.
“Let’s outcamp them,” Joel decides drowsily, his voice slurred by sex and drink and activity.
“You’ll hear no argument from me.”
And he didn’t.
End
For the twelve days of Christmas, my ONE TRUE PAIRING love gave to meeeee:
Twelve Bors exaggerating,
Eleven Dagonets smashing,
Ten Vanoras singing,
Nine Guineveres swooning,
Eight Romans dying,
Seven Saxons crying,
Six Tristans kicking ass,
Five bottom Galahads!
Four Gawains with axes,
Three wise Merlins,
Two Lancelots bitching,
AND AN…
Arthur with a shiny phallic symbol!
“He speaks for him,” Hugh says from his pint of Guinness, the words echoing and absorbed by the bitter, dark liquid. “Tell me that doesn’t mean there was something more.” He’s got his feet draped over Joel’s lap when half their group had retired early for the night, leaving them with a vast array of free space. Every once in a while, Joel’s gaze slips to Hugh’s socked feet – toes curling and occasionally poking him in the stomach. “And besides, even if not, Antoine wants us to play it that way,” he suppresses a belch as he takes another sip.
Joel nods, taking the pint from Hugh when it’s offered. He takes a sip and strangely, he can smell the cologne Hugh’s been wearing around the rim of the mug. It’d been amusing. Hugh had almost shown up tonight in the tunic, citing that he’s become so comfortable in the damn thing that he might as well wear it around the clock.
“Yes, but Arthur and Lancelot,” Ioan argues, leaning forward on his elbows. “Now that’s history.”
Joel raises a doubtful brow. “I, uh…I don’t think…”
“Arthur and Guinevere were history,” Hugh interrupts Joel’s stammered speech and picks it up eloquently. “Lancelot and Guinevere were history. Arthur and Lancelot are Harlequin History and wishful thinking.”
“Oh, is that what you wish at night,” Clive taunts Hugh with a smirk on his face.
“Oh, Clive,” Hugh shakes his head. He shifts a little and Joel is forced to shift too if he wants to remain at least slightly comfortable. Hugh’s feet have also caused some interesting friction and for the fourth time that night, Joel’s left recalling Cathy’s words to him on the phone about how he shouldn’t feel confined since she’s not there yet and that she wouldn’t mind so much if he indulged so long as he told her. “To even imply that I don’t just dream of you all night is blasphemy.”
“I’ve trained you well,” Clive replies proudly. “I don’t see why we can’t spice this up.”
“I’m sorry?” Ioan mutters, placing his pint down a little firmer than he’d probably intended to. “Spice what up? We’re not exactly preparing a cooked dish, we’re making a film. We’re not paprika…or, or oregano.”
There’s the distinct sound of laughter and it’s coming from Hugh. “Oh…oh god, Ioan. Say paprika again,” he encourages between laughs and Joel takes a look at the number of pints they’ve all consumed.
“Cut him off,” Ioan slurs. “He’s obviously had too much.”
“I’m serious!” Clive insists. “Why can’t we have a little bit of fun?”
“Define fun,” Joel asks, trying to shake the dreads out of his face. The people in Hair swear that he’ll get used to the extensions just as Hugh’s gotten used to the tunic, but it isn’t happening as quickly as he’d like. Hugh seems to like them; he’s been playing with the strands all night. It’s an odd sensation to feel everything so fully and then to have the feeling taper off as Hugh’s fingers traverse to the parts that are less than real. He leans into the touch – not so much because he yearns for the contact, but more that he doesn’t trust Hugh not to yank when he’s so intoxicated.
“Let’s camp it up,” Clive announces childishly, a mischievous smirk on his face.
“What?” Ioan, Hugh, and Joel reply in outraged, yet confused tandem.
“Camp. It. Up.”
“Oh god,” Ioan groans, head in hands. “Oh god,” he repeats, even as Clive grins brilliantly as though he’s discovered how to make cold fusion power the entire world. Joel thinks that maybe he’s a little too drunk, because he’s caring a lot less than he really ought to. Perhaps it’s that Hugh’s feet are massaging at his thighs and it feels really quite good. Hugh seems to be mulling it over.
“Okay.”
Joel’s eyes widen a little. He hadn’t been outraged, of course, but he’s not in line to sign up for this. He turns to Hugh almost immediately, his hair flying and smacking him dead in the cheek as he stares.
“I’m sorry, don’t I get a say?”
“Come on, Gawain,” Hugh teases, his eyes wide and glinting with mischief – or possibly inebriation. “You’re not really going to let these two outdo us? We’ve got directorial approval to pull stunts like this.” Hugh exchanges a mischievous grin with Joel before shifting over and pressing his hip to Joel’s, arousing a lot more of those thoughts that just might benefit a camped-performance.
“You’re on,” Joel agrees.
“My hero,” Hugh simpers, batting his eyelashes. Another round of Guinness is delivered to the table and when Hugh forfeits his pint to Joel, there’s trouble on the horizon. But it’s all right. Joel’s in the mood for trouble tonight.
*
Hugh walks him home through the drizzling damp of Ireland at two A.M. with only the moon to guide them and only the leftover remnants of alcohol in their system to warm them – no coats to speak of. The streets are familiar under their feet and the pavement, though wet, is familiarity to Joel’s feet, he chooses to walk back to the pub usually to the flat he’s renting out.
And then there’s the door, where Hugh pauses, the rain coming down a little harder and nestling in between Joel’s extensions and Hugh’s curls, their beards frizzing in the damp existence of Ireland. Hugh smiles, looking punch-drunk, acting half-drunk and leans in to invite himself in when the heavens nearly open up atop them. Strange, though, that when Joel should be considering more pressing matters, the only thing coming to mind is how hard it will be to film atop the horses when the ground is so soaked.
Joel opens the door and Hugh steps in like he’s home, shaking off his hands on the foyer rug before he turns to Joel, leaning his body against the archway and looking Joel’s body over.
“How’s Annie?” Joel asks amiably. Hugh doesn’t ever take his eyes off of Joel.
“She’s good,” he replies evenly. “Says hi. Asks that I don’t get into too much trouble while she’s not here to bail me out.”
Still, Hugh doesn’t take his eyes off of Joel. Though this should make the situation more than a little uncomfortable, it becomes quite natural quite quickly. Joel finally gets his shoes off and heads for his kitchen, looking to put on some coffee to stave away the impending hangover, but Hugh’s arm curls around his waist and tugs him back, bringing their bodies pressed flush together.
“Hugh,” Joel exhales, feeling Hugh’s breath on his neck as the other man studies that whole area with quite a bit of intensity. “Hugh…you’re…”
“Shh,” Hugh quiets him with two fingers pressed to his lips and leans in – his arm still wrapped around Joel’s waist – and presses his lips to the place where shoulder meets neck. His beard bristles against Joel’s skin and it’s barely there and ghostly and it feels good. For the first time since the beginning of shooting, Joel really, really wants to thank Antoine for forcing them to grow beards.
Hugh wraps his other arm around Joel’s waists and they go stumbling back through the hallways and towards Joel’s bedroom. For a moment, Joel wonders exactly how Hugh can guide them. They’ve never been together here before, but then Joel remembers that they have been there, but not together-together like this. He’s had the guys over for coffee or drinks or dinners. So clearly, Hugh would know where the bedroom is.
And clearly, Hugh knows that it’s silk sheets he’s going to find.
So when Hugh pushes Joel on top of the silk-sheets in Joel’s bedroom, it’s all very much clear. He lunges into a straddle, stripping away layers of unneeded, unwanted clothing without so much as a second though, the layers and barriers between them disappearing by the second. Joel’s shirt goes the way of his trousers and the same applies to Hugh’s clothes before they’re both very much naked.
And then Joel’s breath catches at the sight of Hugh atop him, spreading his thighs with both hands acting so gently, and each finger nearly burning as they press into the pale skin of his thighs, mouth descending and kissing Joel hard. And almost as if time stops, Joel can’t even recollect the moments before Hugh pushes into him, but he will always remember that first sensation of Hugh in him, Hugh’s warmth pushing into him, his hands clasping Joel’s thighs hard, as though ferreting out the muscles.
And he pushes in, one hand stroking his cock, in no kind of time or rhythm whatsoever, but Joel’s cries of pleasure would have distracted any sort of clumsy rhythm they could have set. Hugh pushes in faster and faster, as though spurred on by the sounds Joel is making and soon, Joel’s cries are joined by Hugh’s moans and gasps and the two of them are thrusting and arching and making noises together and it’s cacophony and it’s harmony and it’s perfect and it’s wrong and it’s all happening now.
Joel climaxes with Hugh’s thumb brushing the head of his cock, finger circling and pressing hard to the underside, with Hugh pushing in deep and finding that perfect angle. Joel climaxes with a grunt, his teeth gritted together as his back arches in a spasm towards the ceiling and takes Hugh with him, groaning and moaning brokenly on his own. Soon, Hugh is whispering words and he’s climaxed himself, sweat rolling down and dripping off his face, a testament to the sheen they’ve both worked up.
And Hugh collapses on top of Joel, their chests breathing together and sharing sweat as Joel tries to get his mind to think again, but can’t quite accomplish that.
Instead, he clumsily wraps an arm around Hugh’s back and uses his other to grasp one of the heavier blankets, wrapping their bodies in it and exhaling hard, his lips latching almost accidentally to Hugh’s shoulder.
“Let’s outcamp them,” Joel decides drowsily, his voice slurred by sex and drink and activity.
“You’ll hear no argument from me.”
And he didn’t.
End
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