Carried Away 2/4
anonymous
November 14 2011, 23:50:40 UTC
“Alright, mes chéris,” he says, motioning for them to have a seat on the set. “Since you’re back in your uniforms, you can see that we are going to take this from the top. Elizabeta has done some last-minute rewrites, so we will be taking a different approach for the scene this time.”
“Rewrites?” Arthur asks, straightening his tie. “Where’s the new script then?”
Francis smiles. “There isn’t one,” he says, then holds up his hands before they can protest. “Now listen to me:
“Jack and Oliver have spent all these long weeks in hospital together, but so far from each other. You’ve been stealing looks, longing silently to yourselves, too afraid to reach out to one another. But then the order comes, and Jack is to ship off for the South Pacific in the morning, and Oliver to Italy. Suddenly there is no more time to wait, and, faced with the possibility of never seeing each other again, the two of you find yourselves acting upon your repressed desires.” (Francis thinks back to the rapturous first kiss shoot.)
Alfred and Arthur nod, and Francis is pleased to see that they’ve unconsciously scooted a little closer to one another, hands resting on the bed linens nearly close enough to touch. He smiles inwardly and continues.
“Which brings us to this scene. Oliver, you’ve brought Jack back to your room, and this is your final chance to tell him how you feel… So remember: this could very well be the end for you. Do make it count.”
Francis stands and claps sharply, then calls, “Places! Places, everyone! We begin at the top!”
As he settles into his chair, Alfred and Arthur disappear into the ‘hallway’ outside of Oliver’s room on set, and within a few moments, everyone is at the ready. With an excited glance from Elizabeta, Francis takes a deep breath.
“Action!”
---
Once they’re both safely in, Oliver takes a nervous breath and locks the door, bracing himself against it for a moment. He knows exactly what he’d been thinking of, bringing Jack back here, but now that it’s come down to it, he’s not sure how to even proceed. He can still feel those chapped lips on his, from that first kiss outside the on-base dance and another, soft and sweet and far too brief, stolen just seconds ago in the corridor outside, and he’s desperate to have them back.
But there’s more to this than just the physical, isn’t there? Oliver knows this, and Jack had made it plain, whispered against his ear earlier, I love you, I’ve always loved you… and now, Oliver knows he must do the same before their chance is gone.
He turns, determined to say precisely how he feels, but Jack is so close, watching him and waiting, blue eyes wide and concerned, questioning behind wire frames… And suddenly he can’t find the words.
Instead, Oliver pulls him close, kissing him soundly. It doesn’t take long before Jack’s reciprocating, and they’re stumbling backwards and bumping into the wall. Jack leans against it, and Oliver presses against him, doing his utmost to lose himself in the smell of Jack’s cologne, the lingering taste of chocolate on his tongue.
Soon, the kissing just isn’t enough, and both of them gasp as their hips shift just so… Oliver can feel Jack’s heart racing next to his own, and he fights himself to pull away, just for a moment, just long enough to say what needs to be said. But as soon as he does, Jack’s mouth is at his neck, all lips and tongue and a hint of teeth, and whatever he was trying to tell him dissolves into a strangled noise in the back of his throat. A hand slides up his chest, loosens his tie, unbuttons his collar, and Oliver’s struggling for air as Jack pulls them flush together and drags his lips up his jawline to his ear.
“I love you,” Jack breathes, and-and Oliver hesitates again, cursing himself mentally as he turns his head to bring their mouths back together. It shouldn’t be so difficult, but when Jack lets out a low, muffled whine as Oliver slides his tongue over his bottom lip, he starts to wonder if simple words could ever be enough anyway, so maybe… Maybe he’ll just have to show him.
Carried Away 3/4
anonymous
November 14 2011, 23:51:49 UTC
Oliver manages to pull away a second time and catches Jack’s eyes (oh, he should say it now-but he can’t), then gives a meaningful glance towards the bed behind them. There’s a tense second and a half before those blue eyes widen in comprehension, but then Jack pushes off the wall, Oliver dragging him by his tie as he starts pulling at his uniform jacket.
The room’s not large in any sense (the only reason Oliver’s got private quarters in the first place is thanks to his status as an officer), but in the few moments it takes to cross over to the bed, two jackets, a shirt, both ties, and a belt have accumulated on the floor. They tumble onto the far-too-small mattress, and Oliver looks down at Jack, glasses askew on his nose and button down hanging off his broad shoulders, face flushed and expression full of longing and blatant adoration. He makes it seem so easy… and Oliver finds himself mumbling, “Jack… Jack, I-” before he bites his lip in frustration and ducks down to press his mouth to the chest beneath him.
The slow drag of his tongue over a collarbone earns him a quiet hum of appreciation, so he moves lower, mouthing a nipple and sending Jack’s hips bucking up into his-and Christ they’ve waited much too long for this.
He leaves one last open-mouthed kiss on the skin in front of him, then pulls back to reach down and unfasten the button of Jack’s trousers.
“Shit,” Jack hisses as he palms him through the thin fabric of his boxers. “ShitshitshitArth-Oliver…” His control is slipping, and the way he looks up at him with those half-lidded, half-focused eyes is enough to leave Oliver’s in question as well.
But when one of those broad hands finds its way beneath his own waistband and wraps around him, warm and rough, and squeezes… suddenly control is the furthest thing from his short-circuiting mind.
He’s bent down again before he realizes it, kisses giving way to just gasping against Alfred’s mouth as they both fumble with their pants and tug them down just far enough to be out of the way. There’s a sudden flip, and as soon as he registers Alfred hovering above him, their hips are pressed together, and he lets out a long, low moan. Teeth gently catch his ear, and then Alfred’s whispering to him again, panting quietly into his ear as they grind against each other.
“Arthur… Oh God, Arthur…”
It’s all Arthur can do to wrap his legs around Alfred and arch up into him. He’s only vaguely aware that he’s moaning Alfred’s name with every ragged breath-but then it doesn’t matter because Alfred’s hand is back, wrapped around them both and making the friction nearly unbearable. Arthur grabs at the sheets, scrapes across Alfred’s back, holding onto anything he can reach as it’s building, building, building…
Alfred turns his head, crushes his lips against Arthur’s, and it’s finally too much. He comes with a gasp, digging his fingers into thick blond hair as Alfred groans moments later and follows him over the edge, then all but collapses on top of him.
They lie still for a few seconds, panting and trying to catch their breaths. Arthur’s head is swimming, but the haze of his orgasm isn’t quite tuning out this nagging feeling in the back of his mind, like he’s forgotten something important. But Alfred shifts above him, leaning back to let lazy blue eyes meet his own.
He’s told Arthur several times now that he loves him, that he has always loved him, and now his eyes are saying it again without a word.
There’s one piece missing, though, and as Alfred bends down to kiss him, Arthur finds his voice.
“And I will always love you,” he says, then closes the distance between them.
---
“CUT! C’est magnifique!”
“OH MY GOD THAT WAS AMAZING!”
Francis jumps from his chair and catches Elizabeta as she launches herself at him, twirling them both around before setting her down. She stops to fan herself with a copy of the script, but then dissolves into nervous giggles and blurts out, “Ladiesroomexcuseme!” before taking off through a side door.
“Mes chéris, that was just perfect!” Francis cries, turning back to the set.
Carried Away 4/4
anonymous
November 14 2011, 23:53:23 UTC
… Ah.
Alfred and Arthur haven’t moved from their compromising position, other than to break that marvelous kiss and stare at each other with horrified eyes. Alfred is blushing, of course, but Francis watches with amusement as Arthur’s face goes from white as the sheet beneath him to pink, then straight through every shade of red possible before settling somewhere in the purple range. Sensing danger, Francis quickly moves back behind his chair and ducks as a prop alarm clock comes flying at his head.
“Je ne regrette rien!” he calls, then takes cover as a lamp smashes on the concrete floor behind him. “There is no reason to be angry, Arthur! That performance was inspired!”
There’s no answer, so Francis cautiously pokes his head around the side of the chair. Arthur is still very magenta, but he seems to be at a loss for words (and objects to launch as makeshift missiles), and realizing his state of undress and rather sticky stomach, allows Alfred to toss a blanket over his shoulders and steer him off the set with a nervous laugh and a, “Sorry! Got carried away! We’ll just be going now…”
That could have been worse, Francis thinks to himself, and switches on his megaphone. “One hour, everyone,” he announces, “and then we will come back for more angles-”
“WHAT?!” comes a shout from the doorway. Arthur’s turned back around, glaring across the set with Alfred holding him back, though giving him an incredulous look himself.
“You expect us,” he gapes, “to-to-do that again?”
“Oui,” he says with a smile. “Of course. I’m sure Kiku got some lovely close-ups-” (the red-faced camera operator gives him a thumbs-up and adjusts the bloody tissue at his nose) “-however, we still need more wide shots. And, Arthur, we’ll need to ensure that you moan ‘Jack’ instead of ‘Alfred’ next time. You do understand?”
Arthur bristles, but before Francis can run to safety, he turns on his heel and storms out of the soundstage, dragging Alfred behind him.
“Ah, l’amour,” Francis sighs, then calls, “One hour! Oh, and someone do check on Elizabeta. She’s likely passed out in the restroom.”
“Rewrites?” Arthur asks, straightening his tie. “Where’s the new script then?”
Francis smiles. “There isn’t one,” he says, then holds up his hands before they can protest. “Now listen to me:
“Jack and Oliver have spent all these long weeks in hospital together, but so far from each other. You’ve been stealing looks, longing silently to yourselves, too afraid to reach out to one another. But then the order comes, and Jack is to ship off for the South Pacific in the morning, and Oliver to Italy. Suddenly there is no more time to wait, and, faced with the possibility of never seeing each other again, the two of you find yourselves acting upon your repressed desires.” (Francis thinks back to the rapturous first kiss shoot.)
Alfred and Arthur nod, and Francis is pleased to see that they’ve unconsciously scooted a little closer to one another, hands resting on the bed linens nearly close enough to touch. He smiles inwardly and continues.
“Which brings us to this scene. Oliver, you’ve brought Jack back to your room, and this is your final chance to tell him how you feel… So remember: this could very well be the end for you. Do make it count.”
Francis stands and claps sharply, then calls, “Places! Places, everyone! We begin at the top!”
As he settles into his chair, Alfred and Arthur disappear into the ‘hallway’ outside of Oliver’s room on set, and within a few moments, everyone is at the ready. With an excited glance from Elizabeta, Francis takes a deep breath.
“Action!”
---
Once they’re both safely in, Oliver takes a nervous breath and locks the door, bracing himself against it for a moment. He knows exactly what he’d been thinking of, bringing Jack back here, but now that it’s come down to it, he’s not sure how to even proceed. He can still feel those chapped lips on his, from that first kiss outside the on-base dance and another, soft and sweet and far too brief, stolen just seconds ago in the corridor outside, and he’s desperate to have them back.
But there’s more to this than just the physical, isn’t there? Oliver knows this, and Jack had made it plain, whispered against his ear earlier, I love you, I’ve always loved you… and now, Oliver knows he must do the same before their chance is gone.
He turns, determined to say precisely how he feels, but Jack is so close, watching him and waiting, blue eyes wide and concerned, questioning behind wire frames… And suddenly he can’t find the words.
Instead, Oliver pulls him close, kissing him soundly. It doesn’t take long before Jack’s reciprocating, and they’re stumbling backwards and bumping into the wall. Jack leans against it, and Oliver presses against him, doing his utmost to lose himself in the smell of Jack’s cologne, the lingering taste of chocolate on his tongue.
Soon, the kissing just isn’t enough, and both of them gasp as their hips shift just so… Oliver can feel Jack’s heart racing next to his own, and he fights himself to pull away, just for a moment, just long enough to say what needs to be said. But as soon as he does, Jack’s mouth is at his neck, all lips and tongue and a hint of teeth, and whatever he was trying to tell him dissolves into a strangled noise in the back of his throat. A hand slides up his chest, loosens his tie, unbuttons his collar, and Oliver’s struggling for air as Jack pulls them flush together and drags his lips up his jawline to his ear.
“I love you,” Jack breathes, and-and Oliver hesitates again, cursing himself mentally as he turns his head to bring their mouths back together. It shouldn’t be so difficult, but when Jack lets out a low, muffled whine as Oliver slides his tongue over his bottom lip, he starts to wonder if simple words could ever be enough anyway, so maybe… Maybe he’ll just have to show him.
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The room’s not large in any sense (the only reason Oliver’s got private quarters in the first place is thanks to his status as an officer), but in the few moments it takes to cross over to the bed, two jackets, a shirt, both ties, and a belt have accumulated on the floor. They tumble onto the far-too-small mattress, and Oliver looks down at Jack, glasses askew on his nose and button down hanging off his broad shoulders, face flushed and expression full of longing and blatant adoration. He makes it seem so easy… and Oliver finds himself mumbling, “Jack… Jack, I-” before he bites his lip in frustration and ducks down to press his mouth to the chest beneath him.
The slow drag of his tongue over a collarbone earns him a quiet hum of appreciation, so he moves lower, mouthing a nipple and sending Jack’s hips bucking up into his-and Christ they’ve waited much too long for this.
He leaves one last open-mouthed kiss on the skin in front of him, then pulls back to reach down and unfasten the button of Jack’s trousers.
“Shit,” Jack hisses as he palms him through the thin fabric of his boxers. “ShitshitshitArth-Oliver…” His control is slipping, and the way he looks up at him with those half-lidded, half-focused eyes is enough to leave Oliver’s in question as well.
But when one of those broad hands finds its way beneath his own waistband and wraps around him, warm and rough, and squeezes… suddenly control is the furthest thing from his short-circuiting mind.
He’s bent down again before he realizes it, kisses giving way to just gasping against Alfred’s mouth as they both fumble with their pants and tug them down just far enough to be out of the way. There’s a sudden flip, and as soon as he registers Alfred hovering above him, their hips are pressed together, and he lets out a long, low moan. Teeth gently catch his ear, and then Alfred’s whispering to him again, panting quietly into his ear as they grind against each other.
“Arthur… Oh God, Arthur…”
It’s all Arthur can do to wrap his legs around Alfred and arch up into him. He’s only vaguely aware that he’s moaning Alfred’s name with every ragged breath-but then it doesn’t matter because Alfred’s hand is back, wrapped around them both and making the friction nearly unbearable. Arthur grabs at the sheets, scrapes across Alfred’s back, holding onto anything he can reach as it’s building, building, building…
Alfred turns his head, crushes his lips against Arthur’s, and it’s finally too much. He comes with a gasp, digging his fingers into thick blond hair as Alfred groans moments later and follows him over the edge, then all but collapses on top of him.
They lie still for a few seconds, panting and trying to catch their breaths. Arthur’s head is swimming, but the haze of his orgasm isn’t quite tuning out this nagging feeling in the back of his mind, like he’s forgotten something important. But Alfred shifts above him, leaning back to let lazy blue eyes meet his own.
He’s told Arthur several times now that he loves him, that he has always loved him, and now his eyes are saying it again without a word.
There’s one piece missing, though, and as Alfred bends down to kiss him, Arthur finds his voice.
“And I will always love you,” he says, then closes the distance between them.
---
“CUT! C’est magnifique!”
“OH MY GOD THAT WAS AMAZING!”
Francis jumps from his chair and catches Elizabeta as she launches herself at him, twirling them both around before setting her down. She stops to fan herself with a copy of the script, but then dissolves into nervous giggles and blurts out, “Ladiesroomexcuseme!” before taking off through a side door.
“Mes chéris, that was just perfect!” Francis cries, turning back to the set.
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Alfred and Arthur haven’t moved from their compromising position, other than to break that marvelous kiss and stare at each other with horrified eyes. Alfred is blushing, of course, but Francis watches with amusement as Arthur’s face goes from white as the sheet beneath him to pink, then straight through every shade of red possible before settling somewhere in the purple range. Sensing danger, Francis quickly moves back behind his chair and ducks as a prop alarm clock comes flying at his head.
“Je ne regrette rien!” he calls, then takes cover as a lamp smashes on the concrete floor behind him. “There is no reason to be angry, Arthur! That performance was inspired!”
There’s no answer, so Francis cautiously pokes his head around the side of the chair. Arthur is still very magenta, but he seems to be at a loss for words (and objects to launch as makeshift missiles), and realizing his state of undress and rather sticky stomach, allows Alfred to toss a blanket over his shoulders and steer him off the set with a nervous laugh and a, “Sorry! Got carried away! We’ll just be going now…”
That could have been worse, Francis thinks to himself, and switches on his megaphone. “One hour, everyone,” he announces, “and then we will come back for more angles-”
“WHAT?!” comes a shout from the doorway. Arthur’s turned back around, glaring across the set with Alfred holding him back, though giving him an incredulous look himself.
“You expect us,” he gapes, “to-to-do that again?”
“Oui,” he says with a smile. “Of course. I’m sure Kiku got some lovely close-ups-” (the red-faced camera operator gives him a thumbs-up and adjusts the bloody tissue at his nose) “-however, we still need more wide shots. And, Arthur, we’ll need to ensure that you moan ‘Jack’ instead of ‘Alfred’ next time. You do understand?”
Arthur bristles, but before Francis can run to safety, he turns on his heel and storms out of the soundstage, dragging Alfred behind him.
“Ah, l’amour,” Francis sighs, then calls, “One hour! Oh, and someone do check on Elizabeta. She’s likely passed out in the restroom.”
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If you hear weird noises I swear it's not me fapping.
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I can just imagine what the next hour would be like. <''''D
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/love it to eternity
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