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[redfirecracker]

FIC: When You're Mine ( RPS: MR / TW )

Title: When You're Mine
Author: Redheaded Firecracker
Fandom: RPS ( MR / TW )
Genre: PWP
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Utterly plotless porn. In fact, it pretty much lacked even continuity until CJ got hold of it. Also, if RPS offends you, don't bother reading this.

Author's Notes: Written, almost exclusively, to Lifehouse's "Hanging By A Moment". Why, I do not know. I think I'll blame Thamiris, since this story is really her fault, too. In, you know, a good way.



Mike doesn't care what anyone else says: Tom Welling is a fucking cocktease.

"Stupid bitch," he says aloud, only it doesn't sound right, not when it's gasped and moaned like an endearment, like the word is being squeezed through his fingers the same way he's squeezing his cock.

He jerks faster, and whispers, "That's it. Right . . . there. Fuck your . . . goddamned *pretty* mouth."

Mike comes, and he's not sure whether what he just said was a curse or a promise.

He sighs, and wipes himself down with his t-shirt. His skin is still smooth from the last wax job. It's lasted longer, this time.

Mike hates hiatus.

It's boring, and he doesn't do boring very well. A lot of people tell Mike that he has ADHD, and maybe he does, because he's always running off at the mouth or off the set or just generally off.

He doesn't really have a life.

Unlike Tom, who's movie-star glamorous even if he *is* only a little smarter than a bag of hammers, who goes home every night to his gorgeous wife and his tidy, beautiful life, full of premieres and poses that he's too fucking dumb to realize mean nothing except the Hollywood machine in action.

Mike wants to tell him that he's a goddamned idiot, wants Tom to see that the only thing real is the way Mike feels about him, but Mike *can't* and Tom *won't* and it just pisses him off, so he's done with the thought for now.

He thinks about taking a shower, but it seems like a waste of time. He doesn't have anywhere to go, or anyone to see.

Mike doesn't celebrate Christmas, never cared about Hanukkah, and isn't particularly lonely, but he really wants to spend the holidays with someone who's nuts about him instead of the other way around.

He wonders about calling Tom and seeing what he's doing, but then it hits him, that he's been sitting half-naked in the living room for the last ten minutes, pondering the meaning of life while clutching a come-stained t-shirt in one hand.

Mike shakes his head and laughs because it's all too funny, really, and any minute now, he's going to wake up and be back in his trailer, drooling on his script with pages sticking to his cheek.

He zips up his jeans before slouching against the back of the couch and wads the used t-shirt into a ball, eyeing the bathroom door with some consideration. Maybe he could score the hamper from here. Would that be two points, or three?

It doesn't matter, because he misses completely and drops his head back against the cushions with an aggrieved sigh.

God, he's bored.

The knock at the door should be a surprise but isn't, and when the very object of his thoughts walks in, Mike knows for sure that he's dreaming.

Except that Tom looks really pissed at him. And that's not part of the fantasy, not at all.

And didn't he lock that door last night?

Maybe not. He was a little . . . under the influence.

"You're late," Tom snaps, bringing Mike back to the present. "Again."

"Dude," Mike says helplessly. "What are you doing here?"

Part of him, the part that's totally controlled by his cock, which twitches in interest far too soon, hopes that Tom will announce some sudden and insane need to suck Mike dry, but he's pretty sure that's not actually going to happen.

Tom rolls his pretty green eyes. God, no man should have eyes like that. Lashes like that. Mouth like that. Whatever. "Golf. You. Me. Sound familiar?"

And how fucked is it that Mike's first thought is that 'golf' is some new euphemism for 'sex'?

Tom Welling, color high and angry in his cheeks, chest straining the buttons of his shirt, looks good enough to eat. Mike's pretty sure he could do that, just drop to his knees and unbutton those too-tight jeans that show off what a sweet, sweet ass the guy has and just eat him up.

Mike really wants to be drunk right now. It's easy enough to say outrageous things on set, just to see Tom blush and scuff his feet.

Even easier to make a game of it all for the tabloids, watching photographers fall all over themselves for the just-this-side-of-appropriate pictures that Mike loves to pose for.

Somehow, it's not as easy as it should be when Tom's standing here in Mike's apartment, larger than life and twice as pretty.

"It's not a lot to ask that you be on time for once, you know," Tom continues in that slow thoughtful way he has sometimes, like he has to remember lines that he's memorized. "What were you doing, jerking off?"

And Mike, the quicksilver magpie, is caught utterly flatfooted, mouth hanging open like he's waiting for words or maybe a cock to fill it.

Tom doesn't smile, but he does step closer. "You were, weren't you?" he asks, and his voice drops to a new level, soft and low, a timbre Mike's never heard before. "Were you thinking about me?"

Mike closes his mouth with a snap, because this isn't how anything ever goes.

Tom's never the one who makes the jokes, it's always Mike and his flamboyant sexuality and questionable taste and his need to push the envelope just a little bit further, find out how far out he can skate on what ought to be thin ice.

"Up yours, Welling," Mike manages. As a response it's lacking teeth, but he's proud of himself for making his voice sound like something better than a breathless squeak.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Tom asks, still with the straight face and the warm tone that's going right to Mike's cock.

Mike's brain is reviving now, back on familiar ground, making extreme comments just to get a rise out of big, dumb Tom. "Sure. Drop those jeans and bend over."

Tom stares at Mike's bare chest like he's never seen it before, and licks his lips. "Let's go into the bedroom," he suggests.

Mike rises obediently without even realizing that he's going to do it, dazed by the possibility of seeing Tom in his bedroom. God, this is going to provide jerkoff material for fucking *years*.

"Why?" he asks hoarsely as they move down the short hallway, Tom's hips switching like he knows just how much Mike likes the view.

Tom flips on the light switch and his blinding grin at the same time, turning to face Mike as he does both. Multitasking like the best, and if Mike didn't know that Tom couldn't fucking walk and chew gum at the same time, he'd be less impressed.

"To get you a shirt," Tom says, like it should be obvious.

Oh, fuck you very much, Mike thinks.

Prick.

Tom Welling is *such* a fucking *cocktease*.

Even more so when he's unbuttoning his own goddamned shirt, and -

"What the *fuck*?"

Tom's smiling like he just had his teeth fixed, except that he hasn't, because Mike can still see those vampire fangs of his. "Come on," he coaxes. "It's nothing you haven't seen before, right?"

Jackass writers. Yeah, Mike's seen it, enough so that he's been dreaming about it for two years with embarrassing regularity.

Still doesn't explain why Tom is fucking *stripping* in Mike's bedroom, and what was all that crap about *Mike* being the one who needed a shirt?

Tom's big hands are at Mike's waist, about three-and-a-half seconds from finding out just what Mike thinks about all day when he's alone and bored with only himself for company.

He twists out of reach and trips over the laundry pile that he hasn't gotten around to sending out yet, lands face down on the unmade bed with a force that knocks the breath from his lungs.

When Mike rolls over a couple of seconds later, Tom's standing, pretty much looming over him, big and gorgeous and naked.

Naked.

And hard.

Mike's eyeballs pop along with his cock, and he wants to say something witty and appropriate to the situation, but all he can come up with is, "Tom. I didn't know you cared."

If Tom wasn't totally straight and totally married, Mike might actually believe that the object of his fantasies was coming on to him.

As it is, he can't think of a damned thing to say that isn't just about guaranteed to kill any possibility of this going further, because he still can't shake the sneaking suspicion that this is some kind of really sick joke, that Tom's somehow figured out that it's him Mike's been crushing on all this time and not Kristen at all.

The pretty face twists with anger, or maybe hurt, and Mike's always sucked at understanding people, but he's finally getting the idea that it might not be a bad time to start trying.

"You're so dumb," Tom breathes. He has one hand on his cock, the way you do when it hurts *not* to touch it. "Teasing me for two years . . . the way you walk, the things you say, Mike!"

Mike blinks, very slowly, as a naked Tom drops onto the bed beside him and fumbles again at the waistband of his jeans.

And it's more proof that this is some hell of a kind of dream, or maybe that he's still sort of high from that stuff he had last night, because of course he says something unbelievably dumb, like, "Stop."

Tom freezes in place and his hands fall away.

Mike starts to curse, because he's fucked this up before it's even really started, and when was the last time that all his dreams came true?

Well, you know, other than that phone call from his agent about the part . . . and this is exactly the sort of useless background noise that his brain provides when Mike's facing the realization of all his secret fantasies.

He lays back and unzips. "Do it, Tommy," he whispers, and he doesn't even recognize his own voice. It's so soft and full of longing, like he's being promised something he knows for a fact he can't possibly have.

And Tom lights up like a kid on Christmas day, like there's a truck under the tree and a pony in the back yard and miles of candy to be found in his stocking.

Mike's pretty sure that he's never seen anyone smile like that at him. Nobody's ever looked that thrilled just at the prospect of sex with Mike.

He's not *that* hot, after all, and he knows it.

Tom slides off the bed with only slightly more grace than he usually displays on set, a muffled thump as his knees hit the carpet, big hands tugging and pulling on Mike's jeans like there's a present there just for him.

Mike leans up on his elbows to watch him, huge and so, so fucking beautiful between Mike's thighs, gasping as Tom presses kisses to each knee.

He doesn't know how it happens, but his left hand is stroking Tom's soft, dark hair, tracing those gorgeous cheekbones, slipping two fingers past those cherry lips as his jeans and shorts are pulled free of his feet and tossed carelessly away.

It's seconds too long before Tom crawls back up, heavy on him for a too-brief moment before he slides to one side and kind of curls around and over him. Their heights are closer than they look from a distance or in the photographs, and anyway, they're lying down, so it's not too much of a stretch for Mike to kiss that mouth he's been dreaming about.

His fingers are still damp from Tom's lips, and he rubs them across golden skin as they kiss, shiny silver trails tracing patterns that shouldn't have meaning, but do anyway, all the things he wants to say and can't quite manage to declare.

Part of Mike's still wondering when he's going to wake up, but it's largely drowned out by the sound of Tom humming contentedly into his mouth.

The buzz travels along his nerves, sings its way to his cock, and there is just no fucking way that Mike can possibly be this hard, this soon. He's over thirty, after all, and there *is* such a thing as a refractory period.

But apparently his dick hasn't gotten the memo about that, because it's happily saluting and Tom's rubbing against him like he thinks maybe he could move in and share Mike's skin.

"So fucking sweet," Mike mutters when Tom's lips migrate across his jaw to his throat, biting lightly. The responsive yell of pleasure is a little undignified, but Mike forgives himself for the noise when Tom lifts his head and that candy-apple grin flashes, dazzlingly bright, before he nips at Mike's shoulder.

For revenge, Mike reaches down and takes hold of Tom's cock, stroking as slow and as satisfying as he can, listening in something like a daze to the low sighs and moans that fill his ears.

Tom stretches, needy and restless beneath his hand, and it seems like the most natural thing in the world for Mike to roll above him and settle into the valley between his thighs.

He thrusts a few times, hard against Tom's belly, slipping a little in the wetness from his cock, which is doing everything short of weeping and begging for a mouth or maybe something more.

Tom is writhing beneath him in this really sexy way that is so much more appealing when *he* does it than when various women have tried that move over the years.

Maybe it's because Mike has his hand on Tom's cock, and he can *feel* just how hard Tom is, how much he wants this.

How much he wants Mike.

And wow, doesn't that thought just send a shockwave of pleasure through Mike's nervous system?

Tom *wants* him.

The most beautiful man he's ever seen, the guy he's been panting over and fantasizing about and coming close to throwing himself at for two fucking years now . . . yeah, that's the same guy who's sweating and moaning like he's dying beneath Mike's body.

"God, Tommy," Mike whispers, more than a little awed at the thoughts running through his crazy, out-of-control, hamster-on-a-wheel brain. "I want to fuck you so bad!"

Tom throws his head back and grabs Mike's ass with one hand, pulling him in so tight that for a moment, it's almost like they really are sharing one body, even though that's physically impossible and so stupidly romantic that Mike feels ashamed for thinking it.

"Do it," Tom moans. "I want you to. I've been waiting for you to want it, too."

Mike starts laughing, dropping his head and rubbing his face against the five o'clock shadow that Tom starts sporting as early as high noon.

He's laughing because if he doesn't, he might do something incredibly girly like start crying, because he can't believe that all this time, he was waiting for someone who was waiting for him.

So maybe Tom's not the stupid one, after all.

Maybe it's Mike who's been stupid, all this time, when he could have been having all this, and instead was jerking off to pretty mental pictures of the prettiest guy he's ever seen.

Tom stiffens beneath him, and not in the good way, and Mike looks up to check his face and gets that, yeah, Tom's pissed again.

Mike gives him a long, slow, thorough kiss, until Tom relaxes again and the arm around his neck feels more like Mike's being held and less like he's being strangled.

"Tommy, I've been waiting for you for two fucking years," he says, without thinking about it, because if he thought about it he'd never get it out.

The skinny, ugly, insecure kid that he was in high school still shows up at the worst times, making him trip over his tongue and push people away when what he really wants to do is pull them closer.

He's learned from experience that the only way to beat that kid is let whatever comes into his head flow right out of his mouth.

Tom's the one laughing now, and this close, Mike can see how his eyes sparkle, like Mike's told an especially good joke. His smile is ridiculously pert. "Mike," he says, serious and especially pretty, "I thought it was all me."

Mike stares at him. "You think I say the kind of shit I do to you, to just *anybody*?"

"Well, you do," Tom points out, quite reasonably.

"Do not." Now *he's* the one that's pissed.

Before he can say anything else, Tom grabs his head and pulls him into a kiss that pretty much sets his head spinning. Whatever Mike was mad about doesn't seem to matter anymore, although he might bring it up again in the morning. Afternoon. Evening. Whatever.

"Fuck me, Mikey," Tom whispers when he finally pulls his tongue back behind his own teeth.

Mike doesn't even mind the diminutive of his name. In fact, he's pretty sure that hearing Tom say it makes his toes curl. "Okay," he pants, and pushes himself to his knees, cursing his inability to think with anything other than his screamingly unsatisfied cock. "Uh . . . we need . . . stuff. I think. Right?"

He's never done this, not even with a girl, but it seems like there should be a certain amount of preparation that's necessary.

Tom sits up and shrugs. "Dunno," he mutters. "It's not like I've done this before."

Mike pauses in mid-motion, reaching to rummage through the drawer of the bedside table. "Wait a minute - you've never? Ever?"

Tom seems unduly fascinated with the rumpled sheets, and doesn't say anything.

Mike sits back on his heels, unutterably floored. Everything he'd thought this was going to be has just taken a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn.

"But what about . . ." he begins lamely, and then trails off, at a surprising loss for words, because what could he say that wouldn't sound brutally callous and pretty damned stupid as well?

Tom flashes him a look and shakes the too-long hair out of his eyes. Tom never shaves or cuts his hair when he's on hiatus, or during summer break for that matter. "I know what you're thinking, and yeah. I've . . . you know. Sucked off a few guys. You kind of have to, to get anywhere in modeling."

Mike feels his eyes widen at the bluntness of what Tom says, and the words sting, deep down in the part of him that was enjoying pretending that neither one of them had ever done much more with other men than a bit of drunken fumbling in the dark.

He's unaccountably angry now, somehow feeling like he's been misled, but Tom's talking again, and Mike stops being a drama queen inside his own head for long enough to listen.

"But anything else? I never have. I guess I was . . . well, I was kind of waiting for you. Only I didn't really know that it was you I was waiting for. Until it *was* you, and you're here now, and I really want you to do it. To me."

Mike's pretty sure that Tom's whole speech just came out of "The Clark Kent Book of Babblings", but that doesn't change the warm glow he gets from hearing it.

"Jesus Christ, Tommy," he breathes, and can't stop himself from just *attacking* that kiss-swollen mouth again.

This time, he doesn't stop, working his way down Tom's throat to his chest, sucking at a hard nipple to see if maybe it'll make Tom shout, scraping a thumbnail across the other when it does.

Kisses on his hipbones make Tom writhe, and nails scratched down the insides of his thighs make him moan.

Mike keeps himself from coming by cataloguing each of these responses for some time in the future, although he's actually pretty much scared to death that he'll never have another chance to do this and it'll be jerkoff marathons for the rest of his natural life.

He runs his tongue along the tender skin in the crease of Tom's knee, and follows it with a bite, holding firmly against the expected jerk of reaction as he sucks a mark onto the sleek golden skin.

Tom moans some more, the volume louder now, like he's really starting to lose it. "Oh, God, Mikey, please!" he says, barely coherent. "Fuck me, fuck me now!"

"Not yet," Mike mutters. "Gonna do this, first."

And he rises up, catches Tom's eyes with his and holds his gaze as he takes the head of his cock into his mouth, as wet and sloppy as he can, just wanting the taste of it more than anything at that moment.

Tom . . . well, he *shrieks*. Like a girl, this thin, rising wail of a sound, and he thrusts so deep that Mike chokes and pulls away to cough. A lot. In fact, he can't seem to *stop* coughing, and maybe it's actually because he's only just now getting the fact that he actually went down on another guy.

Kind of late to be thinking about *that*, though, and anyway . . . it's not just *any* guy. It's Tom, and that makes all the difference.

Which makes Mike even angrier at himself, because even though it's a really dumb thing to be mad about, he's pissed off as hell, now, because if this is only going to be a memory, he wants it to be perfect, and his own stupid body just ruined it.

When he can speak, he starts cursing, of course, and Tom pets his face. "Mike," he says, slow and deliberate like he really *needs* Mike to understand this, "you get that this is only our *first* time, right? We don't have to . . . you know. Do *everything* today."

Mike swallows a couple of times, and he'd swear in any court in the country that it was only to clear the lingering gag reflex. He opens his mouth to say, "Yeah," but Tom's not done speaking.

"I mean . . . I get that you're worried. You know. About me being *married* and everything, but she and I . . . it's not anything you have to worry about. She's got her thing, and now I . . . well, we've got this. Right?"

Mike's agog. Tom's actually *talked* about him? About wanting to have sex with him? With his *wife*?

That's way too many question marks for Mike right now, especially considering the way his cock is fucking *screaming* for something warm and tight around it.

So Mike just nods and agrees. "Right," he says, and if it comes out sounding a little hoarse, he can always blame it on the coughing.

Tom lies back against the pillows, and his grin is bright enough to outshine the rays of sunlight that are trickling in through the partially-open blinds.

The dust motes are dancing in that same light, and Mike thinks that he really needs to see about a regular housekeeper.

And there goes his fucking idiot brain again.

He reaches out, more carefully this time, and strokes Tom's chest. Leans down and kisses him when he sighs with pleasure, because this is going to *mean* something, damn it, and Mike's not going to fuck it up by rushing things along.

Tom shifts again, pushing up into Mike's palm, and Mike gets that Tom really loves having his nipples teased. He can feel it in the rapid heartbeat beneath his fingers, the slide of sweat-slick skin against his hip.

"Mine," Mike whispers when he breaks the kiss to stare down into that gorgeous, passion-flushed face. "So fucking pretty when you're mine."

Tom makes this funny keening sound in response and starts his own tactile exploration. Those big hands are traveling over Mike's shoulders and down his arms, finding erogenous zones he didn't know he had: the bend of his elbow, the pale skin inside his wrist.

Mike's pretty much shaking with pleasure by the time Tom's tongue follows, and he's starting to wonder how good his self-control really is as he pushes his cock against Tom's thigh.

"God damn it," he swears ruefully. "Fuck, Tommy - you make me so *fucking* hard for you."

Tom looks as brightly happy as a kid at a carnival, but his green eyes are dark with very adult wanting, and he wriggles beneath Mike, lifting his hips like he needs Mike's cock just as badly as Mike needs to give it to him.

"Come on," Tom breathes into his ear, following the words with a lick and a nibble. "I'm ready, Mike -- I'm really ready for you."

Mike exhales slowly, nodding agreement, and gives Tom's cock a quick squeeze, like a promise, before he rises to his knees and reaches for the nightstand drawer, finding lube on the first try, this time.

Tom awards him a crooked little grin, almost like applause, for his success, and draws up his legs, knees bent and widespread. He's stroking his own cock, very lightly, and Mike's mouth is suddenly dry at the sight.

He clears his throat and manages, "God. I'm going to fuck you so hard."

Tom whimpers, and squeezes his dick like Mike's voice is enough to make him come. He reaches for the bottle of lube and pours some into Mike's hand, then tosses the stuff aside and reels Mike in to lie above him.

Mike's not sure how they accomplish it, but between two sets of hands, some trial and error, and a lot of slippery liquid, Tom somehow doesn't scream in anything like pain when Mike presses into him, even though Mike thinks maybe he should.

"Oh, Christ, Tommy," he hears himself whisper, like he can't believe his own good fortune. "You feel so good . . . so fucking good, it fucking hurts to be inside you."

Tom just moans and clutches Mike's ass, pulling him in, heels digging into the mattress as he pushes up against him. His only words are things like *more* and *now* and *touch me*.

Mike is completely incapable of figuring out how he's supposed to do all of the above simultaneously, so he kisses Tom quickly and pulls back a little. "Do yourself," he says raggedly. "Come on, do it, show me what it takes . . . I wanna see you come, Tommy."

Tom cries out and reaches for his cock, jerking fast and frantic like there's just no more holding back.

Mike can't decide where to look, so he tries to watch everywhere at once and almost misses it when Tom's pretty, flushed face crumples and he starts to come, yelling Mike's name and bucking up like this is the best thing ever.

Tom's so fucking hot and tight around him, and he's still moving, too, so gorgeous when he's giving it all up, just for Mike, just for him, and he wants it to last forever, but it's not going to it's not -

Exploding stars in the bright darkness and a low voice saying softly, "That's it, just for me, love you when you're mine."

Mike's pretty sure his heart is trying to hammer its way out of his chest, so he just lies on top of Tom and pants for a while.

They both curse when he starts to slip free, but Tom pulls him into a kiss that makes it a little better, somehow.

It's the easiest thing ever to just lie there, kissing softly and stroking each other lightly. So easy that Mike starts to doze off, and just as he's slipping away, he's struck by a very odd thought.

"Tommy?" Mike says, wondering.

Tom turns his head, nuzzles Mike's shoulder. "Mmm?"

"Weren't we supposed to go golfing *tomorrow*?"

THE END

Now, as I was saying, please give me feedback. Because I really, really, really need it. Thank you.

ETA: Stupid LJ ate my story last night on first post. I finally took out just about all the formatting and reposted. It seems to be working, now.