fic: having trouble telling how i feel
fic: having trouble telling how i feel
fandom: the social network rpf
pairing: jesse/andrew (i feel ashamed a little bit)
notes: first RPF ever written. i blame these boys. and the fandom's collective tin hat. :D
title is from lykke li's dance dance dance
oh and vaguely written for the exquisite tsn_kinkmeme prompt: "I'd love something about how much Andrew enjoys lavishing Jesse with attention and the way he's always talking about how he likes Jesse's vulnerability. "
Jesse's laughing, on his back on the hotel bed in Baltimore.
Andrew comes in, tongue sticking out as he pours two glasses of water from a plastic pitcher. He hands one to Jesse.
"Drink it, Jesse," he says, mock-sternly. "C'mon, sit up. Hangover free tomorrow. What do we say? We sip water before bed, so we don't hurt our head."
"Our collective head? That's very dystopian of you, Andrew. I refuse to surrender to your groupthink. Drinking water might help your head, but it destroys individuality and free speech!"
"Excuse me for going all 1984 on you," Andrew says, laughing. "I'll just carry on with my aluminum helmet over here, shall I?"
"Your what helmet?" Jesse props himself on his elbows. Yeah, he's gotten used to a lot of weird Briticisms in the months he's known Andrew, but that was just unintelligible. And he's not even that drunk.
"Aluminum!" Andrew repeats, flopping down on the bed next to Jesse. "Al-loo-min-yum."
"Oh my God," Jesse says, and starts laughing. "You just passed Sir Elton John as the most British person of all time." Andrew makes a face at him and then mouthes Elton John?.
They lay there in silence, and Jesse laughs to himself, in that bubbly weird-sounding way he's never been able to control.
Andrew glances at him.
"What?"
"Nothing," Jesse says, giddy and drunk, and he tamps down a smile as Andrew keeps staring at him.
"You're an odd one, Jesse Eisenberg," Andrew says, suddenly thoughtful, and he rolls over and straddles Jesse in one smooth motion.
"What are you-" he breaks off, because Andrew circles his hips once, experimentally, and Jesse's eyes close for a second, and he's hard in his jeans. Which is humiliating, really, because Andrew's on top of him and is also the coolest person he's ever met, probably. He doesn't want to torture people by being hard on or around or, technically, under them. It's not fair to Andrew, because he's the coolest person he's ever - and his mind tuts at him, you thought that already, y'know. Even his conscience sounds a little drunk.
"Andrew, what are-" he tries again, and Andrew puts a finger on his lips.
"Shh, it's alright," he says, still with that grin, and Jesse smiles back because it's physically impossible not to. Scientific experiment: can anyone not smile back at Andrew Garfield? He resolves to begin tests tomorrow- and then Andrew draws the finger all around the outline of Jesse's lips, and lets his calloused thumb rest right in the dip in Jesse's bottom lip.
Jesse exhales shakily, and Andrew looks at him, eyes soft, the way he does on set sometimes when Jesse really nails a take, or trips over his flip-flop, or doesn't get one of Justin's jokes- the way he does when Jesse does pretty much anything.
"Andrew, it's okay." He props himself up on his elbows, and Andrew's hand slips down and cups his jaw. "You don't have to-"
Andrew laughs. "Jesse, Jesus Christ, I don't think you know how much I want this."
Jesse swallows, because it's a little bit like the centerfold from Playboy coming down from the porn clouds and offering herself up. But, wait, no- it's Andrew, and it's dumb that Jesse even thinks of him like that. He's seen Andrew drunk, exhausted, angry at himself after a bad take, sleeping with his mouth open in the car on the way to work. He shouldn't be scared. This logic doesn't stop from feeling it right in the pit of his stomach, though. It never has.
Andrew's hunched over him, and he slips a hand under Jesse's shirt and lets his palm rest, flat, on his stomach. Just keeps it there for a moment, like he's listening for something, and Jesse watches him because it's, again, physically impossible not to. He'd conduct an experiment involving that phenomenon, but he's pretty sure it's only him.
Finally, he slides his hand further, and rubs the tip of his index finger over Jesse's nipple, back and forth, his hand under the shirt like a secret, and Jesse focuses on not thrusting his hips up. Do. Not. Thrust- and he's concentrating so intensely he doesn't even realize Andrew's bent down until he licks a delicate circle around Jesse's belly button.
"Wha-" he gasps, and Andrew lays his palm flat again and looks up at him.
"It's alright," he says, his accent hanging in the air, lilting and sweeter than usual. "Jesse, just relax a bit, yeah?"
Jesse nods frantically, and Andrew puts his head down and smiles against his stomach.
"I should really be discussing this with my therapists right now," Jesse says, trying to sound nonchalant, but Andrew presses his open mouth against his nipple and he fails utterly.
Andrew just grins up at him.
"Should you?"
"I've been trained, you know, it's like Pavlovian- someone tries to have sex with me, and I immediately need to work out the mental shortcomings of that person-"
"I don't want to have sex with you," Andrew says, and oh God, Jesse knew that. How could he. What part of a neurotic Jewfro-ed cat-owning musical theater-loving hermit could actually attract someone like Andrew?
"Nah, I just want to give you a blow job. Lick you up a bit. For now, at least. Is that alright?" He's looking slyly up at Jesse.
"Lick me up?" Jesse says panickedly, and he's so hard it's humiliating. "What does that even mean?" and Andrew laughs.
"Just relax, Jesse, bloody hell."
Jesse can't, he keeps fidgeting, and his whole body's clenched, and Andrew finally sits up, still straddling him, and looks at Jesse with a stern expression that really should not be that attractive.
"Listen. I like you, alright? I want to be here. And I want you, for the next twenty minutes at least, to shut up. Or be quiet. Or, well, make noises, but preferably not anything too coherent. Can you do that for me?"
Jesse nods, and Andrew leans down again, presses his lips gently to the skin beneath Jesse's ear, and God, Andrew's face is so close to his, and he smells like rum and Coke and lemon, and Andrew keeps touching him that way, soft, all over.
Jesse shudders but doesn't say anything when Andrew runs his tongue over Jesse's pulse, and Andrew grins against his neck.
"There we go," he murmurs, sounding satisfied.
Jesse laughs shakily, and it turns into a moan when Andrew pushes his hips down.
"That's good, Jess, that's good," Andrew says, and he unzips Jesse's jeans, puts his palm over Jesse's cock through his- oh God- yes, those are boxers with pink stripes, from his sister.
"Jesus Christ, Andrew."
Andrew grins and puts his open mouth on Jesse's cock, getting the fabric wet, breathing against him.
"Stripes?" he says, and Jesse shudders and starts to say something about accepting family gifts and how he didn't really expect anyone would ever see them-
"Mmhmm, quiet now, love," Andrew says, and pushes Jesse's boxers down.
Jesse closes his eyes because he can't see Andrew's mouth and his own cock in the same frame or he'll throw up and/or come everywhere. Both would be equally horrifying.
Andrew sucks the tip into his mouth, lets it fall out too quickly, and Jesse gasps out a breath.
"You're lovely, Jess," Andrew murmurs, hot, against the crease of hip and thigh, and takes him in again.
Jesse's head thumps back against the mattress, and his hips push up. Andrew presses his thumbs against them to keep him still.
"Easy, Jesse."
Jesse sobs.
"Why don't you open your eyes, look at me, yeah?"
Jesse shakes his head, and Andrew strokes a finger over his balls.
"Look at me, Jess."
Jesse forces his eyes open, and Andrew looks at him for a long moment before he lowers his head again, licks sloppily around the tip.
"Andrew, come on," Jesse says, voice cracking like a twelve year old. "Come on."
"You realize you're lovely, Jess? You see?"
Jesse flexes a desperate hand toward Andrew, like he can make him put Jesse's cock back in his mouth just by that.
"Jesse…" Andrew is looking at him, shaking his head slightly, like he does when Jesse flat-out lies to an interviewer, or blows off a P.A. because he's too far deep in Mark to even think of a thank-you.
"You are an evil person," Jesse says weakly when Andrew puts his hand around Jesse's cock, dips his head and sucks for a second, and then-
"Andrew," in a whisper, his practically non-existent muscles trying valiantly to get Andrew's mouth closer, and then just-
"Andrew. Please."
Andrew draws a whisper-light finger between the curve of his ass cheeks, and Jesse thrusts off the bed.
"All you have to do is ask, love."
"Andrew, please let me come," Jesse says, choking on it, because it's not something people like him say. It sounds pornographic, unabashedly sexual, and Jesse blushes hot even as Andrew lowers his head and sucks in earnest.
He comes in seconds, hips jerking wildly, and Andrew swallows and then strokes a hand gently down Jesse's thigh.
"Mm, you're alright, yeah?"
Jesse just closes his eyes and breathes.
It's always awkward, after someone comes, a sort of expectation or- or feeling of finishing and there's always stilted words, or gestures, or I should go- no, no, I should- Jesse swallows hard. He never thought it'd be awkward with Andrew, and something in him hurts, that it is. Maybe they fucked it up by doing this, lost their easy loose rhythm.
But then Andrew flops himself over Jesse, curls his head into his neck, and throws an arm over Jesse's chest, and Jesse forgot- Andrew's physically incapable of awkwardness.
Jesse breathes out quietly, and Andrew lifts his head, stares straight at him.
"Oh God, assaulted by the Bambi," Jesse says, biting his lip to keep his smile down, and Andrew rolls his eyes, grinning.
"You're gorgeous, Jesse," he says quietly, intimately, and Jesse breathes and tries to let himself accept it. He's been telling himself since he was thirteen years old that he doesn't deserve anything people give him, but when Andrew says it he wants to learn how.
Andrew grins against his neck, kisses the spot behind his ear, and yeah, Andrew will teach him. If anyone can machete-chop their way through the minefield-laced Vietnamese jungle that is Jesse's insecurities, it's Andrew. It's a fucking Herculean task, but hey- he's Spiderman. He can handle it.
fandom: the social network rpf
pairing: jesse/andrew (i feel ashamed a little bit)
notes: first RPF ever written. i blame these boys. and the fandom's collective tin hat. :D
title is from lykke li's dance dance dance
oh and vaguely written for the exquisite tsn_kinkmeme prompt: "I'd love something about how much Andrew enjoys lavishing Jesse with attention and the way he's always talking about how he likes Jesse's vulnerability. "
Jesse's laughing, on his back on the hotel bed in Baltimore.
Andrew comes in, tongue sticking out as he pours two glasses of water from a plastic pitcher. He hands one to Jesse.
"Drink it, Jesse," he says, mock-sternly. "C'mon, sit up. Hangover free tomorrow. What do we say? We sip water before bed, so we don't hurt our head."
"Our collective head? That's very dystopian of you, Andrew. I refuse to surrender to your groupthink. Drinking water might help your head, but it destroys individuality and free speech!"
"Excuse me for going all 1984 on you," Andrew says, laughing. "I'll just carry on with my aluminum helmet over here, shall I?"
"Your what helmet?" Jesse props himself on his elbows. Yeah, he's gotten used to a lot of weird Briticisms in the months he's known Andrew, but that was just unintelligible. And he's not even that drunk.
"Aluminum!" Andrew repeats, flopping down on the bed next to Jesse. "Al-loo-min-yum."
"Oh my God," Jesse says, and starts laughing. "You just passed Sir Elton John as the most British person of all time." Andrew makes a face at him and then mouthes Elton John?.
They lay there in silence, and Jesse laughs to himself, in that bubbly weird-sounding way he's never been able to control.
Andrew glances at him.
"What?"
"Nothing," Jesse says, giddy and drunk, and he tamps down a smile as Andrew keeps staring at him.
"You're an odd one, Jesse Eisenberg," Andrew says, suddenly thoughtful, and he rolls over and straddles Jesse in one smooth motion.
"What are you-" he breaks off, because Andrew circles his hips once, experimentally, and Jesse's eyes close for a second, and he's hard in his jeans. Which is humiliating, really, because Andrew's on top of him and is also the coolest person he's ever met, probably. He doesn't want to torture people by being hard on or around or, technically, under them. It's not fair to Andrew, because he's the coolest person he's ever - and his mind tuts at him, you thought that already, y'know. Even his conscience sounds a little drunk.
"Andrew, what are-" he tries again, and Andrew puts a finger on his lips.
"Shh, it's alright," he says, still with that grin, and Jesse smiles back because it's physically impossible not to. Scientific experiment: can anyone not smile back at Andrew Garfield? He resolves to begin tests tomorrow- and then Andrew draws the finger all around the outline of Jesse's lips, and lets his calloused thumb rest right in the dip in Jesse's bottom lip.
Jesse exhales shakily, and Andrew looks at him, eyes soft, the way he does on set sometimes when Jesse really nails a take, or trips over his flip-flop, or doesn't get one of Justin's jokes- the way he does when Jesse does pretty much anything.
"Andrew, it's okay." He props himself up on his elbows, and Andrew's hand slips down and cups his jaw. "You don't have to-"
Andrew laughs. "Jesse, Jesus Christ, I don't think you know how much I want this."
Jesse swallows, because it's a little bit like the centerfold from Playboy coming down from the porn clouds and offering herself up. But, wait, no- it's Andrew, and it's dumb that Jesse even thinks of him like that. He's seen Andrew drunk, exhausted, angry at himself after a bad take, sleeping with his mouth open in the car on the way to work. He shouldn't be scared. This logic doesn't stop from feeling it right in the pit of his stomach, though. It never has.
Andrew's hunched over him, and he slips a hand under Jesse's shirt and lets his palm rest, flat, on his stomach. Just keeps it there for a moment, like he's listening for something, and Jesse watches him because it's, again, physically impossible not to. He'd conduct an experiment involving that phenomenon, but he's pretty sure it's only him.
Finally, he slides his hand further, and rubs the tip of his index finger over Jesse's nipple, back and forth, his hand under the shirt like a secret, and Jesse focuses on not thrusting his hips up. Do. Not. Thrust- and he's concentrating so intensely he doesn't even realize Andrew's bent down until he licks a delicate circle around Jesse's belly button.
"Wha-" he gasps, and Andrew lays his palm flat again and looks up at him.
"It's alright," he says, his accent hanging in the air, lilting and sweeter than usual. "Jesse, just relax a bit, yeah?"
Jesse nods frantically, and Andrew puts his head down and smiles against his stomach.
"I should really be discussing this with my therapists right now," Jesse says, trying to sound nonchalant, but Andrew presses his open mouth against his nipple and he fails utterly.
Andrew just grins up at him.
"Should you?"
"I've been trained, you know, it's like Pavlovian- someone tries to have sex with me, and I immediately need to work out the mental shortcomings of that person-"
"I don't want to have sex with you," Andrew says, and oh God, Jesse knew that. How could he. What part of a neurotic Jewfro-ed cat-owning musical theater-loving hermit could actually attract someone like Andrew?
"Nah, I just want to give you a blow job. Lick you up a bit. For now, at least. Is that alright?" He's looking slyly up at Jesse.
"Lick me up?" Jesse says panickedly, and he's so hard it's humiliating. "What does that even mean?" and Andrew laughs.
"Just relax, Jesse, bloody hell."
Jesse can't, he keeps fidgeting, and his whole body's clenched, and Andrew finally sits up, still straddling him, and looks at Jesse with a stern expression that really should not be that attractive.
"Listen. I like you, alright? I want to be here. And I want you, for the next twenty minutes at least, to shut up. Or be quiet. Or, well, make noises, but preferably not anything too coherent. Can you do that for me?"
Jesse nods, and Andrew leans down again, presses his lips gently to the skin beneath Jesse's ear, and God, Andrew's face is so close to his, and he smells like rum and Coke and lemon, and Andrew keeps touching him that way, soft, all over.
Jesse shudders but doesn't say anything when Andrew runs his tongue over Jesse's pulse, and Andrew grins against his neck.
"There we go," he murmurs, sounding satisfied.
Jesse laughs shakily, and it turns into a moan when Andrew pushes his hips down.
"That's good, Jess, that's good," Andrew says, and he unzips Jesse's jeans, puts his palm over Jesse's cock through his- oh God- yes, those are boxers with pink stripes, from his sister.
"Jesus Christ, Andrew."
Andrew grins and puts his open mouth on Jesse's cock, getting the fabric wet, breathing against him.
"Stripes?" he says, and Jesse shudders and starts to say something about accepting family gifts and how he didn't really expect anyone would ever see them-
"Mmhmm, quiet now, love," Andrew says, and pushes Jesse's boxers down.
Jesse closes his eyes because he can't see Andrew's mouth and his own cock in the same frame or he'll throw up and/or come everywhere. Both would be equally horrifying.
Andrew sucks the tip into his mouth, lets it fall out too quickly, and Jesse gasps out a breath.
"You're lovely, Jess," Andrew murmurs, hot, against the crease of hip and thigh, and takes him in again.
Jesse's head thumps back against the mattress, and his hips push up. Andrew presses his thumbs against them to keep him still.
"Easy, Jesse."
Jesse sobs.
"Why don't you open your eyes, look at me, yeah?"
Jesse shakes his head, and Andrew strokes a finger over his balls.
"Look at me, Jess."
Jesse forces his eyes open, and Andrew looks at him for a long moment before he lowers his head again, licks sloppily around the tip.
"Andrew, come on," Jesse says, voice cracking like a twelve year old. "Come on."
"You realize you're lovely, Jess? You see?"
Jesse flexes a desperate hand toward Andrew, like he can make him put Jesse's cock back in his mouth just by that.
"Jesse…" Andrew is looking at him, shaking his head slightly, like he does when Jesse flat-out lies to an interviewer, or blows off a P.A. because he's too far deep in Mark to even think of a thank-you.
"You are an evil person," Jesse says weakly when Andrew puts his hand around Jesse's cock, dips his head and sucks for a second, and then-
"Andrew," in a whisper, his practically non-existent muscles trying valiantly to get Andrew's mouth closer, and then just-
"Andrew. Please."
Andrew draws a whisper-light finger between the curve of his ass cheeks, and Jesse thrusts off the bed.
"All you have to do is ask, love."
"Andrew, please let me come," Jesse says, choking on it, because it's not something people like him say. It sounds pornographic, unabashedly sexual, and Jesse blushes hot even as Andrew lowers his head and sucks in earnest.
He comes in seconds, hips jerking wildly, and Andrew swallows and then strokes a hand gently down Jesse's thigh.
"Mm, you're alright, yeah?"
Jesse just closes his eyes and breathes.
It's always awkward, after someone comes, a sort of expectation or- or feeling of finishing and there's always stilted words, or gestures, or I should go- no, no, I should- Jesse swallows hard. He never thought it'd be awkward with Andrew, and something in him hurts, that it is. Maybe they fucked it up by doing this, lost their easy loose rhythm.
But then Andrew flops himself over Jesse, curls his head into his neck, and throws an arm over Jesse's chest, and Jesse forgot- Andrew's physically incapable of awkwardness.
Jesse breathes out quietly, and Andrew lifts his head, stares straight at him.
"Oh God, assaulted by the Bambi," Jesse says, biting his lip to keep his smile down, and Andrew rolls his eyes, grinning.
"You're gorgeous, Jesse," he says quietly, intimately, and Jesse breathes and tries to let himself accept it. He's been telling himself since he was thirteen years old that he doesn't deserve anything people give him, but when Andrew says it he wants to learn how.
Andrew grins against his neck, kisses the spot behind his ear, and yeah, Andrew will teach him. If anyone can machete-chop their way through the minefield-laced Vietnamese jungle that is Jesse's insecurities, it's Andrew. It's a fucking Herculean task, but hey- he's Spiderman. He can handle it.