[FIC] RPF: Watch/ing
I think this is my first RPF fic without Sean. (Though uh, he sneaks in a mention.) I think this is just an excuse to write Ian because I have been wanting to do so for a really long time by now... Aha.
In any case. Hobbit fic! And it is porn, no less. This is all noalinnea's fault.
(No, this is not the epic I was talking about. That one is not even half-done yet ahahahhaa I take forever to write Tolkien FPF.)
Watch/ing
Characters/Pairing: Richard Armitage/Ian McKellen
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~1585
Disclaimer: Didn’t happen, a product of imagination.
Summary: There’s something Richard wants. There’s something Ian likes. Written for Porn Battle XIV for the prompt: Richard Armitage/Ian McKellen, voyeur, voice, exhibitionism, self play, toys, spanking, butt plug. I managed four out of seven.
Ian sits upon the sofa, a glass of red wine in his hand. Even in an anonymous hotel room in the middle of London, there was no mistaking Ian's class and breeding. Though, Richard had to wonder how much of it was feigned - the last he heard, Ian was Yorkshire-born and -bred, with an accent as broad as Sean Bean's when he let loose. But like this, sitting with his ankles neatly crossed, sipping at his wine, Richard couldn't imagine Ian being anything else but a gentleman.
"Are you going to stare at me all night?"
Ian's voice was like silk. Or perhaps that was his hand, because the older man had moved so quickly and his hand was suddenly underneath Richard's chin, lifting his face up and looking straight into his eyes. Richard shivered again, his breath tumbling out like dominoes unexpectedly tripped. He bit his lip, licked them, and Ian drew his thumb over the plush flesh. “Or are you going to tell me what you want?”
There was etiquette about this, Richard knew. Certain rules. Certain words, certain situations, certain ways of asking, certain people to ask and others to avoid at all costs. He had heard enough on the grapevine to know that Ian’s preferences surprisingly matched his own, and they had a good dinner beforehand. It was almost like a date, but now Richard found himself lost in a hotel room, his hands clumsy, his eyes scrambling, not knowing how to look.
The bed was clean. Large, with clean linens, for Ian had his standards and Richard was no longer a circus worker with a miniscule budget. He made his feet move. One step, two, and his foot hit against the bed. A knee bent, and he turned around to look at Ian again, lips parted, breath quickening. His heart was pounding in his chest and Richard knew without looking down that he was giving himself away. Tugging on his tie, he removed it, and handed it over to Ian.
Silk ran over Ian’s skin like he was born to handle it, like a gentleman. Or a tailor, Richard thought inanely, and he looked down and opened the first button of his shirt. The second, third, before Ian’s hand stopped him and shifted Richard’s hand down to the last one. Shirt on, then. He slipped out that button. The leather of his belt made a crackling sound, loud in the silence of the room, and he let it drop to the floor.
“Your pants, my dear boy,” Ian said. Richard nodded and pulled them off, folded them neatly and placed them in Ian’s hands. Thumbs hooked over his boxers and he knew that he was blushing when he pulled them off - strange, the kind of embarrassment a person felt, even when he had asked for this.
He stretched out on the bed. The linens were cool on his skin and Richard arched. His eyes were open on Ian, watching the older man as he drew Richard’s tie over his nose, his mouth, taking a long, deep breath. Ian was sitting on the armchair just opposite the bed, and his ankles finally uncrossed, his legs splaying out in a move that would be obscene if not for his natural grace, and Richard’s breath hitched. And it hitched again at the sound of Ian’s zip being pulled down, the scent of Ian’s sex mixing in the air with his own.
“You have beautiful hands,” Ian said. Richard nodded, and stroked one hand down his own body, against the abs that frequent workouts for the movie had given him. He closed around his own erection, his tongue darting out, peeking outwards like the cheeky, teasing creature, and he bit down on it.
“I’m not here to watch a muted show,” Ian murmured, amusement twining around his words. Richard closed his eyes for the briefest moments and nodded, his fingers stroking upwards, finding the head of his cock and swirling around it, his thumb dipping into the slit. When he moaned, it was a full, throaty sound, loud enough to echo, beating against the closed door and the walls hard enough for Richard to nearly feel it.
He had always been a performer. Born to it and lived it, and there was nothing that heated his blood more than this - the burn of Ian’s eyes upon his own, the harsh notes of Ian’s exhales. Richard’s hand closed around the linens as he arched up, shuddering, and he could feel Ian’s gaze like a candle’s caress on his skin, crawling up from the inside of his thighs around his cock as he stroked.
When he opened his eyes, Ian had his tie pressed against his nose. Richard changed the way he usually sprayed his cologne, just for tonight, and he knew what Ian was smelling; could taste it in the air from his own shirt. He brought his hand up, tasting the bitterness of his own precome on the callused tips. Let it mix it with the cologne.
“Ian,” he moaned. “Ian.”
“There’s lube on the nightstand, Richard,” Ian said, and his words were jerky, choppy things, the caressing waterfall of his words turned into rapids. “Take it out.”
Richard let his eyes slip shut again. He reached out blindly, finding the nightstand with his hand, pulling it open. Lube, and he snapped open the bottle, pouring out the cold liquid on his fingers, on the bedsheets, and he stroked his hands through the wet spot, the physical sign of his own decadence, and he moaned.
“I will touch you from your thighs onwards. Just dry fingers around the insides. You have magnificent thighs, Richard, have anyone ever told you that?”
“No,” Richard breathed. He followed instructions. If he sank deeper into Ian’s voice, he could believe the broad fingers on his skin were Ian’s thinner ones. His fingertips find his own entrance, almost pressing in-
“Not yet,” Ian breathed. “Not yet. I don’t move that quickly, my dear boy. You have to learn to slow down. Savour the sensations, mm?”
Richard bit his lip and stopped his hand. His other stroked himself again, from base to tip, and he almost whined.
“I will circle around your entrance. Has anyone touched you this way, Richard?” Richard shook his head. There was a reason, a very good one, why he preferred it like this, but it was too far away and his mind was too fogged for him to recall it. “I would tease you, over and over, with just my wet fingers inside your hole.”
Richard whined. Arched his back and did as he was bid, two fingers circling himself, over and over. Even as his body ached for more, his wrist remained obedient.
“Inside. Just the tips. Slowly.”
He pressed in, the tip of his fingers, feeling his own heat, tightness, and somehow it was Ian’s fingers still, invading him like this, and he cried out, his body jerking. Ian’s voice was like a river of soft flames, washing over him, over and over, until his skin prickled with heat and he stroked himself even faster.
"Ian, I- I’m going to--”
The bedsprings creaked in punctuation to a sentence he couldn’t finish. Richard moaned, throwing his head back, but his fingers remained in place.
“Open your eyes, Richard,” Ian murmured. “Look at me.”
Richard opened his eyes. Ian’s eyes appeared above his, brilliant blue that burned, and his cock was so close, so very close to Richard’s mouth. He turned his head but his body refused to obey, but he kept his eyes on Ian’s, kept their gazes locked even as Ian grabbed hold of his wrist and pushed Richard’s fingers inside. Richard gasped, his voice a rough, incoherent thing, and his fingers crooked without his mind’s consent, finding his prostate immediately and he jerked hard on the bed.
“Ian, please!”
“Almost,” Ian said, and his hand had moved to stroke against Richard’s cheek. Richard could hear him, the soft familiar sounds of a hand moving over an erection quickly, desperation, and he closed his eyes as he felt Ian’s release paint his cheek, his nose, his eyelids.
“You can.”
Richard’s hand twisted on his own cock, and that was all that he needed. He cried out sharply, his hips thrusting upwards, and when he came he felt his come paint his own skin - his thighs, his stomach, and he darted his tongue out to taste Ian’s come that had splattered on his lip. His orgasm wrenched something inside him, leaving him gasping, blinded, aware of nothing but the feel of Ian’s eyes on him, Ian’s come on his skin.
There was a thumb stroking over his cheek, and Richard parted his lips to welcome it into his mouth. He tasted salt, and bitterness, and he licked the thumb clean before he opened his eyes. There was white edging the corner of his vision, but Ian took up all of it.
“Perhaps you should find a video camera, Richard,” Ian murmured, his thumb gently stroking against one of Richard’s eyelids, then another. “Then perhaps, next time, someone might be able to touch you.”
Months ago, when Cate first came in for principal shooting, she told Richard laughingly that Ian was like the wizard he played, because he had a talent for seeing through people. Richard stared now as Ian darted his tongue out and licked at his own thumb, his eyes piercing on Richard’s own.
“Maybe,” Richard said, his voice hoarse. He licked his lips again, savouring salt and bitter. “If it’s your touch.”
End
In any case. Hobbit fic! And it is porn, no less. This is all noalinnea's fault.
(No, this is not the epic I was talking about. That one is not even half-done yet ahahahhaa I take forever to write Tolkien FPF.)
Watch/ing
Characters/Pairing: Richard Armitage/Ian McKellen
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~1585
Disclaimer: Didn’t happen, a product of imagination.
Summary: There’s something Richard wants. There’s something Ian likes. Written for Porn Battle XIV for the prompt: Richard Armitage/Ian McKellen, voyeur, voice, exhibitionism, self play, toys, spanking, butt plug. I managed four out of seven.
Ian sits upon the sofa, a glass of red wine in his hand. Even in an anonymous hotel room in the middle of London, there was no mistaking Ian's class and breeding. Though, Richard had to wonder how much of it was feigned - the last he heard, Ian was Yorkshire-born and -bred, with an accent as broad as Sean Bean's when he let loose. But like this, sitting with his ankles neatly crossed, sipping at his wine, Richard couldn't imagine Ian being anything else but a gentleman.
"Are you going to stare at me all night?"
Ian's voice was like silk. Or perhaps that was his hand, because the older man had moved so quickly and his hand was suddenly underneath Richard's chin, lifting his face up and looking straight into his eyes. Richard shivered again, his breath tumbling out like dominoes unexpectedly tripped. He bit his lip, licked them, and Ian drew his thumb over the plush flesh. “Or are you going to tell me what you want?”
There was etiquette about this, Richard knew. Certain rules. Certain words, certain situations, certain ways of asking, certain people to ask and others to avoid at all costs. He had heard enough on the grapevine to know that Ian’s preferences surprisingly matched his own, and they had a good dinner beforehand. It was almost like a date, but now Richard found himself lost in a hotel room, his hands clumsy, his eyes scrambling, not knowing how to look.
The bed was clean. Large, with clean linens, for Ian had his standards and Richard was no longer a circus worker with a miniscule budget. He made his feet move. One step, two, and his foot hit against the bed. A knee bent, and he turned around to look at Ian again, lips parted, breath quickening. His heart was pounding in his chest and Richard knew without looking down that he was giving himself away. Tugging on his tie, he removed it, and handed it over to Ian.
Silk ran over Ian’s skin like he was born to handle it, like a gentleman. Or a tailor, Richard thought inanely, and he looked down and opened the first button of his shirt. The second, third, before Ian’s hand stopped him and shifted Richard’s hand down to the last one. Shirt on, then. He slipped out that button. The leather of his belt made a crackling sound, loud in the silence of the room, and he let it drop to the floor.
“Your pants, my dear boy,” Ian said. Richard nodded and pulled them off, folded them neatly and placed them in Ian’s hands. Thumbs hooked over his boxers and he knew that he was blushing when he pulled them off - strange, the kind of embarrassment a person felt, even when he had asked for this.
He stretched out on the bed. The linens were cool on his skin and Richard arched. His eyes were open on Ian, watching the older man as he drew Richard’s tie over his nose, his mouth, taking a long, deep breath. Ian was sitting on the armchair just opposite the bed, and his ankles finally uncrossed, his legs splaying out in a move that would be obscene if not for his natural grace, and Richard’s breath hitched. And it hitched again at the sound of Ian’s zip being pulled down, the scent of Ian’s sex mixing in the air with his own.
“You have beautiful hands,” Ian said. Richard nodded, and stroked one hand down his own body, against the abs that frequent workouts for the movie had given him. He closed around his own erection, his tongue darting out, peeking outwards like the cheeky, teasing creature, and he bit down on it.
“I’m not here to watch a muted show,” Ian murmured, amusement twining around his words. Richard closed his eyes for the briefest moments and nodded, his fingers stroking upwards, finding the head of his cock and swirling around it, his thumb dipping into the slit. When he moaned, it was a full, throaty sound, loud enough to echo, beating against the closed door and the walls hard enough for Richard to nearly feel it.
He had always been a performer. Born to it and lived it, and there was nothing that heated his blood more than this - the burn of Ian’s eyes upon his own, the harsh notes of Ian’s exhales. Richard’s hand closed around the linens as he arched up, shuddering, and he could feel Ian’s gaze like a candle’s caress on his skin, crawling up from the inside of his thighs around his cock as he stroked.
When he opened his eyes, Ian had his tie pressed against his nose. Richard changed the way he usually sprayed his cologne, just for tonight, and he knew what Ian was smelling; could taste it in the air from his own shirt. He brought his hand up, tasting the bitterness of his own precome on the callused tips. Let it mix it with the cologne.
“Ian,” he moaned. “Ian.”
“There’s lube on the nightstand, Richard,” Ian said, and his words were jerky, choppy things, the caressing waterfall of his words turned into rapids. “Take it out.”
Richard let his eyes slip shut again. He reached out blindly, finding the nightstand with his hand, pulling it open. Lube, and he snapped open the bottle, pouring out the cold liquid on his fingers, on the bedsheets, and he stroked his hands through the wet spot, the physical sign of his own decadence, and he moaned.
“I will touch you from your thighs onwards. Just dry fingers around the insides. You have magnificent thighs, Richard, have anyone ever told you that?”
“No,” Richard breathed. He followed instructions. If he sank deeper into Ian’s voice, he could believe the broad fingers on his skin were Ian’s thinner ones. His fingertips find his own entrance, almost pressing in-
“Not yet,” Ian breathed. “Not yet. I don’t move that quickly, my dear boy. You have to learn to slow down. Savour the sensations, mm?”
Richard bit his lip and stopped his hand. His other stroked himself again, from base to tip, and he almost whined.
“I will circle around your entrance. Has anyone touched you this way, Richard?” Richard shook his head. There was a reason, a very good one, why he preferred it like this, but it was too far away and his mind was too fogged for him to recall it. “I would tease you, over and over, with just my wet fingers inside your hole.”
Richard whined. Arched his back and did as he was bid, two fingers circling himself, over and over. Even as his body ached for more, his wrist remained obedient.
“Inside. Just the tips. Slowly.”
He pressed in, the tip of his fingers, feeling his own heat, tightness, and somehow it was Ian’s fingers still, invading him like this, and he cried out, his body jerking. Ian’s voice was like a river of soft flames, washing over him, over and over, until his skin prickled with heat and he stroked himself even faster.
"Ian, I- I’m going to--”
The bedsprings creaked in punctuation to a sentence he couldn’t finish. Richard moaned, throwing his head back, but his fingers remained in place.
“Open your eyes, Richard,” Ian murmured. “Look at me.”
Richard opened his eyes. Ian’s eyes appeared above his, brilliant blue that burned, and his cock was so close, so very close to Richard’s mouth. He turned his head but his body refused to obey, but he kept his eyes on Ian’s, kept their gazes locked even as Ian grabbed hold of his wrist and pushed Richard’s fingers inside. Richard gasped, his voice a rough, incoherent thing, and his fingers crooked without his mind’s consent, finding his prostate immediately and he jerked hard on the bed.
“Ian, please!”
“Almost,” Ian said, and his hand had moved to stroke against Richard’s cheek. Richard could hear him, the soft familiar sounds of a hand moving over an erection quickly, desperation, and he closed his eyes as he felt Ian’s release paint his cheek, his nose, his eyelids.
“You can.”
Richard’s hand twisted on his own cock, and that was all that he needed. He cried out sharply, his hips thrusting upwards, and when he came he felt his come paint his own skin - his thighs, his stomach, and he darted his tongue out to taste Ian’s come that had splattered on his lip. His orgasm wrenched something inside him, leaving him gasping, blinded, aware of nothing but the feel of Ian’s eyes on him, Ian’s come on his skin.
There was a thumb stroking over his cheek, and Richard parted his lips to welcome it into his mouth. He tasted salt, and bitterness, and he licked the thumb clean before he opened his eyes. There was white edging the corner of his vision, but Ian took up all of it.
“Perhaps you should find a video camera, Richard,” Ian murmured, his thumb gently stroking against one of Richard’s eyelids, then another. “Then perhaps, next time, someone might be able to touch you.”
Months ago, when Cate first came in for principal shooting, she told Richard laughingly that Ian was like the wizard he played, because he had a talent for seeing through people. Richard stared now as Ian darted his tongue out and licked at his own thumb, his eyes piercing on Richard’s own.
“Maybe,” Richard said, his voice hoarse. He licked his lips again, savouring salt and bitter. “If it’s your touch.”
End