Taron had absolutely not started out intending to develop a crippling masturbation habit in re. Colin Firth. If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, Taron’s were mainly only to make a decent film, get Mark Strong’s autograph for his mum, and earn some money, ad infinitum, until the sun burnt out or Taron’s career fell apart and he had to sell the autographs online for pennies. Whichever happened first.
But here he was, trousers kicked off the end of the bed and one leg drawn up to his chest, three fingers deep up his own arse while Colin sat in a chair and fucking watched, the bastard, cursing himself and every single moment that’d led up to this moment. The moment.
It’d actually started with Bridget fucking Jones’ Diary, of all movies.
It wasn’t that it was Taron’s particular favorite of Colin’s, but it was the one he’d seen the most. His mum was a fan, whatever. It’d been a weird little hobby of Taron’s for ages, watching the actors he was currently working with in before-his-time films. Pre-Taron films. PT. A bit like AD. It was just a thrill, right, to look at Colin got up in a reindeer jumper in a film with Hugh Grant and to pat himself on the back and go, you’re with him now. You’ve made it.
It felt maybe a little dirty this time, because Colin was by far the most famous actor he’d worked closely with - Taron tried not to think of Michael Caine too often, lest he actually die - and he was solicitous, kind and so very lovely, and here Taron was, cackling at poor Mark Darcy trying to get some.
He texted Colin a series of bombs and then sat back to wait for the inevitable, which was that eventually Colin would text back, genuinely curious, What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?
So there he was watching Colin snog Renee Zellweger with snow falling all around, Colin’s mouth open and firm, and he thinks of that mouth against his own ear yesterday on set, whispering encouragement and gentle criticism, one hand warm on Taron’s hip, right where Colin is cupping Renee onscreen, and he gets a bloody hard-on. Nearly cracks his phone barehanded, too.
And surely this isn’t the first time a bloke’s gotten an unexpected erection watching Colin Firth movies. Taron’s certain that this is actually a relatively common occurrence, though it feels fucking filthy laying on his couch watching someone he knows, likes and respects, his own legs sprawled out and one hand hovering uncertainly over his half-hard cock. It’s not really about Mark Darcy at all, is it?
The movie ends, and Taron lays there a while, breathing zenlike and not at all like a person who’s just had a sexual awakening over a coworker, who just so happens to be multi-generational heartthrob Colin Firth. He does not touch himself.
Colin texts back. What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?
Turns out there’s a really unsolicited amount of youtube videos of Colin getting it on absolutely everywhere in every way imaginable. Basically if Colin’s in a movie it’s three to one odds he’s having some really freaky sex in it, which Taron had known abstractly but never objectively, in an unexpected-erection sort of way. Taron finds a clip of Colin cutting an actress’ knickers off with gigantic golden scissors, and nearly pisses himself laughing.
He does not laugh at some of the other things he finds:
Colin, bare from the waist and glistening with sweat, giving it hard and rough to some lady. Colin, panting and wrapped around someone else, bare arse to the camera. Colin jerking it in a bath. Colin, hair sweaty against his forehead, holding a woman’s shoulders firmly while she sucks his cock, his eyes shut, blissful.
It’s actually a bit weird, how many sex scenes Colin’s done. Funny, even. Taron tells himself it’s hilarious, and at two in the morning with his cock fat and aching against his belly, it almost kind of is.
It’s something he never intended to bring up, except the next time he sees Colin he says, almost entirely autonomous of brain function: “It’s not a proper Colin Firth movie without a sex scene, is it?”
Colin is standing beside him at the catering table, poking disconsolately at a lemon danish. “Hmm?” he says. “Sorry, what?”
“I mean, Colin, you’re always getting your kit off in all your other films, so where’s our love scene?” Inwardly, Taron is screaming. Outwardly, he’s nudging Colin in the side with his own elbow, slopping a bit of lukewarm tea over the edge of his Keep Calm and Love Colin Firth mug.
Colin eyes the tea on the floor, perilously close to his slippers, then Taron. “Well, you’re feeling particularly saucy today, aren’t you?”
“Ugh,” says Taron, watching Colin’s slender fingers tearing the pastry into little bite-sized pieces. Colin pops them into his mouth one by one and thoughtfully chews. Taron shrugs helplessly at the warmly concerned look Colin sends him, a few moments later.
Only even later, after Taron’s been made up and shoved into his terrible tartan onesie, and is standing off to one side studying today’s script, Colin slides up behind him like a fucking spectre in a blood red dressing gown and whispers, earnestly, “Actually, I’ve just been told - here’s where you disrobe.”
“Ahhh,” yells Taron, cock twitching in his pants.
Colin chuckles and walks away, slippers slapping stupidly against the ground.
Taron hears a little whine and looks down at George the pug, who’s pulling at his lead and drooling all over Taron’s trousers. “I really dislike you, George,” Taron tells him, but then gives in and bends over to dispense head scratches, mumbling, “Pretty boy,” until George has had enough and urinates on his boot.
And like, maybe Taron came over a little strong joking about the whole his-mum-throwing-Colin-over-for-Mark thing, because Colin gets a deathgrip on the incredibly hilarious joke that Taron’s accidentally spoonfed him and does not let go. It’s repayment, doubtless, for all the times Taron’s leant into Colin’s side and whispered, “Hey, guess who loves Mark more than she loves you? It’s still my mum.”
Colin waits a good few days to bring it up again. So long, actually, that Taron’s almost gotten a handle on the terrifying situation that keeps happening in his pants. He’s banned himself from youtube and Colin’s entire filmography, and if his cock is vaguely interested in the way that Colin smiles, or the way his shoulders look in bespoke wool suits, so be it. Taron’s 25. He’s already lived through some truly regrettable sexual fixations. This is nowhere near as bizarre and depressing as the crush he’d gotten on Mary Berry, age 15.
But then he’s back in his Adidas jacket, contemplating setting it on fire actually, when Colin joins him to hand over an iced coffee, brought to them by an enterprising PA. Colin’s got his own, splash of cream and a distasteful heap of granulated sugar undissolved at the bottom of his cup, sucking desultorily at the neon straw.
Taron takes his own coffee, black, and beams. “Thank you, Colin.”
Colin smiles at him from round the straw, a barely-there curve of the mouth. “Thank Jamie. She brought them.”
Colin’s got a thing for being completely genial in every given situation. Remember’s most everyone’s names and little factoids about their lives, too, which is absolutely absurd. Taron tries, of course, but he can barely remember what he ate for breakfast most days, so the fact that Colin knows the key grip’s new baby’s name and asks after camera 4’s chow mix is genuinely a little disgusting.
“Jamie, right, sorry.” Taron shrugs and sips his own coffee. It’s kind of hot today. Colin’s hair shines extra threads of silver in the bright light. “Think we can get it in one take today?”
Colin makes a kind of exasperated-but-fond face at him. “I should think not. These sorts of things always take forever. You’d really be surprised.”
Taron feels his face wrinkle up. “Things… like… walking towards a shop and talking?”
He wonders if Colin’s amazingly clumsy and it’s just escaped his notice, tripping over himself every time Taron turns away. Or maybe it’s hotter outside than Taron’d thought, and the heat’s frying Colin’s brain.
“God no,” Colin snorts, swirling the coffee and ice around his cup with a twist of his wrist, sending sugar up in snowglobe flurries. “The scene directly after, where I have you on your back in dressing room two.”
“Oh my god,” says Taron, before he can stop himself. He feels his face turns amazingly red.
Colin’s grinning at him like he’s proud of himself, and all Taron can think about is how much he wants to lick inside that mouth, get really nasty with it, press the flat of his tongue to the roof of Colin’s mouth until Colin chokes on him.
“Eh?” Colin says, taking another sip off his straw.
“Ha ha,” Taron says, sucking down so much of his coffee in one go that he makes himself a bit ill. “Good one, Colin.”
That evening he barely gets in the door of his flat.
He’d waved off offers of dinner with Sophie and cocktails with Edward, driving himself home with the radio off and his fists clenched so tight round the steering wheel he half-worried it might come off in his hands. The walk from his car up to his flat had been a bowlegged nightmare, and he’d barely managed to fit the key in the lock.
He presses his back to the door the second he makes it in and unbuttons his jeans one-handed, shoving his hand into his pants and curling his fingers around his cock. It feels so fucking good. So fucking good he can barely breathe with it, thighs parting and back arching.
His head hits the door with a bang, eyes half-shut as he hastily presses his thumb into his own slit and mumbles, “Oh my god. Oh my god. Shit.”
Four rough jerks of his hand, fingers squeezing so tightly it’s just the wrong side of pain, and barely enough time to think, This is so fucked up and Taron’s coming all over himself, gasping, “Colin.”
It’s one thing, Taron discovers, to have a genuinely platonic but vaguely creepy mancrush on a coworker. That’s socially acceptable, not at all weird, and doesn’t necessarily premeditate wanting to rub his cock off on Colin’s belly or. Whatever. It’s quite another thing to want that particularly, and also have to be around said coworker all the time.
Taron’s life gets really hard after that first jerk-off session. Pun so very intended.
It’s not just that he’s getting hard left and right, though that certainly happens, too. It’s more the overwhelming presence of Colin in his periphery, the warmth of his body as they move around one another. Days on set with Colin, Taron’s eyes are constantly fluttering closed, his nipples tight and uncomfortably rubbing beneath the wool of his Kingsman-issue jumpsuits. He begins to covet the occasional touch of Colin’s hand against his neck, conciliatory. The brush of Colin’s shoulder against his own.
The wanking becomes almost secondary to the release of Colin’s amused smiles and lengthy discourses, because if there’s one thing Colin can do besides simulate incredibly raunchy sex on-camera, it’s talk. At length, knowledgeably, about nearly anything at all. And sure, Taron’s genuinely interested in most of the things Colin says, because Colin’s a great bloke, but they take a back seat to the movement of Colin’s mouth, the excited blinking of his eyes.
Which is all to say that Taron wanks himself off a lot over the next couple weeks. In his trailer, because he’s got his own trailer, which is ridiculous. In the toilets, feeling indescribably rude, shut in a stall with one hand braced against the back wall, biting his lip to muffle his whining. At home, if he manages to make it that far.
It eventually occurs that he’s not even wanking over Colin onscreen anymore. That after the first time, he’s been actually wanking over his actual coworker, who he actually must interact with on the regular. It’s terrifying and a bit gross, that. Like if Taron found out that Mark were regularly jerking one out to the thought of him, he’d probably be flattered, but mainly creeped out.
It is, Taron decides, incredibly important that Colin never know.
“Are you feeling alright?”
Colin is sat next to Taron on lunch break with an Welsh-to-English dictionary in one hand and a chip in the other. He’s teaching Taron some Italian - mainly dirty words, but useful phrases too - in exchange for a wealth of Welsh swear words. Taron’s leafing through his own Italian-to-English, increasingly befuddled.
“Yes, of course,” Taron says, distracted. He shifts around in his plastic chair, wincing at the drag of his cotton pants against his cock. “Why’ve mainly all Italian words got two of the same letter side by side? Two l’s or z’s or what have you.”
Colin smiles at him and waggles his eyebrows once, up and then down. “My own teacher always said that the Italians are so romantic, they couldn’t bear the thought of leaving two consonants lonely.” He shrugs, then, laughing at himself. “I think that’s a load of shit, personally.”
Taron frowns. “What about the poor lonely vowels, then?”
Colin roots through his fish and chips and comes up with the fish, using the back of his knuckles to push the styrofoam container closer to Taron. Taron shrugs and takes a few chips, doused in a truly foul amount of vinegar.
“I’d say they’re even lonelier in Welsh,” Colin tells him, taking a cheerful bite out of his battered cod. “How you lot manage to make a string of consonants sound like whale calls, I’ll never know.”
“Hey now,” Taron laughs, “Watch your mouth.”
“It’s the truth, isn’t it?” Colin shrugs, amicably. “Ah, well. What’s ‘mangia merde e morte’ mean? Remember our previous lesson.”
Taron feigns shock and disapproval. “Colin! Don’t be rude. Even if it is in Italian.”
“I’ll show you rude,” Colin murmurs, turning a page.
Taron squeezes his legs together, biting down on his lip so hard that it feels like it bleeds. He swipes his tongue over to test, tasting only vinegar, and glances up to find Colin looking at him, inscrutable.
“Um,” says Taron, untucking his shirt so it covers his cock, wedging his book beneath his arm. “Lovely lunch, see you later, enjoy your Welsh.”
“Right,” Colin says from behind him, as Taron walks and does not run away. “Later.”
“Shit shit shit shit,” Taron whispers, back against his trailer door and trousers round his knees.
He’s got his cock in one hand, flushed deep pink and the head thickening up, pushing back the foreskin. Jesus. He hasn’t been this mad for it since puberty and, no matter what Colin likes to imply, that was long enough ago that Taron’s terribly confused. Sort of fucking horrified actually, two fingers pressed against the sensitive underside of his cock and every movement chafing, a rough burn that’s got him biting his own wrist to keep quiet as he comes all over his fist.
“Drinks?” Colin asks the next night, smiling wryly at Taron over the rim of his Kingsman-issue glasses. “I feel we really do deserve one.”
Taron rubs his shoulder against Colin’s, thrilling at the warmth, and nods - not too eagerly, he hopes. “I could go for a nice pint. Anyone else about?”
Colin shakes his head, making a face. “Only Mark. I refuse, I’m sorry, I absolutely do.”
Taron learned early on that Mark and Colin, while perfectly friendly at any other time - pints on the town and the occasional dinner in between projects - are indescribably petty with one another during filming. It’s a long-standing rivalry, presumably, though neither of them are apt to talk about it. “He’s a wretched man, Taron,” Colin’d told him, when he’d asked, a week and a half into filming. “No idea what anyone sees in him. Least of all your mum.”
“Right,” Taron says now, nodding. “Just us.” Just him and Colin, yeah. Lovely.
“I’m off to change, then,” Colin says, pinching his own suit lapel off his chest and then letting it fall flat again, wincing. “Did I tell you I got a bit of mustard on one of these? A pity.”
“You’re an absolute mess, Colin,” Taron tells him, cheerfully. Colin is a mess, sometimes. Mainly he’s just terrible at getting food and drink all the way in his mouth without mishap, which is charming but also indescribably gross. Taron’s still trying to parse the emotion of watching Colin attempt to ingest things.
“Right. My trailer, ten minutes?”
“Of course,” Taron tells him, and does not regret it until exactly ten minutes later when he lets himself into Colin’s trailer after a single jaunty knock on the door, and finds Colin halfway in a shirt.
“Ohh uhh,” Taron says, dragging it out, eyes caught on the curl of Colin’s fingers over undone buttons, placket spread out over pale skin. Colin has got pecs, or some semblance anyway, and a light dusting of chest hair. Very prominent collarbones that Taron wants to set his teeth against, lick into the hollow at the base of Colin’s neck.
“Er,” Colin says, and Taron drags his eyes upwards in time to see Colin duck his head, embarrassed but still gamely smiling. “I’m terribly sorry. I got a bit distracted with the - and then -”
“I’m so sorry,” Taron blurts, belatedly. “I should have knocked. More. I mean I did knock, but I could have really knocked. You know.”
His cock hurts. It straight up hurts, trapped against the sensitive skin of his thigh, only half-hard because Taron already came twice today - once this morning in the shower and again in his trailer just now, jerking himself so frantically that his cock feels rubbed over, oversensitive and pink.
“Really, no harm done,” Colin says with a shake of his head, Harry Hart coiffure beginning to curl at the ends. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s caught me with my shirt off.”
Taron forces a laugh. “Only the entire cast of Bridget Jones, eh?”
Colin glares at him then. “Quiet, you.” He finishes buttoning himself up nimbly, tucking the shirttails into his trousers with a shimmy that Taron is absolutely fascinated by. He holds both of his hands up after, a sort of magicians tah-dah. “Are we off?”
“Of course, Colin,” Taron tells him, gesturing grandly for Colin to disembark the trailer ahead of him. It’s called being gentlemanly, not getting a good hard look at Colin’s arse. Absolutely not.
Colin drinks cider out the bottle with his lips wrapped plushly around the neck, the heat from his mouth leaving warm rings in the condensation.
“Thought you’d be more of a scotch man, if I’m being honest,” Taron tells him, three pints of American IPA deep. He’s been trying out overseas brews because he thinks it seems quite worldly, but the bitterness of it makes his eyes water and Colin laugh at the faces he can’t help but make.
“Ugh.” Colin rolls his eyes, slumping further into his side of their corner booth. Taron’s sat facing the room out of deference to Colin, who loves meeting fans but really does need the break. No one knows who Taron is, after all. “That’s what people always say. I’ll tell you, I enjoy a good finger just as much as the next man, but -”
“Oh my god,” Taron says, curling over the table. “A good finger. Colin.”
Colin throws his coaster across the table at Taron, feigning terrible disappointment. “You’ve a filthy mind,” he mutters, knocking back the rest of his bottle.
“Ha,” says Taron, obnoxiously, and watches Colin’s mouth curl up at the corners.
Two days after that he slicks two of his fingers up with lotion and slides them one by one up his own arse.
He’s only half-hard, paralyzed with awkwardness, sprawled out on his bed with the overheads shut off, the only light filtering through his curtains to paint the bed and the skin of his own thighs a hazy orange.
He’s got his legs spread as wide as they can go, because the internet had told him this’d be the easiest way, and the unfamiliar stretch is making him feel shaky, hyper-aware of what he’s doing and why he’s doing it.
The first finger feels like pressure, fullness. Quite strange actually. The second feels much the same, and he uses his other hand to sort of pet at his cock, gently, because he’s nearly jerked himself raw over the past two weeks. It’s sore and red, humiliatingly chafed, the sort of thing Taron’d normally laugh at but is now his depressing reality.
The touch is electrifying in the worst possible way. The merest drag of his callouses over the head of his cock and his hole twitches in a greedy way he can feel round his own fingers, a sudden desperate need unspooling inside. He wants to be filled up, he thinks. It’s quite the foreign sensation.
“Oh, god,” he manages, driving his two fingers in and out, the stretch and burn a welcome distraction from the ache in his cock.
He wonders what Colin really fucks like. Near as he can tell, Colin fucks the same in all his films: intensely, tightly controlled but still a bit mad with it, pressed as tight body to body as the choreography’ll allow. He wonders if Colin’d fuck him like that, too, wrap his arms beneath Taron’s back to tilt his hips down, pull Taron’s legs up around his hips and drive in relentlessly, like -
Taron comes like that, two fingers jammed inside his arse and a palm pressed flat to his cock, barely moving.
“Oh, god,” he says again, rather more horrified this time around.
The next few days are hell. Taron’s cock hurts literally all the time. He has to film a sky-diving scene that leaves him screaming in actual terror, clutching at Sophie, who’s just as upset. George gets loose on-set and unerringly finds Taron’s trailer and eats his favorite pair of trainers down to the rubber soles. “I hope we stuff you for the sequel,” Taron tells him, scratching between his stupid wriggly shoulderblades.
Colin remains disgustingly solid and friendly and in close proximity, the smell of his cologne lingering and transposing a goddamn sense memory of all the times Colin’s stood just a little too near. Taron wants to rub his cheek into Colin’s neck, climb in his lap for a full-body hug, get down on his knees and suck Colin’s cock like someone who’s never sucked cock before, but would still fully love to try it out, if only Colin would let him.
He thinks about it almost as often as he thinks about Colin fucking him. He also wonders if he ought to seek a physician, because he’s afraid he might be going through a second puberty somehow. The only other option is that he’s full-on become a pervert, and Taron’s pretty sure he’s too young for that.
“Jesus christ,” Mark says one day in the makeup trailer, while one of the artists is powdering all over his bald head. Taron’s biting his own tongue so he won’t laugh, but he always, always breaks. The artist herself’s been sniggering for thirty whole seconds, because presumably sometimes professionalism takes a backseat, and Mark’s mainly just resigned at this point, anyway. “You look like shit underneath all that spackle.”
Taron’s so mesmerized by the half-covered shine of Mark’s skull that it takes him a moment to realize Mark is talking to him, about him. He’s just had his own makeup done.
“Thanks,” Taron says, vacantly.
“You’re not getting sick, are you? Maybe homesick?” Mark gets a very serious look on his face, and sticks his lower lip out a bit. “We can hug it out.” His tone implies that they will never do that.
“I’m fine,” Taron tells him. He nods at Mark’s head and then glances up at the makeup artist. “Bit shinier than usual, isn’t he, Lana? Bit foul?”
Lana has to put her brush and powder down to laugh, and Taron escapes the trailer while Mark’s busy cursing after him.
“Mark’s worried about you,” Colin tells him the next day, bending down to murmur in Taron’s ear. It feels like every atom in Taron’s body is struggling upwards towards where Colin’s breath is ruffling the hair at Taron’s temple. “I only mention it so he’ll never speak to me again.”
Taron turns slightly to look at him, so close he can see all the different shades of brown in his irises, the fine lines spiderwebbing out beneath his eyes. “I didn’t realize Mark did worried,” he manages eventually.
He waits impatiently for their cue. The crew’s taking forever to reset the scene, like they’ve even got that much to do, pouring some tea, setting out new silver. Colin’s wearing a fitted white shirt and a striped apron, string tied neatly round the hips. It’s absolutely miserable.
Taron’d blurted something truly unfortunate but flattering about Colin’s pecs in that shirt, earlier. Colin had been startled but pleased, which probably meant he hadn’t noticed Taron’s initial intake of breath, the way his eyes lingered. He knows what Colin looks like beneath that shirt.
“I think he does a very particularly London kind of worried,” Colin muses, grin hidden inside a dimple. “Where he’s very duplicitous and crass about it, but deep down, he does care.”
“That’s so sweet.” Taron means it, too. It really is sweet. It’s just unfortunate he can’t discuss his actual problems with Mark, being as Mark will probably laugh himself into an early grave and then where will Taron be, having murdered Mark Strong? At least the autograph value’ll go right up.
“He thinks the pressures of future fame have ruined your sense of self, and that we, as more seasoned professionals, ought to help you find your way through the darkness.”
“He never did,” Taron accuses, slapping the back of his hand against Colin’s arm while Colin shakes with suppressed laughter.
“No. He actually just said, How am I supposed to know? Just sort it out, already. Christ.”
Taron does laugh, then. “Yeah, yeah. That sounds about right.”
“Are you alright?” Colin peers at him over the rims of his glasses. “I begin to fear I might not be asking often enough.”
Taron goes a bit cozy and soft inside at that, turning fully to beam up at Colin. “You asked me just last night. You texted.”
“Right,” Colin says, frowning. “But that’s still not -”
Someone on the megaphone calls scene. Colin, normally the first to snap to attention, is still looking closely at him, eyes intent.
“Colin,” Taron tells him, dancing even closer and clapping him on the shoulder. “You are one of the loveliest people I have ever met in my life. I promise, it’s not stress.”
It’s just the fact that I’ve ruined my life wanking over you, he thinks, but does not say. The guilt - because there is actually quite a lot of guilt involved, thank you, what with how he’s turned into a pervy creep and all - is eating away at him. Also he’s afraid that one wrong move will cause his cock to straight up disembark from his body, and then where will he be? Cockless and still hopeless over Colin, probably, which is more than enough to be getting on with.
“If you’re sure,” Colin tells him, half-suspicious, but then the work is in front of them and Colin’s not Colin anymore.
Filming the pub scene is, it turns out, Taron’s upper limit.
Colin’s there in Harry’s finest pinstripe, kicking the absolute shit out of a load of other actors, not a stunt-man in sight, and Taron has to sit there and act startled but impressed, and not at all like he’s hard enough in his jeans to drill straight through the table he’s sat at. It’s frankly harder than anything he’s ever done as an actor, including wobbling across a rickety stage in high heels.
Afterwards he bolts to the safety of his trailer, and it’s almost second nature at this point, getting his cock out, gagging for it. Fisting himself so gingerly but still making himself wince, sitting at his tiny trailer dining table with one fist clenched on the hardwood.
“Taron? Are you -?” says Colin, from the doorway, then: “Oh. Oh dear.”
And this is absolutely the most wretched thing to ever happen to Taron. Truly, it is. Seventy years on at the moment of death, when scenes from his life are flashing before his eyes, this will be the grand finale and Taron’ll go out whimpering in terror and anguish, or possibly just straight up pissing himself. Taron’s cock out. Colin’s voice going, embarrassed, Oh dear. Fucking hell.
“This is all your bloody fault, Colin,” Taron tells him, before he can really help himself.
“How so,” Colin says, sounding faint.
Taron tucks his cock back into his trousers, wincing at the glide of cotton pants and denim above, and sits forward to glare at Colin. “If you weren’t so - kind and lovely, and amazing, and terrible, maybe I wouldn’t be sat here with my cock out, wanking over you like a bloody schoolboy. Did that ever occur to you? Or no?”
This, actually. This is the moment Taron will remember. When he dies and ascends to the great beyond, the first thing anyone’ll say to him past the pearly gates will surely be, “Remember that time you blamed Colin Firth for your erection?”
Colin is staring at him, starkly fascinated. The door is still halfway open, propped against Colin’s shoulder.
“Please shut the door,” Taron begs, shaking his head in denial at the crock he’s just made of his professional life, his personal life, and also probably his sexual life, forever. He’ll never be able to get hard again because Colin’s expression of horrified wonder will be burned onto his frontal lobe, forever associated with his own cock.
Colin takes a deep breath. “Get yourself decent. I’ve come to tell you they want us back for one more take. We will discuss this later, at your apartment, when we are finished for the day.”
The door bangs shut behind him. Taron puts his head in his hands and has a panic attack.
It takes them five more takes, in all, until Colin’s sweating so much that his hair is curling, giving Makeup airs, and Taron’s struck so dumb by the insanity of the whole situation that he’s feeling a bit like he’s transcended into another universe.
Scene is eventually called. Colin wanders up to him, puts his hand on Taron’s shoulder and leans in close. “Your apartment in an hour, if we might? I believe we should talk.”
“Ugh,” Taron says, squeaking a bit. “An hour. That’s fine.”
Taron’s out of costume and into comfortable trackies and a jumper within thirty, home within forty-five, which gives him fifteen whole minutes of waiting to contemplate crying, begging for forgiveness, or possibly jumping out his fourth story window. He wouldn’t die, but he’d surely break both of his legs. Colin would probably take him to hospital and forgo their talk entirely. Probably.
By the time Colin rings the doorbell, ever-punctual on the hour, Taron’s nearly having a fit.
He wrenches the door open, gestures sharply for Colin to follow him, and leads him to stand awkwardly in the middle of his studio apartment. “Listen, okay, I’m feeling quite incredibly guilty, and I’m so sorry, Colin, I really am. I knew it was wrong but I still -”
Colin holds up a hand and makes a grim sort of face that Taron’s never actually seen before.
“Please, er,” Colin says, stopping and starting with that same funny grimace. “I had never thought that you might.”
Taron squeezes his eyes shut.
“I, well.” Colin is still stuttering, which means Taron might’ve broken him forever, shit, “That is to say. I’ve had some time to. May I watch you?”
Taron’s mouth drops open. His skin feels so hot all of a sudden that he thinks he might burn out from the inside, cock filling with blood so quickly that it’s sharp with pain. He squeezes his thighs together, puts his hands in his pockets to pull the line of his trackies outward, hiding himself.
When he can speak again he says, “That’s not what I was expecting.”
Colin’s gaze snaps straight back at him, eyebrows pulled together. He looks a bit mean like this, eyes focused on Taron’s face and mouth drawn into tight line. It’s making Taron’s mouth fill up with spit, his spine go loose and languid. “No? Did you not?” He’s lost the stutter.
Taron can’t answer that.
Colin looks him up and down, shakes himself visibly. “Get on the bed.”
“Now?” Taron squeaks, before he can help himself. “Like, right now, you want to watch. You want to watch right now.”
Colin smiles his most terrible smile then, the shy broad one that Taron wants to feel pressed to every part of his body, his inner thighs and the nape of his neck. “If you don’t mind.”
Taron does go sit on the edge of the bed, then, and Colin - after some dithering - sits in a nearby chair, angled perfectly to sight Taron, both feet flat to the ground and hands wrapped loosely round the armrests. “I don’t mind. It’s just, you know. Never done this before.”
Colin gapes at him, scandalized. “And you think I have?”
“Well, you are a lot older.” Taron immediately puts his face in his hands. “I didn’t mean it like that. Like presumably you’ve sat in a room and watched a costar jerk off over you, and also you’re ancient, oh god.”
Colin leans his elbows on his own knees and touches his fingertips together. “Are you quite done?”
“Yes.” Taron could not be more done. He takes a deep breath, then. “Um. Yes?”
It’s just - in his fantasies he’s always been preoccupied by what Colin might do to him, or he might do to Colin. Never what he might do to himself in front of Colin, who’s so far away they might as well not even be in the same room. His cock’s already thickening in his bottoms but it feels indescribably awkward, his hips shifting on the duvet while Colin stares at him, eyes dark and intent through the lenses of his glasses.
“You might take your clothes off,” Colin suggests eventually.
“Right, yes, good call,” says Taron, and shimmies out of his trackies and jumper, thankful he’d forgone the eternally awkward socks. His cock slaps heavy against the skin of his belly, bobbing and angry red.
“Center of the bed,” Colin suggests, and Taron does it, shifting himself up until his back’s against the pillows and it feels like a show. Taron, center stage. Absolutely naked.
Colin gives him just enough time to get comfortable before he says, “Please, begin.”
Taron squeezes his eyes shut and just goes for it, grabs his cock and gives it a tug. “Ah, christ,” he hisses, “Shit.” He’d forgotten, almost, how sensitive he’d really gotten. These past three weeks have been a nightmare of wanking, and his cock feels nervy and raw, just the wrong side of too-much. But Colin’s here and he’s looking at Taron, at the way Taron’s squirming across the bed from the rubbed-raw ache, at Taron’s fist barely wrapped around himself.
He slides his fist up again, down, wincing.
“Would lubricant help?” Colin says finally, almost conversationally.
Taron squeezes his eyes shut and his thighs close together, feeling overexposed. “Probably not really at this point, to be honest.”
He can hear Colin shift in his seat, the creak of leather and a rustle of soft fabric that must be Colin crossing one leg over the other. Getting comfortable. Settling in. Colin takes a deep breath. “Are you always so sensitive?”
“No,” Taron whispers. He’d beg for death at this point, or at least a hole to curl up in, only there’s still the chance that Colin might take pity and touch him. There’s no way Colin doesn’t know what Taron’s done to himself. It’s in the redness of his cock, in the heat Taron can feel rising along his cheekbones and sternum.
“Have you. Could you.” Colin falls silent again, though Taron can still hear his breathing, slow and deep. “Use some lotion for me, wouldn’t you? I’d hate for you to injure yourself.”
“Right, right.” Taron can do that. He cracks an eye open, just enough to glance over at his bedside table and fumble with the drawer, get out the lube he’s got stashed there, brushing hopeful knuckles against the box of condoms beside it. “This good enough?” He can’t bring himself to look at Colin. Condoms, right. Eternally hopeful, that’s him.
“God yes,” Colin says, shifting again. “Go on. Please.”
It’s better with the lube slicking him up, squeezed right on to the underside of his cock, dripping cool and sticky down his balls. It feels a bit filthier now, too, with how slick he is - almost like a girl, smooth and wet. Taron gives himself a tentative rub, palm open flat and fingers pressing down his cock, gasping. “Christ,” he says again, muscles relaxing. “‘s better, Colin.”
Colin takes a deep breath. “I can tell. It looks like it feels good.”
“It does, it does,” Taron tells him, suddenly needing Colin to know this. How good it really feels. And it does feel fucking amazing in a horrible sort of way, gently petting his whole hand down his cock and back up again, a smooth slow slide. Equal parts too-much and not-enough. He’s so fucking sore.
Lube is dripping down his balls and against his hole now, getting him wet. A finger or two, maybe. Something to distract him from the chafing of his cock.
“Can I - er. I want to.” He just can’t say it, can he, only his cock’s filling even more just at the thought, and it’d be a nice show for Colin, wouldn’t it? “Can I finger myself? I mean.”
Colin hmms, and Taron can’t even look at him anymore, doesn’t dare.
“Can you come that way?” Colin asks him, intrigued. Taron can picture him leaning forward, interested, peering at Taron in the same way he does when Taron says something particularly silly over lunch.
Taron clears his throat. His cheeks are burning red. “Yeah,” he admits finally, shakily.
“Please do, then,” Colin tells him, and Taron does.
The first finger is a relief. A bit strange still, especially given he’s never exactly had an audience before, but good. The second finger makes him bite down a gasp, teeth dragging into his lower lip in a way that stings, just this side of wonderful. He pushes his fingers in and out of his hole, squirming to adjust to the burn, and gasps out loud this time.
“Can you take another?”
Taron jerks, cock twitching, choking back a moan at the idea of it. He’s never done three before. Thought it might be a bit much. For Colin, though, he thinks he might be able to do it.
“I’m not sure,” he admits, and Colin breathes in and out, so loud for a second that it sounds almost like a groan. “I’ve never tried.”
Colin lets him fuck himself some more, hand on his cock utterly still by now, no friction needed. Eventually he says, almost shyly, “Might you try for me?”
“God,” Taron says, and does. It hurts, burns, the stretch of his body unaccomodating but still yielding. His cock drools a spurt of come onto his belly at the sting of it, and Taron can vaguely hear himself crying out, high-pitched. “Colin, god,” he whines.
“Are you going to come like this, Taron?” Colin still sounds relaxed, though his breathing’s gone a bit wonky, and it’s making Taron inexplicably hotter, twisting and caught between his own two hands. “Tell me.”
“Yes, Colin,” Taron gasps, fucking whimpers, driving his fingers as deep as they’ll go and curling them inwards so hard that he sobs with it. His legs are starting to shake like this is a fucking porno, stretched up and out for too long, thighs stretched tight. This is it. The moment.
“Look at me, then.” Taron can do that. Taron can do whatever Colin wants him to.
He blinks his eyes open, struggling to focus in the dim light and with the way his eyelids want to flutter shut again, and finds Colin down the length of his own tightly-furled body, still sat in the chair. His eyes are on Taron and his fists are clenched on his knees, and he’s fucking hard, tenting his trousers. Taron whines just to look at him, the jut of his cock and the hard-set line of his mouth.
“I would give fucking anything,” Taron moans, before he can help himself, “Anything for you to just fuck me already, oh my god.”
Colin leans forward and steeples his fingers together, breathing out hard. “Say please,” he suggests, and Taron drives his hips down hard onto his own hand and comes just like that, long hard-won pulses while his body shakes and he whines and whines and whines.
He comes to minutes or seconds later to Colin sitting beside him, running his hand down Taron’s flank and staring at him so intently that Taron blushes when their eyes meet. He doesn’t want to look Colin in the face, not after that display.
“Did you mean it?” Colin asks. It takes Taron a moment to parse the meaning, but when he does his cock gives a half-hearted twitch. He nods, languid, rolling his head back into his pillows. “That I might -”
Taron puts his hands over Colin’s where they’re resting on his thighs, just below the splattered mess of his come. “Colin,” he says, groans. “Please.”
Colin shakes his head. “Taron, Taron,” he says, urgent, fingertips digging into the flesh of Taron’s hips tightly enough that Taron can feel how Colin’s hands are shaking. “I need you to tell me, is this alright? Is this -”
Taron squirms in his grasp, splays his legs as wide apart as he can force them, body still orgasm-stupid. He bends his arm at a truly unnatural angle into his still-open drawer and pulls out a condom with clumsy fingers, lets it drop out onto his chest. “Yeah, yeah, do it, c’mon, Colin,” nodding his head yes against the pillow, and Colin lets go of him just long enough to fumble with his button and fly, shoving his trousers down his thighs, ripping the packet open and rolling the condom on with a sharp inhale.
Taron watches him do it all with blurry vision, hungry for a better look at Colin’s cock, because he’s spent so much time thinking about it - thick, shorter than his own, blunt purple head - but then it’s pressed against his hole and then it’s pressing inside of him, and he moans so low and hungry that he shocks himself.
Colin fucks nothing at all like he does in films. It’s not gentlemanly or controlled, or even quite sane.
Colin doesn’t wait for him to adjust or acclimate or whatever. Colin gets his teeth into Taron’s neck and snarls, unsatisfied. He digs his fingernails into the meat of Taron’s arse and pulls him wide open, filthy, grinding his hips in quick, brutal circles that make Taron cry out, sucking in huge gasps of air around the rhythm of Colin shoving his cock as deep as it’ll go, the punched-out hurt noises that Colin is making in Taron’s ear.
It also turns out that even in this, as in all other areas of his life, Colin is a talker.
“Lovely,” he rumbles, grabbing on to Taron’s calf and pulling his leg upwards, pushing it into Taron’s own shoulder, fucking him open even more. “So lovely. Such a good boy.”
Taron’s never been fucked up the arse before. He blames the noises he’s making, the desperate slutty whimpers, on that, and not on the way Colin’s scraping his teeth along Taron’s jaw, still murmuring. “So sweet, you ought to have seen yourself, I mean really, it should be fucking illegal. You were so good for me. The way you took it.”
Colin’s belly is pressed flat to Taron’s, Taron’s over-sensitized cock trapped between them. Each rough push of Colin’s hips drags a sharp sound out of Taron, and a new pulse of pain-pleasure from his cock.
He’s whining almost continuously now, but when he slaps a hand to his mouth to muffle it Colin growls and grabs him by the wrist, forcing his hand flat to the bed. He feeds Taron his fingers instead, two blunt digits pressing obscenely against Taron’s soft palate, gagging him.
Colin is, miraculously, still talking. “You’re so beautiful. I’ve wanted to bend you over for days now, and look at you, on my cock, gagging for it. You must be so bloody sore, christ,” and here he pauses to run his thumb over Taron’s lower lip, pushing Taron’s mouth open even more. “But look at you, taking it so well. You’re doing so well, lovely boy.”
Taron comes again then, dry, choking on Colin’s fingers.
“Bloody - fuck,” Colin whispers, shaky, and slams into him once, twice, before stilling with a moan that vibrates all the way from inside of his chest, rumbling out against Taron’s ear, making him moan out loud.
Afterwards Colin passes his fingers through the mess on Taron’s stomach and sighs. “You’ve been utterly ridiculous.”
“So you’re saying that next time I develop a terrible habit of wanking over you, I ought to say something immediately,” Taron says, pursing his lips and nodding into Colin’s shoulder, even though Colin hasn’t said a single word and is nuzzling at Taron’s temple, grumbling.
“No,” Colin tells him. “Nid ar eich bywyd.”
Taron tilts his head up for his first kiss, and that, that is exactly like the movies.