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methods of persuasion (or, how to fail at getting your grumpy co-star to socialise)

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Richard doesn’t expect it to go like this, and isn’t that what everyone always says? But really, he didn’t; he gave up expecting anything beyond a brilliant performance and biting humour from Martin halfway through their first scene together. So, when he realises they’ve been working with each other for several months now and he has yet to get to know the man beyond the fact that he’s a miserable fucker (Martin’s own words, not Richard’s) and decides to make another attempt to ask him out with the rest of the cast, he really doesn’t expect anything to come of it.

He hopes, of course, but they’re not very high hopes; at this point he and every other cast member’s been turned down enough times to make them stop trying. And it’s not that Martin is unpleasant, really. He’s great fun to be around on set, amazing to work with, and once you get past his complete lack of fucks given he can actually be an almost-nice guy. It’s just that he has zero interest in socialising, even less than Richard himself has, which is saying something. And, really, all of that’s fine, because they’re working long hours every day and hardly get any time off, and when they do he’s usually too knackered to even contemplate going out himself. Except that they’ll be here for a good, long while yet, without friends or family, and the only company they’ve really got is each other.

So, every once in a while, Richard will drag his exhausted body to a bar somewhere or round to someone’s house to drink and laugh instead of collapsing onto his couch and spending the evening picking bits of latex and glue off his face. (He’s starting to come to terms with the very real possibility that he won’t have any eyebrows left by the end of this shoot.) Martin, on the other hand, won’t.

Tonight isn’t different; most of the dwarves have planned to gather at Ian’s to ring in a well-deserved forty-eight hour break in filming, and Martin has, quite impolitely and with at least five fucks and a smile that made it impossible to be pissed off, declined.

Richard figures he’ll give it one more shot, ask Martin to come along just one more time, and then (as Martin himself so often likes to tell him to) mind his own fucking business.

He rings the bell, and Martin’s cursing before he’s even opened the door.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” he’s grumbling as he yanks the door open, “what the fuck is it now?”

“Hi,” Richard says, trying to soften Martin’s scowl with a smile and failing miserably. “I, uh. I was just on my way to Ian’s when I passed here and I thought you might want to come along.”

“No, you didn’t,” Martin says, and Richard can admit that counting on him to not know (or at least not care) whether the house he’s rented while they’re in New Zealand is en route to Ian’s was a bit of a mistake.

“Alright, well,” Richard says, trying to stand his ground, “I didn’t. I did think you might want to come along, though.”

“I don’t,” Martin says shortly, and Richard just sort of gapes at him.

“Are you sure?” he asks, eventually. He thinks he really should have come up with what to say before he got here.

“Oh, yes,” Martin assures him, eyebrows contracting and a faint smile playing around his mouth, and Richard wonders for a moment how someone so plain fucking rude can be so charming.

“Right, okay,” he says, and Martin moves to close the door on him so he puts his hand on the jamb. “It’s just,” he trails off, makes a face, and doesn’t really know what to say.

“What?” Martin asks, his eyes flicking to Richard’s hand where it’s preventing him from slamming the door.

Richard has a moment of sheer, unadulterated terror where he’s convinced he’ll earn himself a few broken bones at best (lose a finger or two at worst) over this if he just pisses Martin off enough, and that would be a little awkward to explain to Peter. He tries to smile again, and says, “Look, we’re all stuck out here and I think it would be nice if you joined us for once.”

“You’re not exactly a poster boy for socialising yourself, you know,” Martin points out, regarding Richard with that shrewd look he sometimes gets.

Richard shrugs, a little uncomfortable, and says, “Not really, no. But I do go out occasionally, even if I’d rather stay in and spend my night taking a hot shower and being angry at the world.”

It makes Martin snort and then chuckle briefly, and that’s something, so Richard removes his hand from the doorjamb and grins.

“So, how about it?”

“Yeah, no, I still don’t think so,” Martin says, and Richard can feel his face fall.

“Oh, come on,” he says, exasperated and a bit desperate now. “It’s just a few drinks.”

“If it’s just a few fucking drinks,” Martin says, eyebrows raised, “then surely it doesn’t matter if I’m there or not.”

“It does,” Richard says, without thinking about it and not really meaning anything by it.

“I said no,” Martin says, getting ready to close the door.

“Come on,” Richard repeats and, bolstered by the fact that his hand is still intact, puts one foot over the threshold. “Please,” he adds, grasping at straws to make Martin give in.

“I said no,” Martin repeats, and there’s definitely anger in the line of his mouth now. “Why is this so important to you anyway?”

“It’s not,” Richard says (really, it isn’t).

“Right,” Martin says, sounding like he doesn’t believe a single word but doesn’t give a fuck either way. “In that case, move your fucking foot so I can close this damned door and have the quiet weekend I’d planned.”

“Oi, can you not be a miserable bastard for five seconds and at least pretend to care about the people you work with every day?” Richard says, getting angry himself now because he really isn’t asking very much here.

“I can’t, actually,” Martin says, more pissed off and less charming than he appeared to Richard just two minutes ago. “Now move your foot.”

“No,” Richard says, and he swears he has no idea why he’s having this argument when he could just be getting back into his car and let the matter rest.

“Excuse me?” Martin says, in that way he has that makes it so very clear that his grumpiness is usually enough to make people defer to him.

“I said no,” Richard says, and it’s almost funny how he’s parroting Martin’s earlier words, except that Martin now looks just about ready to actually slam the door on him, body parts in the way or not.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Martin demands, looking torn between incredulity and anger. Richard apparently isn’t expected to actually answer, as he’s hauled inside by a hand twisting in his shirtfront and pushed up against the now closed door.

“What,” he says, his voice coming out scratchy and unsteady, and his eyes widen, “the fuck?”

“Let me get this straight,” Martin says, speaking clearly and fixing Richard with a look so furious that it honestly frightens him a little. “I don’t care what the fuck you think about me or how I live my life, and I don’t care whether you think I should go out more and or not. And you know what else?” Martin pauses expectantly, so Richard shakes his head. “I don’t give a fuck how you live your life either. So how about we just leave each other the fuck alone outside of work, hm?”

He’s smiling, but it isn’t a nice smile, and it makes Richard swallow hard.

“Okay,” he says, and it comes out as more of a whisper.

Martin cocks his head a little, even as his hand relaxes in Richard’s shirt and allows him to slump against the door, and there’s amusement in the angle of his mouth and the tone of his voice when he says, “Is this turning you on?”

“No,” Richard lies, trying to sound indignant even as his dick gives a twitch inside his jeans.

“Really?” Martin asks, his amusement only heightening at Richard’s obvious embarrassment and discomfort. “What’s this, then?”

His free hand cups Richard through his trousers and squeezes, making him cringe. “Jesus, don’t do that,” he pleads, sounding breathless, and Martin grins at him.

“You want me to stop, do you?” he asks, grinding the heel of his hand into Richard’s crotch.

“Yes,” he says, painfully aware of how much his voice wavers on that one word, desperately wishing his embarrassment wouldn’t make his cock harden even more. He’s pretty sure he’s blushing at this point, and he curses his past self (from just a few hours earlier) for thinking this whole endeavour was a good idea.

“Really,” Martin says, more of a statement than a question, but Richard nods anyway.

He lets go with one last squeeze to Richard’s clothed erection, and chuckles when his hips twitch forward at the loss of contact.

“You,” he says, giving Richard a mock-reproachful look, “are a very bad liar.”

“Sorry,” Richard murmurs, and the corner of Martin’s mouth quirks upwards with genuine amusement.

“You should be,” he says, popping the button on Richard’s jeans even as fingers close around the wrist of the hand still fisted in a shirtfront. “I was really looking forward to having a quiet night in.”

He sounds pissed, but Richard can’t really tell whether it’s in jest or not. His zipper is pulled down and he swallows past the dryness of his throat, breathing quickly through his nose and unable (or, at the very least, unwilling) to move.

“This had better not take long,” Martin warns, then drops to his knees and pulls Richard’s trousers and pants down to the tops of his thighs, just far enough to get his cock out.

“What,” Richard says, voice a little panicky and the rest of his sentence turning into a gasp as Martin takes him into his mouth.

There’s no teasing, no preamble or build-up; just the wet heat of Martin’s mouth stretched over Richard’s cock, working him to full hardness in a matter of moments.

“Fuck,” Richard breathes when Martin pulls off to suck on just the tip, the side of his tongue sliding into the slit as his hand sets a fast, forceful rhythm.

He wants to buck his hips, but Martin’s got him pinned against the door with a forearm across his lower stomach, and all he can really do is close his eyes and groan. Martin is amazing at this, sucking Richard’s cock like he does it all the time and like his only goal is to get him off. There’s something to be said for long, luxurious blowjobs drawn out over the space of an hour or more, where the need to come almost feels better than coming itself, but this? This is just as good, just as breath taking and more overwhelming.

Martin isn’t nice about it, and he’s certainly not gentle, but it’s one of the best blowjobs Richard can remember ever getting. There’s a lot of tongue involved; flicking against the sensitive spot just below the head of his cock and making pre-come appear in thick beads to be licked off, slipping under his foreskin and making him shudder and moan, tracing thickening veins along the shaft and rubbing swollen flesh. There’s also the occasional use of teeth, scraped (if not carefully, then at least lightly) over fragile, heated skin.

He tries to stay moderately quiet, clenching his jaw until his teeth hurt and his breath leaves him in a grunt, and Martin quickens the bobbing of his head. Richard groans, loud and long, as he’s deep-throated with every other movement, his hands scrabbling uselessly at the wooden door behind him. He’s getting close; he can feel himself inching towards orgasm with every exhale and with every sucking pull of Martin’s mouth.

He wants to say something, wants to warn Martin, but all that comes out is a litany of fuck and oh god and I can’t and please as he desperately tries to hold back. Martin sucks hard and Richard’s cock throbs, his entire body arching and quivering as he makes small, agonised half-sounds of pleasure in the back of his throat. He’s about to come, he’s almost, almost there, and embarrassment coils sudden and sharp in his belly, staving off orgasm.

Martin pulls off with a huff, and Richard’s body relaxes and falls back against the door with a helpless groan.

“Will you just come already?” Martin demands, thumbs digging into Richard’s hipbones.

“Sorry,” Richard says, looking at Martin where he’s crouched in front of him, his own cock hard and red and wet with spit and pre-come a hair’s breadth from Martin’s lips. He moans and screws his eyes shut again, erection twitching despite his shame.

“Really,” Martin says, shaping the words against Richard’s cockhead with lips and teeth and tongue, “I haven’t got all night. So if you plan to come in my mouth, you’d better do it now or not at all.”

“Yeah,” Richard says, not entirely sure what he’s agreeing to, as Martin swallows him down again.

It doesn’t take long from there; Richard’s on such a hair-trigger that a handful of tight pulls, a bit of suction around the leaking tip and the barest touch of teeth is enough to tip him over the edge. He comes with a harsh gasp and a buck of the hips, eyes wide open as he watches himself spill into Martin’s mouth.

He pulls out before he’s really done, embarrassment making his bones itch, and the last spurt of come hits Martin on the chin. He licks it off, unconcerned, and Richard moans a little at that.

“So,” Martin says, his voice a little raspy, getting up and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, “was that enough socialising for you?”

“Quite, yeah,” Richard says, still breathless, softening cock hanging out of his trousers.

“Fantastic,” Martin says, back to those not-quite-nice smiles of his. “I was starting to think I’d have to fuck you to get you to bugger off.”

Richard most definitely does not moan at that, and his cock absolutely doesn’t twitch. He also does not, in the slightest, plan to annoy Martin more often. (Okay, maybe he does. Just a little.)