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wl_fanfiction2006-06-15 02:14 pm
ryanmochrie.livejournal.com) wrote in wl_fanfiction2006-06-15 02:14 pm
Fic 16 of 100 - 025. Strangers
Title: Quick and Dirty
Fandom: Whose Line is it Anyway?
Characters: Greg Proops/Tony Slattery
Prompt: 025. Strangers
Word Count: 1509
Rating: NC-17
Summary: You never know who a stranger might be.
Author’s Notes Set before the audition for UK Whose Line. You’ll have to excuse Greg’s alcoholic tendencies.
Greg Proops glances at his watch as he walks out of his apartment and onto the London street. He has an hour and a half until his audition and the studio is less than a block away, just enough time to hit the pub across the street. The audition is for an impov show. Greg had been sitting in his leaky flat flipping through The England Examiner, an English version of The Village Voice, searching for a gig that would pay his bills and on page twenty-two a full page ad read: Whose Line is it Anyway? The BBC 4 radio show is moving to Channel 4 as a television show. Producers Mark Leveson and Dan Patterson are looking for quick thinking comedians to appear on their new creation. Auditions are being held Friday through Monday five to ten at The Channel Four Building on Horseferry Road, Westminster. It was like God had finally remembered he existed.
He really wasn’t looking forward to working with other people, most comedians tended to be too generic for his taste, but at least he’d finally be able to put that degree in improvisational comedy, that his father told him would get him a job waiting tables, to good use, instead of working the hole in the wall bar/open-mic night circuit.
It’s been a while since Greg had done improv, or any acting for that matter, and he won’t admit it to himself, but he’s nervous. A liberal helping of alcohol would really give him some confidence right now. He pushes open the pub doors and scans the dimly lit room. There are two men sitting together at a booth, one tall and lanky, the other balding, and a woman at the bar, basically empty. Thank God, Greg thinks, he really doesn’t want to deal with people right now. He walks through the haze of smoke to the back of the bar and takes a seat at the end. “Scotch on the rocks.” He tells the bar keep.
Due to the relatively non-existent patrons, his drink comes quick, and he tells the big guy behind the bar to keep them coming. Greg reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a pack of smokes. He shakes one lose and puts places it between his lips as he searches for his lighter. Just as he remembers he left it on his night stand he hears a click inches from his face, and the cigarette lights.
“Thanks.” He mumbles, not even looking up.
“No problem, mate. Mind if I take a seat?” The stranger asks.
Now Greg looks up. The smooth yet somewhat squeaky voice reminds him of a British accented version of his own. The man standing beside him is nothing like who he had in mind, though. He’s clad all in black, his hands are shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket and he’s smiling down at Greg, his dark eyes framed by his shaggy, dangling hair, also dark. Greg clears his throat and shakes himself from his momentary, out of character, mesmerization.
“Not at all.”
“Oh, a Yankee. We don’t find many of you this far into the country.” He says, sitting on the stool next to Greg. The bartender sets a pint in front of him, he must be a regular.
“Well,” Greg begins, turning in his seat to face his companion, a smirk on his face, “you found one.”
“It seems I have. Welcome to the fair city of London. Have you been enjoying the sites?”
“Actually, I’ve been living here for about two years now, best place for my job you see. I’m an actor.” He says proudly, but his pride only lasts a moment. The other man raises an eyebrow and looks Greg over. His spectacles and Buddy Holly like pompadour, probably shout sleazy insurance salesman more than they do actor. “More of a comedian really.” He adds gulping his third scotch.
“Why not live in New York City? Same theatre life without the shitty weather .”
“I don’t know, there’s just something about London. I just find it fitting of me, I guess.”
“Mmm, I think I know what you mean.” He pauses, and then reaches up and takes off Greg’s glasses, setting them down on the bar. Greg lets him do it, anyone else he probably would have punched in the face, but there’s something about this guy, he just seems real, with an undertone of raw sexuality.
The stranger’s smile holds none of the intensity of the moment. It remains calm and smooth even as he moves his face closer to Greg’s, their noses almost touching, and begins to speak again, in a low, hushed tone.
“You have the sexiest eyes.”
Greg blinks and something overtakes him. It could be the alcohol in his system or the seediness of the bar taking over, but with out so much as a thought he closes the small amount of space between himself and his bar mate by bringing their lips together in a swift motion that rocks both of them in their seats.
He’s thrilled when the other man’s tongue meets his as his hand slides up Greg’s thigh to rest against his already hardening member. Greg pulls away.
“Well, that was easier than I thought it was going to be.” The Englishman growls, throwing a couple of pounds onto the bar and leading Greg out a back door by his sleeve.
As soon as they are in the alleyway Greg is thrown against a brick wall and the shorter man is upon him. Greg is used to being the one in charge and he quickly changes their positions, only to be pinned against the wall again. The next couple of minutes are a power struggle, it’s all tongue and bruising holds that border on pleasurable. It ends only as Greg remembers something he learned when he was kid.
With their mouths still connected and tongues still entwined, Greg brings his leg around his partner’s ankle and pushes. He goes down on all fours facing to the left of Greg who chuckles and shoves down his belt buckle. It may have been a power struggle, but it was still highly erotic. Apparently his new friend thinks so too, as he mimes Greg’s movement.
Greg kneels and spits into his hands. He brings his hands around himself and is prepared to make a nice homemade lube, but he’s stopped.
“Allow me.”
Then that smooth talking mouth is around Greg’s cock. The feel is amazing, and the fact that anyone walking on the sidewalk could clearly see them only added to it. His mouth moves all the way up and over his balls before going down to the head again. He has one well trained gag reflex. With each glorious movement his tongue swirls over every inch. Greg feels himself getting close and he pulls out, turns the stranger around, and prays to any God that would listen the man beneath him doesn’t carry any thing that took four to eight weeks to get rid.
As soon as he enters him, the man at his mercy lets out a sound animalistic in nature. Greg pushes himself in to the hilt and places his hands on either side of the ground beside his bottom boy’s sides as he hits the same spot with rough speed. It’s not like any other feeling. With each thrust comes their combined grunts and now the nameless man’s hands are gripping Greg’s hips, pushing him violently further in.
He feels a rush of warmth against his knee as his companion climaxes. One last thrust and Greg is done too. He collapses against his spent one night, er, one afternoon, stand and pulls out, rolling over and lighting a cigarette.
“You Americans fuck like you fist fight. Quick and dirty, but good.” The other man says, zipping his pants.
Greg stands and helps the Englishman up as he straightens himself and checks for stains.
“Well,” Greg begins, putting his cigarette out with the heel of his shoe, and checking his watch, “I hate to sound like a stereotype, but I have an audition to go to.”
The American starts to walk out onto the sidewalk, somewhat pleased when he’s followed.
“Oh really?” He asks, turning the corner with Greg. “For what?”
“A comedy television show. The studio’s actually just up here on the left.” Greg says, crossing the street.
They stop in front of the studio and the other man grins wide, pushing a hand through his hair.
“It wouldn’t happen to be an improv show, would it?
Greg’s jaw drops as the other man takes hold of his limp hand and gave it a hearty shake.
“The name’s Tony Slattery, see you in there. Good Luck.” He says with a wink as he opens the studio door and goes in.
Suddenly the prospect of working with others becomes much more appealing to Greg. Maybe the comedians over here aren’t the run-of-the mill sad-clown type. This might actually be fun, Greg thinks, as he follows Tony’s path.
~End~
Fandom: Whose Line is it Anyway?
Characters: Greg Proops/Tony Slattery
Prompt: 025. Strangers
Word Count: 1509
Rating: NC-17
Summary: You never know who a stranger might be.
Author’s Notes Set before the audition for UK Whose Line. You’ll have to excuse Greg’s alcoholic tendencies.
Greg Proops glances at his watch as he walks out of his apartment and onto the London street. He has an hour and a half until his audition and the studio is less than a block away, just enough time to hit the pub across the street. The audition is for an impov show. Greg had been sitting in his leaky flat flipping through The England Examiner, an English version of The Village Voice, searching for a gig that would pay his bills and on page twenty-two a full page ad read: Whose Line is it Anyway? The BBC 4 radio show is moving to Channel 4 as a television show. Producers Mark Leveson and Dan Patterson are looking for quick thinking comedians to appear on their new creation. Auditions are being held Friday through Monday five to ten at The Channel Four Building on Horseferry Road, Westminster. It was like God had finally remembered he existed.
He really wasn’t looking forward to working with other people, most comedians tended to be too generic for his taste, but at least he’d finally be able to put that degree in improvisational comedy, that his father told him would get him a job waiting tables, to good use, instead of working the hole in the wall bar/open-mic night circuit.
It’s been a while since Greg had done improv, or any acting for that matter, and he won’t admit it to himself, but he’s nervous. A liberal helping of alcohol would really give him some confidence right now. He pushes open the pub doors and scans the dimly lit room. There are two men sitting together at a booth, one tall and lanky, the other balding, and a woman at the bar, basically empty. Thank God, Greg thinks, he really doesn’t want to deal with people right now. He walks through the haze of smoke to the back of the bar and takes a seat at the end. “Scotch on the rocks.” He tells the bar keep.
Due to the relatively non-existent patrons, his drink comes quick, and he tells the big guy behind the bar to keep them coming. Greg reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a pack of smokes. He shakes one lose and puts places it between his lips as he searches for his lighter. Just as he remembers he left it on his night stand he hears a click inches from his face, and the cigarette lights.
“Thanks.” He mumbles, not even looking up.
“No problem, mate. Mind if I take a seat?” The stranger asks.
Now Greg looks up. The smooth yet somewhat squeaky voice reminds him of a British accented version of his own. The man standing beside him is nothing like who he had in mind, though. He’s clad all in black, his hands are shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket and he’s smiling down at Greg, his dark eyes framed by his shaggy, dangling hair, also dark. Greg clears his throat and shakes himself from his momentary, out of character, mesmerization.
“Not at all.”
“Oh, a Yankee. We don’t find many of you this far into the country.” He says, sitting on the stool next to Greg. The bartender sets a pint in front of him, he must be a regular.
“Well,” Greg begins, turning in his seat to face his companion, a smirk on his face, “you found one.”
“It seems I have. Welcome to the fair city of London. Have you been enjoying the sites?”
“Actually, I’ve been living here for about two years now, best place for my job you see. I’m an actor.” He says proudly, but his pride only lasts a moment. The other man raises an eyebrow and looks Greg over. His spectacles and Buddy Holly like pompadour, probably shout sleazy insurance salesman more than they do actor. “More of a comedian really.” He adds gulping his third scotch.
“Why not live in New York City? Same theatre life without the shitty weather .”
“I don’t know, there’s just something about London. I just find it fitting of me, I guess.”
“Mmm, I think I know what you mean.” He pauses, and then reaches up and takes off Greg’s glasses, setting them down on the bar. Greg lets him do it, anyone else he probably would have punched in the face, but there’s something about this guy, he just seems real, with an undertone of raw sexuality.
The stranger’s smile holds none of the intensity of the moment. It remains calm and smooth even as he moves his face closer to Greg’s, their noses almost touching, and begins to speak again, in a low, hushed tone.
“You have the sexiest eyes.”
Greg blinks and something overtakes him. It could be the alcohol in his system or the seediness of the bar taking over, but with out so much as a thought he closes the small amount of space between himself and his bar mate by bringing their lips together in a swift motion that rocks both of them in their seats.
He’s thrilled when the other man’s tongue meets his as his hand slides up Greg’s thigh to rest against his already hardening member. Greg pulls away.
“Well, that was easier than I thought it was going to be.” The Englishman growls, throwing a couple of pounds onto the bar and leading Greg out a back door by his sleeve.
As soon as they are in the alleyway Greg is thrown against a brick wall and the shorter man is upon him. Greg is used to being the one in charge and he quickly changes their positions, only to be pinned against the wall again. The next couple of minutes are a power struggle, it’s all tongue and bruising holds that border on pleasurable. It ends only as Greg remembers something he learned when he was kid.
With their mouths still connected and tongues still entwined, Greg brings his leg around his partner’s ankle and pushes. He goes down on all fours facing to the left of Greg who chuckles and shoves down his belt buckle. It may have been a power struggle, but it was still highly erotic. Apparently his new friend thinks so too, as he mimes Greg’s movement.
Greg kneels and spits into his hands. He brings his hands around himself and is prepared to make a nice homemade lube, but he’s stopped.
“Allow me.”
Then that smooth talking mouth is around Greg’s cock. The feel is amazing, and the fact that anyone walking on the sidewalk could clearly see them only added to it. His mouth moves all the way up and over his balls before going down to the head again. He has one well trained gag reflex. With each glorious movement his tongue swirls over every inch. Greg feels himself getting close and he pulls out, turns the stranger around, and prays to any God that would listen the man beneath him doesn’t carry any thing that took four to eight weeks to get rid.
As soon as he enters him, the man at his mercy lets out a sound animalistic in nature. Greg pushes himself in to the hilt and places his hands on either side of the ground beside his bottom boy’s sides as he hits the same spot with rough speed. It’s not like any other feeling. With each thrust comes their combined grunts and now the nameless man’s hands are gripping Greg’s hips, pushing him violently further in.
He feels a rush of warmth against his knee as his companion climaxes. One last thrust and Greg is done too. He collapses against his spent one night, er, one afternoon, stand and pulls out, rolling over and lighting a cigarette.
“You Americans fuck like you fist fight. Quick and dirty, but good.” The other man says, zipping his pants.
Greg stands and helps the Englishman up as he straightens himself and checks for stains.
“Well,” Greg begins, putting his cigarette out with the heel of his shoe, and checking his watch, “I hate to sound like a stereotype, but I have an audition to go to.”
The American starts to walk out onto the sidewalk, somewhat pleased when he’s followed.
“Oh really?” He asks, turning the corner with Greg. “For what?”
“A comedy television show. The studio’s actually just up here on the left.” Greg says, crossing the street.
They stop in front of the studio and the other man grins wide, pushing a hand through his hair.
“It wouldn’t happen to be an improv show, would it?
Greg’s jaw drops as the other man takes hold of his limp hand and gave it a hearty shake.
“The name’s Tony Slattery, see you in there. Good Luck.” He says with a wink as he opens the studio door and goes in.
Suddenly the prospect of working with others becomes much more appealing to Greg. Maybe the comedians over here aren’t the run-of-the mill sad-clown type. This might actually be fun, Greg thinks, as he follows Tony’s path.
~End~