okay so callum/austin but imagine city of angels mashed up with encino man
Callum still thinks this has got to be some kind of sick joke.
As soon as he realized that Austin was not, despite all appearances, on an extended acid trip, he'd gotten as far as printing out DIY flyers —ARE YOU MISSING A 6-FOOT TALL BLOND MAN?—except Austin kept insisting he didn't have a home and didn't belong anywhere in particular, which Callum was strangely inclined to believe in a straightforward way and not in a philosophical existence kind of way, but that could've just been because of Austin's cherubic face playing mind tricks on him. Calling around to his mates and accusing them of wasting money to hire someone to fuck with him hadn't panned out either, and contacting emergency services didn't seem appropriate since Austin seemed to be of sound mind even though he also seemed completely insane. So now it's been a full week, Callum is no closer to figuring out what the hell is going on, and Austin is still here. In his apartment. Living with him.
"No, that's—those are the arm holes again. This," Callum stresses, "this is your head hole. See?"
When he shoves the tee down over Austin's head, Austin emerges on the other side looking puzzled. Callum wrangles the rest of it on properly and ignores the way this strange little newborn in a grown man's body is just letting all this happen.
"It's short," Austin observes.
He holds out his arms, demonstrating the widening gap between the pathetic reach of the shirt's hem and the waistband of his sweatpants—those are Callum's too, kept around along with the tee because of vague plans to repurpose his old clothes, but that required learning how to sew in the first place and these days he was just wiling away any free time on the couch, riding high on a bunch of edibles.
The gap also shows a glimpse of sharp hipbones and divots of muscle sloping downward, which—whatever. Callum doesn't even notice.
"It's old. Must've worn it about a decade and two stones ago, but at least it's not drowning you," he says. "You think you might be able to dress yourself on your own tomorrow?"
Austin blinks at him.
"Stop it," Callum orders.
"Why?"
"'Cause a face like that's gonna get you in a world of trouble."
Austin blinks again. "What kind of trouble?"
"Just—trouble, alright? Quit asking me. Are you decent?"
"Am I?" Austin asks back.
"Oh my god," Callum exhales.
The walk to Ralph's takes about an hour longer than he's used to, solely because Austin stops every two steps to cup his hands against any and all windows and peer through inside, or to kneel down and poke at stray ants traversing the sidewalk, or to crane up onto his tiptoes while fingering a leaf like it's the first fucking time he's seen one. Callum runs out of patience and hauls him the rest of the way, wondering aloud if they need to get him some Adderall, to which Austin asks, "What's that? Do I?" Thankfully he stops asking questions when Callum shoves a basket into his hand at the entrance, then immediately wanders off to the cereal aisle.
"Jeez," he says, staring dreamily at the rows of boxes. "There are so many."
Callum takes the basket from him. "You know what? I'll do the shopping. You do whatever it is you need to."
Callum quit smoking a month before shooting started, or so he says. Technically. Except he’s always bumming looseys from Anto or David, and packs so many pouches into his mouth during breaks that it wouldn’t be a surprise if he passed out from nicotine poisoning at some point. Also, he keeps taking Austin’s vape whenever Austin hands it over. And worming it out from Austin’s pocket. And making gimme motions while they eat.
When Austin skitters it across the table, Callum accuses, “Temptress,” before taking an enormous hit.
“I just want you to be happy,” Austin says. Which is the truth, whether or not Callum believes him.
Callum shakes his head, frowning, cheeks bulged. “Temptress liar,” he says with effort, releasing a cloud of watermelon sour. “Ugh. It tastes like bubble gum.”
“Alright, so give it back,” Austin says, holding out his hand, but instead Callum snatches it away.
“I want you to know that I was a saint when I took this job. Now I’ve got two things I need to quit.”
Austin scoffs. “Ha. Are you calling me a vice? That’s rude.”
“No,” Callum says, chewing on a forkful of carne asada fries. “Stop fishing for compliments.”
“Gimme the vape back, then.”
Teasingly, Callum holds it out of reach. Austin grapples for it without success. Pretends to give up and crosses over him to get some food, then grapples for it again once Callum’s guard is down. Their arms tangle, vape and utensils and bits of meat dropping everywhere. Austin doesn’t know what happens next, but Callum is wincing all of a sudden, and they both freeze.
“What?” Austin asks, studying him. “Did I hurt you? Did you bite your tongue?”
Maybe it’s instinct, or just the fact that Austin is the only one who has a hand free; either way he finds himself tucking it up against Callum’s chin like he’s a kid. What’s crazier still is how Callum obediently spits into it without hesitating.
After a pause, Austin says. “Cal. Is this your tooth?”
It’s a dumb question, because it’s very clearly his tooth. A molar, cradled on Austin’s palm, spit-shined and porcelain white. They both stare at it.
“Implant got fucked. I’m supposed to get it fixed next month,” Callum explains. “I guess the bridge got loose.”
Austin tucks the tooth into his fist. “Show me,” he orders, and Callum obeys again, pulling back on the corner of his mouth with a hooked finger. Austin ducks in closer. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for but it seems like the right thing to do.
“Well,” he says. “It’s not bleeding or swollen or anything like that.”
“Thanks, doc.”
“I think you’ll survive.”
When Callum clutches his chest in faux relief, Austin experimentally sticks his finger into the empty space. Callum twitches back, but only just, with no hint of embarrassment or surprise.
“Babes,” he manages. “You gotta ask consent for that.” He pokes the tip of his tongue into the gap, crowding Austin out from the other side until a flash of pink winks through. It should be gross, except everything in the world seems to work when paired with that stupid grin. “Can’t just go around sticking fingers into every hole you see.”
“I can if you let me,” Austin counters, “which you just did.”
“And I’ll let you again later, if you pass me the vape one more time.”
“You have a problem,” Austin tells him, but he hands it over anyway. The tooth is still squeezed in his grip for some reason. “You’re addicted.”
Callum takes a hit. Molds his lips so that most of the vapor exits through the hole in his gums. “Sure am,” he agrees readily.
sorry this is just like 2k words of a blowj. continued from here
"The cleaners skip this room," Austin stalls.
Wordlessly, Callum toes his shoes off and enters. He had tramped around everywhere else without bothering, but evidently feels the need to leave them in the hallway here. Austin takes a beat to glance down at the custom insoles nestled inside before following.
By any standard, his room is a lived-in cave. Curtains drawn, empty dishes stacked bedside, the comforter balled up and unwashed. Clothes and shoes littered around in piles of clean, wearable, questionable, and offensive. A pile of moleskines are threatening to tip over on the desk. Austin remembers too late that a copy of The Let Them Theory is also sitting on one of the pillows, but thankfully it's facedown.
Callum ventures further in. Austin trails him to the entrance of the en suite, retracing his steps like he's a realtor in his own fucking house. The counter is a mess, lotions and serums and toothpaste sprayed everywhere, a mouth guard abandoned in the sink where he'd dropped it that morning. There's even a mini-tube of clear mascara sitting in plain sight, which Callum nudges with his finger until it rolls to a stop against a bottle of cologne.
Austin rubs his eye, then hides his hands in his pockets. "I told you, it's nicer in the other room. Smells better, too. I don't know why you even want to be in here, no one else has ever—"
"Hey," Callum interrupts, and he's right there all of a sudden, ducking in for a soft kiss before Austin can react, pliable and gentle like he's left his prickliness at the door, too. When Austin doesn't relax, he pulls back. "Aus. I still have a housemate. There's an old burrito under the couch that's basically petrified. I don't care about any of this."
"I care," Austin mumbles.
The gap between wanting to believe Callum and truly believing him remains wide as ever. Callum seems to understand this. He simply says, "I know," and ducks in again, hands roaming, unzipping Austin's jacket and peeling it off. His button down is next. Pants, socks. Underwear, after sparing a long moment to rub mindlessly against Callum's thigh. Callum remains fully dressed, which Austin would have qualms about if not for the pace becoming more urgent.
All he can think is, about time.
They stumble toward the bed, crumbs and shoelaces and magazines digging in underfoot. Callum pushes him onto it, then drops to his knees, palms dragging over Austin's body as he goes. Clearly he has experience and enthusiasm—he swallows Austin down, no hesitation, hands-free. Austin props onto his elbows to watch, shifting into the role of grateful receiver, letting out a small moan and dropping his head back to bare his neck.
Anyone else would take that as a sign of encouragement. Callum takes it as a sign to stop.
"Tell me what you like," he says.
"I like that." Austin rights his head to make eye contact. "It feels good."
"Tell me what you like," Callum repeats, holding Austin's cock out of the way to talk because he's actually trying to have a conversation about it.
"I like what you're doing," Austin says desperately. "I like it, I'm telling you that I like it, are you listening to me? Are you trying to get on my dick or in my head?"
Callum's face flickers. "You genuinely think—"
"What?" Austin challenges.
An ugly part of him wants to say, fuck it. Fuck this whole thing. He doesn't have to endure being whiplashed back and forth any longer than he already has, dick out or not. He can have Callum leave and jerk himself off alone in the safety and quiet of his own bed.
Callum changes tack. Lets go, leaving Austin's cock to rest on his stomach as he licks firmly up the underside and all the way to the head, where he wiggles his tongue in rapid little darts before closing his lips over it and sucking. Austin's hips lift off the mattress in response, abdominal muscles crunching instinctively against the overwhelm. An ugly noise tears out of him.
"Shit," he breathes. "Shit, that's—wait, too much, too much."
"Okay," Callum agrees. "But better?"
"Yeah," Austin says immediately. "Just. Slower."
"Alright. Tell me, just like that."
Callum takes him in again. After a few seconds, Austin untenses. Drifts his hand downward until it meets the fabric of Callum's hat and he palms it, moving in tandem with how Callum is bobbing up and down slowly now, using his fist to supplement.
It's fucking good. More than good. Better than most, especially considering this is the first time. If Austin lets himself think about it, he's always preferred to begin less intense, leaving room for it to build. Inch by inch, he melts into the warmth of Callum's mouth. Callum keeps going, steady, occasionally quickening his tongue, only ratcheting up the overall pace every minute or so. When he cups Austin's balls with his free hand, Austin twitches.
"Softer," he rasps. "Please."
Seamlessly, Callum obeys, crooking his fingers and letting the tender skin rest on his knuckles instead. Austin's mind zips into blank static, listening only to his own heaving breaths, each exhale breaking off at the end into a high whimper. Once he makes the connection that they're coming from his own self, he clamps his entire throat down tight to cut them off. They escape anyway when Callum readjusts his angle and takes him deep once more, thumb rubbing over his taint, tip hitting soft palate with a muffled choke before pulling off.
"Fuck," Austin grits through his clenched jaw.
In between kitten licks and scraping a trace of teeth all over, Callum chides, "Don't do that."
"Don't—unh—don't do what?" Austin pants.
"I wanna hear you. How else am I going to know what you like, huh?"
Austin's cheeks flare hot. "Come on," he manages.
"I need you to say it," Callum says, stubborn. He rubs his bottom lip over the slit, then sticks his tongue out to tap the flushed head against it, which doesn't feel particularly amazing but the image is fucking filthy and burns itself into Austin's retinas. Maybe that's the whole point.
He alternates between staring at Callum's mouth and the MLB logo on his hat. "Can I," he starts.
He trails off into a frustrated sound because Callum holds him at the base and doesn't touch him otherwise, the picture of patience. Austin is half-covered in spit and his own precome. The bottom half of Callum's face is equally as wet.
"What if I fucked your mouth?" Austin gets out.
"Is that what you want?"
"Yes. Yeah, yes. Please," he says again.
Callum scrapes his nails the wrong way over neatly manicured hair. "Happy to oblige, then." He raises up a bit, using Austin's hips for stability. Fits his lips around his cock and waits in yet another image that'll probably stay with Austin until his deathbed.
Experimentally, he pushes in. Callum creeps down some more. Holds there. Austin flops fully onto his back and uses his shoulders as leverage to go deeper on the next. Callum rears back to cough but resettles to the same spot. Finally, Austin knocks Callum's hat off and buries his fingers in his hair, raising it out of its flattened shape as he sets a rough rhythm.
Callum gets the hint; slides both hands under Austin's ass and helps him thrust up. He's making gagging noises every now and then but seems to pay no attention to them. They hadn't even closed the door. Austin would be worried about how sound carries on this side of the condo, except Callum's fingers are spreading and pulling his cheeks apart with a single flex and he really couldn't give a shit about anything else.
Austin's thighs start to shake. Without stopping, he warns, "Cal."
Callum's answer is to groan and knead at Austin's flesh. The span of his hands is huge. Austin shoves in for a last time and comes, hard, thinking about Callum fingering him, Callum holding him down and fucking into him. For what feels like ages, he bucks helplessly with Callum's nose jabbing into his stomach before going slack with a final grunt—
—which turns into cursing because Callum doesn't let him go. He just eases the pace, coasting and downshifting, throwing in brief moments of suction that make Austin’s legs kick. While Austin was thinking they were done, Callum is treating it like they've notched onto another starting line.
Brand new territory. One where Austin isn't sure he can go.
He floats through it. Swims with more effort when the delirious haze mutates into trickles of anxiety. There's orgasm and then there's this, some unknown beyond where he knows his foundational level of control would cease to apply.
At length, he groans, "Cal. Jesus. I—fuck—I can't. Stop."
Callum does, popping off with a savoring glide. He rests his chin on the crease of Austin's leg and makes no move to clean his face up. There are tear tracks reflecting off the corners of his cheeks that Austin can barely look at.
"That was—" Austin drapes his forearm over his forehead and tries to catch his breath. He searches for a word but comes up short. "What the hell was that?"
A chuckle brushes over him. "I don't know. Was it good?"
Austin wants to laugh. That was great. He's said that to dozens of people over the years. Meant it every time, too, or at least he thought he did. He can't remember who that person was now, even though he had been that person up until they stepped over the threshold to his room less than half an hour ago.
"Good," he echoes thickly. "Yeah. It was good."
"You made it good," Callum tells him. He clears his throat. Scrapes his nails over the hair on Austin's belly again.
"Stop looking at me," Austin says to the ceiling.
"What am I allowed to do, then?"
"Not that."
He needs to get up the energy to reciprocate. That, or kick Callum out. Instead he rolls onto his side and smashes his face into the folds of the comforter, inhaling the familiar smell of himself, his room, his house. He's an empty vessel, a slate wiped clean.
The mattress dips as Callum crawls on and spreads his long body behind him. When Austin blindly reaches for his cock, Callum brushes him away.
"Austin," he says. "Don't go back in there."
"Where?"
"Into your chrysalis or whatever. Okay? Just stay with me here for a little while longer."
"What are you talking about? I am," Austin says. "Couldn't move even if I wanted to. I'm dead."
"You know that's not what I mean."
"Okay," he says, not even aware of what exactly he's agreeing to.
Callum sets a hand over Austin's chest, grounding him. Austin doesn't turn. He will, soon. In a minute.
Callum groans. "What kind of pillow talk is this?"
"What kind do you want?" Austin asks, ever compromising.
"The kind where you compliment everything I just did to you. 'Oh Cal, your fingers'," he mimics, voice incongruently going higher instead of deeper. "'Oh Cal, your mouth. Oh Cal, you're the best and biggest I've ever had' kind of stuff."
Obviously it's a joke, but Austin just says, "You are all those things," with such a straight face that Callum groans again.
"Stop."
"Fine," Austin says easily. "I'm going back to my original question then."
Callum rolls his face into the pillow. It's been two months of shooting, two and a half months since they even met each other properly. One late night walk of shame and three mornings waking up like this in Austin's flat. All of it's been simple. Callum knows how to do that part maybe too well, which makes him feel proud of himself on some days and like a complete piece of shit on others.
If he's being honest, he's not quite ready for this jump. Any other person their age would have a wall built out of their personal baggage, but Austin doesn't seem to differentiate between fucking around and staring deep into each others' souls. The first coffee they'd grabbed together, he'd sat back in his chair and asked, "Tell me about the most vulnerable you've been in the past year," which, in Callum's experience, was decidedly not a normal question someone asked right after introductions.
In short, Callum's still getting used to it.
"What was I like?" he repeats, tilting his mouth free to talk. "I don't fucking know. Small. Stupid. Thought I was hot shit."
"I asked what you were like when you were younger. Not now," Austin says, and laughs when Callum snakes an arm out to push him. He grabs Callum's forearm with both hands, holding it there against his own chest to dig his thumbs into the muscle. "I could've taken you back then."
"I weighed like ten stone. You could've sneezed on me and I'd be laid up for a month."
"I could take you now, too," Austin declares.
"Oh really," Callum says flatly. He rears up and scooches his body through the tangle of sheets until he's hovering over Austin, eclipsing the sunlight coming in past the curtains. "You wanna say that again?"
"I could take you now," Austin says obediently.
He's not making any move to get away. Just staring up at Callum with an overwhelming fondness, which—it's their third morning. Odds are high that Callum ends up tossing himself through a window by the time they wrap.
Not today, though. Today, he asks, "Is that a promise?" and Austin says, "Only one way to find out."
boom op callum spinning his hat backwards so he can suck—
prompts/asks!
Callum says, "This isn’t your room."
"What?" Austin looks around. "Yeah it is."
"It’s your room in that you own the place it comes in, but it’s not your room. Like, what is this?" Callum asks. He's walking around, touching the dried flowers shoved into an Adler vase and running his fingers over the marble dresser. "There’s nothing in here."
"Okay, it’s—not where I sleep, if that’s what you mean."
"What else would I mean? So you bring people here just to fuck," Callum states.
Austin opens his mouth automatically, except nothing comes out. He can't remember the last time he argued with someone. He can't even remember the last time he wanted to argue with someone. Bringing Callum to his place for one-on-one interaction without an audience had seemed like a good idea at the time; now he can't tell if that's really what he'd been thinking, or if he had just been distracted from Callum's presence by his side at crafty.
"No one's had any complaints," he says belatedly, unwilling to escalate to wherever Callum keeps trying to take them. Feel it, let it go. Leaves on a river. "It's nicer in here anyway."
"Uh huh," says Callum. "Right."
He leans against the dresser and crosses his arms over his chest. As usual, his outfit is frat boy lite: shorts, Sambas, a faded Amoeba Music tee, the everpresent plain black cap tilted high up on his forehead in indoor mode. Though Austin might not believe in the concept, he's listened to plenty of podcasts about body language and Callum is displaying all the red flags.
But he's not making a move to leave. If Austin bends just a little more, Callum is bound to give in.
"I don't know how to ask for this," Austin admits.
"Never had to?"
"No, it's not that," he counters, even though he's never had to work this hard for it, as douchey as it may sound. At least in the beginning stages. Austin is aware of the effect he has on people, but the way Callum is looking at him, he's starting to second-guess whatever it is he thinks he knows about himself.
"You know, I'm sorry but I don't get you," Callum says, gesturing to Austin as a whole. "I can respect it, but I really don’t understand it."
"What’s there to understand?" Austin asks, bewildered, and Callum smiles. "That’s an actual question."
At that, Callum takes a moment. He's still got a smile on, but his eyes are considering, like he's trying to decide how much further to drive the knife in, or how much more to pare away until he's at Austin's core.
Not much, as it turns out, because all he says is, "Nothing. Kind of just feels like you've been in Hollywood for too long."
None of this is particularly funny. Austin laughs anyway, from the ridiculousness, sure, but also possibly from relief.
"What kind of cliched shit is that? I don't know what kind of game you think we're playing. Seriously. I don’t know what you want from me."
Callum points at him. "See—right there."
"What, am I missing some kind of credential? You guys get that at a ‘real people’ convention that I’m not invited to? Jesus," Austin says, sharper than he wants to. "You're making this impossible."
Bizarrely, this seems to soften Callum up. He uncrosses his arms and rests his hands over the edge of the dresser. "You want me to be here?" he asks throatily, still looking way too attractive for how much he's getting under Austin's skin. "You can tell me to go."
"Show yourself out if you want," Austin shoots back. For good measure, he adds, "Fuck you," in an awkward fumble, which makes Callum finally stride across the room and take Austin's waist in a firm hold. When Austin leans forward, Callum angles back out of reach. "Cal," he says, verging on a whine.
"Just wanted to see you for a second," Callum murmurs.
Austin swallows. Tries to stay still, tries his best to look like what Callum is searching for. The proximity alone is making him sweat. Callum observes him for what feels like years, apparently no stranger to self-control. Eventually he slips a hand over Austin's ass and pushes their hips together, then spins his hat around backward by its brim as if he's got work to do.
AU where callum is a boom mic operator and austin is…austin. brainchild of @astronomical-light, i’m just a typing monkey
They've been careful; the both of them, though Callum more so than Austin, since only one of them has experience getting fired mid-shoot for being late or wearing the wrong color shirt or just existing in general. One director had said, He's throwing too many shadows, and that's all it took. Almost a decade later, Callum still has him on his shit list.
They're working on exteriors that day, so Callum had grabbed a heather gray t-shirt to mix it up, which turns out to be a mistake because it's nearing 30 degrees by noon and he's sweating his balls off under direct sunlight. No reprieve comes until they finally break for lunch at half two.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters. The other boom op, Gary, seems similarly gassed and they both spend a good minute flapping their shirts against their chests as Gary chants, "Hydrate, hydrate."
"I got it, I got it," Callum dismisses.
He heads to the welcoming shade of crafty. The Gatorades are warm but better than nothing and he chugs half of it down before flipping his hat around to tip the rest in without impediment. Austin passes by mid-gulp, catching his attention and holding it for a beat too long, eyes the same color as the liquid waterfalling down Callum's throat. Blue iced lightning or some shit.
He rights his head. Wipes himself off with the back of his hand and tosses the empty bottle into the trash as he follows Austin's steps past video village, across the lot, ducking past a couple set guys, and to the trailers, where a shock of air-conditioning welcomes him as soon as he enters.
"Fuck," he groans, eyes closed, arms held out like he's giving in to an alien abduction. "That feels amazing."
"It's rough out there," Austin says sympathetically. "Sorry about that."
"You control the weather?" Callum asks, squinting one eye open.
Austin sucks his cheeks in, playing at embarrassment perfectly. Only, Callum is starting to suspect that this is just how he is all the time, somehow. He hasn't let up on the charade once. Callum hasn't ever seen it, anyway.
He drops his arms. "Not your fault. Obviously," he relents. "You got me on a string, might as well have the weather, too."
Austin's expression clears, eyes changing shape into something more playful. He nods at Callum's belt, which—he's gotta remember to grab more gaff tape before lunch is over. "You wanna take that off?" he asks, then adds, "I won't let you forget."
Callum is already unclipping and tossing it onto the couch. He goes for the shirt next, but Austin is there to put a stop to that, slipping his hand under the hem to lay it flat over Callum's bare stomach. His palm is cool enough that Callum hitches forward a bit by instinct.
"Your shorts are sagging," Austin says. He flicks his thumbnail against the elastic band of Callum's underwear to demonstrate.
"Wardrobe's gonna murder me," Callum deadpans. "Are you gonna let me take this off?"
Austin moves his hand up, treating each rib like a speedbump that he has to slow down for and wiggle into. Up further, until he's swiping his fingers into the dampness under Callum's arm to wick away whatever hasn't soaked into his shirt.
"Nah," he says. "I can take care of that for you."
Callum studies him. The perfect hair, the pink lips, the skin smoothed by makeup and HD-ready. A flare of possessiveness burns through him at the sight; at the private knowledge that there's carpet burn on Austin's left knee and a bitemark on one asscheek, fading pink and vein-blue after two days. Callum will put it there again, if Austin lets him.
Another private thought floats to mind: Austin will let him.
"You're killing me," he says calmly.
"We have to be back in twenty," Austin says, as if Callum hadn't even spoken. He gestures at the vanity with his chin. "Coconut or cucumber fresh?"
Callum blindly fumbles for any travel-sized bottle and squirts it into Austin's free hand. He's curving his other around, skating it between Callum's shoulderblades and emerging through the back of the neck. Callum sways forward, not aiming anywhere in particular, and Austin catches his mouth with his own, easy as a lobbed ball. It's a chaste kiss, especially considering that he's also unsnapping the button of Callum's shorts and working his way in.
"Hi there," he mumbles. He grasps at a tapering chunk of hair on Callum’s nape. "I didn't get a chance to say that this morning."
"That would've been weird," Callum mumbles back, even though this is a good set and most of the actors greet the crew every day by name. He notches his hands over Austin's hips before remembering one of their rules—no evidence, including wrinkles—and adjusts under the untucked shirt, spreading his fingers wide, massaging at bone and sinew with deep flexes.
"Keep 'em there or else wardrobe actually will murder me," Austin says.
"Yeah, yeah," Callum responds, and he's barely gotten the words out before they transform into a pocket of wordless air instead as Austin finally wraps a fist around his cock. Cucumber fresh. He takes control of his tongue again and manages to say, "I might die in here before I get a chance to do any damage."
"How complimentary," Austin says with a small laugh.
He pulls back to look, mouth hanging open while Callum huffs into it. It's stupid, how much this added veil of secrecy gets him off. The fact that it's with Austin Butler is a whole other layer of what the fuck that hasn't fully sunken in yet despite everything they've done.
Austin picks up speed, then stops moving to rub the pad of his thumb over where Callum is already wet. Involuntarily, Callum groans, a shattered noise that he'll be angry about making soon enough. He rocks his hips back and forth to make up for the sudden stillness and Austin tightens his hold, breathing hard just from watching.
"Fuck," Callum says, reedy, still using Austin's hand. "I want to touch you, please, I want—just say you fell asleep on the couch or something, I don't give a shit."
"Cal," Austin says. He closes his eyes when Callum cups a hand under the crotch of his trousers and gives him a firm squeeze. "Don't—don't tempt me."
"You're the lead, you can spare a few minutes to change," Callum pleads.
Austin won't. He knows that, but in a fucked up way it feels good to ask for something he's not going to get. To show weakness that he only lets out in the thinnest of slivers, a pressure release to prevent himself from begging for it in earnest. Here, he at least has the excuse of being so horny that he's out of his damn mind.
Austin is jerking him faster again. He doesn't slow this time; probably has a ticking mental clock going of how many minutes they have left. Not like he has to worry. Callum has been hard up for it practically since arriving on set and, in another what the fuck, Austin is sort of an expert.
Maybe humiliatingly quick, he chokes out, "I'm gonna come," and Austin knows the drill, though he gets in a few more strokes even after the warning. "Austin, stop—"
"Sorry," Austin rasps.
He finally lets go and takes a step back, barely leaving a safe enough distance, but that's not Callum's responsibility so he gets busy shoving his shorts and briefs down to finish himself off. Through slitted eyes, he sees Austin observing him through all of it. The view disappears when he tilts his head back to rest it on the door.
The door that rattles against his skull as someone knocks on it from the outside, calling, "Austin?"
"Oh fuck," Callum whispers, legs trembling.
"Yeah," Austin calls back loudly, gaze still glued to where Callum hasn't stopped moving. "What's up?"
"I got your coffee. And like, four other people's," says the voice. Samantha, Austin's PA, sounds like she's right behind Callum. "You wanna open the door? I don't have any hands free."
"I—hang on just a sec," Austin yells. Then, in a hush, he says, "Jesus, Cal," and that rat bastard is smiling, a wild look cutting over his face like a flare.
He grabs Callum's other hand and sucks the first two fingers in, biting sharp mid-knuckle, and the pain pulls Callum over a very far, very high up edge as he comes, noiseless. Overall he does a pretty good job of staying as quiet as possible, except he slumps over unthinkingly and his ass hits the door. The latch jiggles in a clatter of plastic.
Austin releases Callum's hand, tensing his tongue a little to leave one last drag of spit on his fingertips. "Sorry, the door is sticking," he states. "Give me another second."
"Okaaaaay," Samantha sings.
Callum's brain is offline, but sparks back to life enough to raise his arms when Austin pats at them. With a swift yank, his shirt is at last off over his head, only to fwump to the floor as Austin drops it right on top of the streaks of come.
"You dick," Callum mouths. He automatically scoots to the side as Austin reaches past him, pretending to wrench the door open. Great acting. Oscar-worthy.
"There we go—so sorry," Austin is saying. "I let JB know about it but I'm not sure when it'll get fixed."
"No problem," Samantha says. There's a long pause where there should be footsteps walking away and Callum holds his breath, but thankfully she only bids Austin goodbye.
Austin closes the door. Stares at nothing for a moment, then turns to look over his shoulder at the couch. At Callum's utility belt piled on the cushion in plain sight.
