Dec 12, 2025
ollie 😭
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Australia
seen from Japan
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
seen from France
seen from Yemen
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Poland
ollie 😭
merry christmas here is my fav part of ollie plimsoll’s ‘communativity’ play god bless his enraged little heart
Mark Gatiss and Reece Shearsmith interviewed on BBC Choice's That Gay Show, 2002
Poor Ollie 🥺
Check out my TikTok
Update on my Tomodachi Island
Maisie & Ania are married and live together. Their house group name is MA'AM (Can this be Maisie and Ania's ship name??)
Reece & Phil are married
Ollie Plimsolls and Phil Proctor are dating
I dunno if I mentioned it in my last post but Greg and Alex have a son called Kayden.
Backstage Tour
Ollie Plimsolls (The League of Gentlemen) x f!Reader
AO3 link here
Summary: While tending to Ollie in a vulnerable state, unexpected tension sparks, and feelings neither of you planned for begin to surface.
Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, swearing, mentions of violence, injury, blood
Ollie hadn’t planned on getting beat up today, but his temper had other ideas. After one outburst too many, Dave and Phil snapped - storming off to let him deal with his injuries alone. Bruised and bloodied, he limped back to the empty auditorium, where everyone had been rehearsing for his play about disability.
As usual, Ollie made a show of things, sinking into the wheelchair he’d insisted Phil use to “get into character.” You were sitting on the edge of the stage, legs swinging, pretending to study your lines - and pretending even harder to understand Ollie’s vision. Your head snapped up when he entered.
“Bloody hell, Ollie!” you gasped, your voice echoing through the room. “What happened to you?”
“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he muttered sarcastically, avoiding your eyes - especially the look of concern that made his chest tighten. “Dave and Phil aren’t.”
You hopped down from the stage and approached him, leaving your script behind.
“Can you try to walk? You said I needed to get that wheelchair back in storage today.”
“Yes!” he barked, then grimaced. “It just … hurts.”
He pushed himself up and limped a few steps.
“Jesus, are you okay?”
Your gentleness almost disarmed him.
“It’s just my back,” he grumbled. “Some bloke jumped me for no reason.”
You stifled a knowing smile. “Yeah, of course, probably no reason at all.”
“I mean it!”
“Let’s have a look.”
He froze as you stepped behind him, lifting his jumper and shirt in one swift motion - and you tried not to get flustered at his exposed skin. You’d developed a bit of a thing for Ollie since joining Legz Akimbo, even if he was … well, a nightmare. But the bruises across his back instantly sobered you.
“God, Ollie. This is bad.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’ve got some bruise gel in my bag. It’ll help.”
You dropped his shirt and went to retrieve your bag from the stage.
“Seriously, it’s fine.”
“Don’t be a dick, Ollie,” you said over your shoulder. “Sit down.”
He swallowed hard at your tone, part intimidation, part something else he didn’t want to name. Dragging a chair over, he sat on it backward, arms crossed. You took a seat behind him, rummaging through your bag.
When your nails brushed his skin as you lifted his shirt again, his body twitched.
“This might be cold,” you warned.
The gel hit his skin and he hissed through his teeth.
“Sorry.”
You rubbed gentle circles, fingers tracing down the curve of his spine. He sighed softly - not of irritation, for once. You raised an eyebrow and trailed your fingers lower. Another quiet whine escaped him - this time muffled, awkward, and very clearly not annoyed.
Without a word, you moved to the next bruise, this one lower, near the small of his back. He jolted slightly in the chair, and though he tried to act normal, you noticed. Of course you noticed.
“Don’t stop.”
His barely-audible whisper caught you off guard - something he hadn’t meant to say, and you pretended not to hear.
Ollie could’ve died. He hated feeling this exposed - physically and emotionally - especially with you. But he’d fantasised about something like this, hadn’t he? Quiet intimacy between the two of you, a touch that wasn’t angry or mocking. Then, just as suddenly, you pulled away.
“Okay. I’m done.”
Fuck.
“I don’t want it to get on your shirt, so I’ll keep it lifted a bit while it dries.”
Fuck.
Then you began to blow gently on his back to dry it. A full-body shiver ran through him, and this time the moan slipped out before he could stop it. He bit his lip, eyes shut.
Were you trying to drive him mad? You were succeeding.
You finally dropped the fabric back over his skin.
“Ollie.”
He hummed in response - softer than you’d ever heard from him.
“Turn around. I’m gonna to clean up the blood on your nose.”
He hesitated, but eventually stood and shifted in his seat, now sitting on the chair properly. Your knees brushed. You were busy rifling through your bag to find your wet wipes, but when you looked back at him you froze.
He was rock hard.
Your eyes flicked to his face. His cheeks were blazing, and he wouldn’t meet your gaze. You swallowed and said nothing, pretending not to notice the very obvious tent in his trousers.
Clearing your throat, you grabbed a wipe and cupped his chin, tilting his face gently toward yours. He gasped at your touch. You started dabbing at his face with a wet wipe, painfully aware of how close you were, his breath warm on your face, his thigh brushing against yours. He winced.
“Don’t be a baby,” you teased.
“Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You’re not the one getting poked in the bloody face.”
You bit your lip. “You want me to stop poking you?”
His eyes flicked to yours. The pause hung in the air.
“…No,” he admitted.
You smiled to yourself and kept going. He was trying so hard to keep still - to pretend this wasn’t doing things to him. But it was. You could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his leg bounced slightly, the way he still hadn’t really looked at you.
“So,” you said casually, “is this gonna be a regular thing? You getting punched over your own plays?”
“I suffer for my art,” he said, finally looking up.
“I’m almost done,” you said, wiping gently at the last of the blood. “Then we can go back to pretending this never happened.”
“Right,” he said, voice a little lower now. “The part where you straddled me from behind and gave me a full-body massage?”
You narrowed your eyes. “That wasn’t a massage. That was first aid.”
“Oh, yeah. Strictly medical. Except for the part where you were blowing on my back like you were trying to seduce it.”
“Maybe your back should learn some self-control,” you shot back.
He barked out a laugh, then shifted in his seat - subtly trying to adjust himself. Not subtly enough.
You raised an eyebrow. “Still hurting, are we?”
“I’m fine,” he said almost too quickly.
“Mm-hmm.”
You let the silence hang for a second, your hand still resting lightly on his jaw. You could feel the tension radiating off him. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing hard under your fingers.
“You always do this?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “Take care of wounded actors?”
“Only the ones who moan when I touch them.”
He blinked. Then gulped nervously. “So you noticed.”
“Maybe.” You leaned in a little, your mouth just inches from his. “Do you want to know what else I noticed?”
“God, yes,” he breathed.
Your lips were barely a whisper from his.
"I noticed," you murmured, dragging your thumb slowly across his bottom lip, "you're terrible at pretending you’re not enjoying this.”
His breath hitched. His eyes darted to your lips and back again, like he was still waiting for permission. You didn't give it. Not yet. You just watched him squirm.
"I'm not pretending," he finally said, voice rough. “I’m trying not to embarrass myself."
You tilted your head, your nose brushing against his now. "Bit late for that,” you smirked, gesturing down at the bulge in his trousers.
He let out a strangled sound - half laugh, half groan - and his hand suddenly gripped your waist like he couldn't stop himself. You didn't pull away.
"You are so annoying," he muttered.
"And you're so obvious."
"Do you ever stop talking?" he asked, eyes narrowed, voice dark.
"Make me."
That did it.
His hand slid up your back, the other cupping the back of your neck as he pulled you in hard. Your mouths crashed together in a kiss that was all heat and teeth and frustration. His lips were chapped, a little swollen from earlier - but he kissed you like he didn't care, like he'd been dying to do it since the first rehearsal and had only just given himself permission.
You kissed him back just as fiercely, grabbing a fistful of his jumper and tugging him closer, his chair scraping slightly on the floor as your knees knocked together. His hands were on your hips now, holding you like he didn't trust you not to disappear. Ollie pulled you onto his lap and you straddled him, grinding down on his hard length. He groaned pathetically into your mouth, like he couldn't take it.
When you finally broke the kiss, you were both panting. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, mouth wet.
"Jesus," he breathed.
"You good?" you asked, your tone teasing but your heart racing.
"I'm not sure if I want to kiss you again or throw you onto the desk."
You smirked. "What a gentleman."
"Don't push me," he growled, leaning back in.
"You should get beat up more often."
Ollie huffed a laugh, still slightly breathless. “I’ll add it to the rehearsal notes. ‘Step one: get jumped. Step two: get mouth assaulted in the auditorium.’”
You grinned. “That wasn’t an assault. That was encouragement.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”
You shrugged. “Would you prefer ‘medical necessity’? Maybe I should check your pulse while I’m at it.”
“Pretty sure it’s shot through the roof,” he muttered.
His fingers curled just a little tighter around your hips, as if to keep you right there. Right where you sat on his lap, close enough to feel how warm he was, how wrecked he still looked from the kiss.
You tilted your head. “You okay?”
He looked at you like he was trying to come up with something smart, but his mouth just parted silently before he gave up and said, “Not even a little bit.”
You raised a brow, amused. “Good.”
“God, you’re evil.”
You laughed, and this time it softened something between you both. You caught the way his gaze dipped back down to your lips, then lower, then quickly up again like he’d caught himself staring. You didn’t mind.
“I should…” you began, glancing vaguely toward the stage, even though you made no move to go anywhere.
“Yeah,” he echoed, not moving either.
You could feel him hesitating.
“So, uh,” he finally managed, “what now? Are you gonna pretend this never happened, or…?”
“Do you want to pretend?” you asked.
He looked at you for a long moment, then smirked - that irritating, irresistible smirk. “Not at all.”
“Then don’t,” you said softly. “But also maybe wait until your nose stops bleeding before you try to kiss me again.”
He chuckled, then winced, wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his jumper. “Right. Got it. Anything else on the agenda?”
You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“Later,” you whispered, “I’ll show you how good I am at taking care of actors offstage.”
He made a broken sort of sound in the back of his throat as you climbed off his lap and began to walk away - but you’d barely made it three steps when you heard the chair scrape back across the floor.
“Wait.”
You turned. Ollie was standing now, a little unsteady, but there was something in his eyes that stopped you cold. He was focused. Serious.
“I’m not done,” he said.
“With what?” you asked, your voice softer now.
“With you.”
He closed the distance slowly, deliberate and silent. Stopping just inches away, his hand brushed a stray hair behind your ear, fingers lingering too long. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.
“I’ve been trying really hard to be good,” he murmured.
“Good?” you echoed, barely above a whisper.
He nodded, eyes locked on your mouth. “Trying to hold back. Pretend that I don’t want you. But I can’t stop thinking about you- ever.”
“And now?”
He didn’t answer, just leaned in - slowly, giving you every chance to stop him - and he kissed you again. His hand slipped to the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the curve of your jaw. It was all slow and soft. He pulled back only slightly, just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
“You really drive me up the wall,” he said quietly.
You grinned - and for a second, you both just stood there, wrapped in the afterglow of something that had clearly been building for far too long. His hands settled at your waist like they’d belonged there this whole time. Your fingertips ghosted along his sleeve.
“Still want me to put the wheelchair back in storage?” you asked lightly, trying to ground yourself in something normal.
“Eventually. But right now…” His fingers laced with yours. “I don’t want you going anywhere.”
You raised a brow, “Oh yeah?”
“Not unless you’re planning to sit back on my lap and finish what you started,” Ollie said, heat creeping up his face like he was shocked by his own boldness.
You let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
He tilted his head. “You just snogged me silly and now I’m the problem?”
“You’re always the problem, Ollie,” you shot back. “But apparently I’ve got a thing for the problematic.”
He grinned, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth again. “That’s the best news I’ve had all week.”
You gave his chest a playful shove. “Your nose is still bleeding, Romeo.”
“Adds to the aesthetic.”
“Of what, tragic playwright?”
He clutched his heart dramatically with one hand. “You wound me.”
He gave you that look again - the one that said, you know exactly what you’re doing to me - and tugged gently on your hand to keep you close. “I’m just saying … if you wanted to rehearse a different scene, I wouldn’t object.”
“And what scene is that, exactly?” You asked.
He dropped his voice to a murmur, eyes dancing. “One with less dialogue and a lot more … physical blocking.”
You laughed, and he looked annoyingly pleased with himself.
“You are so irritating,” you said.
“And yet,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your knuckles, “you’re still here.”
“…Only because I haven’t decided whether kissing you again is a terrible idea or an amazing one.”
Ollie grinned, stepping in close enough that your noses almost touched. “How about we test the theory?”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
“You seem to like it.”
Unfortunately, he was right. You wanted to fire something back, but then you saw how he was looking at you.
His smirk had faltered. His hand was still holding yours, but the grip had tightened. His other hand twitched at his side, like he was trying not to touch you again. His jaw flexed once. Twice. And he shifted on his feet in a way that wasn’t casual at all.
You tilted your head. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
You stepped in close, brushing your body against his just enough to feel the tension coil in him like a spring. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”
“I’m managing,” he said through clenched teeth.
You arched a brow. “You look like you’re about to combust.”
He didn’t deny it. His eyes dropped - slowly, blatantly - before flicking back up to your face with a guilty little smile. “In my defense, you’re very distracting.”
“I’m not even doing anything.”
“That’s the problem.”
You laughed under your breath, then stepped even closer, your hand trailing idly up his chest. “Poor thing. Is this what happens when someone’s actually nice to you?”
“Apparently, yeah,” he muttered. “Turns out I’m wildly unprepared.”
You snorted. “You’re so full of it.”
He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, his voice a low, barely-there murmur. “No, I’m full of really, really bad ideas.”
Your fingers found the hem of his jumper, tugging on it playfully. “Bad ideas like what?”
“Like dragging you backstage for twenty minutes.”
You raised your eyebrows, lips twitching. “Twenty minutes? Bit optimistic, aren’t you?”
He groaned under his breath and dropped his forehead to your shoulder, laughing in defeat. “You’re killing me.”
You let your hand drift up to his hair, ruffling it gently. “Good. Suffer.”
He looked up at you again, flushed and grinning. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Only because you’re completely wrecked and trying to play it cool.”
“I’m not trying,” he muttered. “I gave up trying somewhere between the full-body massage and the part where you sat on me.”
“Mm,” you said, eyes glinting. “So … this isn’t a rehearsal anymore?”
“This is opening night.”
“Opening night, huh?” You questioned
Ollie nodded. “Five-star performance pending.”
“Bold, considering your current limp.”
He leaned in again, this time brushing his lips over your cheek, toward your ear. “Trust me. Nothing below the waist is limping.”
You let out a breath of a laugh - somewhere between scandalized and delighted. “Ollie!”
“Just being honest.”
You smirked, then stepped back slightly, keeping your eyes on him as you slowly walked toward the wings. “Come on then.”
The statement hung in the air - obvious and shameless, and the second he realized it, he groaned and followed after you.
You ducked behind the heavy black curtain, disappearing into the maze of forgotten props and fabric racks, knowing he was just a few steps behind. The quiet thud of his footsteps sped up, and then he grabbed your wrist, spinning you back around and pressing you against him.
He leaned in and kissed you again, but this time it was messier, needier - like the teasing had burned through his patience. His hands moved to your waist, thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of your top like he wasn’t sure how far you’d let him go but really, really wanted to find out. One of his hands slid up your back, pressing you closer, while the other knocked a costume hat off the shelf beside you. It landed with a dull thud. Neither of you cared.
You pulled back just far enough to look at him - hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with something between disbelief and want.
“You know,” you said, “this is very unprofessional.”
“Yep.”
“We could get caught.”
“Worth it.”
You paused for a beat. “You really want to make out in the prop corner like two horny teenagers?”
He gave you a completely unapologetic smile. “I’ve wanted to make out with you anywhere since week one, so … yeah.”
You laughed, then grabbed the front of his jumper again, tugging him down to kiss you once more. You bit his lip and he moaned into your mouth.
“You’re not helping,” he murmured.
“Helping with what?”
“You know exactly what,” he said.
You tilted your head, playing innocent. “Just making sure your injuries aren’t acting up.”
“Oh, they’re acting up,” he muttered, his voice rough. “I’m in agony.”
“Want me to check for swelling?” you teased.
He groaned and dropped his head to your shoulder, hands squeezing at your hips like he was physically restraining himself. “I am begging you to stop talking.”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t, I’m going to do something very unprofessional.”
You smiled sweetly, brushing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Ollie.”
He looked up, jaw tight.
You leaned in, lips just grazing his, your voice a soft purr. “I want you to be unprofessional.”
And that was all it took.
“If I start, I’m not stopping at kissing.”
You smiled, breathless. “Who said I wanted you to stop?”
He stared at you for a beat, chest rising, jaw clenched, eyes unreadable - then backed you gently into a wall of velvet curtains and kissed you like he was already halfway gone.
“I hate how much I want you,” he groaned.
You moaned in response and tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging gently. He squeezed your arse and pressed his hard cock against your thigh, desperate for friction. He played with the hem of your shirt like he was asking for permission. You kissed him hard - answer given. He pulled your shirt over your head and stared shamelessly.
“I’m never going to be normal about you.”
You tugged him closer, placing his hand on your breast. “Promise?”
Within seconds his mouth was back on yours, tongue recklessly sliding past your lips as he groped your breasts. You pulled away just long enough to yank his jumper over his head, then unfastened his shirt one button at a time until it slipped from his shoulders. You eased it off completely, hands lingering on his chest - warm and solid beneath a dusting of hair, your fingers curling instinctively into it.
“I want you, Ollie.” You blinked up at him. He let out a shaky breath.
You took his arm and tugged him down until you were both kneeling, cushioned by a mess of discarded costumes. Then, with a gentle push, you eased him onto his back. You straddled his lap - rubbing him through his trousers. He mewled and jerked up into your touch.
“Please,” he whispered, staring up at you like you put the stars in the sky. It made your heart surge.
“Please, what, Ollie?” You teased.
He swallowed, sweat beading on his forehead, “Please touch me. It aches.”
You abandoned your teasing - his voice was too sincere - and quickly worked on removing his trousers. You pulled them down his legs and he kicked them off. You rubbed your hand over his bulge again, feeling the wet spot on his boxers where his tip was leaking precum.
You kissed him again, then traced your lips to his earlobe, nibbling softly. Slowly, you worked your way down his body, pausing at the happy trail at the waistband of his boxers. One glance up - he was wordless, pleading - so you slipped them off.
His cock sprang free and you bit your lip, taking in the beautiful sight before you - Ollie lay panting, naked, glasses askew. It took everything in you not to rip your own jeans off and ride him right there.
Instead, you gripped his cock, thumb swiping over the wet tip. You straddled his thighs and jerked your fist at a steady pace. His eyes fluttered closed, so he didn’t notice when you’d moved to lower your mouth to him until you licked a wet stripe up his shaft. His eyes shot open and he almost came right there.
You smirked, then licked at the sensitive head while jerking your fist up and down his length. Slowly, you took him into your mouth, sinking down until he hit the back of your throat. You stayed like that for a moment until Ollie whined in frustration and started thrusting his hips up into you- so, you bobbed your head, dragging your tongue as you went. Ollie absolutely lost it, reaching down to grip your hair tightly. You let him fuck your mouth as you matched the motion of his hips with every bow of your head - it was a punishingly fast pace that had you soaked.
“Fuck,” he breathed, “If you keep doing that, I’m gonna cum.”
You pulled off. Ollie gave you a look of utter despair.
“What kind of sadist are you?”
“The kind who wants to fuck you.” You giggled, unbuttoning your jeans and yanking them half way down your legs.
Ollie practically threw you onto your back and pulled your jeans the rest of the way off, throwing them to one side like he was angry at them for gatekeeping your thighs.
He hovered above you, grinding against your core. You arched your back into him. Ollie reached behind you, fumbling with the clasp on your bra. He struggled for a while, then eventually gave up, sighing into your shoulder. You giggled and undid the clasp yourself - but gestured for him to pull it off you. His mouth hung open at the sight of your bare chest, and for a second he could’ve sworn he was dreaming.
“You are so perfect.”
You pulled him flush against you and kissed him in response, arms slung around the back of his neck as his hands roamed your body.
“So are you.”
He dropped his head to your chest, kissing and biting your breasts. He licked at your nipples and took one into his mouth, sucking gently. You moaned at the sensation as he softly nipped at the sensitive skin. His free hand trailed down, finding its way into your panties, and he rubbed at your soaked core.
“You’re so … wet,” his face was red, like he couldn’t believe he was responsible.
“Your fault.”
His lips found yours again and he began circling your clit. You leant into his touch and he softly bit your lip before trailing down to your neck, sucking and biting marks on the tender skin. One of his fingers teased your entrance, then he slipped it in. He curled it, pumping in and out of you, gradually picking up speed. The sounds were deliciously obscene.
Then he spoke.
“Can I taste you?”
You bit back a moan. “Fuck yes.”
He wasted no time kissing down your body, settling his head between your legs and yanking your panties off. He spread your legs, and groaned at the sight of you, promptly kissing up your thighs, then licked a stripe up your aching heat, eliciting a soft gasp. He growled and his lips immediately latched to your clit, lapping at you like a man starved. He moaned as he tasted you over and over, lost in his own pleasure. His grip on your thighs was bruising. You pulled at his hair as he slipped a finger inside of you.
“Ollie,” you gasped.
He groaned and added a second, stretching you. Overstimulated, you clamped your thighs around his head, but he pried them back open - and you pretended that the rare show of dominance from Ollie wasn’t extremely arousing. He sucked on your clit and sped up his fingers, hitting your g-spot with expert precision. You felt the coil tightening in your lower stomach, fluttering, building up more and more.
“God, yes,” you moaned, “I’m gonna cum.”
He moaned into you, showing no signs of stopping. You could only manage short, laboured breaths as you tightened your grip on his hair. Ollie flicked his tongue just right, and you ground down onto his mouth, your orgasm crashing over you. He let you ride out your climax on his tongue before carefully pulling his fingers out of your soaked core.
He hovered over you now, pupils dilated, mouth and chin soaked.
“Please let me fuck you,” he begged, leaning down to place gentle kisses on your neck and shoulder.
You nodded eagerly and he gripped the base of his shaft, sliding it against your slick folds before positioning himself at your entrance. He kissed you sweetly as he entered you, cautiously at first, before burying himself completely inside you.
After a moment, he started moving his hips, slow but deep thrusts - tender. You cried out and wrapped your arms around him, nails softly skimmed his back - careful not to touch his bruises. You moaned out his name and locked your legs around his waist, encouraging him to pick up the pace gradually, pushing his hips into yours with more force - more heat. Your bodies moved in perfect unison, lips and teeth grazing each other’s skin like they belonged there.
“God,” he moaned, “you feel amazing. You’re so tight.”
Your walls clenched around him as he drove in and out of your slick cunt. Sounds of loud moans and skin hitting skin filled the room. His hands were all over you, grabbing any piece of flesh he could, to tell himself this was real.
He shifted positions, grabbing your thighs and pulling your legs up onto his shoulders. He fucked into you with everything he had, staring down at your tits as they bounced with every thrust. A thin layer of sweat covered both of your bodies. It was beautifully obscene. You took in how gorgeous he looked in that moment, mouth hung open, eyes half-lidded with lust, whining as he pulled your hips into his.
He spoke breathlessly, biting his lip, “I’m so close.”
You spoke before you could think, “Cum inside me.”
That broke him.
He sped up - his thrusts becoming messier - then you felt him twitch inside of you. With a few rough snaps of his hips and the hottest noise you’ve ever heard a man make, he came - filling you up completely and chanting your name like a prayer. He shuddered as he gripped you tightly, riding out his orgasm.
He collapsed between your legs - resting his bodyweight on top of you. His lips once again found your neck and he pressed soft kisses into the skin. Still half pussy-drunk, you felt him smile into your shoulder.
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
You giggled in response. “You’re welcome.”
Ollie finally pulled out and rolled onto his back beside you, wincing as he landed on a bruise. You grabbed your discarded shirt, wiping yourself off unceremoniously, then glanced around - suddenly all too aware of where you were.
You’d just fucked Ollie Plimsolls on the floor of a backstage dressing room.
You turned to lay on your side, facing Ollie who was covering you both with an old blanket. Your legs tangled with his and your fingers lazily traced circles on his chest as he stared at the ceiling, hair tousled, cheeks still a little flushed.
“Well,” you said, still catching your breath, “that was … irresponsible.”
Ollie made a soft, breathy sound that could’ve been a laugh or a groan. “That was the most reckless decision of my career.”
A pause.
Then he spoke again.
“Do you regret it?” he asked quietly, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.
His expression was neutral - guarded, even - but his hand was rested gently on your hip, his thumb brushing absent circles over your skin like he hadn’t realized he was doing it.
You reached over and brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. “Not at all.”
His shoulders relaxed like he’d been holding tension in them for longer than he’d admit.
“…Okay,” he said softly. “Good.”
You smiled. “Do you regret it?”
“Not at all,” he echoed.
He turned to face you, propping himself up on one elbow. His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up again. “Although I do regret not getting your bra off properly. That clasp was … an enemy.”
You laughed. “You fought bravely.”
“I panicked.”
“I noticed.”
He leaned down and kissed your shoulder, warm and unhurried. “We’re going to be insufferable tomorrow, aren’t we?”
“Oh, absolutely,” you murmured.
You nestled into him a little closer, letting your hand rest over his heart. It was still beating faster than normal.
“You okay?” you asked.
“I’m trying not to fall in love with you too quickly,” he said - too easily, too fast, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
You blinked. He froze.
“…Well. That just slipped out.”
You stared at him.
And then, slowly, you grinned. “Ollie.”
“What?”
You kissed him, soft and slow and full of all the things you hadn’t said yet.
When you pulled back, you whispered, “Too late.”
He stared at you like you’d just pulled the floor out from under him.
“Too late?” he repeated, voice a little hoarse.
You nodded, dragging your fingers lazily through his hair. “You’re not subtle, Ollie. You’ve been in emotional free fall since I cleaned the blood off your nose.”
He groaned and buried his face in the curve of your neck. “God. I hate how hot that is.”
“Of course you do - falling for someone in a first aid scenario.” You rolled your eyes.
He gazed up at you, lips curling into a lazy, still-wrecked smile. “Don’t act like you didn’t deliberately make it weirdly tender.”
“Oh, I did,” you admitted proudly. “I blew on your back and everything.”
“You blew on my- okay, see, now it sounds like a euphemism.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It felt like one.”
You both dissolved into laughter, easy and breathless, too tired to pretend and too content to care.
Ollie reached for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. “So … what happens now?”
You looked at him for a long moment.
“Well,” you said, “we get dressed. You definitely put the props back before someone notices we broke a few.”
He nodded solemnly. “Right. Damage control.”
“Then,” you continued, squeezing his hand, “we do whatever we were doing before. But … maybe now with slightly more kissing.”
“Slightly?”
You smiled. “A lot more.”
He exhaled slowly, like that was all he needed to hear. You sat up, stretching with a groan, blanket slipping from your shoulders. He stared a little too long, then looked away, sheepish.
“What?” you asked, pulling your now-stained shirt back on.
“It’s just …” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re really fit. It’s rude.”
“You’re worse,” you said, “you’ve been hot and brooding for weeks. It’s exhausting.”
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, “you haven’t seen anything yet.”
You shot him a look. He blinked.
Then, slowly - with a devious glint in his eye - he added, “You, uh … free for a second performance after lunch?”
You threw a jacket at his head - and he caught it, still grinning like a man entirely, stupidly gone for you.
Andra Akers-Phil Proctor "Murder a la mod" 1968, de Brian de Palma.
