Pairing:Rob Thomas/Brad Pitt
Rating:R or more, depending on your threshold
Prompt: Whatever happened to all this season's losers of the year? Ev'ry time I got to thinking, where'd they disappear?
Summary: Rob can't have Brad anymore (inspired by an interview with Rob Thomas, who was asked about rumors that he was doing Tom Cruise. He responded that he was more of a Brad Pitt man.)
Loving on your Beta: Without the lovely karaokegal, this would never have happened, or been as good as it is. You are an amazing person, my dear.
Why it’s a costume: RPS kinda creeps me out. And now I wrote some.
The daydream never started the same way twice.
"Well, there's always strip poker."
One hokey, clichéd situation after another, floating through his mind while Nicky applied his makeup before an appearance, or when he lay twisted in black sheets, alone and unable to sleep. Once it was a congratulatory bottle of scotch for an Oscar nom, or a chance meeting at an after-party, or a horseback ride out in the woods (very Brokeback), or rehearsal for a scene together that got out of hand.
"I know what that means."
Every setup was just an excuse, and Rob knew it. He wondered what a psychiatrist would make of they way he always envisioned himself the loser in these games.
Strip poker this time, possibly inspired by the game of hearts he'd played with Maison earlier over the phone. He watched one hand go by, then another, taking his t-shirt and jeans and leaving him nearly naked on his side of the cheap card table. Brad grinned innocently, then stood up to move around behind him, both of them staring at his last, extremely sad hand of cards. One muscular arm slid down his chest from behind, the other tipping back Rob's head for a white-hot, upside down kiss.
The hotel room was dark and quiet. Rob reached down to fold his callused fingers around his cock, already hard and straining against the sheets. He imagined other fingers curling there instead, stroking, squeezing. He choked back a moan when he felt those expressive lips on his belly, moving downward. Closing his eyes, he could see Brad's intense blue gaze staring back at him from between his legs. Dream-Brad smiled up at him, the boy next door, the man of a million masturbation fantasies - the imagined feel of his tongue sweeping from base to tip and the mouth opening and enveloping him and strong fingers reaching beneath to slip into his ass and tickle his prostate and -
Rob came hard, like always. Every muscle clenched and released rhythmically, rolling him like the undulations of a belly dancer. As the waves pulled back to let him breathe again, his heart slowed its pace, his grip on his cock relaxed. Marisol always said that he looked as though he'd been hit by a sledgehammer just after orgasm - pole-axed, she called it.
He cursed himself, panting. Grabbing today's t-shirt from the floor, he cleaned up with slow, exhausted movements and tossed it back with the rest of his dirty clothes. He remembered the last time he'd seen Brad, the day after Angie had found out she was pregnant. Brad had smiled easily and shrugged, saying that even though Jen had been ok with it and Marisol was still ok with it, Angelina had put her foot down. With the baby on the way she needed commitment, not an open relationship. Brad sat there across the table, small blond hairs on his forearms catching the morning light and turning to glinting gold. As close as he had been a moment before. Or not. Rob rolled onto his stomach, imagining what would once have been tomorrow morning's phone call.
"I thought about you last night."
"I know what that means."