Rating: NC-17
Author: Trekker
Pairing: James/Jeremy
Fandom: Top Gear
Spoilers: Polar Episode
Warning: Sex, Angst
"I think it might be third-degree," Jeremy said, breaking the silence between them again, waking James from his pleasant half-doze, and dammit, that was the last straw.
James sat up, flailing around to free himself from the confines of his sleeping bag and whatever else. "Oh, for God's sake, Clarkson, you whiney git. Give it here, let me look."
Jeremy eagerly scrabbled out of his own polar bondage and held out his wounded hand for inspection. James took it in both of his own and peered at the exploding foie gras-induced burns. They were clearly not too bad. At all.
But Jeremy was saying, "Who'd have guessed that I'd come out here to the Arctic and maim myself by burning myself?"
James glanced up at him, smirking. "Given your history of setting things on fire... pretty much everyone. I think you'll live."
"It hurts!" Jeremy protested, then gave one of his ridiculous pouts.
James rolled his eyes, but he was still more amused than actually annoyed. That might have had something to do with the bottle of wine they'd demolished on top of the not-insignificant quantities of gin. Or maybe the cold or the sleep-deprivation was just getting to him. Either way, he said, "What shall I do about it, Jezza? Kiss it and make it better?"
Jeremy froze. Then, after a bit too long of a pause, he said, "No!"
James cocked his brow. Jeremy had not taken his hand back yet, he noticed, and that caused an unexpected but pleasant stirring in his groin. Suddenly, there was definitely something that seemed more worth doing than sleeping. The tent felt a little warmer.
He tugged Jeremy's hand up to his lips, and instead of kissing it, went for the more unmistakable route of sucking his two injured fingers into his mouth.
"Gah!" Jeremy said.
Mmm. His skin tasted like well-aged cheese and foie gras, with a finishing note of nicotine.
"Jaaaames," he protested, but quietly, low enough so the crew in the other tents wouldn't hear over the wind. "You shameless hussy, I brought you somewhere we couldn't take our clothes off so my manly virtue would be safe!"
James released his fingers with a wet, blow-jobby pop and smiled up at him placidly, deciding to let Jeremy talk himself into it, since nothing ever happened unless Jeremy thought it was his idea.
Jeremy looked back at him. The sudden heat in his eyes belied his mockery, and made James' stomach do a happy little twist.
Fuck the consequences. Fuck the awkwardness that might ensue. Fuck it all. It was minus forty degrees and by tomorrow they could be frozen or drowned or eaten by polar bears and he really didn't give a rat's arse anymore about any of those silly excuses.
Jeremy said, "I'd just like to say that... there are clearly extenuating circumstances, so what I'm about to do obviously does not in any way make me a homosexual."
"Duly noted," James answered, matching Jeremy's mock-serious tone, tense all over with anticipation of what exactly Jeremy was about to do.
Kiss him. Oh. That was really quite nice, actually. Jeremy tasted good here, too, like Chablis and caviar and, again, cigarettes. Which was brilliant, because James had chosen the worst moment ever to try--for the fifth or sixth time--to quit smoking. He pushed in closer just to get more of that taste off of Jeremy's teeth and tongue. Jeremy grunted at his aggressiveness, but the way his hands tightened in James' hair and pulled him even closer told James he didn't mind at all.
"Fucking hell, James," he murmured when they parted.
The air was impossibly cold on James' wet lips, and he wondered if they might actually freeze. He grabbed the front of Jeremy's parka and hauled him closer, knocking over the low table that divided the center of the tent, sending the camp stoves flying and ending up with Jeremy sprawled awkwardly over him and his own head sliding with a nylon-y zip down the side of the tent. His hair instantly clung to the fabric with unprecedented static, but he really didn't care, even when Jeremy laughed and said he looked like a much dumber Einstein.
"Do shut up, Clarkson, I'm trying to have sex."
With a great amount of flailing limbs and rustling cold-weather gear they somehow managed to align themselves more or less properly on James' sleeping bag. Jeremy's bulk on top of him was glorious, heavy and sweet and undeniably masculine. His breath across James' cold-burned lips was hot and just as delicious as the taste of his mouth.
James shifted his hips just to feel the weight of him holding him down. Felt good. Oh, yes, that felt wonderful. He groaned softly as he pushed his very hard cock up against the mass holding him down.
Jeremy had dropped a little lower, his breath now fast against James' cheek and ear, his stubbly skin catching against James' as he whispered, "You plied me with wine and seduced me, you bad man." A joke but not a joke. James knew how this game went, even if he hadn't managed to play it with Jeremy before.
Whatever helps you sleep at night, Clarkson, James thought. What he did, though, was work his hand between them and start to feel around, trying to find Jeremy's cock... which proved somewhat difficult through all of the layers he was wearing.
Still, James knew he'd struck gold when Jeremy hummed slightly and pushed his hips into his hand.
Oh, yes. There. Yeah. Nice and hard.
"Fuck," Jeremy whispered, and the utter nakedness of the word and the desire it conveyed caught James a bit off-guard. Changed things.
He kept up the steady pulse of his hand and said something he usually didn't. Almost never, in fact. "Fuck me, Jez."
For a moment, Jeremy didn't respond, but by his closed eyes and open mouth and the way he kept grinding his hips in a matching rhythm to James' touch, James knew it wasn't a rejection. Not yet, anyway.
Jeremy was disconcertingly beautiful in that moment, lost to pleasure like that. James trembled a little, somewhere very deep down and for a moment, wondered what the hell he was doing.
But no, he knew what he was doing.
Playing with fire.
Then Jeremy opened his eyes and looked down at him and said, with soft and real concern, "Are you sure?"
James looked back up at him and decided to give a genuine answer to a genuine question, even as he kept slowly rubbing that wonderfully hard cock through all those frustrating layers of clothing. "I'm cold, and I'm tired, and I'm honestly afraid that I'm going to die sometime in the next couple of days. So... yes. I'm sure. I just want to feel something good."
Jeremy smiled slightly. "Fair enough. Oh!" His lashes fluttered at something James had done with his hand.
James attempted to do whatever it had been again, but Jeremy was already getting up on his hands and knees, out of reach, and looking around for something. Then, eyes lighting up, he grabbed for something and held it over James' face. The yellow tube of grease for the camp stoves. "Think this'll do?"
Oh. Hell, no. But... well, it wasn't as if James had actually been planning for this to happen and therefore prepared with the proper supplies. James hadn't even been planning on masturbating, given the constant presence of Jeremy and the Icelandic mechanics and the film crew, not to mention the terrifying risk of frostbite in the worst possible place.
The grease probably wouldn't kill him. "Most likely."
"That's not a very James-y answer," Jeremy pointed out.
James rolled over onto his stomach and ignored him, and sure enough, that was enough to get Jeremy back on course. James shuddered roughly, feeling far too much as Jeremy worked his way through the buttons and zips and velcro and finally managed to get all of James' gear out of the way and his bum exposed to the cold air.
He heard Jeremy exhale roughly, then begin to work through all of his own layers. After a moment, Jeremy said, laughingly, "Your bottom is literally the same color as the snow, did you know that?"
James snorted, startled but amused, and said, "If you don't hurry up, my bottom's going to get frostbite and fucking fall off."
"Yeah, sorry. Damn this... fucking space suit. Can't even take a piss in less than half-a-bloody-hour... There!"
James shut his eyes and pressed his cheek against his pillow, seeking the elusive reflected warmth of his own body heat. Another wave of what-the-hell-are-you-doing passed through him like a shiver and he shut his eyes tighter, made himself breathe slower. It'll be good. It'll be fine. Jeremy's right for once, these are about as extenuating as circumstances can get.
As long as he could avoid making it something it wasn't, they'd be fine.
Jeremy gasped the tell-tale gasp of the very, very cold, sniffed, and said, "This stuff better not make my willy fall off."
Then, without further warning, he leaned over James' back and the slippery head of his cock pushed against James' arsehole. James opened his legs as wide as he could get them, confined as he was, and then, with a small, wonderful spike of pain, Jeremy pushed a little harder and he was in. Oh, fuck, it had been a long time since he'd--Oh, yes. Deep and steady. Jeremy stopped when his hips were flush against James' buttcheeks and it was almost warm where they touched. Yes.
James turned his face completely into his pillow, breathing his own trapped breath, dizzy with wanting of a thousand things he couldn't have and with this one thing that he did.
"God, James," Jeremy whispered, heavily on top of him again, lips brushing his ear, tickling and sparking and oh, yes. "You're so hot inside. Oh, that's incredibly good."
He tried to push back, to get Jeremy moving, but he was too trapped by his own clothing and had no leverage. He had to say it again, blushing into his pillow: "Fuck me."
But when Jeremy did, he almost wished he hadn't.
It was intense. He'd forgotten how intense this could be, even under normal circumstances... and these were far, far from normal. Fuck. He was warm now, though, flooded with heat, sweating into his wicking microfiber whatever-the-fuck-it-was. The pillow was burning his face, wet with breath and sweat. His whole universe was pulsating in time with Jeremy's slow, careful thrusts.
"Jesus," Jeremy whispered, reverently.
James swallowed hard, burning all over, knowing he had to pull back, that it was getting to be too much. "Jesus is still in the truck," he murmured.
But Jeremy seemingly didn't hear. He was getting into a faster rhythm now, breathing in tropical bursts against James' cheek, whispering, "Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes."
Harder and faster and James found himself actually biting down on his pillow, trying to muffle his involuntary grunts, losing himself to the pounding rhythm, feeling it all the way through to his soul, barely able to breathe. Good. Too bloody good. Too much.
"Touch yourself," Jeremy gasped. "I want to feel you come."
Jesus God.
Fuck.
He did. He had to. It was too much, all of it, and if he didn't he was going to die right there and rob the bears and the ice of the chance. It was awkward, trying to work his hand under the weight of both their bodies, trying to pull himself at the right pace when Jeremy's every inward thrust trapped his hand and cock between his belly and the bed roll.
He didn't ask him to stop. Didn't want it to stop.
Needed to come. Bloody hell, it would be a mess.
Didn't care.
He'd forgot about the Icelandic mechanics and the film crew until Jeremy's hand slipped over his mouth and pressed there--not cruelly but firmly. He welcomed the assistance, didn't want to censor himself, didn't want to think about anything but his own hand on his cock and Jeremy's cock in his arse.
"Come on. Come on, sweetheart," Jeremy murmured, lips brushing James' ear, hips driving his cock in hard and deep and quick. Sweetheart. Jeremy could always be tender at the very worst moments. "What do you need? What can I do?"
Nothing. Nothing at all. Because there it was, right there, yes, yes, yes, yes. He shook as he came, pushing down into the sleeping bag, up into Jezza, groaning desperately against the palm over his mouth. Oh, yes. Yes, yes. Pulses all through him in time with the fucking.
Still shaking.
Jeremy cursed and picked up the pace, unevenly.
His hand trembled against James' mouth and he breathed out gustily into James' ear, but those were the only sign of his climax until he slumped over James' back, kissed his temple, and whispered, "Good. Oh, that was very good."
For quite awhile, neither of them moved. It was hard to breathe under Jeremy's dead weight, but he didn't care. He didn't need to breathe. He was warm finally and still quivering with aftershocks.
Jeremy pulled away first.
He knelt over James' thighs and, without even being asked, put James' clothes back in order. James rolled over under him to give him access to the last few buttons and zips and he watched Jeremy's face. Tension and concentration and cold were the only things he could read from it.
He watched Jeremy's hands as he tucked himself away and did up his own suit.
Then Jeremy laughed, once, short and weak and obviously forced. James' eyes jumped back up to his face, but Jeremy looked away, saying, "Obviously, we must never speak of this again."
Jeremy's tone was light, and his eyes were shy and guilty, but James knew it was true. They wouldn't. He hadn't expected anything else... even if, deep down, some idiotic part of him had perhaps hoped for something else.
That was stupid, though. They'd both got what they wanted, and all that they could have.
Jeremy crawled back to his side and wrapped himself up entirely in his sleeping bag. James watched him lay there for a moment, then did the same with his own.
He shut his eyes and listened to the Arctic wind flutter the tent walls.
He was close to sleep again when Jeremy spoke, waking him again.
"Goodnight, May."
He thought about feigning sleep, but then didn't. "Goodnight, Clarkson."
The sun shone outside, bright as day but giving no heat. Everything they said here was a lie.
The End
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