hackthis_archive | MSTSMF - Do Not Stand Next to Paris Hilton. Ever. (RPS, Shia/Milo, NC-17)

Song of the Day: Dans Le Sac v. Scroobius Pup 'Thou Shall Always Kill'. *Provided courtesy of

slodwick

The below started off as a comment for

sparky77 in response to

slodwick's concern for Shia after the Milo/Paris incident, because as anybody who's read Make Sure They See My Face will tell you, you can get into a lot of trouble just by standing next to someone on a press line. And I swear I thought this was all done, but how can I let it be when they keep doing crazy shit like this?!

Milo/Shia
Make Sure They See My Face-verse (or as

sparky77 likes to call it Hotass Bitch Household-verse)
Rated NC-17

Do Not Stand Next to Paris Hilton. Ever.

The thing about Milo is that he takes care of his belongings. He knows the value of one nice expensive shirt over ten cheap ones and that quitting smoking when he did has probably saved him a lot of grief down the road. It wasn't easy, but it needed to be done.

When Milo bought his house (which he couldn't really afford at the time), he took out all those loans because he knew it was a great investment.

He knew it would be worth it in the end.

The same goes for his friends and his car and anything in which he invests his time or his money or himself. Milo is willing to struggle in the beginning; he's willing to be a little uncomfortable and stumble a bit if he can tell that the payoff will be worth it.

It always turns out his way eventually.

Shia, for example, has always been worth the press and the crazy fan girls and the possessive fits of jealousy. Normally, though, Milo's the one in a rage of jealousy.

And the thing is, Milo's not really worried about the way Shia's got him shoved against the wall next to the stairs -- apparently the bedroom is too far away -- or the way Shia's fucking him hard enough that Milo's seeing spots and his bones are creaking. Milo's not even concerned about the way Shia's fingernails are digging into Milo's hipbones and probably drawing blood. What's bothering Milo is that he's being pressed face first against the wall, and the angle isn't really doing any favors for his neck.

It's certainly not doing any wonders for the black eye Shia gave him the minute he walked through the door. That was a little bit jarring. Or that could be a mild-understatement.

Milo's never seen Shia like this before. It's a little scary and very fucking hot, and Milo's kind of freaked out, because Shia tends to be pretty laid back about everything -- except, apparently, where Milo's concerned.

Milo knows he didn't do anything wrong, but he's still hurt that Shia would think he would fuck Paris Hilton, while Shia's off working on Eagle Eye.

Milo was fucking lonely because Shia's been on set for three weeks, and with the WGA still on strike, Milo's not working. Milo wanted to go out and see people. That was it. Nothing more. He'd just fucking given Shia a hickey the size of a quarter to mark his property. He wasn't fucking crazy.

a) Milo wouldn't cheat when he's with someone
b) Milo definitely wouldn't cheat when he's with Shia
c) Milo definitely wouldn't cheat on Shia with Paris fucking Hilton

You sleep at the Hilton, you don't sleep with them, and again, Milo has Shia at home anyway. There is nothing that Paris Hilton can do that Shia can't do, or won't learn, or figure out, or drag his laptop into the kitchen to show Milo things on the internet that he wants to do that Milo didn't even think were physically possible, causing Milo to burn half their dinner.

"Shia," he warns. Or tries to warn, but Shia's off in some other country, probably one where Milo has Shia's name tattooed on the back of his neck, and -- Jesus Christ, Shia isn't just fucking Milo, he's reaching in and rearranging Milo's entire being. Milo feels like all his DNA is being rewritten to read Property of Shia Saide LaBeouf.

Shia's redolent of cigarettes and make-up remover and soap, and it's heady and confusing and so fucking hot. Milo scrabbles at the wall for a better purchase, but every time he gets his hands underneath him and manages to push back, Shia shoves him back down.

Shia keeps muttering, "mine" and "fucking whore," and Milo doesn't think he's the fucking whore in this one, but for Shia he's certainly turning into one -- at least if the noises he's making are anything to judge by. Milo's been tamed by a 21-year-old hippie, who chain smokes and clubs with ragtag Disney stars.

Wow.

How is this his life? Two years ago, he was unemployed and wondering if he should learn how to drink alcohol.

"Shia," Milo intones again, his cheekbone is really starting to hurt, and his legs are not happy about being confined by his pants around his ankles.

Shia's panting hard against the back of Milo's neck, and it's scandelous and fucked up, and Milo's so hard he might die. Or, at the very least, pass out.

He can't stop whimpering, and Jesus, if Shia hadn't broken one of the chairs and a lamp, Milo would say this is the best sex they've ever had. He can't even touch himself, because Shia's got him pinioned against the wall, which he supposes is what he gets for being photographed with Paris Hilton, but he never thought Shia would respond like this.

Of course, he didn't think Adrian would leave him three messages of WTF on his answering machine either. Never mind Hayden and Masi and Natalie, who told him he wasn't getting near the kids again until he was detoxed by men in HAZMAT suits.

"Shia, if you don't fucking get me off, I swear I'll do something drastic," Milo grits out, using his elbow to try again to get some distance between himself and the wall.

"Like what?" Shia retorts, "be caught with Paris Hilton?!"

Milo growls low in his throat. "Fuck you."

Shia's laugh is more like a bark. "Not until you get tested."

Milo works out like a fiend, and there can't be more than a five pound difference between Shia and him, but Shia has leverage and rage and that angle –- Milo makes this keening noise that might be Shia's name. It makes his legs wobble.

He can't believe he came without being touched. However, the wall is now his friend, except for the come stain he's just spattered all over the dark blue paint.

Milo's entire body has surrendered to Shia and whatever possessive rage he's got going on, and then Shia just stops fucking Milo and Milo hisses loudly when Shia pulls out without warning. Milo's hips feel like they've been broken and reassembled haphazardly, and it takes him several seconds to gather enough muscle control for him to look over his shoulder.

"Are you satisfied that I haven't been defiled yet?" Milo's tongue is too thick for his mouth and his words slur a little.

Shia narrows his eyes. "If I ever catch you sniffing around that bitch again," he begins, "you're going to be sorry."

"You mean you'll fuck me against the wall before I've even made it through the front door?" Milo mocks. "That's not really incentive for me to behave, you know." Milo raises an eyebrow when he realizes Shia's still hard. "You didn't even get off?!"

Shia stares back. He's sweaty and standing in the middle of Milo's living room with a massive hard-on while wearing a fitted tee shirt with his jeans around his ankles. It should look ridiculous; it should not look like the hottest porn Milo's ever seen when Shia rubs his jaw. "That wasn't really what I was aiming for," Shia says flatly.

It should not be this hard for Milo to turn around, but again, he just got fucked up the ass by his 21-year-old boyfriend, and his pants are tangled around his ankles and it's a wonder he didn't choke himself with his own tie. "I don’t know," Milo says, trying to lighten the mood a bit, "your aim seemed pretty good to me."

Shia fixes Milo with a surly look, which Milo brushes off by shaking his head and kicking his legs out of his pants. Free at last. He begins to unloosen his tie as Shia watches. "You punched me," he says pointedly.

"I thought you'd fucked Paris Hilton and that your dick was going to fall off," Shia says dryly. "It was disease prevention."

"And you say I'm the emotional one."

"You nearly choked me to death because you thought I'd fucked your ex," Shia reminds him.

Milo ignores that part and instead wraps his tie around his hand and begins unbuttoning his shirt. He now understands what it means to be ravaged. He's sore and exhausted and inordinately pleased in a way that's probably really fucked up and wrong; he needs to go upstairs and sleep for a week. "She was drunk and I drove her home," he repeats for the third time.

Shia purses his lips. "Stop stripping. You're distracting the fuck out of me, and I need to go have a cigarette and clear my head."

Milo pushes himself upright and shrugs. "Do what you need to do," he says nonchalantly, crossing the distance between them until he's inside Shia's space and breathing against Shia's mouth. "I thought you might want me to fuck you and help you out with that problem you have there," he says, lightly dragging the tie in his hand against Shia's still-hard cock, "but if a smoke is more important..."

A physically pained expression passes over Shia's face, and Milo's confusion and irritation fall away. "Nothing happened, right?" Shia asks again.

Milo sighs, leaning in and resting his forehead against Shia's. Sometimes the age thing doesn't seem so apparent, and then sometimes, like today, it does. "I don't want somebody else," he says quietly, "I have you."

Shia sucks in his cheeks. "You fucking think?"

"Do you want me to get your name tattooed on my ass?"

"Don’t give me any ideas."

Milo licks his lips, watching the way Shia's eyes follow his mouth. "Do you want me to fuck you now?"

"I want you to promise me you'll never fucking stand next to Paris Hilton again," Shia says. "And then I want you to fuck me."

"You're really demanding," Milo teases.

"You better fucking believe it," Shia replies. "It's not as though I can let you run around by unsupervised. You wear fucking tie clips for fuckssake."

"That was low."

"You got photographed leaving a party with Paris Hilton; you're going to be paying for a long time yet. You haven't even heard the messages from George and Kerry yet."

Milo sighs as Shia pulls away and nods towards the stairs. "Is it always going to be like this?" he asks, glancing at the clothes on the floor and then shaking his head. He's too tired. They can stay there overnight.

"If you're lucky," Shia says. "Did I mention that Ari called?"

Milo winces as he takes the first step. Jesus fuck. He can't believe Shia fucked him so hard he can't even make it up the stairs. "You are so much more trouble than you're worth."

"I know I am," Shia says slyly.

Milo pauses and looks down at Shia. "I fucking hate you," he says. He means the exact opposite.

Shia's smile makes his eyes crinkle. "Yeah, I know you do."

-end-

I told

antheia while I was writing this that I understand that this is some crazy RPS/RPF universe that I've made here, but every time I write anybody in this universe, whether it's Shia or Milo or Viggo or George or even Ari, I am consistently amazed by the depth of *their* feelings and my feelings FOR them, it's like they are my belief that even if everything is fucked, maybe it can be okay. This is why I write. This is awesome.

Current Mood: geeky
Current Music: Dans Le Sac v. Scroobius Pup 'Thou Shall Always Kill'