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rionaleonhart) wrote2026-02-05 11:23 pm
rionaleonhart) wrote2026-02-05 11:23 pm
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Fanfiction: The Morning After, Or Not (The Goes Wrong Show, Chris/Robert)
I took my 'morning after' fill for the Three-Sentence Ficathon and expanded it into a longer fic! Featuring weird insecurities about power and whether certain sexual positions are 'weak', because... well, because it's about Chris Bean and Robert Grove, both of whom are enormous weirdos.
Title: The Morning After, Or Not
Fandom: The Goes Wrong Show
Rating: 15
Pairing: Chris/Robert
Wordcount: 1,700
Summary: “Robert,” Chris says, scrambling through his mind in desperate search of some sort of clear recollection, “did we sleep together?”
Chris half-wakes to the sense that something horrible happened last night: a feeling he is, by this point, deeply familiar with. Of course something horrible happened; we put on a play, he tells himself, rolling over in bed and—
And into a living body.
There is someone in his bed.
Chris’s eyes snap open, and he finds himself instantly and unmistakably confronted by Robert Grove, naked as the day he came in to audition for the role of the Grinch.
“Oh, God,” Chris says.
Robert looks slightly put out. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Robert,” Chris says, scrambling through his mind in desperate search of some sort of clear recollection, “did we sleep together?”
“I mean, literally, obviously,” Robert says. “In the euphemistic sense, I don’t think we actually got around to the act. There was a disagreement over who’d be on top, as I recall, lasting several hours.”
That... does sound familiar, now that he mentions it. It’s a relief; it helps to calm Chris’s racing heart down, just a little. But there’s still cause for concern here; he’s come entirely too close to sex with Robert for comfort.
“I didn’t know you were interested in men,” Chris says. “I didn’t know I was interested in men.”
“Honestly, Chris, what’s the point of having a sexuality crisis if we didn’t even have sex?”
The question disconcerts Chris into silence.
It... well, it’s certainly tempting to look at it that way. Nothing actually happened, which means there’s nothing to think about.
But they kissed. They did kiss. It feels like that might qualify as something happening.
Robert initiated it, didn’t it? That’s fine; that doesn’t say anything about Chris.
They’d been in Chris’s flat for the now-traditional theatrical postmortem, picking apart their performance, pinning down exactly what went wrong and why. Chris, exhausted and demoralised, had eventually gone with Robert to the door to see him out. And Robert—
Robert had slammed Chris against the wall, suddenly. Chris had thought at first that he was being attacked, that Robert had finally resolved to fulfil his directorial ambitions through murder.
Perhaps it was the adrenaline that led him to kiss back. Perhaps it was the adrenaline that left him dizzy and breathless afterwards; perhaps it was the adrenaline that made him drag Robert towards his bed. Hands on each other, stripping each other off with a desperation it’s embarrassing to think back to, and then any heat was swiftly replaced by the heat of anger when it became clear they had different ideas about how this would play out.
It was a temporary lapse of judgement, that’s all; a brief episode of insanity. They can forget about this, surely.
“Of course,” Robert says, “if you’d like to legitimise your sexuality crisis, there’s probably time for a shag right now.”
That’s an issue. That makes it considerably harder to forget about this. “But you don’t want that. You don’t want that, do you?”
“Chris,” Robert says, “do you think I spent two hours trying to persuade you to be on the receiving end as an entertaining hypothetical?”
“Well, not—” He doesn’t like the allusions to sexual positions; it makes this too concrete, too easy to picture. “Not a hypothetical, exactly, just – I don’t think we were thinking clearly last night.”
“Right,” Robert says. “Well, in the cold light of day, I’d still like to fuck you. Your position on the matter?”
“My position on the matter,” Chris says, after a brief consideration, “is that I’d like you to get out of my bed, please.”
Robert shrugs and climbs out of the bed, extremely nudely. Chris’s eyes flick briefly south before he manages to steer them eastwards.
-
Chris is typically an early riser, but he needs another fifteen minutes or so before he feels ready to get out of bed himself; he has, after all, had an extremely disconcerting awakening. He’s expecting Robert to be gone.
He finds Robert in his kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards.
“Oh, hello,” Robert greets him. “What do you have in the way of breakfast foods?”
“I don’t know.” Chris takes a seat at the counter. It’s Saturday, so there’s a good chance Robert doesn’t have anywhere in particular to be; how long is he likely to stay, if he isn’t kicked out? “I don’t have breakfast, typically.”
Robert abandons his search to meet Chris’s eyes, incredulous. “You don’t have breakfast? It’s a fundamental meal, Chris.”
“I seem to have survived this long. There’s bread if you want toast.”
“Right.” Robert plonks a bag of flour down on the counter, slightly too hard, sending a small cloud of flour into the air. “Stay right there; I’m making you crêpes. It’ll be a real inconvenience if you starve to death before next week’s play; we won’t have a Macduff.”
“A Macbeth, you mean,” Chris says.
“A Macduff,” Robert says, firmly.
Damn. Now that he thinks about it, Chris vaguely recalls a moment from last night: Robert breaking away between kisses to ask, breathlessly, While I’ve got you here, can I be Macbeth next week?
In Chris’s intense, fevered state, he would have said yes to anything. Except, as it tuns out, bottoming.
Fine. Robert’s not bad in villainous roles, at least. But it’s frustrating that Chris lost the part and didn’t even get any sexual release for his trouble.
That’s – that’s not the right thought; that’s not something he wants to think. Why did that cross his mind?
He distracts himself with the crêpes, once they’re served. A part of him expects Robert’s efforts in the kitchen to be as ill-fated as his efforts on stage, but...
“These are lovely,” Chris says.
Robert frowns. “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”
“Sorry,” Chris says. “Thank you.”
“Get me some paper. I’ll give you the recipe. You have to eat breakfast; we need you to keep your strength up.”
Chris isn’t especially enjoying this depiction of himself as some sort of Victorian orphan, wasting away, but he fetches some paper anyway.
-
“Suppose I’ll get going,” Robert says after breakfast, stretching.
It’s a relief to hear it. As long as Robert is in Chris’s home, well...
Nothing’s going to happen, of course. But something almost happened last night, somehow. Maybe, once Robert has left, Chris will be able to stop feeling this tense sense it could happen again; maybe he’ll be able to stop picturing it.
The sense escalates, suddenly, as they approach the door. This is where it happened last night.
“You’re not going to kiss me again, are you?” Chris asks, probably unwisely.
“Why would I?” Robert asks. “You’ve made it clear enough we’re sexually incompatible.” He opens the door as he’s speaking.
Chris reaches past him to shove it closed. Robert arches his eyebrows.
“I made it clear?” Chris demands. “As I recall, you were just as inflexible on the point as I was.”
“All right, we both did, then. Does it matter?”
“It’s your phrasing I take issue with. You’ve made it clear enough. As if I’m being unreasonable, somehow, when you’re exactly the same.”
“It’s already ludicrous that you’re in a position of power over me on the stage, as our supposed director,” Robert says. “I refuse to concede any power to you in bed.”
“Well, it simply isn’t going to happen,” Chris says. “I’m not going to have anything up my rectum or in my mouth or whatever you’re envisioning; it’s just not—”
“Oh, I’ll suck you off, obviously,” Robert says.
Chris stumbles over his own words, his own thoughts. “Excuse me?”
Robert flaps a hand in the air. “I’ll go to my knees; that’s fine. You’re sure, though? Didn’t think you wanted to be in the weaker position.”
“It’s not – it’s not weak to be the one getting a – what?”
“Of course it is,” Robert says. “I’m in control of your reactions. You’re in the vulnerable position; you’re the one putting your genitals at the mercy of my teeth. I thought you didn’t want to be on the receiving end; I assumed you wouldn’t want to receive a blowjob.”
Chris stares at him, his heartbeat suddenly strangely loud in his ears. Picturing Robert on his knees in front of him.
He doesn’t like this framing; he doesn’t like the idea that Robert will feel like he’s the one with the power. Maybe Robert is even right; he’s never really thought about it before.
But what’s being proposed here: that’s something he understands, it’s something he’s done before. That’s something less intimidating and alien than being penetrated.
“You won’t use your teeth,” he says, to be sure.
“We’re not on the stage, Chris,” Robert says. (And thank God for that; imagine presenting this to an audience.) “You can’t give me direction.”
“Robert,” Chris says, “you absolutely will not use your teeth, or there’s not a chance we’re going through with – with this.”
He falters a little, on the words, as what he’s saying really hits him. Are they going through with this?
“Fine,” Robert says. “If you want to take the mystery out of it.”
There’s an inescapable heat spreading up Chris’s entire body; it’s like he’s slowly catching fire, and, given some of the more dangerous productions they’ve put on, he knows exactly what that feels like. But some part of him is still hesitating. I’m in control of your reactions. You’re in the vulnerable position.
No, this is ridiculous; these are mindgames. Chris won’t fall for it. If Robert kneels before him, Robert is submitting to him; it’s obvious, it’s as simple as that.
The thought makes something tighten inside him. He unbuckles his belt, cautiously. It’s a test, almost: does Robert mean this, will he back off?
Robert cocks his head, watching the motion with an intent that makes Chris suddenly dizzy.
They can both get what they want, can’t they? Chris can get to feel some sort of power over Robert; Robert gets to believe he’s in control; in the end, they should both be satisfied.
It wouldn’t have crossed Chris’s mind if Robert hadn’t said all that nonsense. But, in the end, when he’s writhing and gasping with his hands in Robert’s hair, he’s annoyed by how weak he feels.
Title: The Morning After, Or Not
Fandom: The Goes Wrong Show
Rating: 15
Pairing: Chris/Robert
Wordcount: 1,700
Summary: “Robert,” Chris says, scrambling through his mind in desperate search of some sort of clear recollection, “did we sleep together?”
Chris half-wakes to the sense that something horrible happened last night: a feeling he is, by this point, deeply familiar with. Of course something horrible happened; we put on a play, he tells himself, rolling over in bed and—
And into a living body.
There is someone in his bed.
Chris’s eyes snap open, and he finds himself instantly and unmistakably confronted by Robert Grove, naked as the day he came in to audition for the role of the Grinch.
“Oh, God,” Chris says.
Robert looks slightly put out. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Robert,” Chris says, scrambling through his mind in desperate search of some sort of clear recollection, “did we sleep together?”
“I mean, literally, obviously,” Robert says. “In the euphemistic sense, I don’t think we actually got around to the act. There was a disagreement over who’d be on top, as I recall, lasting several hours.”
That... does sound familiar, now that he mentions it. It’s a relief; it helps to calm Chris’s racing heart down, just a little. But there’s still cause for concern here; he’s come entirely too close to sex with Robert for comfort.
“I didn’t know you were interested in men,” Chris says. “I didn’t know I was interested in men.”
“Honestly, Chris, what’s the point of having a sexuality crisis if we didn’t even have sex?”
The question disconcerts Chris into silence.
It... well, it’s certainly tempting to look at it that way. Nothing actually happened, which means there’s nothing to think about.
But they kissed. They did kiss. It feels like that might qualify as something happening.
Robert initiated it, didn’t it? That’s fine; that doesn’t say anything about Chris.
They’d been in Chris’s flat for the now-traditional theatrical postmortem, picking apart their performance, pinning down exactly what went wrong and why. Chris, exhausted and demoralised, had eventually gone with Robert to the door to see him out. And Robert—
Robert had slammed Chris against the wall, suddenly. Chris had thought at first that he was being attacked, that Robert had finally resolved to fulfil his directorial ambitions through murder.
Perhaps it was the adrenaline that led him to kiss back. Perhaps it was the adrenaline that left him dizzy and breathless afterwards; perhaps it was the adrenaline that made him drag Robert towards his bed. Hands on each other, stripping each other off with a desperation it’s embarrassing to think back to, and then any heat was swiftly replaced by the heat of anger when it became clear they had different ideas about how this would play out.
It was a temporary lapse of judgement, that’s all; a brief episode of insanity. They can forget about this, surely.
“Of course,” Robert says, “if you’d like to legitimise your sexuality crisis, there’s probably time for a shag right now.”
That’s an issue. That makes it considerably harder to forget about this. “But you don’t want that. You don’t want that, do you?”
“Chris,” Robert says, “do you think I spent two hours trying to persuade you to be on the receiving end as an entertaining hypothetical?”
“Well, not—” He doesn’t like the allusions to sexual positions; it makes this too concrete, too easy to picture. “Not a hypothetical, exactly, just – I don’t think we were thinking clearly last night.”
“Right,” Robert says. “Well, in the cold light of day, I’d still like to fuck you. Your position on the matter?”
“My position on the matter,” Chris says, after a brief consideration, “is that I’d like you to get out of my bed, please.”
Robert shrugs and climbs out of the bed, extremely nudely. Chris’s eyes flick briefly south before he manages to steer them eastwards.
Chris is typically an early riser, but he needs another fifteen minutes or so before he feels ready to get out of bed himself; he has, after all, had an extremely disconcerting awakening. He’s expecting Robert to be gone.
He finds Robert in his kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards.
“Oh, hello,” Robert greets him. “What do you have in the way of breakfast foods?”
“I don’t know.” Chris takes a seat at the counter. It’s Saturday, so there’s a good chance Robert doesn’t have anywhere in particular to be; how long is he likely to stay, if he isn’t kicked out? “I don’t have breakfast, typically.”
Robert abandons his search to meet Chris’s eyes, incredulous. “You don’t have breakfast? It’s a fundamental meal, Chris.”
“I seem to have survived this long. There’s bread if you want toast.”
“Right.” Robert plonks a bag of flour down on the counter, slightly too hard, sending a small cloud of flour into the air. “Stay right there; I’m making you crêpes. It’ll be a real inconvenience if you starve to death before next week’s play; we won’t have a Macduff.”
“A Macbeth, you mean,” Chris says.
“A Macduff,” Robert says, firmly.
Damn. Now that he thinks about it, Chris vaguely recalls a moment from last night: Robert breaking away between kisses to ask, breathlessly, While I’ve got you here, can I be Macbeth next week?
In Chris’s intense, fevered state, he would have said yes to anything. Except, as it tuns out, bottoming.
Fine. Robert’s not bad in villainous roles, at least. But it’s frustrating that Chris lost the part and didn’t even get any sexual release for his trouble.
That’s – that’s not the right thought; that’s not something he wants to think. Why did that cross his mind?
He distracts himself with the crêpes, once they’re served. A part of him expects Robert’s efforts in the kitchen to be as ill-fated as his efforts on stage, but...
“These are lovely,” Chris says.
Robert frowns. “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”
“Sorry,” Chris says. “Thank you.”
“Get me some paper. I’ll give you the recipe. You have to eat breakfast; we need you to keep your strength up.”
Chris isn’t especially enjoying this depiction of himself as some sort of Victorian orphan, wasting away, but he fetches some paper anyway.
“Suppose I’ll get going,” Robert says after breakfast, stretching.
It’s a relief to hear it. As long as Robert is in Chris’s home, well...
Nothing’s going to happen, of course. But something almost happened last night, somehow. Maybe, once Robert has left, Chris will be able to stop feeling this tense sense it could happen again; maybe he’ll be able to stop picturing it.
The sense escalates, suddenly, as they approach the door. This is where it happened last night.
“You’re not going to kiss me again, are you?” Chris asks, probably unwisely.
“Why would I?” Robert asks. “You’ve made it clear enough we’re sexually incompatible.” He opens the door as he’s speaking.
Chris reaches past him to shove it closed. Robert arches his eyebrows.
“I made it clear?” Chris demands. “As I recall, you were just as inflexible on the point as I was.”
“All right, we both did, then. Does it matter?”
“It’s your phrasing I take issue with. You’ve made it clear enough. As if I’m being unreasonable, somehow, when you’re exactly the same.”
“It’s already ludicrous that you’re in a position of power over me on the stage, as our supposed director,” Robert says. “I refuse to concede any power to you in bed.”
“Well, it simply isn’t going to happen,” Chris says. “I’m not going to have anything up my rectum or in my mouth or whatever you’re envisioning; it’s just not—”
“Oh, I’ll suck you off, obviously,” Robert says.
Chris stumbles over his own words, his own thoughts. “Excuse me?”
Robert flaps a hand in the air. “I’ll go to my knees; that’s fine. You’re sure, though? Didn’t think you wanted to be in the weaker position.”
“It’s not – it’s not weak to be the one getting a – what?”
“Of course it is,” Robert says. “I’m in control of your reactions. You’re in the vulnerable position; you’re the one putting your genitals at the mercy of my teeth. I thought you didn’t want to be on the receiving end; I assumed you wouldn’t want to receive a blowjob.”
Chris stares at him, his heartbeat suddenly strangely loud in his ears. Picturing Robert on his knees in front of him.
He doesn’t like this framing; he doesn’t like the idea that Robert will feel like he’s the one with the power. Maybe Robert is even right; he’s never really thought about it before.
But what’s being proposed here: that’s something he understands, it’s something he’s done before. That’s something less intimidating and alien than being penetrated.
“You won’t use your teeth,” he says, to be sure.
“We’re not on the stage, Chris,” Robert says. (And thank God for that; imagine presenting this to an audience.) “You can’t give me direction.”
“Robert,” Chris says, “you absolutely will not use your teeth, or there’s not a chance we’re going through with – with this.”
He falters a little, on the words, as what he’s saying really hits him. Are they going through with this?
“Fine,” Robert says. “If you want to take the mystery out of it.”
There’s an inescapable heat spreading up Chris’s entire body; it’s like he’s slowly catching fire, and, given some of the more dangerous productions they’ve put on, he knows exactly what that feels like. But some part of him is still hesitating. I’m in control of your reactions. You’re in the vulnerable position.
No, this is ridiculous; these are mindgames. Chris won’t fall for it. If Robert kneels before him, Robert is submitting to him; it’s obvious, it’s as simple as that.
The thought makes something tighten inside him. He unbuckles his belt, cautiously. It’s a test, almost: does Robert mean this, will he back off?
Robert cocks his head, watching the motion with an intent that makes Chris suddenly dizzy.
They can both get what they want, can’t they? Chris can get to feel some sort of power over Robert; Robert gets to believe he’s in control; in the end, they should both be satisfied.
It wouldn’t have crossed Chris’s mind if Robert hadn’t said all that nonsense. But, in the end, when he’s writhing and gasping with his hands in Robert’s hair, he’s annoyed by how weak he feels.
no subject
I love Robert's seduction attempt being mistaken for attempted murder.
He is serious!
This is perfect!
So close to not sleeping with Robert but he can't let it go!
He's not wrong!
Normal reasons to have sex! No feelings to examine here!