Give, Give
Title: Give, Give
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~800
Spoilers: 4.04 The Break Up
Summary: It's him and Chris.
Notes: I’ve literally had Teenage Dream on repeat since the episode ended. And somehow this happened. It’s a little prosey, a little stream-of-consciousness, and unbeta’d but hopefully everyone is still emotional enough and this doesn’t suck too badly.
+++
After a while, it was just something they did.
It wasn’t really conscious thought, but instinct, that drove them back to Chris’s hotel after that night. It was physical exhaustion from walking between marks over and over until they just wanted to give up and crawl to the tape on the ground. It was asking the girls giggling to the side to calm down so they could concentrate.
It was Darren focusing all of his energy on Chris, until it was ChrisChrisChris firing every synapse in his brain, Chris who looked at him like that, like it was Darren that broke him, not Blaine. In this moment, Darren hates Blaine, hates anything that makes Chris look at him that way.
It’s the way that New York is dark and light all at once that confuses his senses, reminds him that he’s been up for x number of hours and wants to pass out somewhere comfortable at the soonest possible moment.
But when it’s just them, just them, not Kurt and Blaine and any number of light and sound operators and directors and fans filming along the barrier set up around the park, is when the exhaustion settles deep into his bones, weighing him down.
It’s him and Chris.
And when they get the pages for scenes like this, they read through them together, quietly but with as little emotion as possible. Because they can’t grasp that passion and lose their energy so early before filming.
After filming, they both know, they both wipe the tears from their cheeks and find themselves in Chris’s room and hold each other in the dark, breathing together until they are in sync again, feeling marginally more human and in control of their own minds. And one of them moves an arm, a hand pulling over cloth and pushing until it meets skin.
Lips collide and it’s desperate, frantic. It’s stomachs twisting with arousal and the promise of pleasure, of pulling them out of this emotional chasm they’ve fallen into together. It’s a strange juxtaposition of rough and gentle, like the light and dark of New York has snuck into their bodies and become them.
Clothes find their way to the floor as they always do, and it’s Chris pushing Darren down onto the couch, the floor, the bed, whatever surface they find first. Wet lips against sweaty skin, tears still threatening at the corners of their eyes, and the way Chris’s cock fits perfectly in the ridge of where Darren’s hip bones meet his flat stomach and Chris’s arms bracket around his head.
Darren’s fingers are scrambling to grip the thin skin of Chris’s back, hooking his fingers around a shoulder blade and pulling until their chests meet, hard nipples rubbing together and drawing a line straight down to his cock straining against Chris’s. Chris reaches away to fumble to the bag on the nightstand, throwing it next to Darren and digging through, pressing the bottle into Darren’s hand and ripping through the foil wrapper with his teeth, his other hand reaching below and squeezing under the head of Darren’s dick, fingers sweeping over to collect the pre-come leaking and easing the friction.
It’s Darren groaning, Chris’s voice falling out to match when Darren’s lubed up fingers wander behind Chris’s thigh, grazing his balls, the soft skin behind before circling around the hole and pressing in. It’s Chris fucking himself on Darren’s fingers, Darren’s hips canting up, wanting to be involved. And Chris’s hand rolling down the condom and squeezing out just enough lube that he’ll really feel it later.
And then it’s minutes, hours, days of pouring emotions into each other, into the only other person who really gets it. Having to be that person, to look at those eyes looking back at you with accusation, with hatred and sadness and a million other things too devastating to think about.
It’s thrusting and growling and sucking and biting and Darren’s cock pounding into Chris above him, Chris’s head thrown back, mouth slack, the tears having finally taken over,them both. Their guts twistingturningtugging until with a final throaty shout, Darren arches his back, pressing up into Chris and wraps around his back, holding them close as he comes.
And he takes advantage of the position and pulls out, a whine from Chris, and throws him back, mouth sinking over his straining dick, tongue pressing, cheeks hollowing, throat humming, begging him to come, and above him, Chris sings out Kurt’s pain, lets go, and Darren takes every lyric, every note he has to offer.
Chris falls back, and Darren pulls off, resting his sweaty forehead against Chris’s thigh, breathing hot moisture onto the skin. He presses a quick kiss and crawls up the bed, up Chris’s body and latches on like if he doesn’t, Chris might leave him, might float away, and leave him a puddle of despair in this New York hotel.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~800
Spoilers: 4.04 The Break Up
Summary: It's him and Chris.
Notes: I’ve literally had Teenage Dream on repeat since the episode ended. And somehow this happened. It’s a little prosey, a little stream-of-consciousness, and unbeta’d but hopefully everyone is still emotional enough and this doesn’t suck too badly.
+++
After a while, it was just something they did.
It wasn’t really conscious thought, but instinct, that drove them back to Chris’s hotel after that night. It was physical exhaustion from walking between marks over and over until they just wanted to give up and crawl to the tape on the ground. It was asking the girls giggling to the side to calm down so they could concentrate.
It was Darren focusing all of his energy on Chris, until it was ChrisChrisChris firing every synapse in his brain, Chris who looked at him like that, like it was Darren that broke him, not Blaine. In this moment, Darren hates Blaine, hates anything that makes Chris look at him that way.
It’s the way that New York is dark and light all at once that confuses his senses, reminds him that he’s been up for x number of hours and wants to pass out somewhere comfortable at the soonest possible moment.
But when it’s just them, just them, not Kurt and Blaine and any number of light and sound operators and directors and fans filming along the barrier set up around the park, is when the exhaustion settles deep into his bones, weighing him down.
It’s him and Chris.
And when they get the pages for scenes like this, they read through them together, quietly but with as little emotion as possible. Because they can’t grasp that passion and lose their energy so early before filming.
After filming, they both know, they both wipe the tears from their cheeks and find themselves in Chris’s room and hold each other in the dark, breathing together until they are in sync again, feeling marginally more human and in control of their own minds. And one of them moves an arm, a hand pulling over cloth and pushing until it meets skin.
Lips collide and it’s desperate, frantic. It’s stomachs twisting with arousal and the promise of pleasure, of pulling them out of this emotional chasm they’ve fallen into together. It’s a strange juxtaposition of rough and gentle, like the light and dark of New York has snuck into their bodies and become them.
Clothes find their way to the floor as they always do, and it’s Chris pushing Darren down onto the couch, the floor, the bed, whatever surface they find first. Wet lips against sweaty skin, tears still threatening at the corners of their eyes, and the way Chris’s cock fits perfectly in the ridge of where Darren’s hip bones meet his flat stomach and Chris’s arms bracket around his head.
Darren’s fingers are scrambling to grip the thin skin of Chris’s back, hooking his fingers around a shoulder blade and pulling until their chests meet, hard nipples rubbing together and drawing a line straight down to his cock straining against Chris’s. Chris reaches away to fumble to the bag on the nightstand, throwing it next to Darren and digging through, pressing the bottle into Darren’s hand and ripping through the foil wrapper with his teeth, his other hand reaching below and squeezing under the head of Darren’s dick, fingers sweeping over to collect the pre-come leaking and easing the friction.
It’s Darren groaning, Chris’s voice falling out to match when Darren’s lubed up fingers wander behind Chris’s thigh, grazing his balls, the soft skin behind before circling around the hole and pressing in. It’s Chris fucking himself on Darren’s fingers, Darren’s hips canting up, wanting to be involved. And Chris’s hand rolling down the condom and squeezing out just enough lube that he’ll really feel it later.
And then it’s minutes, hours, days of pouring emotions into each other, into the only other person who really gets it. Having to be that person, to look at those eyes looking back at you with accusation, with hatred and sadness and a million other things too devastating to think about.
It’s thrusting and growling and sucking and biting and Darren’s cock pounding into Chris above him, Chris’s head thrown back, mouth slack, the tears having finally taken over,them both. Their guts twistingturningtugging until with a final throaty shout, Darren arches his back, pressing up into Chris and wraps around his back, holding them close as he comes.
And he takes advantage of the position and pulls out, a whine from Chris, and throws him back, mouth sinking over his straining dick, tongue pressing, cheeks hollowing, throat humming, begging him to come, and above him, Chris sings out Kurt’s pain, lets go, and Darren takes every lyric, every note he has to offer.
Chris falls back, and Darren pulls off, resting his sweaty forehead against Chris’s thigh, breathing hot moisture onto the skin. He presses a quick kiss and crawls up the bed, up Chris’s body and latches on like if he doesn’t, Chris might leave him, might float away, and leave him a puddle of despair in this New York hotel.