things i've done
So, like, this one time, at band Team Jones camp, I wrote a bunch of comment fics based on pictures, and since the posts are locked I figured I'd just bring 'em over here and let non-team members see them because it's a self-pimp day because fuck yeah, it's been five years since my diagnosis which means it's been five years since I've had cancer which means I'm old.
SO. I've included the pictures that inspired the ficlets, for your viewing pleasure. :D
ONE:
If Karl's hand slips any lower, it's going to earn him a palm full of Chris' ass (and he doesn't really know how he feels about it, but that alone ought to give him a clue).
From Chris' perspective, he's almost frightened by Karl's intensity in the first few seconds their eyes meet. It's only a quick flash before it's back to the easy, toothy grin he puts on for pictures, but Chris knows Karl better.
The palm settles just above the small of his back--because they're in public, though Chris realizes he wouldn't mind if his thumb found the twin dimples in his skin beneath the suit jacket (Karl could find them in the dark, with his eyes closed--he always touches Chris there, even when they're just hanging out with the cast). It's hot and huge and each time a photographer steps closer, it presses imperceptibly tighter to his back.
Chris shoots a look at Karl beneath his lashes, and he's startled to find Karl staring back.
(Later, as he clicks through photos, his jaw clenches and his eyes widen when he sees how close they're standing, how aggressive Karl's stance is and how submissive Chris looks, leaning into it with his chin high. Chris swallows and slaps his laptop shut, staring at the air in front of him until his eyes unfocus and the heat in his belly dies down.)
TWO:
Before Karl had left the hotel room that morning, Chris' thumbs found it easy to slip buttons through holes and meet soft, freshly-showered skin underneath. Karl's scruff itches against Chris' jaw but it's worth the burn when their mouths fit together the same way their fingers fit the empty spaces in each other's hands. The depressing part, though, is as soon as Chris pauses to breathe, Karl's drifting backwards with an apologetic smile, and his delightfully bare chest is disappearing from view.
"I have to go," he rumbles, bright-eyed and rumpled. Chris frowns, and his palms itch to run through all of Karl's cowlicks. He wants to lick right back inside his smiling mouth and stay there forever, but Karl has to go be pretty and nice and sign autographs for teenage girls as obsessed as Chris is.
But really, does he have to leave looking like that?
--
Chris wallows in pathetic lust for most of the day, which translates into restless energy, which means he half-considers calling up Zach and requesting he bring over yoga tapes. It is then Chris remembers he's really only gay in theory, so instead he swims laps in the pool until his toes look like ten little old men. Three hours later, he swears he's not pressing his face against the window to watch Karl duck out of his taxi and stroll through the hotel doors. He scrambles to fling himself on the bed, snap open a newspaper, and try not to bounce in excitement.
The 'smooth-and-suave' appearance would work if a) Chris was good at acting (and he is, okay, but not around Karl), and b)the thought of Karl didn't make his stomach turn over in the silliest of ways.
He's practically vibrating in anticipation when he hears the slide of the room key into the slot, the tiny beep, and the gentle click of the door handle turning. Karl shuts the door behind him before he rasps a hesitant "H'lo?", like there's a chance Chris wouldn't be there.
"Welcome back," Chris calls back, after two seconds of telling himself not to sound like an eager housewife. The facade dissipates, though, when Karl pokes around the corner, and Chris sees how he looks better than when he'd left.
By now, the plaid shirt is wrinkled and set into the line of Karl's body, his hair is sticking up in tufts, and the tiredness around his eyes is fond from his smile. It catches Chris off-guard whenever Karl's barefoot, and combined with the teasing V of skin between his collarbones and the ridiculous, hippie necklace, Chris is kind of falling apart behind the newspaper page he's been reading for three minutes on repeat.
He opens his mouth to ask how the signing went, but Karl utters, "Went well, fans were sweet, no, I wasn't molested, yes, I'm happy to see you," and oozes onto the bed, up over Chris' knees to pull the newspaper out of willing fingers. There's no preamble at all, just the Chris' satisfaction in being able to finish what he'd started this morning.
THREE:
HANDS HANDS HANDS HANDS HANDS HANDS HANDS HANDS HANDS ASDKASLJKLSDANMGKLSDJIOJKGLEMSDIVKMSDFGVFD JKMCJROGJPfeu9wopjlrt532mefgv fjilkmvbdf0p[kwtg djsifo is mostly what goes through Chris' brain when he sees pictures of Karl or watches Karl talk or is around Karl in general. Variations of such thoughts also include warmsafebigbroadmine and those have been inside me, yay.
Chris' favorite part is probably the moment they're sprawled on the couch like puppies, climbing all over each other, and Karl's fingertips are gentle on the lines of Chris' palm. Karl pulls Chris into his lap by his wrist and the brief glance of a question Chris would never say 'no' to. As Chris's thighs settle over Karl's, a dry kiss is placed to the center of his palm and Chris' insides twist in all of the best ways.
"Hi," he manages, so creaky and parched he has to lick his lips twice. Karl's eyes follow the movement shamelessly, tightening his grip on Chris' left hip.
"I like you," Karl says, like they're in middle school, and Chris swallows hard around the lump in his throat.
"I figured," he replies. It's a joke, yeah, but while Karl's tipping his head back in delighted laughter, Chris is hiding his sudden and ridiculous nervousness with a crooked smile. It scares the crap out of him how in love he is with this man, how when Chris is around him everything fits and it's good and he never wants it to change.
Then Karl's longlonglonglong fingers are curling over Chris' waistband, and his thoughts are reduced to HANDSHANDSHANDSHANDSHANDSHANDS oh, so it all works out.
FOUR:
In a passive sort of way, Karl loathes Chris' cardigans, because they remind Karl of his grandfather and his grandfather was the type who had weird wrapped candy in his pockets and always smiled like everything was a secret.
At the same time, Chris looks cuddly and sweet and when he lets his scruff turn mountain-man sexy, Karl wants to curl around him and listen to him spout Plath until the kid is blue in the face (he wants to do that usually, anyway, but still).
Chris is currently sprawled atop Karl's duvet, half reading a Reader's Digest and half watching Karl fold laundry. Chris' long, spindly fingers are white against his stomach, thumb edged and stroking just beneath the hem of his cardigan. His pinkie rests on the button to his jeans, occasionally tracing the metal and generally driving Karl nuts. Chris glances at him over the rims of his glasses.
"Do you really iron your underwear?" he asks, incredulous, like Karl isn't holding an iron and steam-pressing Calvin Kleins.
"I like to be daring." Chris snorts and starts playing with the top button of his sweater. He sucks on his bottom lip, squinting at the magazine, because the fucker is probably doing the crossword in his head and getting all the answers right. Karl flicks the iron off and sets it down before heaving an exasperated sigh. "Stop that," he says, and Chris' focus breaks.
"What?"
"That!" Karl points at Chris' hand, which is currently wedged underneath the waistband of his pants, and it's moving without Karl's permission.
Chris beams. "So, what'll you do if I don't?" and Karl is awful at turning down challenges. A voice in the back of his head tells him this is going to be awesome, as he stalks over to his bed and crawls over Chris' lanky body. Without warning, Karl hauls him up so he can pull Chris' shirt and cardigan right over his head, knocking his glasses askew and leaving him a bit dazed. Karl swoops in to lap at his mouth, grinning when Chris opens beneath him. He kisses the tip of his nose, righting the kid's glasses.
"Nothing much."
FIVE:
"You stand like that a lot," Chris says, barefoot and hunched over his laptop. He looks ridiculous in his Buddy Holly glasses, Strokes t-shirt and 3-day scruff, sitting cross-legged on the floor. There's a half-eaten Funion-and-ham sandwich lying on top of a Frisbee, and Karl makes a note to do the dishes.
"Like what?"
Chris glances up and makes a motion with his hands that looks like nothing relevant. "You know, your manly stance, or whatever. Where your chin's tucked in and your thighs are apart. It's like you're trying to burn the camera with your eyebrows."
Karl stares at him.
"Like that!" A finger covered in Funion crumbs stabs the air in front of Karl. Chris grins wide and excited in his stupid boyish way that reminds Karl how old he's getting. "C'mere," Chris amends, cupping his hand to wave Karl over to his side of the computer. Karl is met with his own picture, and it's one from the various Trek promotionals and interviews and showings.
"I liked that suit," he says, leaning in and squinting.
"Not the point," Chris continues around his mouthful of sandwich, "Look how you're standing."
And despite him, Karl sort of sees what Chris means. As they scroll through the pictures, Karl's always standing like that, legs apart and feet firmly planted on the ground. Weird.
"Whatever, it's kind of cute, how tough you're trying to look." Chris smacks a greasy, crumby and scratchy kiss to the underside of Karl's jaw, then turns his attention to looking at pictures of himself.
A moment later, that spot on Karl's skin tingles a little, and it clicks.
Karl's palm makes a hollow sound when it hits the back of Chris' head, but it's satisfying nonetheless.
"What the FUCK," Chris yells from between his knees. clutching his head.
"Beard burn," Karl replies, feeling victorious, "That's the answer."
"To what mystery, Nancy fucking Drew?" Chris massages his skull, glaring at Karl through glasses that are hanging off his nose.
"Why I'm standing like that. Beard burn."
"Why would you ha--" Then it clicks for Chris, too, and his mouth snaps shut. He has the good graces to look sheepish, righting his glasses with an awkward cough.
Karl reaches out to swipe crumbs off of Chris' chin with his thumb, grinning. "Shave, you heathen."
Chris bats his hand away and tries to pretend the tips of his ears aren't bright red.
P.S. I didn't get into Columbia. My disappointment is about this big:
But you know, I sort of figured from the start I wouldn't. This also happens to mean I'm going to go into psychology instead.