fic round up
boop doop pretend i'm writing real full length stories and not just passing little farts of fic that go nowhere. :D
--
one~
Chris' teeth catch jagged on his bottom lip as Karl fucks up and in and rakes blunt fingernails down the swell of Chris' biceps. The slap of skin on skin is raw over the gentle whirr of the hotel room fan, as is their harsh panting and the unstoppable groan Chris lets loose when Karl presses him against the wall and just holds him there. With his leg up and around Karl's hip there isn't much Chris can do to twist away when both of his wrists slam over his head. There's a wickedly hot tongue pushing against his stubble and fingers like brands spread out over his ribs, and in the lust-fever-fog in his head Chris thinks, well.
It is the answer to the probably rhetorical question Karl had asked earlier. So you're just going to keep stretching out my shirt sleeves like I have an endless supply? Chris' answer would have been right, because you don't waltz in with your eight-foot shoulder span and ruin all of my shirts, but Karl had proceeded to snag him by the belt loops and undo the work of a twenty minute shower.
Chris licks salty-sweet orange soda and perspiration off of his upper lip, Karl's eyes tracking the movement, and by now Chris really ought to be used to how predatory Karl is. Karl sucks on his mouth and pushes deeper and harder until Chris' toes are barely touching the carpet with every rock of their hips. When Karl lets go of his wrists to reach between them for Chris' cock, Chris scrambles to thread his fingers through Karl's hair, cup the nape of his neck, find his earlobe with his teeth. Everything comes down to making sure every last bit of them touches, to make up for how much they can't when they're in public.
Chris gasps come on and Karl's answer is a sharp bite to the thick muscle covering Chris' shoulder. His nails tighten on Karl's scalp and he wants to pull, yank, anything to get their mouths closer but his hair is too damn short. With one well-timed thrust and a slick-palmed pull to his cock, Chris feels sucker punched and blinded at how hard his orgasm hits. Every muscle tenses in a glorious rush that's apparently perfect for Karl, because he shudders and groans like he's dying into Chris' collarbone.
In the few moments after Chris' foot drops back to the floor and the pins and needles start to fade in, their arms fit around each other easy as breathing. Their heartbeats are not synchronized but it's a steady enough rhythm to lull them into a comfortable haze, skin sticky but warm.
You ruin all my clothes, Karl murmurs and Chris can feel the smile against his neck. It's usually his line, but Chris can let him win this one.
--
two~
sometimes when Chris is on the tiny porch of his apartment, skittering leaves he'll never rake and wicker-printed metal chairs he and Zach bought as a joke, his eyes close and he imagines stark hazel and freckles he'd like to kiss for good luck. dust and gravel itch the soles of his feet where they're planted on the brick rise of the waist-high ledge, but of all of Chris' itches, it's the dull curl around his spine he pays attention to most.
when Karl smiles Chris smiles back but hides behind his teeth, tongue caught and throat working to swallow. at times, both of them are strained, bitten to the quick by their agents and sixteen hour flights and the press of paparazzi. it shows in the quirk of their mouths and the heavy set of their eyes, bags not even the best of the make up teams could hide. they're tired in different ways, but Chris can barely think past his own exhaustion, rubbing his sternum like the ache will go away just because he wants it to.
L.A. is unforgiving but quiet as his ass starts to go numb. he's been out here for at least an hour, losing focus in the red blur of tail lights and the Tropicana-orange sun burning low behind the silhouettes of buildings. Chris is good at wanting; he wants time and to take things back and to erase the words out of people's mouths. he wants his mother to stop worrying and his sister to be happy, wants Zoe to have an incredible wedding and Zach to never stop laughing. he wants, hard, for a tiny heart tattoo to mean nothing but a drunken fluke.
for a while, Chris rubs a palm back and forth over stubble he knows he should shave (there's a premiere tonight, or something, have to look fresh, presentable, like he isn't making friends with ice and whiskey every night until the blood roaring in his ears is company enough). he could press fingers to the circles under his eyes but not forever, the throbbing will come back and there'll never be enough time to sleep this off, whatever this is. Chris could chew his lip raw and bite his nails jagged but it wouldn't do him any good. there are things he knows but it's what he knows he'll never know--like what dimples taste like or what messages a spine reads beneath fingertips or what an accent in his ear sounds like just before the hitch in breath--that gets him most.
tomorrow morning he will shower away the tang of sleep he didn't get, wash the dust off his heels. he'll shave or maybe he won't, put in contacts that give him the trademark bright eyes and maybe he'll wear a tie but probably not. Chris knows how this goes, knows how he wants it to go, but knows how it won't. they won't touch hands and they won't duck heads and they won't whisper about after, later, you want to?. they won't share a cab, won't fight over paying or go back to his place or his place. they won't pour a drink and grin like hunger and they won't take off their clothes like they've got the time for memorizing. they will not wake up tangled. they will not kiss goodbye. Karl will not make promises that Chris would believe even though he knows, and Chris will not say okay, I'll wait.
they will clap shoulders and smile tight, and Chris will sit on his porch with all of his knowledge and want until the next tomorrow comes.
--
three~
You say but, your wife and he says it's complicated, like maybe that's answer and reason enough for you to throw caution and morals to the wind, and you're about to walk off from the sheer gall you can't believe he has when broad fingers close hard and fast around your wrist and his eyes say want.
You swallow, and he grins low and dirty and you feel gutted, bottomed out and startled at his intense focus. Without your permission, images of what could be, what could happen, like fingertips up a spine or nails over shoulders or heels fitting in the dimples of a tan lower back flash through your head and that's startling, too, because of how much you want it and how much you shouldn't.
It goes something like this:
We shouldn't, you say as you slap down a tip on the bar and leave but not before touching surprisingly steady fingers to the unbuttoned state of his collar just to feel his throat work, to watch maybe the satisfaction or the shock that it's a go creep up into his eyes like a flush to his ears. You stare hard, like maybe in wonder or in contemplation but either way he'll follow, a solid press behind you as you both weave towards the door. His palm is giant on your back and that makes you giddy and safe and all the things you shouldn't feel about a married man, but then he whispers I can barely wait in a voice like gravel and it's a thrill that cools all the way down to your toes.
All your thoughts keep narrowing down to pinholes of touch because his hand won't leave you, won't stop laying like a brand over your thigh and you're glad you shaved tonight on impulse, but you get the feeling he wouldn't care if you hadn't like maybe he's not that shallow and maybe you can't concentrate with his thumb rubbing circles like that, higher and higher until your breath is short and his teeth are bright white in the darkness of the taxi.
What kills you is that he helps you out of the taxi like this is a date and it's achingly sweet, watching him make sure you're all right before shutting the door and paying like he's a gentleman and you aren't suddenly the other woman and like you two aren't about to go up to your apartment to fuck. You fumble for keys and you pray your roommate is gone but you pray harder that the darling older woman across the hall won't open her door to see the two of you rutting like animals against the wall.
The elevator ride is like the movies, air stuffy and overpowering and everything is spiked with lust and arousal and in one moment you're licking your lips and in another he's groaning and pressing you against your warped reflection and leaving handprints on the surface. You don't kiss but his breath tastes like anticipation and need and it doesn't quite register that you are the reason his hips are straining to keep from rocking and your fingers curl into the lapels of his ridiculous sport jacket to keep right where he is, until the elevator pings to your floor.
There's a note on your door that your roommate will be back tomorrow and his grin is filthy as he rests against the door frame, muscles long and lean and it makes your hand shake to fit the key in the lock because you think about his key and your lock and it's all downhill from here, if you're reduced to making lewd jokes in your head.
Once you're inside, he backs you against the wall before you get the chance to flick on the lights, your hand over the switch and as he perches above you, you flip everything on and it's not the only thing electric. In the chic red-orange glow of vintage lamps his eyes are nearly black, pupil wide and his gorgeous mouth is red from where he's been chewing and suddenly you want a taste, so you tilt your head and your tongue slips out and he groans. In a rush, he's swooping you up and holding you against your apartment wall by sheer power and you feel small, weightless as he rolls his hips into yours and maybe you gasp and maybe he swallows it, stubble scraping your chin but you don't care in the slightest. His hands are polite even when grabbing your ass to keep you from falling as the two of you stumble in the direction of your bedroom, sucking on each others' tongues and trembling with want.
The space behind his teeth tastes like whiskey and promises, and the weight of him pushing you down to your sheets feels like secrets and insanity all wrapped in the flirtation of his skin on yours, eyelashes brushing your collarbone. When his thumbs slide up your blouse just to feel your ribs, his smile warm on your neck, you realize this is the boy your mother warned you about, not because he's bad and drives fast cars and hangs with loose women, but because you'll toe the line of lust and love too quickly and end up tripping hard over the way his whole face smiles or his dimples or the way his 'r's' sound.
He makes you buck with a hand between your legs and relentless pressure, circles and figure eights until your eyelids flutter and your mouth drops open. What gets you most is the eye contact, his eyes never leave yours as your knees spread and you twist and your teeth clench like you're shameless, nails gripping his biceps hard and your clothes aren't even off, it's so wrong. Heat floods through you and you come hard and surprised and his name slips out, and his returning grin is boyish and charming and not at all fair.
Oh, you say as fingers that smell like sex unbutton your shirt and his shirt and his eyes widen, and suddenly you feel naked and it's odd until he moans like he's dying and learns the shape of your sternum with his lips. It's not fair and you want to touch, so you push at him and pull at his clothes until he gets the hint and he's gorgeous in the pale of your room, the smell of him and sex and ease filling the space until you're a little dizzy with the idea. A heel around the back of his knee brings him back down to balance above you, and your hands find his hair and it's silkier than you expect, thick in a way that's exciting and you kiss him and it's amazing.
You should feel wrong and terrible and like a raging harlot, but the way he keeps whispering awful and darling things into the shell of your ear and your cheekbone is going to ruin you forever. With your leg over his shoulder he slides in exquisite, pausing to feel and you feel full in more ways than one, both of you panting into the space between your bodies, and when he begins to move you feel it from the top of your head to the arches of your feet and you could die, maybe, just like this, clutching his shoulders and memorizing the sound of his guttural breath when you shift your hips forward. Your hand drifts down between you to find where one of you ends and the other one begins, until he knocks it away and helps you remember why you agreed to this in the first place. You feel open and raw and everything comes down to the tightening of his ass beneath your hands, the sharp twist of his hips that has you nearly sobbing and the relentless flick of his thumb that has you flying apart and arching off of your bed like you've never had an orgasm before. You feel him come inside you and in an instant you have no idea what to think, caught between his heartbeat and the ache of the morality you purposely left behind in the bar.
God, he says, wrecked and slightly awed and he slips out and slides down simply to look at you, hands gentle to push your legs open and spread you with his thumbs and you can't stop the flush that rises or the goosebumps that spread over your forearms, like suddenly you have a reason to be shy but then his tongue soothes over fucked-red flesh and you sigh, jerk when his lips find hair-tearingly sensitive nerves and gasp when he starts to suck. Your own mouth must be bruised and bitten from where you're chewing to stay quiet, keep from alarming your neighbors but it feels so good, so good it makes you stupid and he keeps groaning like he loves this. His tongue is wicked and the barely-there stroking of his fingertips drive you made but none of it stops, he just keeps going until you break down over the crest of the wave and he works you through the aftershocks, gentle and sweet and it's too much. He plants kisses all along your thigh, up your hip and around your belly button and between your breasts until he reaches your lips, tongue sweeping in and you have no idea what to do now that he's making to settle in, with his arm around you and the companionship of skin lulling you to sleep.
--
four~
"Why're you smiling?" Karl asks, one morning when he's sprawled at the half-counter, empty bowls of cereal stacked around him and three stray oranges Chris had knocked over an hour ago fumbling for a coffee mug. He's almost put his elbow in a sweaty milk ring three times, but he can't be bothered to sop it up. The community laptop (Chris', but Karl hates lugging his around back and forth, so he affectionately assumes it's a joint-custody thing) is propped open next to an unread newspaper, and the screen is frozen on a picture of Chris smiling like a razor blade ad from the 20s.
"I farted a minute ago," Chris says from his mirrored sprawl on the floor, killing his neck trying to stare up at the T.V. His tongue is caught between his teeth in concentration, thumbs flying over the joystick and buttons of an XBox controller.
Karl rolls his eyes. "Not now, you heathen," he says, and hides his nose under the collar of his shirt. "That is fucking rank, and I meant in this one pap photo from a few nights ago."
"I was probably stoned," is the reply, and Karl would believe it if it weren't for the fact that Chris' sleeves are still rolled up in the picture. The first time Karl was ever around Chris when he was stoned, he spent about ten minutes listening to Chris babble about how awesome shirts were and how awesome sleeves felt and how it was like long sleeves were like socks for arms and at that point, Karl wondered how much bongwater it would take to drown himself. "Or constipated, or something." Chris' eyes never leave the screen.
Karl stares at him.
"Look, everybody poops, Karl."
"I don't understand at all," Karl says, clicking out of the screen and furiously opening a game of Minesweeper he knows he'll lose, "how a Berkley English major that uses words like 'supercilious' instead of 'dickhead' can be so fucking gross."
Chris laughs so hard he Mariokarts right off the side of a cliff, and that makes him laugh even harder. Rolling over onto his back, the controller slips from his fingers. "It's not all 'defying augury' and 'foppish compliments' and 'perchance to dream', he says, after he can breathe again. English majors are proletariats too."
Karl knows for a fact he got that off a stupid mug they saw at a gift shop, next to a display of postcards that had pictures of hundreds of sheep and a caption of "HERE IN NEW ZEALAND". They were in Texas.
("If I bought you a shirt that said "Tending the herd", would you beat me?" Chris had asked, holding the stupid fabric to his chest.
"Yes," Karl had said with all the conviction he'd ever possessed.)
"Whatever," Chris continued, tumbling around on the carpet like he's six and in gymnastics. He gets up to pad over and smack an itchy kiss to Karl's temple, and picks up the cereal bowl for him. "Who cares why I was smiling, maybe I was thinking of your dick," and Karl mumbles about 'eloquence' and 'accuracy' and Chris grins.
--
five~
it's dirty because they're caked in earth, rain sluicing through black sweat stains and cocoa powder dirt, but it's dirty because they can't get farther than an unbuttoned shirt and thumbs in their belt loops. Bones presses, surges, lifts Jim with a thigh and his back hits the barn wall and his breath leaves him, is devoured by a wicked tongue and the glint of hungry eyes. Jim can barely see in the gloomy storm-dark of the barn, the rain roaring just behind his head, but Bones is a familiar shape beneath his hands.
the mouth on his neck, shoulder, collarbone, sternum is hot and he briefly wonders how sweat and dirt can be anything worth tasting but then Bones scratches blunt fingernails hard over the dimples in his lower back and Jim bucks forward on a whine. when he can manage to keep his eyes open, he sees the top of Bones' head but feels the tongue counting his ribs. Jim threads his fingers through Bones' wild hair and grips-not-pulls until a groan rumbles against his skin. he grins sharp and a little hazy at the thick-sounding shit, yeah, and revels in the smell of ozone and rain and hot, salty skin.
Bones on his knees is pretty great when they're naked but Jim's hard-pressed to argue for barely-naked, too. he feels filthy but Bones drags teeth over the cut of Jim's hip and he aches to shove his cock down his throat, until his thighs brush stubble and his head is too blurry to think straight. Bones keeps licking left over rain in broad swipes of this tongue, worries the tight skin between milk-white teeth and the barn shakes with thunder while Jim shakes with want.
--
six~
once upon a time when chris was a little boy, he was so ugly that everyone thought he was literally a troll. his floppy bowlcut scared away all the children and so did his creepy laugh. his parents had no idea what to do with their terrifying little monster child. he was so ugly, there was no way he could be an actor like the rest of the family, so they threw him off a pier in new york one bleak, rainy morning, drawing their hoods tightly over their faces and hurling the burlap sack as hard as they could. in a swirl of wet, heavy fabric from their cloaks, they turned on their heels and hurried away. little did they know, but chris the troll child was a fantastic swimmer. his bowlcut functioned like the soft body of a jelly fish, propelling him upwards and out of the burlap sack. unfortunately, he was also quite tiny, and it was not enough to get him out of the water. his little troll face scrunched up from the lack of oxygen, and then chris died.
or so he thought. when he awoke, chris found himself in a huge, dripping cave. he was lying on a shallow stretch of rock, massive pools of water around him. his sweater was itchy and wet. "HELLO?" he called out, in his nasally troll voice. in response, an enormous whale poked its head out of the water pool on chris' left and said "SHUT YOUR MOUTH I'M THE BOSS"
"WHAT'S YOUR NAME?" chris said because he was 5 and didn't understand directions. "TONY DANZA"
so tony the whale and chris the troll child became best friends out of stockholm syndrome, and tony successfully trained chris to forget everything he ever knew about liking acting and wanting to be an actor. chris grew up to be a surprisingly good-looking young man, much to the tony's dismay. he was worried chris would leave him, once he discovered that looks can get you everywhere. eventually, chris left for college, to learn everything about english that tony the whale could not teach him. chris missed tony while he was at berkley, sometimes staring out the window and wishing he could be in that musty cave off a new york pier somewhere. he was happy, he supposed, but he still worried that people would think he was a troll.
then one day, chris did a silly play for fun. there were lots of ruffles and ridiculous costumes, but because he did it he suddenly became very popular. girls started looking at him without throwing up and boys wanted to touch his junk. chris was swept away in the blinding lights of hollywood, booking parts as twinky love interests for starlets left and right. he battled more terrible hair styles, discovered the white v-neck shirt, and finally landed a role that would change his life. he became jimmy kirk, saver of galaxies, and then everybody started releasing movies that chris forgot to tell anyone about, like carriers and bottleshock and blind dating. but whatever, he had a giant penis now so it all worked out.
he was so caught up in his new life that, bit by bit, chris forgot about tony danza. he flew to new york all the time to promote his movies, but he was too busy to notice the sad shape in the dark off the coast of that pier. for years, tony watched from the sidelines, torn between anger at chris leaving him and pride for the beautiful man the troll child had become. tony danza was always there at the pier, waiting for the fateful day that chris would return.
it was a bright morning on the pier when chris stepped out in his fancy photoshoot clothes. the wind swept back his oddly long in the front hair and a chill ran down his sexy spine. there was something watching him, but chris chalked it up to be the photographers and nothing more. he got on the bike that the photographer wanted him to ride, and slowly started pedaling. they got a few super hot shots in and chris was happy, so during a break he pedaled all the way out to the end of the pier and smiled.
"CHRISTOPHER" the water said and chris said "HOLY SHIT" and tony rose from the depths in joy. "I KNEW YOU'D COME BACK" tony said, tears rolling down his giant whale face, "I ALWAYS KNEW YOU LOVED ME" "I'M SO SORRY TONY BUT THIS IS MY LIFE NOW" chris said, tears rolling down his pretty human face, "I CAN'T COME BACK TO YOU. PLEASE UNDERSTAND" "IT'S OKAY, I'VE KNOWN FROM THE START IT HAD TO BE THIS WAY" said tony danza "I LOVE YOU" and sank back into the harbor forever. "I'LL ALWAYS LOVE YOU"
"I'LL ALWAYS LOVE YOU, TOO" chris said, but by then tony was gone. and such was the secret life of chris pine, tune in next week for when the baby arrives.
--
seven~
“Look, it’s not like ‘gaining knockers’ was at the top of my fucking to-do list for the day,” Arthur says like his sudden tits and long(er), flowing hair mean nothing. He’s also about five inches shorter than he was yesterday, and Merlin knows ‘ tall, long-legged freak’ will be added to Arthur’s ever-growing menagerie of insults.
Uther gapes, but kings really aren’t supposed to gape in stressful situations like this, so instead his eyes bulge out and he swallows before replying with, “That’s hardly the appropriate language becoming of a lady,” like it’s the biggest of their problems.
Arthur throws his (her?) hands up and emits a disgusted noise. “Oh my god, I’ve lost all relevance just because I now happen to bring two more guests to the table? Christ, it’s not like my cock’s gone.”
“Well,” Gaius says.
Merlin sincerely wishes he could be anywhere but in the King’s hall in that moment, because when it clicks, Arthur goes red from neck to forehead and ungracefully slaps a hand over his significantly flatter crotch. Absently, Merlin thinks, really, how did he not notice, but the more pressing issue is the furious prince/princess striding towards him, finger outstretched like it’s Merlin’s fault.
It probably is, but that’s besides the point.
“You are going to fix this,” Arthur hisses, nails digging like talons into Merlin’s arm as he’s dragged through the double doors, “before anybody hears about it. If I’m not back to normal by tomorrow, Camelot will be mourning your loss.”
It’s entirely inappropriate how well blind fury suits the slender, delicate angles of Arthur’s face, hair falling into his eyes and cheeks bright with spots of red. Merlin blinks, nods, and pulls away to head in the other direction for the library. He spends the night surrounded in books that tell him nothing and falls asleep to birds chirping and the thought of mile-long legs hidden beneath sagging breeches.
--
“How much gold would it take to get you to run me through with a sword?” Arthur says a week later when ‘tomorrow’ turns into seven days and no luck with the whole breasts thing. Merlin glances up from his soap circle on the floor.
“I’m assuming that’s rhetorical.”
“Because really, this is getting ridiculous,” Arthur continues, like Merlin didn’t even speak. He stomps over to a chair and flops into it. “Morgana is trying to relate to me, now, blathering on about feelings and womanhood and other meaningless rubbish. My father keeps insisting I wear stockings and dresses, for godsakes, and if I have to sit through another one of Gaius’ ‘examinations’, I’m going to lop off my own head.”
Merlin sits back on his heels, ready to lay into Arthur and make known that it isn’t exactly peaches-and-cream for everyone else, either, but the look on Arthur’s face has Merlin’s mouth clicking shut. Arthur looks impossibly small in the chair he used to fill, curled in on himself and miserably looping a strand of hair around his finger. The worst part is that Merlin is not at all sticking to his plan of not falling in horrible, ugly love with this pretty little creature that ruins the image every time it opens its mouth and Arthur’s vocabulary spews out.
“I miss my cock.”
“Oh my god.” Merlin hides his face in his hands and exhales. When he looks back up, Arthur’s face has gone all pink and his chin is wobbling and Merlin really, really hates his life.
“It’s not just that, it’s. Everyone’s afraid to look at me, let alone come near me. Am I ugly?” and at that, Merlin damns etiquette and his job and the other things he’s supposed to care about. It’s three steps to where Arthur’s sitting, three inches to lean in and crowd him against the back of the chair, three seconds to say, “Not at all”, and no hesitation kiss his pretty, pouting mouth.
Arthur squeaks beneath him and it’s kind of great, girls are great. “Please, let me show you the benefits of this,” Merlin says, laying promises over Arthur’s jaw and curling asking fingers under the too-loose laces of Arthur’s breeches. Arthur nods frantically and Merlin swallows his breath with a grin.
--
He manages to change Arthur’s mind, if the hips arching into his own and the litany of ohchristjesusyesblessyou is anything to go by. Arthur would slap him, but Merlin grins silly and romantic into the crook of Arthur’s shoulder and figures fixing this can wait.
--
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
--
one~
Chris' teeth catch jagged on his bottom lip as Karl fucks up and in and rakes blunt fingernails down the swell of Chris' biceps. The slap of skin on skin is raw over the gentle whirr of the hotel room fan, as is their harsh panting and the unstoppable groan Chris lets loose when Karl presses him against the wall and just holds him there. With his leg up and around Karl's hip there isn't much Chris can do to twist away when both of his wrists slam over his head. There's a wickedly hot tongue pushing against his stubble and fingers like brands spread out over his ribs, and in the lust-fever-fog in his head Chris thinks, well.
It is the answer to the probably rhetorical question Karl had asked earlier. So you're just going to keep stretching out my shirt sleeves like I have an endless supply? Chris' answer would have been right, because you don't waltz in with your eight-foot shoulder span and ruin all of my shirts, but Karl had proceeded to snag him by the belt loops and undo the work of a twenty minute shower.
Chris licks salty-sweet orange soda and perspiration off of his upper lip, Karl's eyes tracking the movement, and by now Chris really ought to be used to how predatory Karl is. Karl sucks on his mouth and pushes deeper and harder until Chris' toes are barely touching the carpet with every rock of their hips. When Karl lets go of his wrists to reach between them for Chris' cock, Chris scrambles to thread his fingers through Karl's hair, cup the nape of his neck, find his earlobe with his teeth. Everything comes down to making sure every last bit of them touches, to make up for how much they can't when they're in public.
Chris gasps come on and Karl's answer is a sharp bite to the thick muscle covering Chris' shoulder. His nails tighten on Karl's scalp and he wants to pull, yank, anything to get their mouths closer but his hair is too damn short. With one well-timed thrust and a slick-palmed pull to his cock, Chris feels sucker punched and blinded at how hard his orgasm hits. Every muscle tenses in a glorious rush that's apparently perfect for Karl, because he shudders and groans like he's dying into Chris' collarbone.
In the few moments after Chris' foot drops back to the floor and the pins and needles start to fade in, their arms fit around each other easy as breathing. Their heartbeats are not synchronized but it's a steady enough rhythm to lull them into a comfortable haze, skin sticky but warm.
You ruin all my clothes, Karl murmurs and Chris can feel the smile against his neck. It's usually his line, but Chris can let him win this one.
--
two~
sometimes when Chris is on the tiny porch of his apartment, skittering leaves he'll never rake and wicker-printed metal chairs he and Zach bought as a joke, his eyes close and he imagines stark hazel and freckles he'd like to kiss for good luck. dust and gravel itch the soles of his feet where they're planted on the brick rise of the waist-high ledge, but of all of Chris' itches, it's the dull curl around his spine he pays attention to most.
when Karl smiles Chris smiles back but hides behind his teeth, tongue caught and throat working to swallow. at times, both of them are strained, bitten to the quick by their agents and sixteen hour flights and the press of paparazzi. it shows in the quirk of their mouths and the heavy set of their eyes, bags not even the best of the make up teams could hide. they're tired in different ways, but Chris can barely think past his own exhaustion, rubbing his sternum like the ache will go away just because he wants it to.
L.A. is unforgiving but quiet as his ass starts to go numb. he's been out here for at least an hour, losing focus in the red blur of tail lights and the Tropicana-orange sun burning low behind the silhouettes of buildings. Chris is good at wanting; he wants time and to take things back and to erase the words out of people's mouths. he wants his mother to stop worrying and his sister to be happy, wants Zoe to have an incredible wedding and Zach to never stop laughing. he wants, hard, for a tiny heart tattoo to mean nothing but a drunken fluke.
for a while, Chris rubs a palm back and forth over stubble he knows he should shave (there's a premiere tonight, or something, have to look fresh, presentable, like he isn't making friends with ice and whiskey every night until the blood roaring in his ears is company enough). he could press fingers to the circles under his eyes but not forever, the throbbing will come back and there'll never be enough time to sleep this off, whatever this is. Chris could chew his lip raw and bite his nails jagged but it wouldn't do him any good. there are things he knows but it's what he knows he'll never know--like what dimples taste like or what messages a spine reads beneath fingertips or what an accent in his ear sounds like just before the hitch in breath--that gets him most.
tomorrow morning he will shower away the tang of sleep he didn't get, wash the dust off his heels. he'll shave or maybe he won't, put in contacts that give him the trademark bright eyes and maybe he'll wear a tie but probably not. Chris knows how this goes, knows how he wants it to go, but knows how it won't. they won't touch hands and they won't duck heads and they won't whisper about after, later, you want to?. they won't share a cab, won't fight over paying or go back to his place or his place. they won't pour a drink and grin like hunger and they won't take off their clothes like they've got the time for memorizing. they will not wake up tangled. they will not kiss goodbye. Karl will not make promises that Chris would believe even though he knows, and Chris will not say okay, I'll wait.
they will clap shoulders and smile tight, and Chris will sit on his porch with all of his knowledge and want until the next tomorrow comes.
--
three~
You say but, your wife and he says it's complicated, like maybe that's answer and reason enough for you to throw caution and morals to the wind, and you're about to walk off from the sheer gall you can't believe he has when broad fingers close hard and fast around your wrist and his eyes say want.
You swallow, and he grins low and dirty and you feel gutted, bottomed out and startled at his intense focus. Without your permission, images of what could be, what could happen, like fingertips up a spine or nails over shoulders or heels fitting in the dimples of a tan lower back flash through your head and that's startling, too, because of how much you want it and how much you shouldn't.
It goes something like this:
We shouldn't, you say as you slap down a tip on the bar and leave but not before touching surprisingly steady fingers to the unbuttoned state of his collar just to feel his throat work, to watch maybe the satisfaction or the shock that it's a go creep up into his eyes like a flush to his ears. You stare hard, like maybe in wonder or in contemplation but either way he'll follow, a solid press behind you as you both weave towards the door. His palm is giant on your back and that makes you giddy and safe and all the things you shouldn't feel about a married man, but then he whispers I can barely wait in a voice like gravel and it's a thrill that cools all the way down to your toes.
All your thoughts keep narrowing down to pinholes of touch because his hand won't leave you, won't stop laying like a brand over your thigh and you're glad you shaved tonight on impulse, but you get the feeling he wouldn't care if you hadn't like maybe he's not that shallow and maybe you can't concentrate with his thumb rubbing circles like that, higher and higher until your breath is short and his teeth are bright white in the darkness of the taxi.
What kills you is that he helps you out of the taxi like this is a date and it's achingly sweet, watching him make sure you're all right before shutting the door and paying like he's a gentleman and you aren't suddenly the other woman and like you two aren't about to go up to your apartment to fuck. You fumble for keys and you pray your roommate is gone but you pray harder that the darling older woman across the hall won't open her door to see the two of you rutting like animals against the wall.
The elevator ride is like the movies, air stuffy and overpowering and everything is spiked with lust and arousal and in one moment you're licking your lips and in another he's groaning and pressing you against your warped reflection and leaving handprints on the surface. You don't kiss but his breath tastes like anticipation and need and it doesn't quite register that you are the reason his hips are straining to keep from rocking and your fingers curl into the lapels of his ridiculous sport jacket to keep right where he is, until the elevator pings to your floor.
There's a note on your door that your roommate will be back tomorrow and his grin is filthy as he rests against the door frame, muscles long and lean and it makes your hand shake to fit the key in the lock because you think about his key and your lock and it's all downhill from here, if you're reduced to making lewd jokes in your head.
Once you're inside, he backs you against the wall before you get the chance to flick on the lights, your hand over the switch and as he perches above you, you flip everything on and it's not the only thing electric. In the chic red-orange glow of vintage lamps his eyes are nearly black, pupil wide and his gorgeous mouth is red from where he's been chewing and suddenly you want a taste, so you tilt your head and your tongue slips out and he groans. In a rush, he's swooping you up and holding you against your apartment wall by sheer power and you feel small, weightless as he rolls his hips into yours and maybe you gasp and maybe he swallows it, stubble scraping your chin but you don't care in the slightest. His hands are polite even when grabbing your ass to keep you from falling as the two of you stumble in the direction of your bedroom, sucking on each others' tongues and trembling with want.
The space behind his teeth tastes like whiskey and promises, and the weight of him pushing you down to your sheets feels like secrets and insanity all wrapped in the flirtation of his skin on yours, eyelashes brushing your collarbone. When his thumbs slide up your blouse just to feel your ribs, his smile warm on your neck, you realize this is the boy your mother warned you about, not because he's bad and drives fast cars and hangs with loose women, but because you'll toe the line of lust and love too quickly and end up tripping hard over the way his whole face smiles or his dimples or the way his 'r's' sound.
He makes you buck with a hand between your legs and relentless pressure, circles and figure eights until your eyelids flutter and your mouth drops open. What gets you most is the eye contact, his eyes never leave yours as your knees spread and you twist and your teeth clench like you're shameless, nails gripping his biceps hard and your clothes aren't even off, it's so wrong. Heat floods through you and you come hard and surprised and his name slips out, and his returning grin is boyish and charming and not at all fair.
Oh, you say as fingers that smell like sex unbutton your shirt and his shirt and his eyes widen, and suddenly you feel naked and it's odd until he moans like he's dying and learns the shape of your sternum with his lips. It's not fair and you want to touch, so you push at him and pull at his clothes until he gets the hint and he's gorgeous in the pale of your room, the smell of him and sex and ease filling the space until you're a little dizzy with the idea. A heel around the back of his knee brings him back down to balance above you, and your hands find his hair and it's silkier than you expect, thick in a way that's exciting and you kiss him and it's amazing.
You should feel wrong and terrible and like a raging harlot, but the way he keeps whispering awful and darling things into the shell of your ear and your cheekbone is going to ruin you forever. With your leg over his shoulder he slides in exquisite, pausing to feel and you feel full in more ways than one, both of you panting into the space between your bodies, and when he begins to move you feel it from the top of your head to the arches of your feet and you could die, maybe, just like this, clutching his shoulders and memorizing the sound of his guttural breath when you shift your hips forward. Your hand drifts down between you to find where one of you ends and the other one begins, until he knocks it away and helps you remember why you agreed to this in the first place. You feel open and raw and everything comes down to the tightening of his ass beneath your hands, the sharp twist of his hips that has you nearly sobbing and the relentless flick of his thumb that has you flying apart and arching off of your bed like you've never had an orgasm before. You feel him come inside you and in an instant you have no idea what to think, caught between his heartbeat and the ache of the morality you purposely left behind in the bar.
God, he says, wrecked and slightly awed and he slips out and slides down simply to look at you, hands gentle to push your legs open and spread you with his thumbs and you can't stop the flush that rises or the goosebumps that spread over your forearms, like suddenly you have a reason to be shy but then his tongue soothes over fucked-red flesh and you sigh, jerk when his lips find hair-tearingly sensitive nerves and gasp when he starts to suck. Your own mouth must be bruised and bitten from where you're chewing to stay quiet, keep from alarming your neighbors but it feels so good, so good it makes you stupid and he keeps groaning like he loves this. His tongue is wicked and the barely-there stroking of his fingertips drive you made but none of it stops, he just keeps going until you break down over the crest of the wave and he works you through the aftershocks, gentle and sweet and it's too much. He plants kisses all along your thigh, up your hip and around your belly button and between your breasts until he reaches your lips, tongue sweeping in and you have no idea what to do now that he's making to settle in, with his arm around you and the companionship of skin lulling you to sleep.
--
four~
"Why're you smiling?" Karl asks, one morning when he's sprawled at the half-counter, empty bowls of cereal stacked around him and three stray oranges Chris had knocked over an hour ago fumbling for a coffee mug. He's almost put his elbow in a sweaty milk ring three times, but he can't be bothered to sop it up. The community laptop (Chris', but Karl hates lugging his around back and forth, so he affectionately assumes it's a joint-custody thing) is propped open next to an unread newspaper, and the screen is frozen on a picture of Chris smiling like a razor blade ad from the 20s.
"I farted a minute ago," Chris says from his mirrored sprawl on the floor, killing his neck trying to stare up at the T.V. His tongue is caught between his teeth in concentration, thumbs flying over the joystick and buttons of an XBox controller.
Karl rolls his eyes. "Not now, you heathen," he says, and hides his nose under the collar of his shirt. "That is fucking rank, and I meant in this one pap photo from a few nights ago."
"I was probably stoned," is the reply, and Karl would believe it if it weren't for the fact that Chris' sleeves are still rolled up in the picture. The first time Karl was ever around Chris when he was stoned, he spent about ten minutes listening to Chris babble about how awesome shirts were and how awesome sleeves felt and how it was like long sleeves were like socks for arms and at that point, Karl wondered how much bongwater it would take to drown himself. "Or constipated, or something." Chris' eyes never leave the screen.
Karl stares at him.
"Look, everybody poops, Karl."
"I don't understand at all," Karl says, clicking out of the screen and furiously opening a game of Minesweeper he knows he'll lose, "how a Berkley English major that uses words like 'supercilious' instead of 'dickhead' can be so fucking gross."
Chris laughs so hard he Mariokarts right off the side of a cliff, and that makes him laugh even harder. Rolling over onto his back, the controller slips from his fingers. "It's not all 'defying augury' and 'foppish compliments' and 'perchance to dream', he says, after he can breathe again. English majors are proletariats too."
Karl knows for a fact he got that off a stupid mug they saw at a gift shop, next to a display of postcards that had pictures of hundreds of sheep and a caption of "HERE IN NEW ZEALAND". They were in Texas.
("If I bought you a shirt that said "Tending the herd", would you beat me?" Chris had asked, holding the stupid fabric to his chest.
"Yes," Karl had said with all the conviction he'd ever possessed.)
"Whatever," Chris continued, tumbling around on the carpet like he's six and in gymnastics. He gets up to pad over and smack an itchy kiss to Karl's temple, and picks up the cereal bowl for him. "Who cares why I was smiling, maybe I was thinking of your dick," and Karl mumbles about 'eloquence' and 'accuracy' and Chris grins.
--
five~
it's dirty because they're caked in earth, rain sluicing through black sweat stains and cocoa powder dirt, but it's dirty because they can't get farther than an unbuttoned shirt and thumbs in their belt loops. Bones presses, surges, lifts Jim with a thigh and his back hits the barn wall and his breath leaves him, is devoured by a wicked tongue and the glint of hungry eyes. Jim can barely see in the gloomy storm-dark of the barn, the rain roaring just behind his head, but Bones is a familiar shape beneath his hands.
the mouth on his neck, shoulder, collarbone, sternum is hot and he briefly wonders how sweat and dirt can be anything worth tasting but then Bones scratches blunt fingernails hard over the dimples in his lower back and Jim bucks forward on a whine. when he can manage to keep his eyes open, he sees the top of Bones' head but feels the tongue counting his ribs. Jim threads his fingers through Bones' wild hair and grips-not-pulls until a groan rumbles against his skin. he grins sharp and a little hazy at the thick-sounding shit, yeah, and revels in the smell of ozone and rain and hot, salty skin.
Bones on his knees is pretty great when they're naked but Jim's hard-pressed to argue for barely-naked, too. he feels filthy but Bones drags teeth over the cut of Jim's hip and he aches to shove his cock down his throat, until his thighs brush stubble and his head is too blurry to think straight. Bones keeps licking left over rain in broad swipes of this tongue, worries the tight skin between milk-white teeth and the barn shakes with thunder while Jim shakes with want.
--
six~
once upon a time when chris was a little boy, he was so ugly that everyone thought he was literally a troll. his floppy bowlcut scared away all the children and so did his creepy laugh. his parents had no idea what to do with their terrifying little monster child. he was so ugly, there was no way he could be an actor like the rest of the family, so they threw him off a pier in new york one bleak, rainy morning, drawing their hoods tightly over their faces and hurling the burlap sack as hard as they could. in a swirl of wet, heavy fabric from their cloaks, they turned on their heels and hurried away. little did they know, but chris the troll child was a fantastic swimmer. his bowlcut functioned like the soft body of a jelly fish, propelling him upwards and out of the burlap sack. unfortunately, he was also quite tiny, and it was not enough to get him out of the water. his little troll face scrunched up from the lack of oxygen, and then chris died.
or so he thought. when he awoke, chris found himself in a huge, dripping cave. he was lying on a shallow stretch of rock, massive pools of water around him. his sweater was itchy and wet. "HELLO?" he called out, in his nasally troll voice. in response, an enormous whale poked its head out of the water pool on chris' left and said "SHUT YOUR MOUTH I'M THE BOSS"
"WHAT'S YOUR NAME?" chris said because he was 5 and didn't understand directions. "TONY DANZA"
so tony the whale and chris the troll child became best friends out of stockholm syndrome, and tony successfully trained chris to forget everything he ever knew about liking acting and wanting to be an actor. chris grew up to be a surprisingly good-looking young man, much to the tony's dismay. he was worried chris would leave him, once he discovered that looks can get you everywhere. eventually, chris left for college, to learn everything about english that tony the whale could not teach him. chris missed tony while he was at berkley, sometimes staring out the window and wishing he could be in that musty cave off a new york pier somewhere. he was happy, he supposed, but he still worried that people would think he was a troll.
then one day, chris did a silly play for fun. there were lots of ruffles and ridiculous costumes, but because he did it he suddenly became very popular. girls started looking at him without throwing up and boys wanted to touch his junk. chris was swept away in the blinding lights of hollywood, booking parts as twinky love interests for starlets left and right. he battled more terrible hair styles, discovered the white v-neck shirt, and finally landed a role that would change his life. he became jimmy kirk, saver of galaxies, and then everybody started releasing movies that chris forgot to tell anyone about, like carriers and bottleshock and blind dating. but whatever, he had a giant penis now so it all worked out.
he was so caught up in his new life that, bit by bit, chris forgot about tony danza. he flew to new york all the time to promote his movies, but he was too busy to notice the sad shape in the dark off the coast of that pier. for years, tony watched from the sidelines, torn between anger at chris leaving him and pride for the beautiful man the troll child had become. tony danza was always there at the pier, waiting for the fateful day that chris would return.
it was a bright morning on the pier when chris stepped out in his fancy photoshoot clothes. the wind swept back his oddly long in the front hair and a chill ran down his sexy spine. there was something watching him, but chris chalked it up to be the photographers and nothing more. he got on the bike that the photographer wanted him to ride, and slowly started pedaling. they got a few super hot shots in and chris was happy, so during a break he pedaled all the way out to the end of the pier and smiled.
"CHRISTOPHER" the water said and chris said "HOLY SHIT" and tony rose from the depths in joy. "I KNEW YOU'D COME BACK" tony said, tears rolling down his giant whale face, "I ALWAYS KNEW YOU LOVED ME" "I'M SO SORRY TONY BUT THIS IS MY LIFE NOW" chris said, tears rolling down his pretty human face, "I CAN'T COME BACK TO YOU. PLEASE UNDERSTAND" "IT'S OKAY, I'VE KNOWN FROM THE START IT HAD TO BE THIS WAY" said tony danza "I LOVE YOU" and sank back into the harbor forever. "I'LL ALWAYS LOVE YOU"
"I'LL ALWAYS LOVE YOU, TOO" chris said, but by then tony was gone. and such was the secret life of chris pine, tune in next week for when the baby arrives.
--
seven~
“Look, it’s not like ‘gaining knockers’ was at the top of my fucking to-do list for the day,” Arthur says like his sudden tits and long(er), flowing hair mean nothing. He’s also about five inches shorter than he was yesterday, and Merlin knows ‘ tall, long-legged freak’ will be added to Arthur’s ever-growing menagerie of insults.
Uther gapes, but kings really aren’t supposed to gape in stressful situations like this, so instead his eyes bulge out and he swallows before replying with, “That’s hardly the appropriate language becoming of a lady,” like it’s the biggest of their problems.
Arthur throws his (her?) hands up and emits a disgusted noise. “Oh my god, I’ve lost all relevance just because I now happen to bring two more guests to the table? Christ, it’s not like my cock’s gone.”
“Well,” Gaius says.
Merlin sincerely wishes he could be anywhere but in the King’s hall in that moment, because when it clicks, Arthur goes red from neck to forehead and ungracefully slaps a hand over his significantly flatter crotch. Absently, Merlin thinks, really, how did he not notice, but the more pressing issue is the furious prince/princess striding towards him, finger outstretched like it’s Merlin’s fault.
It probably is, but that’s besides the point.
“You are going to fix this,” Arthur hisses, nails digging like talons into Merlin’s arm as he’s dragged through the double doors, “before anybody hears about it. If I’m not back to normal by tomorrow, Camelot will be mourning your loss.”
It’s entirely inappropriate how well blind fury suits the slender, delicate angles of Arthur’s face, hair falling into his eyes and cheeks bright with spots of red. Merlin blinks, nods, and pulls away to head in the other direction for the library. He spends the night surrounded in books that tell him nothing and falls asleep to birds chirping and the thought of mile-long legs hidden beneath sagging breeches.
--
“How much gold would it take to get you to run me through with a sword?” Arthur says a week later when ‘tomorrow’ turns into seven days and no luck with the whole breasts thing. Merlin glances up from his soap circle on the floor.
“I’m assuming that’s rhetorical.”
“Because really, this is getting ridiculous,” Arthur continues, like Merlin didn’t even speak. He stomps over to a chair and flops into it. “Morgana is trying to relate to me, now, blathering on about feelings and womanhood and other meaningless rubbish. My father keeps insisting I wear stockings and dresses, for godsakes, and if I have to sit through another one of Gaius’ ‘examinations’, I’m going to lop off my own head.”
Merlin sits back on his heels, ready to lay into Arthur and make known that it isn’t exactly peaches-and-cream for everyone else, either, but the look on Arthur’s face has Merlin’s mouth clicking shut. Arthur looks impossibly small in the chair he used to fill, curled in on himself and miserably looping a strand of hair around his finger. The worst part is that Merlin is not at all sticking to his plan of not falling in horrible, ugly love with this pretty little creature that ruins the image every time it opens its mouth and Arthur’s vocabulary spews out.
“I miss my cock.”
“Oh my god.” Merlin hides his face in his hands and exhales. When he looks back up, Arthur’s face has gone all pink and his chin is wobbling and Merlin really, really hates his life.
“It’s not just that, it’s. Everyone’s afraid to look at me, let alone come near me. Am I ugly?” and at that, Merlin damns etiquette and his job and the other things he’s supposed to care about. It’s three steps to where Arthur’s sitting, three inches to lean in and crowd him against the back of the chair, three seconds to say, “Not at all”, and no hesitation kiss his pretty, pouting mouth.
Arthur squeaks beneath him and it’s kind of great, girls are great. “Please, let me show you the benefits of this,” Merlin says, laying promises over Arthur’s jaw and curling asking fingers under the too-loose laces of Arthur’s breeches. Arthur nods frantically and Merlin swallows his breath with a grin.
--
He manages to change Arthur’s mind, if the hips arching into his own and the litany of ohchristjesusyesblessyou is anything to go by. Arthur would slap him, but Merlin grins silly and romantic into the crook of Arthur’s shoulder and figures fixing this can wait.
--
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT