Abandon Shape
Title: Abandon Shape
Author: ladyblahblah
Fandom: RPS
Pairing: Chris Pine/Zachary Quinto (Pinto!)
Rating: Rish
Disclaimer: Sadly, this is all a lie. Probably. I have no reason to believe that any of it is true, in any case, though I wouldn't be heartbroken to discover that it was.
Summary: It's a dance, you see. Forward and back, towards and away again. But it's the end of the dance that matters. Songfic, after a fashion.
Author's Note: Guys, IDEK. I had my iPod when I was closing at work tonight, and this song came on, and it was all just somehow . . . there. So I decided to write a songfic, kinda. Only I'm not including the lyrics. And I'm not telling you what song it was. (Bonus points for anyone who manages to guess anyway! There are at least two of you who should get this, you know who you are.) This was sort of an exercise in attempting to capture the general feeling of a song. Did I succeed? Who knows. XD But I had a hell of a lot of fun.
They haven’t even bothered to turn on the lights, and the room is all heavy shadows and pools of thin blue light from the streetlamps outside. Zach’s mouth is hot on his, panting back the breath Chris had given him a moment before. They stumble together, Zach forwards and Chris back until he hits the wall, the thump of impact felt all the way down to his bones. But it doesn’t matter, because Zach’s hips are there, grinding against his own, and their kisses are messy and wet and Chris can’t think.
The club is overcrowded and hot, and the girl who grins up at you as she scrawls her number on your hand is wearing too much perfume. Her friends pull her away soon enough, though, and Zach is there just feet away, grinning wickedly. He grabs your hand and raises his eyebrows, mouthing her name to you-Stephani or Tiffani or something else with too many ‘i's-as you try to ignore the heat of his skin against yours. You roll your eyes and signal for another round. You do it with your other hand, though, so that you don’t have to pull away from his grip.
Chris feels Zach’s teeth nip sharply at his neck and whimpers, completely beyond caring that he sounds needy and desperate. He is needy and desperate, and has been for the last two hours. His hips are trying to buck forward into the pressure that Zach is providing, but they’re too well-pinned. He’s at Zach’s mercy. And, well.
Fuck.
Doesn’t that just sum everything up right there?
The bartender slides your drinks across the bar, and Zach tosses down bills before you can so much as reach for your wallet. You think about arguing, but he’s going on about something already, talking over your intent, and though you only catch about every third word you feel yourself start to relax. This is what you were looking for tonight: the ease of his company and the anticipation that buzzes through your blood when you’re with him lately. He says something, and you answer back, but that’s not the real conversation going on right now.
You’re talking in the shape of your lips around the bottle, the steady way your eyes stare back into his. His words aren’t important; what he’s saying is all in the curl of his fingers around his glass, the slow run of his tongue over alcohol-wet lips.
The music changes, and his eyes light up, and before you know it you’re being dragged, laughing, onto the dance floor.
Chris has Zach’s shirt halfway unbuttoned before he even remembers moving his hands. They both of them smell like sweat and smoke and the sharp tang of alcohol, but it hardly matters. What matters is the hot skin Chris finds when he yanks the hem of Zach’s shirt past the waistband of his jeans, the way the older man’s breath stutters in little puffs against the damp stripe he’s just licked up Chris’s neck. They pause like that for a moment, and when Zack pulls back there’s just enough light for Chris to see the hesitation in his eyes.
He lifts one hand to slide into Zach’s hair-stiff with whatever Zach’s styled it with, and damp, but still so good between his fingers-and brings their mouths crashing back together.
There’s no talking at all now. You take a moment-only a moment-to reflect on how this is the only way you know of that’s guaranteed to stop Zach talking, and then you’re moving. Not with him, not quite. The floor is too crowded for that unless you’re plastered against each other, and by mutual consent you let people weave and bob and writhe between you. The last of your shitty day drains away as you watch him, moving like liquid sex in painted-on jeans and a button-down open at the throat. There’s a pretty girl next to you; when her gaze flickers up in invitation you wrap an arm around her waist and move your hips in tandem, but your own gaze stays locked on him.
You watch his eyes grow hot, watch his tongue flicker out to wet his lips again.
Your blood is humming now, and you’re nearly ready to say to hell with it, with the way you two have been circling each other for months. But it’s not-quite-time for that.
This particular dance isn’t over just yet.
Zach’s bare-chested now, and Chris’s t-shirt is rucked up beneath his arms, but neither of them are willing to put enough space between them to remove any more than that. It’s almost too much as it is, Chris thinks: the slide of Zach’s skin against his, the scrape of chest hair against his nipples, the pressure of Zach’s body pressing him, helpless, into the wall. His hands don’t seem to want to stop running over the smooth muscles in the older man’s back, encouraging as Zach sucks a livid mark into his collarbone.
Then that mouth is moving down, lips trailing across the planes of his chest. In other circumstances Chris might have been embarrassed at how he’s shaking, but he’s much too far-gone now to care.
He wants to beg, to demand. The entire night has been a tease-scratch that, the last three months have been one, and he can’t take much more. But, he reflects as Zack sinks to his knees, it’s really only a tease if you don’t intend to follow through.
Chris leans his head back and tries to remember how to breathe.
You move away from each other, letting the crowd sweep you up in the currents running through it. Time slips by unnoticed, lost in the pulse of the music that echoes through your body, answered by your blood running hot and quick through your veins. There’s nothing now but the lights and the press of bodies and the simmering excitement beneath your skin because you know. The teasing grins, the not-so-fleeting touches, the could-haves and the didn’t-quites.
One way or another, it’s all coming to a head tonight.
So you dance, and you wait. You see him, now and then, across the club or so close you can almost-almost-touch. Sometimes he sees you, too, and the slow smile that spreads across his face has you hard and throbbing in your jeans. You wonder how many times he sees you when you don’t notice; you wonder what it’s doing to him, watching you the way you’re watching him.
God help you, you hope it burns.
It’s some sort of miracle of physics, but they’re both naked without ever breaking contact with each other. Chris’s bed is a pool of light beneath the big picture window, and Zach’s face, his body is lit and shadowed in equal measures as he looms above him. They move together, quick and hard and needy, and when Zach fists a hand in Chris’s hair to pull his head back Chris laughs in unabashed delight.
He grips the other man hard, hands sliding over sweat-slick skin, scrabbling for purchase as his laughter turns to gasps. Zach’s face is buried in his shoulder now, and the bed is groaning beneath their movements, rhythmic and cliched and the hottest thing Chris has ever heard until Zach moans his name.
He’s at the edge of the dance floor now; you have a perfect view of him, your eyes sweeping over his shoulders as he wrests himself free. A group of girls passes, and there’s one-tall and slim, with pale skin and hair that looks black in the ever-changing lights-that blatantly eyes him. Zach glances over, as well, a slow smile curving up his mouth. They keep going, but one last look cast over their shoulders has the simmer in your blood erupting into flame.
The crowd carries you away, and you don’t bother to fight it. This is good, too, this hot burst of jealousy, and yes, you can admit that’s what it is now. As soon as you do it’s like the entire world shifts, tilts, and suddenly everything clicks into place.
You begin to work your way out, and you’re three steps from the edge when you almost run straight into him. The heat of his body sinks into you even in the midst of the maddening horde, and you’re stepping closer before you think it through. Something flares in his eyes, and yeah, okay.
Dance over.
It’s quiet in the aftermath; their ragged breathing is the loudest thing in the room. As it slowly evens out the world starts to filter back, and Chris becomes aware of the sweat slowly cooling on his skin, the artless way they’re both sprawled across the bed. There are still no words, nothing that he can think to say that matters.
It’s all there in the way their fingers are linked together, in the way Zach’s ankle is curled around Chris’s so that their insteps slide together.
In the way they fit.
Author: ladyblahblah
Fandom: RPS
Pairing: Chris Pine/Zachary Quinto (Pinto!)
Rating: Rish
Disclaimer: Sadly, this is all a lie. Probably. I have no reason to believe that any of it is true, in any case, though I wouldn't be heartbroken to discover that it was.
Summary: It's a dance, you see. Forward and back, towards and away again. But it's the end of the dance that matters. Songfic, after a fashion.
Author's Note: Guys, IDEK. I had my iPod when I was closing at work tonight, and this song came on, and it was all just somehow . . . there. So I decided to write a songfic, kinda. Only I'm not including the lyrics. And I'm not telling you what song it was. (Bonus points for anyone who manages to guess anyway! There are at least two of you who should get this, you know who you are.) This was sort of an exercise in attempting to capture the general feeling of a song. Did I succeed? Who knows. XD But I had a hell of a lot of fun.
They haven’t even bothered to turn on the lights, and the room is all heavy shadows and pools of thin blue light from the streetlamps outside. Zach’s mouth is hot on his, panting back the breath Chris had given him a moment before. They stumble together, Zach forwards and Chris back until he hits the wall, the thump of impact felt all the way down to his bones. But it doesn’t matter, because Zach’s hips are there, grinding against his own, and their kisses are messy and wet and Chris can’t think.
The club is overcrowded and hot, and the girl who grins up at you as she scrawls her number on your hand is wearing too much perfume. Her friends pull her away soon enough, though, and Zach is there just feet away, grinning wickedly. He grabs your hand and raises his eyebrows, mouthing her name to you-Stephani or Tiffani or something else with too many ‘i's-as you try to ignore the heat of his skin against yours. You roll your eyes and signal for another round. You do it with your other hand, though, so that you don’t have to pull away from his grip.
Chris feels Zach’s teeth nip sharply at his neck and whimpers, completely beyond caring that he sounds needy and desperate. He is needy and desperate, and has been for the last two hours. His hips are trying to buck forward into the pressure that Zach is providing, but they’re too well-pinned. He’s at Zach’s mercy. And, well.
Fuck.
Doesn’t that just sum everything up right there?
The bartender slides your drinks across the bar, and Zach tosses down bills before you can so much as reach for your wallet. You think about arguing, but he’s going on about something already, talking over your intent, and though you only catch about every third word you feel yourself start to relax. This is what you were looking for tonight: the ease of his company and the anticipation that buzzes through your blood when you’re with him lately. He says something, and you answer back, but that’s not the real conversation going on right now.
You’re talking in the shape of your lips around the bottle, the steady way your eyes stare back into his. His words aren’t important; what he’s saying is all in the curl of his fingers around his glass, the slow run of his tongue over alcohol-wet lips.
The music changes, and his eyes light up, and before you know it you’re being dragged, laughing, onto the dance floor.
Chris has Zach’s shirt halfway unbuttoned before he even remembers moving his hands. They both of them smell like sweat and smoke and the sharp tang of alcohol, but it hardly matters. What matters is the hot skin Chris finds when he yanks the hem of Zach’s shirt past the waistband of his jeans, the way the older man’s breath stutters in little puffs against the damp stripe he’s just licked up Chris’s neck. They pause like that for a moment, and when Zack pulls back there’s just enough light for Chris to see the hesitation in his eyes.
He lifts one hand to slide into Zach’s hair-stiff with whatever Zach’s styled it with, and damp, but still so good between his fingers-and brings their mouths crashing back together.
There’s no talking at all now. You take a moment-only a moment-to reflect on how this is the only way you know of that’s guaranteed to stop Zach talking, and then you’re moving. Not with him, not quite. The floor is too crowded for that unless you’re plastered against each other, and by mutual consent you let people weave and bob and writhe between you. The last of your shitty day drains away as you watch him, moving like liquid sex in painted-on jeans and a button-down open at the throat. There’s a pretty girl next to you; when her gaze flickers up in invitation you wrap an arm around her waist and move your hips in tandem, but your own gaze stays locked on him.
You watch his eyes grow hot, watch his tongue flicker out to wet his lips again.
Your blood is humming now, and you’re nearly ready to say to hell with it, with the way you two have been circling each other for months. But it’s not-quite-time for that.
This particular dance isn’t over just yet.
Zach’s bare-chested now, and Chris’s t-shirt is rucked up beneath his arms, but neither of them are willing to put enough space between them to remove any more than that. It’s almost too much as it is, Chris thinks: the slide of Zach’s skin against his, the scrape of chest hair against his nipples, the pressure of Zach’s body pressing him, helpless, into the wall. His hands don’t seem to want to stop running over the smooth muscles in the older man’s back, encouraging as Zach sucks a livid mark into his collarbone.
Then that mouth is moving down, lips trailing across the planes of his chest. In other circumstances Chris might have been embarrassed at how he’s shaking, but he’s much too far-gone now to care.
He wants to beg, to demand. The entire night has been a tease-scratch that, the last three months have been one, and he can’t take much more. But, he reflects as Zack sinks to his knees, it’s really only a tease if you don’t intend to follow through.
Chris leans his head back and tries to remember how to breathe.
You move away from each other, letting the crowd sweep you up in the currents running through it. Time slips by unnoticed, lost in the pulse of the music that echoes through your body, answered by your blood running hot and quick through your veins. There’s nothing now but the lights and the press of bodies and the simmering excitement beneath your skin because you know. The teasing grins, the not-so-fleeting touches, the could-haves and the didn’t-quites.
One way or another, it’s all coming to a head tonight.
So you dance, and you wait. You see him, now and then, across the club or so close you can almost-almost-touch. Sometimes he sees you, too, and the slow smile that spreads across his face has you hard and throbbing in your jeans. You wonder how many times he sees you when you don’t notice; you wonder what it’s doing to him, watching you the way you’re watching him.
God help you, you hope it burns.
It’s some sort of miracle of physics, but they’re both naked without ever breaking contact with each other. Chris’s bed is a pool of light beneath the big picture window, and Zach’s face, his body is lit and shadowed in equal measures as he looms above him. They move together, quick and hard and needy, and when Zach fists a hand in Chris’s hair to pull his head back Chris laughs in unabashed delight.
He grips the other man hard, hands sliding over sweat-slick skin, scrabbling for purchase as his laughter turns to gasps. Zach’s face is buried in his shoulder now, and the bed is groaning beneath their movements, rhythmic and cliched and the hottest thing Chris has ever heard until Zach moans his name.
He’s at the edge of the dance floor now; you have a perfect view of him, your eyes sweeping over his shoulders as he wrests himself free. A group of girls passes, and there’s one-tall and slim, with pale skin and hair that looks black in the ever-changing lights-that blatantly eyes him. Zach glances over, as well, a slow smile curving up his mouth. They keep going, but one last look cast over their shoulders has the simmer in your blood erupting into flame.
The crowd carries you away, and you don’t bother to fight it. This is good, too, this hot burst of jealousy, and yes, you can admit that’s what it is now. As soon as you do it’s like the entire world shifts, tilts, and suddenly everything clicks into place.
You begin to work your way out, and you’re three steps from the edge when you almost run straight into him. The heat of his body sinks into you even in the midst of the maddening horde, and you’re stepping closer before you think it through. Something flares in his eyes, and yeah, okay.
Dance over.
It’s quiet in the aftermath; their ragged breathing is the loudest thing in the room. As it slowly evens out the world starts to filter back, and Chris becomes aware of the sweat slowly cooling on his skin, the artless way they’re both sprawled across the bed. There are still no words, nothing that he can think to say that matters.
It’s all there in the way their fingers are linked together, in the way Zach’s ankle is curled around Chris’s so that their insteps slide together.
In the way they fit.