thalialunacy2 | Drabble Keeper

Here be the place I store mah drabbles (less than 500 words, give or take) that were born on other people's journals. I make no claims as to their quality. XB

boots-related (Star Trek AOS RPF, Chris/Karl, NC-17)

[Prompt from

blcwriter about this picture: "Someone needs to write a fic about Chris' boots, and how the laces won't come undone at HIGHLY INCONVENIENT (cough, porn, cough) TIMES."]

And with that, Chris Pine is on his bum on the floor, ubiquitous black jeans around his splayed knees, boots still fully on his feet. "Ow, shit," he groans, humping up to rub the cheek on which he landed. "That's so going to bruise."

Karl just laughs as he kneels down. "We'll put ice on it later, Princess." He kisses Chris, hard enough that Chris has to rock back and support himself on his hands.

Not that Chris minds.

No, having Karl Urban's tongue in his mouth is not something Chris will ever mind, especially not since it's been fucking months and nothing will ever be enough to make up for lost time but he'll be damned if he's not going to try anyways. The current oral gymnastics alone are enough to make him forget the dull ache from falling and the ignominious position he's in -- he's been in worse. Although he must admit he'd like to--

"--get these bloody boots off," Karl is muttering into his mouth, and Chris can't help but chuckle, throaty and not at all soppy with affection, nope, as he watches Karl's frustration grow alongside his concentration as he works at the laces with his insanely sexy fingers. Fingers that should by all rights be other places, preferably inside Chris.

Chris grunts at the very thought, feels a flash of patheticness at being so needy, then decides as he pulls Karl over to him—causing them to become a pile of limbs and wrenching an 'oof' out of Karl—that if being pathetic gets him Karl motherfucking Urban's cock in his hand, then he's perfectly okay with it.

"Forget the shoes," he whispers as he moves his hand up and down, feeling the silk and steel and the beginnings of slick, watching Karl's face scrunch up with pleasure. "I got something better for you right here."

car-related (Star Trek AOS, Kirk/McCoy, R)

[unprompted post-script to

camesawconquerd's Auto Erotic]

McCoy had meant it as a hint, so he kisses the hell out of the slightly shaky, slightly on fire Jim Kirk, hands cupped on hot damp skin of face and neck. His body is ready to go, a fact about which he's trying not to be smug, but Jim seems hesitant. So McCoy guides Kirk's hand to the front of his jeans and presses it down gently.

Jim pulls back, a slightly confused look on his face. "I didn't think you liked—" He gestures at the car around them, his brain still clearly kind of in a drive-gasmic fog. "This."

McCoy shrugs, hands moving down to make short work of the fastenings of Jim's pants, under which he knows lies proof of just what this drive has done to Jim. "I do," he explains, "I just like the maneuvering, the tight turns, not the engines." Then he captures Jim's lips again.

Jim grunts into his mouth as the doctor's hands find their goal. "Then I don't understand— Unngg... We only took one turn, and you looked like you were going to—"

"It's you, Jim," he says quietly. He knows he hand is rough but Kirk does not seem to mind, eyes sliding shut and hips moving encouragingly. "You're— Goddamn." He finds he has to inhale at the sight of Jim this way; he's seen it before of course but this is new context and damn, he needs a minute to think of actual words and explanations. "It's part of who you are, and I happen to love you. You get off on it, and I get off on that."

His hips shift of their own accord, as if wanting to demonstrate, and Kirk's eyes are suddenly open and on him—specifically, his lap. Jim reaches forward, his movements jerky because McCoy has not stopped his own ministrations. "Shit," he breathes out when he makes contact. "You really do, don't you? Fuck, that's—"

And Jim is all over him, enthusiasm and adrenaline and sweat and love and McCoy knows it's for both him and the car but at this moment, this moment when Jim Kirk is whispering something that sounds like, 'Mine, baby,' in his ear as he shatters apart in his hands, McCoy is more than all right with it.

McCoy wouldn't trade it for the goddamn world.

Zombies-related (Star Trek AOS, gen, pg-13)

[Prompt from

jazzy_peaches: "FROM YOU I WANT JIM AND BONES AGAINST THE ZOMBIE PLANET. I'LL LEND YOU NIGHTVISION GOGGLES. XD"]

"Bones, psst!"

McCoy ignored the nudge from Jim, whose back was pressed against his own, preferring instead to keep his damn eyes peeled in front of him. "Shut up, Jim."

"Are you clear?"

McCoy assessed the alien terrain in front of him through his 'night vision contraption.' It made everything green and kind of floaty, and if he moved his gaze too fast, it made him a little sick.

He'd been pretty sick for a good hour by then.

"Bones?"

He grunted an affirmative.

"Then fucking look over here. Please."

McCoy kept his phaser trained in front of him but craned his neck just enough to see what Jim was babbling about.

Then he froze.

"Is that…" He could barely manage a whisper. "Is that… a zombie dinosaur?"

small-of-the-back-related (Star Trek AOS RPF, Chris/Karl, R)

[prompt from this picture &

sail_aweigh: "You just *know* that the small of Karl's back is his spot. You know, the one where any little touch sets shivers up and down your spine and you panties get all wet? And Chris knows this and is going to get his ass so jumped when they get back to the hotel room for doing that to Karl in public. Rawrrrr."]

"Oh my fucking Christ, am I glad that's over." Chris cards his hotel room open and turns to Karl. "Drink?"

Karl half-smiles at him. "Sure." Chris waves him through, hearing the door click shut before finding himself pushed solidly against it. Karl's lips are on his jaw, on his neck, on his ear. "You are a jerk."

Chris grunts and thrusts unavoidably and hangs onto Karl's biceps for dear life. "I'm the jerk?"

"Yeah." The word rushes against a piece of skin that Chris just knows is going to have a purpley-brown blotch on it tomorrow. "Tosser, git, megalomaniacal—" Chris grins and moves his hands down to dig under Karl's jacket to scratch through the expensive shirt at the small of Karl's back, and Karl's voice dissolves into a hiss as he jerks against Chris nicely. "—bastard. That, you did that, out there, in front of all those fucking cameras, when you knew—"

Chris kisses him, finally, and distracts them both with his tongue and teeth and God, this man makes his body go from at rest to amped up in about four seconds. "Okay, okay, I get it." He pushes Karl towards the bed and down onto it, bending over him without hesitation. "Though I just will argue that it's your fucking fault."

Karl wraps around him and pulls him down, but Chris only goes halfway, propping himself up so he can have his way. "What? How?"

Chris just grins. "You wore this fucking shirt." He dips his head and licks straight down the path cleared by the opened and inviting piece of clothing. "You ever heard of buttons?"

Karl grins, unrepentant. "Mea culpa," he says, his voice rough with desire and his lips ridiculously biteable, and it's Karl speaking Latin so when Karl kisses him again, Chris breathes him in, Chris lowers his weight onto Karl. Chris says fuck yes and I love you, and allows himself to be enveloped. Finally.

inappropriate-touching-related (Star Trek AOS RPF, Chris/Karl, R)

[prompt from this picture &

abigail89: "One of my absolutely favorite ChrisKarl images of all time. I'm picturing Karl's fingers tracing the swell of Chris's ass...."]

The bar is ridiculously hot, Chris reasons as he washes his hands, and he has never hated ties more than he does at this moment. But he can't pull off that suave unbuttoned thing like--

Like Karl.

Shit. He wipes his mouth as he stares at the reflection in the bathroom mirror. He's flushed and pale and sweaty and maybe he should just drink more and try to forget about it. About the huge warm hand very nearly on the small of his back, burning through layers of clothes as it slid just too low to be friendly but not low enough for Chris to be certain about anything, and that's the fucking rub. He can't ever tell if it's an accident, or if Karl's just that kind of guy, because it's not something you can take a survey on -- 'Hey, guys, does Karl ever touch you in a manner that could be construed as uncouth?'-- and anyways he's not sure he wants to know. He's kinda sure he just wants it to be him that Karl can't seem to keep his hands appropriate around, just him that makes Karl forget that whatever picture's being taken will get into the public eye, just him that inspires that look of minemineminefuckoffmine as Chris's own face goes kind of blank from trying to compute, trying to not spontaneously--

"You all right?"

Chris starts, reeling back from where he was leaning on the porcelain of the sink, as Karl saunters in--really, that's the only verbage that'll work, Chris thinks, and he hates it a little--and does his Stance in front of the urinal.

Chris looks away, looks at his tie. "Yeah, m'fine. Just warm in there, you know?" Karl nods, finishing and tucking and zipping and Chris feels strangled. "See you back down there?" he says with a jab of his thumb towards the door, his intentions clear.

But Karl doesn't reply. Instead he moves until he's right next to Chris, slightly behind him and they're both staring at the mirror, at the picture they make. It's a fucking nice picture, and Chris' lungs are tight in his chest. He suddenly wants a cigarette more than fucking anything.

Then he feels Karl's hand on his lower back. His very lower back, like always too fucking low for propriety. The air swooshes out of him on a huff but he forces it into a laugh and tries to hold the rapidly crumbling pieces of his self-control together. But then--then the hand does its little dip-dip-dance and sizzles right through Chris' common sense.

He reaches back, not turning, and grabs Karl's wrist. He just holds him there, watching his face, watching the expression twitch just slightly and feeling the muscles and tendons writhe and twist just under the skin. He swallows once for bravery. "Either put up or shut up, Urban," he says finally, roughly, a little needily. He swallows again. Waiting.

The hand moves. The hand moves up and Chris thinks that's it, show's over until he realizes it's going under his suit jacket and tucking itself neatly under the waistband of his pants. There's far too much fabric still in the way but Chris feels it all the way to his edges and has a moment of understanding of why women love Victorian romance novels so much.

Then Karl's breath is on his ear. "This all right?"

And when Chris locks eyes with him in the mirror again, he sees exactly what he needs to see, and a smile careens across his face. He reaches up to grab the back of Karl's neck-- "Fuck yeah, it's all right," -- before twisting them together just enough -- he keeps Karl's hand right where it is, though, thank you very much -- for an about fucking time kiss.

Karl's-lips-related (Star Trek AOS RPF, Chris/Karl, R)

[prompt from this icon &

kinderjedi: "I bet it makes Chris lose his train of thought when he does that."]

"Oh my fucking god, stop that," Chris says tersely.

Karl looks up from his reading, nonplussed. "What? Stop what?"

Chris reaches over and swats at his hand. "That. That thing you do with your hand and your mouth, it's fucking outrageous."

Karl blinks once, then comprehension dawns and a warm feeling spreads through his gut. "What, this?" He cocks an eyebrow, just a smidge, and runs his index finger and thumb over his bottom lip with leisure, tugging a little at one point.

Chris groans. "Yes, that, you asshole. I'm trying to get work done here."

So Karl lets his lips part and does it again. Chris curses. Karl pulls his hand away exaggeratedly and pretends to go back to his paper. "Sorry, didn't know it bothered you."

He looks up at the sound of a script hitting the ground, and finds himself covered in warm, boney Chris Pine.

"It doesn't bother me, per se," said Chris Pine says against Karl's lips, "but with that perfect cocksucking mouth of yours—" He loses his train of thought and kisses Karl once, hard enough to illicit a groan from Karl, then pulls back. "—it makes it damn near impossible to get anything done."

Karl reaches down and grabs Chris's bottom, pulling him firmly into the cradle of Karl's hips, and thrusts softly until Chris' head falls into the crook of his neck. He smiles, his heart full, and his voice is rough against Chris's skin. "Good."

Mothers' Day-related (Star Trek AOS RPF, Chris/Karl UST)

[for

withthepilot]

"Chris."

He hears the voice but it's like it's coming through layers of cotton.

"Chris, come on."

Or maybe layers of blankets, which he just had rudely tugged back off his face so now he can hear loud and clear. He blinks one eye up at a blurry man-shape. He thinks it's Karl, but-- He fumbles to the nightstand for his glasses, puts them on, and yup, it's Karl.

His head falls back on the pillow. "What?" He smacks his lips a couple times and sniffs.

"Oh, I dunno, we were supposed to leave a half hour ago?"

Chris shakes his head. "For what? It's Sunday, my thing with my mom isn't until--"

"Isn't until fifteen minutes from now."

Chris heaves up, pushing the covers down. "Fuck, seriously? Fuck!"

"Seriously." Karl's mocking him now, in that gentle Karl-way he has, as he hauls him out of bed.

Chris allows it; he allows Karl to strip off his shirt and shove him into the bathroom, too. He allows himself to catalog each touch, each moment, and drop them into the bucket, a pool of moments that reflect but never quite make up what could be.

Sometimes, he wallows in it, sure it's only his pool to flounder in. But then, at moments like this one, when he walks out of the shower to see Karl sprawled out in his suit, watching tv, with his favorite suit of Chris' sat beside him ready to be put on... he knows it's not.

He dresses, Karl clicks off the tv and heads for the door. Chris puts his hand up to stave it off for a moment. "You don't have to come, you know."

Karl shrugs. "What else am I going to do today?"

Chris' jaw tightens, because damn but the duality of this sucks, to both feel bad for Karl and to feel for Karl. But it's an old familiar merry-go-round by now, and he rarely gets nauseous anymore.

"Thanks," he says instead, because Karl is holding the door open for him.

Karl nods, and there's a dimple. "I do what I can."

And at the end of the day, that's what Chris curls up next to at night.

Cowboy-related (Star Trek AOS RPF, Chris/Karl UST)

[for

sangueuk, in response to this post]

"I don't know," Zach says offhandedly, "I still think you looked like a cowboy."

"A cowboy?" Chris splutters. It's hard to be dignified when it's this hot outside. Plus the nic-fitting. He blames the nic-fitting.

"Yeah, you just need a ten gallon hat and a piece of hay."

Chris snorts. "Not a Marlboro Red?"

"I'm going for bucolic here, not nationalistic. Work with me." He looks closely at Chris. "Come on, finish up your ooey gooey goodness and then we're going to have a smoke."

"You mock my turtle."

"I mock because I care."

"Right." He sucks down the last of the drink and picks up his things.

"Pine."

"What."

"Get a fucking purse."

---

"Karl."

"What about him."

"Have you seen these pictures?"

"Ask me again, then think about the answer."

"Right. You've seen these pictures. These pictures where he looks like a member of Wham."

Chris pauses. Considers. Then concedes. "Plus, well, attractive."

"Plus that."

"And the man-watch."

"The guy can wear a watch, that is true."

"The guy can wear anything. The guy can wear a blonde wig."

"Unlike someone we know."

"Fuck off."

---

There's an alley behind Chris's building. He hides there sometimes. From what, he's not really sure, but he likes it anyways. He gets his lean on, lights up a smoke, and stares up at the slice of sky between buildings.

This is where Karl finds him.

Chris eyes him, then hands him a smoke. "How'd you know I was here?"

"Guess."

"Fucking busybody queen?"

"He has your best interests at heart."

Chris snorts. If only Karl knew what those interests were. He settles back against the wall and looks back up. "Right now my only interests are this sky and this cigarette."

Karl just smokes for a moment. "You really would make a good cowboy."

"Oh for fuck's sake." Chris passes a hand over his eyes.

"What? I've played a cowboy."

"Yeah, well, I've never played a member of Wham."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Suddenly the cigarette is out of his hand. He opens his eyes to find Karl standing close to him, grinning. "Did you just compare me to George Michael?"

Chris makes a play for the cig, a smile almost on his lips, his heart beating a little faster. "Maybe?"

Karl is an expert at Keep-Away, though, Chris knows. They've played this game before. "I've never been discovered wanking in a public bathroom," Karl says over his shoulder as Chris tries again from a different angle. He's foiled again, though.

"Not yet, at least. Fucker." He makes another lunge.

They've been playing this game for a while, really, Chris thinks as they end up once again entangled, limbs snarled together in a mockery of an embrace. His breath is short in his lungs and his skin feels prickly, like it's about to burst into flames. He lets himself hover in it for a moment, listening to their breathing and watching the pulse in Karl's neck.

Then, as usual, he concedes defeat. "Uncle, okay?" he says, turning his face away from Karl's, pulling against Karl's embrace. Karl hesitates, though, and Chris meets his eyes.

Oh,

Then Karl lets go, straightens them both up, hands Chris a cigarette.

It feels funny in Chris's hand, and after a moment he realizes it's the one that Karl had been smoking. He looks up, but Karl has looked away, has continued smoking as if nothing had happened.

Chris leans back against the wall, looks up. He holds the smoke in his lungs as long as possible.

Hair-related (Star Trek AOS RPF, Chris/Karl PG-13)

[for

withthepilot]

Karl likes how Chris's hair looks like a Brillo pad sometimes. Chris likes how during those times, Karl's still willing to touch it, to yank him aside just before he hits the car roof or oven door or bathroom mirror (hey, mornings are rough for myopics, okay), to push him down under the sheets, to pull him around the shower curtain for a kiss. It's domestic, it's disgusting, and it's Chris's favorite. Ever.

Leaving-related (Star Trek AOS RPF, Chris/Karl, R)

[for

avictoriangirl's wonderful manip.]

"Well." Chris looks down at the ground, then conjures up a smile and tries to look at Karl like everything's a-okay. Karl's smart but Chris is pretty sure he doesn't look past Chris's machismo and pseudo-intellectual veneer. Or, at least, if he does, he usually leaves Chris some dignity and pretends he doesn't.

Thank fuck, at times like these.

Karl's visit to the set in Vancouver -- He'd just shrugged all modestly like he does, and said 'I was in the area, and figured you could use the company.' -- had been like a fucking dream to Chris, the cold forcing them to bundle up and forcing the breath out of their lungs in trails and Chris couldn't help but watch his mouth inhale and exhale far, far too often while they smoked, or talked, or ate. The guy has the most incredible mouth, okay; Chris is just a victim of circumstance.

Circumstances he's trying valiantly to overcome as they stand just outside his trailer, saying goodbye before Karl leaves for the airport. He's going to Germany or some shit; Chris keeps not listening to the details of the leaving, hoping that'll make it not true.

Fuck, he berates himself once again; he's fucking attached, and they're just friends. Ridiculous. He can hear Quinto mocking him in his head, but he shoves the voice down ruthlessly and sticks out his hand, what he hopes is a believable smile on his face. "So, listen, have a safe flight, okay?" even though it's the most inane thing a person can say before a flight, because it's not like they have control over the airplane, but his throat is like sandpaper and the space behind his eyes is tight from resisting crying like a fucking girl, so it's the best material he's got.

Karl reaches for his hand, shakes it solidly, and Chris tells himself not to hold on. Ten seconds later, he realizes their palms are still joined, warm despite the cigarettes and the fall BC air.

Karl's looking at him, really looking at him, and Chris, his heart thudding, opens his mouth to ask what's up--

But Karl's kissing him.

Karl motherfucking Urban is kissing him.

He's still got Chris's hand clasped between them and the other gently but intently on Chris's bicep and his lips are warm and Chris can't help it, his eyes slide shut and he just revels in it.

Karl breaks away, finally, eons later, and leans his forehead against Chris's while they breathe again. "So."

"So," Chris echoes, trying not to sound like he's just gotten the best fucking present ever.

Karl pulls back, his eyes warm and full of something Chris now recognizes. "Till next time?"

Chris's mouth opens into a full-fledged grin. "Fuck yeah, next time." Then he shoves Karl towards the exit. "Or maybe I'll just come find you in Germany."

"Austria," Karl corrects with a laugh.

Chris pins him with one last look. "Anywhere."

sharpie-related (Star Trek AOS RPF, Chris/Karl, NC-17)

[For

the_dala. Prompt from

1297.]

The hotel room is an arctic wasteland, the wall of AC smiting him as he walks in at the end of a long fucking 14 hours. All day, sitting through interview after interview and signing thing after shitty thing, he'd been thinking of this. He'd imagined stripping off the confining suit and flopping onto bed in just his underwear.

But now, here tis, and the cold is far less welcoming than he'd anticipated. Empty, yet full and punishing.

Which is fucking ridiculous, because he's punished enough already. Every god damn day.

But he takes it.

He walks across the room to the chair by the window. Opens the curtains. Sits down. Stares out the window.

Contemplates where his life took such a drastic turn.

That's the thing, though: it wasn't drastic. It was a sneaky lifetime buildup, in the career sense, and a sneaky year long buildup, in the… other sense.

He grimaces.

The knock on the door is quiet but firm, just like the man himself, three and then one, just like always.

Chris sits there for a moment, just like always, contemplating not answering. For the good of the--everything.

But as always, the good of the self wins over, and he opens the door.

And the sight of Karl washes comfort over him, and suddenly he can move again.

So he does.

He shuts the door behind Karl and crowds him into it, reaching in to tongue at his neck, reaching up to--

"Whoa, try not to Sharpie my face, mate," Karl chuckles quietly, his fingers encircling Chris's wrist.

Chris pulls his head back and blinks at him, then sees the pen still in his own hand, uncapped from the last session outside the hotel. It's so fucking pathetic, he'd laugh, but--

He now has other ideas.

He puts the pen between his teeth and reaches for Karl again, tugging at buttons until Karl's back is on the mattress and Karl's shirt is wide open. He pulls the pen out of his mouth, bites through the sparse crisp hair revealed, then sucks a mark into the skin that'll just barely be hidden by a collar.

Karl hisses.

Chris doesn't apologize.

Instead, he pulls back, straddling Karl's hips deliberately and relishing as Karl pushes up against him restlessly. Then Chris shifts a little, takes his left hand and only fumbles once as he gets it into Karl's pants and around Karl's cock.

Karl sucks in a breath, his eyes wide and--here's the killer--trusting as they stare at Chris. Chris shows him no mercy, though, stroking hard and fast, stroking like he knows Karl likes it-- and with his right hand he's slowly writing across Karl's chest-- four letters, one word, and the ultimate sin.

Karl can't really see it but he sees enough, Chris knows, because he lets out a curse and pulls until their lips meet. Chris accepts this, revels in it, adjusting his position until his tongue is thrusting into Karl's mouth even as his hand pulls roughly at his cock, playing the delicious, base game until there's a hitch and a groan and Karl's lips part around a gasp against Chris's while he comes in soft bursts across Chris's skin.

Chris keeps kissing him softly, keeps touching him softly, feeling the shudders, feeling triumphant, feeling sick. Chris knows he will burn for this like he already burns in these moments, will burn daily after the tour, will burn forever if that's what's destined for his soul-- But in moments like this, he knows he'd never choose any other path.

Moment by moment they shift, they move a little until Chris is draped across Karl's side, forehead on the dip in his shoulder, tracing the letters across his chest.

Mine.

Just because he can't say it doesn't make it a lie.

Lesbian folk music-related (Star Trek AOS RPF, Chris, Zach, R)

[For

blcwriter.]

"Christopher." Zach's voice is low from too many morning cigarettes yet manages that sassy higher-register intonation anyway.

"What?" He's got the Times open in front of him, and he's involved.

"Indigo Girls? Ani Difranco? Please tell me this is a playlist your sister implanted onto your iPod."

Chris smiles absently, trying to figure out how 'splendid' could have an 'a' in it, because swear to Christ that's the only answer that fits. "My sister's not a lesbian."

"But apparently you are?"

Chris shrugs, shoving the pen end back in his mouth. "This a big surprise?"

"Liking pussy and listening to Suzanne Vega are two completely separate things."

Maybe it's the mention of pussy, but Chris finally takes his eyes off the paper. "Come on, they're your people, too."

Zach shudders. "Oh no they're not." Chris raises an eyebrow. "Okay, so they are, but they are also not exactly known for their great sense of style."

"I dunno, Amy Ray's pretty hot."

Zach puts a hand to his forehead. "I'm going to need some smelling salts soon."

Chris laughs. "Wait till I go into detail about the magnificent, copious, and thorough advice I got from my lesbian friends in college. On cunnilingus."

Zach chokes, then picks up the neglected Times and throws it at Chris. "Forget it, you breeder. Keep listening to your shitty music. I'll be here wallowing in remembered coming-out angst when you want to go get breakfast."

Snapshot-related (Star Trek AOS RPF, Chris/Karl, R)

[Instigated by

vivid_moment's post here]

"Christopher."
"What."
"Tell me this is not what I think it is."
"Okay. It's not what you think it is."
"Except for the part where it totally is."
"I don't feel the need to defend my actions to you."
"Yes and normally I applaud that, but in this case I feel a consult is necessary."
"Why?"
"Why is a consult necessary?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because this is distinctly homosexual in nature."
"It's just a picture, Zach."
"And Barbra is just a singer."
"I have a picture of you on my phone, too, you fucker."
"A picture you secretly paid someone to take of us together looking like poster children for hot gay marriage?"
"... I didn't pay her."
"Victory is mine."
"Oh, suck it, Quinto."
"You wish, Pine. You wish."

ninja-related (Star Trek AOS RPF, Chris/Karl, PG)

[Prompted by

jazzy_peaches: "[N]ow I want fic where baby Karl Urban dressed up as a ninja."]

"Karl."

"What."

"Tell me this is not some new strange fetish I need to be worried about."

Karl's head comes up from the box he's unpacking. It's the last of it. Soon Karl's place in LA won't seem as huge and empty. It'll still be too quiet, but he'll get the kids for every other holiday, and that has to be enough. "What?"

But Chris is just staring at whatever's caught his attention, an eyebrow raised. "I mean, part of it I can see, although my whiteness alone means I could not pull it off, but--"

He finally holds up the item. "Midgets? Really?"

Karl laughs, a big booming laugh, as he strides over to where Chris is holding up a tiny-person-sized ninja costume. "That's mine," he says fondly. "I skinted until I had enough money and then I wore it for weeks on end. My poor mother had to wrestle me out of it."

There's silence for a moment, as he remembers. He'd wanted to give it to Indy soon.

"Hey," Chris says quietly. Karl looks up and Chris's face is open, concerned. "Next year. We'll fly them in in October and they'll have a proper American Halloween, slasher movies and haunted corn mazes and everything."

Karl's chest tightens. He feels a half-smile rise to his lips. "Corn maze?"

"Yeah, man. They're awesome." Chris's hand eases the fabric out of Karl's hand and back into the box while he chatters. "They're cold and dark and you can hear people screaming but you can't see them." He pulls Karl to him. "Then you have hot chocolate. And sex by the fireplace."

Karl raises an eyebrow, wrapping his arms around Chris's waist. "That's part of the tradition?"

Chris smiles softly. His eyes crinkle as he looks at Karl. "As of next year, absolutely."

puppy-related (Supernatural RPF, J2 gen, G)

[for

thehighwaywoman for running the

spn_j2_bigbang 2011]

When stupid Jared and his stupid enthusiasm, magnified by a couple of stupid drinking decisions, turned that stupid lever on that stupid fortuneteller machine down on the stinky (and stupid) boardwalk, Jensen should've known it would only cause him trouble in the end.

The next morning, when he wakes up to a wriggling, yipping, clambering pile of huge-pawed Chessie puppy, with familiar hazel eyes and an even more familiar 'COME ON YOU LOVE ME' look on its face, Jensen realizes he had underestimated just how much trouble it would be.

And he'd thought Jared had drooled before.

[RATED TOTALLY G, STARTS FRIDAY]

hickey-related (Star Trek reboot RPF, Chris/Karl, PG-13)

[for

daily_urbine here]

"Radiator," John says, slapping Chris on the shoulder.

"Curling iron," Zach argues, his smile widening.

"Jessica Alba. No, wait! Lady Gaga."

Zach looks affronted at this. "Hey, now."

"Well," John says solemnly, "somebody definitely had a ride on this disco stick."

Zach guffaws and reaches up to smack him, nearly upending John's drink in the process. Chris is laughing at them both, and loosening his scarf from where he's just re-wound it over his myriad hickies and other sex-marks, when he sees Karl's face.

He thinks for about three-point-five nanoseconds, then strides across the circle. As he passes Karl, he grabs his wrist. And lingers. Until he's sure everyone's seen it.

Then: "Actually," he tosses over his shoulder as he lets go in order to fetch another drink, "I was the one doing the riding."

He tries not to grin too hard at the hollers he hears behind him.

eyelid-kissing-related (Star Trek reboot RPF, Chris/Karl, PG-13)

[for

gingifere, prompt of first kiss.]

There's a whole host of things Chris will never tell anyone. That time in ninth grade when he accidentally cheated on his geography final. The time he ran into that minivan in the grocery store parking lot and totally did not leave a note or wait for the owner to come out. That time he didn't change his clothes for like a week, including his underwear.

That the first time he kissed Karl, he missed.

It was like a flashback to The Wonder Years had somehow taken over his reality, because he is usually not an idiot at these things, at least not since the eighth grade. But Karl is tall and Chris was tired and maybe a little--okay, yes a lot, Chris was a lot freaked out because Karl was a man--and all these things sort of piled up and got in his way and he ended up kissing Karl's eyelid.

His fucking eyelid.

Who does that shit?

Chris Pine, apparently. He winced, his eyes still shut, and stayed there, waiting until either the ground swallowed him up or time reversed itself or--

Or Karl put a hand on Chris's cheek and moved until they were facing each other again. Chris opened his mouth to say something, something probably ridiculous, but Karl was leaning forward, and Chris couldn't breathe, let alone talk, because Karl was about to put those gorgeous amazing lips on--

On Chris's eyelid.

Warm, dry, and a weird pressure on a place that doesn't get touched much by other people. Chris felt a low laugh build up in his chest, then ease into the air between them. And with it, the tension left him. "Two big studly stars and we can't even get a kiss right on the first take," he quipped softly. "Maybe we need a better director."

Karl chuckled back, and they're so close Chris can feel it. "Nah," he said. He dipped his mouth over to Chris's ear. "I thought it was perfect."

Truth or Dare-related (Star Trek reboot RPF, Chris/Zach, PG-13)

[for

misspearlygates, prompt of first kiss.]

The first time Chris kissed Zach, it was a Dare. No, really, with the capitol letter, because it was Truth or Dare.

God damned Hollywood and its motherfucking themed parties.

Slumber party, Zach had said. It'll be great, Zach had said. Girls in lingerie throwing pillows at each other, Zach had said.

Then, Just kidding, he'd added. I just wanted to see your eyes light up like that. Chris had thrown his cigarette butt at him. And he'd gone, and he'd ended up knowing about five women there, and about three of those were still speaking to him, so he should've known when the subject of games came up to call a cab and get the fuck out. But then they poo-poo'd Spin the Bottle, so he'd thought he'd been safe.

He'd been wrong.

He'd also figured Dare would be better than Truth. He could handle eating a raw egg or streaking the neighbors. And whatever they came up with would be better than having them ask him painful questions about his past relationships.

The glint in their eyes after he said the word 'Dare', though, proved him wrong about that, as well. Battin' a thousand.

"Kiss Zach," one said swiftly after they'd had a silent, crazy-girl-alien eye-conversation.

"Sure, I--What?"

"Kiss. Zach."

Chris looked blankly at Zach, a finger pointed at himself, then back at them. "That is your Dare?"

"Yes."

Chris almost guffawed. This was waaaaay easier than a raw egg (although he'd maybe been looking forward to streaking). Zach was his friend, his work colleague, his travel buddy, a person he was not at all attracted to (because man, they'd shared enough hotel rooms to know otherwise).

He shrugged, then reached out to tangle a fist in Zach's carefully-off-the-Goodwill-shelf-styled shirt and pull him in, pressing their lips together easily. Naturally.

And a few seconds later, he tipped back, his hand still in Zach's shirt, and a stupid look on his face.

Oh, Chris thought, staring at Zach, a finger on his bottom lip. Well, then.

volume-related (Supernatural RPF, Jared/Jensen, R)

[for

amine_eyes, prompt of who's the loudest in bed.]

"Jared," Abby the PA would say. Were you to ask her. Then she'd look at you like she had somewhere better to be. Which she pretty much always does.

"Jared," Kiri in makeup would say with a sigh. "He's also the one that comes in with the most--" She'd gesture at her neck, then shake her head with a fond smile. "Pain in my ass."

"Totally Jared. You can tell by the stupid drawl," Kendell in hair would explain over a cup of coffee. "They both think they're being quiet, but they're totally not, and most of it's stupid shit you'd hear on Dallas." She'd think for a minute. "You know, if Dallas had had gay porn."

"Do I have to answer this question?" Clif would say, looking like he'd sooner kill you and has about eighty-three ways to hide the body. "Yes? Well. Stupid question, it's Jared. He's always the more obnoxious one. Even his dogs are more obnoxious."

Kim, rest his soul, would've smiled wryly and told you it's none of your fucking business, that they were both loud fuckers and were going to rot in hell for all their fornicating. Then he would've winked. Rest his soul.

Eric would shift his feet and look away. "God, I don't--Do I really have to--? Okay, well, fine, yes, Jared, but don't ask me how I know this and for the love of God don't ask me anything else in that vein, okay, because--" And then he'd flail and run off to do Something Important.

Sera would just smile at you, her eyes twinkling like the cat that ate the canary, the parakeet, and perhaps a toucan. "Oh, Jared. But that's only because Jensen likes to be--you know. Quieted." And you'd probably want to back away slowly.

And if, by some chance, you were to ask Jensen, he would guffaw, rub at the tip of his ear, and finally shrug. "Jared, of course. Dude is loud at everything, am I right?"

But. But then Jared, twenty minutes later, would hear about it, and find you in the corner of the set in between re-sets. "They're all liars," he'd say in a hushed voice. You'd raise an eyebrow at him. "Well, not liars, because I really am normally a loud fucker, but--" And he'd look earnestly at you, almost desperately wanting you to believe him, puppy dog eyes in full force. "It's Jensen. It's always Jensen. With the 'darlin's and the 'take it, big boy's and the 'ride me cowboys' but eventually he just--" At this point, his eyes would glaze over. "--just makes these keening noises, loud as fuck--" His gaze would come back to you. "--louder than anything I could ever produce, I swear."

Then you'd demand evidence, naturally.

And they'd be only too happy to supply it.

bigger in person-related (Star Trek reboot RPF, Chris/Karl, PG-13)

[for

norfolkdumpling, b/c she posted this picture.]

"Even bigger in person," Chris mutters as he works at getting Karl's jeans open. "Sometimes I wonder how you even landed a wife, let a lone a wife and a-- a me."

Karl grins, Chris can feel it against his neck. "Hey, at least I didn't say bigger on the inside."

Chris legit rolls his eyes. "Thank goodness for small mercies, as my grandmother used to say."

"Really? Bringing up Nana at a time like this?"

"Fuck you, you giant cheeseball."

"If you would, please."

Chris does a fistpump. "Yesss."

"Because it really is bigger on the--"

Chris kisses the words out of Karl's mouth, then huffs them out in a stupidly happy laugh. Then Karl's laughing with him, and they find themselves tangled up, half-clothed, sweaty, and unable to stop giggling, chuckling, snorting into pillows.

Chris wishes he could get out his camera and capture the moment forever.

location-related (Merlin, Merlin/Gwaine, R)

[for

ninfomana, prompt of where they had their first time.]

"Here?" Merlin whispers, his hands going to Gwain's belt as Gwaine sucks at his neck. He’s all for it, but he has to ask, because he has a feeling--

"No, not here," Gwaine answers, and Merlin bites back a frustrated groan. He'd thought their distance from the camp sufficient, but apparently Gwaine does not agree. Gwaine, 'I'll fuck anywhere and if I get interrupted I'll just ask them to join' Gwaine, who has declined to fornicate with Merlin in not one, not three, but half a dozen locations that, in Merlin's opinion, had been perfectly suitable -- hay lofts, dark corners, that sort of thing. But no. No, Merlin's still unfucked and Gwaine's still... a fit bastard that flirts with Merlin like God made him just for it.

Merlin's starting to think he's got halitosis or something. As Gwaine pulls away this time, after leaving a lasting kiss below Merlin's left ear, he surreptitiously checks, breathing into his hand. Then sniffing a bit under his arm. Nope, all clear.

He grabs for the nearly-escaped Gwaine. "Gwaine," he hisses, angry and confused and extremely aroused, "what's the problem?"

Gwaine's mouth falls open. "Problem? There's no problem. It's just too close to them, you know--" He gestures vaguely in the direction of the camp.

But Merlin’s not having it. “No. You have had—“ He pauses, fighting a blush, which is ridiculous, considering. “--dalliances with people mere feet from our camp before, don’t even think to lie about it.”

“Yeah, but—“

“Is it—“ Merlin glances below Gwaine’s belt. "A functional-- issue--"

“No!” Gwaine gasps, putting a hand over his heart. “You wound me with the implication, Merlin!”

Merlin almost smiles, but his question’s still not been answered. “Well, what is it, then?”

“What is what, then?”

Merlin is so annoyed he actually stomps his foot. “Why won’t you bloody well shag me already?”

Gwaine, for once, is taken aback. He studies Merlin’s face for a moment, then reaches up and cups his cheek. “Oh, Merlin. Dear, sweet, tempestuous Merlin.”

“Oi, I am not—“

Gwaine stops him with a kiss. “A proper bed, that’s why.”

Merlin blinks. “I don’t understand.”

“You. Deserve a proper bed.” Merlin opens his mouth to protest, but Gwaine waves him off. “Not because you’re a delicate flower; I know better, and trust me, once in that bed I am not going to treat you like one.” He smiles, and kisses a corner of Merlin’s mouth. “But, I dunno, I want to do it right. Proper. Show you how much I…” He clears his throat. “Well, you know.”

And Merlin feels a smile take over his face again, because he’s completely sure, despite the dark, that Gwaine is blushing. Which is just delicious.

He gently grabs at Gwaine’s chin with one hand and hip with the other and pulls him in. “Oh, I do know,” he says into the darkness near Gwaine’s ear. "And I also know that if you do try and treat me like a delicate flower, I will make sure something very bad happens to you by morning. Think newt. Toad, maybe.”

Gwaine snorts a laugh into Merlin’s cheek, and Merlin can’t help but laugh with him. He gathers them up, makes them ready to go back to camp, and hears Arthur call for them, and is, for the moment, content.

Thanksgiving-related (Star Trek reboot RPF, Zach/Zoe, PG-13)

[for

pslasher, prompt of first kiss.]

Their first kiss, in actuality, is unremarkable. Neither of them even remember it. Gay men kiss straight women all the time, and they fell into that stereotype easily and with enthusiasm. Hello, goodbye, I missed you, let's get the veal. Kisses all around.

But then: At some point, though neither could pinpoint when, they started to linger. Pecks on the corner of the mouth became solid kisses, enough that people, women with babies in strollers and nothing better to do, baristas who specialized in over-the-counter psychoanalyzation, started saying things like 'oh you are gorgeous' and 'don't stay up TOO late' with winks and nods.

Zach just shrugged it off. Zoe laughed, touched his cheek, said, 'Well, we would make pretty babies,' and went back to her boyfriend. And even when her boyfriend was no longer her boyfriend, nothing changed.

Until it all did.

*

"Come home with me for Thanksgiving," he heard her voice say over the phone. He was doing dishes (or at least attempting to; it wasn't his forte but he'd had friends over and they had cooked but then been too drunk to clean) so he thought he'd misheard her over the water and the suds.

"Thanksgiving? To Queens?"

"Yeah, to Queens. I'm not going to make you go to the DR, you pussy."

"Next time."

"Pussy."

"Stop it, I'm trying to clean, not vomit."

"So you'll be there?"

"Of course."

*

“How you holding up?” she asked him, a stick of peppermint in her mouth. She was perched on the countertop in her sister’s kitchen, looking at him expectantly, as if concerned the spectacular meal they’d all just shared might’ve finished him off. And she was so effortlessly elegant, dark eyes and smooth skin, even with a food baby and a candy in her mouth – he’d blame that, later, even though he really would never be able to put a reason behind his actions beyond: it felt like time.

This time, when they kissed, his hands didn’t stay still on her knees. She murmured a noise, questioning but not protesting, and when he kissed her again, her hands wound around his neck, warm and slender. She pulled back, forehead to forehead. “You sure?” was all she said. And when he nodded, she accepted it, leaned back in and chased his lips down, opening her mouth as she hooked her ankles behind his thighs.

It was the strangest thing because it wasn’t at all strange. He felt something click into place, in fact. So he broke the kiss, gathered her close, and held on.

hand-holding related (Harry Potter, Ron/Hermione, PG)

[for

napchic, prompt of a certain thing one of them can’t have sex without.]

"Isn't this beyond the boundaries of what siblings should know about each other?" Hermione asks, swirling her martini around while raising an eyebrow in Ginny's direction.

Ginny shrugs. "We grew up in each other's pockets, we're not exactly shy. Plus it's brilliant blackmail."

"Oh, of course." Hermione wishes fiercely for a moment she hadn't been an only child, then shakes her head and gets on with it. "Well, the one thing I will say is rather strange isn't all that--intimate, anyway."

"Oh?" Ginny leans forward, her own martini mostly gone.

"Oh but you have to promise not to take the mickey out of him, really. I mean it!"

"Hermione." Ginny looks at her pointedly.

Hermione sighs. "Yeah, all right. Fine. I'll tell you anyway, but just--I don't know, don't tease him about it when I'm around, for goodness' sake."

Ginny nods. "I think I can manage that."

Hermione looks down at the drink in her grasp. "He... he has to be holding my hand."

"What? Like, during sex?"

Hermione feels her cheeks pink. "Yes. Always. Doesn't matter what time of day, what position, if we're half awake or drunk or in a terrible hurry or what have you. It's really -- Well, it's awfully romantic of him, isn't it?"

Ginny snorts. "If by that you mean codependent."

"Ginny!"

Ginny holds up a hand. "Kidding, kidding. It's very sweet."

Hermione purses her lips. "You're still going to tease him about it, aren't you?"

Ginny grins. "Oh, endlessly."

Hermione rolls her eyes and finishes off her drink, thunking the glass down on the table solidly. "Weasleys."

"Gotta love us."

And she smiles, and Hermione can't help but smile back. "Yeah. Yeah, I suppose I do."

not-smoking related (Star Trek reboot RPF, Chris/Karl, PG)

[for

norfolkdumpling, because of this picture.]

"You look like you're smoking, Karl."
"Isn't this the part where you say--"
"And I don't mean smokin' hot, although that is true as well."
"Cheers."
"Seriously, I searched for the cigarette."
"And how did that make you feel?"
"You have kids!"
"Kids who are not exactly trawling the internet for pictures of me."
"But they might! Later!"
"The kids know I used to smoke, yeah?"
"...you did?"
"Well, yeah."
"..."
"You alright, mate?"
"..."
"Chris?"
"Hang on."
"...okay..."
"I need a moment."
"...o-kay..."

cello related (Star Trek reboot RPF, Chris/Karl, R)

[for

sangueuk, because of the thing in this picture looking slightly like a cello case.]

Chris scraped the bow across the strings violently, then blew out a breath that sounded suspiciously like an f-bomb. He shook out the fingers of his left hand, feeling the crease between his eyes blooming into a headache.

Fucking Bach.

Made him want to punch someone.

“I don’t get your distaste,” his mother would say. “The man was a genius.”

“Yeah, and a sadist,” Chris would answer, every time. “That shit’s like calculus. Calculus that hurts.”

She never could argue with that, but she disagreed, all the same. Same as it ever was.

The door opened quietly, but Chris’s nerves were so taut it was like a gunshot. The bow skidded along the strings, a car wreck of sound where before it had been merely driving too fast on a rainy day.

(Fucking Bach.)

He looked up, ready to either punch or desperately embrace the intruder, and when he saw the face of Karl looking around the doorframe, tall and dark and rosy-cheeked from the cold, he felt relief surge through him. Same as it ever was.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he exhaled as Karl came in and shut the door behind him. The little room seemed ten times fuller and twenty times less stressful.

“I thought that was you massacring the second suite,” Karl said dryly as he unbuttoned his jacket.

“Hey, fuck off.” Chris watched as the jacket got slung over an empty practice chair. “Technical directors do not get to critique second chair cellists.”

Karl took a seat like he always did, straddling the practice room piano’s bench like he was in a saloon.

“I’m not a technical director in here, though,” he said, sliding up until his knees touched Chris’s where they were wrapped around his cello, forming a perfect diamond of jeans. “I’m just here for you.”

Chris found himself leaning, slumping in until their foreheads touched beside the neck of the cello. “I know.”

Karl breathed with him once, twice, then pulled back, just enough to pick up Chris’s left hand in both of his. “Hmm,” he said, examining the red pads, “been here a while?”

“Fucking Bach,” was all Chris could reply.

“Ah.” Karl lifted the hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to the first one conciliatorily. Chris fought back a noise. “I think Bach would approve.”

Chris snorted, halfway at least before his second finger was kissed. “Of course he would. I’m killing myself over this thing.”

“No,” Karl said with quiet assurance, “you’re not, and that’s why he would. You give the music all you have, but afterwards are still you, are still a—” Chris watched his lips dip onto his ring finger. “—a complete person. Or maybe,” he finished contemplatively, eyeing Chris’s pinky before bestowing it with this particular brand of blessing, “that’s why I approve.”

Chris felt a corner of his mouth quirk up, then fall a little open as Karl trailed his lips lightly, slowly, reassuringly over the inside of Chris’s knuckles, then the pads of his palm, finishing with a kiss in the center. Like a seal.

Then he stood, grabbing his jacket and leaning down to plant a kiss on Chris’s upturned face. “Don’t worry about impressing Bach,” he said, holding Chris’s gaze. “He’s dead. You are the music now.”

Then he left. His words echoed in the room for a long, long minute.

Chris took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles, and picked up his bow.

Jane Smart was practicing Bach's Second Suite for unaccompanied cello, in D Minor, the little black sixteenth-notes of the prelude going up and down and then up again with the sharps and flats like a man slightly raising his voice in conversation, old Bach setting his infallible tonal suspense engine in operation again, and abruptly Jane began to resent it, these notes, so black and certain and masculine, the fingering getting trickier with each sliding transposition of the theme and he not caring, this dead square-faced old Lutheran with his wig and his Lord and his genius and two wives and seventeen children, not caring how the tips of her fingers hurt or how her obedient spirit was pushed back and forth, up and down by these military notes just to give him a voice after death, a bully's immortality…" -- from ‘The Witches of Eastwick’ by John Updike

Drabble Keeper, part 2

Current Mood: cold
Current Location: Tenino, WA