FIC: 'Parallel Motion' - Part 2

[thalialunacy2]

Master Post
Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Epilogue


PART TWO

Nobody'd smelled like rain to Chris in a long time.

Which was as it should be, really; grown-up smells and wants are a lot different than kindergarten smells and wants, right?

Right.

Except.

Except maybe they shouldn't be, Chris thought as he played with his nephew. As he watched the unabashed emotions play across the kid's face, unhampered by protocol and second-guessing and intellect and philosophy. Just-- earth, rain, sky, fire --

Life. Joy.

Life.

---

He thought he was prepared. He'd heard of Karl Urban, for one, and for two, Chris Pine is not just a pretty face. He's a pretty face that prepares the shit out of his roles. The fact that he was the last one officially cast, yes, made it easy this time, but the fact that this was a role he wasn't even sure he wanted made it that much harder.

And the first read-through was like a fucking nerd convention. Chris knew his share of nerds, through high school and college and--hello--theater, but he was not prepared for the sheer amount of geeking out that the writers, director, producers, and Simon motherfucking Pegg were doing while they sat around the table waiting for everyone to show up.

Finally, just as the conversation turned into a heated discussion about whether any merit at all could be found in the Star Wars prequels, the last two stragglers could be heard out in the hall.

Chris heard Zach's voice first. He couldn't make out the words, but he could suddenly make out a very distinct smell. One that didn't belong to Zach, for sure. Zach's scent at this point was so familiar to Chris, he could barely make it out anymore. (Olfactory fatigue: not just for humans anymore.) It was more like… Chris tilted his head, trying to place it, as it got stronger and the voices got louder.

But it wasn't until the door actually opened and Karl Urban walked in, all teeth and laughter and tangy vowels, that it hit Chris like a shit-ton of bricks.

Sun.

Karl smelled like sun.

Full on, in the face, sunburned-in-twenty-minutes sun. Sun and cleansing and moth to a flame and Chris, like a weak wee plant, turned towards it. He fucking leaned towards it as he watched Karl and Zach slide into chairs and the conversation.

Well, Karl slid into the conversation, like the nerd Chris didn't yet know he was, while Zach slid right into Chris's personal bubble, like he tended to do.

"What is that look on your face?" he asked Chris quietly, clearly perplexed. "You okay?"

Chris shook his head once, sharply, his eyes never leaving Karl.

Zach followed his line of sight. "Oh," he managed, just as Karl finally swung his gaze to meet Chris's.

Chris felt it like a punch in the gut.

New stuff.

"And you must be the Jim to my Bones," Karl said with a smile, standing and leaning over the table to offer a hand for Chris to shake.

As they made initial contact, Chris, for the first time in his life, got it.

Fucking-A, did he get it. His hand warmed instantly where Karl's fingers wrapped around it, the grip firm but not overly so. His gut churned like it did right before stepping onstage opening night. His nerves were all sparking with energy, like a kid on motherfucking Christmas morning. His chest felt like someone had opened a 2-liter of extremely fizzy soda straight up inside it.

And his cock…

Well, he had to sit down a little abruptly, let's put it that way.

His mind fucking reeled.

Everything else about being a were, the changing and the smelling and the deference, had always felt distant, hidden, a part of him but apart from him.

But this.

He wanted this. His wanted this instinctively, viscerally, emotionally, philosophically-- He wanted to wrap himself around Karl and never let go; he wanted to mark him, to claim him, to keep him next to him, under him, nowhere more than ten feet from him forfuckingever, to shout it from the rooftops, to fill him up with babies and buy a big house where they could raise them in peace, with a pool and a jungle gym and perhaps a zip line and a petting zoo...

It scared the shit out of him, but it was true all the same. He had been blindsided by a force of nature older than time... which happened to take the shape of a dimpled, geeky, aw-shucks Kiwi, but still.

He was done for.

Finally.

The rest of the reading was like throwing cooked noodles at a wall. At some point, Chris read his lines. Laughed when appropriate. Took notes that later would make sense to him, sure, but at this point just felt like scratches on the table. Thought about Kirk in terms like ‘stalwart’ and ‘marshmallows’ and a few other things that made zero sense.

When J.J. called a wrap for the day, Chris felt like oozing out of the door, but then Karl spoke up and his senses zeroed in, snapping back into place with relief. “Hey, I heard they’ve started the bridge set; any chance we could have a look?”

He was including Chris in this ‘we,’ apparently, if his expectant expression and hopeful gesture were any indication. Chris looked from J.J. to Zach but ended up of course at Karl, of course smiling and of course saying, “Yeah, sure. That’d be great.”

“Zach, you want in?”

Zach looked between them, then shook his head slowly. “Nah, I’ll pass. Thanks, though. Have fun.”

Fucking turncoat bastard.

Karl just grinned this little excited grin and said, “Lead the way,” after they’d gotten directions. As Chris passed him, he couldn’t help but inhale, filling his lungs like a junkie looking for a second free hit.

Karl stayed close as they walked. Chris liked to imagine that Karl, even though he didn’t know, exactly, was at least still drawn to Chris in some manner of speaking. It kept him from feeling like a total tool when all he could think about was leaning back into Karl, reaching back to wrap a hand around the back of his neck to pull down and push back until Karl surrounded him, filled him up with that heat and that smell--

Good god, he was never going to survive filming if he didn’t get a hold of this shit, and quick.

He picked up the pace, and when they made it through the door to the stage, the sight before them distracted him sufficiently for at least a moment.

It was huge, of course, because sound stages are like that, and it was mostly plywood-- but they could see the idea of what it would become, and that idea was simply--

“Massive,” Karl said. His tone was reverent, and Chris found himself leaning in again. Fucking sun. Luckily he could hide it under the pretext of getting a different view, and if he found himself close enough to Karl to feel the heat coming off him, well.

It was intoxicating, having him this near, the rich, heady scent of him filling Chris’s nostrils and making him feel --high. He felt fucking buzzed, alight with it and muzzy at the same time. And staring at this indeed massive set, this set that held so much history, so much promise--

It was the beginning of many things. Chris could sense it, and it made him feel almost giddy. Like he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Jolly Rancher?”

The question came out of nowhere, and was totally out of place in the physical context as well. But Karl’s voice was soft, as he held out the roll of square candies, and when their eyes met, Chris knew that Karl was feeling the gravitas, too. Was not cheapening the moment, but was, in fact (and pardoning the pun), sweetening it.

“Sure.”

“I don’t like them when I’m home, but they’re all I can eat while I’m here, I dunno.”

Chris reached out his hand and held it open, palm up. Chris watched Karl wiggle the candy out the end and down.

Chris watched, and saw the tattoo.

Then his eyes wouldn’t move from it. Even as he unwrapped the candy and put in his mouth, his eyes couldn’t leave that little heart on that very important finger.

Karl, not a dumbass, saw. “Seemed a little more committed than just a ring, you know what I mean?” he said with a smile. “Especially in this business.”

Chris nodded. The candy tasted bitter in his mouth. “Yeah, totally. That makes sense.”

Pretty auspicious fucking beginning.

---

Chris’s hands shook for fifteen minutes after they parted ways. And two hours later, he wondered if he was going insane.

Fate didn’t exist. And even if it did, it certainly wouldn’t hand him a shit dish like being in love with Karl Urban. Nobody’s that cruel.

---

“So,” Zach asked over the phone. “Dish.”

Chris peered down the aisle, wondering if it hid the good kind of Gatorade. “What?”

Zach sighed. “Tell me about the werewolves on set, dummy.”

“Oh. Well. Ah-ha, there it is.”

“What?”

“I’m at Ralph’s.”

“Ah.”

“Anyways. All five of them are betas.”

“Oh, thank god. That means there won’t be any gladiating.”

“Not unless Jim manages to piss me off again.”

“Jim? Jim Druthers?”

“As in the head of the studio, yes. He’s an alpha, and a class-A scumbag.”

“Scumbag? Who uses that term?”

“Him and his flunkies are the reason we have such a bad rep.”

Zach snorted. “Again with the terms. This is not the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Or a fairy tale.”

“Dude, he is the big bad wolf, don’t even think I’m joking.”

“What, like--”

“Like raping and eviscerating, yeah. Think mob boss with sharp teeth and fast healing powers.”

Zach quieted. “That’s disgusting.”

“Tell me about it.”

“No, thanks.”

“Ooo, double-stuff Oreos.”

“Classy.”

“And also totally not allowed right now. Unfortunately.”

“The pains of becoming a superstar.”

“Shut up.”

“Karl seems pretty amazing.”

“Hello, non-sequiter.”

He could almost hear Zach shrug over the phone. “I wasn’t interested in hearing you whine about having to leave behind the fatty cookies. Karl is much more of an entertaining topic. Did you see those dimples?”

“People three states away can see those dimples, comebreath.”

“Hey, now, you know I’m watching what I eat, too.”

“Ha, ha. You are so witty. Eww, crunchy Cheetos. A sin amongst snackfoods.”

“You are so queer.”

“Hey.”

“Can’t fight nature.”

“There’s nothing natural about crunchy Cheetos.”

“Yeah, because that’s what I meant. So, Karl.”

“Is apparently your favorite topic of conversation.”

“Think I have a chance?”

Chris came to a stop so suddenly his basket came thisclose to crashing messily into the rows of neatly laid out junkfood. “What?” His voice sounded scratchy, even to his own ears.

“You know, with Karl the Wunderschlong.”

“You are such a prick sometimes.”

“Are you saying I’m no good for him?”

“No, I’m saying he’s married.”

“Oh, snap. Well, that doesn’t mean anything, necessarily. I mean, Jensen Ackles, hello.”

“I do not need to hear Hollywood’s Big Gay Secrets right now, okay. I’m trying to pick out dinner.”

“Get the fish.”

“He’s married for real, Zach. He has a tattoo instead of a ring.”

“Over-compensating.”

Chris shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Hmm. Well, that’s too bad, because he’s awfully pretty. In an extremely manly kind of way. I think I’d actually let him top. If he asked nicely.”

Chris felt his stomach lurch around sickly at the very idea. “Do you need some time to yourself?”

“Depends. Did you get the fish?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll see your skinny ass here in a half hour. I have risotto that’ll work with it.”

“Roger that.”

“Oh, baby, you know I love it when you use that soldier talk.”

“Shut up.”

“See you.”

“Bye.”

---

Chris stuffed the Jolly Ranchers he’d just purchased into the glove compartment of his car on the way to Zach’s, cursing himself all the while, but knowing he’d keep buying them anyway. He had been a fucking English major; he had to be at least a little bit of a Romantic. Even if it killed him.

---

And as rehearsals got serious and filming loomed, Chris thought he could handle it. Honest.

He really, really should stop making assumptions like that.

---

“It fucking sucks, Katie. Why did I even let you talk me into a fucking sci-fi movie in the first place?”

“Christopher,” she chided him, “remember what the Chilis always say: Better to regret something you did, than--”

“Something you didn’t do, I know, I know.” He was quiet for a moment. “I still hate you.”

“That’s cool. I hate you too.”

---

Because Chris had always thought turning would be the worst pain he’d ever know. He’d broken his arm the one time, yes, but turning was like breaking every bone at once, so no sweat. And sure he’d had his heart broken a time or two, or at least it had felt like it at the time-- girls he’d pined for, written poetry for, that had turned their noses up at him.

Being a teenager hurts everyone, and even manly souls like Chris’s get hurt more than you’d think.

But.

This.

This took the fucking cake. He was spending ten, twelve, fifteen hours a day playing a role he didn’t really like, a role he knew would suck up loads of his time for years to come and then stick with him after that because of fans that never say die.

And he had to do a lot of it with Karl Urban.

It fucking sucked.

And yet, the voice in the back of his head said to him far too often, it kind of didn’t. As much as it pained Chris, as much as it tortured him to know in his bones that what was supposed to be his would never be his, seeing Karl still made him... happy. Made him feel better. Made a shitty day not so shitty. They laughed, they made fun of Zach and competed to hold doors for Zoe, they talked about westerns... They got along like gangbusters (“These terms!” he could hear Zach saying in his head), and Chris lapped up every second, hiding his sniffing and his accidental boners (shit, so ridiculous, he was twenty-seven for fuck’s sake) like a pro, stuffing poetry into his notebook like he was getting paid for it.

Thank God he was always relatively witty even under duress.

It mostly worked. There was an acutely embarrassing incident that day Bones spent manhandling Jim around Medical Bay, involving an inopportune hardening of man-parts, but Karl had merely blinked, smiled a kind, platonic, ‘I understand, buddy’ sort of smile, and then come up with some excuse to get them a breather.

As if Chris needed more reasons to be in love with the man.

---

Chris worked himself up for Natalie’s visit. It happened right after filming, during that weird period of ADR and trying to come down from the high of photography, during which everybody usually slept about twenty out of every twenty-four hours.

But Karl invited him over, invited him out with them, and could he say no? Of course not. So he showed up, dressed nicely but not overly so, and tried not to vomit when he was introduced to a lovely, tiny, tan, blond woman that smiled up at him and shook his hand with a warm grip.

Then she sniffed delicately, and her eyes widened. She looked from him to Karl, who was futzing with something or other in the living room, and then back to him, distinct distrust and reservation in her eyes.

Chris’s heart skipped a beat.

She knew.

She fucking knew. She must've been from a line of weres, back in New Zealand. Sometimes the women of lineage had heightened senses, and good god did she zero in on him.

He wasn't even being obvious. He didn't think. Probably.

He tried to think of the last time he'd taken a suppressant. It was about the time he’d fucked Karen, so… a couple weeks, at least. Enough for it to be good and thoroughly out of his system, and if she had any scenting ability whatsoever, he was toast.

Which, well, he was, from the look on her face.

He wanted to protest. He wanted to pull her aside and tell her in no uncertain terms that he'd kept his hands to himself, that he'd made no claim, that he wasn't going to make a claim--the guy had kids with her, for Christ's sake, not to mention was stupid in love with her still-- But he never got the chance. Karl swept them all out the door to the car.

And that was that.

Chris shook it off as best he could, like he shook off pretty much every fucking thing these days, and went back to the business of living his fucked-up life.

---

Getting back into things after a gigantic press junket like Trek, however, wasn’t easy on any of them.

---

From: John Cho
Time: 12:16am

Karl is here getting super drunk at my house. You should come collect him.

Chris looked at his phone, surprised. More than surprised. He knew Karl got along with John because they were both old married farts, as they said, but Karl was not known for his benders. Maybe John was exaggerating. He did that sometimes. Why he was calling upon Chris to deal with it, in any case, Chris wasn’t sure. But the instinct was there in Chris, to scoop Karl up and take care of him, make him happy in any way possible; maybe John, on some level, knew that.

Chris shrugged, grabbed his keys, and headed out.

---

Turns out, John was not exaggerating. An hour later, Chris was pouring an extremely intoxicated, extremely handsy Karl Urban into his spare bed. (Not the couch. Part of being a grownup rich guy with a real house was having honest to god guest rooms, and fucked if he was going to let Karl motherfucking Urban sleep on his damn couch. Regardless of how nice said couch may be.)

“What’s got your tail in a knot, Urban?” Chris muttered as Karl finally dropped off, his hand clenched messily around Chris’s forearm where he’d grabbed on and not let go. It was a phrase Chris’s mom had said it a lot when he was a kid, and it seemed fitting.

Karl’s response was simply to roll into Chris’s hip and start snoring softly.

---

"I read some stellar material today," Zach said casually while they lounged in his kitchen a week or so later. Chris was in between projects (but not long enough to go to Mexico, this time), and Zach was in LA for a weekend of meetings. Chris was not surprised Zach had had time between said meetings to peruse the internet; after Trek, Zach had discovered that great amusement lay in reading the stuff people wrote about them. One just had to know where to look.

"Yeah? Was I any good?"

"You were a fantastic lay."

"Coffee shop?"

"Oh, no, today I fucked your virgin ass in space." Zach stirred the mac n cheese. "I do not even want to know where they think semen goes in zero gravity."

Chris thwapped him on the back of the head. "So crude."

"But I just can't resist, muffin."

"Muffin?"

"It's better than cowboy."

Chris leaned back against the counter, his nose wrinkling. "Why do they always think I bottom?"

Zach shrugged. "I don't know. They must think your frat boy ass is just begging to be shown a good reaming." He passed Chris and smacked said ass. "If only they knew."

"Hey, there are some people I'd let fuck me." Chris turned thoughtful. "I mean, there's always--"

"George Clooney, yes, for the love of God, we know. Stop being so predictable."

Chris shrugged. "Nobody else comes to mind."

Zach turned to him sharply. "Liar."

Chris couldn’t fucking help it; base nature demanded he blush and his white skin showed it. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar!"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, but I do. I do and you know what? It's fine, Chris."

Chris snorted. "Yeah, totally fine. Wanting to fuck a married man into the mattress for the next hundred years is totally fine."

Zach did more than turn; he grabbed Chris by the shoulders and shook him. "Christopher."

But Chris's voice was as sharp as it ever--and rarely--got, and his hand wrapped around Zach’s wrist like steel. "Don't."

Zach studied his face. Then he turned back to his stirring. Even he knew when too much was too much. "A hundred years? I thought you said you weren't immortal."

"I was being figurative, you faggot."

"Touchy, touchy. Is poetry next?"

"Shut the fuck up. Maybe. Yes."

---

Karl never mentioned the drunken rescue, and Chris sure as shit never brought it up. Life went on. Chris worked. Karl worked. They spoke on the phone occasionally but not much; Karl seemed busy with work in Toronto and Vancouver and LA and of course with his family in New Zealand, and Lord knew Chris’s schedule wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. Which was fully on purpose, partly because he loved his job and partly because it didn’t give him time to think about what shit the rest of his life was.

---

Then, six weeks later, it happened again. Chris only heard about it this time, because he was in Vancouver filming (fucking Canada; he did have dinner with the boys from Supernatural, though, which was a riot; it was like a puppy pushing against a turtle the whole time), so merely got wind of it through the grapevine.

From: Zach Quinto
Time: 10:56am
you missed some prime urban shenanigans last night, pine.

To: Zach Quinto
Time: 11:02am
Did he get drunk and tell Rings stories again?

From: Zach Quinto
Time: 11:04am
no. well, yes, but more importantly, there was table dancing, running from the cops, and i think maybe even a midget. but i can’t be certain.

To: Zach Quinto
Time: 11:31am
You’re a filthy liar.

From: Zach Quinto
Time: 11:37
photographic proof:

And there followed a picture, for real, of Karl Urban, shirt unbuttoned and boxers bared, on top of some table, his hips cocked out like he was mid-thrust, a huge, drunk smile on his face.

Chris stared at for a moment, memorized every last detail, then deleted it.

---

It started becoming regular after that. Karl insisted that everything was fine, he worked his ass off on movies like Red and Priest (both of which, Chris will never admit to anyone, he had actually liked a lot), he stayed in New Zealand for as long as possible in between things, he insisted on staying with the same extended-stay suite he’d always used in LA instead of caving and subletting an apartment... And every few weeks, Chris would hear about or be witness to some crazy shit, usually involving alcohol but occasionally other drugs, and occasionally purely sober, as the one fountain incident attested.

It was like Karl was reliving the American college freshman experience he never had. It was weird as shit. And Chris was beginning to wonder if it was going to last forever.

A little under two years, was how long it lasted. And it ended with a joint and an envelope.

---

The doorbell startled him out of his marijuana and Klausterman book haze. (The Saved By the Bell essay? Totally the best one. Well, or maybe the one about Lloyd Dobbler.) He padded into the front hallway in his socks and boxers and undershirt, figuring if it was Zach he’d put up with the mocking and if it was anybody else he wouldn’t answer the door.

But then he looked through the peephole and it was Karl at the door. Of course, fucking of course it was Karl. Chris was stoned off his gourd and in his underwear, and a Kiwi geek god was at his front door.

Well. Karl’d seen him in worse shape, really.

He pulled the chains and opened the door.

And he had only a second to take in Karl’s drawn, tear-stained face before Karl was pushing past him and into the house.

Chris shut the door behind him, his brows drawn together.”Karl? What--” He faltered. Fucking words. “What happened?”

Karl just held out a document envelope and looked at him, his eyes huge and red and oh God he looked like he was in so much pain that every instinct in Chris wanted to to reach out and grab him, surround him, drag him in, soothe every bit he could.

Instead, he clenched his jaw and reached for the package. “You sure?”

“Of course I’m fucking sure.”

Chris drew back. Karl was not one to curse casually. He took a surreptitious sniff, and-- yeah, Karl was not, at that moment, sober. Well. Neither was Chris. So. All’s fair.

“All right,” Chris said, trying to sound soothing without sounding patronizing. He probably failed on both counts. He opened up the envelope, already sick with the premonition of what he’d find inside... and he was right.

Order for Dissolution of Marriage

“Karl...”

“Keep looking.”

“I can’t. I can’t just--”

“No, yes, you can. You fucking can.”

Chris gripped the envelope tight enough to bend the cardboard. “Why? What does this have to do with me?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

And Karl just stared at him, and Chris felt prickly hot all over, and curiosity didn’t just kill the cat, per se. So in he reached.

Chris, a smaller, greeting-card-sized envelope said on it in simple writing. “What the shit...”

“I didn’t open it.”

Chris looks up quickly. “You could’ve, I wouldn’t--”

“So do it before I stop being so polite.”

Jesus. “Okay, okay.” He slid his finger carefully under the seal, then less carefully when it didn’t give easily. The ripping sound was stark in the air.

It was a thank you card, one of those tasteful ones like brides send out after weddings to people that gave the happy couple toasters or Cuisinarts. A gardenia or some shit. But on the inside--

On the inside was a hand-written sentence that made the bile rise in Chris’s throat. Made him think he’d never be able to look Karl in the eye again. Made him know beyond a doubt that he’d have guilt as a close companion for the rest of his god damn life.

All it said was:

He’s yours now.

“Oh, fuck,” Chris choked out. “Karl, I’m so sorry-- I didn’t do anything, I swear to God-- she just--” He looked up, finally, met Karl’s eyes with the card already crumpling in his hand. “She just knew,” he finished hollowly.

Karl’s voice was wrecked. “Knew what?” He reached out for the card, but, being Karl, didn’t take it from Chris. Just held out his hand until Chris, his hand shaking, gave it and the envelope and the divorce papers back to him. He watched as Karl read the one sentence, his eyes growing impossibly wider.

“I’m sorry,” he offered again, unable to do anything else.

Then Karl met his eyes. “Knew what?” Karl repeated, softer this time, less wrecked but still beaten, unsure. His eyes on Chris’s were an unanswered question, and Chris couldn’t help it, he was drawn into the sun. Felt its heat on his skin as he stepped closer.



“Knew that I--” He swallowed. “Well. You know.” Fucking words, he cursed again.

Karl’s eyes skidded to Chris’s lips, and Chris’s stoned brain jumpstarted. Or at least attempted. Fucking pot. “She knew.”

Chris watched as Karl moved in closer. The smell coming off of him was desperate, drunken, wanting. Chris couldn’t quite take in a whole breath. “I never told her, I swear. But. Yeah.”

“She knew--” Karl’s heat felt like it was reaching across with sneaky tendrils and drawing Chris in. “--and I didn’t. I knew this was coming--” He waved the papers once. “--have for a couple years now--but nobody bothered to tell me why.”

“Karl...” Inches away, now, and Chris might be superhuman, technically speaking, but this was just beyond the pale, expecting him to resist Karl so close, and so available, and smelling like that--

“What? You didn’t think I could handle it? Didn’t think I could possibly have thought the same th--”

Chris sucked the next words right out of Karl’s lungs.

Karl didn’t even make a token protest, instead opening up instantly. The press of lips Chris couldn’t resist became a wet, open, searching kiss ten times faster than it should’ve, highly inappropriate and probably damning but fucking perfect anyways. He could taste everything, from what Karl’d eaten that day to what kind of cigarettes he’d smoked, plus the part that was just Karl, warm and delicious.

Being a good friend: 0. Chris Pine’s libido: 1

At that thought, he tried to break the kiss-- at least, in his head he tried, but in his head or perhaps even in reality Karl would have none of it, instead pulling on Chris by the hip and shoulder until they were flush against each other and the intentions were alltogether too clear.

But still, apparently to clarify, Karl shifted his hips not-so-subtly against Chris’s. (Probably would’ve been subtle, but alcohol’ll do that to a person.) Chris broke the kiss with a groan. “Karl...”

“What,” Karl murmured, leaning in again. Chris tried to dodge, at least a little, so Karl ended up with the corner of his mouth.

“You’re drunk. And rebounding.”

Libido: -1. He felt victorious for about half a second, until Karl went from the corner of his mouth down his jawline. Chris’s hand scratched up Karl’s neck and ended up in his hair, clutching on to nothing.

“I know,” Karl said quietly, between a kiss and a bite that had Chris’s whole body crying for mercy. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want this.”

“Yeah, but-- fuck,” Chris hissed out as Karl’s hand slid from his hip to his ass and pulled them closer, as Karl’s stupid hips ground into his like an animal’s.

Chris’s mind skittered away from that instantly. Back to the task at hand. “Just because we want it, doesn’t mean--”

But Karl was kissing him again, full on the lips, tongue pressing in, warm and strong against Chris’s, searching out all the dark places and letting Chris search out all of his. By the time it ended, they were twined around each other, near as could be, panting and moist and nobody, nobody could’ve expected him to refuse the man anything, especially after his next words. Words breathed into Chris’s neck reverently, in a low, haunted, desperate voice.

“Please, Chris.”

Chris’s heart-- Oh, he knew he shouldn’t do it. He knew. But the heart.

He would take what he could get, whatever it may be.

“Okay-- fuck, okay, just-- You know where the bedroom is, just let me--” Chris kissed him quick and hard, then backed away to the bathroom. He tried to think as he rooted through the cupboards, but the pot and the pheromones and the yeswantmine-- He’d taken a suppressant recently, but he couldn’t remember when, exactly, so if he could just find the--

“Ah-ha!” He quickly let a booster strip melt on his tongue, then grabbed the open box of condoms and shit, he had to rummage around for the lube, too-- not usually an issue. There was a bottle of lotion by the bed (“What are you, twelve?” Zach had said when he’d seen it, but Chris had his reasons) but that would hardly do.

By the time he got out of there, he was half afraid Karl would’ve changed his mind. His heart thudded with the possibility, lurching sluggishly to thoughts of the awkwardness that would be the rest of his life--

But Karl was there, sitting on the bed. He wasn’t undressed or laid out like a porn fantasy, but he had unbuttoned his shirt and had his hands loosely laced together between his spread knees. The Man-Stance, Seated Version, Chris had called it in the past. He fucking loved it. Wanted to worship it.

He surged forward, tossed the stuff down onto the bed, and got to his knees. Karl sucked in a breath as Chris scooted forward, pressing gently on Karl’s thighs so he could settle there, so he could reach forward and smooth one hand underneath Karl’s undershirt while the other pushed the button-down off his body one shoulder at a time.

“I’m going to do something now,” he started saying, not knowing why he was talking but knowing he couldn’t do anything to stop it, “that I’ve never done before.” His hand slid down the warmth of Karl’s belly to his belt buckle. “So you should tell me if it’s awful.”

Karl chuckle-groaned, and reached down to cup Chris’s jaw. “As if it could ever be awful, with this mouth.” He smoothed his thumb over Chris’s bottom lip. “You don’t have to.”

Chris’s gut twisted with love for the man in front of him.

“Duh,” he said, his smile taking the edge off the word. Except that I kinda do, he thought with clarity (surprising clarity for his state of sobriety). He kind of absolutely had to, every day twice a day for the rest of his life, if possible.

Yeah, he was a fucking lovesick idiot.

He tried not think about it. Instead, he tussled deftly with belt buckle and button and zipper until he reached warm fabric, then tugged, aided by Karl lifting his hips, until he reached hot skin.

Then he went a little crazy. He wasn’t to be blamed, really; the smell of Karl wafted up to him and his blood suddenly raced in his veins, making him hot all over as he leaned forward and licked a stripe up Karl’s half-hard cock. Then back down. He nuzzled into the crease between cock and thigh and tongued at his balls while tugging smoothly on the shaft with his hand, and breathed in as deeply as possible. Reveling in the scent of it all.

He felt Karl’s hand slide around the back of his neck, and colored a little, thinking he should probably get on with it. He took one last breath in and raised up, looking up at Karl with what he hoped was a reassuring smile before sucking the tip of Karl’s cock into his mouth.

His eyes fell shut of their own volition.

Good fucking Christ, Karl was perfect. Tasted even better than he smelled, and whereas at the beginning he’d had kind of a vague idea of just a bit of foreplay, Chris was suddenly and immediately determined to see this through.

He took an experimental suck. An answering grunt assured him he was headed in the right direction, and he tried not to think too hard as he slid his lips down the shaft then up again, trying to keep up with the sucking and the tightness of his lips, and pleased when he succeeded more often than he failed.

“Oh, Chris...” The hand on his neck tightened. “Knew your mouth would feel so good.”

Chris wasn’t sure if Karl was drunk and rambly or if he always talked like this in bed, but he was okay with it. Somehow it wasn’t awkward. Somehow it just made it all better. Lack of sobriety has many consequences.

The good news was that Karl wasn’t drunk enough to have issues getting it up, or coming on any sort of normal schedule -- Chris’s jaw was barely starting to ping before Karl really gripped at his hair and mumbled a warning, then a whole new flavor and smell exploded into Chris’s senses.

He couldn’t help the gutted, happy noise he made as he felt the contractions in his mouth. Seriously, couldn’t. Then his tongue sought out every drop it didn’t catch the first time, licking at delicate, tawny skin until Karl groaned and pushed him away.

Chris sat back on his haunches and wiped his face. His tongue darted out to the corners of his mouth and his other hand reached down to palm his own erection, but both actions were absently done. His brain was so foggy with pot and lust and Karl that he couldn’t think much at all, let alone intelligently or with intent.

He was slowly drawn back into context by Karl’s hands dipping up under his shirt. Then he felt warm lips on his jaw and blindly reached out for Karl’s shirt in response. They stripped each other slowly, with the careful motions of the unsober, and Chris licked what he could find, Karl’s dark skin a delicious contrast to his own.

Then, when they were completely naked, Karl pulled Chris down on top of him, and his brain fucking left the building. Officially.

“Karl--shit--I want to--” He stopped. Swallowed. Tried to stop his hips from humping into Karl too obviously.

He failed, apparently, because Karl’s next words were: “Do it.”

Chris searched his face, feeling a little bit like a pussy, especially considering his status, but he wanted to know for certain. He had to know for certain. “You sure?”

Karl nodded, then when Chris hesitated a little too long, Karl reached up and tweaked a nipple. Chris yelped. “I’m not exactly a blushing virgin here, Chris.”

Chris immediately, of course, blushed like the (contextual) virgin he was. Karl’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit. Really?”

Chris nodded, throat working but words abandoning him for the umpteenth time. Karl immediately reached up, his arms coming around Chris and pulling him down while his thighs came up tightened around Chris’s waist, and he kissed Chris slowly, wetly, intently, until Chris was crazy with it and thought his body would implode altogether, waft off like ashy smoke into the dirty LA night.

And then Karl did something so completely, dorkily Karl that Chris was pulled right back to the here and now, back into the reality of the ridiculous wonderfulness of the man beneath him: He leaned into Chris’s ear and said, genuinely, roughly, affectionately: “I’m honored.”

Chris grinned against Karl’s cheek. He couldn’t help it. He could practically hear the ‘u’.

He pulled back, the grin still tugging at his lips. “You might not be in ten minutes.”

Karl grinned back at him, then it turned cheeky. “I’d give it two.”

Chris kissed him for his sass. Then girded his loins and got on with it.

He knew the basics of it--of course he did; he was a middle class American male, he’d grown up with internet porn--but still, he worried, his brain fretted as he sloppily poured some lube into his right hand.

Then, with the first touch of his finger against Karl’s clenched hole, instinct reared its head, and all the doubts, all the worries, all the what-ifs went away. He knew this. His body knew this, knew that Karl was it for him, knew Karl. Knew instinctively how far to venture with one finger, how long to give him to adjust to a second, where exactly to crook two to make his back arch with a surprised grunt.

“Yeah, you like that,” Chis found himself breathing out, and he’d be embarrassed by dissolving into porn lines but fuck, this was brilliant. Karl’s eyes were half-closed, the skin of his throat was shiny with sweat, and the most awesome sounds kept escaping from his throat. Especially when Chris added the third finger. Yeah, that was good shit. Chris almost forgot about his own need for release.

Well, almost. Life ain’t a fairy tale, afterall. And Chris’s cock was never anything but. So when Karl clenched his teeth and hiked his hips higher and demanded, “Now,” with a grunt, Chris scrambled all over himself to comply. Figuratively speaking. Physically speaking, he smoothed on a condom--that part, at least, was no different--and added more lube and lined everything up and--

“Oh, my God...”

Chris wasn’t even sure who said it, but it happened once he had sunk all the way home. It was all he was thinking, along with a litany of fuckfuckfuck and Karl’s name on repeat. And Karl seemed to be much in the same predicament, as the words sliding out from between his lips as Chris’s cock slid slowly out of his body were a mixture of Chris’s name and panted nonsense curses.

That urged Chris on like nobody’s business. He pushed back into Karl, testing the waters, watching Karl’s face. Feeling the sensation on his cock, how it was different from being with a woman but really kind of the same. And because it was Karl, his Karl--he couldn’t think of him any other way, morning light be damned--it was without a doubt the best he’d ever had.

The best he’d ever been, too, he realized as he set up a rhythm, feeling Karl’s hands scrape along his back and hearing both their breathing get shorter, more stilted. Sweat started to drip from his forehead, which was gross--until Karl leaned up and licked it off.

“Karl, you’re...” was all Chris managed before swooping down for another kiss. As his rhythm picked up, his hips rutting consistently into Karl’s, it became more of just sharing air than kissing, until Karl’s lips formed his name again, insistent this time.

Chris got the message--again, some things were not so different--and reached down between them to grip Karl’s cock. With a few tugs, Karl’s breath hitched altogether differently. “Fuck, Chris, I don’t know how you managed it, but--” And with a choked off cry, Karl was coming again, warm and sticky across Chris’s hand.

Chris knew how he managed it. He knew. And as the thought reared back up in his head, his body reeled in sudden shock-- His knot was starting to grow.

No, he thought, screamed in his head. It’s not fucking possible.

He moved his hand back up to the bed beside Karl’s head, dropped his head down to Karl’s shoulder, and closed his eyes as he willed his fucking cock to behave. But Karl’s legs were tight around him, and Karl’s come was still hot between them, and Karl was pressing kisses to his neck and shoulder while their hips moved together and Chris-- Chris couldn’t stop it.

He closed his eyes, prayed to a God he didn’t believe in, and came.

---

Later, as they laid curled together in a pile of sweat and spunk, Chris figured that he’d come before the knot had actually formed. Plus, condom. He was certain Karl hadn’t felt a thing.

And as he fell asleep with the scent of Karl rich in his nostrils, he knew the morning would bring awkwardness, but he also knew they’d exchanged no promises and made no declarations. He could handle it.

No harm, no foul.

---

Except that Chris Pine is kind of an idiot. An idiot in love with Karl Urban. And that shit stays with you.

Not to mention: two weeks later, on one otherwise innocent morning, Karl Urban throws up his breakfast for no reason at all.

Life, as they say, is what happens when you’re making other plans.


Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Epilogue
Master Post