Fic: Say Anything
Sep. 28th, 2009 09:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
withthepilotTitle: Say Anything
Rating: R
Pairing: Karl/Chris
Notes: 1,365 words. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
1297's prompt in the Poor Man's Sinfest v. 3, asking for an angsty, super-secret affair between possessive!Karl and pushy!Chris.
Warning: Adultery.
Summary: Karl has a different life on either side of the Pacific; he might want one more than the other, but he can't bring himself to say it.
Karl reaches over to hand Chris his drink before he sits down in the driver's seat. He doesn't actually look at him until it's clear he'll be holding the cup forever, unless he follows the tacit instruction to inquire as to the problem.
"My fingerprints are burning off, here. They won't let me back into the country if I don't have fingerprints."
"I said iced coffee, not hot."
Chris leans his cheek on his knuckles, his arm bent along the window of Karl's car, which is burning through his last petrol purchase. They need the a/c on high because Karl insists on keeping his tinted windows up. Chris gives him a withering look and he sighs, just getting into the car and pushing both drinks into cup holders.
"So, what's the difference? Coffee is coffee."
"It's a billion degrees outside."
"You're in a cool, air-conditioned car!"
Chris sighs, adjusting his sunglasses. "Just go back and exchange it, man."
"I'm not doing that," Karl grunts. "There's a sea of photographers out there, probably wondering who the second coffee was for, already. I'll end up with some tabloid article about how I'm having an affair with a pushy, secret girlfriend."
"Yeah, well. That's me: your pushy, secret girlfriend."
They exchange a look before Karl turns the radio on, and then switches the position of their drinks in the cup holders. "Just drink mine; it's got ice." Chris immediately switches them back and looks out the window as he sips the hot drink, as if Karl can't see his pout in the reflection.
"Yours is mocha. Gross."
Karl exhales and turns the engine. "I'm a man of uncultured tastes," he says.
*
"Birthday boy gets a lapdance!" someone yells, and it takes Karl a moment to register that it's Chris, drunkenly careening from the bar to their booth in the back. Also, the birthday boy isn't him, it's John, and this makes the situation even more distressing.
Because John, despite his beautiful wife and small child, will indulge Chris in his drunken, gay shenanigans, especially if it means he gets a good story to tell out of the whole thing. At this point, they all have a good drunken, gay Chris story to tell.
"No lapdance," Karl says. He tries not to sound as possessive or annoyed as he feels, even as he reaches over to tug on Chris' sleeve and pull him away from John.
"Come on, man," John protests. "I'm married. It's not often that I get a chance to accept a lapdance that I won't have to lie to my wife about."
Chris' response is more succinct. "Fuck off, Karl," he says. He climbs into John's lap, straddling his thighs, and proceeds to clasp his hands behind his head and gyrate. John lounges and grins, obviously enjoying the cheers and hollers from the rest of their clan. Karl can't help but hate the birthday boy, just a little bit. Not that he doesn't trust John, but he has a difficult time believing nowadays that anyone in these parts actually is who he claims to be. After all, Karl used to claim he was completely straight. Until he met Princess Lapdance, that is.
"Karl, chill," Zach says, appearing to his left, sliding into the booth beside him. "They're just having fun. And Chris isn't that drunk."
"No, I know," he mutters. He slugs back his drink and makes brief eye contact with his lover, who's still circling and shimmying in John's lap like a pro.
The thing is, Karl still claims he's straight. Why wouldn't he?
He looks back at Zach and fakes a smile. That's the problem, he wants to add.
*
This might be hurting Chris, but it's what he asked for—nay, demanded. He makes a slightly choked sound as Karl fucks his mouth harder, his eyes watering as he clutches at Karl's hips, the backs of his thighs. He shudders at the feel of the younger man's nails digging into his skin and pulls back suddenly, shaking his head.
"I can't do this," he says, by way of terrible explanation. Chris doesn't look relieved at all, just frustrated, his blue eyes squinting in anger.
"You can't even give me what I ask for anymore? Just this one thing? Damn it, Karl, I said, I want you to fuck my mouth. I'm not some delicate flower."
"Maybe it's not what I want."
Karl shifts on the sofa, away from where Chris is kneeling on the floor, and he reaches for the TV remote. Chris actually growls and knocks it out of his hand, climbing into Karl's lap and pushing his shoulders against the cushion.
"Because it's all about what you want, isn't it? You want to have vanilla sex. You don't want me to pay attention to other men. You want to get on a plane next week and leave me here while you go home and play World's Best Dad."
"I don't want to, I have to."
"You don't have to do anything, Karl! Don't you get that?"
"Chris, don't push me, I don't need this from—"
But Chris always pushes and this time, it's physical: his hand on Karl's chest, sending him down to the sofa, where he can hold him in place, if only for the moment. Karl grabs fistfuls of the soft cotton that sheaths his lover's body and pulls him closer, lifting his hips just as Chris plunges down. The kid's as messy and reckless as he's always been and fuck if that isn't just what Karl needs, what he craves. Chris is danger that he wants to trap in a bottle and bathe in, every morning and night. And it's not just because Karl's married and this is a bit of fun—which it is. It's so much more.
But he can't tell Chris that. He can't.
When Karl comes right after him, likely ruining the crotch of his jeans, all he can do is look up at the kid in awe, his chest heaving with the weight of so many sentiments that are either too clichéd or too powerful to let go.
"You got something to say to me?" Chris whispers, and then, after a beat, "No, of course you don't." And Karl just watches him go.
He can't say anything.
*
The jet lag has finally started to subside after a week, but he's still waking up before Nat. It doesn't seem to surprise her when she comes into the kitchen and finds him sitting at the table on his laptop, eating toast and jam.
"Do you want me to make you a real brekkie?" she asks, already pulling a bowl of cereal down from the cabinet. He looks at her and smirks, shaking his head.
"How are cornflakes better than toast?"
"This is for the kids. I could make you eggs and sausage."
"Maybe," Karl says, slightly distracted. He's got a new e-mail about being tagged in some photos on Facebook, and when he clicks the link, the images are like heavy bricks to his gut. All photos of Chris, drink in one hand and camera in the other, lens pointed at himself and whichever lucky guy happens to be on the receiving end of his mouth: Zach, Anton, John (god, that one's just not fair), Zach again...
Karl just stares at the monitor, ignoring both his half-eaten toast and his wife until she starts snapping her fingers at him.
"Big man. You all right, love?"
"I...I've got to head back to L.A."
She blinks, putting down the carton of milk with a devastated look. "I thought you were taking a break to spend some time here, with us."
"I know, Nat. I'm sorry. Something's come up."
"Well...if that's what you want."
She looks embarrassed for saying it, and he feels embarrassed on her behalf, for being enough of a prick to make her say it. But he's got no other choice. He shuts down his laptop and gets up, wasting no time in making his way to the bedroom, pausing only to kiss her cheek.
"I really am sorry," he whispers. Because this is what he wants. But he can't say anything.
Rating: R
Pairing: Karl/Chris
Notes: 1,365 words. Written for
1297's prompt in the Poor Man's Sinfest v. 3, asking for an angsty, super-secret affair between possessive!Karl and pushy!Chris.Warning: Adultery.
Summary: Karl has a different life on either side of the Pacific; he might want one more than the other, but he can't bring himself to say it.
Karl reaches over to hand Chris his drink before he sits down in the driver's seat. He doesn't actually look at him until it's clear he'll be holding the cup forever, unless he follows the tacit instruction to inquire as to the problem.
"My fingerprints are burning off, here. They won't let me back into the country if I don't have fingerprints."
"I said iced coffee, not hot."
Chris leans his cheek on his knuckles, his arm bent along the window of Karl's car, which is burning through his last petrol purchase. They need the a/c on high because Karl insists on keeping his tinted windows up. Chris gives him a withering look and he sighs, just getting into the car and pushing both drinks into cup holders.
"So, what's the difference? Coffee is coffee."
"It's a billion degrees outside."
"You're in a cool, air-conditioned car!"
Chris sighs, adjusting his sunglasses. "Just go back and exchange it, man."
"I'm not doing that," Karl grunts. "There's a sea of photographers out there, probably wondering who the second coffee was for, already. I'll end up with some tabloid article about how I'm having an affair with a pushy, secret girlfriend."
"Yeah, well. That's me: your pushy, secret girlfriend."
They exchange a look before Karl turns the radio on, and then switches the position of their drinks in the cup holders. "Just drink mine; it's got ice." Chris immediately switches them back and looks out the window as he sips the hot drink, as if Karl can't see his pout in the reflection.
"Yours is mocha. Gross."
Karl exhales and turns the engine. "I'm a man of uncultured tastes," he says.
*
"Birthday boy gets a lapdance!" someone yells, and it takes Karl a moment to register that it's Chris, drunkenly careening from the bar to their booth in the back. Also, the birthday boy isn't him, it's John, and this makes the situation even more distressing.
Because John, despite his beautiful wife and small child, will indulge Chris in his drunken, gay shenanigans, especially if it means he gets a good story to tell out of the whole thing. At this point, they all have a good drunken, gay Chris story to tell.
"No lapdance," Karl says. He tries not to sound as possessive or annoyed as he feels, even as he reaches over to tug on Chris' sleeve and pull him away from John.
"Come on, man," John protests. "I'm married. It's not often that I get a chance to accept a lapdance that I won't have to lie to my wife about."
Chris' response is more succinct. "Fuck off, Karl," he says. He climbs into John's lap, straddling his thighs, and proceeds to clasp his hands behind his head and gyrate. John lounges and grins, obviously enjoying the cheers and hollers from the rest of their clan. Karl can't help but hate the birthday boy, just a little bit. Not that he doesn't trust John, but he has a difficult time believing nowadays that anyone in these parts actually is who he claims to be. After all, Karl used to claim he was completely straight. Until he met Princess Lapdance, that is.
"Karl, chill," Zach says, appearing to his left, sliding into the booth beside him. "They're just having fun. And Chris isn't that drunk."
"No, I know," he mutters. He slugs back his drink and makes brief eye contact with his lover, who's still circling and shimmying in John's lap like a pro.
The thing is, Karl still claims he's straight. Why wouldn't he?
He looks back at Zach and fakes a smile. That's the problem, he wants to add.
*
This might be hurting Chris, but it's what he asked for—nay, demanded. He makes a slightly choked sound as Karl fucks his mouth harder, his eyes watering as he clutches at Karl's hips, the backs of his thighs. He shudders at the feel of the younger man's nails digging into his skin and pulls back suddenly, shaking his head.
"I can't do this," he says, by way of terrible explanation. Chris doesn't look relieved at all, just frustrated, his blue eyes squinting in anger.
"You can't even give me what I ask for anymore? Just this one thing? Damn it, Karl, I said, I want you to fuck my mouth. I'm not some delicate flower."
"Maybe it's not what I want."
Karl shifts on the sofa, away from where Chris is kneeling on the floor, and he reaches for the TV remote. Chris actually growls and knocks it out of his hand, climbing into Karl's lap and pushing his shoulders against the cushion.
"Because it's all about what you want, isn't it? You want to have vanilla sex. You don't want me to pay attention to other men. You want to get on a plane next week and leave me here while you go home and play World's Best Dad."
"I don't want to, I have to."
"You don't have to do anything, Karl! Don't you get that?"
"Chris, don't push me, I don't need this from—"
But Chris always pushes and this time, it's physical: his hand on Karl's chest, sending him down to the sofa, where he can hold him in place, if only for the moment. Karl grabs fistfuls of the soft cotton that sheaths his lover's body and pulls him closer, lifting his hips just as Chris plunges down. The kid's as messy and reckless as he's always been and fuck if that isn't just what Karl needs, what he craves. Chris is danger that he wants to trap in a bottle and bathe in, every morning and night. And it's not just because Karl's married and this is a bit of fun—which it is. It's so much more.
But he can't tell Chris that. He can't.
When Karl comes right after him, likely ruining the crotch of his jeans, all he can do is look up at the kid in awe, his chest heaving with the weight of so many sentiments that are either too clichéd or too powerful to let go.
"You got something to say to me?" Chris whispers, and then, after a beat, "No, of course you don't." And Karl just watches him go.
He can't say anything.
*
The jet lag has finally started to subside after a week, but he's still waking up before Nat. It doesn't seem to surprise her when she comes into the kitchen and finds him sitting at the table on his laptop, eating toast and jam.
"Do you want me to make you a real brekkie?" she asks, already pulling a bowl of cereal down from the cabinet. He looks at her and smirks, shaking his head.
"How are cornflakes better than toast?"
"This is for the kids. I could make you eggs and sausage."
"Maybe," Karl says, slightly distracted. He's got a new e-mail about being tagged in some photos on Facebook, and when he clicks the link, the images are like heavy bricks to his gut. All photos of Chris, drink in one hand and camera in the other, lens pointed at himself and whichever lucky guy happens to be on the receiving end of his mouth: Zach, Anton, John (god, that one's just not fair), Zach again...
Karl just stares at the monitor, ignoring both his half-eaten toast and his wife until she starts snapping her fingers at him.
"Big man. You all right, love?"
"I...I've got to head back to L.A."
She blinks, putting down the carton of milk with a devastated look. "I thought you were taking a break to spend some time here, with us."
"I know, Nat. I'm sorry. Something's come up."
"Well...if that's what you want."
She looks embarrassed for saying it, and he feels embarrassed on her behalf, for being enough of a prick to make her say it. But he's got no other choice. He shuts down his laptop and gets up, wasting no time in making his way to the bedroom, pausing only to kiss her cheek.
"I really am sorry," he whispers. Because this is what he wants. But he can't say anything.
