who knows where or when {Krale | NC-17}
I hope you guys enjoy this. Thanks to king_styles for the read over. And because of timing, we'll say this is a gift for literarynut for finishing her finals. ♥
who knows where or when.
Kris/Cale | NC-17 | 3600 words
Remember this pic & that charity show? Yeaaaaah. I started this then. PWP.
It's boring. There's no other word for it really, but a gig is a gig and at least they're getting a five course gourmet meal out of this one. Cale would honestly rather be home on the couch with a greasy bag of Arby's spread out on the coffee table, but things could be worse.
It's just that after performing, he's still got this itch beneath his skin, buzzing with adrenaline from being on stage. Kris had killed it -- always did -- charming the audience whether they were sipping dollar drafts or champagne, and it made Cale grin, knowing that Kris was just as happy either way. Give Kris a guitar and a mike and he was good to go.
But now, well. Now Cale is bored out of his skull. There's a lull between the appetizers and the main course, apparently, and woefully dragging themselves across the stage are the saddest set of models Cale has ever seen. Not that he's ever made it his business to witness 'fashion events', as this is so artfully called, but he thinks maybe the girls should smile or something? Whatever theme is going on, it's -- well, it's boring and bland. There's no color or urgency at all.
Kris must not care either, because he's not even watching the models at all. Instead, he's furiously tapping away on his phone, face cast in a blue glow. It reflects off his glasses, hiding his eyes, and illuminates his cheeks, his chin; casts the hollow of his throat in shadows, even more dark and forbidden than usual.
"Hey," Cale says. He elbows Kris in the ribs and gets a glare in return. "What," Kris hisses, his brows furrowing, confusion and annoyance in equal measure. That is, of course, until Cale slides his palm up the smooth fabric of Kris's khakis, the tablecloth covering his movement. That earns Cale a reaction, Kris's eyes going wide behind his glasses, his lips parting on a gasp, wet and inviting.
"But my --," Kris manages, tilting his head to the left and gazing across the table to where his mom sits, raptly watching the show on stage. Cale simply lets his hand drift higher, the tips of his fingers dragging over Kris's cock, stroking back and forth. There's a clatter of silverware as Kris's knee bangs into the table. Kim turns her head in their direction.
"Baby?" she says, and the rapid flutter of Kris's pulse is visible even from where Cale is sitting, his throat working hard. He might be terrified of being caught out, but Kris is reacting just fine where it counts, growing hard beneath Cale's touch.
"I think he's just keyed up from performing," Cale says, smooth and easy. Kim angles her head, considering, and Cale drags his palm over her son's erection, glancing out the corner of his eye to see Kris biting his lip, skin worried pink beneath the blunt pressure. Cale can't wait to bruise it even further for him. He pulls his hand away, holding back a chuckle when Kris lets out a soft, near inaudible cry. Across the table, Kim smiles.
Cale pushes his chair away from the table and stands, squeezing Kris's shoulder, his thumb pressing in hard. "Mrs. Allen," Cale says, and smiles, polite as punch. "I think maybe we'll check this place out, a little? Maybe some fresh air will help?"
"Oh, what a lovely idea, Cale," she says. Kris tilts his face up, eyes pleading, and Cale knows he's in a predicament now, obvious and hard in his pants. It only makes Cale smile wider and Kim seems to take that as a reason to shoo them both. "You're always so good to look after him," she says, and, "Kristopher, go on now, get those ants outta your pants. Dinner won't go cold."
Cale doesn't even bother holding back his laughter at that. Kris's hand wavers as he takes a gulp from his water glass and sets it down, shivering beneath Cale's palm. A little of the water sloshes out over the sides, dampening the fabric tablecloth. Kris's cheeks go bright red, a flush Cale knows all too well and seriously -- Kris needs to get his ass up now.
Cale leans down and tells Kris just that, letting his lips brush innocently over the shell of Kris's ear. "C'mon now," he whispers, "If you get a move on I bet I can have you begging and fucked open in the next five minutes. It's been too long since I had my cock inside you." He lets his palm drift, closing around the back of Kris's neck, collar wrinkling as Cale clamps his fingers down. One beat, two, and Kris shudders, then slits his gaze up towards Cale. His lips are pressed in a tight line, but once he sees that his mom's attention is waning back towards the stage, Kris scoots his chair back with purpose.
"Excuse us, Mama," he says, and Kim quietly hmms and nods, her focus completely back on the show.
"You're lucky," Cale says, hushed. He keeps close to Kris, even as he awkwardly shuffles away, hands pulling at the tails of his white button down. Kris is doing his best to cover up his little situation, but the flush of shame on the back of his neck is delicious, and Cale can't help but taunt him. He wants to bite that pink skin till the imprints of his teeth leave white indents. "I know your mom loves me, but could you imagine if she knew how slutty her little boy really is? Huh, Kris?"
Kris rounds on Cale then, eyes flashing dark. The foyer of the reception hall is empty, though Cale can see a couple of guys out on the balcony, cigars thick between their lips, the smoke curling up into the night sky. Kris opens his mouth to speak, then catches himself; changes his mind. Cale wraps his fingers around Kris's wrist and starts for the bathroom, but Kris digs his heels in, pulling back. "No," he says, and Cale falters. No matter how much he likes to pushes Kris buttons, he'd never actually force him to do anything, but --
"This way," Kris says, the corner of his mouth quirking up. He can read Cale like a book, something he'll never let him forget. Cale lets the resistance snap, push-pull shifting like it always has over the years between them. Kris pushes open the door that leads outside, throwing a carefree wave to the gentlemen occupying the patio. "Nice night," Kris says to them and Cale barely has time to nod his agreement before he's being dragged down the stone steps and out to the dark lawn.
Kris lets go of Cale's wrist then, but stalks across the grass with a determined stride that Cale can only follow. It takes a minute, but Kris finds a shadowed entryway that seems to suit his purpose and slinks his way in.
"Here," Kris says and reaches out, sliding his fingers through Cale's hair and tugging him where he wants. Kris bites at Cale's mouth, punishing him for the earlier taunts. Cale doesn't complain. It's frantic, Kris's want poured into dragging kisses, his lips parting easily for Cale's tongue, though it's not until Cale presses his thigh between Kris's legs that Kris melts against the wall, arching prettily and baring his neck. Cale slides his palms up Kris's shirt, starched fresh and crisp. The tip of Kris's tie drags across the back of Cale's knuckles and he lets the fabric twine around his wrists, tugging until the knot slips up and Kris gasps, eyes going wide.
Cale shifts his hips forward, the friction of Kris's hip against his cock little more than a tease. But the way Kris's eyes are blown wide with want, his mouth open and wet and gasping for air -- Cale leans in and drags his stubbled cheek over Kris's smooth one, delighting in the shiver it elicits almost as much as the gasp that falls from Kris's lips.
"Like that, huh?" Cale says and lets the tie go slack. Kris reaches up and claws at the constriction around his neck before collapsing against the wall, panting hard.
"Fuck," he says, voice gone ragged and deep.
"That's the idea," Cale says. Kris rolls his eyes, but spares Cale half of a grin. Cale chuckles.
He manages to get Kris's shirt unbuttoned, pushing it off his shoulders. Kris squirms, trying to let it fall, but the rolled up cuffs catch on his forearms. "Crap, help me -- "
"Naw," Cale says, and leans in to mouth at Kris's collarbone. Kris doesn't hold back -- never could -- and Cale grins against his skin, dragging his chin down, scratching his beard across flesh just to hear Kris cry out: shocked, hurt little whimpers that melt into the night air. He nuzzles against Kris's chest, grazing his cheek over one nipple. Kris arches away from the wall, his hands still caught behind his back, and Cale licks away the sting, Kris begging and moaning the whole time.
"C'mon. Cale." The lilt in Kris's voice is exactly what Cale has been waiting for, need and want almost at the level Cale deals with every day, what he's forced to squash down in himself just watching, just being by Kris's side, unable to do this whenever he wants. But now --
Now he can. Now Kris is debauched, skin glistening with sweat, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, tie dangling and dragging over his stomach. Cale knows it must be pure torture on his overly sensitive skin.
"Just begging for it, aren't you," he says, and steps back, leaving Kris propped against the wall, his legs spread wide to keep balance, fabric straining against his cock. Cale unbuttons his own shirt, slow, letting Kris stew and watch; leaves it on, but makes a show of rubbing his own cock through his pants. He wants Kris to see what he does to him, needs him to understand.
"Cale," Kris says. His voice is shot through, no matter how authoritative he tries for, and the sound of his name fro Kris's lips, again and again, so desperate, turns Cale on even more.
"Turn around," Cale orders. Kris glares at him, a spot of snark so obviously on the tip of his tongue, but a step back wipes that look from Kris's face. He turns towards the wall but twists his torso back, wiggling his fingers where they're trapped against the small of his back.
"You mind?" he says and Cale debates for a moment; pictures driving into Kris while he can't even support himself, while he relies on Cale to hold him steady, to hold him up. It's a nice image, for sure, but the stucco on the wall makes it a cruel impracticality.
Cale steps back in to fill the void behind Kris. He runs his fingers down the back of Kris's neck just to watch him shiver and arch into the touch. "Can't scrape up that pretty face," Cale says, and drags his knuckles across Kris's cheek, baby-soft and smooth. "Mama insist you be all clean cut for the society ball, baby boy?"
Kris laughs, short and indignant. "Not all of us are cavemen, you know."
"Not all of us are Mama's boys," says Cale. He gets more laughter in response. "Fine," he concedes, tugging the shirt free of Kris's wrists. He balls it up and shoves it into Kris's hands, giving him something to cushion against. Then, finally, Cale can trail his ragged nails down Kris's chest, his abs, though the coarse hair just above his belt. "But not all of us dress like a total schoolboy slut, either. You're so obvious, Kris, these damn khackis, were you trying to drive me insane? You know you don't have to try so hard, you know I'll always want --"
"Yes, ok, yeah. Worked though, didn't it?" Kris has got that smug-grin on his face again, but one rough drag of Cale's cheek down Kris's back wipes it away. "Oh, god. I want -- we don't have time," Kris whines, and lets his forehead fall onto his shirt, bending so his glasses aren't in the way. His fingertips grasp at the tiniest dips in the wall's surface.
Cale undoes Kris's buckle in a rush. His own watch hangs heavy on his wrist, reminding him of the too short window of time they have. Cale's fingertips barely brush over the cotton covering Kris's dick, but Kris thrusts up anyways, desperate for sensation. He starts to push off the wall, his right arm dropping.
"No," Cale says. He grabs hold of Kris's wrist, so tiny in the circle of Cale's thumb and forefinger, fragile. "Hands on the wall."
Kris shakes his head, pout visible over the curve of his shoulder, but does as he's told. Cale rewards him by tugging everything down in one smooth movement: wool dress pants, cotton briefs. They pool around Kris's ankles, limiting him still, but there is just no way they're pausing to get shoes off in all this.
"C'mon," Kris says. He tosses his shirt in a dry spot just a few feet away; lets his glasses fall onto the cushion the fabric makes. Then he presses his palms to the stucco and spreads his legs as far as he can and Cale just stares. The cicadas creak in the distance, white noise that blends with the rush of blood pounding through his veins. He can remember that very first time, still, remembers Kris flopping down onto his bed, drunk and exhausted and hurting, Cale pulling off his shoes and trying to tuck him in. Kris grabbed onto the front of Cale's shirt, whispered, "Please," and the pain bleeding through the crack in his voice was enough to split Cale's heart down the center.
"Cale."
"Uh. Yeah," Cale says, stepping back. He pulls a tube of lube from his pocket before loosening his pants enough to get his cock free, hard and glistening at the tip. He slicks his fingers up and slides them over the dusty rose skin between Kris's ass; presses one in, then another, the pause between all too brief. No matter his earlier promise, there's no way he's hurting Kris, but Kris opens beautifully for him, slick with lube and crying out so prettily. "C'mon, want it, Cale."
He fucks back onto Cale's fingers, so damn tight and hot. Cale's head spins, but he manages to drag his fingertips out, smearing wetly across Kris's ass before slapping him once, the mark blossoming dark in his wake. "Hold on," he warns, but Kris is impatient, shifting restlessly in his grasp, legs spread, his forehead braced against his forearms and the wall. Cale reaches over Kris's shoulder with his free hand and uses the tie to make his point, tugging hard. "I said hold still."
Kris hips lock, then, no movement but the beautiful arch of his back, his legs shaking with the strain of keeping from thrusting like he wants. Cale rips into the condom and gets it ion as quickly as he can; grips Kris's hip hard with one hand and lines up with the other, sucking in a deep breath. His head spins. Kris is so hot, his body open, and Cale rests his forehead on the bare sliver of skin between Kris's shoulder blades and stares down, watching his cock push between the curve of Kris's ass.
He knows Kris is biting the side of his wrist to keep from crying out. When Cale finally bottoms out, the backs of Kris's thighs pressed tight against his own, he lets out the breath he'd been holding. "You're..it's," he tries, but no words can describe the feeling, the way Kris feels around him, all over his skin, his body.
Kris makes another one of those hurt, needy noises that Cale loves more than anything else in the world, so he lets his body do what it wants; draws back, shifts forward. He tries valiantly to go slow, but he knows there isn't time for that, so he finally gives into the drumbeat his heart has set up against his ribcage; matches the rhythm with his thrusts.
There's no way to keep silent now, the slap of skin on skin ringing in Cale's ears as Kris moans, oh-so-sweetly, and sucks in hiccuping gasps of air. His fingers are scrambling on the wall but there's nowhere to really grasp. Cale takes pity on him and slides his palm over the back of Kris's right hand; drags it down the wall and wraps it around Kris's dick. Kris sighs happily, never faltering the movement of his hips.
"Take it so good, Kris, you're. So amazing," Cale says. It overwhelms Cale every time, the praise Kris pulls out of him every time they do this, but it's true, it's real. Someone told Cale once that good sex, coming with someone you loved, worshiped -- it'd be as close to God as he could ever get from earth. The thought swirls through his mind now, but he knows it's not even about the sex, sometimes. Just. Being so close, with Kris -- it's enough.
And then Kris starts begging, those pretty lips bitten an abused shade of pink. "Close, Cale, please, I need..."
Cale thrusts harder; digs his fingers into Kris's hips. Kris's fist is working furiously over his cock, smearing wet and dirty, the sounds of their fucking filling the alcove, echoing off the high arches. Kris's eyes are shut, lashes fanned over his cheeks, the hair at his temples and on his forearm matted and slick with sweat. Cale drags one hand up to pinch at Kris's nipple, wants to send him over the edge. It's becoming harder and harder for Cale to hold out himself.
"Cale," Kris says. His eyes are open, now, wild and desperate. Cale stills, lost until his hand brushes under the tie still hanging from Kris's neck. Kris's eyes slip shut; he shudders.
"Oh," Cale says. "Okay. I've got you."
He leans in, brushing his lips over Kris's temple, salty sweetness on his lips, Kris's smile blissful. His hips never stop, the rhythm too precious to break and Cale takes a deep breath himself. He wraps the tie around his fingers again and tugs.
The knot slips up, right into the hollow space between Kris's collarbones. The pressure must be just right, because Kris's eyes fly open, pupils wide and dark. He thrusts back up into his own fist faster now, the tip of his cock barely slipping out between his fingers before he's sliding up again, his ass clenching around Cale's cock. Cale's chest slides against the back of Kris's. He should have taken off his own shirt, Cale thinks all to late, sweat gathering beneath his arms, sliding down to tickle at his bellybutton, his cock, further still.
Cale can't tear his eyes off Kris's face. His mouth is working to form words that he can't voice, his face flushing from the lack of air. Tears form at the corners of his eyes. "C'mon, Kris, you can come. It'll feel so good," Cale urges and fucks up once more, sharp, mumbling nonsense and praise into Kris's ear as he comes. He drags his chin down the spot right behind Kris's jaw, stubble leaving red marks in its wake and there, there, Kris locks up completely, screaming without a sound and coming hard all over his fingers, the wall.
Cale reaches up instantly and presses his fingers under the band of fabric around Kris's throat, wriggling until he can loosen it and pull it away from skin. Kris's heartbeat flutters under his fingertips, pounding like a drum, so rapid that there's know way for Cale to know the keep the beat. He gets the tie pulled open even more; mouths at the reddened skin, letting his tongue drag across the marks, tasting the tears that had rolled down Kris's cheeks to dampen the material.
When the contractions of Kris's throat beneath Cale's lips evens out, Cale finally unwraps his arms from Kris's torso and pulls out. He makes quick work of the condom, knotting it and throwing it behind a bush right outside the alcove, then pulls his pants up, starting to straighten up. Kris has spun around, his bare shoulders still pressed to the stucco to keep him steady. He looks completely dazed, mouth abused, eyes half-lidded. His breathing is still uneven, chest rising and falling, shiny with sweat. Cale gives a half-hearted laugh.
"Well if you weren't obvious before," he says. He bends down and tugs Kris's boxer-briefs and pants back up his thighs, over the curve of his ass. "Sore?" he asks, zipping and getting Kris pulled back together.
"Nah, just. A minute more?"
Cale smiles. Kris could ask him for a minute, an hour, the rest of his life. He looks at his watch, then crowds back against Kris, running his hands over those smooth shoulders to check for bruises, skating his fingertips across Kris's jaw to sooth the reddened skin burned by stubble.
"Ok," Cale says and finishes up his inspection by pressing his mouth over Kris's, trading lazy kisses until that easy peace is once again in every measured breath.
1. title from this Lena Horne song, since I was in the mood.
2. this is what Kris looked like later that night, so. YEAH.
who knows where or when.
Kris/Cale | NC-17 | 3600 words
Remember this pic & that charity show? Yeaaaaah. I started this then. PWP.
It's boring. There's no other word for it really, but a gig is a gig and at least they're getting a five course gourmet meal out of this one. Cale would honestly rather be home on the couch with a greasy bag of Arby's spread out on the coffee table, but things could be worse.
It's just that after performing, he's still got this itch beneath his skin, buzzing with adrenaline from being on stage. Kris had killed it -- always did -- charming the audience whether they were sipping dollar drafts or champagne, and it made Cale grin, knowing that Kris was just as happy either way. Give Kris a guitar and a mike and he was good to go.
But now, well. Now Cale is bored out of his skull. There's a lull between the appetizers and the main course, apparently, and woefully dragging themselves across the stage are the saddest set of models Cale has ever seen. Not that he's ever made it his business to witness 'fashion events', as this is so artfully called, but he thinks maybe the girls should smile or something? Whatever theme is going on, it's -- well, it's boring and bland. There's no color or urgency at all.
Kris must not care either, because he's not even watching the models at all. Instead, he's furiously tapping away on his phone, face cast in a blue glow. It reflects off his glasses, hiding his eyes, and illuminates his cheeks, his chin; casts the hollow of his throat in shadows, even more dark and forbidden than usual.
"Hey," Cale says. He elbows Kris in the ribs and gets a glare in return. "What," Kris hisses, his brows furrowing, confusion and annoyance in equal measure. That is, of course, until Cale slides his palm up the smooth fabric of Kris's khakis, the tablecloth covering his movement. That earns Cale a reaction, Kris's eyes going wide behind his glasses, his lips parting on a gasp, wet and inviting.
"But my --," Kris manages, tilting his head to the left and gazing across the table to where his mom sits, raptly watching the show on stage. Cale simply lets his hand drift higher, the tips of his fingers dragging over Kris's cock, stroking back and forth. There's a clatter of silverware as Kris's knee bangs into the table. Kim turns her head in their direction.
"Baby?" she says, and the rapid flutter of Kris's pulse is visible even from where Cale is sitting, his throat working hard. He might be terrified of being caught out, but Kris is reacting just fine where it counts, growing hard beneath Cale's touch.
"I think he's just keyed up from performing," Cale says, smooth and easy. Kim angles her head, considering, and Cale drags his palm over her son's erection, glancing out the corner of his eye to see Kris biting his lip, skin worried pink beneath the blunt pressure. Cale can't wait to bruise it even further for him. He pulls his hand away, holding back a chuckle when Kris lets out a soft, near inaudible cry. Across the table, Kim smiles.
Cale pushes his chair away from the table and stands, squeezing Kris's shoulder, his thumb pressing in hard. "Mrs. Allen," Cale says, and smiles, polite as punch. "I think maybe we'll check this place out, a little? Maybe some fresh air will help?"
"Oh, what a lovely idea, Cale," she says. Kris tilts his face up, eyes pleading, and Cale knows he's in a predicament now, obvious and hard in his pants. It only makes Cale smile wider and Kim seems to take that as a reason to shoo them both. "You're always so good to look after him," she says, and, "Kristopher, go on now, get those ants outta your pants. Dinner won't go cold."
Cale doesn't even bother holding back his laughter at that. Kris's hand wavers as he takes a gulp from his water glass and sets it down, shivering beneath Cale's palm. A little of the water sloshes out over the sides, dampening the fabric tablecloth. Kris's cheeks go bright red, a flush Cale knows all too well and seriously -- Kris needs to get his ass up now.
Cale leans down and tells Kris just that, letting his lips brush innocently over the shell of Kris's ear. "C'mon now," he whispers, "If you get a move on I bet I can have you begging and fucked open in the next five minutes. It's been too long since I had my cock inside you." He lets his palm drift, closing around the back of Kris's neck, collar wrinkling as Cale clamps his fingers down. One beat, two, and Kris shudders, then slits his gaze up towards Cale. His lips are pressed in a tight line, but once he sees that his mom's attention is waning back towards the stage, Kris scoots his chair back with purpose.
"Excuse us, Mama," he says, and Kim quietly hmms and nods, her focus completely back on the show.
"You're lucky," Cale says, hushed. He keeps close to Kris, even as he awkwardly shuffles away, hands pulling at the tails of his white button down. Kris is doing his best to cover up his little situation, but the flush of shame on the back of his neck is delicious, and Cale can't help but taunt him. He wants to bite that pink skin till the imprints of his teeth leave white indents. "I know your mom loves me, but could you imagine if she knew how slutty her little boy really is? Huh, Kris?"
Kris rounds on Cale then, eyes flashing dark. The foyer of the reception hall is empty, though Cale can see a couple of guys out on the balcony, cigars thick between their lips, the smoke curling up into the night sky. Kris opens his mouth to speak, then catches himself; changes his mind. Cale wraps his fingers around Kris's wrist and starts for the bathroom, but Kris digs his heels in, pulling back. "No," he says, and Cale falters. No matter how much he likes to pushes Kris buttons, he'd never actually force him to do anything, but --
"This way," Kris says, the corner of his mouth quirking up. He can read Cale like a book, something he'll never let him forget. Cale lets the resistance snap, push-pull shifting like it always has over the years between them. Kris pushes open the door that leads outside, throwing a carefree wave to the gentlemen occupying the patio. "Nice night," Kris says to them and Cale barely has time to nod his agreement before he's being dragged down the stone steps and out to the dark lawn.
Kris lets go of Cale's wrist then, but stalks across the grass with a determined stride that Cale can only follow. It takes a minute, but Kris finds a shadowed entryway that seems to suit his purpose and slinks his way in.
"Here," Kris says and reaches out, sliding his fingers through Cale's hair and tugging him where he wants. Kris bites at Cale's mouth, punishing him for the earlier taunts. Cale doesn't complain. It's frantic, Kris's want poured into dragging kisses, his lips parting easily for Cale's tongue, though it's not until Cale presses his thigh between Kris's legs that Kris melts against the wall, arching prettily and baring his neck. Cale slides his palms up Kris's shirt, starched fresh and crisp. The tip of Kris's tie drags across the back of Cale's knuckles and he lets the fabric twine around his wrists, tugging until the knot slips up and Kris gasps, eyes going wide.
Cale shifts his hips forward, the friction of Kris's hip against his cock little more than a tease. But the way Kris's eyes are blown wide with want, his mouth open and wet and gasping for air -- Cale leans in and drags his stubbled cheek over Kris's smooth one, delighting in the shiver it elicits almost as much as the gasp that falls from Kris's lips.
"Like that, huh?" Cale says and lets the tie go slack. Kris reaches up and claws at the constriction around his neck before collapsing against the wall, panting hard.
"Fuck," he says, voice gone ragged and deep.
"That's the idea," Cale says. Kris rolls his eyes, but spares Cale half of a grin. Cale chuckles.
He manages to get Kris's shirt unbuttoned, pushing it off his shoulders. Kris squirms, trying to let it fall, but the rolled up cuffs catch on his forearms. "Crap, help me -- "
"Naw," Cale says, and leans in to mouth at Kris's collarbone. Kris doesn't hold back -- never could -- and Cale grins against his skin, dragging his chin down, scratching his beard across flesh just to hear Kris cry out: shocked, hurt little whimpers that melt into the night air. He nuzzles against Kris's chest, grazing his cheek over one nipple. Kris arches away from the wall, his hands still caught behind his back, and Cale licks away the sting, Kris begging and moaning the whole time.
"C'mon. Cale." The lilt in Kris's voice is exactly what Cale has been waiting for, need and want almost at the level Cale deals with every day, what he's forced to squash down in himself just watching, just being by Kris's side, unable to do this whenever he wants. But now --
Now he can. Now Kris is debauched, skin glistening with sweat, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, tie dangling and dragging over his stomach. Cale knows it must be pure torture on his overly sensitive skin.
"Just begging for it, aren't you," he says, and steps back, leaving Kris propped against the wall, his legs spread wide to keep balance, fabric straining against his cock. Cale unbuttons his own shirt, slow, letting Kris stew and watch; leaves it on, but makes a show of rubbing his own cock through his pants. He wants Kris to see what he does to him, needs him to understand.
"Cale," Kris says. His voice is shot through, no matter how authoritative he tries for, and the sound of his name fro Kris's lips, again and again, so desperate, turns Cale on even more.
"Turn around," Cale orders. Kris glares at him, a spot of snark so obviously on the tip of his tongue, but a step back wipes that look from Kris's face. He turns towards the wall but twists his torso back, wiggling his fingers where they're trapped against the small of his back.
"You mind?" he says and Cale debates for a moment; pictures driving into Kris while he can't even support himself, while he relies on Cale to hold him steady, to hold him up. It's a nice image, for sure, but the stucco on the wall makes it a cruel impracticality.
Cale steps back in to fill the void behind Kris. He runs his fingers down the back of Kris's neck just to watch him shiver and arch into the touch. "Can't scrape up that pretty face," Cale says, and drags his knuckles across Kris's cheek, baby-soft and smooth. "Mama insist you be all clean cut for the society ball, baby boy?"
Kris laughs, short and indignant. "Not all of us are cavemen, you know."
"Not all of us are Mama's boys," says Cale. He gets more laughter in response. "Fine," he concedes, tugging the shirt free of Kris's wrists. He balls it up and shoves it into Kris's hands, giving him something to cushion against. Then, finally, Cale can trail his ragged nails down Kris's chest, his abs, though the coarse hair just above his belt. "But not all of us dress like a total schoolboy slut, either. You're so obvious, Kris, these damn khackis, were you trying to drive me insane? You know you don't have to try so hard, you know I'll always want --"
"Yes, ok, yeah. Worked though, didn't it?" Kris has got that smug-grin on his face again, but one rough drag of Cale's cheek down Kris's back wipes it away. "Oh, god. I want -- we don't have time," Kris whines, and lets his forehead fall onto his shirt, bending so his glasses aren't in the way. His fingertips grasp at the tiniest dips in the wall's surface.
Cale undoes Kris's buckle in a rush. His own watch hangs heavy on his wrist, reminding him of the too short window of time they have. Cale's fingertips barely brush over the cotton covering Kris's dick, but Kris thrusts up anyways, desperate for sensation. He starts to push off the wall, his right arm dropping.
"No," Cale says. He grabs hold of Kris's wrist, so tiny in the circle of Cale's thumb and forefinger, fragile. "Hands on the wall."
Kris shakes his head, pout visible over the curve of his shoulder, but does as he's told. Cale rewards him by tugging everything down in one smooth movement: wool dress pants, cotton briefs. They pool around Kris's ankles, limiting him still, but there is just no way they're pausing to get shoes off in all this.
"C'mon," Kris says. He tosses his shirt in a dry spot just a few feet away; lets his glasses fall onto the cushion the fabric makes. Then he presses his palms to the stucco and spreads his legs as far as he can and Cale just stares. The cicadas creak in the distance, white noise that blends with the rush of blood pounding through his veins. He can remember that very first time, still, remembers Kris flopping down onto his bed, drunk and exhausted and hurting, Cale pulling off his shoes and trying to tuck him in. Kris grabbed onto the front of Cale's shirt, whispered, "Please," and the pain bleeding through the crack in his voice was enough to split Cale's heart down the center.
"Cale."
"Uh. Yeah," Cale says, stepping back. He pulls a tube of lube from his pocket before loosening his pants enough to get his cock free, hard and glistening at the tip. He slicks his fingers up and slides them over the dusty rose skin between Kris's ass; presses one in, then another, the pause between all too brief. No matter his earlier promise, there's no way he's hurting Kris, but Kris opens beautifully for him, slick with lube and crying out so prettily. "C'mon, want it, Cale."
He fucks back onto Cale's fingers, so damn tight and hot. Cale's head spins, but he manages to drag his fingertips out, smearing wetly across Kris's ass before slapping him once, the mark blossoming dark in his wake. "Hold on," he warns, but Kris is impatient, shifting restlessly in his grasp, legs spread, his forehead braced against his forearms and the wall. Cale reaches over Kris's shoulder with his free hand and uses the tie to make his point, tugging hard. "I said hold still."
Kris hips lock, then, no movement but the beautiful arch of his back, his legs shaking with the strain of keeping from thrusting like he wants. Cale rips into the condom and gets it ion as quickly as he can; grips Kris's hip hard with one hand and lines up with the other, sucking in a deep breath. His head spins. Kris is so hot, his body open, and Cale rests his forehead on the bare sliver of skin between Kris's shoulder blades and stares down, watching his cock push between the curve of Kris's ass.
He knows Kris is biting the side of his wrist to keep from crying out. When Cale finally bottoms out, the backs of Kris's thighs pressed tight against his own, he lets out the breath he'd been holding. "You're..it's," he tries, but no words can describe the feeling, the way Kris feels around him, all over his skin, his body.
Kris makes another one of those hurt, needy noises that Cale loves more than anything else in the world, so he lets his body do what it wants; draws back, shifts forward. He tries valiantly to go slow, but he knows there isn't time for that, so he finally gives into the drumbeat his heart has set up against his ribcage; matches the rhythm with his thrusts.
There's no way to keep silent now, the slap of skin on skin ringing in Cale's ears as Kris moans, oh-so-sweetly, and sucks in hiccuping gasps of air. His fingers are scrambling on the wall but there's nowhere to really grasp. Cale takes pity on him and slides his palm over the back of Kris's right hand; drags it down the wall and wraps it around Kris's dick. Kris sighs happily, never faltering the movement of his hips.
"Take it so good, Kris, you're. So amazing," Cale says. It overwhelms Cale every time, the praise Kris pulls out of him every time they do this, but it's true, it's real. Someone told Cale once that good sex, coming with someone you loved, worshiped -- it'd be as close to God as he could ever get from earth. The thought swirls through his mind now, but he knows it's not even about the sex, sometimes. Just. Being so close, with Kris -- it's enough.
And then Kris starts begging, those pretty lips bitten an abused shade of pink. "Close, Cale, please, I need..."
Cale thrusts harder; digs his fingers into Kris's hips. Kris's fist is working furiously over his cock, smearing wet and dirty, the sounds of their fucking filling the alcove, echoing off the high arches. Kris's eyes are shut, lashes fanned over his cheeks, the hair at his temples and on his forearm matted and slick with sweat. Cale drags one hand up to pinch at Kris's nipple, wants to send him over the edge. It's becoming harder and harder for Cale to hold out himself.
"Cale," Kris says. His eyes are open, now, wild and desperate. Cale stills, lost until his hand brushes under the tie still hanging from Kris's neck. Kris's eyes slip shut; he shudders.
"Oh," Cale says. "Okay. I've got you."
He leans in, brushing his lips over Kris's temple, salty sweetness on his lips, Kris's smile blissful. His hips never stop, the rhythm too precious to break and Cale takes a deep breath himself. He wraps the tie around his fingers again and tugs.
The knot slips up, right into the hollow space between Kris's collarbones. The pressure must be just right, because Kris's eyes fly open, pupils wide and dark. He thrusts back up into his own fist faster now, the tip of his cock barely slipping out between his fingers before he's sliding up again, his ass clenching around Cale's cock. Cale's chest slides against the back of Kris's. He should have taken off his own shirt, Cale thinks all to late, sweat gathering beneath his arms, sliding down to tickle at his bellybutton, his cock, further still.
Cale can't tear his eyes off Kris's face. His mouth is working to form words that he can't voice, his face flushing from the lack of air. Tears form at the corners of his eyes. "C'mon, Kris, you can come. It'll feel so good," Cale urges and fucks up once more, sharp, mumbling nonsense and praise into Kris's ear as he comes. He drags his chin down the spot right behind Kris's jaw, stubble leaving red marks in its wake and there, there, Kris locks up completely, screaming without a sound and coming hard all over his fingers, the wall.
Cale reaches up instantly and presses his fingers under the band of fabric around Kris's throat, wriggling until he can loosen it and pull it away from skin. Kris's heartbeat flutters under his fingertips, pounding like a drum, so rapid that there's know way for Cale to know the keep the beat. He gets the tie pulled open even more; mouths at the reddened skin, letting his tongue drag across the marks, tasting the tears that had rolled down Kris's cheeks to dampen the material.
When the contractions of Kris's throat beneath Cale's lips evens out, Cale finally unwraps his arms from Kris's torso and pulls out. He makes quick work of the condom, knotting it and throwing it behind a bush right outside the alcove, then pulls his pants up, starting to straighten up. Kris has spun around, his bare shoulders still pressed to the stucco to keep him steady. He looks completely dazed, mouth abused, eyes half-lidded. His breathing is still uneven, chest rising and falling, shiny with sweat. Cale gives a half-hearted laugh.
"Well if you weren't obvious before," he says. He bends down and tugs Kris's boxer-briefs and pants back up his thighs, over the curve of his ass. "Sore?" he asks, zipping and getting Kris pulled back together.
"Nah, just. A minute more?"
Cale smiles. Kris could ask him for a minute, an hour, the rest of his life. He looks at his watch, then crowds back against Kris, running his hands over those smooth shoulders to check for bruises, skating his fingertips across Kris's jaw to sooth the reddened skin burned by stubble.
"Ok," Cale says and finishes up his inspection by pressing his mouth over Kris's, trading lazy kisses until that easy peace is once again in every measured breath.
1. title from this Lena Horne song, since I was in the mood.
2. this is what Kris looked like later that night, so. YEAH.
