Making Music [NC17] Steve Carlson/Chris Kane
Title: Making Music
Rated: NC-17
Beta: marys_scribbles who was both fast and accurate. Many thanks go to her.
Word Count: 1,929
Author's notes: There's really no plot here It's all mood... and porn.
Slash pairing: Steve Carlson/Chris Kane
Chris knows Steve Carlson. I mean, he knows everything about Steve. They’re best buds. He knows how Steve sneaks outside for a crafty smoke when he’s at formal do. He knows that Steve is charming, and talented and friendly, and that his happy go lucky exterior hides a determination to march to his own drum no matter what.
Chris has hung with Steve for years now, and they always have a good time. They share a taste for music, for cold beer and hot women, and Chris has shared many an evening drinking down the moon as they sing and play their way to bliss.
So as Steve stands beside him on the stage, Chris doesn’t need to look at him to know that he’s moving to the music, fingers deft as they scamper over his guitar strings. Chris knows that Steve’s eyelids are closed, masking the ice blue eyes that twinkle so engagingly when he’s not on stage.
As usual, they can’t find the playlist, and Steve’s husky voice floats in Chris’s ears, laughter in the easy sound of it. “Pick one. You want to do sweet or angry?” There’s a laugh in his eyes, amusement in his voice as Chris drops his head and frowns. When he’s on stage, he’s in the moment, and he relies on Steve to keep him grounded.
“Put me on the spot like that, fucker,” he growls. “Let’s do angry.” And he breathes easy, lifts his head and grins out at the audience as Steve starts in on “Spirit Boy.”
They know each other. Chris knows that Steve’s there for him. Steve’s guitar playing spins a cradle for Chris’s voice to inhabit, the silvery notes weaving around him as he sings, and effortless harmonies blend, the whole being so much more than the sum of the parts.
They play, and Steve seems to read his mind, segueing effortlessly into “Mary Can You Come Outside” and then, pausing, waiting for Chris to deliver one of the anecdotes that his audience loves.
It’s easy to be with Steve. He doesn’t demand, doesn’t argue, and his sunny temperament complements Chris’s harder edge. Steve soothes him when he’s angry, which he is fairly often, being a hot tempered sort of guy. He gets him home when he’s drunk, and dumps him into bed, finds the aspirin and doesn’t say a word when he hands him the bucket. What more could a friend have to offer? And through everything that Steve does, everything that Steve is, runs the music, like lace in the window, filtering perception and making beauty where it touches.
And so Chris turns to Steve and gives him a cheerful grin. “You wanna do one? I’ma take a leak, and besides, they wanna hear that sexy voice.”
“Fuck off,” says Steve with a grin. “Okay, folks, you hear that? He drank too much, and he has to go drain the lizard, so I get to entertain you while he’s gone.”
He doesn’t wait. He begins to play, and it’s ‘Wasted Jamie”, so the audience all sing along, and he’s got them eating out of the palm of his hand, with his ‘most requested campfire song.’ Chris still isn’t back, so he settles down and begins to play “Pinata Novia”, and when Chris returns, he’s singing, “I don’t know why I’m always tryin’ to get inside of you…” and for a moment, their eyes meet, and that’s when Chris sees it.
He sees it, but for a moment he doesn’t believe it, because, damn it, this is Steve, and he’s known Steve since forever, and he’s never seen that before - that hungry look. For a moment, he almost felt as though that song was for him.
He returns to the stage as Steve’s singing the last couple of lines, and now he’s taking note, checking out the faded jeans that fit where they touch, the casual shirt, open at the neck and rolled up to his elbows, displaying the bling Steve seems to love so much - chains and crosses and the turquoise bracelet that Chris gave him.
And he’s really looking. He’s watching how Steve’s fingers move, seeing the slack lids drift down over ice-blue eyes and seeing how the music cuts him, knows that there’s pain in beauty, and somehow accepting that Steve bleeds when he sings things as emotionally revealing as this song.
Then it’s over, and Steve’s murmuring something about his theory that you don’t buy beer, you only lease it, and there’s that wicked smile on his face that makes him seem as if he’s about eight years old and still untouched by life.
And Chris is tongue-tied for the moment, because he’s seeing Steve in a totally new way. He’s seeing the aura of desire around Steve, sensing something he hasn’t ever thought about in the past, and it’s hit him like a ton of bricks.
“My esteemed and articulate partner here is going to sing something for you now,” smirks Steve, frowning a little as he senses Chris’s confusion. Chris swallows around a suddenly thick tongue and pinches himself to shake off the sudden want he’s got going for him.
“My apologies,” he says, turning to look at his audience rather than his buddy, because he really needs to get over this and fast if he’s to finish the night without saying something he might regret. “And now, let’s get things moving…”
And there’s music, and as always the crowd adores them, applauds them, hangs around afterwards and wants a piece of them. As ever, it’s freely given, even though Chris just wants to get his shit packed away and corner Steve somewhere quiet where he can ask him what the fuck, because of course that’s what he’s going to do, isn’t it? Talk? Yeah. Right!
But at last they’re gone, the pretty girls that stroke his arms while he’s signing their CD covers, the not so pretty ones that want to talk earnestly about getting them to play somewhere that isn’t here, and the dangerous ones that cluster around Steve and make him want to growl and yell until they leave him be. And Steve has that smile in his eyes again as he studies Chris.
“So what was eating you back on the stage there? You almost lost it for a while.” Steve’s lounging against the wall, amps and guitar cases strewn around him, smoking a cigarette as he finishes up his shot of Jack.
“Dunno,” he answers, eloquent as all hell. “Was your fault. You looked at me.”
“Well, excuse me,” drawls Steve, and there’s that look again - the one he was wearing before, but he’s closer to it now, and there’s no packed audience to save him from doing something stupid. “A cat may look at a king,” he adds, and Chris freezes, can’t look away. There’s a smile on Steve’s face. Maybe, Chris thinks, the smile is because he can see that Chris has a hard on, or at least he's pretty sure that’s why that smile is there. He can’t breathe, so he steps forward, grabs his guitar case and one of the amps and turns to head out.
Back in their room, they stow their gear, and then all of a sudden it’s Chris and Steve, and there’s nothing to occupy them to take away from the tension hanging between them. Chris is preternaturally aware of Steve, the scent of him, the way his hair curls against his collar, and that amused, blue-eyed stare.
“You’re thoughtful today,” says Steve, with the little half-smile that seems to be hotlinked to Chris’s dick. “Be careful. I can smell the burning from here.”
“What is this? Make fun of Christian day?” He’s feeling a little irritated now, wants to reach out and wind his fingers in Steve’s hair, yank him in and shut him up and…
Steve’s starting to get ready for bed, shirt off and those white, drawstring pants he wears in one hand as he heads for the bathroom. “This and every day, my man,” he calls over his shoulder, and that’s it. Chris can’t do it any more - can’t keep still, most definitely can’t shut up. He takes two steps and reaches and his hand touches firm, hard flesh. Steve stops, turns, looking mildly surprised, and Chris’s hand slips upwards unbidden, winds itself in that hair just the way he was imagining it a little earlier.
Steve’s eyes widen, and the sleepy smile is gone from his face. In its place is something darker, more predatory. He takes in a short, sharp gasp of air and stops, still, waiting for Chris to make a move.
It takes Chris a moment to shake his brain loose, because the sight of Steve, gold and blue and infinitely desirable, has seized him. He slowly reels Steve in, still uncertain what will happen, merely knowing that something will.
When their lips touch, it’s somehow delicate. There’s a kiss, but it’s the merest whisper of a meeting between them, and Chris aches, his fingers tighten in Steve’s hair and when he draws away, Steve’s tongue peeks out, plump and pink and shiny, to travel where Chris’s mouth touched.
And that is the sexiest thing ever. That makes him shiver and gasp, and then break loose. He tries again, and Steve hasn’t moved, and this time - oh, this time the kiss is real and wet and bruising as he does his best to climb inside of Steve, to taste and feel and know at last exactly what that enigmatic smile means.
Steve’s arms go around him. It’s pretty obvious that he’s got the same thing driving him that Chris has - Chris can tell that the moment their bodies collide, because Steve’s hard against him, rolling his hips to get the thrill started up. He smiles against Steve’s mouth and mumbles something incoherent about not taking a shower til it’s worth it.
Laughing, Steve nods, starts walking him backwards until they topple onto one of the beds and roll there, neither sure which of them is going to drive, laughing and struggling until finally there’s the need to taste each other again and they are momentarily still.
Chris winds up on top - of course - he thinks to himself. Chris Kane is a leader of men, but Steve’s being pretty damned demanding considering he’s flat on his back with Chris’s tongue in his mouth.
And there’s laughter, maybe a little biting, because Chris starts back with an, “Ow, fuck!” and almost loses his place on the top of the pile. And Steve begins to writhe, body sliding and rolling against him, until he can’t think straight any more, can’t keep it together. He starts back with a curse and has to unzip, let his cock loose, because he wants to feel Steve against him, Steve touching him.
So then they’re naked, and Chris has no clue how to proceed, except that when he humps against Steve it feels too good to want to stop. They’re locked mouth to mouth and that’s not negotiable. Chris can’t quite catch his breath, but he can’t stop either, dick rubbing against scratchy pubic hair until Steve fumbles between them to find it and hold it, rocking and squeezing, stroking and bucking until all of a sudden it’s the white-hot-flicker-flashing tingle as the boundaries break between them and he loses it with a cry of absolute ecstasy.
And when it’s done, they’re lying, sticky and sweat-soaked together, there’s no guilt or shame in Steve’s eyes. All there is, is that smile that says he knows something Chris doesn’t, and all he says is, “Bout time.”
Rated: NC-17
Beta: marys_scribbles who was both fast and accurate. Many thanks go to her.
Word Count: 1,929
Author's notes: There's really no plot here It's all mood... and porn.
Slash pairing: Steve Carlson/Chris Kane
Chris knows Steve Carlson. I mean, he knows everything about Steve. They’re best buds. He knows how Steve sneaks outside for a crafty smoke when he’s at formal do. He knows that Steve is charming, and talented and friendly, and that his happy go lucky exterior hides a determination to march to his own drum no matter what.
Chris has hung with Steve for years now, and they always have a good time. They share a taste for music, for cold beer and hot women, and Chris has shared many an evening drinking down the moon as they sing and play their way to bliss.
So as Steve stands beside him on the stage, Chris doesn’t need to look at him to know that he’s moving to the music, fingers deft as they scamper over his guitar strings. Chris knows that Steve’s eyelids are closed, masking the ice blue eyes that twinkle so engagingly when he’s not on stage.
As usual, they can’t find the playlist, and Steve’s husky voice floats in Chris’s ears, laughter in the easy sound of it. “Pick one. You want to do sweet or angry?” There’s a laugh in his eyes, amusement in his voice as Chris drops his head and frowns. When he’s on stage, he’s in the moment, and he relies on Steve to keep him grounded.
“Put me on the spot like that, fucker,” he growls. “Let’s do angry.” And he breathes easy, lifts his head and grins out at the audience as Steve starts in on “Spirit Boy.”
They know each other. Chris knows that Steve’s there for him. Steve’s guitar playing spins a cradle for Chris’s voice to inhabit, the silvery notes weaving around him as he sings, and effortless harmonies blend, the whole being so much more than the sum of the parts.
They play, and Steve seems to read his mind, segueing effortlessly into “Mary Can You Come Outside” and then, pausing, waiting for Chris to deliver one of the anecdotes that his audience loves.
It’s easy to be with Steve. He doesn’t demand, doesn’t argue, and his sunny temperament complements Chris’s harder edge. Steve soothes him when he’s angry, which he is fairly often, being a hot tempered sort of guy. He gets him home when he’s drunk, and dumps him into bed, finds the aspirin and doesn’t say a word when he hands him the bucket. What more could a friend have to offer? And through everything that Steve does, everything that Steve is, runs the music, like lace in the window, filtering perception and making beauty where it touches.
And so Chris turns to Steve and gives him a cheerful grin. “You wanna do one? I’ma take a leak, and besides, they wanna hear that sexy voice.”
“Fuck off,” says Steve with a grin. “Okay, folks, you hear that? He drank too much, and he has to go drain the lizard, so I get to entertain you while he’s gone.”
He doesn’t wait. He begins to play, and it’s ‘Wasted Jamie”, so the audience all sing along, and he’s got them eating out of the palm of his hand, with his ‘most requested campfire song.’ Chris still isn’t back, so he settles down and begins to play “Pinata Novia”, and when Chris returns, he’s singing, “I don’t know why I’m always tryin’ to get inside of you…” and for a moment, their eyes meet, and that’s when Chris sees it.
He sees it, but for a moment he doesn’t believe it, because, damn it, this is Steve, and he’s known Steve since forever, and he’s never seen that before - that hungry look. For a moment, he almost felt as though that song was for him.
He returns to the stage as Steve’s singing the last couple of lines, and now he’s taking note, checking out the faded jeans that fit where they touch, the casual shirt, open at the neck and rolled up to his elbows, displaying the bling Steve seems to love so much - chains and crosses and the turquoise bracelet that Chris gave him.
And he’s really looking. He’s watching how Steve’s fingers move, seeing the slack lids drift down over ice-blue eyes and seeing how the music cuts him, knows that there’s pain in beauty, and somehow accepting that Steve bleeds when he sings things as emotionally revealing as this song.
Then it’s over, and Steve’s murmuring something about his theory that you don’t buy beer, you only lease it, and there’s that wicked smile on his face that makes him seem as if he’s about eight years old and still untouched by life.
And Chris is tongue-tied for the moment, because he’s seeing Steve in a totally new way. He’s seeing the aura of desire around Steve, sensing something he hasn’t ever thought about in the past, and it’s hit him like a ton of bricks.
“My esteemed and articulate partner here is going to sing something for you now,” smirks Steve, frowning a little as he senses Chris’s confusion. Chris swallows around a suddenly thick tongue and pinches himself to shake off the sudden want he’s got going for him.
“My apologies,” he says, turning to look at his audience rather than his buddy, because he really needs to get over this and fast if he’s to finish the night without saying something he might regret. “And now, let’s get things moving…”
And there’s music, and as always the crowd adores them, applauds them, hangs around afterwards and wants a piece of them. As ever, it’s freely given, even though Chris just wants to get his shit packed away and corner Steve somewhere quiet where he can ask him what the fuck, because of course that’s what he’s going to do, isn’t it? Talk? Yeah. Right!
But at last they’re gone, the pretty girls that stroke his arms while he’s signing their CD covers, the not so pretty ones that want to talk earnestly about getting them to play somewhere that isn’t here, and the dangerous ones that cluster around Steve and make him want to growl and yell until they leave him be. And Steve has that smile in his eyes again as he studies Chris.
“So what was eating you back on the stage there? You almost lost it for a while.” Steve’s lounging against the wall, amps and guitar cases strewn around him, smoking a cigarette as he finishes up his shot of Jack.
“Dunno,” he answers, eloquent as all hell. “Was your fault. You looked at me.”
“Well, excuse me,” drawls Steve, and there’s that look again - the one he was wearing before, but he’s closer to it now, and there’s no packed audience to save him from doing something stupid. “A cat may look at a king,” he adds, and Chris freezes, can’t look away. There’s a smile on Steve’s face. Maybe, Chris thinks, the smile is because he can see that Chris has a hard on, or at least he's pretty sure that’s why that smile is there. He can’t breathe, so he steps forward, grabs his guitar case and one of the amps and turns to head out.
Back in their room, they stow their gear, and then all of a sudden it’s Chris and Steve, and there’s nothing to occupy them to take away from the tension hanging between them. Chris is preternaturally aware of Steve, the scent of him, the way his hair curls against his collar, and that amused, blue-eyed stare.
“You’re thoughtful today,” says Steve, with the little half-smile that seems to be hotlinked to Chris’s dick. “Be careful. I can smell the burning from here.”
“What is this? Make fun of Christian day?” He’s feeling a little irritated now, wants to reach out and wind his fingers in Steve’s hair, yank him in and shut him up and…
Steve’s starting to get ready for bed, shirt off and those white, drawstring pants he wears in one hand as he heads for the bathroom. “This and every day, my man,” he calls over his shoulder, and that’s it. Chris can’t do it any more - can’t keep still, most definitely can’t shut up. He takes two steps and reaches and his hand touches firm, hard flesh. Steve stops, turns, looking mildly surprised, and Chris’s hand slips upwards unbidden, winds itself in that hair just the way he was imagining it a little earlier.
Steve’s eyes widen, and the sleepy smile is gone from his face. In its place is something darker, more predatory. He takes in a short, sharp gasp of air and stops, still, waiting for Chris to make a move.
It takes Chris a moment to shake his brain loose, because the sight of Steve, gold and blue and infinitely desirable, has seized him. He slowly reels Steve in, still uncertain what will happen, merely knowing that something will.
When their lips touch, it’s somehow delicate. There’s a kiss, but it’s the merest whisper of a meeting between them, and Chris aches, his fingers tighten in Steve’s hair and when he draws away, Steve’s tongue peeks out, plump and pink and shiny, to travel where Chris’s mouth touched.
And that is the sexiest thing ever. That makes him shiver and gasp, and then break loose. He tries again, and Steve hasn’t moved, and this time - oh, this time the kiss is real and wet and bruising as he does his best to climb inside of Steve, to taste and feel and know at last exactly what that enigmatic smile means.
Steve’s arms go around him. It’s pretty obvious that he’s got the same thing driving him that Chris has - Chris can tell that the moment their bodies collide, because Steve’s hard against him, rolling his hips to get the thrill started up. He smiles against Steve’s mouth and mumbles something incoherent about not taking a shower til it’s worth it.
Laughing, Steve nods, starts walking him backwards until they topple onto one of the beds and roll there, neither sure which of them is going to drive, laughing and struggling until finally there’s the need to taste each other again and they are momentarily still.
Chris winds up on top - of course - he thinks to himself. Chris Kane is a leader of men, but Steve’s being pretty damned demanding considering he’s flat on his back with Chris’s tongue in his mouth.
And there’s laughter, maybe a little biting, because Chris starts back with an, “Ow, fuck!” and almost loses his place on the top of the pile. And Steve begins to writhe, body sliding and rolling against him, until he can’t think straight any more, can’t keep it together. He starts back with a curse and has to unzip, let his cock loose, because he wants to feel Steve against him, Steve touching him.
So then they’re naked, and Chris has no clue how to proceed, except that when he humps against Steve it feels too good to want to stop. They’re locked mouth to mouth and that’s not negotiable. Chris can’t quite catch his breath, but he can’t stop either, dick rubbing against scratchy pubic hair until Steve fumbles between them to find it and hold it, rocking and squeezing, stroking and bucking until all of a sudden it’s the white-hot-flicker-flashing tingle as the boundaries break between them and he loses it with a cry of absolute ecstasy.
And when it’s done, they’re lying, sticky and sweat-soaked together, there’s no guilt or shame in Steve’s eyes. All there is, is that smile that says he knows something Chris doesn’t, and all he says is, “Bout time.”