RPF FIC: Cabin Fever
Title: Cabin Fever
Word Count: approx 3,000 words
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairing: Chris Pine/Karl Urban
Warnings: This is RPF, so if it’s not your bag, don’t nag, don’t read. Open relationship/adultery, angst, feet, semi-public sexytimez
disclaimerThis is all made up entirely for my own entertainment and has no bearing on reality.
Summary: Spring 2009, the publicity tour. On the long flight from Sydney to Hong Kong, everyone in first class is asleep… except Chris and Karl.
A/N This is a ‘deleted scene’ from : Les mots justes (les marques permanentes) which I co-wrote with blcwriter and can be found HERE . It isn’t necessary to read that fic for this to work, but seriously, go read it anyway!
I wrote this for blcwriter as her birthday pressie! I love you, bb!
Thanks to the glorious, abigail89 , for speedy beta reading and for her patience with me!
intriguing snippet: Karl leans across the small space between them, drops the phone onto Chris’ lap and slouches back, waits, this look on his face that makes Chris want to lick and punch him at the same time.
Cabin Fever
April 8th, 2009 - 09:15
“Zach!”
“Shush, I’m thinking-“
“Put the magazines down, we’re boarding-“
Zach’s holding aloft two issues of GQ, side by side, one with Adriana Lima on the cover, the other with Eric. His head cocked to the side as his eyes ping-pong between the two.
“Zach, come the fuck on, and what the hell is it with you and facial hair anyway?”
“I am merely comparing the aesthetic merits, Christopher. In fact, much to my surprise, I prefer this one.” His finger runs down the palm frond concealing Lima on a beach. Chris glances at the cover, sighs, then extracts the mags from Zach’s fingers like he’s taking a machine gun from a child; he drags his elbow across Eric’s cover as if to wipe Zach’s drool off, places them on the stand, and turns his friend round so he’s facing the door.
Zach plays along, pouts, stiffens his legs like a toddler being dragged from a costume party by his dad and Chris giggles. Yeah, he fucking giggles - he cannot be judged for he’s going to see Karl, in the flesh, for the first time since the Sydney premiere. Okay, where Karl didn’t so much as look at Chris, acknowledge his existence even. And later, Karl didn’t text or call when Chris cried off the after party early in the hope they could be together.
Something twists in his chest-- shame maybe; certainly embarrassment that he’s the ‘other woman’ making do with crumbs from Karl’s over-laden table. The laughter catches in his throat, then dies.
They’re back in the VIP lounge and Chris can’t see Karl, doesn’t dare ask if he’s checked in. Wonders if Karl’s fucking with him, or if he’s just missed the plane and, damn, he must have because he’s not there, he just isn’t. Again.
+++
Chris dumps his bag on his seat and then joins Zach, sits opposite of him while the passengers in economy board, treading water until it’s time for take-off. He can’t stand the wait for Karl to show, and he’s not sure whether he should pretend to be asleep or engrossed in a book. He’s too damn tired to, you know, act. And when the hell did he turn into this - a scheming, clip-cutting, internet-stalking fucking fan-girl of his co-star?
Zach’s fiddling with Chris’ iPod. “Jesus, just leave it, Quinto, I don’t need another vegan playlist.” His hands are pushing at Zach who’s folded his knees up to his chest, eyes and mouth wide in mock terror, like Chris is about to beat him, his arm extended above them, iPod aloft. Yeah, bless him, he’s distracting and always fun. So nothing quite prepares Chris for the way his heart slides and falls into his chucks when he hears his voice-
“G and T, please. And make it a large one.“
That warm chuckle sends a hit of lust through empty veins, makes Chris drop his chin to his chest and grip Zach’s jacket hard; he can fucking feel Zach’s eyes drilling into his forehead. Chris lets go and makes to kick Zach, but he’s moved his foot, the bastard. He glares at the playlist and grinds his teeth; his eye twitches.
Chris senses Zach turn in his seat, winces when he says, “Hey, Karl!”
Then John chips in from somewhere behind them. “Over here, man, I saved you a seat -“
Damn no, not there, sit near me, Chris thinks. He takes a deep breath, yeah, he can totally do this, looks up -- like a normal fucking human being and, you know, maybe speak without bursting into grateful tears when the sun emerges from behind the moon and the light’s returned -- Oh, for fuck’s sake, you can surely come up with something better to sum up this needy elation… Actually, he can’t, because he’s apparently a love-sick, stupid dumb fuck and years of education have abandoned him, left him naked and dumb and his stomach flipping like a fish caught on a line.
Karl sidles past them, hair an adorable mess; he pauses in the aisle, nods at Zach, and says, “Hey,” to Chris. His eyes are guarded; he keeps moving, and leaves behind that faint waft of whatever the hell it is that he sprays himself with after he showers and patently designed to just tear at Chris throat each time he breathes him in. Chris glares at Zach’s eyebrows communicating sympathy and accusations, one emotion each, and he lifts himself up somehow, and flops into his own cubby, shoves his headphones in, blocks everything out - well, everything on the outside.
Half an hour, that’s all he’s got to survive, then the plane will be up in the air for…fuck -- he looks at his watch -- an hour and a half? - till they change at Melbourne, then another couple of hours, and they’ll be on the long-haul to Hong Kong. He’ll sleep, take some valium or something, whatever it takes to last the interminable time-travel thing till they make Hong Kong and more fucking madness and flash-bulbs and screaming ‘cause, well - Simon’s heard there’s gonna be a giant Enterprise or something and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to cope with dorky Karl face without having at least spoken to him.
+++
April 8th, 2009 - 03:15
“Fuck, your arse looks good-“
Chris almost smacks his head against the window.
“Jesus, Karl,” he hisses, looking up and down the darkened aisle then back to Karl’s mouth, “people are sleeping-“ Fuck, he looks, just…
“Well I’m not-“ his voice is like treacle, really dirty treacle.
Damn, he wishes Karl would just put that eyebrow away and, how come he never blinks?
They both lean as one, look at the darkness through the window and Chris feels like he’s penned in a little; he’s torn between wanting to escape and wanting to press back into Karl, feel his breath on his neck again after all these months. He turns, it’s awkward, the curve of the cabin ceiling restricting his movement but he manages it, eyes on Karl’s chest, backs into the wall and holds a hand up between them, hoping Karl will get the sign language. Let me go. Let me pass. Karl’s head is entirely still, he’s standing far too fucking close and he swivels his eyes up from Chris’ throat to his forehead then stops at his eyes. Chris looks away.
“How ya been?” he croaks. Why haven’t you called me? He can smell toothpaste, fixes his eyes on a point on Karl’s shoulder.
“Twitchy,” Karl whispers.
“Well, we’ll be there in a few more hours…”
He feels a sure grip on his arm, looks down at tan fingers pressing into his skin. “That’s not what I mean.“
Chris steals another look at Karl’s face, sees his bottom lip’s dropped a little while he waits for Chris to respond. Well fuck, that’s just great now, isn’t it? not when he was alone, fucking waiting in Sydney, and that is never happening again. No way. This shit is so over…
“You can’t just-“
Fingers tighten, Karl glances over his shoulder, “I drowned my phone,” he says, doing his dorky face. “I was calling you from the bath, I had…er…well…I thought it would be nice to phone you and it slipped out of my hand and now…” Karl makes a pop pop pop sound, like a phone sinking down into the depths, uses his free hand to complete the picture, a big wide grin like the idiot he is, and it’s all Chris can do not to grab him there, kiss some fucking sense into him, make him understand.
“Oh,” he manages. Then - “What were you going to say?”
“Want me to tell you here?”
Jesus. “No, I-“ He’s hard, fucking treacherous, fucking cock.
“I can’t remember numbers, Chris, not like you youngsters.” Karl winks which totally isn’t fair, because he has no right to look like that, all stubbly and - - “Wanna see my new phone?”
What? No, why?
“Yes.”
Karl breaks his hold and Chris slumps against the wall again, watches him walk away five, six seats down the aisle. The blue lighting making him look like something out a film, like that fucking assassin he played that time. And Chris absolutely has never jerked off to the scene of Karl driving that car, large hands splayed over the steering wheel, purposeful, in control, mean eyes framed in the rear-view. Jesus. It’s all Chris can do to not sprint after him. He waits, heart dancing, kicking inside him, whole seconds and pads, barefoot, after him.
The cubicle’s private and the partition walls high enough so that when Chris slides into the guest seat opposite of Karl, he’ll know he won’t be seen should anyone walk past. Everyone else is asleep, not tormented by unrequited love, the lucky bastards. Karl’s collapsed and stowed the bed, so he’s sitting on the slightly larger passenger seat. He’s holding his new phone and he’s tapping away on it and Chris crosses his legs, scans the walls irritably, the floor, anywhere but Karl’s fingers while he waits, thinks he should remind Karl of his number.
Karl leans across the small space between them, drops the phone onto Chris’ lap and slouches back, waits, this look on his face that makes Chris want to lick and punch him at the same time.
He’s written something in the notes. Chris pushes his glasses up his nose, reads-
I want to watch you wank for me
A thrill of lust, of feeling alive, being Karl’s focus, makes Chris sit up as if he’s been shocked. “What? Now?” he mouths.
Karl arches an eyebrow and nods. There doesn’t seem to be much space in Chris‘ chest for air as he tugs in a shallow breath, his lip trembling very slightly when Karl reaches to the gap in the partition and draws the curtain across, sits back, spreads his legs wide and unbuttons his jeans. Karl lifts his ass up and works his dick out of the fly. Then when he hooks a long finger under his t and edges it up his taught stomach revealing a shadow of hair, Chris decides he’s never seen anything so hot and unobtainable in his life. He wants to say something but words compact in his throat; so he fumbles the phone, grateful for the back light, types, kind of amazed he has the co-ordination, hating that he has to temporarily look away.
I could come just looking at you
He hands it over, their fingers touching briefly sending another shock through him. Karl doesn’t break eye-contact till he reads the message, then closes his eyes for a second, rests the phone on the shelf and slides a bit further down in the seat. He’s got his hand wrapped around his dick, hooded eyes on Chris’ face, mouth slack and inviting, but he doesn’t move his fingers up or down, like he’s waiting for Chris to make the next call.
Chris swallows. This is fucking crazy - what if someone should see them? They could just be talking, sure - but with the curtain closed?
Karl turns off the reading light, extends a leg and nudges Chris’ knee with a bare toe. He hasn’t taken a good look at those long, sinewy feet since the night of his birthday, fucking months ago when he was last kneeling before Karl, his dick in his mouth, jacking himself off, fucking worshiping the ‘Kiwi Cad’ as Zach insists on calling him. Now he wants that again, but there’s a gap under the curtain and, sure, you’d only really see what’s happening in this light if you were happening to be advancing up the aisle in a commando crawl. But first-class is full of actors; they think that kind of behavior’s normal. So Chris complies. He drops his leg to the floor, the soft carpet making the oversensitive skin on the balls of his feet light up. He gasps in surprise when Karl raises his foot so it’s resting on the seat, just under his balls, pressing, insisting Chris do something about his hard-on.
Chris arches his back, pulls his cock free and, with the other hand, wraps his fingers round Karl’s ankle. Seriously, what he wants most? Just to kiss him, curl up next to him and go to sleep, Karl’s breath on his neck. But beggars can’t be choosers so he strokes Karl’s skin, the smooth arch, the hair on his ankles, watches Karl respond, nostrils flaring as he begins to roll his thumb across the head of his beautiful cock, knuckles moving slowly up and down until they fall into some kind of synch.
His eyes dart between Karl’s soft mouth and those white knuckles moving fast and then slow, lips curled, teeth clenched as Karl tries to stay quiet. Chris jacks himself off helplessly, varying the speed to see if they’ll fall back in step again - and they always do.
He pushes forward against Karl’s heel holding him in place, the pressure on his perineum so fucking right. He can smell his own arousal, as the pre-come leaks and slicks his fingers, thinks about Karl’s lips, how he looks when they’re stretched around his cock, how it’s just…his chin juts forward urgently as he feels himself getting close.
Karl lowers his leg and stretches to stroke the back of his calf and, fuck it, fuck it, Chris steps across the infinite small space between them, ducking down so he can’t be seen.
Karl curves an arm around the small of his back, slides sure fingers down the back of his pants, and the warmth, the certainty of those fingers, guide his body forward to make Chris crumple clumsily against the hard chest.
He twists awkwardly so he’s sitting in the small area beside Karl. His eyes are black in the half light, head thrown back, exposing yards of fucking neck and Chris drinks the sight in: the sinews, the line between stubble and soft skin beneath, the break of light chest hair, the jut of his Adam’s apple and fuck, he thinks, lifting his legs up, drapes them across Karl’s lap. He slides down further so he’s crushed as if in the womb, safe, cocooned. He clamps his mouth to Karl’s, whispering his need, his lust, unheard into the heat; he feels Karl begin to keen under him, his hand bumping repeatedly against the back of his leg as the urgency increases, his own hand pumping furiously. The skin on his dick’s dry, bursting, Karl’s free hand squashed between the partition wall and Chris’ back, under the cloth, over his skin, nails digging in and he hopes, Jesus, it’ll mark him, so he can look at the evidence later, know this is real.
“Fuck, fuck-miss you, Chris-“
His name hissed into his mouth, wet and heat, and breath and so solid, all the elements, Chris thinks dimly, for no one else to hear. He smothers Karl’s words, draws them deep, his eyes pricking, his heart pounding as the pressure builds.
His mouth and chin are raw from stubble and he’s squeezed his eyes shut, wishes he’d pulled his t-shirt out of the way, but it’s too late for that, too late. He’s falling, fallen, coming, sucking on Karl’s tongue as it fucks into him, his hips shuddering, twitching in a constricted arc into his hand, back into Karl’s touch until he’s drained, torn open and panting silently against Karl’s lips, not daring to look at him.
Karl licks at Chris’ mouth, struggles to release his hand from under them and guides Chris’ come covered fingers so he’s bent forward, holding Karl’s velvet, hard, scalding dick. Karl wraps his hand around Chris’, guiding the pressure and speed, almost imperceptible grunts and hitching breaths falling against his jaw. Chris manages to duck his head down again, neck straining under the pressure, they’re just too fucking tall the two of them to squash into this tiny space; there’s no room for them like this, but somehow, he manages with his left hand, wrist aching at the angle, fingers slipping and sliding, strangling, his free hand digging into the back of Karl’s neck and the moan, the fucking needy sound Karl makes when he comes, stills, letting Chris do all the work, just taking it, allowing his orgasm to carry him and Chris feels an elation, a hope at Karl’s guttural “missed you-”
“Think I’ve broken my neck,” Chris whispers bringing his fingers up to his mouth, licking at them, watching Karl’s eyes glitter in the dark like he’s about to disappear, evaporate before his eyes again. Karl’s lips stretch into a lazy smile and Chris leans in to kiss the creases at his mouth, lines he had nothing to do with in the making, stories that have nothing to do with him.
Somehow, he finds the strength to unwind their limbs, unglue their bodies and leave, not daring to look back when he feels the curtain rustle against him even before he’s quite out of the booth.
He makes his way to the rest room, his legs shaking, his face pulled into a semblance of normal and he nods at the air hostess in the kitchen, the smell of coffee stirring the sleeping passengers in the half-empty cabin. He can see light’s breaking in the real world outside and he falls into the privacy of the tiny space, locks the door, blinks in the ugly light and removes his glasses, rubs at his eyes, blown wide in the mirror, and stares at the face looking back at him accusingly.
“Dick,” he informs his reflection but the face doesn’t look like it’s learned a damned thing; it looks love-stoned and determined. Dick.
When Chris emerges, the cabin’s lights are up. He makes his way back to his own space, his glasses hooked into the neck of his t, because, well, he doesn’t need to see a fucking thing. He knows the way back to his space without them. He’s walked this route enough times already.
END
Feedback is love!
Word Count: approx 3,000 words
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairing: Chris Pine/Karl Urban
Warnings: This is RPF, so if it’s not your bag, don’t nag, don’t read. Open relationship/adultery, angst, feet, semi-public sexytimez
disclaimerThis is all made up entirely for my own entertainment and has no bearing on reality.
Summary: Spring 2009, the publicity tour. On the long flight from Sydney to Hong Kong, everyone in first class is asleep… except Chris and Karl.
A/N This is a ‘deleted scene’ from : Les mots justes (les marques permanentes) which I co-wrote with blcwriter and can be found HERE . It isn’t necessary to read that fic for this to work, but seriously, go read it anyway!
I wrote this for blcwriter as her birthday pressie! I love you, bb!
Thanks to the glorious, abigail89 , for speedy beta reading and for her patience with me!
intriguing snippet: Karl leans across the small space between them, drops the phone onto Chris’ lap and slouches back, waits, this look on his face that makes Chris want to lick and punch him at the same time.
Cabin Fever
April 8th, 2009 - 09:15
“Zach!”
“Shush, I’m thinking-“
“Put the magazines down, we’re boarding-“
Zach’s holding aloft two issues of GQ, side by side, one with Adriana Lima on the cover, the other with Eric. His head cocked to the side as his eyes ping-pong between the two.
“Zach, come the fuck on, and what the hell is it with you and facial hair anyway?”
“I am merely comparing the aesthetic merits, Christopher. In fact, much to my surprise, I prefer this one.” His finger runs down the palm frond concealing Lima on a beach. Chris glances at the cover, sighs, then extracts the mags from Zach’s fingers like he’s taking a machine gun from a child; he drags his elbow across Eric’s cover as if to wipe Zach’s drool off, places them on the stand, and turns his friend round so he’s facing the door.
Zach plays along, pouts, stiffens his legs like a toddler being dragged from a costume party by his dad and Chris giggles. Yeah, he fucking giggles - he cannot be judged for he’s going to see Karl, in the flesh, for the first time since the Sydney premiere. Okay, where Karl didn’t so much as look at Chris, acknowledge his existence even. And later, Karl didn’t text or call when Chris cried off the after party early in the hope they could be together.
Something twists in his chest-- shame maybe; certainly embarrassment that he’s the ‘other woman’ making do with crumbs from Karl’s over-laden table. The laughter catches in his throat, then dies.
They’re back in the VIP lounge and Chris can’t see Karl, doesn’t dare ask if he’s checked in. Wonders if Karl’s fucking with him, or if he’s just missed the plane and, damn, he must have because he’s not there, he just isn’t. Again.
+++
Chris dumps his bag on his seat and then joins Zach, sits opposite of him while the passengers in economy board, treading water until it’s time for take-off. He can’t stand the wait for Karl to show, and he’s not sure whether he should pretend to be asleep or engrossed in a book. He’s too damn tired to, you know, act. And when the hell did he turn into this - a scheming, clip-cutting, internet-stalking fucking fan-girl of his co-star?
Zach’s fiddling with Chris’ iPod. “Jesus, just leave it, Quinto, I don’t need another vegan playlist.” His hands are pushing at Zach who’s folded his knees up to his chest, eyes and mouth wide in mock terror, like Chris is about to beat him, his arm extended above them, iPod aloft. Yeah, bless him, he’s distracting and always fun. So nothing quite prepares Chris for the way his heart slides and falls into his chucks when he hears his voice-
“G and T, please. And make it a large one.“
That warm chuckle sends a hit of lust through empty veins, makes Chris drop his chin to his chest and grip Zach’s jacket hard; he can fucking feel Zach’s eyes drilling into his forehead. Chris lets go and makes to kick Zach, but he’s moved his foot, the bastard. He glares at the playlist and grinds his teeth; his eye twitches.
Chris senses Zach turn in his seat, winces when he says, “Hey, Karl!”
Then John chips in from somewhere behind them. “Over here, man, I saved you a seat -“
Damn no, not there, sit near me, Chris thinks. He takes a deep breath, yeah, he can totally do this, looks up -- like a normal fucking human being and, you know, maybe speak without bursting into grateful tears when the sun emerges from behind the moon and the light’s returned -- Oh, for fuck’s sake, you can surely come up with something better to sum up this needy elation… Actually, he can’t, because he’s apparently a love-sick, stupid dumb fuck and years of education have abandoned him, left him naked and dumb and his stomach flipping like a fish caught on a line.
Karl sidles past them, hair an adorable mess; he pauses in the aisle, nods at Zach, and says, “Hey,” to Chris. His eyes are guarded; he keeps moving, and leaves behind that faint waft of whatever the hell it is that he sprays himself with after he showers and patently designed to just tear at Chris throat each time he breathes him in. Chris glares at Zach’s eyebrows communicating sympathy and accusations, one emotion each, and he lifts himself up somehow, and flops into his own cubby, shoves his headphones in, blocks everything out - well, everything on the outside.
Half an hour, that’s all he’s got to survive, then the plane will be up in the air for…fuck -- he looks at his watch -- an hour and a half? - till they change at Melbourne, then another couple of hours, and they’ll be on the long-haul to Hong Kong. He’ll sleep, take some valium or something, whatever it takes to last the interminable time-travel thing till they make Hong Kong and more fucking madness and flash-bulbs and screaming ‘cause, well - Simon’s heard there’s gonna be a giant Enterprise or something and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to cope with dorky Karl face without having at least spoken to him.
+++
April 8th, 2009 - 03:15
“Fuck, your arse looks good-“
Chris almost smacks his head against the window.
“Jesus, Karl,” he hisses, looking up and down the darkened aisle then back to Karl’s mouth, “people are sleeping-“ Fuck, he looks, just…
“Well I’m not-“ his voice is like treacle, really dirty treacle.
Damn, he wishes Karl would just put that eyebrow away and, how come he never blinks?
They both lean as one, look at the darkness through the window and Chris feels like he’s penned in a little; he’s torn between wanting to escape and wanting to press back into Karl, feel his breath on his neck again after all these months. He turns, it’s awkward, the curve of the cabin ceiling restricting his movement but he manages it, eyes on Karl’s chest, backs into the wall and holds a hand up between them, hoping Karl will get the sign language. Let me go. Let me pass. Karl’s head is entirely still, he’s standing far too fucking close and he swivels his eyes up from Chris’ throat to his forehead then stops at his eyes. Chris looks away.
“How ya been?” he croaks. Why haven’t you called me? He can smell toothpaste, fixes his eyes on a point on Karl’s shoulder.
“Twitchy,” Karl whispers.
“Well, we’ll be there in a few more hours…”
He feels a sure grip on his arm, looks down at tan fingers pressing into his skin. “That’s not what I mean.“
Chris steals another look at Karl’s face, sees his bottom lip’s dropped a little while he waits for Chris to respond. Well fuck, that’s just great now, isn’t it? not when he was alone, fucking waiting in Sydney, and that is never happening again. No way. This shit is so over…
“You can’t just-“
Fingers tighten, Karl glances over his shoulder, “I drowned my phone,” he says, doing his dorky face. “I was calling you from the bath, I had…er…well…I thought it would be nice to phone you and it slipped out of my hand and now…” Karl makes a pop pop pop sound, like a phone sinking down into the depths, uses his free hand to complete the picture, a big wide grin like the idiot he is, and it’s all Chris can do not to grab him there, kiss some fucking sense into him, make him understand.
“Oh,” he manages. Then - “What were you going to say?”
“Want me to tell you here?”
Jesus. “No, I-“ He’s hard, fucking treacherous, fucking cock.
“I can’t remember numbers, Chris, not like you youngsters.” Karl winks which totally isn’t fair, because he has no right to look like that, all stubbly and - - “Wanna see my new phone?”
What? No, why?
“Yes.”
Karl breaks his hold and Chris slumps against the wall again, watches him walk away five, six seats down the aisle. The blue lighting making him look like something out a film, like that fucking assassin he played that time. And Chris absolutely has never jerked off to the scene of Karl driving that car, large hands splayed over the steering wheel, purposeful, in control, mean eyes framed in the rear-view. Jesus. It’s all Chris can do to not sprint after him. He waits, heart dancing, kicking inside him, whole seconds and pads, barefoot, after him.
The cubicle’s private and the partition walls high enough so that when Chris slides into the guest seat opposite of Karl, he’ll know he won’t be seen should anyone walk past. Everyone else is asleep, not tormented by unrequited love, the lucky bastards. Karl’s collapsed and stowed the bed, so he’s sitting on the slightly larger passenger seat. He’s holding his new phone and he’s tapping away on it and Chris crosses his legs, scans the walls irritably, the floor, anywhere but Karl’s fingers while he waits, thinks he should remind Karl of his number.
Karl leans across the small space between them, drops the phone onto Chris’ lap and slouches back, waits, this look on his face that makes Chris want to lick and punch him at the same time.
He’s written something in the notes. Chris pushes his glasses up his nose, reads-
I want to watch you wank for me
A thrill of lust, of feeling alive, being Karl’s focus, makes Chris sit up as if he’s been shocked. “What? Now?” he mouths.
Karl arches an eyebrow and nods. There doesn’t seem to be much space in Chris‘ chest for air as he tugs in a shallow breath, his lip trembling very slightly when Karl reaches to the gap in the partition and draws the curtain across, sits back, spreads his legs wide and unbuttons his jeans. Karl lifts his ass up and works his dick out of the fly. Then when he hooks a long finger under his t and edges it up his taught stomach revealing a shadow of hair, Chris decides he’s never seen anything so hot and unobtainable in his life. He wants to say something but words compact in his throat; so he fumbles the phone, grateful for the back light, types, kind of amazed he has the co-ordination, hating that he has to temporarily look away.
I could come just looking at you
He hands it over, their fingers touching briefly sending another shock through him. Karl doesn’t break eye-contact till he reads the message, then closes his eyes for a second, rests the phone on the shelf and slides a bit further down in the seat. He’s got his hand wrapped around his dick, hooded eyes on Chris’ face, mouth slack and inviting, but he doesn’t move his fingers up or down, like he’s waiting for Chris to make the next call.
Chris swallows. This is fucking crazy - what if someone should see them? They could just be talking, sure - but with the curtain closed?
Karl turns off the reading light, extends a leg and nudges Chris’ knee with a bare toe. He hasn’t taken a good look at those long, sinewy feet since the night of his birthday, fucking months ago when he was last kneeling before Karl, his dick in his mouth, jacking himself off, fucking worshiping the ‘Kiwi Cad’ as Zach insists on calling him. Now he wants that again, but there’s a gap under the curtain and, sure, you’d only really see what’s happening in this light if you were happening to be advancing up the aisle in a commando crawl. But first-class is full of actors; they think that kind of behavior’s normal. So Chris complies. He drops his leg to the floor, the soft carpet making the oversensitive skin on the balls of his feet light up. He gasps in surprise when Karl raises his foot so it’s resting on the seat, just under his balls, pressing, insisting Chris do something about his hard-on.
Chris arches his back, pulls his cock free and, with the other hand, wraps his fingers round Karl’s ankle. Seriously, what he wants most? Just to kiss him, curl up next to him and go to sleep, Karl’s breath on his neck. But beggars can’t be choosers so he strokes Karl’s skin, the smooth arch, the hair on his ankles, watches Karl respond, nostrils flaring as he begins to roll his thumb across the head of his beautiful cock, knuckles moving slowly up and down until they fall into some kind of synch.
His eyes dart between Karl’s soft mouth and those white knuckles moving fast and then slow, lips curled, teeth clenched as Karl tries to stay quiet. Chris jacks himself off helplessly, varying the speed to see if they’ll fall back in step again - and they always do.
He pushes forward against Karl’s heel holding him in place, the pressure on his perineum so fucking right. He can smell his own arousal, as the pre-come leaks and slicks his fingers, thinks about Karl’s lips, how he looks when they’re stretched around his cock, how it’s just…his chin juts forward urgently as he feels himself getting close.
Karl lowers his leg and stretches to stroke the back of his calf and, fuck it, fuck it, Chris steps across the infinite small space between them, ducking down so he can’t be seen.
Karl curves an arm around the small of his back, slides sure fingers down the back of his pants, and the warmth, the certainty of those fingers, guide his body forward to make Chris crumple clumsily against the hard chest.
He twists awkwardly so he’s sitting in the small area beside Karl. His eyes are black in the half light, head thrown back, exposing yards of fucking neck and Chris drinks the sight in: the sinews, the line between stubble and soft skin beneath, the break of light chest hair, the jut of his Adam’s apple and fuck, he thinks, lifting his legs up, drapes them across Karl’s lap. He slides down further so he’s crushed as if in the womb, safe, cocooned. He clamps his mouth to Karl’s, whispering his need, his lust, unheard into the heat; he feels Karl begin to keen under him, his hand bumping repeatedly against the back of his leg as the urgency increases, his own hand pumping furiously. The skin on his dick’s dry, bursting, Karl’s free hand squashed between the partition wall and Chris’ back, under the cloth, over his skin, nails digging in and he hopes, Jesus, it’ll mark him, so he can look at the evidence later, know this is real.
“Fuck, fuck-miss you, Chris-“
His name hissed into his mouth, wet and heat, and breath and so solid, all the elements, Chris thinks dimly, for no one else to hear. He smothers Karl’s words, draws them deep, his eyes pricking, his heart pounding as the pressure builds.
His mouth and chin are raw from stubble and he’s squeezed his eyes shut, wishes he’d pulled his t-shirt out of the way, but it’s too late for that, too late. He’s falling, fallen, coming, sucking on Karl’s tongue as it fucks into him, his hips shuddering, twitching in a constricted arc into his hand, back into Karl’s touch until he’s drained, torn open and panting silently against Karl’s lips, not daring to look at him.
Karl licks at Chris’ mouth, struggles to release his hand from under them and guides Chris’ come covered fingers so he’s bent forward, holding Karl’s velvet, hard, scalding dick. Karl wraps his hand around Chris’, guiding the pressure and speed, almost imperceptible grunts and hitching breaths falling against his jaw. Chris manages to duck his head down again, neck straining under the pressure, they’re just too fucking tall the two of them to squash into this tiny space; there’s no room for them like this, but somehow, he manages with his left hand, wrist aching at the angle, fingers slipping and sliding, strangling, his free hand digging into the back of Karl’s neck and the moan, the fucking needy sound Karl makes when he comes, stills, letting Chris do all the work, just taking it, allowing his orgasm to carry him and Chris feels an elation, a hope at Karl’s guttural “missed you-”
“Think I’ve broken my neck,” Chris whispers bringing his fingers up to his mouth, licking at them, watching Karl’s eyes glitter in the dark like he’s about to disappear, evaporate before his eyes again. Karl’s lips stretch into a lazy smile and Chris leans in to kiss the creases at his mouth, lines he had nothing to do with in the making, stories that have nothing to do with him.
Somehow, he finds the strength to unwind their limbs, unglue their bodies and leave, not daring to look back when he feels the curtain rustle against him even before he’s quite out of the booth.
He makes his way to the rest room, his legs shaking, his face pulled into a semblance of normal and he nods at the air hostess in the kitchen, the smell of coffee stirring the sleeping passengers in the half-empty cabin. He can see light’s breaking in the real world outside and he falls into the privacy of the tiny space, locks the door, blinks in the ugly light and removes his glasses, rubs at his eyes, blown wide in the mirror, and stares at the face looking back at him accusingly.
“Dick,” he informs his reflection but the face doesn’t look like it’s learned a damned thing; it looks love-stoned and determined. Dick.
When Chris emerges, the cabin’s lights are up. He makes his way back to his own space, his glasses hooked into the neck of his t, because, well, he doesn’t need to see a fucking thing. He knows the way back to his space without them. He’s walked this route enough times already.
END
Feedback is love!