One Thing
One Thing
Written by gingerpig
Chris Kane/Steve Carlson
Download: here or here
One Thing by gingerpig
Waking with a snort and something must have died in his mouth last night cause, bleugh. Lifting his head to see a tangle of hair and sheets and a sleeping Chris, nose in the air doing that spreading stretching thing that makes him not want to have the plans they do.
Makes him want to roll over and tug on the hair that’s a mess all over the pillow and wake him up and fuck him til neither can breath and they fall asleep again in a sweaty mess to wake up to Eric shouting through Chris’ cell about sound checks and some record company lunch or some such.
Jet lag and a tequila hang over he knew he’d have and he still didn’t want to fly in a couple days early. Never made plans, always waited for the phone call, never knowing where one thing was anymore than his neighbor across the street did and liking it that way.
Except for Chris, Chris his only constant and that made little or no sense, made him laugh when he thought about it and shake his head when Chris asked what the fuck?
Sitting up to scrub his face with his hands, blink a little more, try to get whatever it was that glued his eyelids shut loose. Gotta find a shower and some clean jeans and a shirt that doesn’t look like he slept in it, a cigarette and a cup of coffee and maybe he’d feel awake, alive, whatever the fuck.
Leaning to bite a kiss in Chris’ shoulder and rolling off the bed to fall under water that he would describe less like a shower and more like a weak stream of piss. Raking fingers through the knots in his hair, dropping the razor on his toe and he fucking hated jet lag.
Wanting nothing more than to sleep for a week, but figuring by the time they got to Germany he’d at least be able to wake up in the morning and not wonder what time of the day it was.
“You die in there?” lifting his head with a start and a fuck, cause not so much die but fall asleep standing and the water’s gone cold and when he lifts his head to find Chris grinning around a toothbrush.
“How’d you get to be so perky?” Grabbing the towel thrown at him, rubbing it through his hair then wrapping it around his hips. “And that’s my tooth brush.”
Calling down for toast and coffee and juice, the towel that’s been hanging by sheer grace, pulled loose by a swift tug of Chris’ fingers and it doesn’t matter that he covers the receiver and whispers that they don’t have time, the look on Chris’ face tells him something else, that and the mouth over his dick and the hands pulling his ass closer, damp hair tangled in his fingers and Chris’ palm cupping his balls, not caring much that the phone makes a clunk when he drops it.
Late now, well again, to head off in some car that Sean lets them use, driven cause there’s no way either of them is gonna drive on the wrong side of tiny-assed roads. Late for the plans that Chris never tells him about and the last time they were in London may have involved way too much tequila and strippers with plastic tits and toxic lipstick.
Longing instead for Chris’ truck, for real sunlight and warmth and that stretch of road that runs between their houses. Where they can stop, smoke some of that fine weed he grows out back, maybe write a little something before buttons are popped free from worn holes and a too big belt buckle smacks him hard on the hip.
Instead they have Soho and a sex shop and a basket full of shit he doesn’t even want to know what it’s for and an urge to wipe away the conversation on the plane.
“A what now?”
“A smut box.”
“Okay, that still ain’t making any sense.”
“It’s a box with shit in it, like lube and cock rings and I’m pretty fucking sure there was a butt plug someplace in there too.”
“And someone gave that to Mike?”
“Uh huh. In a fucking Superman lunchbox.”
The smile on Chris' face enough to tell him that he should’ve kept his mouth shut. The look that should’ve told him they’d end up here, buying stuff neither had any intention of looking at again, but sticking it on the counter anyway along with his credit card. Shoved into a black bag with a bad tiger print that really wouldn’t fool anyone and walking back out into weak sunlight that still made their eyes water.
The faint ringing from his pocket and the vibrating right around his left ball enough to tell him they’d missed something, that they were late or they have to get asses into gear to go see if the mikes worked in the pub they were playing in tonight and if the beer on tap did in fact taste like donkey piss.
Head dipped, staring at strings he didn’t need to see to play. A hundred faces staring back at him, well not so much at him but the man sitting next to him. Hat shoved low down to cover eyes that damn near everyone in this room had paid to see up close. Cup lodged between his thighs, beer in his hand and a voice that set fire in his very core every fucking time.
Sat in chairs that were never comfortable, fighting the hard the guitar always masked, running fingers over the strings that left the calluses that made Chris’ fingers pull on his hair, made his teeth bite hard on his hip.
Hair plastered to his head in the heat, the odd strand falling to sting his eyes and 3 songs into a set of 10 and they are good, it sounds okay, more than okay and if Chris rocks his leg a little to the left it knocks his knee. The sideways look that always says later and after the show I have to have your dick in my mouth...making his mouth dry, his tongue snake out over his lips.
Well they know the new stuff, sometimes sing the right words, sometimes miss it altogether and clap and cheer when Chris asks if Steve should sing one of his songs. And he smiles and blinks and remembers this morning as he sings, as his fingers move and for 2 minutes and 37 seconds the whole room is looking at him.
And when they’re done and another hand grabs his ass and someone whispers or shouts rule number 7 in his ear, he smiles like it’s the first time he’s heard it tonight. The beer in his hand more than a little warm and he’d really like another and maybe more than just a little of that tequila and to sleep.
Instead he smiles and poses for another picture, gets his ass pinched this time and slowly makes his way around the room and back to the dressing room closet thing out back. To fall onto a couch that’s seen better days and a few stains he really didn’t want to think about right now.
Head resting back against the worn material, eyes drifting closed and giving himself this time to breathe, to work the buttons loose on his jeans, toe off his boots before resting his feet on the low coffee table.
It went ok, it’ll go better on Monday, when they’re loose or tight or whatever stage they get to that just is. When they’ve spent more than a little time together, when they’ve gotten over the need to fuck every time the other walks into the room, when he can keep his pants buttoned and his hands out of Chris’ jeans.
When they can do that, then they’ll be better. Then they’ll record and move on and not think about the not signing yet or the coach to someplace else or the plane back and more gigging and less plans and falling out of the habit again. Or back into it, whatever the habit is.
Where they don’t call so often, where he’s playing some place in LA and Chris is in Canada again looking at places to shoot this movie. Where when they do call it’s all promises and fists closed tight over cocks with just enough spit to ease the way.
Never sure if either want more than that for now, pretty damn sure they do when they get to spend more than 10 minutes together. And maybe that decision was made for them.
This time no one bothered to book separate rooms or single beds, no one even asked.
Got a car between them, plans made for one included the other and he wasn’t sure when the shift was, when everyone just knew. Not even sure that he cared of anyone did know or care or give a damn.
It just was.
Lifting his head when he hears the door go, see Chris wired and tired in the doorway. “Come on. I want you and I ain’t fucking you on that couch.”
Practiced at getting his boots on and his jeans buttoned while walking, batting the hands away, but not really, kisses bitten into lips already sore and swollen and breaking away, pushed forward as the door swings open into that smoky room.
One door that leads from the room to the stairs and out into the air, one door at the other end of the room and there are enough people to make it more than the five minutes he’d hoped for. The tips of Chris’ fingers sliding up underneath his shirt along the wet waist band of his jeans as he leans in to say thank you and see you Monday.
Pushed and pulled toward a door that seems to get further away with every step. Down stairs and into a cold night that steals their breath, makes Chris say ‘fuck’ and push him harder toward the car. Cold now as sweat dries on his skin, falling rather than getting into the car and nodding when the driver asks “Hotel?”
Not caring any at all that the whole world can see, pushing Chris back against warm leather that creaks to tear at the buttons on jeans that he’s sure have glued themselves to Chris’ underwear. Or that the hotel, if he could remember where the fuck they were, might only be five minutes away. But more for how Chris’ cock will feel, heavy and wet on his tongue, how his balls will fit just so in his palm, how Chris will tug so hard on his hair it’ll fucking hurt.
Getting to the hotel in the time it takes for salt sweat to paint his tongue, for his fingertips to leave almost bruises on that soft skin just on the insides of Chris’ hips, biting I want you just fucking there as the car pulls up in front and they could maybe go round the block a couple times or head upstairs and see what the fuck that bendy thing does.
The doors, the elevator, the stupid fucking key card all working in slow motion. Fingers fumbling with door handles and light switches that go the wrong way. The sharp edge of the feather on Chris’ bracelet catching his navel, his palms flat, fingers pressing jeans down over damp skin.
Bitten down nails and the heel of his palm sending the little jolts right to his toes as he tears buttons loose from holes give up and tear. Pushing to be pulled, cigarettes and Jack and too much perfume on their clothes, leeching from their skin too and neither, he’s sure for that moment giving a shit.
Not when the backs of his knees hit the bed and they fall, breath knocked from lungs that were fucking useless anyhow, knees pushing his thighs apart. Teeth and nails leaving perfect crescents at his hip and shoulder, little bumps of grazed flesh that running his fingers over in the morning will call up memories of the night before and a hard he won’t be able to will away.
Pushed hard against a comforter that crumples under clenching fists, his heels skating the shiny surface, cursing as they slip over and again and he gives up. Back arching when Chris’ tongue runs flat along the inside of his thigh, when his palms press his thighs wider, move his knees to lie flat on the bed and his tongue darts over that tight hot skin just behind.
Pushing back, rolling Chris onto his back, to grab for the bag that never quite became a box, to tear open the tiny packets of lube they got as a freebie, smear not enough slick over shaking fingers that want nothing more to push inside. Finding himself on his back again, wet palm tight around Chris’ dick, fingers pressed hard into his hip.
No energy to roll around for much longer, settling on just where they are right now, Chris looking down at him, hair hanging in his face and the devil in his eyes, the perfect line of sweat running from his temple to catch on the stubble of his jaw, frozen there for that second before dropping on his skin.
Pushing fingers, pressing palms and Chris’ teeth hard against his shoulder. Chris’ knees against the insides of his thighs, Chris’ cock deep inside him all at once. Fingernails scoring up the spine that feels fluid beneath his finger tips, breath drying the bites on his skin and he’ll be snapping an extra button closed in the morning.
The arch of his foot riding Chris’ calf as his thighs fall wide, cock pressed hard against Chris’ belly and still he pulls closer, wants more, demands it. Is not lazy and it’s not slow. It’s sweaty and dirty and down right mean, it’s I was stuck in a car with you and couldn’t touch you. It’s fast and hard and damn near fucking perfect. It’s him and Chris and lazy and slow can wait til after beer and pizza and the after show high.
A hard kiss bruising his lips, biting in return, bodies locked and unmoving but for the press and circle of Chris’ thumb just above his ear. Waiting for that breath, that blink, the nod only he sees, that enough to tear away any hold, any control he always kids himself he has, when he really knows there is none.
Falling back letting go, cramping fingers flexed through wet hair, scratching over that place on the back of Chris’ neck that makes him shudder, call him a son of a bitch and make him promise to do it again.
Seconds becoming minutes and they should move soon, really they should, pushing back against shoulders that weren’t so heavy not that long ago. Pulled up from the rumpled bed and into that fucking non shower, to share too little water and handfuls of soap before falling wet onto the couch.
“So, you wanna go find the others or see just what the fuck that bendy thing does?”
Written by gingerpig
Chris Kane/Steve Carlson
Download: here or here
One Thing by gingerpig
Waking with a snort and something must have died in his mouth last night cause, bleugh. Lifting his head to see a tangle of hair and sheets and a sleeping Chris, nose in the air doing that spreading stretching thing that makes him not want to have the plans they do.
Makes him want to roll over and tug on the hair that’s a mess all over the pillow and wake him up and fuck him til neither can breath and they fall asleep again in a sweaty mess to wake up to Eric shouting through Chris’ cell about sound checks and some record company lunch or some such.
Jet lag and a tequila hang over he knew he’d have and he still didn’t want to fly in a couple days early. Never made plans, always waited for the phone call, never knowing where one thing was anymore than his neighbor across the street did and liking it that way.
Except for Chris, Chris his only constant and that made little or no sense, made him laugh when he thought about it and shake his head when Chris asked what the fuck?
Sitting up to scrub his face with his hands, blink a little more, try to get whatever it was that glued his eyelids shut loose. Gotta find a shower and some clean jeans and a shirt that doesn’t look like he slept in it, a cigarette and a cup of coffee and maybe he’d feel awake, alive, whatever the fuck.
Leaning to bite a kiss in Chris’ shoulder and rolling off the bed to fall under water that he would describe less like a shower and more like a weak stream of piss. Raking fingers through the knots in his hair, dropping the razor on his toe and he fucking hated jet lag.
Wanting nothing more than to sleep for a week, but figuring by the time they got to Germany he’d at least be able to wake up in the morning and not wonder what time of the day it was.
“You die in there?” lifting his head with a start and a fuck, cause not so much die but fall asleep standing and the water’s gone cold and when he lifts his head to find Chris grinning around a toothbrush.
“How’d you get to be so perky?” Grabbing the towel thrown at him, rubbing it through his hair then wrapping it around his hips. “And that’s my tooth brush.”
Calling down for toast and coffee and juice, the towel that’s been hanging by sheer grace, pulled loose by a swift tug of Chris’ fingers and it doesn’t matter that he covers the receiver and whispers that they don’t have time, the look on Chris’ face tells him something else, that and the mouth over his dick and the hands pulling his ass closer, damp hair tangled in his fingers and Chris’ palm cupping his balls, not caring much that the phone makes a clunk when he drops it.
Late now, well again, to head off in some car that Sean lets them use, driven cause there’s no way either of them is gonna drive on the wrong side of tiny-assed roads. Late for the plans that Chris never tells him about and the last time they were in London may have involved way too much tequila and strippers with plastic tits and toxic lipstick.
Longing instead for Chris’ truck, for real sunlight and warmth and that stretch of road that runs between their houses. Where they can stop, smoke some of that fine weed he grows out back, maybe write a little something before buttons are popped free from worn holes and a too big belt buckle smacks him hard on the hip.
Instead they have Soho and a sex shop and a basket full of shit he doesn’t even want to know what it’s for and an urge to wipe away the conversation on the plane.
“A what now?”
“A smut box.”
“Okay, that still ain’t making any sense.”
“It’s a box with shit in it, like lube and cock rings and I’m pretty fucking sure there was a butt plug someplace in there too.”
“And someone gave that to Mike?”
“Uh huh. In a fucking Superman lunchbox.”
The smile on Chris' face enough to tell him that he should’ve kept his mouth shut. The look that should’ve told him they’d end up here, buying stuff neither had any intention of looking at again, but sticking it on the counter anyway along with his credit card. Shoved into a black bag with a bad tiger print that really wouldn’t fool anyone and walking back out into weak sunlight that still made their eyes water.
The faint ringing from his pocket and the vibrating right around his left ball enough to tell him they’d missed something, that they were late or they have to get asses into gear to go see if the mikes worked in the pub they were playing in tonight and if the beer on tap did in fact taste like donkey piss.
Head dipped, staring at strings he didn’t need to see to play. A hundred faces staring back at him, well not so much at him but the man sitting next to him. Hat shoved low down to cover eyes that damn near everyone in this room had paid to see up close. Cup lodged between his thighs, beer in his hand and a voice that set fire in his very core every fucking time.
Sat in chairs that were never comfortable, fighting the hard the guitar always masked, running fingers over the strings that left the calluses that made Chris’ fingers pull on his hair, made his teeth bite hard on his hip.
Hair plastered to his head in the heat, the odd strand falling to sting his eyes and 3 songs into a set of 10 and they are good, it sounds okay, more than okay and if Chris rocks his leg a little to the left it knocks his knee. The sideways look that always says later and after the show I have to have your dick in my mouth...making his mouth dry, his tongue snake out over his lips.
Well they know the new stuff, sometimes sing the right words, sometimes miss it altogether and clap and cheer when Chris asks if Steve should sing one of his songs. And he smiles and blinks and remembers this morning as he sings, as his fingers move and for 2 minutes and 37 seconds the whole room is looking at him.
And when they’re done and another hand grabs his ass and someone whispers or shouts rule number 7 in his ear, he smiles like it’s the first time he’s heard it tonight. The beer in his hand more than a little warm and he’d really like another and maybe more than just a little of that tequila and to sleep.
Instead he smiles and poses for another picture, gets his ass pinched this time and slowly makes his way around the room and back to the dressing room closet thing out back. To fall onto a couch that’s seen better days and a few stains he really didn’t want to think about right now.
Head resting back against the worn material, eyes drifting closed and giving himself this time to breathe, to work the buttons loose on his jeans, toe off his boots before resting his feet on the low coffee table.
It went ok, it’ll go better on Monday, when they’re loose or tight or whatever stage they get to that just is. When they’ve spent more than a little time together, when they’ve gotten over the need to fuck every time the other walks into the room, when he can keep his pants buttoned and his hands out of Chris’ jeans.
When they can do that, then they’ll be better. Then they’ll record and move on and not think about the not signing yet or the coach to someplace else or the plane back and more gigging and less plans and falling out of the habit again. Or back into it, whatever the habit is.
Where they don’t call so often, where he’s playing some place in LA and Chris is in Canada again looking at places to shoot this movie. Where when they do call it’s all promises and fists closed tight over cocks with just enough spit to ease the way.
Never sure if either want more than that for now, pretty damn sure they do when they get to spend more than 10 minutes together. And maybe that decision was made for them.
This time no one bothered to book separate rooms or single beds, no one even asked.
Got a car between them, plans made for one included the other and he wasn’t sure when the shift was, when everyone just knew. Not even sure that he cared of anyone did know or care or give a damn.
It just was.
Lifting his head when he hears the door go, see Chris wired and tired in the doorway. “Come on. I want you and I ain’t fucking you on that couch.”
Practiced at getting his boots on and his jeans buttoned while walking, batting the hands away, but not really, kisses bitten into lips already sore and swollen and breaking away, pushed forward as the door swings open into that smoky room.
One door that leads from the room to the stairs and out into the air, one door at the other end of the room and there are enough people to make it more than the five minutes he’d hoped for. The tips of Chris’ fingers sliding up underneath his shirt along the wet waist band of his jeans as he leans in to say thank you and see you Monday.
Pushed and pulled toward a door that seems to get further away with every step. Down stairs and into a cold night that steals their breath, makes Chris say ‘fuck’ and push him harder toward the car. Cold now as sweat dries on his skin, falling rather than getting into the car and nodding when the driver asks “Hotel?”
Not caring any at all that the whole world can see, pushing Chris back against warm leather that creaks to tear at the buttons on jeans that he’s sure have glued themselves to Chris’ underwear. Or that the hotel, if he could remember where the fuck they were, might only be five minutes away. But more for how Chris’ cock will feel, heavy and wet on his tongue, how his balls will fit just so in his palm, how Chris will tug so hard on his hair it’ll fucking hurt.
Getting to the hotel in the time it takes for salt sweat to paint his tongue, for his fingertips to leave almost bruises on that soft skin just on the insides of Chris’ hips, biting I want you just fucking there as the car pulls up in front and they could maybe go round the block a couple times or head upstairs and see what the fuck that bendy thing does.
The doors, the elevator, the stupid fucking key card all working in slow motion. Fingers fumbling with door handles and light switches that go the wrong way. The sharp edge of the feather on Chris’ bracelet catching his navel, his palms flat, fingers pressing jeans down over damp skin.
Bitten down nails and the heel of his palm sending the little jolts right to his toes as he tears buttons loose from holes give up and tear. Pushing to be pulled, cigarettes and Jack and too much perfume on their clothes, leeching from their skin too and neither, he’s sure for that moment giving a shit.
Not when the backs of his knees hit the bed and they fall, breath knocked from lungs that were fucking useless anyhow, knees pushing his thighs apart. Teeth and nails leaving perfect crescents at his hip and shoulder, little bumps of grazed flesh that running his fingers over in the morning will call up memories of the night before and a hard he won’t be able to will away.
Pushed hard against a comforter that crumples under clenching fists, his heels skating the shiny surface, cursing as they slip over and again and he gives up. Back arching when Chris’ tongue runs flat along the inside of his thigh, when his palms press his thighs wider, move his knees to lie flat on the bed and his tongue darts over that tight hot skin just behind.
Pushing back, rolling Chris onto his back, to grab for the bag that never quite became a box, to tear open the tiny packets of lube they got as a freebie, smear not enough slick over shaking fingers that want nothing more to push inside. Finding himself on his back again, wet palm tight around Chris’ dick, fingers pressed hard into his hip.
No energy to roll around for much longer, settling on just where they are right now, Chris looking down at him, hair hanging in his face and the devil in his eyes, the perfect line of sweat running from his temple to catch on the stubble of his jaw, frozen there for that second before dropping on his skin.
Pushing fingers, pressing palms and Chris’ teeth hard against his shoulder. Chris’ knees against the insides of his thighs, Chris’ cock deep inside him all at once. Fingernails scoring up the spine that feels fluid beneath his finger tips, breath drying the bites on his skin and he’ll be snapping an extra button closed in the morning.
The arch of his foot riding Chris’ calf as his thighs fall wide, cock pressed hard against Chris’ belly and still he pulls closer, wants more, demands it. Is not lazy and it’s not slow. It’s sweaty and dirty and down right mean, it’s I was stuck in a car with you and couldn’t touch you. It’s fast and hard and damn near fucking perfect. It’s him and Chris and lazy and slow can wait til after beer and pizza and the after show high.
A hard kiss bruising his lips, biting in return, bodies locked and unmoving but for the press and circle of Chris’ thumb just above his ear. Waiting for that breath, that blink, the nod only he sees, that enough to tear away any hold, any control he always kids himself he has, when he really knows there is none.
Falling back letting go, cramping fingers flexed through wet hair, scratching over that place on the back of Chris’ neck that makes him shudder, call him a son of a bitch and make him promise to do it again.
Seconds becoming minutes and they should move soon, really they should, pushing back against shoulders that weren’t so heavy not that long ago. Pulled up from the rumpled bed and into that fucking non shower, to share too little water and handfuls of soap before falling wet onto the couch.
“So, you wanna go find the others or see just what the fuck that bendy thing does?”