RPS Comment-fic dump

[amine_eyes]

Well, much as I love spamming my friends-list, thought this way would be easier :D. As always, I do not own these fictional interpretaions of their public personas, and if you honestly thought I did, well ... why?

Anyway, onto the fics :)




"The Name's Pine ... Chris Pine", PG-13, Karl and Chris, crack like a cracky sandwich :), inspired by the Daily Captain and the Daily Doctor posts on jim_and_bones  :D

In retrospect, telling the paparazzi to go fuck themselves while jumping off the pier and into the waiting boat wasn't one of Chris' better ideas. He'll quite happily admit that he wasn't thinking at the time, all that was going through his head were synonyms for toady-dickheads as he continued to insult the paps, combined with the knowledge that Karl had said he was going to be borrowing a friend's boat today to go sleep in the sun with a book.

As he continued to pose on the bike for the bastards, he heard the sound of a boat pulling up near the pier. He looked - there piloting it round to the end of the pier was Karl (even from here Chris could see the shock of bed-hair that he refused to brush while he was on holiday). A plan started to form; Chris grinned, and started peddling. The paps - thinking this was part of the shoot - laughed along and started walking along to keep up. Chris sped up, peddling faster and faster, the edge of the pier was growing closer and closer, and he looked back to the see the dicks in full chase, sprinting along the wooden decking, yelling and trying to take a photo and not trip over the uneven planks at the same time. The seagulls wheeled overhead, the sun beat down and a sea breeze ruffled Chris' hair as he laughed out loud.

The end of the pier drew nearer; Chris took one look to judge the distance, and leapt. He hung in the air for one glorious moment, the hood of his jumper and his undone laces streaming in the breeze, and fell, landing in the boat in a tangle of limbs.

"What the FUCK!" Karl yelled, having almost climbed onto the steering wheel with shock as Chris landed in the boat, and Chris signalled lazily with his arm, grin stretching from ear to ear.

"Drive Karl, drive!"

A withering look from Karl, and he looked up to the pier, where the paparazzi were leaning over trying to regain their breath, phone the papers and take photos all at the same time. He looked back and arched his eyebrow.

"If you dare call me Ursula Andress, I will end you Chris."

Chris grinned back as Karl revved the engine, taking the boat out to sea. He gave the finger to the paps, and laughed, lying in the well of the boat.

"Wouldn't dream of it ... Pussy Galore."

Karl's slap round the head only caused him to laugh harder.

-x-x-x-x-x-


"Is that a dead animal on your face, or did you just forget to shave?" - Karl / Chris, humour / romance, R, inspired by the Daily Captain and Daily Doctor posts on jim_and_bones  :D

What the hell is that on your face? A dead animal?, Chris reads on his phone, and he can't help but pull a face at the message. The woman he'd been talking to - Alice, Anna, he couldn't remember he'd been blinded by the sheer amount of sequins on her dress - looked worried and asked what was going on.

"Nothing, don't worry, listen, I've to take a call, would you excuse me?" Chris asks, and woman-with-sequins simpers and tells him of course he can.

"Thanks", and for good measure, Chris bows over her hand, kissing it before he walks outside, hand already pulling out his phone and a cigarette.

As the call connects he lights up, and has just taken one drag of the nicotine, blowing the smoke into the night, when it's picked up by a gravelly, sleep-mussled voice.

"Got your text, and for the record, the reason I have 'a dead animal on my face' is your fault you bastard."

"Not my fault you forgot how to time-manage," chuckles the caller on the other end of the phone, and Chris rolls his eyes, taking another drag.

"Well if someone told me when their flight was getting in today, I'd have shaved earlier, and thus wouldn't be going round with a rug on my face."

"But that would have ruined the surprise - or didn't you like it?"

Chris smiles, shaking his head as he looks out over the LA skyline, glittering light fireflies in the night.

"I did after I had a heart attack - what with walking into my supposedly empty apartment and finding you sprawled on the couch."

A deep chuckle rumbles from the other end of the phone.

"I'll remember that in future. Though you did recover very quickly."

"Well, you were sucking my cock at the time ... and then bending over."

"What can I say? Naturally talented like that."

Chris remembers gripping onto the back of the couch for dear life as a mouth made for kissing and deeply sinful acts wraps around his cock, rumpled hair tickling his inner thighs as the owner of the mouth moved up and down, causing little (okay, big fuck-off) whines and moans to escape Chris' mouth. He shifts slightly as he finishes off the cigarette, remembering thrusting into that glorious ass as the other cried out, shifting back to gain as much of Chris' cock in their body as possible.

"Chris? Where are you?"

"Fuck!" Chris stubs out the cigarette, hissing down the phone as woman-with-sequins tottered over on her impossibly high heels.

"Listen, gotta go, see you later okay?"

"That's fine, I've got to call home anyway."

Both pause, unwilling to be first to hang up. Woman-with-sequins moves closer.

"Love you Karl" Chris blurts down the phone.

"You too Chris", and the phone hangs up just as she rounds the corner, Chris already ready to go back and schmooze for another hour or so until he can escape back to Karl's waiting arms.

-x-x-x-x-


"If I could write poetry ...", Karl / Chris, romance, PG-13, inspired by the Daily Captain and Daily Doctor on jim_and_bones  :D

He wishes he could write poetry sometimes, could sit with a pen and paper in his hands and write rhymes and twisting couplets that shows his adoration in scrawled lines and spattered ink. If he was able to write poetry, he could write stanzas and stanzas on the complexities of the blue in front of him, how the blue changes like the sea crashes on the waves - dark and stormy one moment, light and summery the next, always drawing him in with their intoxicating looks.

If he could write poetry, he could write how his eyelashes stand like ghostly guardians of the treasure they outline, he could personify them as soldiers making sure no one can get too close to the beauty within unless they know the password, unless they can breath promises of I will, one day, I promise with soft kisses on the corners of their realm. With the password, the soldiers part, and let him see the treasure of blue within.

If he could write poetry, he would write the caesuras that he feels every time those eyes focus on him, and everyone who read it would feel the intake of breath and grip on his heart that that gaze does to him.

If he could write poetry, the poem about his eyes would be revered as a love poem that could transcend barriers of society, and would be used as examination texts by students who would finally understand that little jump in their heart when they saw the one they loved.

If he could write poetry, he could show his worship for those eyes in front of him through ways other than kisses that tangle with each other and don't seem to end, other methods than strokes of hands that cause both of them to experience the gasps of breath that say so much and not enough, and he could say how much he loves him through other means than rocks into each other in the midnight hour, and coming apart with bit lips to prevent anyone else hearing the love between them.

As he watches him smile and wave to the crowds, the blue even brighter than before, shining like a beacon in the night, Karl composes another stanza on how the creases around his eyes feel beneath his fingers and lips.

 -x-x-x-x-x-