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ain't nothing wrong with that (a summer comment fic meme)
IT'S COMMENT!FIC MEME TIME!
This time, we're taking inspiration from a fabulous article titled 50 Mistakes Every Woman Should Make, and by fabulous I mean RICH WITH POSSIBILITIES.
As with all comment!fic memes, it goes a little something like this:
Any fandom. Any pairing. Any genre. Any rating. Crossovers. RPF. Have at it!
Prompts
Reply with a character/pairing and a prompt, using one of the items or part of an item from the 50 Things list (the list can apply to men, too!) (e.g. Avengers, Coulson/Darcy, "reply all accidentally" or Trek, Chapel, "scream at someone who does something really fucked up" or a million other possible things! BE CREATIVE. LET YOUR DESIRES BE KNOWN.) and hopefully a kind soul will write you a fic.
Length
Drabbles, comment!fic, whatever you like. If you want to write something longer, please do. Just link back to your journal.
Authors
Respond to a prompt or write something of your own and post it in the comments.
Readers
Say nice things about the fics that have been written.
Everyone is welcome, so don't be shy to prompt and/or write something. Most importantly: HAVE FUN! (And invite your friends!)
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Note: Karl just turned 40! Eee!
*
A week after he turns 40, Karl is in a bar—the farthest one away from the hotel he could go without ending up in the next city. Turns out the other side of town is like another city, if the peeling paint, scraped up chairs, and smell of desperation permeating the place is any indicator. It’s quite a contrast to his five-star hotel and 200 thread Egyptian cotton sheets.
He fucking loves it.
After ordering and downing a shot of mediocre tequila, then another, Karl settles for a draft of shitty beer. He’s calling for his second draft when the guy next to him stops his arm from rising and says softly, “It’s on me.”
Karl tenses under the hand, but doesn’t shrug out of it, oddly. The tequila must have affected him more than he thought because he just looks down at the fingers curled around his forearm and lets it be.
“Thanks,” he says. The man’s hand finally drops and Karl kind of misses it, actually. People don’t touch him much beyond the requirements of acting and make-up and wardrobe people and the odd brush of fingers when returning his credit card after a purchase.
They sit in a comfortable silence drinking their beers. Karl surreptitiously checks out his neighbor and sees muscled forearms to accompany the strong hands, with well-fitting jeans and a flannel shirt, worn unironically.
“Like what you see?” the man asks. They haven’t given out names and Karl has a feeling they won’t tonight.
“You’ll do,” Karl says.
The man finishes his beer and orders another. This time Karl buys the round.
*
Two hours later they are in the alley behind the bar and Karl is about to drop to his knees when he finds himself flipped around with his back against the wall.
Karl doesn’t attempt to argue, not with one callused hand around his dick and the other groping his ass. He uses his free hands to unbutton his jeans and draw the stranger in closer. The man takes his hand away for a moment to lick it, then brings it down to grasp him more firmly, stroking with purpose while Karl takes the opportunity to bite down on the man’s neck.
It feels one-sided to Karl, this encounter. The man is all about touching him, but not letting Karl even undo his pants or pull up his shirt. He gasps when fingers reach behind him, slick from Karl’s own mouth. He’s pinned to the wall, one leg over the man’s hip, his cock aching. Just then, the man thrusts a finger inside him, then another.
“Okay?” he murmurs, thrusting gently.
“Yeah.” He turns off his thoughts and just feels.
He comes quickly, biting down again on his neck, then licking over the spot, as if to apologize for being rough.
“That was first for me,” Karl says, when he has breath again. He buttons up and pushes away from him to kneel. The man doesn’t stop him. “This though? This, I’m familiar with.”
The man drags his hands through Karl’s hair and sighs while Karl finally gets to touch.
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