The More I Die, RPF, Bruce/Karl, NC-17
Title: The More I Die
Warnings: Adultery, m-m sex
Summary: Written for the Poor Man's Sinfest, here, for this lyrical prompt: I come along but I don't know where you're taking me/ I shouldn't go but you're wrenching dragging shaking me/ Turn off the sun pull the stars from the sky/ The more I give to you the more I die/ You are the perfect drug.
It didn't matter which one of them groaned it-- it applied either way. So damned wrong, two married men, kids and all, fucking like bunnies, but ...
"Don't ... fucking ... care."
That was right, too-- especially the way each word was punctuated with the clashing slide of of hard cock and heat that was still tight despite the fact that they'd been at this for hours-- this time. How long they'd been at it all told-- Karl could pinpoint it.
It was the day of that shuttle scene, after Bones and Kirk get acquainted. The scene called for Pike to eye Kirk as he got on the shuttle-- dubiously, maybe "with a hint of dirty old man," JJ'd said with a grin, but the whole time Karl and Chris had been filming their scene inside the shuttle, Karl could feel Bruce's eyes on him-- steely grey eyes intent as he watched, like he expected Karl to give something away, something he could use, like there was something he wanted from Karl he couldn't get anywhere else.
Scene over, Karl had walked over to the catering table where Bruce was loitering and said "What's a B movie actor like you doing in a box office hit wannabe movie like this?"
Bruce had barked out a laugh, said "I could ask the same thing, I mean, Star Trek isn't a video game or a comic book," and then stuck out his hand and made introductions. His grip was firm, his palm warm and dry, his smile assessing and dirty.
Parry. Clash of steel against steel, the teeth-gritting scree of hard-forged things meeting. Except he knew even then-- Bruce had forced him to draw first, that magnetic look as good as a finger crook or a hand on his wrist, gripping and tugging Karl after him.
Three hours and six beers apiece later, they were fucking hard in Karl's trailer, the Captain bent over his table and cussing Karl out for not moving faster. He'd gone faster-- they'd both wanted to collapse over the finish line, too fucking exhausted to think about what they'd just done.
"Stop thinking," Bruce rasps, smacking Karl's ass hard as the younger man rides him. He opens his eyes-- closes the memory-- watches as abs ripple beneath him with effort, firm despite the fuzz of silver covering Bruce's chest. Sweat mats his iron grey curls to his head, and the soft smile lines and slight sag of the older man's age-spotted skin isn't present-- it's all skin taut with tension, the gritted jaw, determined to outlast his younger partner in emotional crime.
"Be easier if I weren't doing all the damned work, old man," Karl taunts, slamming down toward Bruce's hips, thighs burning-- an unconscious grunt leaves as the completed thrust fills him, unraveling again the damned guilty thoughts that kept coming back despite how... "Oh, fuck" perfect this was when Bruce rolls his hips just ... like ... that.
Hands dig into his ass, tugging, pulling, fingernails biting, ache building at cockroot and hole, each harder faster now goddamnit joining a goddamned thunderclap right through him, every fucking cliche ever turning out to be true because no matter who was on top, the filling, thrusting, pumping, heated slide of it, the hardness and pain pleasure pain eclipses the spoiling softness inside, the weak blackness that means this is better and more than the soft unthinking affection at home. Comfort. Fuck that. It isn't real-- it's the loss of sensation, of self-consciousness, of thought and movement and action. It's stasis, and Karl will not be static.
Who knew when it started, that feeling of spoilage. It was enough that there was a fix, even if it wasn't a cure.
Without this, without him and that knowing hard glint of grey eyes, he's rotten fruit, oozing, collapsed with the first curious poke, fruit flies and maggots already crawling around in a hole in the soft underside that appeared when he was comfortable-- but this-- them. Bruce is hard, and Karl is hard when he's with Bruce-- he knows where his edges were, where he starts and ends.
Another slap on his chest, the sting sharp like an arrow slicing straight through his heart, and Bruce is glaring, his eyes molten silver as he grabs Karl's forearms and tugs, pulling him down as he rolls them. Then Bruce is on top and his callused musician's hands are gripping Karl's shoulders, nails breaking the skin as Karl arches up into Bruce's next downward thrust. The slap of skin sounds like something tearing somehow. Maybe it's the last of their decency, doing this, right now, today.
"Stop it," Bruce growls, angry-- if Karl's still thinking, then he should be too, and this is about about just doing, about dark things that wives and kids aren't any part of and fuck being gentle and funny and kind-- sharp and honest enough to draw blood is all this is about. Bruce digs his nails in harder, draws blood, and Karl shifts, gripping with long muscular calves and thighs, dark hair crackling on Bruce's smooth hips and back as the younger man pulls him in harder, Bruce's bones wrenched by the impact.
The clash hurts-- fills-- puts them back together again, and light dims when their next jolt together sends the lamp to the floor, broken and the air bleeding dark in its absence. They don't stop-- they speed up-- and in the late afternoon shadow they grunt, sweat coursing and salt stinging in the crescents and ridges nails leave behind as they push at the edges but never commune, never find the inside.
Karl grabs his own dick, knowing Bruce is close-- that tic at the grey-haired man's jaw is ready to explode, but Bruce shifts and pins the offending hand over Karl's head, his left hand coming between them to pull and tug, twist and stroke as he pants in Karl's face.
Neither says anything aside from the grunting and gasps, the usual noise-- an occasional "Fuck, more" or hissed "yes" the only articulate sounds of approval-- until Bruce says "Come already, you bastard" and sinks his teeth into Karl's deltoid.
He explodes, everything sparking as black, white and all-colored as a blow to the head. Bruce's own release is a hot body-deep fullness before his strangled shout of release deafens Karl in the ear where the older man's head has fallen to rest. Hips still and chests heave as hands grasp and spasm.
Even like this there's more movement here than there is anywhere else in his life, Karl thinks-- but not for long. One of their phones buzzes with an alarm they both set-- the sound dictates the end, and who knows if and when they'll do this again. He's a moody fucking romantic cliche, squeezing his eyes shut against the sight of Bruce leaving-- at least until Bruce wheezes and turns his mouth into Karl's neck, licking and sucking his way up to Karl's ear.
"You know I don't want to ..." he breathes, then stumbles away from the bed, shoving himself into boxers and pants, the ratty green Vancouver sweatshirt he'd been wearing when he came over, runs hands with small liver spots through his hair.
"Yeah. I know. You know I want to... " Karl rasps, pushing up on his elbows as he watches, suppressing a shiver as sweat cools, deprived of Bruce's body heat.
Bruce nods, fluffs his sex-sweaty hair, and not ten seconds later Karl's trailer door shuts, a sound that always seems final because the unsaid "I don't want to leave" and "I want to have you stay" aren't promised sweet nothings.
They're bitter everythings, and already Karl's craving the next hit of Bruce he can get, even as he comes down from the high of this-- them-- perfect and painful and real.
His phone buzzes again and Karl gets moving. He will not be static, even if it means driving himself straight off a cliff. Destruction-- explosion-- much better than mere dissolution, entropy.
Hours later, his hand at her elbow, Karl guides Nat into the restaurant and toward the table he'd arranged for days earlier. He ignores the looks, the "isn't that Eomer/Reaper/whatever role people recognize" that's the usual background noise in any Hollywood venue where famous people are likely to eat. He didn't want to eat here, but she asked and she's only going to be here for the weekend, their son staying at home with his parents. When they reach the table, Bruce stands to meet them, silver sideburns and glints in his hair sparking in the glimmer from too many candles in a restaurant that's supposed to be romantic but is really all starfucking. He looks like he belongs here on a night out with the wives, wearing a dark grey cashmere sportsjacket and pants with a black silk collared shirt that highlights pale skin and grey and silver-streaked hair and stormy blue eyes-- Karl looks at the edge of his collar and wonders if he left teethmarks on Bruce's chest earlier.
"Nat," Karl says, voice calm and friendly, "this is Bruce and this lovely lady in blue must be Susan," he offers, and Bruce's wife stands as Karl hands his wife off to Bruce and circles the table to exchange a small hug and a cheek kiss because "Bruce's told me how nice it is not to work on a set where he's the only over thirty."
"Right," Karl responds with what Bruce calls his killer smile, even as he dies a little at her sweet greeting. "He keeps up with us whippersnappers pretty damned well, and I'll admit I'd rather not spend all my time with the teenagers," he offers, and Bruce's lovely wife smiles, happy and trusting and comfortable. They exchange an unreadable look as they help their wives into their seats.
He doesn't let out a sigh when Bruce's foot finds his under the table. He pushes back, and Bruce shifts until he's got his boot pressed hard over Karl's instep, the pressure both reminder and promise.
Karl smiles widely over the tablecloth and Bruce, watching him, smiles back, teeth white and glinting. Susan and Nat don't note the exchange-- they're too busy exclaiming how lovely and comfortable the decor is.