Fic: What Can I Say?

Pairing: Chris/Darren
Raiting: nc-17
Warnings: dirty talk, barebacking
Word Count: 1,696
a/n: i’ve been in a bit of a rut with writing, sort of stuck with it, so i wrote this in hopes of breaking out of this writer’s block.
Summary:
            “Do you ever say ‘fuck’?”

             Chris has to crane his neck back to look at Darren as he’s walking into the room. The question is silly— Darren’s heard him curse, it’s not like he avoids saying curse words. He shoots Darren a look, choosing not to answer him. But Darren prods, folding himself up on Chris’s couch, leaning over the arm to put his cup on the floor before turning to face Chris. “I’m serious. I’ve heard you say ‘shit’ and ‘bitch’ and all those other ones, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘fuck’.”

                “Sure you have. You probably just don’t remember it,” Chris argues, hoping that will be the end of the conversation.

                Of course, it isn’t. “No, trust me, I would remember.” And then, after a beat, “Say it.”

                Chris nearly chokes on his drink. “What? Why?”

                “Because I’ve never heard you say it!” Darren says, gesticulating as he speaks. His hands settle in his lap and he sighs, “It’s one syllable. Come on.”

                “Fuck. There, are you happy?” Chris says, rolling his eyes when Darren lets out a bark of laughter.

                “Oh, come on, more feeling, Christopher. Convince me,” Darren tells him, scooting closer, putting his arm on the back of the couch.

                Chris eyes him, furrowing his brow and pulling a face. “Why are you so concerned with me cursing? I don’t get it.”

                “I just want to hear you,” Darren says, which isn’t much of an answer, but Chris doesn’t bother asking again.

                “Well, you heard me, so there,” Chris huffs, and really, it’s not a big deal. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t just play along with Darren, say fuck for him so he’ll stop prodding. But he’s irritated as it is, tired and overworked, and Darren’s just sort of pushing him. With a sigh, he leans his head back against the couch.

                He feels the couch shift, and then he’s being pulled from where he is until both he and Darren are laying on the couch in some mock-spooning position. “What are you doing?” Darren doesn’t answer him, only burrows down into the couch further, adjusts them until he’s got one leg hooked with one of Chris’s and their cheeks pressed together. “Darren—“ but Darren hushes him.

                For a while, they’re quiet, and Chris can feel himself starting to fall asleep. He thinks he hears Darren’s breathing even out. But then Darren’s putting his hand under Chris’s shirt, finding the skin of his hip to rub his thumb over, and then he’s asking, low and right in Chris’s ear, “Say it for me?”

                Chris feels his breath catch in his throat, feels the way his whole body tenses up. This time, he lets it roll off his tongue, lets it drip out of his mouth like Darren’s been asking for. “Fuck,” he says, his mouth shaping around the word, the whole room filling with the sound, and Chris feels Darren groan, feels it pressed right against his back. “Fuck,” he says again, completely on accident, and he presses his hips back, presses against where Darren’s growing hard against the top of his ass.

                Darren’s hips press up to meet Chris, to counter the way Chris rocks back. He barely registers it when Darren’s hand cups his jaw and turns Chris’s face until he can press their mouths together, lips slick and open for each other. It’s sloppy, at a bad angle, and not nearly as deep as Chris wants, but it’s good, so fucking good, because it’s Darren. Darren’s hand is still under his shirt, thumb pressing a little harder into his hip, pressing bruises there.

                Darren pulls back far enough to breathe against Chris’s mouth, “Say something else. What else can I get you to say?”

                “Anything. Shit,” Chris says, pulling himself away from Darren, standing. “Bedroom, come on.”

                Chris isn’t sure where this is headed, if Darren just wants to hear him talk and rut against the mattress or if Darren wants to hear him talk while he fucks him, but Chris knows something is going to happen, and these are boundaries they’ve yet to cross. It’s new, but the feeling of Darren pressed against him, holding him, kissing him, isn’t. So he lets it happen, lets Darren pull them together in the hallway and smash their mouths together, teeth clacking and lips stinging with it.

                By the time they make it to Chris’s bedroom, Darren’s shirt is down for the count, along with Chris’s pants, lost somewhere in the hallway. Brian is curled up on Chris’s bed, sleeping, so Chris has to pick him up and carry him out of the room, a feat that has Darren laughing so hard he’s wheezing, a deterrence in the whole sexy scheme they had going. But Chris shuts him up by straddling him, pushing him down on the bed, and rocking their hips together. It stops the giggling and gets his point across, gets Darren’s hands on him again.

                “Say something,” Darren tells him, hands finding Chris’s hips and pulling down, his hips jerking up to meet Chris’s.

                “Something,” Chris breathes, leaning down to press his lips against Darren’s again. He thinks about it for a second, lets the ideas roll through his head and then he says, “I want you to fuck me,” enunciating everything perfectly, letting the words roll off his tongue.

                Darren lets out a groan, eyes rolling shut, head arching back, neck baring itself and Chris can’t help but lean down and scrape his teeth along his Adam’s apple. He kisses and sucks a bruise onto Darren’s jaw, nips at the soft skin right under his chin, laves at his collarbone, gets his mouth anywhere he possibly can. “Want you to fuck me so hard, Darren,” he groans, rolling his hips down to prove his point. He scrambles to pull his shirt off, tossing it carelessly onto the floor, not even bothering to see where it lands. As soon as it’s off, Darren’s sitting up to mouth at Chris’s skin, press bites along his ribs. By the time Darren pulls back, Chris’s whole chest is covered in red marks, teeth marks.

                They both hurry after that, shedding off clothes and tossing them aside, settling down onto the bed until Chris is on his knees with Darren behind him. He reaches over to dig in his bedside table, pulling out a bottle of lube and handing it to Darren.

                 “Talk,” Darren commands, one slick finger circling around his hole, pressure, but not slipping in.

                He lets out a groan, burying his face into the sheets, hands fisting into them. It’s not until Darren finally, finally slides one finger into him that he starts talking. “Fuck, Darren, that’s so good. Want this so bad, so fucking hard. Want to feel you in me for days—shit!” A second finger joins the first, and Darren spreads them, stretches Chris open, and Chris can’t stop the words now, can’t help the way they flow out of him. “So good,” he mewls. “Your fingers feel so good, Darren.”

                “Keep talking, baby,” Darren murmurs, pressing his fingers in harder, tucking a third into him, curling them and pressing just right.

                “Want you to come in me, Darren. God, I want it so bad. Want you to—oh fuck, right there—to spread me out and fuck me for hours.” His voice is getting shaky, body tense and moving, bucking back against Darren’s fingers. They speed up, pressing in deeper and harder and quicker, searching and twisting until they rub just right and Chris arches back, panting and groaning, choking out a sob of, “Fuck me. Now. I need it; I need you in me, Darren, fuck.”

                 But he doesn’t have to wait long before Darren’s sliding his fingers out and then he’s pressing in with his cock instead. Chris breathes, “Fuck yes. Your cock is so fucking perfect. Filling me up so good.”

                Darren’s grunts are loud, flaring heat through Chris’s stomach and Chris finds himself rambling, matching each of Darren’s cries with an equally filthy sentence. Things like “I’m gonna feel so wet when you come in me, Darren” and “Shit, gonna touch myself for weeks thinking about this” fly out of his mouth, rapid fire like he can’t swallow them down, can’t help himself.

                It all seems to spur Darren on, make him dig his fingers harder into Chris, pound into him hard and fast, thrusts deep and shocking even more words out of Chris. Chris’s voice gets lower, scratchier the harder Darren fucks into him, but his sentences become a mess of Chris stumbling over words, stringing them together in a rush of breath, too focused on rocking back against Darren and digging his nails into the bedding. He falters for a second, mouth opening around a sound that doesn’t escape as Darren shifts his hips a little, hits everything just right and before Chris knows it, he’s rolling his hips down so he can rut against the mattress, coming almost as soon as he gets the friction of the sheets against his cock.

                He’s pliant after that, relaxes against the mattress and lets Darren fuck into him, hands squeezed hard into Chris’s hips, holding him in place. Almost as an afterthought, he starts talking again, reveling in the way Darren starts panting, fucking into him harder, deeper, with more purpose when he does. It doesn’t take long, just one more sentence and his tongue curling around the word ‘cock’ for Darren to come, letting out a mewl when he does.

                They slump against the bed together, Darren landing on top of Chris and mouthing along Chris’s shoulder blades, licking at the sweat there. Chris lets out a few contented sounds, wriggles his hips a little, just to hear Darren’s breath hitch. They don’t move from that position, and Chris is more than content to let Darren graze his lips and tongue and teeth along his neck and shoulders, occasionally his ears and jaw.

                Eventually, Darren lets out a breathy, disbelieving laugh and says, “You’ve got quite a mouth, Christopher.”       

                Smiling, Chris counters, “Well, what can I say? I have a way with words.”