turnonmyheels (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
turnonmyheels) wrote2008-09-15 08:37 am
turnonmyheels) wrote2008-09-15 08:37 am
Entry tags:
Fic: Foggy Buzz, CW RPS, Kane/Westwick
Title: Foggy Buzz
Fandom: CW RPS
Pairing: Chris Kane/Ed Westwick, implied Chris/Dave
Rating: Adult
Warnings: drugs, language, sex
Spoilers: uh. There are these two guys, one's name is Chris the other is Ed? Oh, and Ed's from England. I promise I have no personal knowledge of either of them.
Notes: Thank you![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
moosesal for the beta. Written for Sal's Non J2 CW RPS Ficathon.
Well, I can't recall exactly what I tried to say
And that foggy buzz must have helped along the way...
It was a night when guys like me, should have
headed straight for home
Lyrics from Loaded by The Waybacks
Chris debated flicking his cigarette over the edge and watching the spark fall 40 stories -- hopefully landing on and burning some bitches purse-puppy -- before sighing and crushing it out with the heel of his boot. He propped his elbows on the ledge and looked down on the city, the need to move and do and experience making him more edgy and reckless than usual. That was saying something. Not something especially good either.
He'd made it an entire fifteen minutes before the studio ass-licking and bullshit downstairs had him bailing on Jensen. Network Upfronts weren't the worst part of showbiz, but they were up there. He checked his watch. He had at least an hour to kill before Jenny could leave without ruffling feathers. He was down to half a pack of smokes and the three beers he'd snagged on his way to the roof were long gone. The fire door banged open, and Chris called over his shoulder, "Asshole, you'd better be bringing me a whole 'nother six-pack and a bottle of whiskey if I've gotta stay here til you're ready to leave."
"American beer is for shit. Have some Scotch."
Chris turned and crossed one cracked and worn out boot over the other "Well now, I didn't know the CW had the money to hire someone from overseas. Which suck-ass teeny-bopper show you on?" He didn't bother to stop the smirk spreading across his face or try to be subtle about the slow elevator eyes he gave the guy. He couldn't say what exactly, but there was something ... familiar about him.
"I'm Chuck Bass." The guy said accent-free and with a smirk that put Chris' to shame.
Chris pulled a cigarette out of his pack and stuck it in his mouth. He contemplated going through one (or all) of his half-dozen lighter tricks before he eased the ancient stainless steel zippo out of his pocket and lit his smoke without any fanfare. "That supposed to mean something?"
"Only if you're a twatty 14-year-old girl or a 33-year-old pervert who's only concern is which one of my male co-stars I'm shagging." 'Chuck' pulled out his own pack of cigarettes and offered his Scotch in exchange for a light.
Chris swapped his zippo for a bottle of Chivas. He smiled as he opened the bottle when the guy couldn't resist the lure of lighter tricks. He went for simple -- a wise decision with an unknown lighter -- flicking it open with one downward flick against his pants and lighting it with the up-flick "If they've got you fucking your leading men, you've made it." Chris turned the bottle up, letting the Scotch slowly fill his mouth. He swirled it around on his tongue and savored the burn as he swallowed it down.
Cigarette lit, the guy dragged deeply then blew out a stream of smoke and chuckled. "Well, hoo-fucking-rah for me. Ed Westwick, Gossip Girl." He stuck out his hand and Chris shook it.
"Chris Kane. Angel, a bunch of other shitty roles, starving musician."
Ed sucked on his cigarette and squinted at Chris, studying him. "You played London?"
"Coupla times."
Ed blew a cloud of smoke in Chris' face and pointed his cigarette at him. "I know you."
"That so?"
"Barfly, London, last year."
Chris couldn't say it all came rushing back, more like a bit of the haze cleared. Some people can drink. Some people can smoke dope. Some people can eat pills. And some others can do coke. Very few can do all of the above and retain a clear memory of anything. He'd drank and smoked before the show. Popped a pill or two after, and wound up doing bumps off someone's (Ed's) key later on. All of that had been smoothed over with a near constant stream of Bushmills and ...
coke in the bathroom
pretty boy with flashing brown eyes on his knees
Chris' cock down his throat and a finger in his ass
dive bar after dive bar
loud-ass punk band
cokewhiskeycokewhiskey
pot to smooth the edges
stained sheetless mattress
press of tight, hot, good
slick, sweat, toe-curling sex
cock bruising his throat, hands pulling his hair
brown eyes, nearly black, not (never) the right ones
Heat bloomed in his belly and spread through his veins like fire. It was a good night. A damn good night. "Well, fuck me."
"Think it might be my turn." There's that smirk again, he's not sure how he didn't recognize it earlier.
The door opened with a thud and Chris couldn't tear his eyes off Ed. Jensen called out, "Yo, Chris, let's go." He knew Padalecki -- and a wild night out on the town -- weren't far behind.
"You done here?"
Ed snorted out a laugh. "I wish. Got to have a hundred more pictures taken with my Network-approved roomie-slash-boyfriend and the girls." He sucked on his cigarette, cheeks hollowing lewdly, and pulled a card out of his pocket. He tucked it in Chris' back pocket, squeezing his ass in the process then crushed out his smoke and winked at Chris before heading for the door. "See you around."
"You can count on it."
Fandom: CW RPS
Pairing: Chris Kane/Ed Westwick, implied Chris/Dave
Rating: Adult
Warnings: drugs, language, sex
Spoilers: uh. There are these two guys, one's name is Chris the other is Ed? Oh, and Ed's from England. I promise I have no personal knowledge of either of them.
Notes: Thank you
moosesal for the beta. Written for Sal's Non J2 CW RPS Ficathon. Well, I can't recall exactly what I tried to say
And that foggy buzz must have helped along the way...
It was a night when guys like me, should have
headed straight for home
Lyrics from Loaded by The Waybacks
Chris debated flicking his cigarette over the edge and watching the spark fall 40 stories -- hopefully landing on and burning some bitches purse-puppy -- before sighing and crushing it out with the heel of his boot. He propped his elbows on the ledge and looked down on the city, the need to move and do and experience making him more edgy and reckless than usual. That was saying something. Not something especially good either.
He'd made it an entire fifteen minutes before the studio ass-licking and bullshit downstairs had him bailing on Jensen. Network Upfronts weren't the worst part of showbiz, but they were up there. He checked his watch. He had at least an hour to kill before Jenny could leave without ruffling feathers. He was down to half a pack of smokes and the three beers he'd snagged on his way to the roof were long gone. The fire door banged open, and Chris called over his shoulder, "Asshole, you'd better be bringing me a whole 'nother six-pack and a bottle of whiskey if I've gotta stay here til you're ready to leave."
"American beer is for shit. Have some Scotch."
Chris turned and crossed one cracked and worn out boot over the other "Well now, I didn't know the CW had the money to hire someone from overseas. Which suck-ass teeny-bopper show you on?" He didn't bother to stop the smirk spreading across his face or try to be subtle about the slow elevator eyes he gave the guy. He couldn't say what exactly, but there was something ... familiar about him.
"I'm Chuck Bass." The guy said accent-free and with a smirk that put Chris' to shame.
Chris pulled a cigarette out of his pack and stuck it in his mouth. He contemplated going through one (or all) of his half-dozen lighter tricks before he eased the ancient stainless steel zippo out of his pocket and lit his smoke without any fanfare. "That supposed to mean something?"
"Only if you're a twatty 14-year-old girl or a 33-year-old pervert who's only concern is which one of my male co-stars I'm shagging." 'Chuck' pulled out his own pack of cigarettes and offered his Scotch in exchange for a light.
Chris swapped his zippo for a bottle of Chivas. He smiled as he opened the bottle when the guy couldn't resist the lure of lighter tricks. He went for simple -- a wise decision with an unknown lighter -- flicking it open with one downward flick against his pants and lighting it with the up-flick "If they've got you fucking your leading men, you've made it." Chris turned the bottle up, letting the Scotch slowly fill his mouth. He swirled it around on his tongue and savored the burn as he swallowed it down.
Cigarette lit, the guy dragged deeply then blew out a stream of smoke and chuckled. "Well, hoo-fucking-rah for me. Ed Westwick, Gossip Girl." He stuck out his hand and Chris shook it.
"Chris Kane. Angel, a bunch of other shitty roles, starving musician."
Ed sucked on his cigarette and squinted at Chris, studying him. "You played London?"
"Coupla times."
Ed blew a cloud of smoke in Chris' face and pointed his cigarette at him. "I know you."
"That so?"
"Barfly, London, last year."
Chris couldn't say it all came rushing back, more like a bit of the haze cleared. Some people can drink. Some people can smoke dope. Some people can eat pills. And some others can do coke. Very few can do all of the above and retain a clear memory of anything. He'd drank and smoked before the show. Popped a pill or two after, and wound up doing bumps off someone's (Ed's) key later on. All of that had been smoothed over with a near constant stream of Bushmills and ...
coke in the bathroom
pretty boy with flashing brown eyes on his knees
Chris' cock down his throat and a finger in his ass
dive bar after dive bar
loud-ass punk band
cokewhiskeycokewhiskey
pot to smooth the edges
stained sheetless mattress
press of tight, hot, good
slick, sweat, toe-curling sex
cock bruising his throat, hands pulling his hair
brown eyes, nearly black, not (never) the right ones
Heat bloomed in his belly and spread through his veins like fire. It was a good night. A damn good night. "Well, fuck me."
"Think it might be my turn." There's that smirk again, he's not sure how he didn't recognize it earlier.
The door opened with a thud and Chris couldn't tear his eyes off Ed. Jensen called out, "Yo, Chris, let's go." He knew Padalecki -- and a wild night out on the town -- weren't far behind.
"You done here?"
Ed snorted out a laugh. "I wish. Got to have a hundred more pictures taken with my Network-approved roomie-slash-boyfriend and the girls." He sucked on his cigarette, cheeks hollowing lewdly, and pulled a card out of his pocket. He tucked it in Chris' back pocket, squeezing his ass in the process then crushed out his smoke and winked at Chris before heading for the door. "See you around."
"You can count on it."
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Your Audrey icon is fabulous.
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That's *them* in a nutshell. Thanks for reading and commenting.