Fic: Stereogram (Kane/Marsters RPS) NC17
So, earlier today all my missing documents just...magically came back. *boggles* *pointedly does not look a gift horse in the mouth*
Untold amounts of lurve to Kita0610 who gives mind blowing beta. I am a spazz and she is so very darling for not letting me forget about this, even when I wanted to. novascotiasam offered up a donation to tsunami relief once this was posted, and I offer even more lurve for generosity.
Title: Stereogram
Fandom: Jossverse RPS
Rating: NC17
Pairing: CK/JM
Summary: Sequel to Nested. The boys get some skin. Yay, skin!
Disclaimer: The people are real. Or, at least the names are. The situation? Not real at all. Not as far as I know, at any rate.
Stereogram
It's a Wednesday afternoon when James realizes that everything is one-dimensional for him, the layers and depth sucked from the world so that when he blinks he's left with a flatness from which nothing jumps out. A single-planed landscape that's like a cardboard cutout.
It's to be expected after a week of middle-of-the-night wraps and four a.m. calls, fight choreography to master and damnable last minute script changes that make everyone sag and droop.
James naps on the couch in his trailer during the too-infrequent breaks in shooting. Chris is on and off the set, sometimes just getting called in for an hour to tweak a scene to perfection. They don't get any chance to just hang and James doesn't have enough energy in him to regret that. Too much.
The weekend finally limps around and James is with his kid. He sleeps every moment he can and he forgets that the world isn't as flush against itself as he sees it, so he stops looking. That's when it comes back. A three-dimensional, big picture jumping out of flatness, and it's like James has to keep a good distance and run from side to side to keep it all in sight all the time.
He's bouncy and hyper on Monday. So much so that one of the grips asks if he wants a Valium. James turns it down and tries not to be bitchy about being offered one in the first fucking place. Christ, it's not like Boreanaz doesn't have his goofy days. Acker, too, with her damn giggling fits.
They break midway through the day for half an hour so that the sets can be prepped for the next shots. James ducks into his trailer and stops short when he sees Chris on his sofa, watching television. He gives James a grin and a wave.
"The fuck are you doing here?" James asks, closing the door behind him.
"Had to pick up my script. You hear they think one of the couriers is leaking spoilers? Now I've got to haul ass down here to get them myself."
James rolls his eyes. "It's a tragedy, really."
Chris flips him off then shrugs as James goes to the mini-fridge for a drink--definitely nothing with caffeine, and definitely not one of the Red Bulls--then picks up a pack of cigarettes from the counter.
"You're not supposed to smoke when you've got those patches on," Chris says with amusement.
"Ripped the fucking thing off three hours ago," James mutters around the cigarette in his mouth and strips off the coat that wardrobe was too distracted to take from him before he left the set. He exhales and it's a relief to actually be smoking again, the action itself far more settling and calming than the nicotine dose he gets from the patch.
He trades off with a bottle of water and the cigarette, pacing through the small space on the opposite side of the trailer from Chris. Not because he doesn't want to go over there, but because he still can't keep fucking still. Since the offer of the Valium, James has been trying not to look too much at things around him because that's what's making him so wired and manic. He's keeping the world in his peripheral vision, blinking so that he doesn't get too clear a look at the depth all around him, and hoping he'll calm the fuck down before he goes back to work.
"Christ, James, you been doing speed or something?"
James flips Chris off and then jumps when someone knocks loudly at the trailer door. "Need you on set, Marsters."
"Fucking hell." He grabs the coat, brushing off ashes that fell there while he was pacing and smoking.
"Mind if I stick around here?" Chris asks
James glances at him, just out of the corner of his eyes. "Why?"
"The Price Is Right is on."
The coat's back on now, dragging James out of reality and into his character, which makes it easier for him to ignore everything that's jumping out at him. He crushes out his cigarette, takes the last swig of his water, and risks a very quick, full-on look at Chris on his way out.
He doesn't bother to think about, much less ask Chris what the deal is with some game show. Just says, "Don't drink all the Red Bull."
The day ends remarkably early due to technical problems that have everyone in "management" cursing and bitching, and the cast cheering and clapping on their way back to their trailers to get their stuff as quickly as possibly. Everyone's hurrying through the parking lot, including James.
He looks up from digging his car keys out of his jeans pocket and there's Chris, three-dimensional against the flat backdrop of the parking lot. Chris is a picture in his own right, one that's made up of smaller ones; Chris singing, his face relaxed and easy; Chris pushing James against the wall of James' trailer, lips parted, hips rocking; Chris on the sofa afterwards, saying that they should aim for skin next time.
"Want to grab a beer or something?" Chris asks as James gets closer.
James looks him up and down, as all the smaller pictures fit together. Waves absently behind him when J beeps his horn as he drives past. "Or something," James replies, letting the words fall thick and rough, watching Chris' eyes get dark.
*
Chris follows James' car through L.A. and off towards James' place. Reason they're going there instead of to Chris' is...well, fuck, who the hell knows? James said to follow him, and he was eye-fucking Chris so damn hard that all Chris could do was nod and get in the car. One thing Chris can say about James is that once James gets something, he fucking really *gets* it. No more oblivious sidestepping, no more games he doesn't even realize he plays because they're, like, ingrained in him. There's just hundred proof eye fucking and that sex voice of his.
Chris adjusts himself with one hand, turns when James does, and remembers that hurried encounter in James' trailer. How James smirked and told Chris about jerking off while thinking about sucking Chris' cock.
Chris adjusts himself again and then fumbles for his cell phone and scrolls through his phonebook while keeping half an eye on the road. Finds James' number and calls it.
"You can't fucking be lost; I see you in my rearview," James says, snorting.
"Not lost, you ass. Just got a question for you."
"What?"
Chris rolls his shoulders, grins even though James can't see it, and asks, "What have you been jerking off to lately?"
James' car jerks to the right a bit before straightening out. "I'm trying to drive, here. Shit."
"You gonna answer?"
"Trying. To drive," James repeats slowly, but there's a hitch in his voice.
"Just give me a little something to hold me over on this long ass drive. Because if we'd gone to my place, we'd already be there."
A long pause, then James' voice, sounding incredulous through the tinny reception. "You're serious."
Fuck yeah he's serious. He spent too damn long trying to get James to understand why he was in James' trailer every second they weren't on set. That was a lot of time wasted and the only payoff there's be so far was a hump-and-come in that damn trailer. Completely clothed, too. Way Chris sees it, James owes him.
"Talk," Chris tells James. "Because we're *still* driving."
"We're in the shower," James begins, quiet and low, and already Chris is thinking that this is a bad idea, because his vision gets a little dim around the edges and James isn't the only one trying to drive.
"Can't get more skin than that," Chris says, and it takes three tries to get that out. Definitely a bad idea.
"I'm leaning against the wall, you're up close. Face to face. You've got both our dicks in your hand and you're jacking both of us off at once."
Chris' foot slams down on the gas and he has to move it to the brake fast before he hits James' car. "Fuck."
"Almost. We're here."
The call ends and Chris taps the gas pedal gently, pulling up behind James and killing the engine. Chris sits behind the wheel, takes some deep breaths, and tries to think of images that'll kill his hard on and make it easier to walk. James raps at his window and leans down when Chris lowers it. More eye fucking and Chris' hard on is a permanent state. Yeah, when James gets something, he really fucking *gets* it. Chris reaches up and wraps his hand around the back of James' neck, pulls him in for a kiss and thinks about the fact that James is *really* going to be getting it pretty soon.
*
James leads Chris into his house, turns on the light, then takes Chris' face in his hands and kisses him. Wide, frantic laps of tongue against tongue, mouths working to give them more access, and Chris' hands on James ass, pulling him in close.
They stumble to James' bedroom, and James keeps their mouths locked, their hands grasping and pulling each other as close as possible.
There were about a dozen other scenes James could have given when Chris asked what he'd jerked off to lately, little scenarios involving Chris that James has played out in his head and stripped his cock to until he came all over himself. They filled James' head in his trailer by himself, and right here at home when he was lying in the bed that's just a few feet away now. And none of them were *exactly* like this, but the general idea's the same, and James pulls his mouth from Chris'. Takes in a breath and forces it out again, because all those scenarios are spinning through his head, like fractured parts of this scenario, and he has to force them back into coherence.
Chris drags his teeth down the side of James' neck, slick little tongue wetting the way, and strangled noises fight their way past James' lips, explode in the air. They sound nothing at all like what he meant to say, which he thinks contained actual words. He can't remember what they might have been, but he's got the vague idea that they were supposed to be something about Chris getting his fucking clothes off right this fucking second and fucking James into the closest available fucking surface.
James' hands are clenched tightly around Chris' upper arms and it hurts his joints when he unwraps his fingers. Chris' tongue and teeth are at his collarbone, sweet and sharp, hot breath against wet skin making James damn near convulse. He fumbles at the hem of Chris' shirt, just the one for a change, pulls it out of the way and finally, fucking finally, he's got his hands on skin. Hot, soft skin that James can't help but explore.
He spreads his fingers out, palms pressed against Chris' abdomen, before he starts moving up, trying to fill his hands with soft skin and hard muscle. Chris' head falls back when he arches into the touch and James flicks at his nipples with thumbs, scrapes them softly with his nails, and Chris' heads snaps up, so damn fast and hard it's got to be painful. If it is, Chris doesn't even notice, because he's too busy attacking James' mouth with his own, his hands shoving their way up the back of James' shirt and digging in to muscle and skin.
It pushes James back a few steps, the way Chris is trying to dive into his mouth, and the backs of his knees bump into the bed. He's about ready to fall, take Chris with him, when Chris pulls his mouth away. Nails drag along James' back, and his own do the same along Chris' chest.
"Skin," Chris says, and his voice is gravelly, his eyes shining darkly. His hands jerk at James' shirt, which does something to pull James' hands out from under Chris' shirt, and it's fucking confusing, all that coordinated movement from Chris when James is trying to remember how the fuck to *breathe*. He blinks twice in quick succession, battling all of Chris' movement, all of the things flashing behind his own eyes, and when he focuses again he isn't wearing a shirt anymore and Chris is breathing heavily, staring at him like he wants to eat James for dinner. Fucking hell.
Most of James is busy watching Chris get sloe-eyed, watching Chris' hands lift, and then feeling them on his chest, the pressure firm, a textural experience for James with the way Chris' calluses scraping along his skin.
The rest of James is shivering with reaction and struggling to regain his calm, to keep everything from shattering into a billion different fragments. His hands move to unbutton Chris' shirt, fingers fighting with the small buttons. He parts it and brings his mouth to Chris' darker skin, which tastes like salt and wide open spaces.
And the mouth on skin is more than enough for both of them. They get entangled in jeans that won't fit over boots, and frustrated with shoelaces that stubbornly knot up. Their breathing is loud and audible, and James thinks his heart is going to give out on account of how hard and fast it's pounding.
Then they're naked and standing in front of each other, and everything slows down for James in a surreal way before the need to touch and feel has him reaching for Chris, jerking him against James.
This time, they fall onto the bed, and Chris licks down James' throat, sucking and swirling his tongue around.
"Fuck, you taste good," Chris says roughly, then sucks a patch of skin by James' collarbone into his mouth.
"Godddamn," James gasps. "No marks. Oh, god."
Chris pushes James onto his back, braces himself over James, and his mouth doesn’t stop working tight and hot across James' skin. James remembers the last time, first time, they were like this. Hurried and straining and clothed, and the only difference now is the lack of clothing, the presence of skin.
"What about this?" Chris asks, hovering over him, eyes glittering and dense. "Did you jerk off to this?"
James sets his tongue between his lips. "No, but make it good and I might."
Chris lowers himself one inch at a time, strong arms barely shaking from the strain, and it feels like years before his chest is against James', before his cock is settling right next to James', making them both gasp.
"It'll be good," Chris promises, the words faint and raspy, and then his hips do that same rolling motion that he did in James' trailer, one that James doesn't think he'll ever forget, and their cocks slide against each other, friction and pressure and sweet bolts of pleasure making James' back arch.
James' hands grab at Chris, one tangling in his hair and the other digging into his back, blunt nails scoring lines into the skin. Chris' eyes roll back and his hips press down hard. When he looks at James again, James knows they've had enough damn foreplay. The trailer grinding was more than enough on its own, actually, and this is almost unbearable.
He pushes Chris up, and his intent must be clear because Chris doesn't protest. James reaches under the bed, fumbling for the lotion bottle that fell the last time he jerked off. The condoms are on a tray on the nightstand, and he takes one when he finally gets the lotion. Chris turns him fully on his stomach, his mouth at the nape of James' neck, his hands running down James' sides.
James is shaking, trembling, his muscles wanting to move but only able to jerk and twist where Chris touches him. His field of vision is the headboard, and James shakes his head, because he feels like he's standing in a hall of mirrors, each of which has been cracked. There are a million headboards reflected back at him and James digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to rub away the seams where everything fits together. Because it's too much, being here, with Chris, like this, and trying to keep everything together.
Chris' hands slide up the back of James' thighs to his ass, spreading him, and James' hands fall from his eyes and he digs his fingers into the pillow under his head just as Chris slides a thick wet finger into him. James arches back and up into it, his legs spreading more, almost painfully far apart now, but he can't help it because he needs more.
"Aw, fuck, James," Chris whispers. "Yeah, like that."
Another finger, both of them sliding in and out, scissoring and widening, and James is curling his legs under him, rising up, pushing back, hands leaving the pillow to grab onto the headboard.
"So fucking ready for it, huh? God, you'd fucking beg if I made you. Yeah, you'd do it. Shit."
Oh, fuck, he would. He knows it and he has to clench his jaw shut, bite down on his tongue, to stop himself from arching his back like a cat in heat, letting his head fall back, and giving Chris a litany of pretty pleases. Just to make goddamn sure he gets it. He makes a choked noise, and Chris' free hand drags up James' back, hard and burning.
"Won't make you beg," Chris whispers, his voice like sand scraping over gravel, and he works another finger into James. "Fuck, hell, gotta be in you."
Chris pulls his fingers out, and there's the sound of the condom being ripped open. He rearranges James on his hands and knees, kneels behind him, and then his cock is there, pushing and pressing, finally moving past that ring of muscle, and James is holding his breath, his eyes closed so tightly that he sees spots. Chris is making noises that aren't entirely human, and James' voice won't make its way to his lips, just stays stuck at the back of his throat in catching little breaths.
And then Chris is fully in and James can feel Chris filling him, throbbing in him, shaking around him, and James' thighs start trembling, the noises rush past his lips in one drawn together moan, and he thinks he might die if Chris doesn't start fucking him instead of just sitting there.
"Oh, fuck, James," Chris groans thickly. "Need to move, have to move."
James swallows. Once, twice, three times. Finally coaxes his voice to his lips. "Move. Fucking *move*."
Chris does, and James feels the effort it takes him to do it carefully, slowly. James drops his head down, fists his hands so he's taking his weight on his forearms and not his wrists. Pushes back hard when Chris pushes forward easy, and Chris' hands tighten on James' hips.
His movements get deeper, faster, harder, and neither of them are using words now, just strings of syllables that don't belong next to each other. James can't find enough air, sucks in too much to try to get enough. His vision gets bright, white coating covering everything and making it fuzzy and unfocused, but he can't really be bothered to give a damn because it's so good. Chris is fucking him as hard as James likes it, wants it, needs it. Almost pounding into him, but not. Riding steadily along that line that mixes in just the right amount of pain. And, fuck, it's been too long since James has been fucked like this.
Chris changes his angle, has James almost screaming at the next thrust when he brushes against James' prostate. Oh, Christ, his dick is hard. Aching. Painful. He starts to reach for it, but Chris shoves his hand back in place, reaches with his own. Almost brutal grip as he pulls James off, and James is shoving back and forward now, trying to do both at once because Chris' hand and hips are synched up, moving forward at the same time, back a moment later.
"Jesus, Chris, stop being a bastard," James hisses.
Harsh laughgroan and then Chris alters the rhythm. Brings his fist down to the base of James' cock just as he pulls almost entirely out of James. And James has no escape anymore, because it's in front of him, behind him, a constant stream of ohfuckinggod with every goddamn movement, every breath he sucks in like a gasp, every exhalation that's like a thick scream, and he doesn't know how much longer he can stand it.
Chris starts moving faster, his strokes getting short, barely pulling out before pushing back in. "James James James," Chris gasps, and his hand twists on James' cock.
Behind James' closed eyes everything's drawing together, images and layers and facets, all pulling tighter and more flush with itself. Everything so impossibly close that the seams between all the smaller pictures disappear, become one, and he wonders, if this goes on long, longer, forever, will it swallow itself, fold in on itself, but he doesn't get to find out.
Because it's there, at the base of his spine, and it's rushing out of him, and the pictures stop pulling closer together, and there's one long moment when James doesn't have to struggle with millions of small easily understood things, or one thing too large and broad to wholly grasp. Just one moment, and then he falls, and the picture shatters, all those pieces flung somewhere out of sight while his body arches and tightens and his mouth falls open but he doesn't make a sound.
He's vaguely aware of Chris groaning behind him, pulling James back one last time with a brutal grip on James' hips before he groansgrowls and falls, a strangled cry fighting its way to James' ears to be heard over the rushing of his blood.
James' arms collapse and he falls against the mattress, his breathing still coming too fast, and Chris pulls away, moves to the side.
James wipes sweat from his eyes, turns his head on the pillow and stares at the wet line of Chris' arm right in front of him. It's a manageable vision, a whole picture that's not made of anything but itself, and it only stays that way for a second or two before it starts to crack, patterns creeping through it like a web of broken glass.
.End
Untold amounts of lurve to Kita0610 who gives mind blowing beta. I am a spazz and she is so very darling for not letting me forget about this, even when I wanted to. novascotiasam offered up a donation to tsunami relief once this was posted, and I offer even more lurve for generosity.
Title: Stereogram
Fandom: Jossverse RPS
Rating: NC17
Pairing: CK/JM
Summary: Sequel to Nested. The boys get some skin. Yay, skin!
Disclaimer: The people are real. Or, at least the names are. The situation? Not real at all. Not as far as I know, at any rate.
Stereogram
It's a Wednesday afternoon when James realizes that everything is one-dimensional for him, the layers and depth sucked from the world so that when he blinks he's left with a flatness from which nothing jumps out. A single-planed landscape that's like a cardboard cutout.
It's to be expected after a week of middle-of-the-night wraps and four a.m. calls, fight choreography to master and damnable last minute script changes that make everyone sag and droop.
James naps on the couch in his trailer during the too-infrequent breaks in shooting. Chris is on and off the set, sometimes just getting called in for an hour to tweak a scene to perfection. They don't get any chance to just hang and James doesn't have enough energy in him to regret that. Too much.
The weekend finally limps around and James is with his kid. He sleeps every moment he can and he forgets that the world isn't as flush against itself as he sees it, so he stops looking. That's when it comes back. A three-dimensional, big picture jumping out of flatness, and it's like James has to keep a good distance and run from side to side to keep it all in sight all the time.
He's bouncy and hyper on Monday. So much so that one of the grips asks if he wants a Valium. James turns it down and tries not to be bitchy about being offered one in the first fucking place. Christ, it's not like Boreanaz doesn't have his goofy days. Acker, too, with her damn giggling fits.
They break midway through the day for half an hour so that the sets can be prepped for the next shots. James ducks into his trailer and stops short when he sees Chris on his sofa, watching television. He gives James a grin and a wave.
"The fuck are you doing here?" James asks, closing the door behind him.
"Had to pick up my script. You hear they think one of the couriers is leaking spoilers? Now I've got to haul ass down here to get them myself."
James rolls his eyes. "It's a tragedy, really."
Chris flips him off then shrugs as James goes to the mini-fridge for a drink--definitely nothing with caffeine, and definitely not one of the Red Bulls--then picks up a pack of cigarettes from the counter.
"You're not supposed to smoke when you've got those patches on," Chris says with amusement.
"Ripped the fucking thing off three hours ago," James mutters around the cigarette in his mouth and strips off the coat that wardrobe was too distracted to take from him before he left the set. He exhales and it's a relief to actually be smoking again, the action itself far more settling and calming than the nicotine dose he gets from the patch.
He trades off with a bottle of water and the cigarette, pacing through the small space on the opposite side of the trailer from Chris. Not because he doesn't want to go over there, but because he still can't keep fucking still. Since the offer of the Valium, James has been trying not to look too much at things around him because that's what's making him so wired and manic. He's keeping the world in his peripheral vision, blinking so that he doesn't get too clear a look at the depth all around him, and hoping he'll calm the fuck down before he goes back to work.
"Christ, James, you been doing speed or something?"
James flips Chris off and then jumps when someone knocks loudly at the trailer door. "Need you on set, Marsters."
"Fucking hell." He grabs the coat, brushing off ashes that fell there while he was pacing and smoking.
"Mind if I stick around here?" Chris asks
James glances at him, just out of the corner of his eyes. "Why?"
"The Price Is Right is on."
The coat's back on now, dragging James out of reality and into his character, which makes it easier for him to ignore everything that's jumping out at him. He crushes out his cigarette, takes the last swig of his water, and risks a very quick, full-on look at Chris on his way out.
He doesn't bother to think about, much less ask Chris what the deal is with some game show. Just says, "Don't drink all the Red Bull."
The day ends remarkably early due to technical problems that have everyone in "management" cursing and bitching, and the cast cheering and clapping on their way back to their trailers to get their stuff as quickly as possibly. Everyone's hurrying through the parking lot, including James.
He looks up from digging his car keys out of his jeans pocket and there's Chris, three-dimensional against the flat backdrop of the parking lot. Chris is a picture in his own right, one that's made up of smaller ones; Chris singing, his face relaxed and easy; Chris pushing James against the wall of James' trailer, lips parted, hips rocking; Chris on the sofa afterwards, saying that they should aim for skin next time.
"Want to grab a beer or something?" Chris asks as James gets closer.
James looks him up and down, as all the smaller pictures fit together. Waves absently behind him when J beeps his horn as he drives past. "Or something," James replies, letting the words fall thick and rough, watching Chris' eyes get dark.
*
Chris follows James' car through L.A. and off towards James' place. Reason they're going there instead of to Chris' is...well, fuck, who the hell knows? James said to follow him, and he was eye-fucking Chris so damn hard that all Chris could do was nod and get in the car. One thing Chris can say about James is that once James gets something, he fucking really *gets* it. No more oblivious sidestepping, no more games he doesn't even realize he plays because they're, like, ingrained in him. There's just hundred proof eye fucking and that sex voice of his.
Chris adjusts himself with one hand, turns when James does, and remembers that hurried encounter in James' trailer. How James smirked and told Chris about jerking off while thinking about sucking Chris' cock.
Chris adjusts himself again and then fumbles for his cell phone and scrolls through his phonebook while keeping half an eye on the road. Finds James' number and calls it.
"You can't fucking be lost; I see you in my rearview," James says, snorting.
"Not lost, you ass. Just got a question for you."
"What?"
Chris rolls his shoulders, grins even though James can't see it, and asks, "What have you been jerking off to lately?"
James' car jerks to the right a bit before straightening out. "I'm trying to drive, here. Shit."
"You gonna answer?"
"Trying. To drive," James repeats slowly, but there's a hitch in his voice.
"Just give me a little something to hold me over on this long ass drive. Because if we'd gone to my place, we'd already be there."
A long pause, then James' voice, sounding incredulous through the tinny reception. "You're serious."
Fuck yeah he's serious. He spent too damn long trying to get James to understand why he was in James' trailer every second they weren't on set. That was a lot of time wasted and the only payoff there's be so far was a hump-and-come in that damn trailer. Completely clothed, too. Way Chris sees it, James owes him.
"Talk," Chris tells James. "Because we're *still* driving."
"We're in the shower," James begins, quiet and low, and already Chris is thinking that this is a bad idea, because his vision gets a little dim around the edges and James isn't the only one trying to drive.
"Can't get more skin than that," Chris says, and it takes three tries to get that out. Definitely a bad idea.
"I'm leaning against the wall, you're up close. Face to face. You've got both our dicks in your hand and you're jacking both of us off at once."
Chris' foot slams down on the gas and he has to move it to the brake fast before he hits James' car. "Fuck."
"Almost. We're here."
The call ends and Chris taps the gas pedal gently, pulling up behind James and killing the engine. Chris sits behind the wheel, takes some deep breaths, and tries to think of images that'll kill his hard on and make it easier to walk. James raps at his window and leans down when Chris lowers it. More eye fucking and Chris' hard on is a permanent state. Yeah, when James gets something, he really fucking *gets* it. Chris reaches up and wraps his hand around the back of James' neck, pulls him in for a kiss and thinks about the fact that James is *really* going to be getting it pretty soon.
*
James leads Chris into his house, turns on the light, then takes Chris' face in his hands and kisses him. Wide, frantic laps of tongue against tongue, mouths working to give them more access, and Chris' hands on James ass, pulling him in close.
They stumble to James' bedroom, and James keeps their mouths locked, their hands grasping and pulling each other as close as possible.
There were about a dozen other scenes James could have given when Chris asked what he'd jerked off to lately, little scenarios involving Chris that James has played out in his head and stripped his cock to until he came all over himself. They filled James' head in his trailer by himself, and right here at home when he was lying in the bed that's just a few feet away now. And none of them were *exactly* like this, but the general idea's the same, and James pulls his mouth from Chris'. Takes in a breath and forces it out again, because all those scenarios are spinning through his head, like fractured parts of this scenario, and he has to force them back into coherence.
Chris drags his teeth down the side of James' neck, slick little tongue wetting the way, and strangled noises fight their way past James' lips, explode in the air. They sound nothing at all like what he meant to say, which he thinks contained actual words. He can't remember what they might have been, but he's got the vague idea that they were supposed to be something about Chris getting his fucking clothes off right this fucking second and fucking James into the closest available fucking surface.
James' hands are clenched tightly around Chris' upper arms and it hurts his joints when he unwraps his fingers. Chris' tongue and teeth are at his collarbone, sweet and sharp, hot breath against wet skin making James damn near convulse. He fumbles at the hem of Chris' shirt, just the one for a change, pulls it out of the way and finally, fucking finally, he's got his hands on skin. Hot, soft skin that James can't help but explore.
He spreads his fingers out, palms pressed against Chris' abdomen, before he starts moving up, trying to fill his hands with soft skin and hard muscle. Chris' head falls back when he arches into the touch and James flicks at his nipples with thumbs, scrapes them softly with his nails, and Chris' heads snaps up, so damn fast and hard it's got to be painful. If it is, Chris doesn't even notice, because he's too busy attacking James' mouth with his own, his hands shoving their way up the back of James' shirt and digging in to muscle and skin.
It pushes James back a few steps, the way Chris is trying to dive into his mouth, and the backs of his knees bump into the bed. He's about ready to fall, take Chris with him, when Chris pulls his mouth away. Nails drag along James' back, and his own do the same along Chris' chest.
"Skin," Chris says, and his voice is gravelly, his eyes shining darkly. His hands jerk at James' shirt, which does something to pull James' hands out from under Chris' shirt, and it's fucking confusing, all that coordinated movement from Chris when James is trying to remember how the fuck to *breathe*. He blinks twice in quick succession, battling all of Chris' movement, all of the things flashing behind his own eyes, and when he focuses again he isn't wearing a shirt anymore and Chris is breathing heavily, staring at him like he wants to eat James for dinner. Fucking hell.
Most of James is busy watching Chris get sloe-eyed, watching Chris' hands lift, and then feeling them on his chest, the pressure firm, a textural experience for James with the way Chris' calluses scraping along his skin.
The rest of James is shivering with reaction and struggling to regain his calm, to keep everything from shattering into a billion different fragments. His hands move to unbutton Chris' shirt, fingers fighting with the small buttons. He parts it and brings his mouth to Chris' darker skin, which tastes like salt and wide open spaces.
And the mouth on skin is more than enough for both of them. They get entangled in jeans that won't fit over boots, and frustrated with shoelaces that stubbornly knot up. Their breathing is loud and audible, and James thinks his heart is going to give out on account of how hard and fast it's pounding.
Then they're naked and standing in front of each other, and everything slows down for James in a surreal way before the need to touch and feel has him reaching for Chris, jerking him against James.
This time, they fall onto the bed, and Chris licks down James' throat, sucking and swirling his tongue around.
"Fuck, you taste good," Chris says roughly, then sucks a patch of skin by James' collarbone into his mouth.
"Godddamn," James gasps. "No marks. Oh, god."
Chris pushes James onto his back, braces himself over James, and his mouth doesn’t stop working tight and hot across James' skin. James remembers the last time, first time, they were like this. Hurried and straining and clothed, and the only difference now is the lack of clothing, the presence of skin.
"What about this?" Chris asks, hovering over him, eyes glittering and dense. "Did you jerk off to this?"
James sets his tongue between his lips. "No, but make it good and I might."
Chris lowers himself one inch at a time, strong arms barely shaking from the strain, and it feels like years before his chest is against James', before his cock is settling right next to James', making them both gasp.
"It'll be good," Chris promises, the words faint and raspy, and then his hips do that same rolling motion that he did in James' trailer, one that James doesn't think he'll ever forget, and their cocks slide against each other, friction and pressure and sweet bolts of pleasure making James' back arch.
James' hands grab at Chris, one tangling in his hair and the other digging into his back, blunt nails scoring lines into the skin. Chris' eyes roll back and his hips press down hard. When he looks at James again, James knows they've had enough damn foreplay. The trailer grinding was more than enough on its own, actually, and this is almost unbearable.
He pushes Chris up, and his intent must be clear because Chris doesn't protest. James reaches under the bed, fumbling for the lotion bottle that fell the last time he jerked off. The condoms are on a tray on the nightstand, and he takes one when he finally gets the lotion. Chris turns him fully on his stomach, his mouth at the nape of James' neck, his hands running down James' sides.
James is shaking, trembling, his muscles wanting to move but only able to jerk and twist where Chris touches him. His field of vision is the headboard, and James shakes his head, because he feels like he's standing in a hall of mirrors, each of which has been cracked. There are a million headboards reflected back at him and James digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to rub away the seams where everything fits together. Because it's too much, being here, with Chris, like this, and trying to keep everything together.
Chris' hands slide up the back of James' thighs to his ass, spreading him, and James' hands fall from his eyes and he digs his fingers into the pillow under his head just as Chris slides a thick wet finger into him. James arches back and up into it, his legs spreading more, almost painfully far apart now, but he can't help it because he needs more.
"Aw, fuck, James," Chris whispers. "Yeah, like that."
Another finger, both of them sliding in and out, scissoring and widening, and James is curling his legs under him, rising up, pushing back, hands leaving the pillow to grab onto the headboard.
"So fucking ready for it, huh? God, you'd fucking beg if I made you. Yeah, you'd do it. Shit."
Oh, fuck, he would. He knows it and he has to clench his jaw shut, bite down on his tongue, to stop himself from arching his back like a cat in heat, letting his head fall back, and giving Chris a litany of pretty pleases. Just to make goddamn sure he gets it. He makes a choked noise, and Chris' free hand drags up James' back, hard and burning.
"Won't make you beg," Chris whispers, his voice like sand scraping over gravel, and he works another finger into James. "Fuck, hell, gotta be in you."
Chris pulls his fingers out, and there's the sound of the condom being ripped open. He rearranges James on his hands and knees, kneels behind him, and then his cock is there, pushing and pressing, finally moving past that ring of muscle, and James is holding his breath, his eyes closed so tightly that he sees spots. Chris is making noises that aren't entirely human, and James' voice won't make its way to his lips, just stays stuck at the back of his throat in catching little breaths.
And then Chris is fully in and James can feel Chris filling him, throbbing in him, shaking around him, and James' thighs start trembling, the noises rush past his lips in one drawn together moan, and he thinks he might die if Chris doesn't start fucking him instead of just sitting there.
"Oh, fuck, James," Chris groans thickly. "Need to move, have to move."
James swallows. Once, twice, three times. Finally coaxes his voice to his lips. "Move. Fucking *move*."
Chris does, and James feels the effort it takes him to do it carefully, slowly. James drops his head down, fists his hands so he's taking his weight on his forearms and not his wrists. Pushes back hard when Chris pushes forward easy, and Chris' hands tighten on James' hips.
His movements get deeper, faster, harder, and neither of them are using words now, just strings of syllables that don't belong next to each other. James can't find enough air, sucks in too much to try to get enough. His vision gets bright, white coating covering everything and making it fuzzy and unfocused, but he can't really be bothered to give a damn because it's so good. Chris is fucking him as hard as James likes it, wants it, needs it. Almost pounding into him, but not. Riding steadily along that line that mixes in just the right amount of pain. And, fuck, it's been too long since James has been fucked like this.
Chris changes his angle, has James almost screaming at the next thrust when he brushes against James' prostate. Oh, Christ, his dick is hard. Aching. Painful. He starts to reach for it, but Chris shoves his hand back in place, reaches with his own. Almost brutal grip as he pulls James off, and James is shoving back and forward now, trying to do both at once because Chris' hand and hips are synched up, moving forward at the same time, back a moment later.
"Jesus, Chris, stop being a bastard," James hisses.
Harsh laughgroan and then Chris alters the rhythm. Brings his fist down to the base of James' cock just as he pulls almost entirely out of James. And James has no escape anymore, because it's in front of him, behind him, a constant stream of ohfuckinggod with every goddamn movement, every breath he sucks in like a gasp, every exhalation that's like a thick scream, and he doesn't know how much longer he can stand it.
Chris starts moving faster, his strokes getting short, barely pulling out before pushing back in. "James James James," Chris gasps, and his hand twists on James' cock.
Behind James' closed eyes everything's drawing together, images and layers and facets, all pulling tighter and more flush with itself. Everything so impossibly close that the seams between all the smaller pictures disappear, become one, and he wonders, if this goes on long, longer, forever, will it swallow itself, fold in on itself, but he doesn't get to find out.
Because it's there, at the base of his spine, and it's rushing out of him, and the pictures stop pulling closer together, and there's one long moment when James doesn't have to struggle with millions of small easily understood things, or one thing too large and broad to wholly grasp. Just one moment, and then he falls, and the picture shatters, all those pieces flung somewhere out of sight while his body arches and tightens and his mouth falls open but he doesn't make a sound.
He's vaguely aware of Chris groaning behind him, pulling James back one last time with a brutal grip on James' hips before he groansgrowls and falls, a strangled cry fighting its way to James' ears to be heard over the rushing of his blood.
James' arms collapse and he falls against the mattress, his breathing still coming too fast, and Chris pulls away, moves to the side.
James wipes sweat from his eyes, turns his head on the pillow and stares at the wet line of Chris' arm right in front of him. It's a manageable vision, a whole picture that's not made of anything but itself, and it only stays that way for a second or two before it starts to crack, patterns creeping through it like a web of broken glass.
.End