Fic: Nested (Kane/Marsters RPS) NC17
Response to the latest contrelamontre challenge. Written in well over the time limit. One, two, three scenes, featuring the words hidden, orange and stain respectively.
Title: Nested
Fandom: Jossverse RPS
Rating: NC17
Pairing: CK/JM
A/N: rubywisp is an evil little gremlin and wholly responsible for my trip to the dark side. To thank her, this features hot tepid lukewarm man-on-man grinding action, because we agree on that, among other things.
This is RPS. I say it again: this is Real Person Slash. If that squicks you? Don't click the cut tag. See, easy peasy and everyone's happy. Yay!
Disclaimer: The names are recognizable, but everything else is made the fuck up. Don't even consider the fact that this is real, because it's not. At all. Even I know that, and I wrote the damn thing.
***
James used to kill time with puzzle books. Work his brain until he got frustrated with trying to figure out the logic of seven different people going to seven different stores to purchase seven different things. He'd save those for last, because inevitably he'd toss the book out after reading the clues just once.
But he liked the one where he had to find a shitload of words in one long word. He used to spend days on those, staring at the ten-letter word until his eyes crossed, and refusing to look at the answers in the back of the book until he was positive he'd found every word he was gong to find.
Words hidden within words. Reminds him of those Russian nesting dolls. Gives him a sense of moreness to the world. Everything large is built upon and stacked and nested with smaller things that don't try to steal the spotlight. That just hide away unnoticed until someone actually tries to see them.
He's gotten used to looking for the things that are hidden away, and it's not something he can really turn off, though he wishes to hell he could.
He's been in his trailer for half an hour. Purposely hightailed it off the set before Chris could catch his eye. The knock is expected. So is Chris opening the door without waiting for James to tell him to come in. Two of Chris' guitars seem to be living in James' trailer, along with a stash of his beer. His second home. No knocking required.
"You ran off, man," Chris says, closing the door behind him. "You wanna work on that bridge some more?"
James rubs his face and wonders when the fuck he got so damn old. Had to have been a while ago. Probably got sucked into the perpetually twenty-six crap of the show. Easy to happen when he's living it fourteen hours a day, half a year. He's in his damn forties and his patience for early-thirties drama is gone. Long gone.
Something bounces off his head and he blinks at the guitar pick that lands on his thigh, then at Chris' shit-eating grin. Today is just like all the previous days he and Chris have hung out in the trailer at the end of the day. Except it's not, because James saw the smaller words hidden in the larger word that is Chris and David.
"I'm not playing this game," he says flatly, and Chris' grin melts away by degrees.
"What are you talking about?"
"You. Dave. Leave me out of it."
Chris freezes for an instant, eyes wide and unblinking, then he runs a hand through his longish hair, messing up the camera-friendly style. "Fuck," he mutters. "He told you?"
James arches a brow. "Yeah, right. Because we're buddies. He tells me everything." He rolls his eyes and Chris frowns at him. "I figured it out on my own, and I don't want to be pulled into the middle. So take yourself off somewhere else, all right?"
There's anger hovering just under James' surface, and he knows it's showing, knows it's telling Chris more than James wants him to know. And maybe he also knows that giving Chris anger just asks for anger in return. Good ol' boy doesn't simmer, he explodes.
Chris stalks further into the trailer, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. "You're a fucking piece of work, you know that? I can't just hang out with you. I've got to be using you and it's got to be connected to shit that went down three years ago. Nice opinion you have of me."
Yeah, James is way too old for this shit. "Look, that's not what I meant, okay?"
But Chris isn't buying that. "Yeah, actually, it was. But, hey--it's your trailer. You want me to go, I'll go."
Chris turns around and James feels himself moving without having decided to do so. His hand wraps around Chris' arm, flesh against flesh, and James can feel a shivering tension in Chris' muscles, can feel a pliancy come into his own.
The two of them have spent hours alone together in this small space, and James is built upon and stacked and nested with smaller things that don't try to steal the spotlight but exist nonetheless.
"And speaking of playing games..." Chris' voice is tired and a little bitter and James has to wonder what else is nested in the other man that James hasn't yet looked for.
"I'm not--I don't play games."
"Shit, man. That's all you fucking do. Not on purpose, but you do it."
What the hell can he say to that? James isn't sure. He's never been good with words, with using them to let people in. But his hand is still on Chris' arm, and he tightens his grip. Steps closer, and he can feel the heat coming off of Chris' body.
"Stay," James says. "We'll work on the bridge."
Chris' turns his head, and his eyes are narrowed. "I should tell you to go to hell, you know."
James nods. "Hoping you won't."
There's a pause, and then Chris moves around so that he's facing James again, but he doesn't increase the distance between them, and he makes sure that James' hand stays where it is. His eyes are intense and he asks, "Why do you want me to stay?"
The moment is nested with a million damn things that make James want to step away and crack a joke. That would be the smart thing to do, but he's notorious for doing the dumb thing more often than not, and who the hell is he to flout tradition?
So instead of bringing things back where they should be, he follows Chris' lead and lets them veer off where they shouldn't go.
"Because I like having you here," he says quietly, and the statement itself is innocuous on its own, but Chris eyes get dark and hungry and maybe he used to kill time with puzzle books too.
***
Everything changes the next week, and it's not that they're pretending everything is the same, they're just not talking about what's different. They still play music because they used to and they're still trying to figure out what they should do now.
Chris knows things are going to reach a breaking point soon, would have reached them a while ago except that James is a prickly thing. Perceptive enough to pick up on what no one else does, but so bogged down with his own personal shit that he can never figure out the right angle. He's resigned himself to waiting for James to catch on to where he wants things to go. A mind like James', and that's all a person can do. Because outright telling does nothing but breed disbelief and insecurity.
It's damn sad, in a way, but mostly it's just frustrating. Chris has been trying to bring things around with James since his first damn day back on the show, and at the rate it's taking James to pick up on that, Chris' latest stint will be over.
He knows that James never bought the guitar playing, which was the only way he could think of to actually get time alone with the other man. James knows enough about where his own talents do and do not lay that Chris couldn't fool him on that front. But how the hell James' mind made a connection between Chris hanging out with him, and what happened with Chris and Dave three years ago, is something Chris thinks he'll never figure out. Thinks it says a lot about his good mental health that he can't.
It's been a long day on set and Chris collapses on the sofa in James' trailer, the idea of even picking up his guitar too exhausting to seriously contemplate. The day officially ended half an hour ago, and they've both changed out of work clothes and, strangely enough, messed up their hair.
James' hair looks almost normal when it's not plastered to his skull like a fucking helmet. The color's hellishly unnatural, yeah. But when it's sticking up in careless disarray, it's all Chris can do to keep himself from grabbing handfuls of it while he fucks James' mouth with his tongue.
"Son of a bitch," James breathes. "Talk about rough. I'm tired of these last minute script changes. Drives me nuts."
Chris rolls his head on the sofa back, gets a view of James' profile. "Screws us all up, man."
After a few minutes of slow blinking and silence, Chris rubs his face with both hands and decides caffeine is in order. Stands up and has to climb over James' sprawled legs to go to the mini-fridge. Makes it halfway before he stops, straddling James without making any actual contact, and looks down at him.
"Caffeine boost?" he asks, and because he's looking closely enough, he can see the way James' breath hitches for a second before he nods.
Takes his time in swinging his other leg over James' legs, and there must be something real fucking interesting on James' thigh, because he's staring really hard at it. Little smug grin on Chris' face as he pulls the fridge open, which falls away in horror when he sees the cans.
"Dude," he exclaims, holding up one bright orange can like it's going to bite him. "Sunkist?"
James curls his lips. "Don't even ask. Should be some Red Bull in there."
Chris shoves the squat, offensive cans out of the way until the Holy Grail that is the slender, sleek Red Bull can comes into view. Oh, and look, it's got a friend hiding behind a container of food.
"Don't have to explain. I get it." Tosses a can to James and gestures with his own at the other man's orange shirt. And, okay, so the color looks good on him. Still. "You've gone all freaky and started color-coordinating your beverages with your wardrobe."
James flips him off, smiles up at him when he has to step over the outstretched legs again. "All the cool kids are doing it, but you're shit out of luck. Don't think they have any flannel patterned beverage containers."
"You're a fucking comedian. Really. Need to take that act on the road."
They get some laughing in, some more fingers directed at each other, and then they fall silent. And it's all gosh-golly-gee-whiz-swell that he and James aren't sitting here with a load of awkward tension. Really it is. But, holy hell, there are better things they could be doing than enjoying comfortable silence.
And James' mind is more disturbing than Chris has given him credit for, because all of a sudden he's *right fucking there*.
"You didn't start coming around for the music," James says slowly, finger tapping against the Red Bull can. He's looking at nothing in particular in front of him, eyes narrowed in thought or concentration or something. "And it wasn't because you were trying to avoid Dave."
"Right on both counts," Chris says carefully.
It's better to let James follow along his own path to something. Chris has learned that by watching James play the guitar, fumbling fingers tripping over themselves and struggling to figure out what Chris slightly repositioning James' finger would take care of. James has to get to things on his own terms, his own way and it's always the hard way.
When Chris doesn't say anything else, James cuts a quick look in his direction. Shifty eyes sliding away before Chris can read them. "Guess that has me wondering why the hell you *did* start coming around."
Chris leans forward, tosses his empty can into the trash basket, then shifts so that he's sitting mostly sideways, getting an eyeful of that orange shirt. Of those faded blue jeans that are thin with age and washing and are probably softer than any of the flannel shirts James ribs him about.
"You sure you want the answer to that question? Because, it's a 'can't go back' situation."
And it's a thing of beauty, James slamming his eyes shut and sucking in a quick, shallow breath. James' hand clenching around the can and rending the metal into sharp angles that freakishly resemble his cheekbones if Chris squints.
Then he stands up, hand loosening on the can as he walks with deliberate steps to the trash and drops it in. His back is to Chris, and there's a tightness to his spine that's full of the right kind of tension.
"Yeah, I do," James says.
***
James doesn't know what he was expecting. Maybe something not good, maybe something great. Fuck if he knows, really. This is what he avoids; this is why he's made do in recent history with nameless adorers who don't give a fuck about him, who only think they know him. It's a goddamn guaranteed situation, isn't it? They want to fuck Spike, or they want to fuck him because he plays Spike.
It's simple and there's no question about anything.
This? The very opposite of simple. The antithesis of a guarantee. It's too close, too personal, and it's bringing up a million insecurities that he buried and pretended were gone for good.
He wants to take the words back. Wants to take the damn week back. Jump in the Way Back Machine and let Chris walk out of the trailer instead of asking him to stay and work on the fucking bridge--and could he have been more pathetic with that line?
If there's one thing he's good at, it's beating himself up, and he's in rare form right now. Kicking himself six ways from Sunday and about ready to run screaming from his own trailer. He's so caught up in his own head that he doesn't hear Chris move, just jumps when there's suddenly a body pressed against his. Wide chest against his narrower back, warm breath hitting him right behind his ear and making his own breath shudder.
Chris dips his head, forehead nuzzling the crook of James' neck, one hand creeping around James' waist tentatively, soft pressure against his abdomen pulling James back so that he can feel Chris' hard on through two layers of denim.
James is so thick and heavy now it's like he's moving through something viscous even though he's not moving, just sinking a little more against Chris every time he exhales, just tilting his head further and further to the side so that Chris can bury his face there, lips brushing over sensitive skin.
"This," Chris says, mouth against James' neck, hand sinking down to rub James' hardening cock. "This is why."
Son of a bitch, it's the best damn reason James has ever heard in his life, though that opinion is probably being influenced by Chris' talented hand, which is stroking him hard and slow. But they've gone right to the middle, bypassed the beginning, and James has a thing for the beginning.
Turns around, and Chris' face stays at his throat, lips parting and tongue swiping hard enough to make James' back arch in response and Chris laugh smugly. Yeah, well, Chris isn't the only one good with his tongue. James brings a hand to the back of Chris' head, sinks his fingers into that thick brown hair and tilts Chris' face up.
And, yeah, this is what James likes. Lips and tongues and slickness and hands running along backs, scrambling for purchase. Real kissing. Not stage kissing. The kind of kissing that teenagers do and can last for hours, though he doesn't plan on hours for this, great as it fucking is. Seems like Chris feels the same way. He guides James back and to the side, pushes him against the thin wall of the trailer and, please God don't let anyone else be haunting the lot this damn late. Last thing either of them needs are whispers and looks and tabloid articles.
Chris is against him then, and all thoughts of scandal fly out the window and who the fuck cares if the E! True Hollywood Story people come strolling in with cameras on them? Because Chris is pushing against him, rubbing their cocks together and James' nerve endings are firing out of control, and they're still kissing.
James fumbles for Chris' hands, holding on tight, and Chris lifts them, holds them against the wall on either side of James' shoulders, his pelvis rolling like something silken and velvet against James. And he needs air, can't get enough through his nose, and he hates to do it but he has to pull his mouth away from Chris'.
"Know how fucking long I've wanted to do this?" Chris asks him, his voice rough and growling, sex laced with danger and wound through with his southern drawl. Gives James an unexpected thrust and his eyes glitter when James gasps. "Yeah, that's what I wanted to see."
He rolls his hips again, hands clenching around James' when another gasp issues. And, goddamn, it's been too long since it's been like this. Since it's been about him, not Spike or he who plays Spike, and he's probably the most contrary fuck, but whatever.
"Jesus Christ," James chokes out, his own hips working frantically against Chris', rubbing and thrusting and rolling, and even with the layers between them, James can feel Chris. Feel the length of him, bound by cloth, throbbing and hard.
Chris tangles one hand in James' hair, leans his forehead against James', and everything beneath their waists gets more frantic, more needy.
"Oh, hell. James. Jamesjamesjamesjames."
James' hips jerk uncontrollably, and Chris' other hand comes down, takes hold of a hip, and brings them together with swirls and short, almost-hard up thrusts. With James' name falling from his lips in a chant. With a handful of Chris' hair in James' fist. With body heat and sweat and bunched muscles.
And still, that chant, and James starts to curl in on himself. His face falls against Chris' neck, mouth opening to suckle skin before his teeth graze gently and Chris spasms so damn hard he loses the rhythm and slams himself against James with no real thought in his head.
Oh. Yes. Fucking yes. Small, anticipatory smile on James' lips, and he waits for Chris to go back to the sweet little movements before he finds muscle with teeth and digs with just enough pressure to feel, but not enough to be all pain.
And it's all instinct now. Rough and hard, and it's better in a different way than what they were doing before. Chris' lips crash down on James' again, and they're grunting when they get air, breathing obscenities at one another, and James is going to have bruises from getting pushed against the wall.
"Oh, God," James groans, head thrown back, hands on Chris' shoulders. "Real thing's better than jerking off."
Chris pushes harder against him, gives him eyes that are all pupil, says, "Keep. Fucking. Talking."
This is also something James is good at. Smirks at Chris, all pouting lips, and he knows that his eyes are just as black as Chris' are right now. "What about? About laying on that couch after you leave and taking my cock out?"
And Chris stops, cocks pressed so hard between them that it's almost uncomfortable. "Yeah," he whispers, the word falling off and catching back right in the middle.
James licks his lips, arches into the circles that Chris is making with his hips, the two of them still tight against one another. "I'd jerk off, thinking abut sucking your cock until you shot right down my fucking throat."
Chris jerks against him, muscles bunching up so damn much that James can feel it. "You're good with that mouth. I can tell."
"I'm damn good," James breathes. "Could make you scream when you come. Let you fuck my mouth." And he's been with enough fawning fans that he knows what kind of picture he makes on his knees, knows what gets people off about it. "Suck your cock and stare up at you the entire fucking time."
Chris' eyes roll back in his head, and James is near to exploding from what they're doing, what he's saying.
"I jerk off to that," James tells him, and then talking is impossible, because Chris is attacking his mouth with lips and teeth, and pinning him against the wall so damn hard that James can't do anything but let Chris have his way. Let him grind against him and bring them closer and closer.
And then the chanting starts again. Just his name, strung together an infinite number of times, and James is gone. Arches his back, freezes when his muscles all contract at once, and it's there, just a half-second away. And then it shoots through him, hits everything at once and he's screaming Chris' name against Chris' shoulder as he jerks and comes and Chris pushes against him, four, five more times and screams wordlessly when he comes, the sound breaking off and becoming soundless as his hips twitch against James'.
They shake and shudder, locking their knees to stay upright and still falling against each other and the wall. James tries to get his breath, wonders why he's so fucking hot and realizes they're both fully clothed, with stains on the front of their jeans.
"Shit," James pants. "That was...shit."
They stumble to the couch, collapse half on top of each other, and Chris blinks dazedly before glancing down at their entwined bodies and laughing. "Fuck. Didn't even get one piece of clothing off between the two of us."
"Feel too damn good to be upset about that," James says.
"Next time, we aim for skin."
***
.End
Title: Nested
Fandom: Jossverse RPS
Rating: NC17
Pairing: CK/JM
A/N: rubywisp is an evil little gremlin and wholly responsible for my trip to the dark side. To thank her, this features hot tepid lukewarm man-on-man grinding action, because we agree on that, among other things.
This is RPS. I say it again: this is Real Person Slash. If that squicks you? Don't click the cut tag. See, easy peasy and everyone's happy. Yay!
Disclaimer: The names are recognizable, but everything else is made the fuck up. Don't even consider the fact that this is real, because it's not. At all. Even I know that, and I wrote the damn thing.
***
James used to kill time with puzzle books. Work his brain until he got frustrated with trying to figure out the logic of seven different people going to seven different stores to purchase seven different things. He'd save those for last, because inevitably he'd toss the book out after reading the clues just once.
But he liked the one where he had to find a shitload of words in one long word. He used to spend days on those, staring at the ten-letter word until his eyes crossed, and refusing to look at the answers in the back of the book until he was positive he'd found every word he was gong to find.
Words hidden within words. Reminds him of those Russian nesting dolls. Gives him a sense of moreness to the world. Everything large is built upon and stacked and nested with smaller things that don't try to steal the spotlight. That just hide away unnoticed until someone actually tries to see them.
He's gotten used to looking for the things that are hidden away, and it's not something he can really turn off, though he wishes to hell he could.
He's been in his trailer for half an hour. Purposely hightailed it off the set before Chris could catch his eye. The knock is expected. So is Chris opening the door without waiting for James to tell him to come in. Two of Chris' guitars seem to be living in James' trailer, along with a stash of his beer. His second home. No knocking required.
"You ran off, man," Chris says, closing the door behind him. "You wanna work on that bridge some more?"
James rubs his face and wonders when the fuck he got so damn old. Had to have been a while ago. Probably got sucked into the perpetually twenty-six crap of the show. Easy to happen when he's living it fourteen hours a day, half a year. He's in his damn forties and his patience for early-thirties drama is gone. Long gone.
Something bounces off his head and he blinks at the guitar pick that lands on his thigh, then at Chris' shit-eating grin. Today is just like all the previous days he and Chris have hung out in the trailer at the end of the day. Except it's not, because James saw the smaller words hidden in the larger word that is Chris and David.
"I'm not playing this game," he says flatly, and Chris' grin melts away by degrees.
"What are you talking about?"
"You. Dave. Leave me out of it."
Chris freezes for an instant, eyes wide and unblinking, then he runs a hand through his longish hair, messing up the camera-friendly style. "Fuck," he mutters. "He told you?"
James arches a brow. "Yeah, right. Because we're buddies. He tells me everything." He rolls his eyes and Chris frowns at him. "I figured it out on my own, and I don't want to be pulled into the middle. So take yourself off somewhere else, all right?"
There's anger hovering just under James' surface, and he knows it's showing, knows it's telling Chris more than James wants him to know. And maybe he also knows that giving Chris anger just asks for anger in return. Good ol' boy doesn't simmer, he explodes.
Chris stalks further into the trailer, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. "You're a fucking piece of work, you know that? I can't just hang out with you. I've got to be using you and it's got to be connected to shit that went down three years ago. Nice opinion you have of me."
Yeah, James is way too old for this shit. "Look, that's not what I meant, okay?"
But Chris isn't buying that. "Yeah, actually, it was. But, hey--it's your trailer. You want me to go, I'll go."
Chris turns around and James feels himself moving without having decided to do so. His hand wraps around Chris' arm, flesh against flesh, and James can feel a shivering tension in Chris' muscles, can feel a pliancy come into his own.
The two of them have spent hours alone together in this small space, and James is built upon and stacked and nested with smaller things that don't try to steal the spotlight but exist nonetheless.
"And speaking of playing games..." Chris' voice is tired and a little bitter and James has to wonder what else is nested in the other man that James hasn't yet looked for.
"I'm not--I don't play games."
"Shit, man. That's all you fucking do. Not on purpose, but you do it."
What the hell can he say to that? James isn't sure. He's never been good with words, with using them to let people in. But his hand is still on Chris' arm, and he tightens his grip. Steps closer, and he can feel the heat coming off of Chris' body.
"Stay," James says. "We'll work on the bridge."
Chris' turns his head, and his eyes are narrowed. "I should tell you to go to hell, you know."
James nods. "Hoping you won't."
There's a pause, and then Chris moves around so that he's facing James again, but he doesn't increase the distance between them, and he makes sure that James' hand stays where it is. His eyes are intense and he asks, "Why do you want me to stay?"
The moment is nested with a million damn things that make James want to step away and crack a joke. That would be the smart thing to do, but he's notorious for doing the dumb thing more often than not, and who the hell is he to flout tradition?
So instead of bringing things back where they should be, he follows Chris' lead and lets them veer off where they shouldn't go.
"Because I like having you here," he says quietly, and the statement itself is innocuous on its own, but Chris eyes get dark and hungry and maybe he used to kill time with puzzle books too.
***
Everything changes the next week, and it's not that they're pretending everything is the same, they're just not talking about what's different. They still play music because they used to and they're still trying to figure out what they should do now.
Chris knows things are going to reach a breaking point soon, would have reached them a while ago except that James is a prickly thing. Perceptive enough to pick up on what no one else does, but so bogged down with his own personal shit that he can never figure out the right angle. He's resigned himself to waiting for James to catch on to where he wants things to go. A mind like James', and that's all a person can do. Because outright telling does nothing but breed disbelief and insecurity.
It's damn sad, in a way, but mostly it's just frustrating. Chris has been trying to bring things around with James since his first damn day back on the show, and at the rate it's taking James to pick up on that, Chris' latest stint will be over.
He knows that James never bought the guitar playing, which was the only way he could think of to actually get time alone with the other man. James knows enough about where his own talents do and do not lay that Chris couldn't fool him on that front. But how the hell James' mind made a connection between Chris hanging out with him, and what happened with Chris and Dave three years ago, is something Chris thinks he'll never figure out. Thinks it says a lot about his good mental health that he can't.
It's been a long day on set and Chris collapses on the sofa in James' trailer, the idea of even picking up his guitar too exhausting to seriously contemplate. The day officially ended half an hour ago, and they've both changed out of work clothes and, strangely enough, messed up their hair.
James' hair looks almost normal when it's not plastered to his skull like a fucking helmet. The color's hellishly unnatural, yeah. But when it's sticking up in careless disarray, it's all Chris can do to keep himself from grabbing handfuls of it while he fucks James' mouth with his tongue.
"Son of a bitch," James breathes. "Talk about rough. I'm tired of these last minute script changes. Drives me nuts."
Chris rolls his head on the sofa back, gets a view of James' profile. "Screws us all up, man."
After a few minutes of slow blinking and silence, Chris rubs his face with both hands and decides caffeine is in order. Stands up and has to climb over James' sprawled legs to go to the mini-fridge. Makes it halfway before he stops, straddling James without making any actual contact, and looks down at him.
"Caffeine boost?" he asks, and because he's looking closely enough, he can see the way James' breath hitches for a second before he nods.
Takes his time in swinging his other leg over James' legs, and there must be something real fucking interesting on James' thigh, because he's staring really hard at it. Little smug grin on Chris' face as he pulls the fridge open, which falls away in horror when he sees the cans.
"Dude," he exclaims, holding up one bright orange can like it's going to bite him. "Sunkist?"
James curls his lips. "Don't even ask. Should be some Red Bull in there."
Chris shoves the squat, offensive cans out of the way until the Holy Grail that is the slender, sleek Red Bull can comes into view. Oh, and look, it's got a friend hiding behind a container of food.
"Don't have to explain. I get it." Tosses a can to James and gestures with his own at the other man's orange shirt. And, okay, so the color looks good on him. Still. "You've gone all freaky and started color-coordinating your beverages with your wardrobe."
James flips him off, smiles up at him when he has to step over the outstretched legs again. "All the cool kids are doing it, but you're shit out of luck. Don't think they have any flannel patterned beverage containers."
"You're a fucking comedian. Really. Need to take that act on the road."
They get some laughing in, some more fingers directed at each other, and then they fall silent. And it's all gosh-golly-gee-whiz-swell that he and James aren't sitting here with a load of awkward tension. Really it is. But, holy hell, there are better things they could be doing than enjoying comfortable silence.
And James' mind is more disturbing than Chris has given him credit for, because all of a sudden he's *right fucking there*.
"You didn't start coming around for the music," James says slowly, finger tapping against the Red Bull can. He's looking at nothing in particular in front of him, eyes narrowed in thought or concentration or something. "And it wasn't because you were trying to avoid Dave."
"Right on both counts," Chris says carefully.
It's better to let James follow along his own path to something. Chris has learned that by watching James play the guitar, fumbling fingers tripping over themselves and struggling to figure out what Chris slightly repositioning James' finger would take care of. James has to get to things on his own terms, his own way and it's always the hard way.
When Chris doesn't say anything else, James cuts a quick look in his direction. Shifty eyes sliding away before Chris can read them. "Guess that has me wondering why the hell you *did* start coming around."
Chris leans forward, tosses his empty can into the trash basket, then shifts so that he's sitting mostly sideways, getting an eyeful of that orange shirt. Of those faded blue jeans that are thin with age and washing and are probably softer than any of the flannel shirts James ribs him about.
"You sure you want the answer to that question? Because, it's a 'can't go back' situation."
And it's a thing of beauty, James slamming his eyes shut and sucking in a quick, shallow breath. James' hand clenching around the can and rending the metal into sharp angles that freakishly resemble his cheekbones if Chris squints.
Then he stands up, hand loosening on the can as he walks with deliberate steps to the trash and drops it in. His back is to Chris, and there's a tightness to his spine that's full of the right kind of tension.
"Yeah, I do," James says.
***
James doesn't know what he was expecting. Maybe something not good, maybe something great. Fuck if he knows, really. This is what he avoids; this is why he's made do in recent history with nameless adorers who don't give a fuck about him, who only think they know him. It's a goddamn guaranteed situation, isn't it? They want to fuck Spike, or they want to fuck him because he plays Spike.
It's simple and there's no question about anything.
This? The very opposite of simple. The antithesis of a guarantee. It's too close, too personal, and it's bringing up a million insecurities that he buried and pretended were gone for good.
He wants to take the words back. Wants to take the damn week back. Jump in the Way Back Machine and let Chris walk out of the trailer instead of asking him to stay and work on the fucking bridge--and could he have been more pathetic with that line?
If there's one thing he's good at, it's beating himself up, and he's in rare form right now. Kicking himself six ways from Sunday and about ready to run screaming from his own trailer. He's so caught up in his own head that he doesn't hear Chris move, just jumps when there's suddenly a body pressed against his. Wide chest against his narrower back, warm breath hitting him right behind his ear and making his own breath shudder.
Chris dips his head, forehead nuzzling the crook of James' neck, one hand creeping around James' waist tentatively, soft pressure against his abdomen pulling James back so that he can feel Chris' hard on through two layers of denim.
James is so thick and heavy now it's like he's moving through something viscous even though he's not moving, just sinking a little more against Chris every time he exhales, just tilting his head further and further to the side so that Chris can bury his face there, lips brushing over sensitive skin.
"This," Chris says, mouth against James' neck, hand sinking down to rub James' hardening cock. "This is why."
Son of a bitch, it's the best damn reason James has ever heard in his life, though that opinion is probably being influenced by Chris' talented hand, which is stroking him hard and slow. But they've gone right to the middle, bypassed the beginning, and James has a thing for the beginning.
Turns around, and Chris' face stays at his throat, lips parting and tongue swiping hard enough to make James' back arch in response and Chris laugh smugly. Yeah, well, Chris isn't the only one good with his tongue. James brings a hand to the back of Chris' head, sinks his fingers into that thick brown hair and tilts Chris' face up.
And, yeah, this is what James likes. Lips and tongues and slickness and hands running along backs, scrambling for purchase. Real kissing. Not stage kissing. The kind of kissing that teenagers do and can last for hours, though he doesn't plan on hours for this, great as it fucking is. Seems like Chris feels the same way. He guides James back and to the side, pushes him against the thin wall of the trailer and, please God don't let anyone else be haunting the lot this damn late. Last thing either of them needs are whispers and looks and tabloid articles.
Chris is against him then, and all thoughts of scandal fly out the window and who the fuck cares if the E! True Hollywood Story people come strolling in with cameras on them? Because Chris is pushing against him, rubbing their cocks together and James' nerve endings are firing out of control, and they're still kissing.
James fumbles for Chris' hands, holding on tight, and Chris lifts them, holds them against the wall on either side of James' shoulders, his pelvis rolling like something silken and velvet against James. And he needs air, can't get enough through his nose, and he hates to do it but he has to pull his mouth away from Chris'.
"Know how fucking long I've wanted to do this?" Chris asks him, his voice rough and growling, sex laced with danger and wound through with his southern drawl. Gives James an unexpected thrust and his eyes glitter when James gasps. "Yeah, that's what I wanted to see."
He rolls his hips again, hands clenching around James' when another gasp issues. And, goddamn, it's been too long since it's been like this. Since it's been about him, not Spike or he who plays Spike, and he's probably the most contrary fuck, but whatever.
"Jesus Christ," James chokes out, his own hips working frantically against Chris', rubbing and thrusting and rolling, and even with the layers between them, James can feel Chris. Feel the length of him, bound by cloth, throbbing and hard.
Chris tangles one hand in James' hair, leans his forehead against James', and everything beneath their waists gets more frantic, more needy.
"Oh, hell. James. Jamesjamesjamesjames."
James' hips jerk uncontrollably, and Chris' other hand comes down, takes hold of a hip, and brings them together with swirls and short, almost-hard up thrusts. With James' name falling from his lips in a chant. With a handful of Chris' hair in James' fist. With body heat and sweat and bunched muscles.
And still, that chant, and James starts to curl in on himself. His face falls against Chris' neck, mouth opening to suckle skin before his teeth graze gently and Chris spasms so damn hard he loses the rhythm and slams himself against James with no real thought in his head.
Oh. Yes. Fucking yes. Small, anticipatory smile on James' lips, and he waits for Chris to go back to the sweet little movements before he finds muscle with teeth and digs with just enough pressure to feel, but not enough to be all pain.
And it's all instinct now. Rough and hard, and it's better in a different way than what they were doing before. Chris' lips crash down on James' again, and they're grunting when they get air, breathing obscenities at one another, and James is going to have bruises from getting pushed against the wall.
"Oh, God," James groans, head thrown back, hands on Chris' shoulders. "Real thing's better than jerking off."
Chris pushes harder against him, gives him eyes that are all pupil, says, "Keep. Fucking. Talking."
This is also something James is good at. Smirks at Chris, all pouting lips, and he knows that his eyes are just as black as Chris' are right now. "What about? About laying on that couch after you leave and taking my cock out?"
And Chris stops, cocks pressed so hard between them that it's almost uncomfortable. "Yeah," he whispers, the word falling off and catching back right in the middle.
James licks his lips, arches into the circles that Chris is making with his hips, the two of them still tight against one another. "I'd jerk off, thinking abut sucking your cock until you shot right down my fucking throat."
Chris jerks against him, muscles bunching up so damn much that James can feel it. "You're good with that mouth. I can tell."
"I'm damn good," James breathes. "Could make you scream when you come. Let you fuck my mouth." And he's been with enough fawning fans that he knows what kind of picture he makes on his knees, knows what gets people off about it. "Suck your cock and stare up at you the entire fucking time."
Chris' eyes roll back in his head, and James is near to exploding from what they're doing, what he's saying.
"I jerk off to that," James tells him, and then talking is impossible, because Chris is attacking his mouth with lips and teeth, and pinning him against the wall so damn hard that James can't do anything but let Chris have his way. Let him grind against him and bring them closer and closer.
And then the chanting starts again. Just his name, strung together an infinite number of times, and James is gone. Arches his back, freezes when his muscles all contract at once, and it's there, just a half-second away. And then it shoots through him, hits everything at once and he's screaming Chris' name against Chris' shoulder as he jerks and comes and Chris pushes against him, four, five more times and screams wordlessly when he comes, the sound breaking off and becoming soundless as his hips twitch against James'.
They shake and shudder, locking their knees to stay upright and still falling against each other and the wall. James tries to get his breath, wonders why he's so fucking hot and realizes they're both fully clothed, with stains on the front of their jeans.
"Shit," James pants. "That was...shit."
They stumble to the couch, collapse half on top of each other, and Chris blinks dazedly before glancing down at their entwined bodies and laughing. "Fuck. Didn't even get one piece of clothing off between the two of us."
"Feel too damn good to be upset about that," James says.
"Next time, we aim for skin."
***
.End