Snow (sweptawaybayou) wrote,

  • Mood:

I'm telling you. It just writes itself . . .

ckanerock emailed me last night. With these pictures. Asking if I noticed anything . . .
Well. *ahem* Yes. I did.
Aside from the fact that they're two gorgeous men. And both standing beside the beautiful Amy Acker.

So I asked if I could post them.
She said I could.
If I wrote a little something to go along with them . . .

Odds Are . . .
Another Not for Profit Venture by Snow
David Boreanaz/Christian Kane
Not real people.
This never happened.

For ckanerock, who feeds my muse with more love and attention than I do.
Thank you.

“You haven’t ever worn this shirt to a publicity event, have you?”

“No. Don’t think so.”

Chris rolled out of bed, cursing. The California sun was shining through the window, the sky a bright azure blue and he was late, late, late. Supposed to be at an autograph session almost an hour ago. MetroEntertainment. No time left for a shower or shave. He found his jeans and pulled them on, stumbling around, searching the floor of the bedroom for his shirt. There. Picked it up and groaned.


Torn, right down the front. Collar to seam. Again. David and his huge Goddamn hands. His drunken need and want and absolutely no patience when it came to getting at what he felt was his.

Chris tried to suppress the memory of last night quickly, thinking of that, right now, would only slow him down. He failed.

Playing pool at a nearby bar. Drinking beer and Tequila until he could see two of everything. Which didn’t make for a good game. Watching David, a cigarette perched behind his ear, sucking his soft lower lip as he bent over the table, concentrating. Lining up a shot. Worn out blue jeans pulling tight against his ass and defining his thighs. And when he stood, they were just snug enough across the front that Chris could tell he wasn’t wearing any underwear.

As usual.

It had been more than three months since they had any free time to spend together. And Chris felt the heat that still flowed, the ease that they had. As if they met every week for pool and beer, laughter and sports talk. David grabbing his ass out in the dark of the parking lot. Pulling him into a bathroom stall and pushing him up against the cold metal of the divider. Kissing Chris until his lips were bruised and wet and they were both trying to catch their breath and do it again while they were alone.

Chris hadn’t forgotten how big David was, how overwhelming. How his brains turned straight to cornmeal mush when David would level that intense, dark-eyed stare at him while they sat on tall stools at the bar, half listening to a football game on the big screen and eating greasy jalapeno and cheese covered nachos.

Look right into him.

Whisper in his ear.

“Gonna fuck you tonight, Cowboy. I’m gonna make you come until you can’t. Until you’re singing.”

Then David would lean back and laugh, slap Chris on his shoulder. Order more beer for them both and light another cigarette. Start talking about some golf course he’d played in New York State. And how the greens were smooth as glass and he’d almost had a hole in one and the waitress in the clubhouse had blown him right the fuck under the table while he’d eaten his steak and traded stories with the pro.

Chris had driven them back David’s rented condo in his truck.

They were not able to undress fast enough. The feel of that smooth, hard chest under Chris’ palms, the warmth of David’s mouth on his cock and the mind bending burn of having David inside of him, crushing him to the floor, to the stairs, to the mattress. Hot kisses and groping fingers and yes. Chris yelled out his name and finally, finally David had grabbed his cock. Made him come twice, no, three times. Fucker had worked him until he was sore and even now his dick twitched, painfully tender, against buttons and denim at the thought of that tongue and those lips.

Chris dug around in the closet and drawers. There had to be something here he could wear.

Brightly colored polos and bizarrely striped dress shirts. Yeah, that would look good with his long hair and boots. Shit, the man dressed like he belonged in the circus. At the bottom of a drawer he found a red and white western-style shirt. The kind with the fake ivory snaps down the front and on the pockets and cuffs. Chris pulled on the flannel, left it untucked. Kind of warm for the day, but at least he wouldn’t look too far out of his own style. He slipped on his boots quickly. Glanced over at the bed.

David lay sprawled on his back in the middle of it. A white sheet twisted up around his waist, long legs sticking out from beneath. Chris moved toward him, helpless.

“Hey. I gotta go.” He nudged the mattress with his knee. Not trusting himself to get any closer.

David rubbed at hand across his face and opened his eyes slowly, squinting against the sunlight.

“You’re wearing my shirt.”

Chris nodded.

“Looks good on you.” David caught Chris’ wrist in his hand, pulled him down. Kissed him hard. Chris could feel the sleep heat coming up off of David’s bare chest. Smell cologne and sweat and sex. “Guess you’ll have to come back when you’re done. That’s one of my favorites.”

David released him and Chris stood slowly, felt the shake in his legs.

“Guess I will.”

David flashed that smile at Chris, then rolled over, covering his head with a pillow to block out the light. His voice muffled and low as he spoke,

“See you later, Oklahoma.”

Chris made himself leave and walk into the day, out to his truck. He turned the stereo up loud and put on his cowboy hat. This would be the quickest appearance in history. He’d make damn sure of that.

Under the pillow, David opened his eyes. Suddenly remembering that, yes. He had worn that shirt someplace . . . when? His brow wrinkled. Shit. He couldn’t remember. Had Amy been there? No, no, he didn’t think so . . . David relaxed and tried to go back to sleep.

Sure that even if he had ever worn it someplace, at sometime, the odds of anyone noticing were slim.





So . . . what do you think?

::wet smooches and warm, flannel hugs::

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