Snow (sweptawaybayou) wrote,

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Lies We Tell Ourselves ~ Coming Home ~ David/Chris

Chapter 20 of Lies We Tell Ourselves by ely_jan and sweptawaybayou

Continued from here.

Coming Home

by Snow

David Boreanaz/Christian Kane
Not Mine. Not Hers.
No Profit. No Gain.

Coming home ...

This is, Chris is.

The taste of his skin, the pinching bruise his fingers leave behind. The soft brush of his long hair and the flames in his eyes. The hard press of his cock, the smell of his body; musk and sweat and the rage that fights with the lust inside him until it loses and retreats for now. For a moment. For this.

Lubricant shoved into David's hand and Chris' mouth never stops those biting kisses. He never stops touching and digging, his strong legs lifted and wrapped around David's hips as if David were trying to get away. As if Chris was afraid he could and that thought made David smile. Afraid? Chris? Of anything?

Not possible.

No place left but here for David, no more hiding, no more running. No more masks. No more pretending that anyone is more important. No more twists of the truth to fit the hour or the night, or the day.

David pinned Chris under him, he held that in-constant-motion body down to the mattress and flipped the cap on the lube. His elbows on either side of Chris' shoulders, his hips dancing to a nameless little tune in his own head and their cocks rubbed together. David squeezed out the clear, odorless, jelly-like liquid onto one palm and tossed the container off to the side. He stared down into Chris' eyes and worked his hands together. He coated his fingers from the nails to the knuckles and wondered just what Chris was seeing in his own face. If he could read the thoughts there that David felt were written in blood on every inch of his skin. That David could only express through the way he gently pushed away from Chris, the way he made enough room between them for the slick slide of his hand and arm. For the firm, stroking touch of his palm and fingers as he reached under Chris' balls, past the soft curl of stiff hair and teased lightly over Chris' tight, puckered opening.

Balanced on one side, David's head tilted and his tongue played over his teeth. He painted a line of the glossy lube on the callused thumb of his other hand from the tip of Chris' nose, over the space between his eyebrows to the start of his hairline just above his forehead. David leaned down and suckled a nipple, his lips pursing and curving and sealing around it. His teeth scraping, his tongue flicking until Chris' back came up off the bed and his fingers dug in tighter, his hands on David's arms.

So many times before. In every way that it could happen. In trailers. In cars. In darkened hallways at the studio, in offices after hours. In bathroom stalls in bars with dizzy drunken gropes, cigarettes tossed on the linoleum to leave burn marks by drains. In his bed, in David's. Once on the beach up the coast when they'd gone out for a drive and ended up blowing each other in the sand.

After fights. After football games. After parties and after road trips that took Chris too fucking far away from David for too fucking long. At a convention, after a concert. In a shower, in a hot tub. On a pool table and they left the green felt stained with sweat and come and spilled beer, the wood scarred from belt buckles and the heels of David's boots. In cheap motels when David was on location or Chris on tour and in expensive ones. In Las Vegas and in Chicago and in Austin and in New York.

In Tijuana after midnight in the cab of Chris' truck and they'd never lost their hard-ons or buttoned up so fast or acted so sober when they couldn't have walked a step because of the tequila they'd drank like water in the strip bar that smelled of piss and vomit when the truck was bathed in the lights of a cruising Mexican Patrol car. In Canada and in London and once in Spain.

There had been phone sex of a sort, less the what are you wearing? kind and more of the wish you were here sucking my cock right now, because there is no one here that does that thing with their tongue like you do and you miss my ass, dickwad and when I get back, I'm going to fuck you through the goddamned mattress. You'll be lucky if you can walk for a week without looking like you just got out of prison.

And David would do it all over again. He would take all the bruises and the yelling and the laughter and the teasing. He would've stood up at that trial if his lawyer hadn't settled out of court and told his former landlord that yes ... yes ... fuck yes. He'd watched as Chris had punched holes in the drywall of the house in Hollywood Hills and yes ... They had flicked lit matches across the living room when they were too stoned and drunk to even know that they were doing and Pink Floyd was playing at maximum volume on the stereo and they'd woken up seven hours later and fucked right there on the burnt carpet because they were amazed that they were still alive.

They had broken every goddamn rule and gotten away with all of it until now. Until it became too much to keep up the act and David just couldn't do it anymore. He didn't want to. He was tired and old and sick of the look in Chris' eyes when he pulled on his jeans and walked out the door.

Sunshine poured in through the big window in Chris' bedroom that faced to the east. It made Chris' eyes appear a lighter blue. This was something that David wanted to see more often. This was something he could get used to.

David pushed the tip of one finger inside Chris. He worked it just past the small ring of muscle that he knew would feel so good around the head of his cock. He curved his finger up in the confined space and rolled it over a hard knot with a practiced touch. Chris' hips bucked up against his and David hissed through clenched teeth when Chris' cock bumped his, hot and hard. He added another finger and pushed them apart, sank in a little deeper. Chris' body flashed between convulsing tighter and relaxing and David didn't stop for even a second. He leaned back and watched the muscles of Chris' abdomen flex and twist. He listened for the sound of Chris' voice. For when Chris would say Now and Yes and David ... Dave ...

There would never be a Please and David was okay with that. Chris wouldn't beg. He shouldn't have to, begging was left for mere mortals, for fans, for others, for David when he wanted Chris inside him so damn bad he couldn't do anything but break. When he would say anything to have what he was addicted to, what he couldn't live without.

David pulled his fingers free of Chris' body and put his hand on the thick muscles on the back of Chris' thigh. He lifted it, spread Chris open wide. He brushed his cheek against the hair on the leg that was balanced on his shoulder and held his cock in his own hands. He nudged the slick opening behind Chris' balls and leaned over him, resting the weight of his chest on one arm, his palm spread flat on the rumpled sheets and blankets.

Words on the tip of David's tongue, his voice caught in his throat like a scream in the middle of the night. So much he should say, so much he could tell Chris. How the years passed in his mind, a river, a sea. How he alternately cursed and blessed the day they'd met. How he had to fight to concentrate on scripts, on acting, on anything when they were apart for too long. How he would hear a song on the radio and his mind would turn to Chris and his tongue would roll inside his mouth and David would remember the way he tasted. His skin, his cock, his ass, his lips, his sweat. His come.

A slow push in, David's spine bowed. His breath came behind low, gruff moans. His head lowered between his shoulders and he watched a single drop of sweat fall from his cheek to Chris' chest. David was held in the space that existed between fucking and not. His cock half-way in, half-way out and there was not enough oxygen in the room, in the world.

Do you love me? Do you need me? Should I get my own place? Can I stay here? Can I sleep in your bed? Can I watch the ESPN hockey channel in the middle of the night? Can I have space in your closet? Will you drive me to work? Can I park the Mustang in your garage? Will you ever stop hitting me when you're pissed off at someone else?

Can I die in your arms?

Another inch and then another and another and David's elbow buckled and he crumpled down on Chris. Their chests together, the only sounds in the room were the slap of skin on skin as David fucked and Chris' hips lifted and fell and their breath came faster and faster. David reached between them, his lubed fingers sliding on Chris' cock.

"Kane ..."

And David knew that he was home.


*smooches you*

Tags: dave/chris, db/ck, fic, rps
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