Snow (sweptawaybayou) wrote,

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Sexual Suicide ~ David/Chris

"Actually," Jensen has to force the words out through the moans and whimpers crowding his throat, so fucking close he could cry, "I think…" He breathes out. "I think it's time for you to go, Chris."

From poisontaster’s Here We Make Our Stand

Sexual Suicide

by Snow

David Boreanaz/Christian Kane (Christian/Jensen, Jensen/Jared)
Not Mine.
Read by and spanked, um, encouraged by lostakasha and tabaqui
Any remaining errors are mine alone.

“He would say, 'How funny it will all seem, all you've gone through, when I'm not here anymore, when you no longer feel my arms around your shoulders, nor my heart beneath you, nor this mouth on your eyes, because I will have to go away someday, far away...' And in that instant I could feel myself with him gone, dizzy with fear, sinking down into the most horrible blackness: into death.”

~ Arthur Rimbaud 1854-1891


David was just finishing his morning workout when Chris walked into his house. Clouds filled the sky, lightning sparked down and the air smelled like iron. He had been able to tell from the lack of certain cars in the drive, that she wasn’t there.

Saliva pounded from hidden, powerful speakers and David sat on a bench, wiping sweat from his eyes. Chris leaned against the doorframe, lit a cigarette. Eating up David’s thighs and chest and arms with his gaze. Tight, wet gray cotton shorts that didn’t hide anything that Chris didn’t know the taste of, the feel of, the smell of and his mouth watered.

Dark eyes glanced up to meet his and David reached for a remote. Instant silence, the smoke from Chris’ cigarette danced in the space between them.

“Hey, Kane.”

David dropped the towel over the silver bar behind him and kicked off his tennis shoes. He left them where they fell, one on its side, one toe-pointed straight at Chris.

“Aren’t you gonna ask why I’m here?”

‘Not to mention,’ Chris thought, ‘where I’ve been.’


David brushed past, leaving the room and Chris reflexively inhaled. Mouth open, sucking in the taste of David’s sweat. Anything to counter the pain of the definite dismissal he’d seen in Jensen’s eyes and the glow of triumph he’d seen in Jared’s.

“Thought we were past that, Chris.”

Chris followed the sound of David’s voice into his kitchen. David grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, then he leaned against the marble counter. The place was spotless, not one dirty glass in the sink. The stove sparkled and the trashcan was empty.

This was another world, a different universe compared to how they had lived.

When they lived together.

Parties that lasted all weekend, trash and naked girls on the front lawn, around the pool. People parked on the grass and they drove through the neighborhood with someone surfing the hood or standing on the trunk. Pizza boxes in the hallways and beer cans tossed and kicked along the walls.

“Are we?” Chris asked, swaying on his feet and David shook his head.

“You’re still drunk.”

Chris took a drag off his cigarette. He caught the long ash in his palm before it fell to the tiles under his boots and he looked for a place to crush the cherry out. His hand shook and he didn’t see David notice.


David slid an ashtray down the counter and Chris twisted the filter down against the glass. He couldn’t stop seeing Jared’s face. He couldn’t stop wanting Jensen’s lips. He shouldn’t have asked … he should have simply taken. They were friends, man, they had meant something … he thought that Jensen would always be there for him. Just like –

“Go sleep it off, Kane. Use the spare, it’s made up.”

Chris snorted.

“Not yours?” Chris had to ask.

Sometimes he wondered what his life would be like if he could keep his mouth shut. If he could keep a leash on his temper. If he could stop being impulsive. If he wasn’t such a shit to people that he swore he cared about. Even occasionally.

“I’m not drunk. I’ve just had a really fucked up morning.”

And the night before that. Sliding into Jensen’s bed and feeling those smooth, round shoulders … turning. Jensen sank back down into sleep after a few mumbled words and Chris felt him slipping away.

“And now you’re here.”

Chris rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and tried to see something in David’s expression that would give him entrance. Something that would let him know that David wasn’t like everyone else in his life. That they still had—

“You got any beer?”

Chris thought if he saw David shake his head one more fucking time, he would snap. Simply break open and let out all the anger and broken little boy hurt that churned up from his gut and boiled behind his tongue.

And that Goddamn look in Jared’s eyes.

“You know where it is. I’m gonna shower.” David pushed off the counter and walked past Chris. “In the den fridge. Behind the bar.”

“At least that hasn’t changed.” Chris mumbled and he heard David’s short, bark of a laugh as he left.

“World keeps moving, Kane. Gotta keep up.”

Chris wandered through David’s den and even here, although it was cluttered with David’s toys and pictures and tickets from sports events from all over, it was too clean. Too perfect. He grabbed a beer out of the small fridge behind the bar and drank half of it down before stopping to breathe. He started to toss the cap in the trash can, then he stopped. Smirked and left it on the polished top of the bar. He slammed the rest, left his bottle by the cap and grabbed another. The metal sphere landed on the carpeted floor as he walked out.

He walked straight to the master bedroom and since the door wasn’t closed, he pushed it open with the tip of one dusty boot. The big bed was a mess, pillows on the floor and blankets kicked back to the end. Pictures of Jaden on the walls, David’s parents and mountain at dawn, the ocean at sunset. Two, long red silk ties hung from the thick bedposts and Chris could hear the shower running. He smiled, took another drink of his beer and started to pull off his shirt.

It had been a long, long time since he’d seen David in the shower, since David had him in the shower. Water over those incredibly wide shoulders, skating down his chest and fuck… the wicked things David had done to him, over and over. The memory of a thumb pressed against the base of his spine, long, wet fingers reached down. Pushed inside and Chris almost laughed out loud, his knees weakened as if he’d already come.

He set his bottle on the wide bureau, balanced as he started to kick off his boots and stopped when he heard David. Just loud enough over the spray of the shower. Just low enough to make Chris completely motionless.

And then another voice. Jumbled words. The soft thud of an elbow or knee against tiles and fiberglass.

Chris tasted blood. He’d bit the tip of his tongue almost clean through and the pain hit him at the same time as the nausea. He backed out of the bedroom. His ass hit the hallway wall. His arm stretched out as his vision narrowed and darkened and he was on his knees in the guestroom bath with his head over the toilet before he realized it. Spitting red and gagging on swallowed beer and stomach acid.

He sat back, his head smacking the drywall and his boots skidding out in front of him. Nothing else came up, nothing else could. He choked on too much pain, too much wrong and his vision blurred. The pretty pastel and coral bathroom that had smelled of vanilla and too-sweet flowers ran into puddles of orange and rage and it stank of stale smoke and sweat and near-vomit.

Chris watched himself. His fist hit the porcelain tub until his knuckles were bloody. His boots kicked the toilet and small, décor-coordinated trashcan until it folded, crumpled and his thighs trembled. His head slammed back into the drywall over and over and he couldn’t stop. Warm blood ran down his chin as his teeth ground together because nothing, nothing, nothing made sense anymore.

Steve out on tour with his own band, Chris’ own label backing him. Jensen bent over the kitchen table with Jared’s cock in his ass, telling him to go … just go … and David, looking better than he ever had … showering with someone else. Someone else in his bed, in his hands, in his life, in his thoughts and Chris—

“Fuck, Kane. What the hell are you doing?”

Strong hands on his shoulders. Under his arms, lifting him from the floor and Chris fought. Wild and bad and it was like the one time he’d tried crack with some skinny chick after a concert in a cheap hotel in Tennessee. He’d fucked her until she couldn’t cry, her tiny body squirming under his. He’d fucked her until he couldn’t and he never came that night. Not even later, alone, his hands shaking and slick on his own cock. His mind twisted and it was the first and only time, he thought, that he’d been scared of himself. Of his own temper. Of his own brain and body and thoughts and the dark.

For all his punching and kicking, fuck, his biting and scratching, he only got in one solid hit. By the time David had shoved him back into the tub, held him against the shower wall and turned on the water, Chris focused on the redpurple bruise that lit up the skin just under David’s right eye.

“Stop, you asshole. Just stop. Don’t fucking touch me. You don’t want me. Don’t touch. Don’t…stop…”

David’s hands in his hair, bending his neck back and up. Chris’s ineffectual punches changed to fingers that gripped David’s T-shirt so tightly the seams tore and gave. Water ran down over them both, soaking them and when they kissed it was teeth and tongues and lips and blood. It hurt more than it felt good. It was the yellowed pages of an attic stored photo album. It was sneaking out of the house on a summer night at thirteen, climbing down branches and running off with the bad crowd. The first drunk, the first hangover and the mornings after with someone that had no name, a thousand reminders that they were done and finished and not even really friends anymore.

“Come on, come on, come on.” His words came out in short, fast rushes of breath that barely kept him conscious.

“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.”

His boots skidded, black heel marks on fiberglass. Fingers grabbed, clothes dropped. Not all, just enough, just enough for one to be backed up and turned and some fancy oil that cost more than a steak dinner in a restaurant on Rodeo was poured and dropped to leak away down the drain. Hands reached and were pulled up above. Pinned and held and yes .. fuck .. yes … there it was. There. And there and there and--

“Harder. Harder. Harder.”

Slim, sharp hips slapped against his ass. That cock that had always fit so fucking right filled him. Split him open. Wide and thick and familiar and God, Jesus … please. His hands curled and his toes cramped in wet socks, inside soaked boots and it was the water spraying over them, pouring down through his long hair that tasted like salt when it spilled into his open mouth before that tongue and those lips claimed it again. It had to be.

It couldn’t be anything else.


Soft mellow smoke. Clean skin. Clean hair. Sore ass. Weak knees.

“What about…?”

“He left. He’ll be back.”

“And this?”

“Won’t happen again.”

Another sweet toke. Chris’ hand slid down David’s chest. His fingers curled around a soft, spent cock and the sigh of air, the twitch of muscles, the low roll of a groan, of thunder from clouds that had darkened the sky so that the room was shadowed and cool as rain poured down and it made him smile. Hidden and safe from sight, from the light of his own soul, his curved lips skipped over David’s ribs and down … down…

“Sure, Dave. Whatever you say.”

‘Sure, Jen … whatever you want…’

For now.


Tags: david/chris, fic, rps
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