Snow (sweptawaybayou) wrote,

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This is just a sample of what is going on inside my head. Well, not all the time, but pretty damn close. Ever since I read kita0610's rec for one of glossing's RPS fics I've wanted to write one.

So I did.

This is so not up to the standards that I've set for myself, but it's a start.

I'm new to the RPS world and the slashing world, so be gentle with me. I've read so many, many good ones. . .I just wanted to try it out.

Here goes nothing. . .

Be Warned.

This is RPS/Slash/DavidB.&ChristianK.
This is a fic. I am not writing about real people. I don't know them. I don't assume that they are gay. I don't assume that they are straight. I try not to assume anything. And I sure as hell don't own anything.
Ask my creditors.

oh. yeah. and it's not beta'd by anyone. So go forth at your own risk.

Is this over yet?

David wanted to bury his face in his hands, massage his temples, close his eyes, but he knew he couldn’t. It would send the slender, fluttering photographer into an apocalyptic fit. Not to mention the makeup artist. God forbid they didn’t get what seemed like thirty thousand promotional photos.

His head ached. His knee hurt. He had muscle spasms in his back. He’d been up since three a.m., on the set since four. Rehearsing. Fighting. Acting. Whatever. He glanced down at his wristwatch, ignored the photographer’s tech man whose only job it seemed, was to remind him to look up, to look at the camera.


It was now after seven.

No dinner. Again. No time to workout. Again. And if one more person mentioned his weight gain he would personally rip their fucking head off and shit down their neck. So he wasn’t the buff little boy from Sarah’s first seasons anymore. Did anyone in this business realize that he wasn’t really a vampire? That he aged? That some time had passed? Jesus God.

And the schedule he’d been keeping lately, promoting the one hundredth episode. The talk shows. The appearances. The parties that weren’t really parties. They were lucky he wasn’t strung out on whatever the drug of the week was here in unreality land.

And then there was his home life. Or lack of it. Jamie had been gone for a month. Ever since she’d heard the rumors. Ever since she’d confronted him and he hadn’t denied them.

He did miss his son.

The white fire that was his lower back kicked it up a notch into a cold, stabbing blade that ran down his hamstrings. Enough. David plastered a huge smile on his face and grabbed the photographer’s hand, shook it, perhaps too exuberantly.

“Thanks, thanks. I’ve got to go. You were great. Can’t wait to see the spread.”

The words spewed from him in a constant babble, not letting anyone else’s objections begin or end. He walked off the set, out the door and into the cool night air, taking deep breaths to keep himself from screaming. Straight to his trailer, stripped his jacket off as he moved, unbuttoned his shirt. Shower. Shower. Shower. Hot water. Blazingly hot water. Now.

Inside he kicked off his shoes, threw his shirt and jacket on the sofa, let his pants fall as he stepped into the bathroom. He should go home. Should. Pet his dogs. Have a salad and a lite beer. Fall asleep in his own bed. But all he was capable of right now was to wash off this stink, scrub off this makeup, have a couple shots of whiskey and hopefully be able to relax.

He stood under the water until it ran cool, then reluctantly turned it off. Grabbed the plush white robe that hung on the door and pulled it on over his wet skin. Opened the tiny mirrored cabinet and looked through the bottles inside. Pain medication. He shook out some pills, swallowed them dry. His back had returned to the damped flames, his knee just burned.

Out in the living room area, the lights off, he took a bottle of scotch from a cabinet, a small glass and eased himself down onto the plush couch. He stretched his bad leg out on the cushions and poured a stiff shot. He didn’t even look up when the door opened and Chris climbed in, bringing with him the smell of bars; smoke and liquor, cheap perfume and sweat.

He sat across from David, a slow grin played around his lips.

“Didn’t think you’d ever get out of there.”

“Price of being the star.”

David threw back the scotch, felt it ignite his throat. He ignored Chris’ laugh, poured another.

“And now the star is sitting in the dark. Getting drunk. In his trailer. Alone?”

David arched an eyebrow at the other man and slammed back the alcohol.

“Am I?”

Chris stood up, going to a cabinet to find another glass. Christ, he hated it when David was in a mood. He let his own short fuse burn itself out in his abrupt movements. He took the scotch, stood above David’s prone form as he poured, willed himself to not look at him. To not see the furrowed brow, the tired eyes, the soft lips.

“Getting drunk? The star? What?”

David grabbed Chris’ wrist in his hand as he set the bottle down.


Chris smiled and sipped his drink.

“Does it look that way?”

David didn’t release him, his palm hot, his grip hard.

“I want it to not *feel* that way.”

He pulled Chris toward him, didn’t let the hair that fell across his eyes break the stare. Chris allowed himself be brought down, rested on his heels.

“Want me?” He asked, his wrist still in David’s hand, his fingers reaching.

David didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Even though they were draped in shadows, he knew that Chris could see his erection that tented the robe. He knew he could see the need in his face. His skin was still heated and damp as Chris moved toward him. Fingers pulled apart the material over his shoulders and lips that tasted his chest. His tongue ran circles around his nipples, his teeth bit at them one at a time. David closed his eyes, buried his hands in Chris’ long hair.

“Need something?” Chris’ breath was hot against him and David responded with a gentle downward push on his head.

“This. I need this.”

That was all Chris had to hear. As his own cock was being almost painfully crushed against his jeans, he took David’s in his mouth, let the hands on his head set the rhythm and pace. He scraped him with his teeth, teased him with his lips, let himself be fucked. Openly. Wantonly.

He felt one of David’s hands on his jeans. Fingers fumbled with the button fly, finally just yanked them open. Chris moved onto his knees so that David could push them down. Grab his cock. Rough. Hard. Greedy. He sucked harder, pulled David deep in his throat, forgot to breathe as his mouth filled with come and he too quickly spilled his own at David’s touch. At his taste.

He pulled back, trembled at the hand that still held his cock, wet and dripping. Gasped against David’s smooth chest, one hand still caught in his hair.

“Not alone.”

Chris heard the low whisper and nodded, kissed the skin in front of him.

“Not alone.”

He answered and let himself be pulled up on the couch and held tightly in strong arms.

And David let the day go.

All Feedback kissed and hugged.

Good Feedback snuggled and worked into a frenzy.
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