RPS

tesla321 wrote some sexy RPS. Not necessarily for The david_b_daily Touching Month. . .but hey, works for me!

Read. Feedback. Love her. So she'll write more.

David Boreanaz/Christian Kane
NC/17
Not Real People. Not Real Names. No infringement intended.





1. Not enough beer in the world

Chris is driving down the road in his dusty black truck, with a cooler of beer on the seat next to him. As he finishes his can of beer, he looks behind him, then
flips the can out his window and into the truck bed, to join the other crushed
cans sliding around on the bed liner.

He's not drunk. He's a long way from drunk.

There's not enough beer in the world to get him drunk tonight.

Pissing contests, he thinks, I'm not in Texas any more, I'm not any place that I'd call home. You grow up and you prove yourself every fucking day and you
don't stand down, and you forget how to talk to someone without joking.
It's what you do. Like you play football in Texas, even though you're way too
small for it, because football is a religion in Texas, and only goddamn faggots
don't play ball, boy. Well, just the ones who're comfortable with getting the
shit beat out of them.

So you grow up tough and the only time you show your feelings is when you
sing. Or when you're drunk with your best friend, drinking until the sun comes
up, closing down the bars. You say, "I love you, man," and steal his beer and
you all laugh like hell.

The running back and the quarterback. The running back had the shit tackled
out of him every fucking day, the quarterback wore the red jersey that said
touch-me-not in practice, the star. The one who made the team win or lose.

So Chris is fine with being the evil foil for the title character; he's good with
the steady gig, and the promise of coming back for a second season. Fuck,
it was easier work than rodeo riding, any day of the week, easier than
grooming horses and shoveling horse shit. Easier than being out in the Gulf
on an off-shore rig or farming or just about any job Chris has done or seen.

So, vampire show? The fuck, the check cashes. And, bonus, good times
to be had with the guys. Some quality drinking until the sun comes up,
after the last shoot of the week. True, they're night shoots, and they
don't get done until two or three or four, but they're in a bar and the
sun is coming up. The fucking cowboy way, man.

It takes a while before Chris realizes that he spends the time watching
him. The Italian stallion, the star, the boy from Philly with the big brown
eyes and the big hands and the big shoulders.

Now, he's fucking watching Dave the whole time. He knows where Dave is, on set or at lunch. Knows Dave's truck, that replaces the piece of shit he was
driving when he got whiplash. Knows where Dave fucking grocery shops.

That's when Chris realizes that something's fucking happened to him,
that he never, never intended to happen.

That he can't let happen.



The first time he kisses Dave, it's almost an accident. Was an accident,
Dave's accident. The stunt coordinator is good, and careful, but shit
happens and Dave gets clotheslined. Like a good quarterback, he
pops back up, and the shot and the day are done.

Chris goes by Dave's little trailer to see if he wants to go to Glenn's
bar for a few. Dave is sitting with an ice-pack in his hand, looking
about sixteen.

"What's up, man?" Chris asks. "Thought you were okay."

"Lump on my head. Hurts like a son of a bitch," Dave says. He looks up like
he thinks Chris is going to give him shit, but Chris surprises himself
by moving the ice-pack and laying a hand on Dave's weird spiky hair.

It was the hair. It was soft. And under it, a big goose-egg.

"Jesus, Dave. You should've said something." And Chris didn't move his
hand, just kind of petted Dave's hair.

"Aw, hell," Dave said. And he kind of leaned his head into Chris' hand.

So Chris leaned down and kissed him.

And Dave kissed back.

And that's how it started.






2. Whiskey River, take my mind.


Back when it started, Chris figured it was a one-time deal. Dave had a lump
on his head, for fuck's sake. It was just a kiss.

Dave was straight, anyway, wasn't he?And they were just friends, weren't they?
Drinking buddies? Compadres?

So why was Chris lying on a dock, pretending to listen to a ball game on
the boom box, with Dave?

Dave was face down in the water, snorkling, watching fish; Chris was watching
the muscles in Dave's back. Sure, he threw ice on Dave whenever it looked like
Dave was getting a little sun, so he was supposed to be watching. Vampires
weren't supposed to tan, and all that.

He wasn't supposed to be watching like this. The sun on the water, the curling
gray boards of the dock, the drone of the announcers. Lying in cut-offs getting
a tan listening to the Sooners----it wasn't right. It was a violation of all the laws
of God and man.

"What is?" Dave asked, putting his hands on the dock, and jumping out of the
water with athletic grace.

"Fuckin' football weather and how it ain't here in California," Chris said, waving
his bottle of beer at the boombox, and trying not to check out how Dave's wet
shorts clung to his ass. "You know what I mean. Football in hot weather. Messes me
up."

"Another one?" Dave asked, bending over the cooler.

Oh, yeah.

Chris shook his bottle, swallowed the warm beer, tilting his head back.
He jumped, as ice water trickled on his belly. "Shit!" Opening his eyes,
he blinked at Dave, standing between him and the sun, holding out a bottle of
beer. "Yeah, gimme."

Chris had been thinking about kissing Dave again for two weeks. Which was
bad, very bad. He didn't like anyone else having control of his head like that,
letting anyone under his skin like that. Not that Dave even seemed aware of
Chris' little obsession. He flopped down, now, into the other beach chair
and put on his sunglasses.

"Gotta love a day off," he sighed.

"You ain't gonna love make up on that sunburn you're gettin', " Chris said.

Dave flipped him off.

"Fine with me," Chris said, leaning back, himself. The water slapped the
piers of the dock, and the tree frogs were screaming in the shade. It almost
smelled like Texas, if he closed his eyes. Lakewater and fish and mudflats,
green leaves and, faintly, on the wind, motorboat oil and barbecue smoke.

"Get my back?" Dave said. Chris heard the creak of the plastic as Dave got
up and the shuffle of his bare feet on the dock. Chris opened one eye.

There was the big guy, looming over him, holding out the bottle of sunblock.

Chris sighed. "Sit down where I can get to you, you Eye-talian freak." He took
the bottle, and sat up on his beach towel, as Dave folded himself down in front
of him.

Chris' fingers shook a little as he uncapped the bottle. And Dave flinched, just
a little, when Chris touched him, even though the lotion was warm. Chris took
his time, smoothing sun block up into Dave's hairline, along the wide shoulders
and broad back, the backs of his arms, all the time thinking there wasn't enough
beer in the cooler, that Chris was going to have to jump into the water to hide
his erection, damn it.

This was a mistake. He was falling into a well and there would be no
good ending to this story. So, because it was all going to go to hell, anyway,
Chris began stroking around Dave's ribs and to his chest. Dave was vibrating
like a guitar string, though, so maybe...maybe...

"C'mere," Chris murmured, and Dave turned under Chris' hands and his eyes
were half-closed behind the foofy sunglasses. Dave's hands are at Chris' waist
as Chris crouches between Dave's knees and they kiss again. Dave's tongue
is cold and tastes of beer and he and Chris are falling back on the towel. One
of them knocks over one of the beer bottles and Chris feels the cool crawl of
beer under his elbow as he straddles Dave, trying to get his hand down the
front of Dave's shorts without losing contact with that sweet mouth. Who'd have
thought a yankee from Philly could kiss so well?

Dave's big hands spread out on Chris' back, and he made low sounds of
pleasure in the back of his throat as Chris finally got his shorts down and got a
hand around Dave's thickening cock. Dave's back arched, and Chris settled
comfortably between Dave's thighs. The guy was massive, everywhere,
Chris thought, and the guy's long fingers were unzipping Chris' cutoffs.

Chris' cock sprang out, and he fucked himself helplessly into Dave's huge
hand, yanking on Dave's, and this wasn't going to last long, Chris had been
thinking about it too long, and "Oh, fuck," he said, and came all over Dave's
fist. He rubbed his thumb over Dave's head and Dave's hips snapped up,
and he came.

They lay still for a moment, Chris on top of Dave, his eyes closed. "Shit."

"Yeah," Dave said, his voice oddly soft.

Chris raised his head. Dave had lost the sunglasses, and he had his eyes closed.
He looked blissed out, head back in a puddle of beer.

Chris felt his throat close up, and blinked hard. "Let go, big guy."

"Need to clean up, " Dave said, and before Chris knew what was happening,
Dave rolled them both off the dock and into the lake.

"You Italian fuck!" Chris spat water, but then looked up to see Dave laughing,
sweeping his hair straight back with both hands, standing waist-deep in the water.

"Now you gotta lube me up again," he said, grinning.

Chris thought he could handle that. For now.




*sigh*

I am just loving this month . . .

Anyone else wanna play?