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Title: To Covet Author: Abbie S. Rating: NC-17 Pairing: JM/CK/DB When James thought of Chris, he imagined something sweet and hard, like rock candy; if you got too close, bit too hard, you'd break your teeth. But sugary too, a taste that coated your tongue, flowed and stuck to your throat like slow gin--cloying and bad for you and sure to leave you with one hell of a headache come morning--yet at the same time, still salivating for more. They traded songs in echoing trailers. Chris knew more gospel, blues, and country. James knew more of what he called the classics: Dylan, Young, Waits. Progressions followed different scales, and Chris's strumming was much more complex. The banter was different too. James felt he was always sliding, could never find his place with Chris, when it was alright to talk about gigs and favorite songs and crazy nights and when even the music seemed like business. He decided to watch Dave and Chris interact, looking for clues. Dave was like syrup at a soda fountain--sweet, heavy, thick. But he changed depending on who he mingled with. Alexis brought out more sweetness, if that was possible. Amy seemed to piss him off, curdling his comments, like milk and lemon. Chris seemed to bring out extremes, playful giggling, making everyone laugh one minute, then his teasing would take on a cruel note, not quite reducing Mercedes to tears, but almost. Only after spending a weekend with his son did James figure it out. Chris encouraged Dave to act like he was twelve. The schoolboy antics degenerated into practical jokes, nearly putting poor Andy into the hospital when they mixed an ink that he turned out to be allergic to in with the adhesive used for his prosthetics. Fury was, well furious. James could help but laugh at the chastened figures, heads bent, as if being scolded by the school principal. Didn't think it would do any good. The next week James didn't have as much to do on the set and spent his time figuring out one of the finger-picking patterns that Chris had been trying to teach him. He crowed when he finally got it, running out to where everyone was gathered around the craft table. He tried explaining it in simple terms, "Da-da da-da da-da da-dum!" Everyone laughed and James finally realized what a dork he was making of himself. Again. As usual. He ducked his head, stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his feet, searching desperately for another topic of conversation, anything to divert attention from himself. Then he saw the look Dave shot Chris, one as hard and fractured as gum drops cooled too quickly. "So, what are the big plans for tonight?" Chris finally said, directing his question at Dave. "Another quiet night at home with Jaime and the kid?" And Dave's genial lopsided grin came back as he draped an arm around James's shoulders. "Naw, Jamie's gone for the weekend. Jaden's with her grandparents." Strips of bitter chocolate and sweet cream suddenly swirled around the three of them, Dave's strange emphasis throwing unknown spices into the concoction. James didn't know all the history between the two of them. Dave's arm had grown heavy across his neck though, and a sticky quiet had gathered, one that let James hear Dave's easy breathing. They'd publicly acknowledged doing a lot of drinking together--and James wasn't stupid. He knew far too well what could happen after too much alcohol and too little sleep, mixed with watching someone for hours every day. An entire conversation flowed between Dave and Chris, like maple syrup, quick and sharp, without a word being spoken. James was old enough to recognize what was happening, and too old to feel jilted and disappointed that he was being excluded. Really. "So, James," Dave finally said, shaking James slightly. "You wanna come out with us? Hit a few bars? Drink a few bruskies?" "I don't think so," James said, keeping the light tone of the textual conversation, purposefully ignoring whatever sugary slurry lay at the bottom of the words. "Come on, it'll be fun," Dave said, pulling James closer and down, pretending it was noogie time. James laughed and tried to duck out from under the wrought iron weight of Dave's forearm. Didn't manage completely, and Dave tried for a sneak attack, other hand dropping to James's side. Bastard never did play fair: He'd found out the first day on the set how ticklish James was. Twisting, diving, and tickling back seemed to be the only way to separate himself from the octopus that had possessed Dave. But eventually James did get away, laughing and swearing, dancing to the side. Then he made the mistake of glancing at Chris. The southern gentleman was there, leaning back on the heels of his boots, thumbs latched in the waistband of his jeans, bemused. But his eyes showed that good ol' boy look of fat town sheriffs and Baptist politicians, schoolyard bullies plotting to take away the dweeb's candy. "So, ah, I'll just be going then," James said, backing away, unconsciously slipping into Spike vernacular, though he kept his own accent. The pair of them watched him leave, devouring his every move, hungry boy-wolves tracking their prey. It wasn't until James was halfway home that he remembered he'd forgotten his guitar in his trailer. And he was damned if he'd lose that finger-picking pattern, which he was sure to do if he didn't practice it at least a few more times before he went to sleep. The lot seemed strangely empty when he pulled back in. He'd been there after hours before, had seen it unpopulated, security guards playing poker instead of prowling around. Still didn't think anything of it until he heard a soft yelp coming from his trailer. Someone in trouble? James paused, listened hard. Considered finding a guard before he decided to investigate himself. Didn't want to make a fool of himself. Again. As usual. He opened the door as quietly as he could, taking one step at a time until his head cleared the cabinet and he could see to the end of the trailer. His muscles froze, not just because he'd planned on it. But because of what he saw. Dave. Bare to the waist. Broad shoulders flexing and relaxing as he moved his head forward and back. Chris. Still dressed. Standing and staring straight at James. Pants undone and cock out and wet. From Dave's eager mouth. Thick air, heavy and hot, saturated the trailer, slapped against James's face, making it difficult, almost impossible, to move. Chris's hand rose from Dave's shoulders to his hair, gripping it tightly and stopping his motion. Slow, slow turn of Dave's head from his task toward James. Two sets of eyes burning into him, all black as burnt sugar. "Hello Jimmy." The words came out in Chris's long, smooth drawl. Dave climbed to his feet and now James saw that his pants were also undone, his cock hard and red and pointing accusingly at James. "Come back to play?" Dave asked, his smile happy and shy and as goony as ever, incongruously young when set against his spittle swollen and shiny lips. James tried to work up the anger the situation required. Here were the two of them, in his trailer. God only knew how often they'd come here, marked his stuff, played their games on his things. And now, they didn't seem embarrassed at all. As if they didn't care what he saw. What he knew. Where they were. But James also knew he couldn't do the cool nonchalance he longed to. Couldn't say, "Don't mind me. Just here for my ax. And by the way, be sure to clean up any mess before you go." He wasn't Spike. He'd never be Spike. And even though it was all method, he could never channel a character when he needed to. So he stood there and gawked like the awkward social geek he always felt himself to be, unable to move or speak, or really, even think. "Seems like the cat's got his tongue," Chris said as he brought both hands up to Dave's biceps and pushed him forward. Dave was halfway between Chris and James before he looked over his shoulder and replied, "Looks like I should find out for certain." Three quick steps and Dave was pulling James up by his shirt, all the way into the trailer, engulfing his lips in a needy kiss, marking James with Chris's scent, all salt and butter and bittersweet. The way James's spine stiffened and all his joints locked should have given Dave a clue as to how surprised he was. Dave had never even looked at him that way. Of course James had heard the rumors, but he'd also heard the gossip about himself, and so hadn't believed any of them. Oven-warm hands now pressed against his back, pressing him against an even hotter chest, a thick, stiff cock demanding acknowledgement as it pressed against his own. The mouth on his grew impatient, bruising lips hungering for more, teeth nipping, a tongue seeking a site to explore. Fingers sprawled across his body, heading up and down, cupping his ass, snaring his hair, bending his head and tightening their grip until James finally understood that he was not getting away, not yet, not now, maybe not even when he wanted to. And so he gave in, let his muscles quick-thaw and wrapped his own arms around Dave's bare torso and opened up his mouth to kiss back, allow his tongue to play its own games, brought the lower halves of their bodies together, his dick growing hard as he moaned. The kiss went on and on, each pushing against the other, James drowning in a syrupy haze, engulfed by the larger man surrounding him, his back arching slightly from the force of his partner's passion, fingers fiercely scrambling against skin and cotton, shoulders and ass, Chris's taste forgotten in the fizzy tang of Dave until finally a word came floating between them. "Enough." Dave pulled back and James was unable to prevent himself from following, seeking yet more warmth and sweetness and one last kiss, and only then could James straighten up, stand on his own, glance up at his partner. Dave's goofy smile still marked his mouth, but his eyes . . . Rock candy hard. James didn't resist--couldn't--as Dave turned him and propelled him toward Chris. And he dipped his head on his own this time, kissed slim southern lips and let a sly tongue conquer his without fight, without struggle. He let hands remove his shirt, undo his belt, buttons, strip off his boots, socks, jeans. Melted like chocolate in the sun as kiln-warm skin wrapped around him from behind, pushing him against the soft denim and broad hardness before him. Wetness against his neck as another mouth made its way from shoulder to vertebrae and across, more hardness between his butt cheeks, slight dampness there as well. Then hands were turning--no, grabbing--him again, forcing him away from one and toward the other. And James wished yet again that he could think faster, come up with the quips that only occurred later, say something to the effect of, "Come, come, there's enough of me for everyone," but he never could. Never did. Improv never his forte. And now the differences overwhelmed him. The size of Dave. His strength. His lion-sized paws. As well as their similarities. The force the pair of them shared, the dominance. The undercurrent of anger, tart and astringent, that both had wrapped around his tongue. More hands, thin and strong, stroking his sides, cupping his ass, spreading his cheeks. Slightly chilled finger dipping in between. James gasped into Dave's mouth, stiffening slightly, shy suddenly, place and time and partners' identities slamming into him, gumming up his passion. Dave pulled back, captured his eyes with his own, gently tugged at his chin. "Shh," he said, fat kisses planted on James's forehead, cheek. "It's okay." Soft licks on his lips. Then Dave looked over James's shoulder and tough fingers dug into his hips. "That's right," came the snake-thin voice from behind him. "Gonna make it alright." Suspicions struck at James's gut, as if his belly were overfull with heavy cream and cake. But before he could voice them, before he could get out from between the pair of them, he was held and pressed into and kissed and caressed again, his cock gripped for the first time and tugged and stripped alternately, warmth and hardness from in front, from behind, engulfing and swaddling him. And this time when he felt slick fingers exploring hidden skin, he let them, relaxing and buoyed on the needy river washing over him, fear of being just a tool, a proving ground for his partners while he still stood always alone and on the shore, momentarily misplaced. He groaned as one of those fingers begged entrance, pushed and prodded and he let it in, let it beyond the barrier, bore down and made room. Dave's kisses grew hungrier, fiercer, the hand on his dick rougher, teasing and hard. Another finger and James could no more deny it than its partner. Burn like straight caffeine, followed by a jolt as the fingers twisted and prodded and pressed against his prostate. Out, less pressure, then in and more stars, fireworks. And again as fingers skewered him, moving in and out. James jerked forward and back, unable to stop himself, body passions taking over thought. Hands on his shoulders, pressing him down, bending him forward. He moved through viscous air, losing the mouth that had so handily covered his, traversing golden sweaty skin, finding and capturing a cock candy red and ready for him. Letting knees work slowly lowering locating the harsh carpet while hands released hips and acted as support for weight. He looked up to Dave's eyes, rich and heated as he slurped around the cock in his mouth. Sucked hard, pulling in his cheeks, well aware of the sight he made, appreciating the way Dave's mouth opened, his jaw slackened, his eyes lost focus. Then it was James's turn to forget his place as Chris pressed slowly into him, filling him from behind, inching up his arousal even as he burned. He couldn't stop his panting as he was taken, couldn't stop the groan cascading up from his gut, couldn't help the push-pull-shove as he felt Chris's thighs against his. A gentle tap on his bottom lip reminded him though, and he opened up, obedient as ever, and took it in. Took them both in, skin and sweat and peppermint sweet. They found a rhythm quickly, forward, back and again. Chris's spine seemed fused to his own, stretching and compressing over endless time. Dave grunted and cursed with James's voice, his own tongue overfull, as he slurped and sucked and even teased when he could. Orgasm churned in his tightening balls, and it wouldn't take much, a light sprinkling of fingers, to send him over the edge. He couldn't ask though. Couldn't do much beyond just take everything they were giving him. He made the mistake then of opening his eyes, looking up, looking at Dave. Because now Dave was not staring at him. All of Dave's attention was on Chris, focused and staring with schoolyard heat, all challenge and raised fists and it wasn't James between them. It wasn't anyone, really. It was just them, snarling and spitting with gravel driven into their elbows and broken glass in their hair. James couldn't help the whimper he made, soul spiked with greedy outsider guilt, more familiar than any home. Dave didn't look down. All Chris said was, "Come, boy," one hand snaking around and tugging on James's cock once, twice, three times. And James, good boy that he was, came. It didn't take long for the other two to finish up, still their movement, their play with him. They kept their hands on him as they cleaned him up, dressed him, silence alternating between awkward (for him) and unknowable (for them.) They both kissed him as they left; Dave, sleepy and satisfied as a cat in the sun; Chris, hard and sharp as desert rocks, followed by a quick pat on his cheek. James sank down onto his couch afterward, spent and shaking, hurt, grateful, satiated, pissed, confused. Ashamed. Because he knew he'd let them do it again, be their playground, the next time they chose. And the worst of it was that part of him looked forward to it, as much as any kid with the promise of visit to the candy store. -End