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Title: I'm In If You Want Me Author: Lalejandra Pairing: DB/CK Rating: NC-17 Christian's first day back on set makes Dave wish he'd never stopped doing crunches in the mornings. Christian looks good -- better than before. Dave likes the long hair. He'd lingered as long as possible at home, but he finally just drove over to the lot, made himself go to costuming first, get geared up as Angel, and he told himself he’s just doing his job, welcoming a coworker back to the set. Nothing weird about that. He shows up in makeup as they're painting the tattoos onto Christian's chest, and slouches in the doorway, telling himself to be cool. But when Christian looks up and spots him, and smiles wide, Dave flashes to the last time he saw Christian's mouth -- wrapped around his cock, stretched wide, totally obscene -- and is almost dizzy. "Hey, man," Christian says. "Hey, man," replies Dave, and grins. They stare at each other -- it's nice to know Dave isn't the only one grinning like an idiot at being back in the same room again, finally. One of the makeup girls titters, and Christian looks away from Dave, looks at the girl, winks. Dave drops his grin. Fucking asshole; Dave has -- no, he hasn't forgotten. He'd just told himself that this time it would be different. Which, since he isn't different, he doesn't know why Christian would be. "Well. Here we are, darlin'." Christian puts on a heavy southern accent, and drawls. Dave grimaces. "Don't talk like that, it freaks me out," he says, and sits down in the chair opposite Christian, watches him in the mirror. "Whatever, man," says Christian, but he is back to his regular voice, which is only slightly better. The fake accent that isn’t Christian’s real voice at all seems realer to Dave than who Christian really is, barbeques and rodeos and prom queens. "Quiet," orders the mousy makeup girl. Christian smiles at her, and says, "Sorry, sweetheart." Dave redresses her in his mind, puts her in a skirt, and a shirt that isn't four sizes too big -- but keeps his mouth shut, even as he wants to snap witty things at Christian that he's been saving up for months. Dave watches in the mirror as the girls apply the tattoos, slowly, carefully, from stencils. When that’s done and they move on to body makeup, the blonde one comes over to Dave to start his makeup. She glares at him as she puts it on, and he tries to remember what he's done to piss her off. Oh, maybe she's the one who blew him the other day, not the blonde girl from props. "You're done," she says in a snotty voice, and he looks over at Christian. "Hey, man, I been done for a while. Don't look at me like that." Christian stands up and stretches, and his jeans ride low, lurid tats all over his body making his muscles even more defined. Dave wants to growl, but doesn't -- the makeup girls would never shut up about it. Christian walks out of the room in front of Dave. He isn't pale enough to have been staying indoors, but there isn't a tan line either. Together they walk down the hallway, not speaking -- Dave is trying to think of something that wouldn't sound like a lame come on, but he doesn't know why Christian isn't talking to him. Maybe still pissed that Dave left him hanging at the bar his last night? They don’t do come-ons anyway. Friends don’t need that shit. Friends need shots of tequila -- or, in Christian's case, Jagermeister. When Christian finally speaks, it isn't what Dave is expecting. "So," he says. "How's the wife?" Dave stumbles a little at that, catches himself on the wall. "Fine," he replies. "How's Miss Mississippi?" "Aw, ain't you ever gonna let that go, asshole?" Christian kicks out with a foot, never breaking stride, and Dave skips away. "No," replies Dave. "Have you heard from Stephie?" "Me?" scoffs Christian. "Naw. And she hates it when you call her Stephie." "I know." Dave turns his head to grin at Christian, and feels himself fall sideways, into a door, through a door, and it's dark. He doesn't fall, though, luckily -- no bruises for filming, although he doesn't know why it would matter. Angel doesn't take his shirt off anymore. "What?" "I pushed you into the closet," explains Christian calmly. "You owe me, asshole." "You're gonna mess up your pretty makeup, dickhead" says Dave, and sneers, even though it's so dark he can't even see Christian's face. It's gotta be a few inches below his own, though. "No, I'm gonna mess up your pretty makeup." Christian's Oklahoma accent is bleeding through his calm, which means he's either about to haul off and punch Dave in the face, or he's gonna suck Dave's cock. Dave would prefer the sucking, cause the punching would. Suck. "All right, pretty boy," says Dave. "Go ahead." In Angel's black pants, Dave's dick thrums insistently -- it wants the sucking. Dave wants the sucking. Maybe a little more than he should, but damn. Christian's mouth only gets prettier, the only girly part of him, all pink and puffy. But instead of the punching or the sucking, Dave hears Christian unbutton his jeans and push them down. "Suck me," says Christian. Dave hesitates -- a moment too long, because then Christian's hands are on his shirt, pulling him close, pushing him down. And he goes, not because Christian can make him -- he's still got at least fifty pounds on the guy, even if it's not as much muscle as it used to be --but because he wants to. Because his mouth is watering. Because no one fucks him or fucks him up like Christian. Because he missed this, damn it. Christian's cock hits him in the face -- the asshole is already hard, ready to go, and Dave wonders how he was walking and talking with a hard on like this. He lets it drag across his cheek to bump his mouth. There's a breeze from somewhere, the central air, something, and it cools off the trail on Dave's cheek fast, makes him shiver. His nipples get hard, and all the muscles in his stomach tense. He sneaks a hand down to his pants, unbuttons them -- "Come on," says Christian, and his hands sink into Dave's grown-out hair, twist, pull. Dave goes off balance, flings out a hand and grabs Christian's thigh. Then he opens his mouth and swallows Christian down, all at once. Just like old times, but without Stephie to ruin everything with her crying and carrying on about heartbreak. Who cares about heartbreak when there's cock to suck? Dave lets the taste roll around on his tongue, lets his throat convulse around Christian's cock as long as he can before coming up for breath. "Too bad you're not really a vampire," taunts Christian. "Maybe then you'd suck a little better." Dave pulls up and snarls, "Shut up, dickhead," and then goes back down. He licks around the head of Christian's cock -- it leans a little to the right, so he uses his hands to straighten it out, to hold it steady. He gets a good rhythm going with his mouth -- he sucks the head of Christian's cock against the roof of his mouth, then down his throat, lets his throat convulse, and then back up again, takes a breath, does it again -- He goes too long without breathing and gets dizzy, but he doesn't want to stop; it's been too fucking long. And from the noise Christian tries to stifle, it's been too long for him too. Maybe Miss Mississippi isn't putting out, or doesn't suck cock as well as Dave. No one can suck Christian's cock as well as Dave, which is why he never did it often. Always kept the dickhead coming back for more. Dave smirks around Christian's cock, twists his head a little so Christian pulls his hair harder. He wishes for even a sliver of light so that he can see Christian's skin, his body, the fake tats that Dave would happily pretend are real -- see his face as Dave makes him come. Christian’s legs are starting to shake, so it won't be long. His own cock is hard, achingly hard, pressing against his pants; at least Angel wears loose pants. Back when Angel wore leather pants, this was harder. Dave wants to reach a hand down to himself, but fuck that, he'll get Christian off, and then Christian will get him off, even if Dave has to wait all day until they're both tired as hell from filming and fighting. He'll drag Christian out to a bar, get him drunk, and then shove his face into a pillow and fuck him until neither of them can move or see. The thought makes Dave redouble his sucking, and he slicks up a finger and slides it back, behind Christian's balls, right in. He's loose -- not unexpected, but Dave is annoyed by just how irritated he is at this, and shoves another finger in. Christian yelps, jumps a little, but then Dave curves his fingers, he remembers -- right there, oh yeah, and Christian is coming in his mouth, coming hard. Dave chokes and pulls away, and a spurt of come hits him on the cheek, another on his neck, and he realizes he couldn't see anything because his eyes were closed. Now they're open, and he can see Christian's hands, splayed against the door, fingers separated, Christian's knees, bent, jeans around his ankles. His cock is still hard, and Dave leans in for one last good suck, and gets a nice moan out of Christian as he sinks to the floor. "Thanks, asshole," says Christian. Dave has to clear his throat before he can talk, and wiggle his jaw a little. Then he says, "Anytime, dickhead," and sits back, cracks his neck. Christian breathes heavy for a few minutes, while Dave tries to figure out how to wipe the come off his face without using his shirt. Finally, he leans forward and uses the thigh of Christian's jeans. Christian slaps him on the head for the trouble. "Asshole! Shit. What am I supposed to tell costume?" "The same thing I'm gonna tell makeup?" Dave smirks, and stands, and nudges Christian out of the way so he can open the door. He readjusts his cock, pinching it at the base, in front of his balls until it starts to go down. And he even remembers to button his pants. "Yeah? The fuck is that?" "I blew you in a closet and wiped the come on your jeans," says Dave. He is definitely going to fuck the shit out of Christian tonight. As he closes the door, he hears Christian yell, "Asshole!" and he grins. It's good to have the world back to normal. -End