Hate comes in an artist's palette of different colours.
The hate James Marsters had felt for Sarah Michelle Gellar was white and incandescent: a matched colour swatch for the shining celestial body that she was. She spat starlight down on him from high up in the heavens, making him nervous and sick. Making him ugly and small. Making him hate himself. When that star went supernova it left the pair of them dark, distanced and empty.
The hate James once harboured for the Great God Boreanaz was emerald green in colour, but, like the Wizard of Oz, it too was a sham. That particular shade dissipated as soon as David showed an interest in him. The interest was thick and purple and stretched James until he screamed in release from the anger inside. He was broken when it ended.
The hate he will always feel for his ex-wife is shamefully scarlet. He hides the red blush under cover of pure unadulterated venom, but they both know the truth. He still can’t figure why she’s never mentioned it, but he’s grateful none the less. She watched him taking it bitchways from a talentless actor he’d hired for their company and then she turned around and walked, taking their kid with her. Everyone walks in the end.
The hate James feels for himself is like fluorescent yellow poison in his veins. Too drunk. Too gay. Too stupid. Too hopeless. Too short. Too fat. Too thin. Too poor. Too crazy. Too fucked up to sentence properly.
None of this, however, surpasses the pitch black hatred he has for Adam Baldwin. And the insane thing is there’s no reason for it. He’s never communicated with the man -- can’t look at him, let alone speak to him. One glance at that cold self-righteous face is enough to make him seethe. Adam is James’s secret nemesis and that alone makes this new Superman gig of theirs laugh out loud hilarious.
Sometimes James revels in his menu of hatred. Sometimes the flavours feed his urges in a way that even sex never can. They fill him with a hot orange fire that seeps through his body like the delicious tickle of an orgasm. That moment when you know you’re gonna come and it’s gonna be good and it’s gonna take ‘til forever to get there because, for once, you’re in control of it.
Today, James is alive with that feeling; sitting here, fecund and smug, leg hooked under him as he relaxes back on one of those low comfortable armless chairs. He’s talking to one of the sound technicians at the studios, but, at the same time, he’s counting the many ways he can make Baldwin twitch with anger.
First one is handed to him as a gift-wrapped present, complete with ribbon and bow. Apparently Adam has a thing about bare feet. When James kicks off his tennis shoes to get more comfortable, he doesn’t miss the narrowing of those dark blue eyes, so he massages his toes and rubs the ball of his foot and watches enraptured as Adam tries to repress his neurosis. Lex has found Superman’s green Kryptonite and it’s so gorgeously simple that James is high from it. He wishes he was wearing nail polish because something tells him Baldwin won’t take kindly to that girly-man crap.
Adam glares at him and then fetches himself a coffee from the machine.
“Thanks for asking. Black no sugar,” says James when the big man returns, but this time he doesn’t even get a frown. Seems Mr Baldwin is a master of stubborn ignorance.
James replies mechanically to the technician who’s chattering to him about the wonders of PRS guitars, but he’s preoccupied with something entirely different, watching hawk-like as Adam takes his laptop out of his backpack and boots it up. The screen flares into life and James is filled with repressed laughter at the thought that the man is probably arrogant enough to have a background image of himself on there. This proves not to be the case, which is a full on shame, in fact there’s just one of the standard pics. The big guy is so fucking boring. You can tell a lot about a person from the way they customise their computer. Baldwin’s laptop lacks character and is rigid and conformist.
The Firefly logo is enough to make James snort with laughter. Baldwin’s a member of a fucking fan forum for a show he was on? The man hangs out with losers in his spare time. This is priceless. Getting up, James leans over Baldwin’s shoulder, just enough to be severely annoying, and reads the text.
“What’s your nick?” he says with a smile, “Big Dumb Horndog?” Then he looks down at the list of members and points to ADAM_BALDWIN. “Man, that’s fucked up.”
“Not that’s it’s any of your business what I choose to do with my spare time,” says Baldwin, “but why, may I ask, is it ‘fucked up’ to participate in a forum under my own name? It’s lacks honesty to do it any other way.”
James thinks it’s the first time he’s ever heard the man speak conversationally. His voice is more annoying than his face and his bad attitude put together. And, damn, if that ain’t a bitching hard thing to outdo.
“Do they all love you there? Do they suck Baldwin cock like good little fengirl?” James sees this wince of distaste twist the man’s features up and knows, yet again, he’s scored a direct hit. “Do you send them private messages and cyber them up ‘til they’re wet and juicy?” he continues, leaning in and making sure he’s breathing right next to Adam’s ear. “Do they come typing your name?”
“Shut your filthy little mouth before I shut it for you,” mutters Adam in a low, angry voice, never taking his eyes off the screen.
“Not cyber sex then,” says James brightly. “So why else do you waste your time there?”
Adam spins around, looking James up and down like he’s a piece of shit. This turns out to be a good thing. James takes the scorn and uses it like coal to fuel his internal fire.
“We have intelligent discussions,” Adam says, emphasising the intelligent part. “There are too many of them who are misguided about so much, but it’s worth trying to educate them into seeing the error of their ways.”
James splutters. Is this guy for real? He’s like a robot professor. RoboProf, now there’s a user name for him. “Pray tell, in what way are they misguided?” he asks, doing his best impression of William conversing at tea-time with Cecily.
“Their sense of patriotism,” says Adam, quite seriously. “Many of them think that the president is wrong regarding Operation Iraqi Freedom.”
“Well he is,” states James emphatically. There aren’t many things that interest him politically, but this is one of the few. “It’s an illegal war that should never have been fought.”
“We’re in the middle of a World War and you think it’s illegal?” Adam shakes his head. “Still, I’m hardly surprised.”
“You mean you’re not surprised that I have enough intelligence to figure out that Shrub is a dickwad?” James’s temper flares like white phosphorus. “That man is a criminal loser who makes cracked out decisions and kills thousands of people--innocent people from other countries--for no other reason than he’s a moron with an ego the size of the fucking White House.”
“You think those ‘innocents’ from other countries are more important than our own troops?”
“Yes, for sure,” says James. “They have no say in the matter. They didn’t ask to be invaded and they aren’t signed up members of the American death squads.”
“Your mouth is even filthier now,” snarls Adam. “You’re a traitor and every word you speak is leftist treason.” The big man’s on his feet now. His eyes glaze over with anger and hatred shines bright. “I despise you and your ilk.”
“Well, if this is the way you try and educate people, no wonder you don’t get sex from your fat, middle-aged hausfraus.” Christ! This is good. Better than therapy, better than dope and drink and getting fucked out of your brains. James feels life crackling through him like electricity. “At least me and my ilk get some once in a while.”
“You people turn every civilised conversation into smut.” Baldwin stares down at James with eyes that are dark and ferocious. It really isn’t a surprise he got cast as that freak Hamilton ‘cause he’s got monstrous down to a tee.
“People?” says James, looking around the rest area which is now empty. The sound technician must have got nervous and scuttled off to check his levels. “I’m just me: non-fucktard, non-warmonger with a mind of my own. Just James. I would say nice to meet you, but it really isn’t.”
Score again. There’s that pained expression twisting Baldwin’s features into a mask of unpleasantness. Does the big man just wanna be loved? Aw, poor puppy! “I’ll leave you alone to wank political in your little pond,” says James, heading for the door then turning back at the last minute in order to deliver his last line. “Because not only do you fuck me off, you also bore the shit out of me.”
Exit stage left and it couldn’t have gone better if it had been scripted and directed. That piece of improv was sheer perfection. James almost whistles as he pads barefoot down the internal corridor of the studio, but he restrains himself. He wouldn’t want to spoil a flawless performance for the sake of five minutes.
Debating internally as to whether or not he should reward himself with a smoke, James is caught napping when he’s charged from behind by Raging fucking Bull.
“Believe me it ain’t a pleasure to have anything to do with you either,” snarls Adam grabbing him by his muscle shirt and twisting the material until it bunches at James’s throat. “But no one dismisses me like that, you hear. I haven’t finished talking.”
Gone is that prissy professor and James now finds himself confronted by a big angry bastard who must hide away inside most of the time inside Baldwin’s messianic exterior. Fucked up much!
The red light behind them flashes and then goes out and there’s noise from the studio as people prepare to leave its recessed confines. Looking around in frustration, Adam bundles James through the nearest door like he’s a piece of rag.
The room is small and dark. It smells of dirt and dust and cleaning materials and James imagines it must be a storage closet of some kind. Just as his eyes grow accustomed to the gloom there’s the flick of a switch, and then everything is bathed in a low wattage glow from the bare globe that hangs dangerously close to Adam’s head.
“You’re all the same,” says Adam, spitting venom at James.
‘Putrid,’ thinks James. Black hate and yellow poison, the classic warning stripes to stay away. Baldwin hates him back equally, if not more, and it’s a liberating, invigorating sensation.
“You liberals spout your godless cabal at us with that self-anointed wisdom when all you are is ignorant,” continues Adam, his fingers tightening on James’s shirt, knuckles white and bony.
For the first time that day James takes offence. “How dare you presume to think you know anything about me?” he snaps. “What the fuck are you doing dragging me around and preaching to me like I’m one of your minions? Go interact with your virtual fan base and leave me the hell alone. I don’t need educating.”
“I disagree,” breathes Adam, “and I’m going to educate you, whether you like it or not.”
The tension’s so thick now that James can taste it. It’s colourful like his menu of hate, only far more intense in nature. This is blood-red and wet and slick. It chokes him and makes him swallow down the fear and the need. He locks his fingers together, hands splayed in front of his crotch, guarding himself defensively.
“Not gonna…” Adam’s voice is low and angry like before, but now there’s an added harmonic of dirty greed.
James responds to the sound and the scent and he gulps in breath, wringing his hands together, tanned shoulders rising helplessly. More flesh is revealed as Adam pleats the black cotton, palming the material and working it with his fingers. The shirt rises up and James feels more exposed that he’s ever been. Right now, two inches of flat belly seems so much more significant than those moments when he’s been naked in front of the world.
“No,” he says through clenched teeth, squirming hopelessly as he’s forced harder up against the wall.
With his other hand Adam grips James’s wrists and raises them above his head. “I don’t want this,” he says in desperation. “I don’t want your ignorance or your perversions. I don’t want you.”
James fights to free himself and one sweaty hand slips free. Stuck for much else to do, he whips his arm back and slaps Adam fiercely around the face. Pain blisters in his palm as he watches as Baldwin’s cheek become branded with his hand print.
“You little bitch,” snarls the big man, recapturing James and pressing his body up hard against him, knee grinding viciously into his groin. Oh fuck! James is aching for it. Can feel the fluid leaking from the tip of his cock wetting the front of his pants. Can feel his hips begin to thrust as he rubs himself against Baldwin’s knee. Getting off on this is the stupidest thing he’s ever done.
Adam shudders and pulls back and, just for a second, James thinks it’s over and he’s gonna be left here with a wet patch and a throbbing hard on that's so far gone he’s gonna have to see to it himself.
But maybe that ain’t gonna be the case.
“Gonna teach you a lesson,” Adam murmurs, spinning James around and forcing him to face the wall. “Gonna show you who’s the clever one.”
James is shaking; he’s gonna come if Baldwin keeps breathing these words into his ear. Fuck! He’s gonna get off just from being put down. Baldwin works his fingers over James’s crotch, unbuckling the belt and tugging down the zipper. James’s cock touches flesh and then cool plaster and he wants to be blind to everything. He wants this vengeful, bitter, fucked up screw more than life. He wants this big monster to fuck him so hard he bleeds to death.
“Oh shit!” he whimpers, trying to control the orgasm as it touches his insides like St Elmo’s fire. His pants are tugged down then his backside is exposed and he’s thrusting back like a slut, feeling denim and then skin and then hot slippery cock.
“Want to be educated?” breathes Baldwin, teasing his erection between James’s ass cheeks.
“No,” snarls James.
“Want to learn your lesson?”
“No.”
“Gonna be a good boy?”
“No. Fuck you!”
“Fuck you!” yells Baldwin, forcing his cock inside James’s ass with one powerful thrust of his hips.
The sound James makes when he’s penetrated is like a distorted cry of victory. Does he need the release this much? Adam loosens his grip on his wrists and James fights back as much as he’s able. He’s quietened by a palm clamping tight over his mouth and nose, and the lack of air excites him, sending more blood pumping downwards, away from the thinking parts of his body.
“Gonna fuck some sense into you,” mutters Adam, pinning James to the wall with the full length of his cock. “Gonna fuck you ‘til you bleed out all that stupid.”
When Adam bites down on the soft fleshy part of his shoulder, James is glad of the big hand that’s gagging him. He’s been caught in compromising positions before, but this is different. For the first time ever he’s teetering on the precipice, almost ready to relinquish control. Adam holds James in place with one arm coiled around his waist, then with a roll of his hips he pulls out and powers back in, fucking him with these slow fierce strokes.
James gives in. The agony raging through him turns that internal fire blood red with lust. Gasping for breath, he submits, his arms hanging limply by his side as he throws his head back, forcing those teeth to bite a little harder. He’s impaled and broken and it’s as if there’s no James left to see all the colours of hurt anymore. Every thrust of Adam’s cock wipes the slate cleaner and cleaner until he’s free.
A rag doll in Adam’s arms, James lets himself be used; bitten and chewed and spat out as the big man fucks him senseless up against that grimy closet wall. He comes with a muffled yelp, spunk pooling at his bare feet in a puddle of vapid release. Afterwards he realises, with shame, that his cock has never been touched once.
“Fuuuck,” roars Adam, lifting James clean off his feet as he ruts into him like an animal. The pain from the blast of salt hitting his overused insides is intense and makes James’s eyes water. He’s gonna suffer for this. Nothing new there.
Adam diligently cleans the mess they’ve made with paper towels from a pile on the shelf then he zips himself up and leaves. James sneaks away to hide in the men’s room for a while and when he emerges it’s as if nothing ever happened. The distance between them is no more and no less than it was before.
The one thing that he and Adam have in common is that they’re both consummate professionals. The voice work is carried out with brisk efficiency and on the way home James wonders if it was all some elaborate day-dream in his head. Maybe he is going mad after all. The pain in his butt tells a different tale though, and that evening, during a long hot bath in salt water, he comes to a conclusion that maybe he’s more screwed up than ever. Now, when he thinks about his palette of hurt, the colours are less vivid than they used to be.
Next day, he wears black polish on his toenails.
DONE