[FIC] Payment

[makingamochrie.livejournal.com]

This is the sequel to "The Chair".  Warning:  It's DARK.  It has angry sex in it.  If that squicks you, please don't read.  I might be done with my fanfic orgy for..oh..a day or two, at least.  *g*

TITLE:  Payment--sequel to "The Chair"
AUTHOR: Makingamochrie
PAIRING: (not in the loving sense) Ryan/Colin, Ryan/Greg, Colin/Greg (implied)
RATING:  NC-17 for violence and sexual situations, both at the same time, but NOT BDSM
DISCLAIMER:  FICTION.  Don't own, don't sue, don't hit me over the head with a crowbar.
SUMMARY:  See above.

It’s nearly three in the morning when Colin walks back through the door.  I can tell he’s been drinking, even though his steps are steady and he doesn’t have that goofy-ass grin on his face that all drunks seem to sport once they’ve passed into the Twilight Zone.  But his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are just the slightest bit glazed.  That means he’s off balance.  And that’s good.  That’s very, very good.  For me.

 

He smiles as I get up from the bed.  The bastard doesn’t have a clue what’s in store for him, and that’s good, too.  I like to be the one with all the surprises, and boy, does he have a big one coming to him.

 

I plaster a smile on my own face as I walk toward him.  I can see in his eyes he knows that something is wrong, but the drinking has made him one step too slow, and by the time I’ve fisted my hands in his shirt, my game is won.  He squawks in shock as I yank him toward me, then pivot and, with all my strength, lift him and throw him onto the bed.  He bounces, once, and struggles to sit up, but I’m already on him like a tiger, growling into his startled face. 

 

“I’m gonna make you forget all about him,” I say, feeling the warmth of his breath on my face and exulting in the shred of fear that passes through those damn dark eyes of his. It’s gone in a flash, but I saw it, and that’s all that counts.  “I’m gonna make you forget the taste of his cock in your mouth, and the feel of it up your ass.”

 

“Ryan….”

 

“Shut up!”  I fist his shirt again and my anger fuels my strength.  Buttons fly everywhere and I stare down at his bared chest, remembering when the heart beneath beat only for me.  For me!  I reach down and pinch his nipples hard, leaning forward until our faces are close again.  I smile, and it’s the grin of a shark. I can feel it, stretching my mouth wide.  “I’m gonna make you forget how it feels to be inside him; his mouth, his ass, his fucking hand.  How he smells, how he sounds, everything.  The only person you’re going to know anything about at all is me.  The only person you’re gonna see is me.  The only person you’re gonna feel is me.”  I move down closer, until you could fit a hair between our lips.  “Me,” I growl.

 

He squirms beneath me, and I slide back, feeling his erection straining at his jeans.  I wonder, for just a second, if it’s for me, or for him, then toss the thought out as unimportant.  It’ll be for me soon enough.  I’ll see to it. 

 

I look deep into his eyes, then, expecting to see fear, or guilt, or even anger, but all I see is that goddamned calm acceptance, and for a moment I hate him for it.  I hate him so much I want pound him until there’s nothing left but blood and bone.  But I won’t.  I can’t.  Even drunk, Colin’s no man to fuck with, but that’s not even the most important thing.  The most important thing is that within this dried out, withered organ I call a heart, I love him.  And if I could rip that out of myself, I would.  Because it scares the fuck out of me to love him.  He gets in too deep, down past the shadows and the rocks and the dry, barren ground, and he sees.  Do you understand?  He fucking sees!

 

I can feel my control of the situation slipping, and I grab it back, quickly.  Giving his nipples a final, cruel twist—the bastard won’t even give me the satisfaction of a gasp—I slide back some more and unbuckle his belt.  I can picture Greg doing the exact same thing only hours earlier, his hands where mine are now, and my rage flares again, so hard and sharp that I can feel the buzzing in my head and the throbbing in my temples, can taste it at the back of my tongue, bitter, like old spices that have sat in a tomb of rotting corpses for a thousand years.

 

I unbutton, unzipper and yank his jeans and underwear down in one savage motion.  They stop at his shoes, but I don’t give a shit. I pull them off, too, then throw everything on the ground in a heap where it belongs.  I leave the shirt on, though, because it was on when he was fucking him, and I need to erase that image from his mind and mine. 

 

His cock springs back and presses flat against his belly, long and hard and thick.  God, it’s fucking beautiful, but I can’t think about that either, because that cock has been somewhere that isn’t me, and I can’t have that.  I won’t have it.

 

So I grab him tight in my hand and start pistoning like a goddamned jackhammer, and I know it has to hurt, but he allows no sound to escape, and when I look back into his eyes, that damn cool composure of his hasn’t shattered, so I grab him harder.  “Like that?  Do you? Is this what he felt like?  Huh?  Answer me, damn you!  Fucking answer me!”

 

But he doesn’t, of course.  The only sign he gives me is a slight shifting of his hips, and that could mean anything.  Fucking anything at all.  Reading him right now is like reading a blank piece of paper, and I hate to fucking read.

 

Instead, I shift my position, slide my hand back down and take him into my mouth.  The taste of him chases the bitterness from my mouth, but all I have to do is remember that Greg’s mouth has been there before mine, and it all comes rushing back. I make sure he can feel my teeth as I gobble down his shaft.  He shifts again, but says nothing.

 

I know how good Greg is at giving head, but I also know that I’m better.  Especially with Colin.  And I use that to my advantage.  I feel his hand come down on my shoulder, not hard, just letting me know it’s there, and I freeze.  Pulling my mouth away, I stare up at him.  “Get your fucking hands off me,” I snarl.

 

His hand doesn’t move.  Not one fucking inch.  I think I see a challenging look in his eyes, but that couldn’t be.  I’m the one holding the cards, here.  He’ll see that soon enough.  I lower my mouth back on him, doing everything I know he likes, but with an edge to it.  His eyes might not betray him, but sure enough, his body soon does, and I can hear him beginning to pant even as he thrusts carefully into my mouth.  I slam an arm across his hips to keep him still.  Hell, I know he could throw it off if he wanted, but it’s the psychology of the thing.  And it works.  He stops thrusting immediately, and I smile around the cock in my mouth. 

 

Wanting to speed up the proceedings, because I have other things to attend to—namely my own raging hard-on—I do what I know will bring him off the quickest, and when I know he’s ready to pop, I pull my mouth off of him and position him so that he has no fucking choice but to come all over himself. 

 

And he does, and I’m glad, because I want him to feel degraded, just like I felt when I opened my eyes to see him taking Greg up the ass and loving every fucking minute of it.

 

But, the thing is, he doesn’t look degraded, even with his own come drizzling down his chest hairs.  No, he just looks calm, and accepting, like a fucking saint looking down on a world of sinners, and I’m the biggest one of all.

 

Fuck that.

 

I can’t stand to see those goddamned eyes anymore, so I flip him onto his belly, then yank his hips up, ready to plunge into him before I remember that I don’t know where the fucking lube is.  He doesn’t either, I’m sure, since he had to spit into his hand to shove his dick up Greg’s ass.  I’d do without, but I’ve always hated a dry fuck.

 

That’s okay, though, because there’s more than one way to skin a cat.  Flipping him back over, I position him so that his mouth is level with my cock.  “Swallow it,” I order, and he opens wide for me.  No surprise there.  He loves giving head, and holy fucking Christ, he’s good at it. 

 

I almost forget myself there for a moment, which is easy to do when you’ve got his lips around your dick, but collect myself and stay there just long enough till I’m sure he’s got me good and slicked up.  Then I yank myself away, push him down, and flip him over again.  Then I pull his hips up savagely and thrust inside without pretense.  Hell, Greg was there before me.  That should be enough preparation.  And if it isn’t, fuck it.

 

I pump him long and slow.  Now, it’s safe to lose myself in him, and I do.  I can’t see his eyes anymore, assessing me, measuring me, making me feel like something less than I am.  Or maybe that’s just me.  Either way, it doesn’t matter, because I’m getting what I want.  My fingers bite into the tender skin of his hips, yanking him back, making him fuck himself on me, telling myself that what I’m doing is the right thing, the best thing, the only thing. 

 

When I finally come, it’s the most empty, joyless orgasm I’ve ever had, and I realize that maybe, just maybe, what I thought was right was the most wrong thing I could have ever done.

 

And when, for the first time in our lives together, he turns away from me, I’m sure of it.  Colin might have cracked something, but me?  I broke it, then stomped on the fragments with my boots, shattering them to fucking dust.

 

“Colin,” I say finally when I’m unable to stand the fucking silence anymore.  I reach out to touch him on the shoulder, and he allows it, for just a moment.

 

Then he gathers himself and turns to face me.  His eyes are empty, and God, the smile he gives me is cold.  So fucking cold.  He sits up and looks deep into my eyes.  “That one,” he begins in a voice that is soft, and cold, and deadly, “was on me.  But Ryan?  The next time you pull a stunt like that, this,” and he reaches down so swiftly I don’t even have a chance to even start to react, “will come off by the root.  And if you think I’m lying, just try it.”

 

And then he’s off the bed and slipping back into his jeans, not even bothering to try to hold the shredded remains of his shirt together.  And I have time to think, as the door closes softly behind him, shutting off the light, that instead of bringing him back from another man’s arms, I’ve just chased him right back into them.

 

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I cry myself to sleep.

 

*******

 

The next morning finds me in an empty bed, not that I expected anything different.  But my anger is back, and that’s good.  I can handle anger.  I can deal with it.  We’re old friends, rage and I.  Colin once said it was the passion that sparked my creative juices, or some such shit.  And he’s probably right.  He usually is about things like that. 

 

Oh, Colin….

 

Fuck it.  We’ve got a Whose Line taping today, and the dues have yet to be paid in full.  And the man occupying the fourth seat will be the one paying them today.  And oh yes, he’ll pay.  He’ll pay like he’s never paid before.  And he’ll keep on paying until I decide it’s fucking enough.

 

When I take my shower, I’m not surprised to find I’m hard again.  Anger does that to me.  It might fuel my creative juices, but it also fuels something else.  That’s okay, though.  I’m sure Drew will be more than happy to take care of it for me, or if not him, any number of other studio folks.  I’m never at a loss for a willing body when the urge hits. 

 

Yes, I know that makes me a fucking hypocrite.  Deal with it.  I have.

 

During my drive to the studio, I tend to my anger like I would any plant in my garden; I nurture it, coax it, encourage it until it is blooming beautifully. 

 

I stride into the studio, passing no one along the way, which is good.  For them.  But I get just a hint of Greg’s cologne in the air, and if he’s here already, that means Colin must be, too.  I don’t want to see Colin right now.  I can’t see him right now.  Because if I did, my anger, my rage, would drain away, and what would I be left with?  I’ll tell you.  Nothing.

 

Acting on blind instinct, I make my way to the bathroom, and sure enough, Greg’s there, at the sink, washing his hands.  He’s alone, and not yet in his taping clothes.  Good.  Storming across the tiled floor, I grab him by the back of his shirt, twist him, and slam him hard against the tiled wall next to the sinks.  His head hits hard and bounces off.  His glasses go flying off somewhere.  I don’t give a fuck.  “You miserable, backstabbing bastard!” I snarl at him, slamming him back against the wall with every word.  Colin could have stood against me.  Greg can’t.  “Who the fuck do you think you are?  Who??”

 

He just stares at me.  I’d forgotten how damn defenseless he looks without those goddamned glasses of his.  Someone once told me never to hit a person with glasses, but fuck that, he doesn’t have them on anymore, does he?

 

“You wanna hit me?” he challenges, deliberately thrusting his jaw out.  “Go ahead.  Face, belly, nuts, whatever, go right ahead, man.  Break me into little bitty pieces with your badass self.  Think it’ll make everything better?”

 

“No, but it’ll make me feel a whole fuck of a lot better.”

 

“Yeah, because that’s what it’s always been about, from the very beginning, hasn’t it.  You.  The Great Ryan Stiles.  I’m fucking surprised they haven’t erected a statue to your fucking ego yet, man.  Sincerely.  So go ahead, man, do your worst.  At least I’ll be getting the better end of the deal.”

 

That takes me back a step.  “Better than what?”

 

“Than the man you fucking raped, you shitstain!  The only asshole in this world with enough guts to try and love you.”  He laughs.  “See how well that turned out, huh?”

 

“Raped?  Is that what he told you?”

 

“He didn’t have to, man.  I could see it on the bruises on his body and the shirt you so lovingly left in shreds.”

 

“Oh, and I bet you tended to him nicely, didn’t you,” I hiss through my teeth.

 

“Yeah, man.  I fucking held him.  All fucking night long.  Held him through his tears, and his shakes, and his self-hatred.  We’re brothers in that now, thanks to you.”

 

I shake my head, not wanting to believe what he's saying, even as I know that it's the stone cold truth.  “I didn’t rape him,” I say, but my voice sounds weak, wheedling, nothing like I wanted it to sound in my head.

 

“Maybe not, but you sure taught him a lesson, didn’t you?  Don’t fuck with the great Ryan Stiles, or he will surely fuck with you.  Alright, then, my turn.  It’s only fair. It was my suggestion, after all.”

 

“You?”  I can feel my fist tightening.  “You fucking started all this?!?”

 

“Fuck yeah!  You don’t see just what you have, man.  You look, but you don’t see.  Me, I see.  I took a chance, and it paid off.”  He smirks.  The fucking bastard actually smirks!  “Boy did it pay off!”

 

He is deliberately goading me, and I know it, and fuck if I don't fall for it anyway.  My fist comes toward him, but opens at the last minute, delivering a stinging slap that nearly spins his head off his fucking neck.

 

“Good,” he says , grinning at me.  There's a thin trickle of blood coming from one corner of his mouth.  “Did that make you feel all kinds of better, big man?”

 

“No,” I growl, “but I’m sure this will.”

 

Grabbing hard hold of his shoulder, I force him down to his knees.  Holding him there with one hand, I fumble with my belt and zipper with the other, then pull my cock out.  It's hard, hot and throbbing in my hand.  I see him lick  his lips, and I smirk.  “You know what to do.”

 

“Fuck,” he mutters before falling onto me with a will.  With the feel of his mouth on me, all the memories of shitty hotel rooms and stinking back-alleys in England rushed back at me, and I throw back my head and groan.  It's rough, and it's dirty, and it bears no resemblance to what Colin and I usually shared—had shared—but it is exactly what I need at the moment, and when he begins tonguing the underside of my shaft, I feel my knees begin to buckle and have to grab onto the sink for support.

 

I don't hear the door open until it slams against the wall, and have to pry my eyes open to look.  There stands Colin, an unreadable expression on his face, with Drew and Wayne standing behind him, eyes wide in shock.  By now, I'm much too far gone to do anything.  I feel Greg hesitate, though, so I simply grab his hair with my free hand and force him to continue.

 

“Back,” I hear Colin say, as if from very far away.  “Get out.”

 

“But—”  Drew tries.

 

“Out.  Now.  I mean it, Drew.  I’ll handle this.”

 

They obey, and the door closed, trapping Colin inside with us.  He stands there, arms across his chest, watching us both, and part of me—okay, a big part—gets off on it.  I feel my balls begin to twitch, and I force myself down Greg’s throat, draining myself in him.  He doesn't gag, but then again, he never did. 

 

When I'm done, he pushes himself away and stands, shaking my hand from my shoulder and slipping past me to the sink, where Colin is already wetting a paper towel.  As I watch, Colin tenderly dabs the now dried line of blood from the corner of Greg’s mouth until all that is left is a memory. 

 

“Are you okay,” he murmurs, dark eyes taking him in as he tosses the used paper away.

 

Greg smiles.  “Yeah.  I’m fine.  Honest.”  He crosses his heart to prove his point.  A totally un-Greg thing to do, but that's Colin for you.  He just brings out the strangest things in people.

 

After a moment, Colin nods, then tips his head down and kisses Greg, who wraps his arms around Colin’s waist and kisses him back.  All the anger that had drained down Greg’s throat comes back then.  How?  How the fuck could they do this to me?  To fucking me!

 

They pull apart eventually, and without even looking in my direction, Colin holds a hand out, and Greg grasps it.  As one, they turn toward the door, open it, and walk out.

 

Leaving me there to look at the shattered ruins of what had once been my life.

 

FIN

There'll probably be a sequel to this one, too.  Maybe.

Edited to fix the tenses in the entire second part.  Damn.