Story: "Close Your Eyes"
Feb. 14th, 2008 04:41 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
indybaggins.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
wl_fanfictionAuthor: Indy Baggins
Title: Close Your Eyes
Pairing: Colin/Ryan
Rating: R
Summary: Ryan needs it. And maybe Colin does, too.
Warning: (consensual) BDSM
Author’s comments: I always wanted to write a Colin/Ryan BDSM story that would be somewhat believable. I wrote most of this in early ’06, but never got around to finishing it. Beta was by the lovely Cae. This is my Valentine present for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anoel!
The smell of leather.
It’s the first thing that he really notices when he opens the closet, ‘the closet’, he thinks, and he stops for a moment, trailing his fingertips over the edges and fringes of leather and latex and the frilly structure of a rope inside.
He still feels the chill of the cold metal cuffs under his fingertips from when just a minute ago he clicked them over warm and slightly trembling wrists, the vulnerable bluish veins visible beneath.
Still feels the strain in his fingers from closing the blindfold over eyes that weren’t looking at him anyway, and tying the ends over blond curls, once, twice, so he was sure it wouldn’t come off but as a result leave red marks when it finally does.
He still feels too much, and knows he needs to distract his mind, his senses.
He closes his eyes for a second, takes a breath, and lets his fingers lock around the soft leather gloves. ‘The key is around my neck’, he thinks, and somehow that makes it all bearable. He has the key on a black sting, resting over his heart in between the grey hairs of his chest and he can stop this any minute, he thinks.
---
He still remembers the first time it came up, or the first time he really saw it for what it was, because it was just a part of the complicated dance they had been dancing around each other for over a decade by then. They were having an argument, the kind that had burned and stretched in between them for over a week without a word ever being said, and when it did erupt it made his muscles tense and his insides turn as if he would cry.
Ryan’s careless words in response had made him angry, so much even he had shoved Ryan up against the wall, forcefully and with a huge satisfying thump, arm blocking his neck, and lips so close he could feel his surprised exhale at the pain it caused.
For the first time in over ten years, he had hurt Ryan purposely, hatefully, and the moment he realised what he had done he had stumbled over a long string of excuses, interlaced with tears that finally did come then, and had held him too long and too loosely, the argument almost forgotten.
Ryan had said that it was nothing and it was only when he replayed the moment in his head later on he realised there had been a glint of awe in Ryan’s eyes, right before his hands had guided him onto the bed and under his clothes.
---
He turns around, and walks towards the figure in the middle of the room. There isn’t that much light, they both like it that way, but he still feels as if it’s too much, the flicker of the candles burning his eyes when all he really wants to do is look away, but he knows he can’t, not now. So he squints and tries to make his steps sound confident to the ears he knows are listening.
Ryan’s hands are cuffed and tied together, strung half over his head by a metal chain, and for a second Colin remembers how they tried to install the damn thing together on a warm afternoon two summers ago, Ryan’s shirt creeping up just a little bit while he stretched to drill the holes in the wall. He remembers how he tickled him there and made him laugh, causing the hole for the chain to be a little off. It’s a fun memory, and he can feel it relax him, a vague smile creeping around the corners of his lips before he can stop it. It’s almost ironic how not once on that afternoon he had thought about what they would really use it for.
He’s standing close now, so close he can see the golden sparkles the candlelight reflect in Ryan’s hair, and all the ridges and planes shadow and light so easily define. He knows Ryan is waiting for him, for something, and so he tears his attention away from Ryan’s silent and slightly swaying form and focuses on the gloves he still holds in his hand.
---
Ryan had always had a fondness for inappropriate jokes, they all did really, and he still remembers a moment right after they had finished one of the first US shows, giddiness and bubbling laughter in the air as they ran towards his trailer, a mixture of tickling and poking and undressing and good humor leaving him somewhere between laughing and turned on, clothes landing on the trailer floor as soon as they had locked the door.
They had wrestled on the tiny couch, Ryan bumping his head on the nearby closet, until they rolled on the carpeted floor together, and Ryan had pinned him there, right next to the coffee table, hips moving up and down. Feeling playful, he had pushed Ryan to lie face-down on the carpet, and had spanked his behind, once, twice, using only his flat hand and strikes he knew didn’t hurt. When he didn’t get a reaction from Ryan however, he had leaned over, and said in a tone he knew he would be embarrassed about for weeks to come “you like that, don’t you”.
Ryan had turned around and looked at him then, his face flushed, and laughed, fast and breathless. He hadn’t been as amused as Colin would have expected, the atmosphere suddenly different somehow, and when Ryan had looked him in the eyes and asked him in a low rumbling tone if he could “do that again”, he hadn’t been sure if he was joking anymore.
He had tried to laugh it off, but the tense silence had remained and in the end he had done it, spanked Ryan until the vague shape of his hand was visible on the soft pale skin and he had begged Ryan to tell him if it hurt too much. But Ryan had said nothing, only but soft grunts and the hard evidence of his erection against Colin’s thigh.
In the end he had grown too uncomfortable, and his hand tired, and he had watched Ryan finish himself off, guilt starting to pool his stomach.
---
Stretching his fingers, he puts the dark leather gloves on, first over his left hand, then his right. He always feel slightly off doing so, which is why he waits until Ryan can’t see him anymore, until he’s imagining much more cumbersome objects appearing from the closet. But he knows it’s necessary, he wants to reach out, he wants to hold and he can’t, so he wears the gloves that make any touch impersonal.
Every time they do this, he makes Ryan come in and take his own clothes off. He makes him stand there, in the too cold room, naked, not looking at anything but the floor, before he throws him something that’s not more than a scrap of fabric to wear, and then he waits until Ryan struggles with it, isn’t sure he’s doing it right and humor would almost enter his eyes, would almost compel him to look up. Then he moves in. Fast strides, with the handcuffs, the blindfold, taking away senses and mobility one by one and it makes Ryan shiver with more than cold, until he’s strung up and vulnerable like he is right now.
He does it all for Ryan, he tells himself, and he doesn’t even want to know if that’s a lie or not.
---
The next thing he remembers is the toothpick. They had been on tour, together, all of them, and tensions were so different when they were in a group for a long time that he had felt annoyed, too light, the world a fast and tired place and he hadn’t been able to spend time off with Ryan in weeks.
After going to a steakhouse that evening they had rolled in bed together and he had felt a forgotten toothpick in his left pants pocket sting his leg. He had taken it out, and had playfully pointed it towards Ryan as a mini-sword.
Ryan had taken it, and had carefully assessed its sharpness, pricking it on the sensitive tip of his thumb a couple times. Then he had nodded, and given it back to Colin as if it was supposed to mean something, somehow. By then he had known, he had thought he understood it a little, and had reluctantly tried it on his own arm.
He had ended up pricking Ryan on every inch of skin he could see, his calves and thighs, earlobes and cheeks, and even his eyelids for what seemed like a long time, before Ryan went down on him and they fell asleep, curled together.
---
In one practised move, he takes a wooden pallet from the table, and hits Ryan’s behind, fast, hard, and just once. He can see the sudden burst of color on Ryan’s cheeks, the surprised tension in his muscles. He hears the grunt of pain that escapes Ryan’s lips, and sees the fading redness on his butt cheek.
He tries his hardest to be completely still after that, to make him guess and grow uncomfortable while waiting for the next hit to come, but his own breathing sounds so hard and obvious in the silence he wonders if Ryan can hear it too. Wonders if he realises he’s actually terrified of doing this.
He aims the next whack on Ryan’s side, and feels pleased at the sound it makes.
---
The only time they had a fight about it was also the only time he had ever felt the cold desperation of the fact that he could lose Ryan. Forever.
He had been desperate and angry, out of breath and energy at the same time, and there had been the memory of someone else, someone Ryan promised him was long gone now. He wanted to believe him yet didn’t.
He had been mad at Ryan, sick and scared of how twisted it all really was, tired of hurting him, not able to deal anymore and had told him all that in harsh and angered words that were so loud and yet so breathy he didn’t know he had ever had in him.
In that moment, he had hated Ryan, for always being the strong one, for having nothing to lose, for so evenly replacing his last conquest with him even though he knew he had been so much in love with the man at the time he just hadn’t cared. He had yelled until he was out of steam and there was nothing but the icy cold calmness where he seriously considered leaving Ryan, where his mind told him it wasn’t worth fighting for anymore.
And where he thought Ryan would have consoled him, or just stayed quiet and let him walk out the door, Ryan started taunting him. Hexing him, pushing him, against furniture, against the walls, until everything mounted to something that closed his throat and his anger became too much, and he pushed back and hurt Ryan, revelled in it.
An hour later, in between twisted bed sheets, Ryan had whispered to him “You need it too”, and he had known he was right.
---
After the blunt force of the paddle comes consolation, he touches red burning skin with leather-clad fingers, breathes hot air where bruises are starting to form.
He can see the tension in Ryan’s muscles, and authoritatively nips his shoulders, biting hard enough to leave slowly disappearing tooth marks. Ryan moans at that, high and whiny. He knows he shouldn’t touch, not this early, but it’s been a while and he feels it too, the hot crackling tension between them, and so he bites once more, a little to the right of the first time, and he can swear Ryan is edging closer on purpose.
‘He wants me’, is all he can think. ‘He’s needy, he needs it’, and it makes him feel powerful, in control. When he takes a whip from the closet he runs it through his fingers first, tender, lovingly, before cracking it right next to Ryan, a wheezing sound that creaks through the air, and smiles in satisfaction as he sees the responding twitch of fear.
‘He trusts me’, he thinks, ‘he really trusts me’, as he drags the whip over already heated skin, slowly, tantalisingly, fascinated watching it catch on a peaked nipple, on the edge of a shoulder, before lashing out onto Ryan’s back, one, twice, with impressive whipping sounds and harsh cries from Ryan. They form red, angry marks, and he steps in and presses his mouth to them, in hesitant but starved kisses, tasting the coppery tang of blood on his lips.
Ryan moans again in response to his browsing kiss, his breathing fast and shallow now, and Colin tries to see his face, mouth curled in pain, beads of perspiration on his forehead, eyes hidden under the blindfold. In a sudden decision, he reaches out, pulls Ryan’s head down and meets his lips in a fast, bruising kiss, staining his lips red. Ryan breathes in sharply and then whispers, almost inaudibly, “love you”.
Colin lets go immediately, hands shaking.
“Yeah.”
mood:
...
Title: Close Your Eyes
Pairing: Colin/Ryan
Rating: R
Summary: Ryan needs it. And maybe Colin does, too.
Warning: (consensual) BDSM
Author’s comments: I always wanted to write a Colin/Ryan BDSM story that would be somewhat believable. I wrote most of this in early ’06, but never got around to finishing it. Beta was by the lovely Cae. This is my Valentine present for
anoel! The smell of leather.
It’s the first thing that he really notices when he opens the closet, ‘the closet’, he thinks, and he stops for a moment, trailing his fingertips over the edges and fringes of leather and latex and the frilly structure of a rope inside.
He still feels the chill of the cold metal cuffs under his fingertips from when just a minute ago he clicked them over warm and slightly trembling wrists, the vulnerable bluish veins visible beneath.
Still feels the strain in his fingers from closing the blindfold over eyes that weren’t looking at him anyway, and tying the ends over blond curls, once, twice, so he was sure it wouldn’t come off but as a result leave red marks when it finally does.
He still feels too much, and knows he needs to distract his mind, his senses.
He closes his eyes for a second, takes a breath, and lets his fingers lock around the soft leather gloves. ‘The key is around my neck’, he thinks, and somehow that makes it all bearable. He has the key on a black sting, resting over his heart in between the grey hairs of his chest and he can stop this any minute, he thinks.
---
He still remembers the first time it came up, or the first time he really saw it for what it was, because it was just a part of the complicated dance they had been dancing around each other for over a decade by then. They were having an argument, the kind that had burned and stretched in between them for over a week without a word ever being said, and when it did erupt it made his muscles tense and his insides turn as if he would cry.
Ryan’s careless words in response had made him angry, so much even he had shoved Ryan up against the wall, forcefully and with a huge satisfying thump, arm blocking his neck, and lips so close he could feel his surprised exhale at the pain it caused.
For the first time in over ten years, he had hurt Ryan purposely, hatefully, and the moment he realised what he had done he had stumbled over a long string of excuses, interlaced with tears that finally did come then, and had held him too long and too loosely, the argument almost forgotten.
Ryan had said that it was nothing and it was only when he replayed the moment in his head later on he realised there had been a glint of awe in Ryan’s eyes, right before his hands had guided him onto the bed and under his clothes.
---
He turns around, and walks towards the figure in the middle of the room. There isn’t that much light, they both like it that way, but he still feels as if it’s too much, the flicker of the candles burning his eyes when all he really wants to do is look away, but he knows he can’t, not now. So he squints and tries to make his steps sound confident to the ears he knows are listening.
Ryan’s hands are cuffed and tied together, strung half over his head by a metal chain, and for a second Colin remembers how they tried to install the damn thing together on a warm afternoon two summers ago, Ryan’s shirt creeping up just a little bit while he stretched to drill the holes in the wall. He remembers how he tickled him there and made him laugh, causing the hole for the chain to be a little off. It’s a fun memory, and he can feel it relax him, a vague smile creeping around the corners of his lips before he can stop it. It’s almost ironic how not once on that afternoon he had thought about what they would really use it for.
He’s standing close now, so close he can see the golden sparkles the candlelight reflect in Ryan’s hair, and all the ridges and planes shadow and light so easily define. He knows Ryan is waiting for him, for something, and so he tears his attention away from Ryan’s silent and slightly swaying form and focuses on the gloves he still holds in his hand.
---
Ryan had always had a fondness for inappropriate jokes, they all did really, and he still remembers a moment right after they had finished one of the first US shows, giddiness and bubbling laughter in the air as they ran towards his trailer, a mixture of tickling and poking and undressing and good humor leaving him somewhere between laughing and turned on, clothes landing on the trailer floor as soon as they had locked the door.
They had wrestled on the tiny couch, Ryan bumping his head on the nearby closet, until they rolled on the carpeted floor together, and Ryan had pinned him there, right next to the coffee table, hips moving up and down. Feeling playful, he had pushed Ryan to lie face-down on the carpet, and had spanked his behind, once, twice, using only his flat hand and strikes he knew didn’t hurt. When he didn’t get a reaction from Ryan however, he had leaned over, and said in a tone he knew he would be embarrassed about for weeks to come “you like that, don’t you”.
Ryan had turned around and looked at him then, his face flushed, and laughed, fast and breathless. He hadn’t been as amused as Colin would have expected, the atmosphere suddenly different somehow, and when Ryan had looked him in the eyes and asked him in a low rumbling tone if he could “do that again”, he hadn’t been sure if he was joking anymore.
He had tried to laugh it off, but the tense silence had remained and in the end he had done it, spanked Ryan until the vague shape of his hand was visible on the soft pale skin and he had begged Ryan to tell him if it hurt too much. But Ryan had said nothing, only but soft grunts and the hard evidence of his erection against Colin’s thigh.
In the end he had grown too uncomfortable, and his hand tired, and he had watched Ryan finish himself off, guilt starting to pool his stomach.
---
Stretching his fingers, he puts the dark leather gloves on, first over his left hand, then his right. He always feel slightly off doing so, which is why he waits until Ryan can’t see him anymore, until he’s imagining much more cumbersome objects appearing from the closet. But he knows it’s necessary, he wants to reach out, he wants to hold and he can’t, so he wears the gloves that make any touch impersonal.
Every time they do this, he makes Ryan come in and take his own clothes off. He makes him stand there, in the too cold room, naked, not looking at anything but the floor, before he throws him something that’s not more than a scrap of fabric to wear, and then he waits until Ryan struggles with it, isn’t sure he’s doing it right and humor would almost enter his eyes, would almost compel him to look up. Then he moves in. Fast strides, with the handcuffs, the blindfold, taking away senses and mobility one by one and it makes Ryan shiver with more than cold, until he’s strung up and vulnerable like he is right now.
He does it all for Ryan, he tells himself, and he doesn’t even want to know if that’s a lie or not.
---
The next thing he remembers is the toothpick. They had been on tour, together, all of them, and tensions were so different when they were in a group for a long time that he had felt annoyed, too light, the world a fast and tired place and he hadn’t been able to spend time off with Ryan in weeks.
After going to a steakhouse that evening they had rolled in bed together and he had felt a forgotten toothpick in his left pants pocket sting his leg. He had taken it out, and had playfully pointed it towards Ryan as a mini-sword.
Ryan had taken it, and had carefully assessed its sharpness, pricking it on the sensitive tip of his thumb a couple times. Then he had nodded, and given it back to Colin as if it was supposed to mean something, somehow. By then he had known, he had thought he understood it a little, and had reluctantly tried it on his own arm.
He had ended up pricking Ryan on every inch of skin he could see, his calves and thighs, earlobes and cheeks, and even his eyelids for what seemed like a long time, before Ryan went down on him and they fell asleep, curled together.
---
In one practised move, he takes a wooden pallet from the table, and hits Ryan’s behind, fast, hard, and just once. He can see the sudden burst of color on Ryan’s cheeks, the surprised tension in his muscles. He hears the grunt of pain that escapes Ryan’s lips, and sees the fading redness on his butt cheek.
He tries his hardest to be completely still after that, to make him guess and grow uncomfortable while waiting for the next hit to come, but his own breathing sounds so hard and obvious in the silence he wonders if Ryan can hear it too. Wonders if he realises he’s actually terrified of doing this.
He aims the next whack on Ryan’s side, and feels pleased at the sound it makes.
---
The only time they had a fight about it was also the only time he had ever felt the cold desperation of the fact that he could lose Ryan. Forever.
He had been desperate and angry, out of breath and energy at the same time, and there had been the memory of someone else, someone Ryan promised him was long gone now. He wanted to believe him yet didn’t.
He had been mad at Ryan, sick and scared of how twisted it all really was, tired of hurting him, not able to deal anymore and had told him all that in harsh and angered words that were so loud and yet so breathy he didn’t know he had ever had in him.
In that moment, he had hated Ryan, for always being the strong one, for having nothing to lose, for so evenly replacing his last conquest with him even though he knew he had been so much in love with the man at the time he just hadn’t cared. He had yelled until he was out of steam and there was nothing but the icy cold calmness where he seriously considered leaving Ryan, where his mind told him it wasn’t worth fighting for anymore.
And where he thought Ryan would have consoled him, or just stayed quiet and let him walk out the door, Ryan started taunting him. Hexing him, pushing him, against furniture, against the walls, until everything mounted to something that closed his throat and his anger became too much, and he pushed back and hurt Ryan, revelled in it.
An hour later, in between twisted bed sheets, Ryan had whispered to him “You need it too”, and he had known he was right.
---
After the blunt force of the paddle comes consolation, he touches red burning skin with leather-clad fingers, breathes hot air where bruises are starting to form.
He can see the tension in Ryan’s muscles, and authoritatively nips his shoulders, biting hard enough to leave slowly disappearing tooth marks. Ryan moans at that, high and whiny. He knows he shouldn’t touch, not this early, but it’s been a while and he feels it too, the hot crackling tension between them, and so he bites once more, a little to the right of the first time, and he can swear Ryan is edging closer on purpose.
‘He wants me’, is all he can think. ‘He’s needy, he needs it’, and it makes him feel powerful, in control. When he takes a whip from the closet he runs it through his fingers first, tender, lovingly, before cracking it right next to Ryan, a wheezing sound that creaks through the air, and smiles in satisfaction as he sees the responding twitch of fear.
‘He trusts me’, he thinks, ‘he really trusts me’, as he drags the whip over already heated skin, slowly, tantalisingly, fascinated watching it catch on a peaked nipple, on the edge of a shoulder, before lashing out onto Ryan’s back, one, twice, with impressive whipping sounds and harsh cries from Ryan. They form red, angry marks, and he steps in and presses his mouth to them, in hesitant but starved kisses, tasting the coppery tang of blood on his lips.
Ryan moans again in response to his browsing kiss, his breathing fast and shallow now, and Colin tries to see his face, mouth curled in pain, beads of perspiration on his forehead, eyes hidden under the blindfold. In a sudden decision, he reaches out, pulls Ryan’s head down and meets his lips in a fast, bruising kiss, staining his lips red. Ryan breathes in sharply and then whispers, almost inaudibly, “love you”.
Colin lets go immediately, hands shaking.
“Yeah.”
mood:
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