In The Eye of the Beholder

for heather, for her birthday

Warm hands caught his shoulders as he came through the door, taking him by surprise, though not unpleasantly so. Chris smiled and leaned back into the touch, his smile growing when one palm covered his mouth, and a low, rumbly voice rasped into his ear, "I watched you tonight. Wiggling your hips all around like a little slut. Hot stuff, baby."

Lance. As if he expected anyone else to do this. And—he'd been…warned? Advised? To expect something in the next couple of days. Here it was.

Lips touched his neck, a quick, gentle press, before teeth closed over the skin, a sharp, tight sensation sparking his nerve endings. Chris shivered and pressed backward and Lance removed his hand from Chris' mouth. "Got me confused with Jup or Jayce, I think."

His voice was hoarse.

"No, I don't think so." Another sharp bite, this one lower, pinching the thin skin just over his collar bone between blunt teeth, hands still pressed against his shoulders, holding him in place -- not that he would've moved. He couldn't. Couldn't do anything but sigh raggedly. "You swivel with the best of 'em, Chris." One hand dropped to stroke his hipbone. "Swivel for me." It was a rough growl in his ear, and he responded to the tone as much as the words, hips moving, pushing himself backward. "Very nice," was purred into his ear, and he shuddered in response. That voice.

"Lance--"

"Again." Another sharp bite; he winced when it stung, and drew in a deep breath, relaxing when the sting turned to warmth, spreading through his chest. He wiggled backward, hissing. Lance was hard against him and the smile returned to his face.

"Twisted, getting off like this, dude." He tipped his head backward onto Lance's shoulder, grateful there wasn't so much height between them as between him and anyone else in the group. "Sick puppy."

"Uh-huh." Both hands were on his hips now, edging up under his shirt. Chris shivered, glad it was semi-dark in his room. Too much light always spoiled this. "You're the one getting all shivery and hot. Sick little man, liking me to hurt you." A sharp twist to his right nipple made Chris gasp, then laugh through it.

"You're not hurting me." Yet. Another sharp twist and he bucked into the sensation, heat radiating outward through his chest, down into his stomach, his groin, through his legs. "Fuck--"

"Not yet. But oh, yeah. We'll get there. All the pain you can handle, baby." The hands moved from his nipples, and Chris whimpered softly. Lance chuckled, then released him. "Take your shirt off."

Chris undid his buttons so fast he thought he might've popped one off when he heard something hit the floor. Damn. He'd have to remember to look for it later. His nipples throbbed in time with his cock, which was straining hard against his pants. Lance stroked one finger over his fly, a light, gentle pressure, and it took everything within him not to buck into the touch. He understood the rules, loved to play by them. Everything according to rules, a well-ordered game.

Because this wasn't just his game; it was their game.

A rough, hard game of give and take that would leave them both breathless and aching, for different reasons; him from bruises rising blue and black beneath fair, pale skin, and the sensations which spread outward with them, and Lance, thrumming with pleasure and satisfaction for having given Chris what he needed.

"So much pretty skin," Lance crooned in his ear, moving him back against the wall. Chris backed up slowly, banged his head on the wall when he got there sooner than he'd thought. It joined the thrum inside him, sensation welling up with each breath he took. How far would they go tonight? "Arms up, baby." Then his wrists were pinned against the wall, held tight in one of Lance's hands, while the other was free to roam his chest, teasing and playing Chris like an instrument.

He felt like a guitar string, stretched thin, resonating each time Lance touched him. He quivered when warm lips brushed over his, then opened greedily for the kiss, letting Lance take what he wanted. It was so good to kiss like this, sweet and slick, adding to the buildup, to the anticipation. It was always like this: rough and sweet, mixed, warming him up. Then just rough, building the need, the hunger, letting fire burn through him until he’d taken as much as he wanted, as much as he needed. Then he could rest, the hunger satisfied enough to lie quiescent within him, until time built it up again.

It was an accident he knew this about himself.

It bordered on a miracle that Lance could -- would -- give it to him.

It wasn't so much submission, exactly. Chris could admit he was about the least submissive person he knew. There were elements of submission within this, though; he had to relax and trust enough to let Lance give him what he needed. Had to trust that Lance knew what he needed. Lance, in turn, trusted Chris to tell him when enough was enough, or if something was too much. They expected each other to know limits, to follow rules.

And it wasn't even really that Chris wanted the pain, per se. It was just sometimes everything around him crashed against him, against his defenses, and the twitchiness and hyperactivity that defined him became a disadvantage, rather than an asset. Then he needed something…extreme, to push everything back into its place. Pain was the means to end, rather than the end itself. He'd learned to take it, shape it, allow it flow through him until it was warmth and heat and soothing, a balm to the senses, because it sent his senses reeling.

He didn't need it -- didn't want it -- all the time. He couldn't even always tell, within himself, when it was needed, but Lance could. He was hyper-aware of Chris' moods, of his needs, and for that, Chris was grateful. Uber-grateful, if he were honest about it. And so they had this thing, then, that was more than rough sex, but not exactly dominance and submission, a game of sorts that transcended playing into playing. They had the safewords, the signals, had sat down and negotiated and talked and decided where to go and what they wanted out of it, individually…and it worked. It gave Chris a chance to give something up and receive something in return. It gave Lance the chance to care for Chris when he wasn't always the easiest person to take care of. And when they were done playing, and he could breathe and think again, their roles would change again and even out, as everything balanced within him and around them.

But in this moment, the need moment--

Right now--

He needed this, and this alone. Badly.

He heard the sharp crack of flesh-on-flesh a moment before heat flashed through him and his head jerked back, hitting the wall again. Lance’s voice was too low to echo that crack; instead it was like a soft rumble of thunder moving through him. "Pay attention, Chris. No wandering. Gotta stay with me, man."

"Yeah." He felt the heat move through his cheek, his cheekbone, and shuddered. Direct line to his cock. He throbbed behind his pants. Hell, his whole body throbbed.

"How much do you need tonight?" Lance brought his mouth close up against Chris' ear, the words low and vibrating, almost obscene, as they worked through his ear into his central nervous system.

"As much as you'll give," he responded hoarsely, raising his eyes to meet Lance's. They were dilated, the pupils wide and dark, shining with anticipation, with heat. Lance loved to give him this; loved the chance to play harder than they normally did.

"All right, then." And he was spun around, body hitting against the wall this time. Lance pinned him beneath his body, arms stretched out in a modified crucifixion pose, except he wasn't hanging. Never anything that took him up in the air; this was for relaxing, not scaring him to death. "Relax." Hot breath in his ear, and Chris closed his eyes, waiting. The moment stretched, a piece of string pulled taut, waiting to snap.

Teeth closed on his ear, then his neck, scraping roughly against the tendons there, biting deep and hard. Another bite, then another, moving randomly over his back, his shoulders, the dip of his waist just above his ass. Lance repeated the motions over and over until his back felt laid open, raw and exposed. He knew that wasn't the case; it was just so much all at once, and it took a while to assimilate it all. And god, it stung -- the sting of a hundred beestings -- and it felt so good, and he wanted to lose himself in it. Let it wash over him, bathe him in the calm. He felt a hot, sharp gouge, then moisture on his neck, and groaned, convulsing against the body holding him. The sound ripped from his throat made it ache.

Lance licked at the bite, his tongue tracing a weird pattern that made Chris' head spin faster. "Go with it. Feel it. It's for you."

"Easy for you--to say," he gasped when he could breathe again. "I can't…oh, god, Lance--" He sucked in another breath, letting it out in a hiss.

"Yes, you can." The warmth against his back moved away briefly, and there was the soft sound of metal against fake wood, then Lance was there again. "You know you can."

The object was sharp, jagged, cool to the touch when Lance laid it against his skin, and Chris growled his agreement, the sound caught between a sob and a snarl. The scritch-scratch it made on his back was soothing, not deep or gouging, but an easy, steady stinging sensation that grew and spread through him. Lance traced a trail down his back, up his spine, over both shoulders, then down again. Chris moaned and bucked lightly against the wall once, turned his head to press his cheek flat, eyes closed to let the sensations sweep over him, take him away. Lance pressed harder and his moans became groans, soft growls, as the stinging turned into a raging, raw scratch on his skin, hot beads of moisture dotting his back here and there.

He trembled when Lance lapped at each droplet, tongue poking at the small abrasions until they were beyond irritated, buzzing as if they were alive, transmitting a delicious agony through aching flesh.

The object flattened out into an odd shape when it was pressed full against him, long and slender, bent into strange angles. Coat-hanger. A wire coat-hanger. He would never have guessed that one. A convulsion tore through him when Lance pinned him tighter against the wall, drawing the flat of the hanger down his back, scraping over now-tender skin. The gentle kiss to the back of his neck made him jerk, and Lance laughed softly. "Are you ready? I have more planned…this was just the start."

"God, yes." He opened his eyes to see Lance smiling at him; no wonder. The tone of his voice was…reverent. He wanted to laugh. Lance couldn't possibly have any clue just how reverent this made him feel.

Lance set the hanger back on the dresser, and Chris bit his lip against a whimper; whatever else was planned obviously didn't involve it. Though he'd be interested in seeing what his back looked like in the morning, just from scratches and scrapes he knew covered it now.

"Okay, then. Get on the bed—on your back." Chris nodded as he turned, stopped when Lance's fingers closed over his bicep, halting him. Warm breath ghosted over his mouth, warmer lips teased his, and he moaned when Lance kissed him, pressing his mouth open, the hot metallic taste of blood lingering where Lance licked at the scratches on his back. He shivered and pressed closer, feeling oddly vulnerable and invincible all at once. Lance kissed him, biting and licking until his lips felt raw and swollen, echoes of his back, then pushed him gently toward the bed. "Want restraints? I brought some."

Chris paused in rearranging himself then shook his head. Restraints were a different kink; something he liked for themselves, but not necessarily as a part of this. They weren't necessary; he could and would hold still. "No. I'm good."

"You sure?" There was no teasing laughter in the soft question, and Chris turned his head to look at Lance; caught his breath as he heard the quiet rushing sound of leather against cloth, saw the dark leather belt removed from its confining loops. They hadn't played with a belt in a long, long time. They hadn't played in a while, period, and the last time was while they were home, with access to his collection of floggers and crops. His stomach flopped over with anticipation and dread and he took a moment to nod, drawing the motion out.

"I'm sure."

"Okay." Lance cracked it once, the ends drawn together, the two pieces folded and pulled apart with a sharp snap that made Chris quiver with ever-growing need. "I won't ask again. If you need them, you'll have to tell me."

"I will."

And he would – tell him. But Chris was fairly confident he wouldn't need them. Restraints were, to his way of thinking, for struggling against, or for preventing movement for application of sensation. He wanted the pain. Welcomed it.

He watched with half-closed eyes as Lance set his belt to one side and instead picked up a small bag, taking several candles and something silver out of it. The candles were set on the night table, and the soft sulfur smell of the match triggered a memory rush so intense Chris felt slightly dizzy for a moment. Hot wax. A favorite plaything, for both of them. He shivered.

The silver turned out to be alligator clamps; the kind controlled by pressure. Chris groaned again; his nipples were intensely sensitive, and any sort of working over could leave him breathless; factor in purposely-applied pain…. Lance leaned in to kiss him again, fingers teasing lightly over his nipples before the pinching and pulling began. He lost himself in the ever-increasing waves of sensation, the pleasure/pain so exquisitely balanced the least little jar could send one toppling into the other. It was dark and seductive, bright and all encompassing, and he welcomed it, groaning softly when tugs turned to twists, when pulls turned into tight, hard pinches.

"You'd look pretty with a nipple ring," Lance whispered into his ear, teeth tugging on the jewelry already there. "Something else to pull on."

He swallowed roughly. "Fuck—"

"Something to think about, huh?" Movement shifted the air around him and Chris blinked his eyes open, wondering when he'd closed them.

"Maybe," he managed hoarsely. Low laughter made him grin. A darker thread in the laugh made him squirm once, body stilling, though he could feel every current of pain flowing within him, flowing through him. It was warm and calming, soothing almost. Gave him something to focus on.

"Ready?"

He nodded once and closed his eyes again; he'd found watching took some of the enjoyment out of it. Instead he breathed out slowly, then inhaled, swallowing down the gasp when the first drop of wax splashed on his throat; warm enough to spread through him, but not enough to burn him.

The next drops were warmer still, in a pattern around and over his collarbones, down the center of his chest. Heat splashed on his nipples and Chris grasped at the bedspread, groaning, shaking his head when the droplets stopped.

"Don't…need restraints."

"I'm trusting you, man."

"I know." He opened his eyes and stared up at Lance. "C'mon…"

Lance raised one elegant eyebrow. "You're awfully bossy for bein' the guy layin' there."

"Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Please?"

His answer was a flash of hothothot searing across his right nipple, burning into tender tissues. He bit his lip, wanting to howl, knowing he couldn't with thin hotel walls the only barrier between them and discovery. Lance gave him a moment, then he was tugging, twisting, pulling again, Chris twisting upward, pushing his torso into the sensation, soft whimpers and growls filling the air around them.

Lance coated his nipple again, the heat not quite as scorching, felt through a layer of wax, then pinched him roughly and settled the clamp over the throbbing bit of flesh. Chris keened softly, hips rising upward of their own accord, his entire body pulsing in time with his heartbeat. When Lance repeated it on his other nipple, his vision swam briefly, black and red spots flickering around him when he opened his eyes.

More droplets trickled over his belly, tracing warm designs around his navel, up his sides, over his ribs. The heat varied; some of it scorched enough he was sure he could smell himself burning, while some of it barely registered except as pleasant. At one point he opened his eyes to see red and white smears criss-crossing his chest and abdomen, and was fuzzily glad Lance told him last night to shave, as much of a hassle as that was.

He sucked air in and panted it out roughly when heat dribbled over his upper thighs, fingers scrabbling again at the bedding. He knew where this was going; wanted it, feared it, needed it. Lance traced gentle fingers up and down his hard dick, smearing the dampness he'd leaked, giving just enough friction to make Chris arch his back and thrust upward, trying to get more friction, lasting friction, to add moremoremore to the sensations thrumming hotly through him. He moaned when Lance let go, fingers sliding off his dick, leaving him feeling alone, sensation growing within him, nearly too big to contain.

"Pretty…" The word was low, murmured, nearly whispered, but Chris heard it. He felt it when white-hot heat streaked down his cock, coating him in layer after layer of warmth he couldn't shake off. Over and over, heat spread through the most sensitive part of him; he could feel it grabbing at him, shaking him hard. The throbbing inside him coalesced into something much too large to hold within, and he felt it burst within him, felt it leak out, hot moisture combining with the heat hardening around him, holding him trapped, caught in a circle that didn't seem to end.

He came back to himself when gentle hands smoothed down his torso then pushed, rolling him over onto his stomach. His cock ached a little, and tingled and stung where the wax and dripped, and everything around him seemed coated in a warm, fuzzy haze. Lance kissed him gently, then straddled the backs of his thighs and leaned over him, licking and kissing each scratch mark he'd put on earlier.

"You're so fucking beautiful like this." Soft rumble of thunder in the room… no, it was Lance, mixing a bit of tenderness into the rough. He always did that, mid-way through, and Chris appreciated it, even if he didn't think it was necessarily needed. Chris quivered beneath the soft touches, each one licking through overly sensitized skin, felt himself falling further into that place inside himself, the warm, comfortable place where he was calm and in control and nothing could bother him. Warm lips traced over the swell of his ass, cupped and spread him gently, allowing for a wet tongue to snake downward, making a different sort of heat coil within him, growing again to match the other still throbbing loudly.

He whimpered when Lance pulled away, what seemed to be hours later, but probably wasn't more than a couple of minutes, the hunger inside him making him feel raw. His cock was hard against his belly again, the odd sensation of wax between skin and skin making him feel more detached than he usually was by this stage.

"Please," he whispered, voice hoarse. He hadn't screamed; Lance would've stopped if he did. They couldn't risk anyone…anyone…finding them doing this. But sometimes not screaming made him just as hoarse.

"Do you need more?" When did Lance move up again? His voice was right in Chris' ear, a low rumble that shook through him.

He nodded, not sure he could trust his voice any more.

"I want to bruise you." A single finger traced down his back, fire sliding downward. He nodded again, though it hadn't been a question, and turned his head to look at Lance's belt, resting innocuously beside them, body trembling wildly at the sight. Above him he heard a soft affirmative sound. "That's right. Something to make bruises you'll feel for days, Chris."

Another convulsion gripped him, a rolling shudder which went from head-to-toe and back again. Lance's tone promised so much; things he knew would be delivered. Bruises. He'd feel them when he danced, when he moved, when he sat, and he could shudder in memory. "Yes. Please," he whispered hoarsely.

"Okay." Lance slid off him, off the bed, reached for his belt. Chris shivered and closed his eyes, forced his breathing to slow down. His pulse thundered in his ears, heat flared like a small sun inside his chest and stomach. He should be incinerated. Burnt to ash. "Here."

Lance's voice jarred him; it was out of place for a moment, not a part of him, of the internal focus. He shifted, and Lance put a soft piece of cloth between his teeth. Chris swallowed and worked it into his mouth, hating gags, but knowing he couldn't do this otherwise. They couldn't do this otherwise. He chewed on it, nodded, waited for Lance to put the top layer over his mouth and tie it carefully. He let his arms be stretched out, soft ties looping around them, securing them open and away from his body. Not bound, exactly. If he pulled, they'd give in a heartbeat. But it was symbolic.

And they were all about symbolism. Sometimes.

He shifted, testing the cloth, and nodded when it gave easily enough. He wasn't going to resist. Not now. Not this far in. Fuck, he ached, he wanted this so bad.

The first blow was always the hardest to wait for, to want, to take. He felt tense, uncertain, vulnerable in a way that he couldn't explain to anyone else, not even Lance. He'd tried. He'd just never been successful at it.

"Relax, Chris." A gentling hand stroked down his back before smacking him lightly on the ass. He twitched, took a deep breath through his nose – HATED gags! – and nodded, closing his eyes. Relax. He could do that.

He wanted this.

Relax.

Breathe.

Relax.

The leather snapped, right behind him, making him twitch again, this time in anticipation. When Lance teased it down his back, he whimpered softly.

And then it came; the first hard crack against his skin, pain and heat, lovely, lovely heat searing through him. He clenched his fingers into fists and moaned into the cloth in his mouth, then breathed out fitfully, leaning into the bite of the leather, riding the waves as they rose higher and higher with each stroke.

He lost count. He usually did, though he tried to keep it. But after a while, when fire crawled over his skin and he couldn't have said what his name was with prompting, the numbers didn't stick in his mind. Nothing stuck in his mind. That was the point of this. Whatever…whoever…whenever…whichever. It was gone. All of it. For a short, blissful period, he could think of nothing, revel in nothing more than the way heat felt icy cold after a while, and how his skin would look in the morning, mottled red and turning blue and black.

He humped the bed unawares, pressing down, pushing up, friction pulsating through him with each labored breath he took and released. Sweat stung his eyes, but it was nothing, a minor sting compared to the other sensations currently in control of him.

NeedlesharphotPAIN shot across his upper thighs, that tender, hardly-touched area where his ass flowed into his legs, and Chris howled into the gag, thrust hard against the rough fabric beneath him, and came again, vision going white then fading to soft black all around him.

___________________________________________________

First thought: Oh, Christ, he ached.

Second thought: What the hell time is it?

Third… "Lance?"

"Um?" A soft, smacking sound. "Mmhmm? Chris?"

He sighed and curled in slowly, wincing when the skin on his back pulled. Moved. His eyes were having trouble focusing, and he realized he'd been out a while. Unconscious to asleep, but still. "Time 'zit?"

"Uh." Lance came online slowly in the morning, or whatever it was, so Chris waited quietly, feeling the sharp sting still throbbing through him. It was a good meditative focus, actually. "A little before five. You okay?" He rolled toward Chris, and in the dim light spilling from the bathroom, Chris could see his half-smile, eyes still cloudy with sleep, but filled with concern, with love.

"Mm. Fine. Just—woke up." He startled when he realized they weren't in his room any longer. "Um--?"

"Yeah, you went down pretty hard." Lance shifted beside him, pushing upright. He fumbled at the night table for a minute, then pressed something to Chris' mouth. It was a straw. He sucked at it gratefully, pulling cool water in and gulping it down as fast as he could swallow. When he finished he leaned back enough to let Lance move the cup, then smiled.

"Thanks."

"You—freaked me, a little. At first." Lance set the cup back on night table, then curled closer to Chris, stroking his fingers through short hair. "Never seen you go down that hard before."

"No kidding." He shivered and leaned in as much as no movement would allow. In the morning, ibuprofen would help him get up and moving, and a hot shower would add to that. For now—"How the hell did we get in here? You didn't get…ask…Joe didn't--?" Your mind spun with the idea that Lance would tell anyone – much less Joe.

Lance smirked just a little and smacked his arm gently. "Goof. I wouldn't do that. No. You walked in here, actually. Sorta. A little." He grinned. "Okay, so I tossed you over my shoulder and carried you in here. But whatever, Chris. We couldn't sleep in your bed." He petted down over Chris' shoulder and back up, teasing short hair glued sticky with sweat.

"Did you—y'know. Get off?" That seemed to be a worrisome thing right now, in spite of the throbbing everywhere, he didn't feel like—like anything happened. Sex-wise.

"Me and my hand," Lance grinned, then leaned in and kissed him gently, shushing him when he made a quiet sound of protest. "Dude. You were unconscious. That's just—euw. No. And you are gonna be so sore in the morning, Chris." Another soft kiss, brushes against his sore lips. "Everywhere."

"'M I gonna look like someone beat me?" He smiled, 'oof'd' when Lance whapped him gently on the head, then leaned in closer, ignoring the screams of abused flesh and muscles to curl into the warm body beside him. "I feel good."

"You should see them. Already." Lance's voice held a note of pride that never failed to bring a smile to Chris' face. "Beautiful. You're beautiful."

"'Beauty is in the eye of the beholder'. Or some shit like that." But he felt it too, like this made him a part of something beautiful. Something that was just theirs. Shared with no one else. Lance laughed softly and kissed him again, shifting under him so Chris could rest more comfortably and Lance could continue to stroke his hair.

"You're a freak. You know that?"

"Mmhmm." He was sleepy again. Still. Felt totally wrung-out, completely wiped. But so, so good. Refreshed. At peace. "'S why you love me, though." Slurring his words.

"That's right. One of many, many reasons." The words were soft, but they made him feel as warm as the belt had earlier. Different warm, different place, but just as necessary. More so, really. He could do without the pain. He couldn't do without Lance. He smiled up sleepily.

"Say it, too?"

Lance nodded.

"Love you."

~fin~

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