TITLE: A Good Visual: Or, Love Sucks (And Pinches)

AUTHOR: Valeria

FANDOM: Action

PAIRING: Peter Dragon/other Action character of same gender

ARCHIVE: Sure, why not

RATING: NC-17

SUMMARY: A PWP of near-surreal import.

NOTE: Some purely off-the-cuff, throwaway smut, inspired by the recently-broadcast episode "Love Sucks" (some spoilers for said episode herein) and by a quasi-challenge on the Jaymohr-Action list--the elements involved being baby oil, clothespins and the phrase which is this story's final line.

For the two or three of you who care, please know that this fic has absolutely nothing to do with the whole insanely convoluted Fire and Ice universe. You'll thank me for that, trust me. Special thanks to Mary for a very swift beta reading, and to Emile for, er, inspiration. Your feedback most welcome.

By Valeria

As his lover's fingers, gleaming with sweat and the smooth patina of baby oil, slid with agonizing slowness down his chest, Peter moaned out loud. A defeat, of sorts, for he had lain there with clenched teeth and drum-tight jaw for a small eternity, trying his very best to project an insouciant indifference to his lover's touch; to deny the power those hands, that mouth, could wield over him.

No luck.

The fingers slid down the flat plane of his abdomen, briefly tracing the muscles there, then rather thoughtfully stroked the short curve of his hipbone, the juncture where leg and torso met. His lover did everything thoughtfully. Meditatively. *Slowly.* Wouldn't bring him off quickly, let Peter just come and roll over and take back his rightful *control* of the situation. No control. Wouldn't let him off easy. Wouldn't let him come until he was begging, pleading with inarticulate sounds and feverish gasps of breath. It was an *outrage,* anyone treating Peter fucking Dragon this way. It was completely, utterly humiliating.

It was delicious.

He tried to twist himself around, to get his hard, aching cock in the vicinity of those gently stroking fingers. At this little sign of rebellion, the fingers vanished altogether. Peter turned his head sharply, trying to discern whether his lover was still there; blindfolded as he was, and disoriented as he felt, and cat-quiet as his lover could be when he liked, Peter had no certain way of knowing.

"Where'd you go?" Peter demanded aloud. There was a high, pleading note in his voice that he hated. No answer. "Where are you?"

"I'm right here," came the answer softly, so close to his ear that it startled him; his lover had merely slid up the mattress toward him. A pair of lips slowly, softly touched Peter's ear, then the tip of an agile tongue traced around its edge. A gentle breath blew into it, the lips sliding away to find the soft, tender spot where ear met jawline...Peter didn't just move at that sensation. He thrashed.

"C'mon," he pleaded, from somewhere low in his throat. "Don't *do* this."

"I can do whatever I want," his lover replied. There was a quiet, teasing note of affection in his voice; none of the attendant familiarity, though, for this was a game whose rules were still not entirely settled. A dance whose choreography was wholly new. "Anything I want. Can't I?"

"Uhhhh..." Peter twisted in his bonds.

"Anything I decide to do." He ran idle fingers through Peter's hair. "For instance, maybe I'll just leave you here like this and--"

"*Don't!* C'mon, please, just let me come, please, I swear to God, *anything* you want I'll--"

"Ssshh." A more amused note of teasing, as one hand reached down to caress, then pinch a nipple. "I don't want to have to gag you again, do I, Peter?"

"I--*God!*"

"Of course not." Kisses against the oil-stroked skin of his neck, rough and light all at once. "I mean, God knows you need to learn *some* control over your mouth, Peter, but--"

"*Please!*"

A hand over his mouth, pressing firmly. "That's what I'll do one of these weekends, hmm? Keep you all tied up and gagged for the whole--"

"Mmmph! Mmm--"

"Trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. How about it?" The hand went away, replaced by a heated mouth and a deep, wet, possessive kiss.

No answer; just a sound between a groan and a sigh. The other man raised his head again and gazed down at Peter, a little unseen smile playing over his lips at the lovely sight before him. Peter's arms were stretched over his head, wrists tied tightly to the bedposts with what had once been a braided curtain cord; his ankles, spread wide apart, were similarly bound. A black silk scarf was wrapped several times around his eyes, letting in none of the bedroom's late-afternoon light. His naked body, held taut by cords and the tension of unsated arousal, was arched nearly off the mattress; his skin glistened with sweat, with the oil rubbed painstakingly into every last fold and crevice. With the sheen of desire.

*Beautiful,* the man thought. A little unwillingly, considering all that he'd endured from this man, deliberately inflicted or otherwise--but it was true. Bound, blindfolded, begging, helpless, he was beautiful.

He let his fingers curve around Peter's balls, cupping them, savoring the weight of them in his hands, then released them to stroke Peter's rigid, deliberately neglected cock. That earned some very satisfactory writhing and furiously suppressed moans--clearly the gagging threat wasn't being taken lightly. Good. A rhythmic, oil-slicked palm kept up its caresses, fingers tormenting the minute, weeping slit at the head, as he let his mouth roam over Peter's chest, lapping at and then biting the nipples; his free hand reached around to grab Peter's buttocks, slip deep into the cleft between them. Peter wriggled beneath him like a fish on the hook, frantically arching his body against his lover's hands and mouth--

And once again, touch and kisses were gone, withheld at the cruelest possible moment. Peter had no reserves left; he threw his head back and let out a long, frustrated sob.

"Oh, *fuck*--" He thrashed again, the bedposts creaking with the effort. "PLEASE!"

"Are you begging?"

"Fuck, *God,* I--"

"Are you *begging?*"

"Yes, goddammit, YES! I--Jesus fucking Christ, *GOD*--"

His lover reached one hand under the bed, pulling out the parcel he'd hidden there when he arrived. At the rattling of the paper bag, Peter's head turned sharply, trying to sense what on earth this might--

The sudden, sharp bite on his nipple made Peter cry out again. God, that was--no. It *wasn't* teeth, it was too tight and gripped too long and the terrible, exquisite pleasure-pain strobing along his nerves was--

"What are you doing?" he managed. "Wha--"

"No," said the other man, his voice newly sharp. "Be quiet." He softened his words with another round of caresses to Peter's cock, taking him all too briefly into his mouth. Peter almost screamed.

"*Goddammit!* What are you--"

"Peter, I *will* shove that other scarf down your throat if you don't shut up"--he gave another brief, swift tongue-stroke to the underside of Peter's cock--"so *shut* up."

No answer, other than hard, uneven breaths. He reached into the paper bag again, taking out another clothespin and placing this one along the thin skin at Peter's side, just where the rib cage began. As the little metal jaws closed on a second tender spot--and a third, just below it, and a fourth--Peter let out an inchoate howl.

A fifth. A sixth. His free hand still stroked Peter's cock, teasing his asshole, rubbing the spot right behind his balls and relishing the loud thud of the bedposts, the unrestrained begging, pleading, one long groan of please-god-now-please-anything-hurts-no-more-oh yeah-jesus-god-don't-stop--

He drew back. A seventh. Peter was sobbing in earnest now, nails digging deep into his palms. An eighth, on the sensitive spot right above the hipbone. Bound, blindfolded, begging, arched in a tormented bow, shining with oil and sweat and need, pinned all along the side, racked with pain and pleasure and the frustrated need for release--

He ran his fingernails down Peter's free side--eliciting some truly piteous, rather prayerful sounds--then gripped Peter's hips in his hands and took his cock deep into his mouth.

In a haze of shock, desire, ecstasy, Peter thrust blindly into the sweet, wet warmth of his lover's mouth, his entire left side radiating fire, the pain spiraling upward with the unbearable pleasure that was *not* leaving him this time, was *not* being snatched away, was roaring mercilessly through his nerves his muscles his cock his limbs his brain--

"Yes, fuck--God, yes, oh *GOD!*" Peter screamed out loud, feeling his whole body shudder as he pulled frenziedly against the curtain cords, as he came in heated spurts inside his lover's mouth; he moaned once again, a final acquiescent sound, and let his head, the blond hair gone dark with sweat, drop heavily against the pillow.

His lover rested his head against Peter's thigh for a moment, feeling the almost delicate trembling of the muscles, hearing the long, hard gasps of breath. His own mouth was full of the taste of sex, salt, surrender. He licked his lips, slowly, and ran his hands up Peter's hips, caressed his ass with soft fingertips; then pulled away with a sudden, impatient urgency, hurriedly untying the bindings around Peter's ankles, pushing his knees back against his chest, ignoring the half-aroused shout of pain as Peter's thigh hit the clothespins...

Peter was quiet now, breathing through his nostrils in ragged heaves, almost passive beneath his lover's body as the other man held him doubled back, reaching hurriedly with one hand for the half-depleted bottle of oil. The man's palm was slippery with it as he stroked himself, as he slipped his fingers inside Peter--eliciting another groan--as he replaced the fingers with his own cock and thrust inside him, hard...

Peter bit down on his lip, trying in vain to see beyond the confines of the blindfold, to see his lover's face as he fucked him. He thrust back against the other man, trying to prolong it--breathless, hurting, exhausted as he was--for as long as he possibly could...

And his lover knew he wouldn't last long--*couldn't* last long--but he tried anyway, tried to prolong it, tried to stay inside Peter as long as he possibly could, tried desperately to lose the wonderful tight sweet maddening luscious feel of his ass, his skin, his entire body--

"Oh, Peter, *God,* *GOD!*" he screamed, over and over again. The sound reverberated in Peter's ears as he felt his lover's whole body spasm and shake, and he tried to grip the man's cock with the muscles of his own ass, keep him there, forever...

Their bodies gave way together, Peter relaxing his tenuous hold and stretching his legs as his lover slipped out of him. They lay there for a few moments, almost cradled together, listening to each other's breathing. The other man rubbed against Peter like a cat, his unshaven cheek pleasingly rough against the skin of Peter's chest. Quiet and peace filled the room.

Finally, reluctantly, his lover raised himself on one elbow, studying the tableau he'd made of Peter before swiftly dismantling it. He pulled the clothespins away, one by one, and put them back in their paper bag; as each one was let loose, a minute, reddened bruise left in its wake, there was a small cry of pain, then a stifled gasp of relief. He ran a finger along the bruises, quickly removing his hand when he heard Peter wince and draw back.

Then he heard Peter say, softly, "Do that again."

He bit back a moan. His fingers pressed against the angry little marks, prompting a gasping growl; he pressed harder, dug his nails in, and heard Peter shout in earnest. He took his hands away again, kissing the marks lightly, rather tenderly, before leaving them be.

He placed a firm, possessive kiss against Peter's temple. When Peter turned his head at the touch and raised his chin--clearly seeking out the other man's lips--his lover drew back a little. He would *not* hope for any reciprocal feeling from this man, with his tantrums and his coldness and his verbal abuse and his sheer *indifference* and his selfish, smug, self-satisfied ego-tripping way of--

The kiss was long and sweet.

He rested his cheek against Peter's forehead, feeling the silken, sweaty blond hair tickle his chin. "Enough?" he asked softly.

A nod. At that, he rose naked from the bed and, lower lip held between his teeth in concentration, undid the knots securing Peter's wrists. Still blindfolded, Peter slowly lowered his arms, letting out a little groan as he rubbed away the muscle cramps. His lover reached around him, unwinding the black silk scarf by slow turns. Peter closed his eyes hard against the light, then blinked until the glare finally subsided.

"What time is it?" the other man asked.

Peter craned his neck toward the nightstand, staring at the clock. "Four-thirty." He glanced down ruefully at the sheets. "I gotta change these before Wendy gets back from her little *weekend*..." He made a face. " 'I'm hooking up with a friend.' Yeah. That's cute."

His lover shrugged a little. Trouble in paradise? Not exactly a shock...but then, also strictly none of his business. He climbed back into his shorts and trousers, grabbed his shirt from the chair he had thrown it on.

"By the way," he asked casually, as he pulled the shirt over his head, "does Wendy know who taught you that little trick with the--"

A loud, rather derisive laugh. "Doesn't know, wouldn't believe it. Not in a million fucking years." Peter threw himself back langorously on the besmirched bedsheets, stretching like a cat; his lover stared for a moment, suddenly a bit distracted, then turned away. "I don't blame her, either--"

"That's, uh, very flattering," the other man commented, running a hand through his wiry dark hair.

Peter snorted impatiently. "Ahhh--don't start. That's her problem."

"You seemed pretty floored by it too, if I recall correctly--"

"Okay, fine, so I had a few...preconceived notions about you. You gonna hold it against me now?" The winsome-little-boy look, deliberately exaggerated, then a patented Dragon smirk. His lover rolled his eyes, but couldn't help smiling.

"I suppose not," he replied, pulling the worn flannel workshirt on over his T-shirt and hunting around for his glasses. "For the future, though? Just try and keep in mind that screenwriters do have *some* marketable talents."

He put the hornrims on and blinked. His eyes were still smarting a little from that unfortunate incident with studio security, but the gost-musk salve--though rather strange-smelling--had, as the doctor in Tijuana promised, worked wonders. As had another, much-needed Sunday afternoon of fucking himself into near-oblivion.

Well, he *had* rather hoped that Hollywood--in between kicking his miserable Barton Fink ass up one side and down the other--would oblige by throwing a pretty goyishe blond or two his way. Ask and ye shall receive. And be careful what you ask for. And all is *almost* forgiven.

"Not that it really matters now," he inquired, "but how'd the read-through go?"

Peter's expression grew familiarly foul. "Holden's on enough smack to make Robert Downey Jr.'s veins explode. So much for rehab. My leading lady is a binge-eating cretin, Bobby's the Bitch Queen of Mulholland as per usual--shit." He tossed one pillow half-heartedly toward the ceiling. "Should've just stuck with Cole Riccardi after all."

"Oh, well--it's like my mother always says," Adam Rafkin remarked, strolling casually toward the door. "You plan, God laughs."

FINIS