Fic: Like You're Dying for This | Justified | Boyd/Raylan
Justified. Boyd/Raylan.
Set post 3.08 "watching the Detectives." Though it's not like this is canonical AT ALL.
~3,500 words. Dubcon. Aphrodisiacs. Some hurt/comfort. Explicit, for real.
Short disclaimer: All characters and scenarios belong to Elmore Leonard and Graham Yost and NOT ME.
Summary: He said to me,” Boyd tells Raylan. “If you weren’t in bed with me already, he was just gonna have to put you there.”
Raylan laughs, but it sounds hollow and toneless. “Shit,” he says. “What a psycho.”
Like You’re Dying for This
They hold Boyd for several hours, tied to a chair, staring at the wall in a room only slightly larger than a closet.
They leave him alone. His head is aching too much from where they had hit him to struggle, and they hadn’t fed him or watered him, even at the jail before they took him. He’s tired and hungry, but he is aware and he is thinking of all the things he could do to get away when they come back in.
He thinks he might snatch the derringer off Quarles’ goddamn wrist if he gets a hand free.
They throw a bag over his head and drag him out still on the chair, when they do come to get him. Quarles speaks to him, his mouth quite close to Boyd’s ear, and he says some things that widen Boyd’s eyes and put a nervous beat in his chest.
They cut the bonds at his hands when they dump him off the chair and rip the bag off his head. He’s left to deal with the ropes around his feet, but he doesn’t touch them right away because he is too busy staring straight into the eyes of Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens.
Raylan is leaning up against a stark white wall, wearing his usual lawman clothes, though his jacket is lying next to him. He’s staring at Boyd like he isn’t immediately sure who he’s looking at. Then his expression changes, recognition dawning and he says, “Got you too, did he?”
Boyd wants to smile, he always seems to be giving Raylan smiles of some kind or other when they’re talking, but right now he can’t quite get there. They’ve thrown him on the bed, the only piece of furniture in the room. It’s nothing but a mattress and a frame, with a brass headboard that’s got all the finish worn off at the corners. He’s thinking about what Quarles said.
Boyd starts working on the ropes. “He pulled me from a jail cell this morning, knocked me out and I woke up in a room across the way. Raylan,” Boyd calls. Raylan looks distracted, his eyes aren’t focused quite on anything, but they’re traveling slowly around the clean white walls. “Raylan, how long have you been here?”
“Not long,” Raylan answers in a distant tone. “Quarles gave me somethin’. Forced it down my throat with a load of water and his hand ‘round my neck. Could be oxy, ‘cuz I ain’t feelin’ much. Isn’t just that, though. What I am feelin’ is...” his eyes finally come to rest on Boyd and his pupils are wide open, taking up most of his dark irises. He slides his hand up the wall behind him, drawing the backs of his fingers across the smooth surface as he continues, “Weird. Quarles... told me I was gonna paint the walls, like he does with his rent boys.”
“His what?” Boyd asks in horror.
“Hustlers he picks up, takes ‘em home, tunes ‘em up, and when I chase him out of the house he has Duffy repaint the room.”
“God almighty,” Boyd breathes and looks again at Raylan. His clothes are disheveled, but not like he’s been beaten, like he’s been tugging at them to loosen, like he’s been dragging his fingers through his hair, cradling a heavy head in his hands.
“He said to me,” Boyd tells Raylan. “If you weren’t in bed with me already, he was just gonna have to put you there.”
Raylan laughs, but it sounds hollow and toneless. “Shit,” he says. “What a psycho.”
Boyd’s still not smiling. “They don’t grow ‘em like that in Harlan.” He watches Raylan shift, still against the wall, rubbing his palms across his thighs, like he doesn’t want the fabric around him anymore.
“I’m feelin’ weird, Boyd,” he repeats. “Like, I don’t know... I want somethin’ and,” he trails off then looks over to the door. “Guess they locked that, didn’t they?”
“They did, Raylan.”
“You should probably knock me out, then.” He looks over at Boyd hopefully. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says and means it. His hands are grasping at his jeans again.
Boyd sighs, thinking fast, remembering Quarles’ low words in his ear. He’s got the ropes loose enough he can kick them off, so he does and sits up on the bed, looking hard at Raylan. “Quarles said he was going to be listening. He ain’t gonna stand for it if we do that, Raylan. Does anyone know where you are?”
“Supposed to be taking a few days off, letting shit blow over from the fucking feebs and the murder investigation.” Raylan’s hand is rubbing at the back of his head, as if thinking harder than necessary was making it hurt.
“You been busy,” Boyd says shaking his head.
“Shut up. No one’ll be lookin’ for me, okay? Art told me he wasn’t gonna call even if something goes down in Harlan. I’m... supposed to be at the bar tonight. But they won’t know a number to call ‘cept my cell phone.”
“Sheriff Napier’s got the jail locked down. To everyone on the outside, Raylan, I’m there ‘til my bail hearing on Monday. He can keep us here indefinitely, until he gets what he wants. If we fuck it up for him this time, maybe we won’t have it so easy on the next round.” Boyd’s breathing heavy with anxiety just watching Raylan struggle, all his muscles moving, like he’s got an itch all across his skin.
“You think this is gonna be easy?” Raylan asks, his brows are furrowed and his voice is thick, like he can barely form the words.
“I ain’t tied down. I ain’t drugged up. I can help you through this, okay? I’m going to help you, Raylan.”
“Help... help me escape then.” Raylan’s shaking his head.
“They took your weapon, didn’t they? I wasn’t armed in jail. You can be damn sure there’s an armed guard at this door and Quarles or his man are right outside. Raylan, we can’t fight through that. I’d wager you can barely walk right now.
“Fuck,” Raylan curses and bangs the back of his head against the wall viciously, making Boyd wince. “Fuck you,” he spits.
Boyd decides not to point out that’s the idea. He begins to take off his shoes.
“Stop it, Boyd,” Raylan says, desperation in his voice. “I don’t want... just don’t, please. I can... I can wait it out.”
Boyd stops and looks at him again, takes in the tension in his muscles, the wildness of his eyes. If Raylan does wait it out, Quarles will just make them do it again. But Raylan is sort of rocking in place now, thumping his head, softer than before but rhythmically, against the wall behind him.
Raylan can’t wait it out, he’s going to lose all sense soon enough. But Boyd smiles, wanly, at him and says, “All right.”
Raylan relaxes minutely, but it doesn’t last long, and Boyd watches him work up a sweat fighting whatever those drugs in his system are telling his body to do.
“Take your shirt off, Raylan. The sweat’s pouring off you,” Boyd says then jokes, “I’ll turn my back if you want.”
“No,” he grinds out emphatically. “No, I--” he presses his hand to his face and loses the thread of his words. He glares at Boyd as if it’s his fault and his eyes are so dark in the waning light from the one dingy window, they look almost black.
“Okay, Raylan,” he says softly. Raylan closes his eyes and scant minutes pass.
There’s a hard knock at the door, but no taunting words follow as Boyd expects. Raylan starts, springing away from the wall, making Boyd back up involuntarily to the opposite wall, where the bed is jammed up in the corner.
Raylan looks at him like he doesn’t know what he’s doing there, so Boyd takes his chance to make sure they both come out of this relatively unharmed. “Raylan, come here,” he says softly, pushing away from the corner and crossing the mattress to stand near his friend.
Raylan blinks and follows the order without a word, though his brows are creased again. “No,” he whispers, but he still steps forward.
“It’s frightening,” Boyd says and begins to work on the buttons on Raylan’s shirt. “‘Cause you don’t want this, I know you don’t, but what he put in you, it’s telling you that you do. It’s confusing.”
Raylan shivers and a short whine escapes his throat. “Make it stop,” he says.
“I can’t do that,” Boyd replies and doesn’t lift his eyes to Raylan’s. “But I’m gonna do what I can. We’re gonna go real slow, and we’re going get through this, because Quarles is an ambitious man, Raylan, and he thought he could eliminate us both with this psychotic scheme. But he’s wrong and we’re going to get through this, because I’m going to help you and you’re not going to hurt me,” Boyd reassures him and bites his tongue before he lets the word, “much” slip out.
At Boyd’s words, some semblance of presence seems to come back into Raylan’s expression and he shakes Boyd’s hands off his clothes. They lock eyes as Raylan stretches shaky limbs to remove his own shirt. “Fine,” he says with eyes still dark.
They remove their clothes in silence, neither very modest, since they’d seen each other naked countless times as boys. Boyd’s eyes fall to the raging hard on that Raylan’s somehow been dealing with for the last half hour at least and his boundless respect for the man grows. “Jesus, Raylan,” he breathes and barely thinks about the blasphemy.
Raylan grasps for the brass bar at the foot of the bed and nearly doubles over, as if Boyd’s sympathy is the one thing that would allow him to give in. He comes at Boyd faster than he is expecting, and bowls him over on the bed, crawling up him fast, desperate and muttering, “Fuck, Boyd, I need, I need it--fuck.”
Boyd scrambles back, evading Raylan’s grasping at his legs, to pry them apart. He snatches at Raylan’s hands, stilling them and trying to make something like soothing noises. “I know, I know, Raylan,” he says. “But you need to listen to me. Remember? I’m going to help you. Remember, I wasn’t drugged. I know what to do, so we don’t get hurt. Will you listen?”
“Yes,” Raylan agrees immediately, quivering, but somehow holding his arms and legs still. “Yes, Boyd, please. I want--”
He breaks off when Boyd presses his lips to the side of his mouth. He pulls back, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “What did you do that for?” he asks like he has absolutely no notion.
Boyd smiles, trying to keep himself calm. “Well, Raylan, I do like to be romanced a little, ‘fore I fall into bed with somebody,” he answers, but really it’s because he needs the man to be concentrating for at least a few minutes on something other than getting his cock inside him.
He turns away for just a second to spit into his hand, smearing saliva onto his fingers, then turns back to Raylan, who’s watching him like he’s just gone insane. “Come on,” he says, nuzzling up close to Raylan’s nose, his panting mouth. “You said you’d listen. Kiss me, Raylan.”
Raylan draws in a breath, like he’s about to take some kind of plunge, and thrusts his tongue into Boyd’s mouth. Boyd begins to slide his fingers into his own asshole, stretching it as he murmurs encouragement to Raylan’s lips.
“That’s right,” he says, feeling Raylan’s hips buck up against his hip bone. “Wait, wait, all right, Raylan? Just a little longer.” He’s trying to work himself open and he grunts with the strain of unused muscles, the awkwardness of doing this himself, the worry of being so unsure. He only knows this in theory, from books and low talk in prison. He’s so frightened, he’s almost sure he isn’t going to get it up. He doesn’t know what that’s going to feel like.
“I need it in something,” Raylan whines, kissing Boyd harder, like that’s going to make time go faster. “Please, Boyd, it hurts. It hurts now.”
There’s another pounding at the door and Boyd feels the rage build up in him, finally, over this.
“Quit talking,” Quarles shouts through the wood barrier and Boyd snaps back, “You better think twice ‘fore you come through that door to tell us how to do this shit, Robert, because I am prepared to kill you with my bare hands, you fucking Yankee cock.”
A growl tears from Raylan throat and his fingers sink deep into the meat of Boyd’s shoulder and thigh. “Boyd,” he says, a warning coming through his gnashing teeth.
“Remember what I said, Raylan,” Boyd says desperately, still trying to stretch out that tight hole. “He wants us angry. He thought I’d fight you off, he thought we’d be a bloody mess. Leave us to tear each other apart. Well, he was fucking wrong, because we’re gonna go slow. Remember?”
Raylan just groans, his hips bucking again. “I need in--need it in you, Boyd, I want--” He sinks his teeth into Boyd’s lip, hard.
“Ah, fuck,” Boyd cries, tearing his face away from Raylan’s, and pulling his fingers out. “Okay,” he breathes, wrapping his hand around Raylan’s throbbing cock, shifting himself down a little and his legs slightly up. “It’s in my hand now Raylan, okay? Remember we gotta go slow.”
“Slow, yeah,” Raylan repeats, like he almost forgot the meaning of the word. “Slow.”
He pulls their cocks together, rubs up on Raylan just a little bit as he kisses him again, hard, trying to get there. Raylan moans, an open-mouthed cry of pleasure and want, and Boyd feels something building, muted and small, but there.
He won’t have this be something he doesn’t enjoy at all. He won’t give Quarles the satisfaction. Boyd’s going to make sure they both scream and neither one just in pain.
“Not enough,” Raylan groans. “Want,” he insists brokenly, “please.”
“I know,” Boyd says, and feels himself growing harder from the warmth of Raylan on him, like the incessant throb of his need is catching. “Okay, Raylan,” he says and shifts again, slipping his legs up all the way, he spits one more time into his hand and tries to get most of it on Raylan’s cock before Raylan loses it and pushes himself in, in one swift, grunting motion.
Boyd cries out, loud and harsh, because it wasn’t enough and it hurts. He’s too tight and it’s not smooth and it hurts a lot more than he thought it would.
Raylan’s beyond hearing his cries of pain, moving now inside him, faster and harder than he’s ready for. So Boyd bites them back, teeth slipping into the marks Raylan’s already made. He tastes blood and thinks about that instead of that nearly tearing pain.
Then somehow, Raylan has the presence of mind to grasp at Boyd’s cock, almost like he’s holding on to it for some kind of leverage. He pumps it, up and down with the rhythm of his erratic thrusts, and Boyd feels the hurt ebb, lessen at least, and concentrates on the hot, strong pressure that’s building up again under Raylan’s fingers.
“Fuck,” he curses and Raylan echoes him, still listening.
“Boyd,” he says and Boyd can’t even believe Raylan has the capacity to remember what he’s fucking, he’s going so hard, so fast.
It’s past hurting now. It’s sort of numb and full of a pressure that’s bordering on sweet. Boyd feels his muscles tense up, tight and exquisite as he comes, spurting across Raylan’s hand and chest. When he yells, he makes sure it sounds excruciatingly painful, not so Quarles can get off, but so they get some kind of respite after.
Raylan is still pounding into him, mindless and grunting hard, he doesn’t slow and Boyd is starting to get worried he hasn’t come yet. He swallows, feeling the pain start again, no longer balanced out by that wave of pleasure and says, “Raylan, I’m gonna help you, okay?”
Raylan nods, his eyes wild and frightened, and Boyd wraps his hand under Raylan’s tense thighs, brushing past his balls and sliding his finger inside him, he twists and slides another in fast and finally Raylan screams with his orgasm, rushing up warm and filling Boyd with the strangest sensation, so that he cries out again in surprise.
Raylan collapses on top of him.
They’re both breathing hard and harsh, with stuttering gasps and shaking limbs. Boyd can’t help pulling Raylan close, he just needs it, and Raylan complies easily, thrusting his face into the crook of Boyd’s neck. His breath rushes hot against Boyd’s collarbone.
“Jesus, Boyd,” he breathes brokenly. “I’m sorry.”
Boyd tries to calm himself, but he’s still thinking fast. “There’s only one thing you can do to make it up to me, Raylan,” he says quietly.
Raylan pulls up and looks at him, eyes clear now and guilty. “What?”
“Let me bite you.”
Raylan nods as he opens his mouth to ask, but Boyd beats him to speaking, craning his neck around to sink his teeth viciously into the underside of Raylan’s arm. “Ah, shit,” Raylan cries and Boyd clamps a hand around his mouth.
Raylan eyes are wide as Boyd tells him, “Anything we say now is gonna be quiet as a fucking graveyard, Raylan, because I want to leave this house with my life, don’t you?”
Raylan nods again, determination entering his expression. There’s blood welling up on the wound Boyd’s just inflicted and he swipes at it, reaching down impersonally to smear it all over Raylan’s now limp cock, coming back for more and reaching around to drag it across his own ass. He rubs more across the sheets as Raylan watches him silently with tired, but discerning eyes.
“They’re going to come in here in a minute, Raylan,” Boyd whispers and Raylan shifts in anticipation. “I’m going to be woozy from blood loss and you’re still going to be fuzzy from whatever they gave you. They’re going to check me and while they’re doing that, you’re going to disarm one, shoot him, and quick as you can get a weapon to me, all right?”
Raylan doesn’t have time to acquiesce before the door is unbolted.
The entire affair takes under three minutes. It seems Quarles has vacated the premises, confident by the sounds of their torment that he’d won. Raylan and Boyd dispatch his minions and collect their clothes. They search quickly for the rest of their property, finding only Raylan’s cell phone and badge, and leave the house under the cover of darkness.
They hotwire a vehicle off the street, one that probably has nothing to do with the illicit activities of the suburban house in which Quarles has set up shop.
Boyd is sore and exhausted and he barely hears Raylan speaking low into his phone, presumably to the man from the bar at which Raylan was supposed to be for unknown reasons. The last thing he sees before he closes his eyes, leaning against the window and trying not to think about how much he aches, is the state road sign, leading back to Harlan.
“Boyd,” Raylan says some time later.
Boyd stirs, opening his eyes and stretching muscles heavy with fatigue. Raylan looks a goddamn wreck. There are dark circles under his eyes, he’s pale and his hands are steady, but his fingers shake almost imperceptivly. He clenches them around the steering wheel and says, “We’re here.”
Boyd looks out the window at Ava’s dark house. “I can see that,” he murmurs.
“Okay, then,” Raylan replies and gives him an impatient look. “Do you want--”
Boyd makes himself interrupt him, unable to keep the exhaustion from his voice. “Just come inside, Raylan. And no, I do not want to talk about this. At all. At any time. Ever. But I also do not want you wrapping this car around a tree in a misguided attempt to drive any further tonight. This day was as hard on you as it was on me. You can come in for a shower, something to eat if you want, and you’ll sleep on the sofa, all right?”
Raylan’s brows furrow, so much like they did when they were in that room that Boyd’s heart starts beating faster in a little flash of panic. Raylan says, “I’m not so sure--”
“I am,” Boyd replies, forcing that certainty into his tone. He pushes open the car door. “Come on.”
Raylan turns off the car and gets himself out of it before Boyd can finish swinging his legs down to the ground. All his muscles have seized up and every move he makes hurts like hell. Boyd stares Raylan down when it looks like he’s trying to figure out how to help him.
“I meant, I ain’t so sure how evenly dispersed the difficulties of this day were, Boyd,” Raylan says quietly, watching him struggle to stand.
“I answered in regard to both, Raylan. Now, I believe I said I did not want to talk about it again.” Every step was agony, but he knew it would be even worse if Raylan touched him, and thankfully, his friend refrained.
“Okay, Boyd,” Raylan said and they walked up to the house very, very slowly.
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Set post 3.08 "watching the Detectives." Though it's not like this is canonical AT ALL.
~3,500 words. Dubcon. Aphrodisiacs. Some hurt/comfort. Explicit, for real.
Short disclaimer: All characters and scenarios belong to Elmore Leonard and Graham Yost and NOT ME.
Summary: He said to me,” Boyd tells Raylan. “If you weren’t in bed with me already, he was just gonna have to put you there.”
Raylan laughs, but it sounds hollow and toneless. “Shit,” he says. “What a psycho.”
Like You’re Dying for This
They hold Boyd for several hours, tied to a chair, staring at the wall in a room only slightly larger than a closet.
They leave him alone. His head is aching too much from where they had hit him to struggle, and they hadn’t fed him or watered him, even at the jail before they took him. He’s tired and hungry, but he is aware and he is thinking of all the things he could do to get away when they come back in.
He thinks he might snatch the derringer off Quarles’ goddamn wrist if he gets a hand free.
They throw a bag over his head and drag him out still on the chair, when they do come to get him. Quarles speaks to him, his mouth quite close to Boyd’s ear, and he says some things that widen Boyd’s eyes and put a nervous beat in his chest.
They cut the bonds at his hands when they dump him off the chair and rip the bag off his head. He’s left to deal with the ropes around his feet, but he doesn’t touch them right away because he is too busy staring straight into the eyes of Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens.
Raylan is leaning up against a stark white wall, wearing his usual lawman clothes, though his jacket is lying next to him. He’s staring at Boyd like he isn’t immediately sure who he’s looking at. Then his expression changes, recognition dawning and he says, “Got you too, did he?”
Boyd wants to smile, he always seems to be giving Raylan smiles of some kind or other when they’re talking, but right now he can’t quite get there. They’ve thrown him on the bed, the only piece of furniture in the room. It’s nothing but a mattress and a frame, with a brass headboard that’s got all the finish worn off at the corners. He’s thinking about what Quarles said.
Boyd starts working on the ropes. “He pulled me from a jail cell this morning, knocked me out and I woke up in a room across the way. Raylan,” Boyd calls. Raylan looks distracted, his eyes aren’t focused quite on anything, but they’re traveling slowly around the clean white walls. “Raylan, how long have you been here?”
“Not long,” Raylan answers in a distant tone. “Quarles gave me somethin’. Forced it down my throat with a load of water and his hand ‘round my neck. Could be oxy, ‘cuz I ain’t feelin’ much. Isn’t just that, though. What I am feelin’ is...” his eyes finally come to rest on Boyd and his pupils are wide open, taking up most of his dark irises. He slides his hand up the wall behind him, drawing the backs of his fingers across the smooth surface as he continues, “Weird. Quarles... told me I was gonna paint the walls, like he does with his rent boys.”
“His what?” Boyd asks in horror.
“Hustlers he picks up, takes ‘em home, tunes ‘em up, and when I chase him out of the house he has Duffy repaint the room.”
“God almighty,” Boyd breathes and looks again at Raylan. His clothes are disheveled, but not like he’s been beaten, like he’s been tugging at them to loosen, like he’s been dragging his fingers through his hair, cradling a heavy head in his hands.
“He said to me,” Boyd tells Raylan. “If you weren’t in bed with me already, he was just gonna have to put you there.”
Raylan laughs, but it sounds hollow and toneless. “Shit,” he says. “What a psycho.”
Boyd’s still not smiling. “They don’t grow ‘em like that in Harlan.” He watches Raylan shift, still against the wall, rubbing his palms across his thighs, like he doesn’t want the fabric around him anymore.
“I’m feelin’ weird, Boyd,” he repeats. “Like, I don’t know... I want somethin’ and,” he trails off then looks over to the door. “Guess they locked that, didn’t they?”
“They did, Raylan.”
“You should probably knock me out, then.” He looks over at Boyd hopefully. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says and means it. His hands are grasping at his jeans again.
Boyd sighs, thinking fast, remembering Quarles’ low words in his ear. He’s got the ropes loose enough he can kick them off, so he does and sits up on the bed, looking hard at Raylan. “Quarles said he was going to be listening. He ain’t gonna stand for it if we do that, Raylan. Does anyone know where you are?”
“Supposed to be taking a few days off, letting shit blow over from the fucking feebs and the murder investigation.” Raylan’s hand is rubbing at the back of his head, as if thinking harder than necessary was making it hurt.
“You been busy,” Boyd says shaking his head.
“Shut up. No one’ll be lookin’ for me, okay? Art told me he wasn’t gonna call even if something goes down in Harlan. I’m... supposed to be at the bar tonight. But they won’t know a number to call ‘cept my cell phone.”
“Sheriff Napier’s got the jail locked down. To everyone on the outside, Raylan, I’m there ‘til my bail hearing on Monday. He can keep us here indefinitely, until he gets what he wants. If we fuck it up for him this time, maybe we won’t have it so easy on the next round.” Boyd’s breathing heavy with anxiety just watching Raylan struggle, all his muscles moving, like he’s got an itch all across his skin.
“You think this is gonna be easy?” Raylan asks, his brows are furrowed and his voice is thick, like he can barely form the words.
“I ain’t tied down. I ain’t drugged up. I can help you through this, okay? I’m going to help you, Raylan.”
“Help... help me escape then.” Raylan’s shaking his head.
“They took your weapon, didn’t they? I wasn’t armed in jail. You can be damn sure there’s an armed guard at this door and Quarles or his man are right outside. Raylan, we can’t fight through that. I’d wager you can barely walk right now.
“Fuck,” Raylan curses and bangs the back of his head against the wall viciously, making Boyd wince. “Fuck you,” he spits.
Boyd decides not to point out that’s the idea. He begins to take off his shoes.
“Stop it, Boyd,” Raylan says, desperation in his voice. “I don’t want... just don’t, please. I can... I can wait it out.”
Boyd stops and looks at him again, takes in the tension in his muscles, the wildness of his eyes. If Raylan does wait it out, Quarles will just make them do it again. But Raylan is sort of rocking in place now, thumping his head, softer than before but rhythmically, against the wall behind him.
Raylan can’t wait it out, he’s going to lose all sense soon enough. But Boyd smiles, wanly, at him and says, “All right.”
Raylan relaxes minutely, but it doesn’t last long, and Boyd watches him work up a sweat fighting whatever those drugs in his system are telling his body to do.
“Take your shirt off, Raylan. The sweat’s pouring off you,” Boyd says then jokes, “I’ll turn my back if you want.”
“No,” he grinds out emphatically. “No, I--” he presses his hand to his face and loses the thread of his words. He glares at Boyd as if it’s his fault and his eyes are so dark in the waning light from the one dingy window, they look almost black.
“Okay, Raylan,” he says softly. Raylan closes his eyes and scant minutes pass.
There’s a hard knock at the door, but no taunting words follow as Boyd expects. Raylan starts, springing away from the wall, making Boyd back up involuntarily to the opposite wall, where the bed is jammed up in the corner.
Raylan looks at him like he doesn’t know what he’s doing there, so Boyd takes his chance to make sure they both come out of this relatively unharmed. “Raylan, come here,” he says softly, pushing away from the corner and crossing the mattress to stand near his friend.
Raylan blinks and follows the order without a word, though his brows are creased again. “No,” he whispers, but he still steps forward.
“It’s frightening,” Boyd says and begins to work on the buttons on Raylan’s shirt. “‘Cause you don’t want this, I know you don’t, but what he put in you, it’s telling you that you do. It’s confusing.”
Raylan shivers and a short whine escapes his throat. “Make it stop,” he says.
“I can’t do that,” Boyd replies and doesn’t lift his eyes to Raylan’s. “But I’m gonna do what I can. We’re gonna go real slow, and we’re going get through this, because Quarles is an ambitious man, Raylan, and he thought he could eliminate us both with this psychotic scheme. But he’s wrong and we’re going to get through this, because I’m going to help you and you’re not going to hurt me,” Boyd reassures him and bites his tongue before he lets the word, “much” slip out.
At Boyd’s words, some semblance of presence seems to come back into Raylan’s expression and he shakes Boyd’s hands off his clothes. They lock eyes as Raylan stretches shaky limbs to remove his own shirt. “Fine,” he says with eyes still dark.
They remove their clothes in silence, neither very modest, since they’d seen each other naked countless times as boys. Boyd’s eyes fall to the raging hard on that Raylan’s somehow been dealing with for the last half hour at least and his boundless respect for the man grows. “Jesus, Raylan,” he breathes and barely thinks about the blasphemy.
Raylan grasps for the brass bar at the foot of the bed and nearly doubles over, as if Boyd’s sympathy is the one thing that would allow him to give in. He comes at Boyd faster than he is expecting, and bowls him over on the bed, crawling up him fast, desperate and muttering, “Fuck, Boyd, I need, I need it--fuck.”
Boyd scrambles back, evading Raylan’s grasping at his legs, to pry them apart. He snatches at Raylan’s hands, stilling them and trying to make something like soothing noises. “I know, I know, Raylan,” he says. “But you need to listen to me. Remember? I’m going to help you. Remember, I wasn’t drugged. I know what to do, so we don’t get hurt. Will you listen?”
“Yes,” Raylan agrees immediately, quivering, but somehow holding his arms and legs still. “Yes, Boyd, please. I want--”
He breaks off when Boyd presses his lips to the side of his mouth. He pulls back, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “What did you do that for?” he asks like he has absolutely no notion.
Boyd smiles, trying to keep himself calm. “Well, Raylan, I do like to be romanced a little, ‘fore I fall into bed with somebody,” he answers, but really it’s because he needs the man to be concentrating for at least a few minutes on something other than getting his cock inside him.
He turns away for just a second to spit into his hand, smearing saliva onto his fingers, then turns back to Raylan, who’s watching him like he’s just gone insane. “Come on,” he says, nuzzling up close to Raylan’s nose, his panting mouth. “You said you’d listen. Kiss me, Raylan.”
Raylan draws in a breath, like he’s about to take some kind of plunge, and thrusts his tongue into Boyd’s mouth. Boyd begins to slide his fingers into his own asshole, stretching it as he murmurs encouragement to Raylan’s lips.
“That’s right,” he says, feeling Raylan’s hips buck up against his hip bone. “Wait, wait, all right, Raylan? Just a little longer.” He’s trying to work himself open and he grunts with the strain of unused muscles, the awkwardness of doing this himself, the worry of being so unsure. He only knows this in theory, from books and low talk in prison. He’s so frightened, he’s almost sure he isn’t going to get it up. He doesn’t know what that’s going to feel like.
“I need it in something,” Raylan whines, kissing Boyd harder, like that’s going to make time go faster. “Please, Boyd, it hurts. It hurts now.”
There’s another pounding at the door and Boyd feels the rage build up in him, finally, over this.
“Quit talking,” Quarles shouts through the wood barrier and Boyd snaps back, “You better think twice ‘fore you come through that door to tell us how to do this shit, Robert, because I am prepared to kill you with my bare hands, you fucking Yankee cock.”
A growl tears from Raylan throat and his fingers sink deep into the meat of Boyd’s shoulder and thigh. “Boyd,” he says, a warning coming through his gnashing teeth.
“Remember what I said, Raylan,” Boyd says desperately, still trying to stretch out that tight hole. “He wants us angry. He thought I’d fight you off, he thought we’d be a bloody mess. Leave us to tear each other apart. Well, he was fucking wrong, because we’re gonna go slow. Remember?”
Raylan just groans, his hips bucking again. “I need in--need it in you, Boyd, I want--” He sinks his teeth into Boyd’s lip, hard.
“Ah, fuck,” Boyd cries, tearing his face away from Raylan’s, and pulling his fingers out. “Okay,” he breathes, wrapping his hand around Raylan’s throbbing cock, shifting himself down a little and his legs slightly up. “It’s in my hand now Raylan, okay? Remember we gotta go slow.”
“Slow, yeah,” Raylan repeats, like he almost forgot the meaning of the word. “Slow.”
He pulls their cocks together, rubs up on Raylan just a little bit as he kisses him again, hard, trying to get there. Raylan moans, an open-mouthed cry of pleasure and want, and Boyd feels something building, muted and small, but there.
He won’t have this be something he doesn’t enjoy at all. He won’t give Quarles the satisfaction. Boyd’s going to make sure they both scream and neither one just in pain.
“Not enough,” Raylan groans. “Want,” he insists brokenly, “please.”
“I know,” Boyd says, and feels himself growing harder from the warmth of Raylan on him, like the incessant throb of his need is catching. “Okay, Raylan,” he says and shifts again, slipping his legs up all the way, he spits one more time into his hand and tries to get most of it on Raylan’s cock before Raylan loses it and pushes himself in, in one swift, grunting motion.
Boyd cries out, loud and harsh, because it wasn’t enough and it hurts. He’s too tight and it’s not smooth and it hurts a lot more than he thought it would.
Raylan’s beyond hearing his cries of pain, moving now inside him, faster and harder than he’s ready for. So Boyd bites them back, teeth slipping into the marks Raylan’s already made. He tastes blood and thinks about that instead of that nearly tearing pain.
Then somehow, Raylan has the presence of mind to grasp at Boyd’s cock, almost like he’s holding on to it for some kind of leverage. He pumps it, up and down with the rhythm of his erratic thrusts, and Boyd feels the hurt ebb, lessen at least, and concentrates on the hot, strong pressure that’s building up again under Raylan’s fingers.
“Fuck,” he curses and Raylan echoes him, still listening.
“Boyd,” he says and Boyd can’t even believe Raylan has the capacity to remember what he’s fucking, he’s going so hard, so fast.
It’s past hurting now. It’s sort of numb and full of a pressure that’s bordering on sweet. Boyd feels his muscles tense up, tight and exquisite as he comes, spurting across Raylan’s hand and chest. When he yells, he makes sure it sounds excruciatingly painful, not so Quarles can get off, but so they get some kind of respite after.
Raylan is still pounding into him, mindless and grunting hard, he doesn’t slow and Boyd is starting to get worried he hasn’t come yet. He swallows, feeling the pain start again, no longer balanced out by that wave of pleasure and says, “Raylan, I’m gonna help you, okay?”
Raylan nods, his eyes wild and frightened, and Boyd wraps his hand under Raylan’s tense thighs, brushing past his balls and sliding his finger inside him, he twists and slides another in fast and finally Raylan screams with his orgasm, rushing up warm and filling Boyd with the strangest sensation, so that he cries out again in surprise.
Raylan collapses on top of him.
They’re both breathing hard and harsh, with stuttering gasps and shaking limbs. Boyd can’t help pulling Raylan close, he just needs it, and Raylan complies easily, thrusting his face into the crook of Boyd’s neck. His breath rushes hot against Boyd’s collarbone.
“Jesus, Boyd,” he breathes brokenly. “I’m sorry.”
Boyd tries to calm himself, but he’s still thinking fast. “There’s only one thing you can do to make it up to me, Raylan,” he says quietly.
Raylan pulls up and looks at him, eyes clear now and guilty. “What?”
“Let me bite you.”
Raylan nods as he opens his mouth to ask, but Boyd beats him to speaking, craning his neck around to sink his teeth viciously into the underside of Raylan’s arm. “Ah, shit,” Raylan cries and Boyd clamps a hand around his mouth.
Raylan eyes are wide as Boyd tells him, “Anything we say now is gonna be quiet as a fucking graveyard, Raylan, because I want to leave this house with my life, don’t you?”
Raylan nods again, determination entering his expression. There’s blood welling up on the wound Boyd’s just inflicted and he swipes at it, reaching down impersonally to smear it all over Raylan’s now limp cock, coming back for more and reaching around to drag it across his own ass. He rubs more across the sheets as Raylan watches him silently with tired, but discerning eyes.
“They’re going to come in here in a minute, Raylan,” Boyd whispers and Raylan shifts in anticipation. “I’m going to be woozy from blood loss and you’re still going to be fuzzy from whatever they gave you. They’re going to check me and while they’re doing that, you’re going to disarm one, shoot him, and quick as you can get a weapon to me, all right?”
Raylan doesn’t have time to acquiesce before the door is unbolted.
The entire affair takes under three minutes. It seems Quarles has vacated the premises, confident by the sounds of their torment that he’d won. Raylan and Boyd dispatch his minions and collect their clothes. They search quickly for the rest of their property, finding only Raylan’s cell phone and badge, and leave the house under the cover of darkness.
They hotwire a vehicle off the street, one that probably has nothing to do with the illicit activities of the suburban house in which Quarles has set up shop.
Boyd is sore and exhausted and he barely hears Raylan speaking low into his phone, presumably to the man from the bar at which Raylan was supposed to be for unknown reasons. The last thing he sees before he closes his eyes, leaning against the window and trying not to think about how much he aches, is the state road sign, leading back to Harlan.
“Boyd,” Raylan says some time later.
Boyd stirs, opening his eyes and stretching muscles heavy with fatigue. Raylan looks a goddamn wreck. There are dark circles under his eyes, he’s pale and his hands are steady, but his fingers shake almost imperceptivly. He clenches them around the steering wheel and says, “We’re here.”
Boyd looks out the window at Ava’s dark house. “I can see that,” he murmurs.
“Okay, then,” Raylan replies and gives him an impatient look. “Do you want--”
Boyd makes himself interrupt him, unable to keep the exhaustion from his voice. “Just come inside, Raylan. And no, I do not want to talk about this. At all. At any time. Ever. But I also do not want you wrapping this car around a tree in a misguided attempt to drive any further tonight. This day was as hard on you as it was on me. You can come in for a shower, something to eat if you want, and you’ll sleep on the sofa, all right?”
Raylan’s brows furrow, so much like they did when they were in that room that Boyd’s heart starts beating faster in a little flash of panic. Raylan says, “I’m not so sure--”
“I am,” Boyd replies, forcing that certainty into his tone. He pushes open the car door. “Come on.”
Raylan turns off the car and gets himself out of it before Boyd can finish swinging his legs down to the ground. All his muscles have seized up and every move he makes hurts like hell. Boyd stares Raylan down when it looks like he’s trying to figure out how to help him.
“I meant, I ain’t so sure how evenly dispersed the difficulties of this day were, Boyd,” Raylan says quietly, watching him struggle to stand.
“I answered in regard to both, Raylan. Now, I believe I said I did not want to talk about it again.” Every step was agony, but he knew it would be even worse if Raylan touched him, and thankfully, his friend refrained.
“Okay, Boyd,” Raylan said and they walked up to the house very, very slowly.
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