[FIC] Intermission (Title challenge response)

Aug 28, 2005 13:16

Title: Intermission
Author: Clay
Pairing: Ryan/Colin
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Response to title challenge. I’d like to introduce you to...


Jim was taking him to this run-down little club to introduce him to someone. That much Colin had gathered despite the fact that he was having a severely hard time focusing on the present.

Everything reminded him of last night.

“Here we are,” Jim said, giving the bouncer a smile and a nod. They went inside the smoky room. Old men and ancient strippers floated about like driftwood on a calm lake shore, warped and decaying and discarded, of little use to anyone. Here and there he caught a glimpse of freshly fallen lumber, but they were few and far between.

Colin took it all in as though background fodder, his mind miles away.

***

He had gone into the place on a whim after traversing the streets of Vancouver for what seemed like hours. The comedy clubs and strip joints weren’t in what would be called the “nice” parts of town, but this place made them look like the cover of Better Homes and Gardens in comparison.

The bouncer at the door gave him a nod, taking in his conservative khakis and plain white collared shirt with a grain of salt. He didn’t look like he belonged in such a dive, and he certainly didn’t feel like it, especially still dressed in his work clothes, having not wanted to come home to an empty, dilapidated apartment after working twelve long hours, but people like him came in all shapes and sizes, and he knew he wouldn’t be turned away.

The club was incredibly small and incredibly packed. Smoke hung low over the dancers, reflecting colored lights onto men, young and old, twisting and swaying to a low bass beat or slouched at the bar holding glasses of liquid in every color of the rainbow.

Colin had just settled himself at the bar uncertainly, eyes skipping from the punked-out couple making out just two stools away, looking for all the world as if they were going to strip right there and fuck on the counter top to the grizzled old man across the way, bedecked in far too much leather and leering at him as a lion does an antelope just before moving in for the kill when a hand fell on his shoulder.

***

“He’ll be here soon,” Jim said, yanking Colin from his reverie.

Colin thought fast, making a half-assed attempt to recall the conversation since entering the joint. They had somehow made their way to a table, and Colin saw to his surprise a clear glass of vodka nestled in one hand. How it got there was anyone’s guess; he hated vodka.

Jim was continuing, though, oblivious to the fact that his friend wasn’t even making an effort to follow his words.

“He just has one set tonight and then we’ll all go back to my place.” Jim searched the thin crowd, but looked back to Colin almost instantly, evidently not finding what he was looking for. “I was hoping you’d get to talk to him beforehand. He’s never done improv before, but I just have this feeling about him. That’s why I want you to meet him; you’re a better judge of character than I am. You’ll have to tell me if you think he’d be a good addition to the troupe....”

Jim continued to talk, almost rambling to himself, but Colin was already blocking him out. He stared at the drink in his hand, memories washing over him.

***

“Vodka, neat.”

The voice that assaulted Colin’s ears was deep and quite assured. He turned ever so slightly. The hand on his shoulder was large and warm with nails so clean and smooth that he would have sworn they were manicured. He followed the veins that began at the knuckles up over the back of the hand and along the wirery muscles of a nearly skeletally thin arm to the threadbare edge of a faded black t-shirt. His gaze tripped over a bony shoulder to the chest where a cracked and peeling screen tone of George Harrison stared back at him before letting his eyes wander up.

A chin, square and sure, an overly large nose that had its own brand of appeal and impossibly green eyes, like new summer grass dotted with morning dew was the sight that met his hungry gaze. Those green, green eyes stared straight back into his own, warm, curious, and torturously intense.

The bartender had already set the glass before him when the stranger spoke again.

“Come here often?”

It was the oldest, most over-used line Colin had ever heard, but coming from this stranger’s lips it was an obvious joke.

Instead of answering, Colin smiled, small and enigmatic and completely natural. “I hate vodka,” he told the tall, green-eyed stranger and then lifted the glass to his lips and downed the vile drink in one gulp. It burned a trail down his esophagus, warm and absolutely disgusting, but it gave him a shot of false confidence and earned a chuckle from his new-found friend.

“Do you now?”

They smiled at each other for just over a minute, each sizing the other up. Colin had the distinct impression that he should have felt self-conscious. After all, he looked like a fucking yuppie, a slight paunch, soft hair brushed to one side to hide the fact that it was already thinning, and straight as a God damned Hallmark card, but something about this man’s eyes and the way the hand that still rested on his shoulder tightened ever so imperceptibly had him feeling more at home that he could ever remember in his life.

The stranger leaned across him, the column of his neck just brushing Colin’s cheek and leaving in its wake the musky scent of cheap cologne to lay a few dollars on the bar. He straightened then, but not completely. His lips touched the shell of Colin’s ear as he whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”

***

There was a waitress standing over Colin now. Her golden-brown hair was pulled back in a high pony tail. She was tapping one foot impatiently on the scuffed floor boards, but a bright, fake smile and her low cut shirt that showed far too much cleavage bespoke of her desperate need for tips. Once she realized she had his attention, the smile grew wider, showing a flash of small, white teeth.

“Another?” she asked, indicating the empty glass still held loosely in his fingers and in a way that sounded as though it was the third, possibly fourth time she had had to ask.

“Sure... Pat...,” he replied, searching out the name on her cheap plastic name tag, the white of which was stained ivory by the constant immersion in cigarette smoke. He knew from experience how unnerving it was for complete strangers to call him by name and did so now with that intent, mildly annoyed at her for pulling him from his day dream.

Jim was thrumming his fingers over the worn table top now, tapping a rhythm in time to the music crackling over ten year old speakers.

“Any second now,” he said.

***

The alley behind the club already had two couples in it. They could barely be seen in the harsh light of a street lamp on the street proper, but they could be heard. Soft moans echoed off the crumbling brick, punctuated by the sticky wet slap of skin on skin.

The stranger had a hold on Colin’s hand and tugged him past these people, completely unfazed. Colin had never done anything like this before. He could already feel his palm growing slick with sweat from fear and anticipation, but if the stranger noticed anything he didn’t say.

They made it out of the alley and down a block without a word. They turned one corner, two, and Colin was completely lost, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

They were down another alley now, behind a restaurant if the sickly sweet scent of rotting cabbage and decaying pork was any indication. Halfway down the stranger stopped to press Colin against a wall that smelled strongly of urine. He held him there, hands sure, but incredibly gentle and leaned in for a kiss.

Colin complied without hesitation, opening his mouth to this man when prompted so that their tongues slid against each other, battling in a dance of mindless passion.

Those large, warm hands were under his shirt now, skirting across his belly, making the muscles jump at the unexpected contact.

Colin replied by running his own hands over the stranger’s back, tugging at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel hot skin beneath his fingers. The man was so thin; Colin could feel the ridge of his spine under his questing hands, delighted in the bumps of his rib cage and the gasp that was swallowed down his throat when he dragged blunt nails down and around to clutch at hips already sticky with sweat.

It was just about then that the foreplay ended; it was a silly, unnecessary thing. Colin could already feel his cock straining against underwear that was suddenly far too tight. The other man’s jean clad erection was settled against his thigh. Oh, God, he wanted it.

In seconds his pants were undone and looped in an unceremonious pool around his ankles, though he had no idea who had made the first move. His briefs joined them shortly after and then he was being turned. He pillowed his head on his upraised arms in an attempt to save himself from the putrid scent of the alley.

He could feel the stranger’s erection pressed against his bare ass, steel clad in denim. Then the stranger was dropping to his knees, dragging his body down every inch of Colin’s. Colin thought vaguely that his jeans would be stained with whatever God awful liquid he could hear sloshing beneath his brown pleather loafers, but the next moment those beautiful hands were spreading his cheeks and a hot, wet tongue circled the tight ring of muscles at his entrance, bathing it, preparing it, and Colin forgot to think.

He groaned into his forearms, muffled, but strangely loud in the silent alley. He could feel his cock twitch in response and fought the urge to buck his hips. He was already pressed against the cold, damp brick of the alley wall, erotic in its own right, but not incredibly comfortable.

The stranger continued his ministrations for a short while until Colin was sagging bonelessly against the wall, his whole body a pliant lump of putty strung through with nearly painful desire.

Distantly he could hear something, a high, whiny begging and realized it was him.

The stranger needed no persuasion. He lifted himself from the ground, one hand settling on Colin’s hip. There was the sound of spitting, an improvised, but effective lube and then he was positioning himself at Colin’s entrance. With one swift thrust he was sheathed in Colin’s body, and Colin had to bite down on his arm to keep from crying out in the strange mixture of pleasure and pain. He could feel the soaking denim of the man’s jeans rubbing against his calves and felt a mild wave of disgust as well as a vague curiosity concerning the state of his own pants, but then the man was moving within him at a nearly frenetic pace and all else was lost.

The head of his cock brushed Colin’s prostate time and time again. Those hands dug at his hips hard enough to leave bruises. He could feel it in the thickness in the air around them; it was too, too good and he wouldn’t last long. The man picked up his pace, pushing Colin into the wall with more and more force, and he knew the stranger wouldn’t last long either. Then one hand snaked about to wrap around Colin’s shaft in a nearly strangling grip, and it was all over.

***

Colin was breathing heavily, his pants growing tight at the sheer memory.

Jim paused as he lifted his own glass of shining amber liquid to his lips, eyeing Colin curiously. “You okay?”

“I....” Colin swallowed, cleared his throat, gaze drifting to one of the ancient strippers in an effort to calm his raging hormones. “Yeah. Yes, I’m fine.”

“You look flushed,” Jim said. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”

Colin could only shake his head in response.

Jim nodded, obviously not convinced, but then his gaze shifted from Colin’s face to just over his shoulder, and he lit up with a giant smile.

“There he is!” Jim called happily, “The man of the hour!”

“Hey, Jim,” an all-too-familiar voice said from somewhere just to Colin’s left and slightly behind him. “So this is the improv genius you’ve been telling me about....”

Jim made some vague reply, but Colin couldn’t hear him over the rush in his ears. The man was sitting down now, and Colin looked to him, taking in the amused smile and eyes like summer grass.

One large hand came out in greeting. “My name is Ryan. Ryan Stiles.”

Colin took the hand with a grin, finding the weight of it warm and comforting against his palm.

“Colin Mochrie. Nice to meet you.”

END ^_^

a: clayangel, g: smut, p: colin/ryan, g: pre-wl

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