Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Phil come on. It’s just a game.” The camera is off now and Dan is feeling unsure of himself. Is Phil really angry about this?

“Yeah. A game being broadcast to hundreds of thousands of people.”

“Phil. You know they don’t really care.”

“I know.” 

“Then why—”

“It’s just frustrating okay?” 

“I get you.” They look at each other for a long moment. Then Dan speaks, tentatively “Did you want help to like… de-stress?” 

“You mean…”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” 

“What do you want me to—”

“Go to the living room, kneel on the sofa facing the side, wait for me.” Phil says. So Dan does as he’s told, no need to consider it, no decisions to be made, he doesn’t even think about disobeying. He likes to be given commands. He can turn off his brain and just trust Phil to know what’s best for him. He’d trust Phil with anything. He’s rewarded by a pleased little hum a couple minutes later as Phil walks into the room. 

“That’s good Dan.” The blond is holding a number of objects that in any other situation would be intimidating; in this one, though, Dan feels perfectly calm, watching Phil approach and set the objects on the coffee table. “Do you know why we’re doing this?” Dan feels like he’s being tested.

“Because you were annoyed.”

“Wrong.” Phil grasps Dan by the hair and shoves him face-down into the cushions. Dan jerks in surprise, a yelp muffled in the cushion. Realistically, he and Phil are pretty equal in strength but Dan does not want to face the consequences of resisting, or annoy Phil any more. “We’re doing this because you’ve been being a little brat and hoarding all the victories for yourself Daniel.” Ah, so they’re playing it like this. Phil releases Dan, allowing him to sit up and speak.

“Sorry.” Dan states. Phil tuts back playfully.

“That’s not gonna be enough Daniel.” There’s a pause as Dan tries to come up with something to say, he starts to say something but is cut abruptly short by Phil pulling his head back and dangling a handkerchief in front of his face. He recognises it as a sort of makeshift gag they sometimes use. “I don’t want you to apologise.”

“I think…” Dan swallows. “I think you’ve made that clear.” He looks at the handkerchief, it’s a shade of fuchsia that honestly assaults his eyes, and his fashion sense.

“Open your mouth.” Phil says and Dan parts his lips obediently, trying not to think about how he must look, the humiliating position he’s about to be put in. Phil presses the gag between his lips and teeth, and ties it off behind Dan’s head. The fabric feels soft but thick and Dan pushes it around with his tongue flexing his jaw in an attempt to get comfortable. “There, now you don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing.” Phil’s right. He’s so fucking right it’s frustrating. 

Phil looks at him for a moment. He looks so vulnerable, kneeling there, gagged, looking up at Phil with those eyes. They’re such a dark brown that in the evenings, lit just by the lamps around the room, they seem black, as if his pupils are dilated all the way.

Phil takes Dan’s wrists, letting his touch linger as he draws them around, holding them at the small of Dan’s back with one hand, and grabbing a coil of rope from the table with the other. It’s soft, like the hanky and doesn’t burn as it slips through his fingers. Phil has no problem inflicting pain but it has its place and he likes to know that Dan is comfortable, not rubbing himself raw on rough rope without Phil noticing. He wraps the rope a few times around Dan’s wrists before tying it off, and the skin-to-skin as Phil’s fingers brush against Dan is relaxing. Phil feels safe here, focused and intent, all his earlier frustrations drowning under the importance of the present moment, of Dan.

Phil hears the other man’s breathing deepen, sees it in the subtle sway of his body, his mind already starting to shift into that fuzzy headspace that Dan always gushes about after a scene. Phil sometimes wonders what that must feel like. He muses about it as he brings the rope over Dan’s shoulders, then back around his hips, securing his wrists to the rope there and leaving him completely unable to move his arms. “How’s that? Too tight?” Dan shakes his head. “Good.” When Phil nudges him forward, Dan goes easily but Phil catches a muffled whine through the gag. 

Dan tries not to think about the fact that he’s face-down ass-up on the sofa right now. He tries instead to find that place in his mind where he can relax and not think about things like that; stupid things that he shouldn’t be embarrassed about because they both enjoy this and that’s what really matters in the end. Phil rests one hand on Dan’s hip and Dan chases the feel of the contact in his mind despite the layer of fabric between them. “Ready?” Dan takes a moment to allow himself to relax. Then he nods.

Phil hits him. It’s not like the first few strokes are hard or anything. They’ve learnt from experience that not warming up a bit makes his ass bruise like a peach and that’s very disruptive to his sedimentary lifestyle. So there's a minute or two, Dan’s really finding it hard to keep track, where he can get into the rhythm, the flow of it all without all the pain. Just the dull thump of the leather paddle Phil bought after complaining that his hand hurt—the hypocrite—against the soft cotton of Dan’s shorts.

Phil always tries to be methodical about this. He’s hyper-aware of the fragile balance that is Dan’s headspace. Too often—early on, when they had only just starting doing this—had Phil watched Dan relax, fall into the rhythm only to be pulled abruptly out of it with a too-hard hit or get distracted when Phil spends to long going too gently. So Phil’s counting his blows, carefully observing Dan’s body language, waiting for the right moment to make it hurt. And when it comes, when Phil senses the barest hint of impatience in Dan’s little exhales of breath, he couldn’t be happier about it.

Phil felt bad about that happiness for a long time, still does occasionally, it feels kind of sick to enjoy hurting your own best friend, even if you know he likes it. But he realises more now that it’s less about enjoying the fact that Dan’s in pain and more about the satisfaction of knowing that he’s holding the power, that he can bring about this pleasure in both Dan and himself. He’s feeling that now, as he watches the first real blow connect with Dan’s ass. He hears Dan’s response—in a muffled gasp—watches it in the way his body jerks. Phil rests a hand on Dan’s waist, where his t-shirt has rucked up to his middle, steadying him. “You’re okay.”

The touch is comforting to Dan. It reminds him that, no, he isn’t in danger. This is Phil. He trusts Phil. He’s hit again, this time harder than the last. The sensation is stingy, somewhat dulled by the fabric of his trousers. It’s the kind of pain Dan likes. It feels sharp at first, almost as if it would be too much, then it fades into a comforting, warm sensation that spreads a bit down his thighs and a bit up the small of his back. 

There’s a feeling of helplessness, of vulnerability about all this. He can’t move, can’t talk, he’s completely at the mercy of the man above him. At first that was terrifying, now, it is the reason he seeks this out. There’s no need to hide himself here, no right or wrong response to it all. So as Phil lands a third hit Dan focuses on the sensation, feels every little bit of it in its entirety, allows it to be sole holder of his attention. He is only drawn away briefly as Phil says something gently to him that he doesn’t quite catch.

Dan gasps, moans, squirms and grits his teeth around the gag as Phil starts to speed up, landing more hits in more sensitive places—the backs of his thighs mostly, but also the delicate crease between ass and thighs that both hurts the most and feels the best. “That’s it. Does that feel good?” Phil asks in response to Dan’s reactions. Dan nods, awkwardly and hums through the gag. Phil chuckles. “Yeah? You’re doing so well.” Dan feels genuinely good about the praise. He is doing well, he’s done everything Phil told him to and he’s proud of it. “That’s it Dan, so good.”

They build up a rhythm, together, led by Phil, but nevertheless a collaboration, a connection. It feels easy, familiar, so full of so many powerful feelings. He loves Dan, of course he does, he’s the best friend he’s ever had, and here he is, trusting Phil so utterly and completely. It’s a rush knowing that someone believes in him like that. He feels so close to the man below him, every hit and every reaction making him grin. 

It’s quite something to see Dan like this, to Phil it’s infinitely more vulnerable than seeing him naked would be. It’s as if he’s seeing the rawest part of Dan, one unimpeded by social expectations or anxieties, completely free of pretence. Just Dan.

Dan can’t think. He’s lost in it all and he’s happy about it. He can vaguely hear his own panting breaths, the way he’s moaning softly, but it feels separate from himself, as if they were someone else’s. He feels Phil’s hand in his hair as the pain continues to ramp up, right on the edge of too much, not quite crossing the boundary. The feel of a blow landing on bruised skin, no matter how hard, is an entirely different experience than if it were untouched. It spreads further, aches longer and stings more. It also settles into a powerful, overwhelming pleasure that has Dan reeling even more than the pain does. 

They both get sort of lost in it all, bodies flowing together, colliding. Dan’s muffled gasps of pain, the rhythmic dull slapping sound of the paddle, both of their heavy breaths, mingling together, indistinguishable. To Dan it’s almost like he’s caught in that liminal space between waking and sleep, where you can feel, see, but there’s still the ghost of a dream, of a fantasy playing behind your eyes. Except it’s no dream, no fantasy, it’s real and he can do nothing but experience it. He can hold on to the good feelings, allow himself to feel the bad ones to the fullest until they are not so bad anymore.

To Phil there’s a sense of a powerful concentration. Like a good gaming session where you forget yourself and suddenly it’s three in the morning. He’s utterly enthralled with it all, mind steady, calculating, observing. Is it too hard? Too soft? To fast? Too slow? He’s also watching for signs of exhaustion. Much to both their disappointment these things always seem to be over just as they start, but Phil knows that he shouldn’t push Dan’s body more than he can take. There is only so much pain a person can endure before it becomes real harm.

Phil’s seeing those signs now. Dan’s getting a little fidgety, a little more inclined to wince away from Phil. He slows down gradually, so as to draw it all to a close naturally, as well as to hang onto the final strands of ecstasy from the interaction. He hears Dan’s breathing even out along with his own, watches his muscles relax as much as they can in the bondage. In a way the coming down is as much as a part of the experience as the ramping up. The gradual shift from ecstasy into relief and relaxation is felt by both of them.

Dan is a little disappointed as he watches Phil set down the paddle in the edge of his vision. He knows it’s right though, Phil knows better than him what he can and can’t take by now and he does feel good, really good. 

It feels almost as nice to be untied as it felt to be tied up. He feels delicate hands tugging, untying, unwrapping until he can allow his body to go lax and sink into the sofa cushions. The gag comes off last, soft fingers behind his head, deftly untying the knot there, gently pulling the spit-soaked cloth from between his teeth then returning to run through his hair. “How are you feeling?”

“Good.” Dan says, a little raspy. “Tired.”

“Of course.” Phil smiles, watching him, drowsy and smiling.

He thinks, maybe, this is what it’s all about.