labyrinth2015: (happy cookleta)
[personal profile] labyrinth2015
’Til the Lines Blur
Cook/Archuleta, explicit, 4,800 words.
Thoughtful, helpful beta by [ profile] sir_yessir and [ profile] frackin_sweet.
Dave makes Archie lose his breath.

Written to spec for [ profile] fieryrogue, for her long-ago [ profile] cookleta graphic challenge win, because this apparently hits all her kinks. Also, happy belated birthday, babe; I always lose my breath around you. ♥

Belt bondage, breath control play, don’t try this at home. Please read full A/N and disclaimer below. Not for profit work of fiction.

Holding My Breath ‘Til the Lines Blur

He feels like he's floating. Little bursts of light are going off around him, so intense and frequent that he can see them even though his eyes are shut.

He doesn't drift away, though. Something holds him to the earth, tugging, slow and luxuriant. Cords of silk, closed around him and holding him in place.

He can feel his blood in his veins, drumming in his ears, pulsing in his fingers and under his hips and in every part of his body.

With some effort, he opens his mouth. He takes a breath and breathes in the cloudy night.


"They're almost done in there," Morgan tells Dave brightly. "Down to the last roll, and then we'll call it a wrap!"

Dave makes a mental note to tell Arch to let Morgan know she could stop with the charm offensive already. He'd agreed with Arch's decision to go with Adam Lambert's management team for the new record -- it was the right call for Arch's coming-of-age indie album twentyone and Arch's not-entirely-coincidental coming out.

So far it'd seemed like the right decision. The team had set Arch up with Ellen and the night-time talk show circuit, and scheduled this spread with Rolling Stone. At first Dave had thought the strategy had been too Lambertesque, down to Adam's iconic Rolling Stone cover, but he'd been won over by Morgan's enthusiasm and industry knowledge, and Arch himself had been really pleased with her professionalism. She shouldn’t have to feel as if making nice with the star's boyfriend was part of her job description.

"No problem," he tells her. "Should I wait here, or can I come watch for a bit?"

"I think you can come with," Morgan says, and he walks with her down the corridor and up the stairs, through a secure door that says STAFF ONLY, which needs a key card to unlock, and then a door that has SHOOT IN PROGRESS lit up in big red LED letters.

Dave steps into darkness, a big room filled with equipment and crates and people with clipboards. Above the shoot is a huge crane and a state-of-the-art umbrella light kit; Dave can tell it takes the three guys hanging off it to adjust the gears and angles of the umbrella’s shade so the photographer can get the best angle.

Dave can't see much beyond the press of bodies and equipment, but he's participated in enough photo shoots to recognize the usual set-up. What's unusual is the music. Arch's shoot music is usually mellow Sara Bareilles or Jason Mraz, but today the Stone photographer has put on Evanescence, and the otherworldly vocals and lush strings of their latest album are sweeping through the room, making the concrete floor shiver and sway.

Morgan touches him discreetly on the arm. At her nod, he follows her around the lighting and technical crewmen to the edge of the light, so he can get a better view of the action.

There's a four-poster bed in the centre of the circle of light. The photographer has his back to Dave; he's kneeling on the bed, absorbed in his work.

Lying in the bed, the camera flashes going off every other second, is David Archuleta.

For a second, Dave almost can't recognize him. Arch is lying on dark cushions and darker sheets, his arms and legs spread-eagled like he's being crucified or tied down. He's wearing a black silk shirt that's open at the throat and black trousers, embellished with gold and metal, that cling to his legs like second skin. His dark hair looks like he's just tumbled from one bed to another.

His eyes are unfocused, glazed, another country.

There is an enormous green snake around his neck.

The bright strobe flashes of the camera and the diffuser make the scene unreal, like Dave is watching a music video or a languorous fever-dream. Under the flashes of light, the coils of the snake trail sinuously across Arch's chest, taut against the white skin of Archie's exposed throat. The snake's forked tongue darts out, quick and red, the same color as Arch's parted lips.

The photographer straddles Arch's thighs, capturing close-up after close-up. He might be making encouraging noises above the unearthly music, but from the look in Arch's eyes Dave is pretty sure Arch isn't listening.

Dave feels the concrete tilt under his feet, like there's no oxygen in the room all of a sudden.

"Hey," someone says, and then, louder, "Hey," and Dave realizes he's doing the shouting.

"Marc," Morgan calls, too, and the photographer turns around, getting off the bed and pulling the strap of the long-lensed Leica over his head.

"Hey, Dave Cook!" the photographer says in surprise, and then with some enthusiasm; "Y'know, we should really get you in here one of these days!"

He's sharp-nosed, good-looking, younger than Dave expected, which doesn’t stop Dave from wanting to smack him in the mouth – in fact, it makes him want to do it harder.

Morgan is trying to make the introductions, but Dave pushes past them both and swings down onto the bed to Arch's side.

Arch's skin is hot to the touch, but the snake's is cool as stones. Dave takes hold of the snake's midsection and tugs it away from his windpipe. Arch's gaze comes into focus and he takes a long, shuddering breath.

"Cook?" he whispers, his voice raw. His eyes look confused but no longer distant; he manages to focus on Dave, and frowns at what he sees on Dave's face.

"Cook, what is it, what's wrong?"

"I was gonna ask you the same question," Dave says. His heart is pounding, there's a snake in his hand, his boyfriend is panting and wild-eyed and staring at him like he's a stranger.

There's some commotion and a couple of guys in gloves and overalls approach the bed. One of them is carrying a cage.

"Please hand over the prop, sir," the other guy says impersonally, and scoops the snake out of Dave's grip.

"Think we're all done," Morgan says from behind them.

"I'll say," Dave mutters. "What the fuck, Morgan? Didn't we get enough snake photos with Adam?"

"Look, this was something David himself suggested," Morgan begins, and Arch sits up and takes hold of Dave's hand.

"Yeah, it was my idea! I thought it would be, you know, interesting."

Dave eyes Arch skeptically. Archie's chest is heaving up and down, his body quivering with each fast breath. How long had the snake been wrapped around him, anyway? "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Fine," Arch nods, and Dave puts his arm around him. He can feel Arch taking gulps of air, body strung taut with the tension of the shoot and with something else. Arch hugs back for a moment, and Dave feels the something else press against his thigh. It takes his breath away.

Then the photographer is saying, "Fantastic shoot, guys, we've got what we need," and Arch and Morgan are huddling around the digital screen with the rough cuts and talking about when they can come see the cleaned up photos.

Dave can't really follow what's happening, because he's still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that his boyfriend had a hard-on the size of the Stone’s back catalogue.

Finally, Morgan turns to him. "Do you want to see the prelim prints, Dave?"

"Maybe later," Dave says. "Right now, I wanna get Arch home."


After David gets changed, he and Cook walk Morgan to her car and then get into theirs. After the brightness of the camera flashes, the L.A. afternoon feels dim and a little cold.

Cook starts the engine and weaves through the thick traffic, not saying anything.

David is vaguely aware that Cook is unsettled about something, has been since the shoot wrapped, and he's wondering whether to bring it up now or later, when they're home.

He's not sure how he feels about the shoot either, actually. Rolling Stone had a thing about photographing with animals, and he thought it'd be interesting to try the classic snake shot. Only instead of the little green snake like the one Adam had posed with, the snake the Stone’s prop department produced was a large green python, as thick around as David’s arm. David hadn't been afraid of it, exactly, and anyway, he didn't want to inconvenience anybody, so he'd decided to, well, roll with it.

They'd styled him older, kind of adult, which, okay, this was what the new album was supposed to be about - him turning 21 - and though he wasn’t used to it, he’d felt pretty excited. They'd played Evanescence's fantastic new album and spread him on this four poster bed with great sheets. Marc, the photographer, had been really nice and encouraging and he hadn't said it exactly, but after a couple of rolls of film David had gotten the idea that he was supposed to relax and try to think adult.

The sheets had felt like butter. He'd rubbed up against them and Marc had said, "Wow, that's really hot, keep doing that," and the wider David spread his arms and legs the better it felt, the silk against his skin and the strain of holding his limbs apart.

At first the snake (they told him its name was Cory) had crawled around his arm, which tickled, and he'd tensed up at first and then he'd laughed and managed to relax.

And then the snake had wrapped itself around his neck.

David touches his throat now, remembering the feel of cool scales against his skin, getting slowly tighter and tighter. Remembers being unable to catch a full breath. The handlers crowding in uncertainly, and Marc waving them away out of his light. David himself saying, in a choked voice, “I’m good, I’m good,” taking little gasps of air, getting dizzy and lightheaded, staring up into the lights, watching the camera flashes around him, white-hot in the center and graying at the edges, his body filling with electricity ...

... The car jerks to a halt at the stop sign. David glances across. Cook's eyes are fixed on him, and David drops his hand from his throat like he's been burned.

"You okay?" Cook asks. His voice sounds unusually rough. "You keep touching your neck..."

Cook's voice trails off. David waits for him to finish, and when he doesn't, David admits, "I kinda didn't expect the snake to be so big!"

"Did it hurt you?"

"Not exactly hurt." David has to think about it, what the feeling means. "I mean, it actually felt... it felt good."

"Really? Good like how?" Cook's expression is unreadable.

David can't answer right now, he’s too full of the new experience and the growing arousal in his body. "Light's green," he says, with some relief, and Cook has to stop looking at him to focus on the road.

It's a short drive to their West Hollywood home and Cook makes it in double quick order. He gets the door for David a little impersonally, not saying anything.

It's probably not the best time, but David has never been good at picking a good opening for a nice, mature discussion with his boyfriend. "What's up, Cook?"

Cook shrugs as they clatter into the house together. "Up? What makes you think something’s up?"

"C’mon," David says, kicking off his trainers and following Cook upstairs. "You've been acting weird since the photo shoot. Are you mad about something?"

Cook pauses on the landing to looks sideways at him. "Getting Dr. Phil on me, Arch? I could ask you the same question."

"I'm not mad at all," David says, reasonably, "but it looks like you are, even if you don't wanna talk about it."

“Like how you don't want to talk about the snake?" Cook enquires, and David figures he should change the subject.

"I'm gonna take a shower first," David announces, something which usually makes Cook leer at him. Not today, though. David tries again, experimentally: "Wanna join me?"

"You go ahead," Cook says stiffly.

David frowns. Maybe Cook will be in a mood to talk after his shower, as well as do other things. Which would be good, because David is now thinking he might want to try some other things himself. "Catch you later," he says, and heads to the bathroom.


Dave obviously knows what's up with him: he's a possessive, jealous fuck with anger management issues. Normal people don't feel the urge to smack the head off the guy who'd just had the privilege of sticking his lens in their boyfriend's face.

It's not something he's proud of, and he tries some deep breathing as he waits for Arch to finish in the shower. It works a little, his racing pulse calms after a while, but as he gets less angry he can feel the sense of shame rise up from his toes.

Angry with himself this time, Dave kicks off his boots and socks and fiddles with the sound system on the mantel, just to give himself something to do. ‘80s rock might drive out the last remnants of the surreal Evanescence vibe that had mesmerized Arch and that damn photographer and Cook with it.

What floods through the speakers is Bon Jovi:

When it hurts, breathe
When it burns, breathe
The feeling inside you is feeling like I do
Take a breath, breathe
Let it out, breathe
Just close your eyes don't hold it inside you

Dave starts emptying his pockets like he always does when he gets home: car keys, house keys, wallet, bunch of folded cards, a couple of guitar picks. He can't hear the running water over the sounds of Jon Bon Jovi's guitar so he doesn’t hear it shut off, and he starts when the bathroom door opens.

Archie emerges, wrapped in the bathrobe which Dave had borrowed from the Four Seasons and kept forgetting to return. His hair is damp from the shower. The look on his face is thoughtful.

"Hey," he says tentatively. "Are we ready to talk about what's wrong?"

Despite himself, Dave feels the return of the anger and jealousy he'd wrestled with earlier. He finishes emptying his pockets so he doesn't have to meet Arch's gaze. He takes off his watch and his dog-tags and puts those on the mantel as well, then pulls his belt from the loops of his jeans - it's the one with the rock-star silver skull - and stares down into the skull's jeweled eye sockets.

"I didn't like the way the photographer looked at you," he says finally, and there's a hard note in his voice that surprises him.

"You mean Marc? What d’you mean, how did he look at me?"

Dave glances over at last; Arch has come up beside him, looking genuinely surprised and confused. In some ways he's still so innocent it makes Dave's teeth hurt.

"You know," Dave says softly. "Like he was getting off on taking your picture."

Archie's eyes couldn't get any bigger. "Really? I mean, I didn't get that vibe from him at all."

"Jeez, Arch." Dave reaches over and runs a thumb over Archie's perfect cheekbone. "He was all up between your legs, his camera right in your face as if he wanted to hold you down and hump you. And there you were with the snake around your neck like some David Carradine breath-play scene. I dunno, what was I supposed to think?"

Arch frowns. "Okay, I know about David Carradine," he says at last, "and, I mean, I get what you're saying… Maybe Marc was kind of too friendly. And the set-up did make me feel good. I didn't expect it to, and the snake was really weird at first, but afterwards it did, it felt really good."

Arch is worrying at his lower lip, and despite himself Dave feels a surge of lust. "Good sexually?" he makes himself ask calmly, and holds his breath.

Archie drops his eyes. His color has risen through his cheeks. "Yeah," he admits, and Dave breathes out in a huge rush.

Arch is leaning so close that Dave can see his Adam's apple working as he swallows. Hardly able to stop himself, he drops his hand to Arch's jaw and strokes along Arch's throat with his thumb.

"Arch, some people get off on not breathing. It's okay if you liked it." Dave watches Archie shiver, and has to swallow himself. "More than okay, even."

Arch looks up again at him. His pupils are dilated, his color high, his breath coming quickly.

"Okay," says Arch. "I want to try it."

What do you know, it seems Dave can't catch his own breath. They’ve messed around with some stuff before, mostly him pretending to order Arch around, but this, this would be really taking things to another level.

"Are you sure?" he asks, which is clearly the kind of stupid thing someone says when their brain is deprived of oxygen.

Arch bites his lip and nods. "Unless, you know, you're still mad about Marc."

Right now Dave has no idea who Marc ... oh, yeah. "'Marc', is it?" he says, trying to keep it from coming out as a snarl and not succeeding. "Y'know, I'm not sure I like how you keep saying his name."

A corner of Arch's mouth twitches. "What, you want me to not use his name? You want me to say ‘Mr. Freeman,’ like that's more polite? I'm sorry, I didn't know you cared about stuff like that."

"You are so not sorry," Dave scoffs, and picks Arch up the way he likes and carries him over to the bed.

Arch is heavier than he used to be, but Dave's been hitting the PX90 workout with real commitment these days, and besides, Arch is only pretending to struggle. Archie's bathrobe has worked itself loose; when Dave pins Arch to the bed he takes a moment to enjoy the sight: long muscles, the expanse of skin, the cock that's already hardening against his thigh.

"Sorry yet?"

"N-no?" snickers Arch. "I mean, yes? I mean, whatever you want me to say. Mr. Cook."

"Well, finally you're getting the right idea," Dave drawls. He positions his legs on either side of Arch carefully; all this bling on his jeans, he doesn't want to scratch up Archie's bare thighs. He's still holding the silver skull belt in his left hand, and it's in his way as he grips Arch's wrists above his head. "Y'know, I really should tie you to the bed like he wanted, so you don't ever let anyone else get the idea to do it to you."

He's just mouthing off, all the blood in his oxygen-starved brain diverted to his dick, but there's no mistaking the lust that immediately clouds Arch's face.

"Oh," he says, breathlessly, and he's not laughing any more. "Okay, I, uh, think you could do that, if you want."

Dave knows he needs to be so careful, but it's difficult when his boyfriend is half-naked and hard and trying to ask Dave to tie him up.

"It's not about what I want," he tells Arch, trying to make his voice steady; "it's what you want, Arch. Do you want me to tie you to the bed, like Marc wanted?"

Arch is flushed and breathing hard. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I want it. Please."

Dave’s trying to stay in control, because that’s the way this game works, but he’s not, like, made of stone. "Okay. If it's what you want. Since you asked me so nicely."

Fortunately, the thick leather of the belt is supple and loops easily around Arch's wrists, and will come undone quickly if necessary. When Dave lashes the other end to the bedpost and pulls it tight, Archie lets out a groan.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," Arch says. His head lolls back against the pillows, his arms taut and helpless above his head. In the low light, the line of his throat is an invitation to touch.

"Are you sorry now?" Dave whispers, leaning down. He kisses Arch softly and pulls off before Archie’s ready to let him go. He grins as he sees Arch panting, trying to chase his mouth and not being able to, because Dave is holding him down. Teasingly, he noses the pulse point below Arch's ear, the soft hair in his armpit, the nub of one brown-pink nipple.

Arch shivers like a wild horse under his careful breath. "Yes, I'm sorry."

Dave figures he deserves a bit of attention himself, and he makes Arch wait as he undoes his own fly, just enough for him to get his hand into his pants. God, that feels good. He slides his half-clad legs a little less carefully against Arch's bare ones; he has to press down as Arch's hips start to buck, to hold him in place.

"You don't want Marc," he tells Arch, running his hand inside the seam of the bathrobe. He pinches the flesh above Arch's hip just hard enough to make him gasp. "You don't want anybody but me, you never will."

Arch makes a little whining sound, pulls on his restraints; he tries to rub himself against Dave, but Dave's thighs hold him firmly down. "I don't. I don't want anyone else. I want you, Cook, only you," and Dave takes pity on him and takes his angry-red dick in hand.

"Tell me that feels good," Dave says softly, starting a slow, wringing squeeze.

"Oh," says Arch, "nnh," and, "So good," and Dave speeds up, twisting his wrist the way Arch likes it, rubbing his thumb over the head of Arch's dick. Arch is panting and struggling and Dave flexes his thighs even more to contain him, careless now of the scrape of rough denim against Arch's skin.

For some reason, Arch continues to plead, "Touch me more, here," and he juts his chin towards Dave, neck and arms straining; when Dave finally gets what he’s asking for a wave of desire rakes through him so hard he can't breathe himself.

"Babe, you need to be sure," he mutters, and Arch says, "Please, please," and Dave finds himself reaching his free hand to Arch's neck.

Dave knows some choke holds from high school wrestling class, what’s legal and what isn’t, how people tap out, but he’s never done anything like this before. Gently. Hesitantly, he runs his thumb and forefinger across Arch's windpipe, feeling the pulse fluttering under his fingers.

"Here's now we're gonna do this," he says. "I'm going to count you out, one to three, and then I'll let go, and we'll only go again if you're okay. I won't press hard enough to hurt you or so you can't breathe or talk.” Just using the vee between his thumb and forefinger, nothing that should compress Arch’s larynx or compromise that voice of his. “If it hurts, or you want me to let go, you say, "Stop", and I'll let go."

Dave has to swallow again before he can continue. "Is that clear?"

Arch nods frantically. "Yes, I got it. C'mon, Cook, please, touch me," and then he makes a little choking noise as Dave slowly tightens his grip.

One, two, three -- Arch's eyes get bigger, he takes one shallow, ragged breath and then another even shallower one -- and then Dave loosens his fingers.

"All right?" Dave asks.

Arch gasps like a fish out of water and nods again, chin bumping Dave's hand.

"More," Arch says, in a voice that Dave doesn't recognize, and Dave can't do anything except comply.

The sound Arch makes when Dave closes his hand again is indescribable. He pulls on his bonds, fights to spread his legs and thrust up into Dave's fist. Dave glances down at the hand that's taking care of Arch's cock, thick and red and leaking precome over Dave's fingers; it looks amazing, but Dave can't watch like he desperately wants to because he needs to keep his eyes on Arch's face instead.

Arch's face is flushed crimson, his mouth panting and wide open. His eyes are dilated and mesmerizing and they suck Dave in, to the dark, cloudy place deep inside where he has gone. Dave is almost hypnotized, so intent on following Arch down that he almost forgets about counting to three.

Then - "Fuck," and Dave lifts his hand. Arch gulps air, squeezing his eyes shut for a long second. Dave's own unattended-to hard-on throbs painfully above his open fly; beneath it, he can feel Arch's cock wet and slick in his fist, knows he’s heading closer and closer to the edge, he just needs Dave to take him there.

"Okay, one more time, this is the last time, get ready," he says to Arch, and Archie's eyes open and he takes one last, deep breath before Dave restricts his air.

One. Arch's head falls back into the pillows and Dave can feel his pulse, his lifeblood, beating like a caged bird under Dave's hand.

Two: the long muscles in his body begin to shudder, his ribcage aching to expand, his lungs laboring to draw breath, hips straining even more frantically to come.

Three, and his mouth widens in a silent cry...

... and Dave lets go, and Arch comes and comes, gasping violently for breath.

Dave holds him, trying to be as gentle as he can as Archie shakes and shudders through his release.

"It's okay, take your time, just breathe," Dave says, and Arch does, curling into Dave's side, deep, sobbing gasps heaving through him.

Dave reaches up to free Arch's wrists and gathers him into his arms and rubs his back, until finally Archie’s breathing slows and stretches out again and Dave can breathe again himself.

“Are you okay?” Dave asks, and when Arch doesn’t say anything immediately, he pushes back a little so he can cup Archie's face gently in his hands and examine him.

Arch looks wrecked, utterly spent and sweaty and with the sort of sex hair the Rolling Stone stylists could never reproduce. Under his chin there are the beginnings of bruises.

"Oh, fuck," Dave says. So much for being careful. Biting down panic, he touches Arch's throat very gently with one fingertip. "Did I hurt you?"

"" Arch frowns, focusing with some effort. He reaches for his neck too, much less gently than Dave. “Feels a bit like that time you sucked on me and I had to wear a scarf for a week? This was, I don’t know. Intense.”

“I better get some ice for that," Dave mutters, but Arch wraps his legs around him and stops him from getting out of bed.

"It's okay. I want you to stay here," Arch tells him, and Dave could have smacked himself; of course Archie needs for him to stay.

“I’m so sorry. I’m not going anywhere,” Dave says. He uses the bathrobe for clean-up, and then puts his arms around Arch again and holds on.

Eventually Arch is steady enough to ask for water, and then to sit up, and for Dave to make a feeble joke. "I never thought I'd be down for this, Archuleta, but you can be really convincing.”

Arch smiles. “I think I surprised myself too,” he confesses, and Dave continues, “And it can be dangerous, okay, you need to promise never to play without me."

Arch thinks about this for a while. “I’m not sure I wanna try again, at least for a while?" he admits. "And I definitely don’t want to do anything without you, Cook."

Maybe it’s the intensity of the scene, but Dave actually kind of wells up. He doesn't spend every day congratulating himself about how lucky he is to be at Arch's side, that Archie trusts Dave to help him discover these things - about what he wants sexually, deep down, what he’s scared of, about the man he’s become - but maybe Dave should be more grateful, because it's a big deal, an immense gift he needs to make himself worthy of.

He doesn’t need to spend more time beating himself up, either, over being a jealous, possessive moron. He just needs to man up and be better.

“Thank you,” Dave says, finally, stupidly, and leans in to kiss Arch, because there really isn’t anything else he can say without sounding like a bigger sap than he already is.

“I think that should be me saying that,” Arch says when they pull apart. The play has given his voice a raspy edge that makes it even more arousing.

Dave recognizes the glint in his eye.

“Think you know how you can repay me?”

“Yup,” Arch says, trailing his fingers down to the front of Dave’s open jeans. “I think I can handle it.”

Arch’s hand moves lower, and this time it’s Dave who has to catch his breath.


A/N: Title from DCook’s “Goodbye to the Girl”. “Breathe” lyrics copyright Jon Bon Jovi, Richie Sambora, Martin Frederiksen.

Disclaimer: Now for the totally non-sexy disclaimer - Don’t try this at home. This story is entirely fictional, and even in its confines our participants don’t choke each other to any levels of unconsciousness. It is intended as sexual fantasy and not as advocacy of the same or related sexual practice IRL.

Experts disagree on the safety and acceptability of breath control play as a sexual practice, but it’s undisputed that it has inherent dangers even if performed with care, and has resulted in permanent damage and a significant number of accidental deaths. A good, balanced discussion is here. I was persuaded by the obviously learned and qualified Mr. Jay Wiseman’s views here. More links on the [ profile] kink_bingo wiki.

FTR, I am not judging anyone’s kink, but if you are a minor, you should not be engaging in this or related practices. Info on some risks & dangers
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