Save Me Chapter 1
Title: Save Me
Pairing(s): David Cook/David Archuleta
Rating: PG-13 to NC-17
Genre: AU
Warning(s): David's occupation in the story will, I believe, catch most of you off guard. Although the reason behind it is explained after this chapter, I will not be offended if you decide not to read this fic. Note that you have been warned.
Disclaimer: The real-life characters do not belong to me, and the story is fictional.
Summary: David Archuleta is desperate, but when he meets and gets to know David Cook, he must decide if their unconventional relationship is merely a web of lies or his only hope to untangle a complicated knot in his life.
1
David claws desperately at the white sheets underneath his fingers, the once meticulously ironed fabric now crumpled into disarray. He uses his own palm to muffle his gasps because the other man cannot know that David’s nerves are yielding to his touch, but there is a voice inside his head laughing dryly at his pathetic attempt to protect the ounce of pride he has left.
David's eyes clamp shut automatically when the slick fingers leave his body.
He knows what is next.
All he can see is the devastating darkness behind his closed lids and all he can feel is the sharp pain when the man starts to move frantically inside of him in an almost animalistic fashion, with bruising force.
David cannot care less about the incoherent phrases the man is muttering; they are not directed at him anyway. For the man, tonight is just an outlet for a secret desire that he normally keeps hidden away from the world, confined within the walls of this lavish hotel suite. Once he leaves, he will jump right back into to his daily life, back to his high-profile job, back to kissing his wife good night with the same lips that grazed across David's neck moments before.
But how long has it been since David has cared?
David bites down on his lower lip as the climax washes over him. He does not open his eyes but he can feel the man shudder against him shortly after, and there is a sickening relief that it is over. Once he catches his breath, the man moves off of David and wordlessly heads to the bathroom, the soles of his slippers shuffling against the marble floor. The door closes and the shower turns on, and it is only then that David opens his eyes again. The soreness seems to have spread from his abdomen to his limbs because he cannot even bear to lift an arm to shield the light directly above him. There is not much David can do but lie there helplessly, listening to the ticking of the clock on the wall across the room.
Minutes fly by, and the man is walking toward the bed again, now dressed in his tailored designer suit with the scent of cologne hanging around him. He smirks as he reaches out to run his fingers through David's dark hair. David hates the condescending gesture but, of course, he does not say anything. The man leans down for a kiss but David quickly turns away so the lips end up barely touching his cheek, and the man chuckles because it is what he has expected. This is not the first night he has spent with David, and he knows that it is David's one rule.
Standing back up, he murmurs "good night" before turning to leave. The paneled French doors click shut, and that is when the tears begin to fall from David's eyes.
He never meant to let himself have this sort of life, a kind of rut that trapped him wholly and ate away at every bit of his decency and innocence. He suddenly remembers that he is only nineteen, but it feels like he has lived for an eternity. He extends his arm to grab the small, rectangular piece of paper the client has left on the mahogany side table. It wrinkles under his angry clutch, but no matter how hard he tries to crush it with his fingers, it fails to erase what is real.
It is a hopeless feeling - the idea that nothing will change the fact that it is a check sitting in his hand, that a stranger can pay the price to possess him for part of a night. What is most frightening is that he does not have the option to back out, and David Archuleta shudders at the thought as the salty drops begin to pool between his pale skin and the feather soft fabric of the pillow.
+
You feel so small and lost
Like you're the only one
You wanna scream 'cause you're desperate
You want somebody, just anybody
To lay their hands on your soul tonight
+
The first rays of sunlight begin to emerge and glisten upon their contact with the peaks of the skyscrapers, but this image is lost on David Cook, who is looking bleary-eyed. From the loosened tie to the multiple ceramic coffee-filled mugs, all of which are on his desk but within reach, the scene seems to hint at the fact that a normal sleeping schedule has not held much significance for Cook as of late.
He is so focused on his computer screen that he jumps at least a few inches when his office doors suddenly swing open rather raucously. After a curse word slips from his lips, Cook glances up at the intruder, and rolls his eyes at the mischievous and familiar face grinning back at him.
“Johns, what are you doing here at ass o’clock in the morning?”
“Well, apparently all the caffeine has blinded you too because, obviously” - Michael Johns pauses and motions at his athletic attire - “I am heading to the gym. Thought I’d swing by to make sure you hadn’t died yet.”
“Right. Now go away,” Cook mutters while rubbing his eyes wearily.
“Oh, come on,” Johns urges chirpily in his Australian drawl as he drags a chair up to the front of Cook's desk. “How long have you been holed up in here, honestly? Have you at least spun around in your swivel chair to look at the view from your office?” He plops down and peers at Cook but chuckles exasperatedly when the returning stern expression gives him the answer he needs.
“I will enjoy the skyline in all its glory when I’m done fixing what the editors screwed up. It amazes me how much can go wrong even when everyone is experienced with the work.”
Johns knows that Cook is usually a fairly easygoing guy, so he raises an eyebrow when he gets an inkling that this morning’s grumpiness is not going to be cured with the usual jokes and double shot of espresso. He is also surprised that Cook is complaining about his editors, which he rarely does. Sure, Cook is a big shot at a major publishing company and a bit of a workaholic, but he is also a free spirit at heart who should not be held in a room forever - even if it is an enormous office with a breathtaking view of New York City - and Johns wonders if stress is taking a toll on his best friend and turning him into a mechanic corporate grouch.
“Mate, maybe you need a few days off,” he suggests casually.
“That’s funny,” comes the sarcastic reply. Johns shrugs and runs the tip of his index finger along the handle of his tennis racket.
“How ‘bout for just one night then?” he tries again, studying his friend’s face. “I have an idea.”
“If you can make all these problems go away then, by all means, pry me away from this leather seat.”
A corner of Johns’ mouth curls upwards as he leans in closer, his nose wrinkling in distaste at the strong scent of coffee. “When was the last time you went out?”
Cook frowns back quizzically. “What do you mean?”
“You know, to let loose?”
Something clicks in Cook’s mind as to what Johns is beating around the bush about, and he groans out “just cut to the chase” while attempting to massage the cramped muscles in the back of his neck. “God, how do you even know about these things?”
“I’m well connected,” Johns replies nonchalantly. He reaches inside his gym bag for his wallet, from which he starts to pull out business cards that have accumulated. Cook is always ordering him to clean out his damn wallet, but Johns prefers the packrat way of life. A few more seconds later, he smiles triumphantly when he finds whatever he had been searching for. “You are going to thank me for this.”
Johns drops a glossy business card in front of Cook, one that is all black with ten digits embossed in silver in the bottom right hand corner. Cook gazes up curiously at Johns.
“I got it from a friend. She told me to give it to whoever I thought would need it.”
“… An escort. Typical of you, Johns. Always showing me the ropes of the riskiest ways to party.”
“It’s just for one night,” Johns says before getting up from his seat. He slings his gym bag over his shoulder and gives Cook a wave with his racket. “Look, just go and forget about work for a bit. Hopefully after getting laid you won’t be such a petulant arse.”
“Shut up.” Cook glares at Johns as he heads toward the door. “On your way out, please tell my assistant that I would appreciate it if she didn’t let you in next time without letting me know first.”
“Hmm, sorry,” Johns apologizes, his tone teasing. “I don’t think she’s too keen on talking to me, especially after I took her out on a date which, unfortunately, tanked.”
Cook just shakes his head when the door closes, and takes a swig of cold coffee before diving back into his interrupted work. The black card remains on his desk, peeking out amid the meeting notes and folders.
Pairing(s): David Cook/David Archuleta
Rating: PG-13 to NC-17
Genre: AU
Warning(s): David's occupation in the story will, I believe, catch most of you off guard. Although the reason behind it is explained after this chapter, I will not be offended if you decide not to read this fic. Note that you have been warned.
Disclaimer: The real-life characters do not belong to me, and the story is fictional.
Summary: David Archuleta is desperate, but when he meets and gets to know David Cook, he must decide if their unconventional relationship is merely a web of lies or his only hope to untangle a complicated knot in his life.
1
David claws desperately at the white sheets underneath his fingers, the once meticulously ironed fabric now crumpled into disarray. He uses his own palm to muffle his gasps because the other man cannot know that David’s nerves are yielding to his touch, but there is a voice inside his head laughing dryly at his pathetic attempt to protect the ounce of pride he has left.
David's eyes clamp shut automatically when the slick fingers leave his body.
He knows what is next.
All he can see is the devastating darkness behind his closed lids and all he can feel is the sharp pain when the man starts to move frantically inside of him in an almost animalistic fashion, with bruising force.
David cannot care less about the incoherent phrases the man is muttering; they are not directed at him anyway. For the man, tonight is just an outlet for a secret desire that he normally keeps hidden away from the world, confined within the walls of this lavish hotel suite. Once he leaves, he will jump right back into to his daily life, back to his high-profile job, back to kissing his wife good night with the same lips that grazed across David's neck moments before.
But how long has it been since David has cared?
David bites down on his lower lip as the climax washes over him. He does not open his eyes but he can feel the man shudder against him shortly after, and there is a sickening relief that it is over. Once he catches his breath, the man moves off of David and wordlessly heads to the bathroom, the soles of his slippers shuffling against the marble floor. The door closes and the shower turns on, and it is only then that David opens his eyes again. The soreness seems to have spread from his abdomen to his limbs because he cannot even bear to lift an arm to shield the light directly above him. There is not much David can do but lie there helplessly, listening to the ticking of the clock on the wall across the room.
Minutes fly by, and the man is walking toward the bed again, now dressed in his tailored designer suit with the scent of cologne hanging around him. He smirks as he reaches out to run his fingers through David's dark hair. David hates the condescending gesture but, of course, he does not say anything. The man leans down for a kiss but David quickly turns away so the lips end up barely touching his cheek, and the man chuckles because it is what he has expected. This is not the first night he has spent with David, and he knows that it is David's one rule.
Standing back up, he murmurs "good night" before turning to leave. The paneled French doors click shut, and that is when the tears begin to fall from David's eyes.
He never meant to let himself have this sort of life, a kind of rut that trapped him wholly and ate away at every bit of his decency and innocence. He suddenly remembers that he is only nineteen, but it feels like he has lived for an eternity. He extends his arm to grab the small, rectangular piece of paper the client has left on the mahogany side table. It wrinkles under his angry clutch, but no matter how hard he tries to crush it with his fingers, it fails to erase what is real.
It is a hopeless feeling - the idea that nothing will change the fact that it is a check sitting in his hand, that a stranger can pay the price to possess him for part of a night. What is most frightening is that he does not have the option to back out, and David Archuleta shudders at the thought as the salty drops begin to pool between his pale skin and the feather soft fabric of the pillow.
+
You feel so small and lost
Like you're the only one
You wanna scream 'cause you're desperate
You want somebody, just anybody
To lay their hands on your soul tonight
+
The first rays of sunlight begin to emerge and glisten upon their contact with the peaks of the skyscrapers, but this image is lost on David Cook, who is looking bleary-eyed. From the loosened tie to the multiple ceramic coffee-filled mugs, all of which are on his desk but within reach, the scene seems to hint at the fact that a normal sleeping schedule has not held much significance for Cook as of late.
He is so focused on his computer screen that he jumps at least a few inches when his office doors suddenly swing open rather raucously. After a curse word slips from his lips, Cook glances up at the intruder, and rolls his eyes at the mischievous and familiar face grinning back at him.
“Johns, what are you doing here at ass o’clock in the morning?”
“Well, apparently all the caffeine has blinded you too because, obviously” - Michael Johns pauses and motions at his athletic attire - “I am heading to the gym. Thought I’d swing by to make sure you hadn’t died yet.”
“Right. Now go away,” Cook mutters while rubbing his eyes wearily.
“Oh, come on,” Johns urges chirpily in his Australian drawl as he drags a chair up to the front of Cook's desk. “How long have you been holed up in here, honestly? Have you at least spun around in your swivel chair to look at the view from your office?” He plops down and peers at Cook but chuckles exasperatedly when the returning stern expression gives him the answer he needs.
“I will enjoy the skyline in all its glory when I’m done fixing what the editors screwed up. It amazes me how much can go wrong even when everyone is experienced with the work.”
Johns knows that Cook is usually a fairly easygoing guy, so he raises an eyebrow when he gets an inkling that this morning’s grumpiness is not going to be cured with the usual jokes and double shot of espresso. He is also surprised that Cook is complaining about his editors, which he rarely does. Sure, Cook is a big shot at a major publishing company and a bit of a workaholic, but he is also a free spirit at heart who should not be held in a room forever - even if it is an enormous office with a breathtaking view of New York City - and Johns wonders if stress is taking a toll on his best friend and turning him into a mechanic corporate grouch.
“Mate, maybe you need a few days off,” he suggests casually.
“That’s funny,” comes the sarcastic reply. Johns shrugs and runs the tip of his index finger along the handle of his tennis racket.
“How ‘bout for just one night then?” he tries again, studying his friend’s face. “I have an idea.”
“If you can make all these problems go away then, by all means, pry me away from this leather seat.”
A corner of Johns’ mouth curls upwards as he leans in closer, his nose wrinkling in distaste at the strong scent of coffee. “When was the last time you went out?”
Cook frowns back quizzically. “What do you mean?”
“You know, to let loose?”
Something clicks in Cook’s mind as to what Johns is beating around the bush about, and he groans out “just cut to the chase” while attempting to massage the cramped muscles in the back of his neck. “God, how do you even know about these things?”
“I’m well connected,” Johns replies nonchalantly. He reaches inside his gym bag for his wallet, from which he starts to pull out business cards that have accumulated. Cook is always ordering him to clean out his damn wallet, but Johns prefers the packrat way of life. A few more seconds later, he smiles triumphantly when he finds whatever he had been searching for. “You are going to thank me for this.”
Johns drops a glossy business card in front of Cook, one that is all black with ten digits embossed in silver in the bottom right hand corner. Cook gazes up curiously at Johns.
“I got it from a friend. She told me to give it to whoever I thought would need it.”
“… An escort. Typical of you, Johns. Always showing me the ropes of the riskiest ways to party.”
“It’s just for one night,” Johns says before getting up from his seat. He slings his gym bag over his shoulder and gives Cook a wave with his racket. “Look, just go and forget about work for a bit. Hopefully after getting laid you won’t be such a petulant arse.”
“Shut up.” Cook glares at Johns as he heads toward the door. “On your way out, please tell my assistant that I would appreciate it if she didn’t let you in next time without letting me know first.”
“Hmm, sorry,” Johns apologizes, his tone teasing. “I don’t think she’s too keen on talking to me, especially after I took her out on a date which, unfortunately, tanked.”
Cook just shakes his head when the door closes, and takes a swig of cold coffee before diving back into his interrupted work. The black card remains on his desk, peeking out amid the meeting notes and folders.