Pairing: TJ/Jefferson
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I own neither Once Upon a Time nor Political Animals. If I did, well, I'd probably still be writing fanfiction, but that's besides the point. This is merely for entertainment and no profit is being made. It centers around TJ.
Smooth, nimble fingers run down the oh-so-familiar, oh-so-different chest almost reverently. The touch is feather light, near impossible to tell but even harder to ignore. A pianist's hands. The explorative touches were fleeting and not nearly as demanding as the other had expected—had wanted—given his reputation, but he isn't about to waste such a prime opportunity as this. If this is going to be the only night he has with the man—and he knows it will be. No one ever stays after they get what they want from the former First Kid, not even him—then he will make good of all the time he has.
Soft lips work at the sensitive skin of the other man's throat, earning him a barely restrained, almost broken moan as the man tosses his head back, baring more of his throat, more of his scar to him. It's hard not to allow his lips to curl into a smug grin at the accomplishment, but manages it, leaving behind a few war prizes for the other.
His mouth angles over the other man's almost perfectly, slanting just so so that he could coax a heady whine from those lush lips. Oh, that is near intoxicating enough, and he can feel himself slowly drowning in the sound.
He is practically buzzing, his body vibrating with excitement—with the thrill of finally being able to touch the one person who's ever felt real. It will hurt once this was over—he knows it will. He finally feels alive without the help of any substance for the first time in a long, long time. Not even Sean felt as real as the man currently pinned beneath him does. But the pain he is bound to feel will not tarnish these stolen moments.
Lacing their fingers together, he lifts their hands to rest above the other's head. Teeth and tongue grazes the smooth, strong jaw, and he can tell by the way the other strains beneath him that it isn't going to be much longer until he is taken.
He lets him take control from then on out, lets him press his chest against the silk covers as the man slowly coaxes his fingers inside of him.
One—
A soft moan spills from his lips as he presses back against the digit. More. He needs more, but he knows it's not up to him.
Two—
A hitch in his breathing. His eyes snap shut in response to the extra stimulus, and he has to consciously keep his breathing even.
Three—
The sharp cry that issues forth from him is not one he is used to giving. It is one not often achieved by the whirlwind of lovers he has taken to bed, and yet the other man seemed to know every little thing to do in order to make him spiral out of control.
Everything becomes a blur for him as he feels himself being stretched and opened up, and he waits in anticipation for the time he finally gets what he's been desiring since that first meeting all those weeks ago. A broken whimper slips out without his knowledge when he feels the man removing his fingers, but it's soon followed by a satisfied sigh as he's finally filled.
It's during the actual act of being taken in such a way that he realizes he's finally caught his break. This is it, his saving grace. It's just too bad that he can't keep it. Having it within reach and knowing that it will just slip between the cracks of his fingers like everything else—it hurts more than he expects it to, but that is shoved aside for the much more pleasant, much more wanted feel of the other burying himself inside of him, his palm pressing against his hardened cock before wrapping his fingers around his length and slowly stroking in time with the thrusts.
As alike as they are, there's something thrilling in knowing that not everything was the same. The hand that's encasing him, bringing him ever close to the brink of oblivion, isn't quite like his own. No, this hand was rougher, more calloused. Years and years of pulling a needle through thread has left it tarnished, irrevocably altered, and yet still there was a gentleness to the touch.
The man's hot breath brushes against his ear before he feels lips against his pulse point, suckling firmly, marking him—claiming him. It's the culmination of that, the feel of being full, the hand stroking him—coaxing him—ever closer, and the moaned murmurs and whispered words that finally succeed in sending him over that edge, and his body shakes almost violently as a keening cry tears through him and he spills all over the covers, feeling the other follow right behind him—only he does so while still inside of him.
With a whine of protest, he feels the other withdraw, and he finally turns to look up at the face he's so used to seeing in his reflection. There's a hungry look still in those grey eyes, and for a moment he finds himself wondering if they might go another round or two, only pushing the thought aside for something much more favorable.
He hums in satisfaction as the Hatter hovers above him—panting and trying to get catch his breath—and his hands go for his lover's hair, his fingers curling and uncurling in the strands of as he slowly ebbs from the exhilarating high. It will be a long while before he has completely come down from it, and he isn't looking forward to it, knowing that he will just have to find another high to replace it, but for now he relishes in the rush of endorphins and the languid feel of his limbs.
"Better than any drug," he murmurs, bringing him down for another kiss.
His only response to that is a twitching of Jefferson's lips against his own, and that is enough for TJ.
Better than any drug, indeed.