disclaimer: without prejudice. the names of all characters contained here-in are the property of FOX and Ryan Murphy. no infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.
author's notes: based on art made by firsova. title taken from Lying Is The Most Fun by Panic! at the Disco.
When The Lights Are Dim (& Your Hands Are Shaking)
part one
"Morning, killer," the confident cadence of the voice runs alongside the shiver up his spine, shattering the composure he'd been able to recapture when he woke this morning. He hadn't dared to glance to his right, afraid the bed might be empty, afraid it wouldn't be at all–instead he'd returned to his everyday routine, grabbed an outfit, showered, dragged a comb through his curls (unlike fingers the night before, which dug and clasped and pulled, guided him around the cock in his mouth).
Now there's that body occupying the same space as him again, a stunning half-naked reflection in the mirror, and it's harder to breathe (like his breath caught the moment he laid eyes on the man at his doorstep, more handsome than his pictures had suggested).
He swallows hard, tries his best not to conjure the sensation of smooth skin and tight muscles underneath his fingertips, the limbs stretched long on the bed, the butterfly tattoo where a hipbone strained against skin.
"You're still here," he says, his hands shaking too much for him to button his sleeve. He gives up and curls his fingers around the edges of the sink, trying so hard not to see, not to feel all over again (loss of control when lips wrapped around his cock, all sense of self nothing but a shattered illusion in the wake of a tongue and fingers and heated skin against his own).
"You asked me to stay," the voice–he–says, his name ("Sebastian," he whimpered.) imprinted on his lips over and over again. He closes his eyes and grabs on tighter, skin turning white from the strain ("Please," he groaned while fingers curled inside his ass and his cock lay leaking against his abdomen, fingernails scratching at the sheets).
Heat coils inside his stomach at the mere thought of what spurned the words last night (early this morning), the other man's pupils blown, the almost imperceptible sliver of green impenetrable, but the connection between them, even if paid for, was too tempting to release.
The body pushes in tighter behind him, groin to his ass, and lust blinks through him in tight pulses, hot and heavy, over and over again. His cock twitches and a breath shudders out of him, but he refuses to give in–it's back to the familiar pattern of real life, where guys like Sebastian exist only in fantasy and he's the guy who believes in love.
"You do remember, don't you?" –a tongue teases at his ear– "After I came in that mouth of yours," –hands at his waist and a body he pushes back into (semen down his throat and the man he'd unraveled making the most delicious sounds)– "All over your chest." –(hips bucking hard as release rolled through them both, come beading on his chest)– "Inside your ass."
"I–" he chokes out, Sebastian's words shamefully filthy like he'd instructed yesterday (jaw clenched tight against things now verbalized to a complete stranger), "I'd like you to leave."
"Sure." Sebastian pushes a kiss to his hair but backs off, his touch lingering only in memory now. "Your call."
The weight on his chest abates and he opens his eyes again, releasing his viselike grip on the sink, his knuckles sore. "The rest of your money's on the table," he calls, allows himself one glance into the bedroom, where Sebastian pulls his shirt over his head again, the curve his spine makes a dance in slow motion.
Sebastian might be one of the most stunning men he's ever seen, his beauty as effortless as his charm, even though he can't decide how much of that's an act; his necklaces clink metallic as he pulls them from his shirt ("Leave them on," he whispered, and Sebastian did, along with the leather wrist back that left red marks across his thighs).
He follows Sebastian out into the living room, the extra night's fee waiting for Sebastian in a small envelope.
"Very generous, killer," Sebastian says, leafing through the notes with his long fingers before he glances up from under his brow, a glint in his eyes that had disappeared upon his asking last night. "Does that mean I'll see you again?"
"I–" he hesitates, reluctant to sound too eager, shame forcing his hands in his pockets and his head down. "Yes," he says, because it's the best solution to his more immediate needs, no strings, no questions.
"Well then." Sebastian closes the distance between them and curls his index finger under his chin, forcing him to look up again. He doesn't get a kiss, as he expected, but the promise of more afternoons spent in each other's company.
"Until next time," Sebastian says.
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