A/N: This is…well, I don't know what this is, exactly. For the anon prompt 'Sebastian wanting something he can't have'. I don't know. Bear with me…it might be the start of something, it might not. But give it a read.
"Crap!" Sebastian yells, tossing the glossy 8x10 over his shoulder and onto the floor, much to the despair of his assistant, Chandler, whose high-pitched whimper resonates in the office as the fidgety man races to collect the ruined photograph. "Crap, crap, crap, crap…oh wait…"
Chandler perks up. His eyes peek out from where he kneels beside Sebastian's desk trying to pry the almost magnetic photo paper off the hardwood floor.
"I think this…this…is crap!"
Sebastian growls and another picture takes flight. After the seventh photo hits the ground, Chandler has started to hope that Sebastian will forget he is still there waiting while he tries to pick a photo for this month's spread. Then maybe Chandler can crawl away unseen.
"Ergh! Who the fuck approved these proofs?" Sebastian roars, slamming his fist on his desk and collapsing dramatically into his leather ergonomic chair.
"Uh…I'm not sure, I…"
Sebastian throws his head back and closes his eyes.
"That means Hunter, right?"
Chandler squeaks out something that sounds like a yes.
Sebastian turns to his laptop, shoving a flash drive into the USB port and pulling up the rest of the shots from the shoot.
"You know, Chandler," Sebastian starts as his eyes scan shot after shot of the exact same model in front of the exact same fountain with the exact same bored expression on his face, "when I became editor of this magazine a year ago, it wasn't so I could have my meek-ass assistant sit on his heels while my asshole vice editor calls all the shots, forcing me to swoop in at the last minute and save everyone's ass. I…hello…"
Sebastian pulls the laptop closer and enlarges the photo on the screen.
"Now that's what I'm talking about," Sebastian says with a satisfied albeit hungry grin. "Now that man has a fine body, Jesus Holy Christ." Sebastian squints at the picture. "Huh. I didn't realize we were showcasing Vivienne Westwood in this issue."
"Wh-what?" Chandler stutters. "We're not…"
Sebastian spins the laptop around so Chandler can see the image on the screen of a man in a grey Vivienne Westwood suit, carrying the jacket in the crook of his arm set against a plum Burberry dress shirt and boots that looked like they could be Echo's line of hand-painted crocodile skin.
Chandler swallows. He doesn't want to break the news, not when his boss finally cheered up.
"He's…he's not one of our models."
"What?" Sebastian flips the laptop back to take another look at the man in the photograph, perfectly posed mid-hop in almost just the position Sebastian had envisioned their center shot to be. He leans into the picture more closely, peering at the man's posture, the haughty way he holds his head, his profile as he half-runs/half-walks in the direction of the subway, the way his pants hug his ass.
That ass.
Sebastian has a feeling he's seen that ass before.
His mouth drops open, and then twists into a grin so devious it actually sends a shiver down Chandler's spine.
"No…fucking…way," Sebastian says, enlarging the image again to be sure. "Kurt Hummel."
Chandler's brow knits for a second, and then his whole face lights up.
"Oh my God!" Chandler chirps, bouncing up and down and clapping his hands in that annoying way that makes Sebastian want to throw a stapler at his head. "Kurt Hummel! I haven't seen him since…"
"High school," Sebastian fills in as if Chandler stole the thought straight out of his head. Sebastian looks up at his doe-eyed assistant staring off into space, no doubt dreaming of some romantic reunion. "Don't get any ideas, Chandler," Sebastian says, snapping his fingers to get his attention. Chandler startles, shaking from his stupor and glaring at his boss. Sebastian glares back, dark green eyes steeped in venom, and Chandler recoils.
"What ideas?" Chandler sulks.
"Oh, don't give me that, Chandle-berry. I know what ideas," Sebastian teases. "I can see the little fireworks going off over your head. Well, hands off, nitwit."
"Well…maybe…hands off to you, Sebastian," Chandler sputters defensively, sticking his nose in the air. "Kurt isn't like one of your slutty models that you can sweet talk into blowing you under your desk. He's special."
"I know," Sebastian says. He saves the image to his iPhone, and then pushes up off the desk, blowing past Chandler. Suddenly he stops, turns back to the pouting man, and takes his sharp chin between his thumb and forefinger. He stares menacingly into Chandler's sky blue eyes. "That's why he's all mine."