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.
warnings: very very slight D/s elements, rimming, hotdogging
author's notes: i kinda want to turn this into a series, but we'll see where that goes. this is for blainedarling, because she told me i "better fucking write more of that escort one."
When The Lights Are Dim (& Your Hands Are Shaking)
part two
He runs his hands from his thighs to his knees, clammy from anxiety, his heartbeat an imperceptible notch faster than usual, staring at the dials of the clock between every two breaths.
It's two to seven and he's been waiting for half an hour, despite having taken his time to get ready.
He'd left work a little after five and cooked dinner while checking the mail. Around 5:30 his phone buzzed with the text, "Thinking about you, killer. Can't wait to see you." He read the words in Sebastian's voice and they settled below his waist, followed by the sting of shame once reminded of the wad of money still folded in his jacket pocket.
His nerves traveled straight to his stomach, the anticipation turning him electrified. He'd showered longer than was necessary, set the tap to cold as some twisted punishment for succumbing to his needs once more. The apartment was deathly silent, had been for too long now, and he got dressed surrounded by that same oppressive silence, the cotton of his shirt fresh against his clean skin.
He grabbed the money and unfolded every bill separately, pushed the envelope around until it lay linear with the edges of the table, washed his hands.
And then the wait had started.
It's harder than last time because he knows the body that'll walk through that door, the reactions it can coax from him, the beautiful thin lips he'd outlined with his own, the long fingers that dug deep. It's harder because he wants it more, his desire tenfold his shame, even though they battled for dominance in quieter moments.
This is his choice. (What would people think?)
It's his life. (He's not this person.)
He needs this. (He's stronger than this.)
There's a knock at the door at seven sharp and his heart jumps, his skin crawls, his cock jerking in interest. He closes his eyes and attempts to steady his breathing.
"It's open," he calls and stands up, his hands as sweaty as they were a few minutes ago.
The door opens and closes, and it seems an eternity before Sebastian comes into view–the sight of him shouldn't turn him on, despite their arrangement he can't stand to think of Sebastian as some object he's using for his personal satisfaction, but Sebastian looks so effortless in every which way, his smile and posture and how he moves.
(He's not–)
Don't think about him. Not now.
"Hey there, killer," a smile smoothes across the other man's face. "I missed you."
"Please, don't–" He twists a hand inside his pants pocket, digs his nails into his thigh through the thin fabric. "Don't make it sound like a date. And no more texts either."
If Sebastian's insulted he doesn't act it, and soon he's closing the distance between them at a slow and calculated pace. "Any new requests?"
"I'd like you to stay the night again." He casts down his eyes and feels a hand down his chest–he's still all there, broken heart and everything, he hasn't yet caved under the crushing weight of his betrayal. "Money's on the table if you want to check."
"That's okay," Sebastian says, and takes another few steps in his direction, adding, "I trust you," before a finger pries at his chin, forcing his eyes up. But before he can bring much of anything into focus Sebastian's breath ghosts over his mouth and he parts his lips in a gasp, need canceling his shame.
His eyes search Sebastian's, but this seems a language they both speak–Sebastian's tongue traces a wet line over his bottom lip, then meets the tip of his. It's strange and filthy, licking at each other, deeper and deeper, but it unspools the tightness in his chest.
Sebastian's lips close around his tongue and he sucks on it while his hands massage his shoulders–he moans and blood rushes down to his groin, his cock jerks and doesn't stop, his desire so savage that he melts against the taller man's body and pushes his tongue out further.
But that's when Sebastian starts pulling back, easing back little by little, slow, until they're kissing, small short nips at each other's lips.
"That's better," Sebastian whispers, applying one additional kiss to his lips, still so close like he's a moth drawn to flame, a sensual lingering presence, only he's not the prey, not the hunted. He's not sure which one of them is.
He licks his lips, swallows, reality slowly asserting itself like he's waking up from a dream, slightly dazed but invigorated, jolted awake from a restless slumber.
"Thank you," he says, his anxiety a distant memory.
"Can't have you all tense, love."
And like that the dream disappears, slips through the jagged pieces of a heart broken, past fears and insecurities, gone, while the reality where he's alone satisfying himself with a total stranger remains.
He's not Sebastian's love. He's not anybody's love. Not anymore.
Gentle disquietude flits through him again, a whisper in the shadows.
He shakes his head. "I have some wine–" he says, rushes past Sebastian straight into the kitchen, almost too fast to catch Sebastian's surprised, "Okay."
His hands shake, glasses clanging together too loud to bare, but as he sneaks a glance into the living room he catches Sebastian taking off his jacket, one of the sleeves catching at the leather band around his wrist, the curve his back makes reminiscent of an equation waiting to be solved.
Sebastian's glancing around the living room when he comes back with two glasses of white wine, his eyes fallen to a framed picture of the Eiffel tower above a small cabinet where he keeps official documents.
"You ever been?" Sebastian asks, curling a hand around the glass handed to him, the gentle clang of his rings much less intrusive.
"No." His eyes fall to the picture on top of the cabinet–someone, it must've been Quinn, had stood it right side up again, and he still can't look at it. "Not yet."
He should take the picture down, it's too much of a reminder of a future no longer in his cards, but in lieu of tearing it down now he takes a sip from his wine, the bitter taste nothing compared to the pain the mismatched edges inside his chest cause.
Sebastian doesn't touch his wine. "You don't like it?" he asks, self-conscious of the fact that he's the one making this look like a date now. What's he even thinking?
"I try not to drink too much when I'm–" on the job, but by now Sebastian must've realized he doesn't like their arrangement voiced in too specific terms, so he shrugs, "I'm more of a beer guy," Sebastian tries to soothe it over with a smile, but unease grips him with its viselike claws.
"Shit, I'm sorry." He grabs both glasses and puts them down on the table, heart beating shame and indignation.
Sebastian's hands land on his shoulders moments later. "Blaine, relax," he says, voice a low whisper in his ear while his fingers drift down his arms. "You can't chase me away."
"It's not that," he breathes, tempted towards the body behind him. "I'm not–" He sighs. "I'm not this guy."
Hands slide around his waist, Sebastian's groin pushes up against his ass, fingertips teasing past the waistband of his trousers, where they stay, caressing small circles.
"But you need this," Sebastian says, presses a kiss behind his ear his skin buzzes with, tracing more kisses down his neck.
His head tilts back, eyes closing. "I do," he whispers, and Sebastian's fingers chance lower.
"Then let me be who you need me to be." Sebastian cups his crotch, palming slow circles over his cock to get him hard.
"Take control for a while," he rushes out in a single breath, falling forward onto his hands, which leave sweaty prints on the table's surface–his breathing deepens thinking about the permission he gives Sebastian, but his skin flushes hot, unease suppressed by a corporal desire, heated skin against his own, ass fucked raw. He wants to feel Sebastian for days. "You decide."
And Sebastian doesn't say another word, he rips the back of his shirt from his pants and his breath catches in his throat. He's not this guy either, to go for blind passion over love, but that got ripped away and the only thing that shuts out the pain is this, Sebastian's fingers leaving marks down his back, his other hand getting him rock hard.
Sebastian grabs a handful of his hair and yanks hard, forcing him upright again, his body undecided between the pleasure and the pain–the button on his pants pops, his zipper undone, and soon Sebastian has one hand fisting his cock, the other cupping his ass, teasing between his cheeks.
"Yes," he breathes, works his ass back to feel Sebastian deeper but he pulls back every time he comes close. "Sebastian, please."
"I decide?" Sebastian inquires, the lilting tease forgiven in lieu of his immediate pleasure, his pants inching down his legs every time Sebastian's hand makes him shiver, a tight fist stroking down his cock and squeezing, idle around the tip, faster, slower, no rhythm to it whatsoever.
"Y-Yes," he stutters as he reaches back, but Sebastian's still fully clothed, an odd turn-on, because the flawless body underneath all the layers has become equally enticing.
Sebastian pushes him down and bends him over the table, deeper than before, the wood cold through his shirt–he feels Sebastian's jeans against his bare ass and he circles his hips backwards, the moan he coaxes from Sebastian a welcome reward.
But then he's gone–his hands are gone and with them his body heat, Sebastian leaves him wanting, craving, dying for more and he should know better by now. His skin exposed to the air with little promise of anything more drives him out of his mind within seconds, but just as his anxiety tries to jolt him into a frenzy a hand wires through his hair, long fingers tighten in his curls and he's pinned down, trapped like a caged animal.
And he hears the very distinct clang of a belt undone, a button pop, a zipper eased open.
His nails scratch at the table.
"I decide," Sebastian says, though he's none too sure who it's for–he's accepted this desire, to lose control under deft fingers that have memorized where to push, where to pull, where to linger.
A filthy wet pop sounds behind him, explained only when Sebastian caresses two fingers between his cheeks, warmed up by his mouth. "You like that, killer?" Sebastian circles his hole, never quite the way he needs, but they have all night, they both know it.
Then, without warning, before he gets the chance to answer or brace himself, Sebastian's tongue replaces his fingers–he cries out, a fist hits the table he scarcely registers as his own and his back arches deep, his body spools with the heady desire. Sebastian licks lines from his balls to his hole, long, short, the same lack of rhythm his hand demonstrated and soon his ass is wet and slick with Sebastian's spit.
Sebastian bites at his ass, hard enough to leave a mark, but his pleasure reigns louder, open-mouthed kisses trailed up his back while Sebastian hikes his shirt up. It isn't long before Sebastian's crotch crowds against his ass again.
"Please," he pants, breaths short and stunted once Sebastian's entire body curls around his, his necklaces a cold line up his back–a muscle pulls in his neck as he tries to turn his head, treated to the sight of Sebastian spitting in his hand, reaching down for his own cock, and slicking it up with his spit.
His mind goes blank.
No one's ever fucked him without the proper prep before, and he can't tell if this excites or scares him. He never paid Sebastian for anything more specific than pleasure, he made things up as they went along, but maybe he should set some more ground rules.
"Don't worry, killer," Sebastian hushes, the most delicious break in his voice as he strokes himself. "I don't plan on hurting you."
He releases a shaky breath and soon Sebastian spreads his cheeks, settles his cock in the cleft of his ass and strokes a first tentative thrust–he shudders at the contact of Sebastian's cock against his hole. Sebastian thrusts again, shallow as if still gauging his reaction, but quickly picks up his pace when all he manages are croaky moans from deep within his throat.
His breath condenses on the table, lungs unable to fill with Sebastian heavy on top of him, the tight space between them rampant with heat that threatens to sear right through him.
Sebastian stands up, the new angle conducive to longer thrusts and his breath hitches every time Sebastian's tip brushes against his hole. A hand between his shoulder blades keeps him pinned to the table and the longer they go, the more of Sebastian's pleasure becomes audible–he breathes a moan every few seconds, shudders a throaty gasp or two and he heard those sounds often enough on their first night together to know Sebastian's close.
A hand pulls at his hair again, while the other digs hard into his hip and he wants it, the guttural cry of Sebastian's orgasm, come streaking his back, but as his lips part and a fist wraps around his cock he cries his own release, screams it, semen spilling all over the table beneath him, and he fucks forward in Sebastian's hand to prolong the pleasure.
Sebastian fucks himself between his cheeks, every part of him oversensitive but he grabs back for Sebastian's ass, forces himself into a rhythm pleasurable for them both, until Sebastian's body goes taut against him, the first drops of come trickling down on him, beading at the small of his back followed by a deep stuttered moan as Sebastian rides through his orgasm.
Lips push a kiss between his shoulder blades and his skin crawls, but he can't help a smile, his body sated, any fear or anxiety long gone, his shame hiding somewhere deep until he wakes up tomorrow morning.
"Thank you," he breathes as Sebastian covers his body with his own once more.
"Don't thank me yet, killer," Sebastian whispers. "We've got all night."
#
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