for poisontaster who asked for something based on this icon and Cock rings and orgasm denial.
Shoulda been a drabble. Turned into something more.
First time~Second person. Way too easy. I prolly shouldn't have, but I did.
You’ve been watching the photographer shoot all morning. Standing off to the side, staying out of everyone’s way and trying to look inconspicuous. Trying to blend in with the background of the studio and the photographer’s few assistants and apprentices.
It would actually work if he didn’t keep smiling that smile at you, if he would stop flirting with you.
After all the outside shots are finished and Jason is covered in some sweet-smelling, herbal oil that they have even worked through his hair so that it seems darker, stuck to his skull and neck – the photographer puts him face-down on a bed. He straps Jason with belts over his shoulders, the nape of his neck. And Jason is grinning right at you, pulling those tight, black pants down over the perfect, rising curve of his ass with the tips of his fingers and spreading his legs.
And this is why you’re never seen in public together. This is why you can’t go out to a game or a bar or even be around him with your friends, your family. This man has been fucking with you since the first time you met, ages ago on the Buffy set.
You still think that you’re lucky you didn’t have a face to face scene with him over those three days because it was enough to be introduced to him between takes and watch those brown eyes darken. See his tongue slip between his teeth and lick over his lips as if he was looking at a particularly rare, exceptional well seasoned cut of steak and he followed you to your trailer.
He came in without asking and ten minutes later, your cell phone ringing steadily – could be Joss, was probably Sarah, might have been your agent or your manager or your estranged wife wondering when and if you were ever coming home - you were both on the couch, clothes on the floor and you’d never felt anything before this like his mouth on your cock. And when he slid up, looking all of maybe sixteen but for his smooth, muscular chest and wicked smile … when he wrapped his long legs around your hips and fucking pulled your cock into him and kept saying your name over and over and over, you knew it. Your hands on his biceps, slipping up to his neck so that you could feel each breath he took, feel his heart beat fast under the calluses of your thumbs and he arched his back, twisted his hips and dared you with the tilt of his head.
And when you finally got up from the couch, when you accidentally brushed his pulled inside-out jeans on the floor of your trailer and you saw his cell, when you wondered why it hadn’t been ringing with the same insistent, annoying tone as your own - you picked it up. And you saw that he had turned it off.
For you. For this …
The photographer finishes, he’s all smiles and business. Thanking Jason for his time, for his willingness to go beyond the pale and you laugh softly behind a fist, the keys to your car jingling in your other hand. What might be considered too much for others was so very tame for your boy.
You follow his Ducati through the streets of LA, knowing that he’s taking you the long way just to drag the minutes out until you’re finally in the dark, air-conditioned cool of the anonymous motel room and Jason is swaggering in front of you. Still charged from the photo shoot, from the attention. And from the feel of the straps that pretended to hold him down.
You sit in a chair, long legs sprawled out toward the double bed with the hideous spread and you watch him pace. Watch him pull off his clothes and drop them to the floor as if he’s still a teenager. Sweat dances in tiny, gleaming drops to the surface of the oils that shine on his skin and when he’s finally, completely naked, he walks over to you. His pupils blown wide, his lips swollen and red, his teeth so white they seem to glow in the false dim created by the thick curtains covering the only window.
His cock juts from his waxed clean, just-for-you groin. Hard, almost angry redpurple.
“Please, David … please …”
He whispers with a whine that sounds like he’s suffering, but you both know better. You both know that he wants it, that he loves this, that he asks for this and more, oh fuck yes … more. He feeds your darkest desires with his insane passions and you only give in to him when you know that you’ll have the time to spare, the hours to enjoy.
And even that slow torture is a turn on for both of you.
You reach out, slick your fingers on the oils and sweat that coat his hip and twist the cock ring he’s worn on his dick since early this morning. You always buy one that is too small for him. One that takes lube to put on him, even when he’s soft. One that you have to work down the length of his cock and by the time you seat it against his groin, he’s bucking under your hands. Fingers digging into your arm. Tears in his eyes and a smile on his lips and you both know why those pictures will turn out so goddamn pretty.
His cock tastes like sweat and precome. His hands feel like vises in your hair, on your skull. His hips thrust forward and your chin rubs against his balls as you cup his ass, bruising his skin with your grip, scraping his dick with the edge of your teeth. There are no welts under your touch and that just isn’t right, so you shove him away. Push him down on the bed and slowly take the belt from your jeans. The heavy gold buckle clinks as you pull it free of denim loops and Jason writhes with anticipation. Looking back over his shoulder with that wicked smile, fucking the bedspread with his entire body.
“Gonna use that on my ass or my neck?”
“Both, little whore, if you don’t shut up.”
“Take off your clothes, David. I want you to be naked while you beat me.” He’s almost laughing, because he never, ever shuts up.
“What you want really isn’t my concern, Jason.”
But you do it. Pull off your shirt with one hand, let your jeans slide down over your thighs and you step out of them slowly. Let him watch you while you belt lies over his ass, a promise of much needed pain for him, much needed control for you.
You didn’t wear any underwear today and your cock has been hard since this morning, since forever. Rubbing on the inside of Strauss’ worn denim for hours while you shifted restlessly and stood and drank poorly made bitter coffee and smoked too many cigarettes in the shadows of the studio.
When his skin is marked and hot and swollen by your belt, when he is filling his mouth with a cheap, thin pillow to keep from screaming out loud and his fingers are tearing the sheets, you finally stop. You drop your belt to the carpet and move his thighs further apart with your knees and you fuck him for what feels like years, like hours, like seconds that pass in the blink of an eye. Pounding your cock in and out of his ass so hard the condom starts to roll down your dick and you have to stop, take it off. Put on another one while he’s begging you to just do it, do it. Just fucking fuck him, please, please, please.
He’s always this tight. Always this needy. Always this trusting and always so passionate. He scares you with the depth of his desire for you and when you reach around with slippery fingers and work the silver ring off his cock … he’s telling you how much he loves you as he comes.
Not that he needs you, not that he wants you, not that he dreams about the next time you’re gonna fuck him, but that he loves you.
And your teeth bite down on your tongue so hard that blood fills your mouth and you have to swallow the sour, hurting, thick flavor of it to breathe. Choke on it and prefer to drown instead on the taste of him as you kiss his neck, his lips and his face. Feel him turn in your arms as he finally finishes, after he spills hot and wet over your hand, after his ass grips your cock like a clenching fist and fingers and nothing like anyone before or since or ever and he pulls you down with him into Hell, into the stiff mattress, into his warm, welcome, real embrace. His arms wrap around you and his legs and his lips on your jaw, your neck, your mouth.
And still you deny him this one thing. This absolute truth.
You shake your head and smile. You kiss him, pinch the welts on his ass just to hear him moan and tuck the small silver ring in the front pocket of your jeans as you dress without showering because you want to keep the scent of him on you for just a few hours longer.
And still you grin, act past and over your true feelings though you can hardly speak without hearing the voice of a spoiled child fall from your lips. Without begging him to hold you, keep you, without whispering of running away together, without telling him the truth that would kill both of your careers, your fucking life forever and give you all that you wanted for the rest of your time on this earth.
You unlock the door and glance back at him and he is watching you leave.
“See you later, Jason.”