tensions | Prompt - Crane Wife (alternative sidestory)

Monty reaches a hand up tentatively, touches the side of Dr. Baruch's face, cupping the curve of it with his palm. They look at each other like a pair of parentheses, silently asking the same question: just who are you?

His heart clenches. The truth is, he doesn't know and mostly likely never will. He doesn't know what Dr. Baruch really wants or why he's really here (or if this is the last time they'll see each other). He doesn't know if he was married, or heartbroken, or in love with someone outside of these walls. And Monty isn't paid to know. He isn't paid to care. He's paid to help the man in front of him savor a moment, craft an illusion. He's paid to do his best to make Dr. Baruch feel good, whatever that might mean.

Maybe they're both substitutes here. Maybe that was the point.

"I don't want you to stop," he murmurs, and now he's being bold, feeling the way Dr. Baruch strokes his thigh, his hand so big and steady. "I want you to kiss me."

He laughs a little, indulges for a moment (wasn't this whole errand, this whole interaction, an indulgence?) in the soft touch of Monty's hand against his face, in the intimacy that it implied, even if those words didn't necessarily apply to whatever it was that was actually between them, the exchange of custom and money for a warm body and the semblance of willingness.

He rests his entire hand over Monty's thigh, reveling in the contrast, before digging in hard with his thumb against that bruise left by another, then leans forward to offer up a kiss, deeply intent, demanding Monty's full attention and focus in the present moment, for the space of a few breaths, whatever else might be hiding behind those bright blue eyes.

He gasps, tinged with the kind of pain that thrills him, that anchors him to the moment, to his body, to every tiny nerve ending igniting as he's touched, kissed and slowly overwhelmed.

Monty's hands fly up into the other man's hair, ruining the work that must have gone into shaping and taming it. He leans back a little, pleased when he feels Dr. Baruch fill the empty space almost automatically, pushing forward against him.

"Harder," he whispers against the damp lips on his own and it's unclear if he means the way Dr. Baruch is gripping and pressing onto his bruised thighs or the way that they're kissing. Maybe (possibly) it's both.

"Please."

He shifts his body to encompass Monty, framing him so he's within Justin's orbit, pressing him down onto his back on the tatami, controlling the movement so he doesn't hit his head against the table as Justin leans closer, deeper into the kiss, his hand sliding under the already mussed layers of cotton and silk, gliding against smooth skin stretched over lithe muscle, his fingertips putting delicious pressure on the fading marks spread across Monty's thighs.

"Control, hm?" He murmurs against Monty's lips, apparently heedless of the way Monty's hands are gripping his hair in a proprietary gesture. "When you think you have me right where you want me?"

His legs spread slowly, welcoming, his hips rising up off the floor in a beautiful arch. When he feels Dr. Baruch's hand rub a path up his thighs to his hips, then his waist, a thumb pressing down against a hickey beneath his ribs, Monty moans louder than he means to.

"I only want what you want," he murmurs, the line familiar and overused on his tongue but somehow, tonight, he thinks he means it. Though he chuckles, immediately after, saying, "Which is funny, isn't it? Because, come to think of it, I don't even know your name."

He laughs again, shaking his head. His fingers shift, picking apart the ties that hold his disheveled clothing together one-handed, letting them part around Monty in a soft cloud, as if unwrapping a gift. "I seem to remember making rather a mess last time," he says, with a tilt of his head, eyes drinking in the sight of Monty on his back, absolutely bared for Justin to take in, all pale skin and long limbs, already marked by hands and mouths and teeth.

"Justin," he responds, almost with a start, as he rests one hand against Monty's trim waist. "Though I can't see I'm opposed to hearing you call me 'sir,' Montgomery Quill."

“Maybe we can make a bigger mess tonight,” he says, smiling warm and tempting.

Layer by layer he’s revealed, and he stretches out, soft and willing, bathing in the attention of Dr. Baruch’s - no, Justin’s - avid gaze. He lets the name, so kindly gifted to him at his request, roll on his tongue in silence. He savors the sharp jut of the syllables behind his teeth like granules of sugar, hard around the edges at first but melting into something sweet the longer he holds it in his mouth.

He likes the way Justin is touching him right now. He likes the way he doesn’t mind the marks left by other men - all those desperate, fleeting attempts to own him in some way, even if it’s temporary - and how he talks, how he takes charge with a gentle kind of calculated force.

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” he emphasizes, continuing to show his body off with a happy little sound, running his own hands back down his chest, thumbing at his nipples, hooded eyes watching Justin’s every reaction.

Edited 2022-05-20 04:06 (UTC)

He's far from immune to a pretty face, a (truly) willing body, and the way Monty seems to blossom under his interest is very gratifying. His own eyes and gaze follow Monty's touches, a mostly incorporeal exchange between them that is nonetheless tangible, in heat and anticipation and the flush of imagined pleasure, their minds meeting even where there is no direct contact. He is aware of the mat laid out for them in the room for just this purpose, even though Monty seems entirely willing to be taken as he is at the moment. His own thoughts swirl and coalesce around a plan for the evening, his fingers tracing a particularly dark bruise against Monty's side with a serene composure.

"Have some mercy on my wallet, Monty," he teases, and then he leans over him, a not-so-subtle intimation in the gesture as he kisses him, his large hands clasping Monty's waist almost proprietorially. There's no intent to hurt or mark in the gesture - not yet, anyway - simply an assertion of his strength and size in comparison, a thrilling pressure for Monty to press against without being able to break his hold. "I'd much rather my coin go to you than to your madam, charmingly acquisitive though she may be."

“Mm, I don’t think I will,” he teases back before tilting his head back as they kiss to deepen the motion, opening his mouth to feel Justin’s tongue plunging in. He likes how it fills up his entire mouth, nearly gagging him.

“You’re spoiling me,” he responds when they part for breath, his hands going to grab one of Justin’s own by the wrist, “Won’t you let me do the same for you tonight? I think I can come up with some small way to do so.” And with that, he drags Justin’s hand down between his own legs, guides those strong fingers to press into his clearly damp, already prepared hole.

He briefly lets himself be dragged, lets Monty direct his movements, his long, thick fingers surprisingly delicate and limber as he strokes over Monty's entrance, feeling how slick and stretched he already is. He knows it was meant as an open invitation, a typical measure for those in this particular profession, not meant for anyone in particular, but the reality of it is still deeply arousing.

But that wasn't exactly what he was in the mood for, at least at the moment.

"Mm, are you really going to let me do whatever I want with you tonight, Monty?" He asks, something arch and hungry in his tone, as he slides his fingers around that tight ring of muscle, with off-handed expertise.

His hips sway and push back against Justin’s touch. “Yes,” he says, lashes fluttering, thighs spreading wider, responding automatically to the hunger in his client’s voice. “I’m all yours, sir. However you want me. I’ll make all your dreams come true.”

He ends that popular line with a laugh because they both doubtless know how ridiculous and scripted that sounds. But once again, Monty finds himself surprised by how he’s feeling genuine about what he’s saying.

“So tell me: what’s your fantasy tonight?”

He laughs softly, a slightly wistful expression entering his eyes, but it is clear he is looking at Monty, not imagining someone or something else. "I don't put much stock in fantasy, these days," he replies.

"I want you on your hands and knees on the bed for me, gorgeous," he decides after another moment, pulling his hands away from Monty and tilting his head in an additional silent, but sure, command.

“Oh? Maybe I can change your mind.” He winks but then rises, all long limbs and soft skin, keeping his motions gentle and enticing, easing himself down on the bed in a long, drawn out stretch.

"I wouldn't mind watching you try," he replies, pushing himself up to his feet and observing Monty, laying himself out and glancing back over his shoulder at Justin, clearly trying to coax him over, his legs spread invitingly.

Justin did intend to take him up on said invitation, but likely not in the way Monty might expect.

"Do you use your fingers," he asks, glancing around the room before he walks over to Monty, "when you're getting yourself ready for your patrons? How do you like to stretch yourself, knowing what you might be asked to do before the night is over?"

He lies his head down now, deepening the dip of his back. He knows how appealing he must look, knows by how hot Justin’s gaze is burning over his skin.

“Sometimes. It’s how I’ll start. But it’s usually not enough.” He grins, peeking once again over his shoulder to see what Justin might be doing, how he might be receiving this information. “I like using some toys on myself too. Or asking a friend for help.”

A pause. “Would you like to watch me sometime, sir?”

Edited 2022-05-20 19:27 (UTC)

"I think I'd like that," he replies, with absolute composure; whatever Monty might be expecting to see, there is no obvious outward change or manifestation of Justin's interest, save for a certain bright-eyed expectation in his facial expression. He pulls open a drawer, helpfully placed there for the convenience of guests, and removes a vial of oil.

"'Not enough,' hm?" He repeats, almost under his breath, but in this enclosed room, Monty, at least, can hear everything he is saying regardless. "Not enough for you to be pleasing for your customers? Or not enough to satisfy such a greedy whore?"

Oh. So he likes it like that, huh? Monty smiles to himself. He can work with that.

"I'd say the latter. My customers don't tend to walk away unhappy, sir."

He continues his slow little motions on the bed, spreading his knees a little farther, stretching his torso forward just a bit more here and there, his hair becoming a tussled mess, falling into his face, giving off just the right sort of disheveled look that could make a man's mouth water.

"And I'm assuming you didn't either. Considering you came back to me."

His laugh is delighted, a light, musical sound, far less fraught then the intimations of their earlier conversations, more amused than offended by Monty's provocation.

"Well, you still remembered me," he points out, resting one hand at the small of Monty's back, almost a petting motion, an unexpected affection in the small gesture, before his large hand curves, cupping Monty's ass firmly, fingers digging in just so. "Even without knowing my full name. So I must have made an impression." Or his generosity had, considering he hadn't really given Monty anything physical to remember him by.

Oh, but he had. Yes, Justin hadn't indulged himself in all the ways he might have been able to that first night, but that didn't mean Monty didn't starkly remember the warmth of his touch, the exact feeling of his fingertips grabbing at his hair, or the sound of Justin's voice when he was particularly pleased with something Monty did.

All of those things, little trinkets of their time together that Monty found himself surprisingly fond of.

("You're so sentimental," Alecto had scolded him a few nights ago, listening to Monty wax poetic about something or other. He must have been far too drunk to even clearly recall it now. Alecto had kissed his hair, let him lean against his sharp shoulder, saying, "But I understand. You just love to be loved. It's a shame you ended up here."

Monty doesn't really understand what that meant. He still doesn't really want to think too deeply about it.)

"Of course I remember you," he croons, biting his lip with a groan when Justin grabs his ass like that. "I remember everyone."

(Damn it. Alecto's voice in his head is sighing.)

He hums an acknowledgement, his hands shifting Monty on the bed and rearranging him to his liking, coaxing his knees wider on the bed, while making sure he can rest his weight down comfortably if (when) it gets to that point. "You'll be good for me, won't you, gorgeous?" He murmurs, infusing the gentle weight of expectation into his voice, letting it settle over Monty. "You'll do exactly as I say?" He reaches for the oil, and opens the vial, spilling a generous amount onto his palm and slicking his fingers, the scent of sandalwood filling the air.

Be good for me. Monty let’s those familiar words wash over him. Men always wanted that from him: a good boy with big, eager eyes hiding a desperate, hungry whore beneath it all. Was it the contrast that did it for them? Probably. He wasn’t sure. But time and time again they’d praise him like this. Good boy. What a good boy you are, look how pretty you are on your knees for me. You’re so good at following my orders, you love it don’t you? What a good little slut you are.

So very, very good.

“Yes, sir,” he replies, quietly, his smile feeling a bit stiff. “I,” can’t, “won’t say no. I’ll do whatever you tell me to. So, please, won’t you tell me what to do to make you happy?”

"Just two things," he replies, and shifts to the side, brushing a kiss against Monty's forehead before he slides his slick fingers down along the crack of his ass, catching gently against his already stretched hole. "Relax for me, yes?"

Even though Monty is already stretched, already slick, he takes his time, sliding one finger in with confident. It's not a typical gesture of Monty's clients, even if one of them did happen to be inclined to take the extra time to be considerate; it's a clinical, specific expertise. Justin takes his time - to let the oil warm and ease the way, for Monty's body to adjust - before he curls his finger just so and strokes a careful, expert rhythm against Monty's prostate, letting the pleasure build up slowly, eyes alert for all of Monty's physical reactions.

"And enjoy yourself."

Prompt - Crane Wife (alternative sidestory)

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