[ It's not the other man's directness that gets to him, really, when you fuck around like James does these days, directness is par for the course. The rule rather than the exception. No, it's the... well, it's the music, the atmosphere hanging between them in those crisp, bright notes. Not to make the comparison, but his dad plays the piano, the piano feels like home, at least. When everything else, including Mr. Morningstar, is a little bit crazy and a little bit strange.
Get with the program, he's told and they lock eyes for a long moment, James looking at the angular, strong shapes of the other man's face over the rim of his tumbler. His breathing feels slightly shallow, fluttering. Putting the glass back on the coaster, he nods, pursing his lip and cocking his head. ]
Okay.
[ Mr. Morningstar keeps the melody going and James is feeling equal parts nostalgic and horny as fuck. Reaching up with both hands and holding the other man's gaze, he starts working on the bowtie of his uniform, yanking it off after two seconds' worth of not-quite-fumbling. Drops it. Starts in on the buttons of his shirt, fast, precise movements of his fingers opening the fabric up down his middle, his skin peaking out until he shrugs out of the entire thing. Drops it, the lights playing over his abdomen, pecs, the staircase of ribs where Proverbs 4:23 reads stark black against his skin.
He begins toeing out of his shoes, socks, fingering his belt. ]
We'll cut to the chase. [ With a yank, he slips open the belt buckle, letting his pants slide to the floor as well and stepping out of them. The whole bundle of clothing is easily pushed aside with one naked foot. LA beaches have tanned him up for the summer, so he looks more bronze than anything, the final bastion of his underwear stark white in comparison. James looks down his own front, at the evident bulge of fabric over his half-hard cock, then over at Mr. Morningstar. ] I'm dropping mine if you drop yours.
no subject
Get with the program, he's told and they lock eyes for a long moment, James looking at the angular, strong shapes of the other man's face over the rim of his tumbler. His breathing feels slightly shallow, fluttering. Putting the glass back on the coaster, he nods, pursing his lip and cocking his head. ]
Okay.
[ Mr. Morningstar keeps the melody going and James is feeling equal parts nostalgic and horny as fuck. Reaching up with both hands and holding the other man's gaze, he starts working on the bowtie of his uniform, yanking it off after two seconds' worth of not-quite-fumbling. Drops it. Starts in on the buttons of his shirt, fast, precise movements of his fingers opening the fabric up down his middle, his skin peaking out until he shrugs out of the entire thing. Drops it, the lights playing over his abdomen, pecs, the staircase of ribs where Proverbs 4:23 reads stark black against his skin.
He begins toeing out of his shoes, socks, fingering his belt. ]
We'll cut to the chase. [ With a yank, he slips open the belt buckle, letting his pants slide to the floor as well and stepping out of them. The whole bundle of clothing is easily pushed aside with one naked foot. LA beaches have tanned him up for the summer, so he looks more bronze than anything, the final bastion of his underwear stark white in comparison. James looks down his own front, at the evident bulge of fabric over his half-hard cock, then over at Mr. Morningstar. ] I'm dropping mine if you drop yours.