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Damen always held him, after.
Other things changed. Laurent was allowed to come, or not; would have bruises to tend to, or not; would need to be untied, or picked up off the floor, or collected from the top of the desk. The order of events varied, and often slipped by him, his head having gone as full and empty as champagne fizz– but always, now, there was the couch, and Damen’s chest under his cheek, and Damen’s arm slung around his waist, a hand playing with his hair. It didn’t seem to matter whether he had been– good, or not; whether he was being punished, or fucked, or fucked and then punished, or denied fucking as punishment. Damen held him all the same, and made him drink water.
“One more sip,” he coaxed.
“I already finished the sip,” Laurent protested. His voice was the petulant, little-boy whine it always became at this stage; it had used to bother him more. Water was what had started this; he had lined up both of the daily bottles Damen had brought him on the side of the desk, each with a single mouthful left prominently undrunk. His ass was probably bright red.
“You lost a lot of fluids,” Damen said, a laugh in his voice. Laughing at Laurent, of course, but– he wouldn’t tell anyone.
“That’s what happens when you don’t come for a week.” Laurent muttered it; Damen heard anyway, and laughed again, and then Laurent felt a laugh slip out, too. He drank water from the new bottle Damen as Damen held it up, more than a sip. When Damen took it away drops ran down his neck.
The body beneath him twisted, shoulder bumping into Laurent’s chin, as Damen wiggled into a position to lick it off.
“You’re a dog,” Laurent yawned, tipping his head to the side so Damen could get at the most sensitive part.
“Woof,” Damen murmured into his skin. It was six o’clock; his stubble prickled.
Laurent was sore even beyond the spanking, his hole and his hips aching from their earlier exertions. He wondered if Damen would fuck him again anyway, shivered at the thought of how it would feel, the hot flesh stretching wide– it had hurt earlier, too, Damen’s hips pressing against his reddened ass– but Damen gave him a last kiss on the mouth, and then he was tugging himself away. Away, and off the couch. The places where their bodies had touched went cold.
Laurent made a noise without intending it, something soft and pleading, and– childish. Desperate. The bubbles in his head popped, and he pulled himself to a seated position regardless of the burn, wiping at the spit drying tacky on his neck.
Damen stood on one leg to get his pants on. Mercifully, he hadn’t heard. “You heading home?” he asked.
Among Damen’s varied and ridiculous foibles was a preference that Laurent go home after sex, and not take his work laptop with him. He’d yet to start enforcing it as he did the water, and the food, and the going for walks has been scientifically demonstrated to improve productivity, but Laurent had found himself more and more inclined to do it anyway, lately. “I think so,” he said. Maybe he’d give himself Saturday off, too, take a jog through one of the parks–
His desk phone was ringing. Damen had silenced it before they’d started, but the caller ID flashed across the screen. Laurent pulled himself up on shaking legs– something slithered out of his hole, God– to pull it up to his ear. “Hello, Uncle Richard?” he said.
“Hello, nephew,” Uncle said. “I just sent you the report, I don’t know if you saw?”
“Yes, of course,” Laurent said. He entered his computer password with the speed of long practice, and– yes, that was the report from the FTC.
“Great,” Uncle said. “I wanted to have a quick meeting about it on Monday.”
“Have you read it yet?” The document wouldn’t load. In the corner of his eye he saw Damen frowning at him.
“Just skimmed it.”
“Does it clear us of the antitrust issue?”
“Of course.” Uncle’s voice was amused. “I knew that before I read it.”
There was a pounding headache building behind his eyes. “All right,” he said. Damen was fussing with the paper towels in the corner. “I’ll let you know once I’ve gone through it–
“I’ve told the board you’ll brief them on Monday.”
Laurent pinched his nose. “Of course,” he said. “Do you–” Damen was bending towards the floor, paper towel in hand, to wipe up– “leave it!” Laurent snapped.
Damen blinked at him.
“Laurent?”
He was talking to his uncle, he was naked, he was dripping his secretary’s come like a three-dollar whore. His stomach roiled. This room was freezing. “Just my assistant,” he grit out.
“He’s still there? It’s after six!”
What to say to that. “I’m aware of the time.”
“Put me on speaker,” Uncle said.
If he didn’t, Uncle would think something of it. Laurent’s finger hovered over the button before he made himself force it down.
“Damen!” Uncle’s voice was jovial. “Is my nephew working you too hard?”
Damen was smiling– he liked Laurent’s uncle. Everyone did. “Not too hard at all, Mr. DeVere,” he said. “I was just about to head out.”
“Oh, call me Richard, please. Yes, head out, and take my nephew with you. He’s wasting his youth here.”
Damen came closer to the desk. “That’s what I keep telling him, sir,” he agreed. “He works too much.”
“I swear, he turned fourteen and it’s been nothing but business ever since,” Uncle said. The speaker icon on the phone was a bright cheerful green. “Although I suppose even before that he loved to stay in my office.”
“This was your old office, right sir?”
“Oh, yes, since Laurent was young– he used to lie on that rug and color, his little feet kicked up in the air, cutest kid you ever saw–”
Damen smiled at him, clearly picturing. Laurent was briefly, viscerally sure he was going to throw up. The floor swayed under him. He felt his face change, saw Damen’s face change when he saw it.
“Mr. DeVere, I’m going to head out, okay?” Damen said. Are you okay? He mouthed.
“Of course, you have a good–”
“I’ll let you know when I’ve read the report, Uncle,” Laurent said– interrupting, which would get him a lecture later. There was come on the floor. His ass was bright red. He’d just been lying on that– couch, ready to take more cock–
“All right,” Uncle said, after a pause. Damen was frowning now. “Goodbye, Laurent, goodbye Damen.”
“‘Bye, Mr. DeVere,” Damen said.
Laurent stabbed the end-call button with his pointer finger. The dial tone rang out for a brief second before he shoved the phone itself down into the cradle.
Damen reached for him. “Are you all–”
Laurent knocked his hand away. “Yes,” he snapped, and then, modulating himself– “weren’t you leaving?”
Damen hesitated. “I could stay–”
“I don’t need you to read the report,” Laurent said. “I don’t need–” he cut himself off. His boxers were on the floor next to the comestain; he dragged them on, then his pants.
Damen gestured with the paper towel. “I’m going to–”
“Just leave it.”
“For the janitor?”
Laurent snatched the towel from him.
“Laurent,” Damen tried.
“Just–” Laurent rubbed over his face. Wrestled his tone down an octave. “I have work to do. You were going to meet Nikandros?”
“I could stay–”
“You don’t have work to do.”
“It’s six o’clock on a Friday,” Damen said. He was frowning. “You should take the night off, at least–”
“I don’t recall giving you the right to dictate my work schedule.” Laurent wanted to go home, he wanted to sleep, he– it was cold. He shoved the towel on the desk and fumbled for his shirt. More bitterly than he intended– “you’re not my boss.”
Damen stepped closer. He was reaching out, like– like he was going to hug Laurent, wrap his arms around Laurent’s body, currently sweat-streaked and dehydrated and comestained.
“Don’t,” Laurent said. Paperweight was on his tongue– he’d never say it, but it was there– but Damen stopped anyway. “I’ll see you Monday,” Laurent said, aiming for conciliatory. A peace offering. Given that Laurent’s usual offering in this– involvement– was the pleasure of shutting him up, he wasn’t sure he managed it. “Go, have fun. I just need to read this report.”
“Promise me you’ll go home before eight,” Damen said.
“Of course,” Laurent said.
By Monday, Laurent’s eyes were so bleary he felt like he was looking at the world through glasses of the wrong prescription. He’d been home, he thought, at some point this weekend. His clothes had changed, and he’d showered, and not in the gym on the first floor. It was eight forty-five on Monday when people started to trickle in.
Laurent had his briefing ready to go. The FTC report was strange; the figures seemed just slightly off, in a way he couldn’t identify. It wasn’t like insider trading would be beyond his uncle, but this didn’t even look like that. If he could just–
The door swung open. Laurent didn’t look up.
“Hey, Mr. deVere,” Damen said. “I brought you coffee.”
Laurent could smell it, drifting through the office air. Damen would have bought it himself, as he’d been doing lately, rather than pulling from the company card. “How was your–” Damen stopped.
Laurent was on the couch, his laptop propped on his crossed legs. “Thank you,” he said, without looking up. “Leave it on the desk.”
The door shut, slightly too fast but not quite a slam. “Have you been here all weekend,” Damen hissed.
His head was aching; Laurent rubbed over his face. “I don’t have time for this.”
Three fast strides; Damen took hold of his chin. “You look like shit,” he said.
Laurent felt his expression do– something. His eyes were hot. “Then quit fucking me,” he spat, louder than he’d meant to.
Damen was still. His grip was tight on Laurent’s jaw.
Laurent–
Laurent pushed his hand away. “I don’t have time for this,” he said, looking down at his laptop. “I need a copy of Marlas Holding’s first-quarter profits and I need a letter on letterhead to Chelaut about the assistant CFO position.” He looked back down at his laptop, feeling rather than seeing the look Damen was aiming at him. “I need that before my meeting.”
A long moment. “Fine,” Damen said. It was a tone that promised unpleasantness– stupidly, as the door closed behind him, Laurent felt his eyes grow damp.
The day went– fine. Laurent went to the meeting. He briefed the board. He went back to his office and sat in the desk chair– not Uncles, he’d replaced all the furniture, even if the carpets and the walls and the little paint chip on the ceiling where he’d used to fix his gaze were all the same– and typed. At eleven he told Damen to bring him another coffee; Damen came in with a plastic water bottle and set it down hard on the desk.
Laurent rubbed over his face. “I’ll ask someone else to bring it to me,” he threatened.
Damen didn’t say anything.
Fuck. “I’ll eat lunch,” Laurent said. He was trying not to sound like he was negotiating. Damen was his fucking secretary. “I’ll finish this–” he gestured to the water bottle– “and I’ll eat lunch.”
Unimpressed– “Did you have breakfast?”
“I’ll have lunch and dinner,” Laurent said instead of answering. The rule was two meals a day, not three. Damen had said something about flexibility. “And I distinctly recall not permitting you to limit my caffeine intake. Go get me my coffee.”
Damen sighed, his angry posture relaxing a little. After a moment, his hand came up, and Laurent knew it was going to tuck his hair behind his ear, softly cup the back of his head in Damen’s big palm, maybe even gently rub at the knots in his neck. The thought caused a surge of nausea that was nearly panic– he jerked away. “Why are you still here?” he heard himself snap.
A pause. Laurent typed– something – into his email. He didn’t want to look at Damen’s face.
“I’m getting you lunch from that Indian place,” Damen said. “Lamb biryani. With the stuffed paratha and samosas on the side.” He said it like a threat, although it was Laurent’s favorite meal.
“Fine,” Laurent said. He went on typing.
More reports. He wrote emails to various board members, had Herode in for a meeting that was mostly about his uncle, and his uncle’s layoff plans. Damen brought in lunch around twelve-thirty, and it smelled good. Laurent’s stomach cramped.
He tried. It was rice and lamb and vegetables, a little spicy even though he ordered the mildest level and mixed in raita, and it was good, and he liked it. He forced a bite down, then another. He was sitting sideways in his chair, with a good view of the carpet. Someone had cleaned up the stain he’d left, where come had leaked out of his slack hole. He’d lain at this angle, as a boy, taking advantage of the sunlight on the pages of his book, his little feet kicked up in the air –
His email alert chimed. Laurent went back to work.
One more meeting. Three more budget reports. The teamster’s strike was impacting their shipping capacity. For some reason their energy efficiency was down. Some idiot on the sales floor had fired a female employee and then very loudly stated that women were bad at math. The janitor down on the HR floor had found shit-caked (women’s) underwear clogging one of the men’s toilets. Estienne was sleeping with his secretary and his wife had shown up and screamed at both of them in the middle of the lobby. There was $200,000 missing from the escrow account and everyone in Legal was pointing fingers at–
The door slammed.
Laurent jerked away from his desk. His eyes took a moment to focus. Damen, blocking the door– the dark of his office, the sun almost set behind him. The mostly-full takeout containers he’d shoved on top of the printer.
“It’s five forty-five,” Damen said.
He’d meant to eat. He’d really meant to. “Have you finally learned to tell the time?” Laurent asked. “The long hand shows you the minutes–”
“Take your fucking pants off,” Damen said. He sounded genuinely pissed– he was locking the door behind him and kicking off his shoes at the same time. His belt whistled through its loops.
Laurent closed his eyes. He should say something, about Damen’s predictability, about his earnestness, about the terminal stupidity and uselessness of trying to turn Laurent into something– different. Better. Instead he stood up, and shoved his pants down, and bent over the desk.
Damen stomped over. Laurent tried not to flinch. Damen had hit him with the belt before. Afterwards, they’d lie on the couch for a bit. Maybe.
His eyes were burning again. He put his forehead down on the cool wood.
A foot in between his, kicking his legs apart– rough hands on his hips, tugging him into an arched back. Then nothing. Laurent waited.
Still nothing.
They’d lie on the couch together afterwards. Damen always–
“Put your pants back on,” Damen said.
For a moment Laurent didn’t understand. Then he went cold.
“Pants,” Damen said again, meaningfully. There were sounds. He was putting his belt back on. “Get up.”
He wasn’t going to punish Laurent. He wasn’t even going to fuck Laurent. That meant–
“Come on,” Damen said.
“Just get out,” Laurent managed. He pushed himself up, leaning heavily against the desk. He’d gone twenty-four years without being spanked and– and ordered to eat. He’d gone nine years without being kissed or fucked or fucking cuddled. He didn’t need–
“Pants,” Damen said patiently. He was behind Laurent now, too close, and his hands were on Laurent’s waistband–
“Don’t touch me!” The words came out high, frantic. He jerked away from Damen’s grip, almost fell when he tripped on the restraining fabric.
A pause. Damen didn’t touch him. Laurent yanked up his pants. “Just get out,” he said again. They’d never gone to HR about anything so no one else would need to know about– this. Until Damen sued him for workplace harassment. “Sorry to waste your time–”
“Laurent,” Damen said again.
Something in his voice made Laurent’s hands go still. After a moment, when he was sure he could control his face, he looked up at him.
Damen’s face held an expression worse than his anger; brow furrowed, eyes soft. He said– “Get dressed, we’re going for a walk.”
“No,” Laurent said experimentally.
Damen reached out, slow. Two fingers under Laurent’s chin, soft touch burning like a brand. “I wasn’t asking,” he said.
They went to the park. Damen walked a little ahead, Laurent a little behind. It was still mostly light out, the setting autumn sun giving the trees and grass and sidewalks a faint sepia glow. They went past the Bean and the skating rink, past pedestrians and panhandlers, until they found an empty bench looking over the lake, where they sat in silence.
“I like this place,” Damen said cheerfully. “I’m not usually much of a nature person, but I sit here on my lunch break sometimes.”
They were going to make small talk? Laurent looked at him sideways, but he was staring determinedly ahead. “It’s hardly nature,” Laurent said finally.
“Grass,” Damen said. “Lake. Trees.”
“Sidewalks,” Laurent said, pointing. “Empty beer cans. Hot dog cart.”
Damen laughed. It was– not an unpleasant sound. Laurent’s stomach rolled over onto its back like a dog wanting to be pet. “It’s enough nature for me.”
“Hmph,” Laurent managed.
They sat in silence for a while, looking at the water. Clouds scudded across the lake, buoyed by the winds.
Damen was sentimental. Perhaps he had brought Laurent here to end their– association in a less austere place. Laurent snuck a glance at him– leaning his face into the breeze, eyes half-lidded, curls dancing across his neck– and had to turn his head away hard.
“Are you cold?” Damen asked, apparently mistaking the movement for a shiver.
Laurent was cold. He got cold easily. Normally when Damen asked that question he was offering to switch their positions so more of Laurent was covered by his body. “No,” Laurent snapped. “Why are we here? Why doesn’t it hurt to sit right now?”
“I wanted to take you for a walk,” Damen said.
“I’m not a dog.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
This was ridiculous. “I think we’ve already established that I don’t actually like talking about this–”
“–Really? Damn, you were so subtle about it, too–”
“If you’re angry I didn’t eat, I believe I was prepared to pay for it back there,” Laurent said, getting louder and shriller with every word. “Without complaint. And if you’re tired of enforcing your stupid little– meal delivery service, you have legs that work and an apartment with a bed and nine million–” Laurent groped for words– “Grindr twinks calling you Daddy and sending you pictures of their assholes–”
“Do you want a hotdog?” Damen asked. He’d watched Laurent’s rant with an expression of mild interest.
Laurent’s breath heaved. Did he want a hotdog? “No,” he bit out.
“I want one,” Damen shrugged. “I’ll be right back.” He stood, frowned, and shrugged out of his coat. It landed around Laurent’s shoulders, a warm weight and a cloud of eucalyptus aftershave. Laurent clutched at the lapels, opened his mouth to say– something– and Damen was gone.
He gave up on dignity and bent over, grinding his palms into his eyes. He wished he'd just get it over with.
“Here,” Damen said. He’d come back from the cart with two hotdogs, of course.
Laurent took one. It smelled fine; it was warm in his hand. He nibbled a little at the corner as Damen sat down, expecting his throat and stomach to throw up their usual refusals. Instead he found himself taking another, miniscule, bite. And another.
Eventually the hot dog was gone. The sun was setting behind them, sending shadows over the lake.
“Why didn’t you hit me?” Laurent heard himself ask.
“You didn’t seem like you’d enjoy it,” Damen said.
Laurent folded his napkin in half, then in quarters. “You’re not supposed to enjoy it.”
“You do,” Damen said.
“I don’t want–” Laurent cut himself off.
Damen waited a second. “You don’t want?” he said finally. “To enjoy it?”
“It– rather defeats the point,” Laurent said instead. He opened the napkin back up and folded it in half a different way, making a star shape in the middle. “Doesn’t it?”
“Well,” Damen said, a frown in his voice. “Maybe I should say– you didn’t seem like you’d enjoy not enjoying it.”
Laurent crumpled the napkin in his fist. “Right,” he said, tightly.
A moment’s quiet. Laurent tucked Damen’s coat tighter around himself. His mother had worn his father’s old college shirts to bed sometimes, come down to breakfast in that and a robe. Hugging her had smelled like his cologne. He took a deep breath.
Damen was looking at him. “Well?” Laurent asked, looking back.
“You didn’t go home on Friday,” he said, not really a question.
Confessing to his sins– this was familiar ground. “Of course not.”
Damen hummed acknowledgement. “And you didn’t have breakfast?”
“Not at all.”
“Or lunch?”
Laurent rubbed at his face again. “I hate lamb.” He’d aimed for defiant– it came out tired.
“Oh, of course,” Damen said. “I must have forgotten.”
Laurent closed his eyes in a blink. It felt good to close them– a second passed before he could fight them back open again. “We could go back to the office,” he heard himself say. The office, the desk– Damen’s belt, or maybe some other office implement he would put to perverted use. “If you still feel the urge to express your frustrations physically.”
“My frustrations?” The raised eyebrow was audible in Damen’s voice.
It wasn’t fair, to say it like that, like Damen was a bad husband who came home and knocked him around. Laurent said it like that anyway, sometimes. He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I just meant,” he said, hating the small stupid tone of his voice, “That we could go back.”
A pause. “We could go back,” Damen said, after a moment, voice back to its regular pitch. And then, after another moment, in a strange new tone– “or– or I live around here. I mean, not around here, around here, we’d have to take the train–”
So Damen– still wanted to. Laurent blinked hard. “I’m around the corner,” he said.
They walked towards Laurent’s apartment, Damen still a little ahead. The peripheral view was mostly broad shoulder, big swinging hand, a glimpse at jaw and curls. As they walked Damen pulled his tie off, rolled it into a neat cylinder, and slid it in his pocket. He was walking between Laurent and the street, either out of habit (he did mostly date women) or deliberately (he thought of Laurent as the girl). Laurent supposed he should feel emasculated, or insulted, or anything other than scraped out like an oyster shell. As it was, when they got to his building, he let Damen hold the door open for him without complaint.
“What floor?” Damen’s hand hovered over the buttons.
“Seventeen,” Laurent said. He caught his doorman looking at him from the desk and felt a moment of dull alarm.
He had to unbutton the coat to get out his keys. He could see Damen looking around as he untied his shoes, knew what he’d be seeing– a minimalist interior decorator, shades of gray and white, furniture purchased in sets from the showroom. Nicaise said it looked like a hotel, and Laurent didn’t actually care– Auguste’s things were in the safe, Mother’s favorite paintings hanging in his closet– but maybe Damen’s apartment was more… lived-in.
“Nice place,” Damen said politely.
“It’s close to the office.” Laurent didn’t look at him.
They stood in silence.
Why had he invited him? For sex, Laurent reminded himself. They had sex. He found it– pleasant. Most people did. Damen found it pleasant, with Laurent and with other people. The fact that the sex was– of a specific type– was unusual, certainly, but not unheard of. He’d seen trailers for that God-awful Fifty Shades movie. People– enjoyed sex. Damen liked it for its own sake, and Laurent apparently only liked it when people hit him first, and probably Damen only liked it with Laurent when–
His eyes were hurting again. Damen was a still shape in his peripherals. He should do– something, he should offer him a drink, he should offer to suck his cock, he should scream at him to get out–
“Shall we?” Damen asked.
It took a moment before Laurent was sure he could say it calmly. “Bedroom’s through here,” he said.
Damen followed him the whole way, just slightly closer than you’d walk behind a stranger, or an acquaintance. Laurent could feel the heat of his body, the soft impact of his footsteps. He could feel his eyes.
The bedroom was more of the same. Gray and white. The difference was in the mess– he never let the housekeeper back here, so clothes were strewn around. Half-empty glasses of water adorned the nightstand. The bed was unmade.
“You’re a slob,” Damen said, in a tone of revelation.
“Nobody asked you,” Laurent said automatically.
“Hm.” Damen strode to the center of the room, which happened to be an inch from the rumpled covers, and then turned and regarded Laurent. A moment of silence.
“Make the bed,” Damen said.
“You’re joking.”
Damen looked at him calmly.
“Fuck you,” Laurent said, on a sudden burst of anger. “Fuck you and fuck your mother and fuck the horse you rode in on. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
Another moment of silence.
“Are you done?” Damen asked.
Laurent made the bed. He shoved the covers up around the top, with the vague idea of doing it as badly as possible, and then, grimacing, started smoothing them into place, fluffing the pillows and stacking them against the headboard. He was vaguely aware of Damen picking up the empty water-glasses and taking them out of the room, and found himself grabbing a pair of sweats up off the floor, and then a button-down thrown over a chair. Dry cleaning in the hamper and everything else in the laundry basket. Damen sat on the bed and waited while Laurent finished.
He could feel Damen looking at him, again, as he dropped in the last sock. Laurent closed the closet door behind him and walked a few steps to stand in front of him, a couple feet from his knees, and then met his gaze, held steady on Laurent’s face.
Laurent wasn’t going to blink first. “Well?” he said.
“Take your clothes off,” Damen said.
Laurent did. Not showily– if Damen wanted that he could go to a strip club, or take home one of the people at the office who slobbered over him. Belt, pants, shoes, socks. He pulled his tie off and Damen tugged it away from him, rubbing it idly between his fingers as he watched Laurent bundle his clothes up and stuff them unceremoniously in the closet. He slipped a thumb in the waistband of his briefs.
“Leave them,” Damen said behind him. “C’mere.”
Laurent walked up to his knees, and then between them. He was looking at Damen’s face– Damen was looking at Laurent’s nipples, which he liked, and which Laurent liked now too, in the strange way he had started liking the parts of his body Damen put to use. But after a few seconds Damen’s eyes came up to meet Laurent’s
“Turn around,” he said after a moment, reaching for the tie.
Laurent turned around. He put his arms behind his back without being asked and Damen made a soft noise of approval that made something kick in Laurent’s stomach. His hands were bound with exquisite care. A bit looser, than the last time.
“You can turn back around,” Damen said.
“I could probably get out of this,” Laurent said.
“I know,” Damen said, sounding a little embarrassed. “You’re not really supposed to tie people up for real until you’re, like, good at it. You can get nerve damage. I watched a couple youtube videos, but I think I’d need to take a class or something if I wanted you to actually not be able to get out of it.”
What to say to that. Laurent’s throat was tight. After a moment– “You’ve done your research.”
Damen’s fingertips skimmed lightly across Laurent’s back. “Just being careful,” he murmured. “Turn around for me?”
Laurent took a moment to get his face under control. Then he turned around.
Damen’s hands went to his hips. He tugged a little, and Laurent stepped closer, one foot, two foot, not quite stumbling. Damen was looking at his own hands, at his right thumb, moving in slow circles and raising goosebumps on Laurent’s skin. Then higher, at where Laurent could feel his nipples, hard and peaked. In this position, they were close enough to level with Damen’s face that he could arch his neck to take one into his mouth, but instead, as he leaned in, his lips went first to the center of Laurent’s sternum, a soft kiss on the jagged place where the skin stretched tight over the breastbone. His forehead pressed against Laurent’s chest and he hummed a little, soothingly in the back of his throat.
Horribly, Laurent felt his face twist, the corners of his mouth spasming. He wasn’t going to cry, he wasn’t, his throat was aching–
He must have made a noise, because Damen pulled back and saw him. “Oh,” he said, and then, retreating a little more– “Laurent?”
He didn’t speak– he didn’t want to speak. He wanted to hide in the closet with Auguste’s sweater and Mother’s paintings– he wanted–
“It’s all right,” Damen was saying. Laurent had put a knee up on the bed without realizing it. “That’s it, come here,” and Laurent was climbing into his lap, one knee on either side, and tucking his wet face into the safe dark of the crook of Damen’s neck. He clutched his hands behind him so he wouldn’t escape the tie binding, but Damen’s arms went around him and held him firmly in place. He tried to say– something, and Damen said shhh, and cupped the back of his head, so Laurent stayed there, and took deep breaths until the knot in his chest relaxed.
After awhile Damen said “what do you normally sleep in?”
Laurent understood what that meant. Panic resonated through his chest like a plucked guitar string. “No,” he said. “I want to, I–”
“Okay,” Damen soothed, rubbing at his back. It was patronizing– Laurent should be annoyed. “We can. I just want to know for after.”
Laurent coughed to clear his throat. It helped his head, too. “The– there’s a red t-shirt in the top drawer.”
“Okay,” Damen said again. “Come here.” He was undoing the tie–
“No,” Laurent said, pulling his hands away as best he could. “I can–”
“I didn’t ask you,” Damen said, pulling back to look at him. When Laurent didn’t lower his hands, Damen raised an eyebrow and slapped him once, hard, on the side of his ass.
Reassured, Laurent put his hands back where they’d been. Damen tugged the tie off and tumbled him back onto the bed, shoving the pillows Laurent had just stacked unceremoniously to the side. His headboard was vertical metal bars– Damen pushed his hands up on either side of one and then frowned down at the tie.
You don’t need it, Laurent thought.
It was a bizarre thought. Obviously Damen needed it, Laurent wasn’t going to just– leave his hands there, obediently–
Damen was pulling his own tie out of his pocket. Each of Laurent’s hands, carefully, bound to one of the bars– he wouldn’t be able to flip over, like this, so perhaps Damen wanted to fuck him before spanking him. He watched the ceiling rather than look at Damen’s expression of concentration.
When he’d finished, Damen snuck a finger in between his skin and the silk. “Let me know if those tighten,” he said. “Pull on them a bit, for me.”
They didn’t tighten– not as Damen fetched Auguste’s old t-shirt out of the top drawer, as he filled up a new water glass and put it on the bedside table. They didn’t even tighten at the very hard yank Laurent gave as Damen pulled the covers unceremoniously out from under him.
“Oh, sorry,” Damen said, not sounding sorry at all, “did you make this bed recently?”
Laurent kicked a pillow at him.
Damen finished with the bedding and the pillows and came back around to the head. He pulled the glass off the side table and cupped a hand gently under Laurent’s skull.
You treat me like a tropical plant, Laurent thought of complaining, but Damen was rubbing soothingly at the sore spot behind his ear. He lifted his head and drank what Damen carefully brought to his lips.
“There you go,” Damen said. He tugged off his shirt and pants. The glass clinked as he set it down, and the mattress dented as he climbed on.
It had been cold, in nothing but his boxers. Now the warmth of Damen’s body lined Laurent’s side, skin against skin. He propped himself up on an elbow. His hair fell in his eyes– it was getting long– and he absently pushed it back. Laurent swallowed.
“Hello,” Damen said softly, and smiled at him.
A bizarre thing to say, at this point, and he wasn’t going to dignify it with a response– “Hello,” Laurent said stupidly.
Damen leaned down and kissed him.
They kissed. They’d kissed before– not every time they fucked, but it wasn’t unusual. Damen liked kissing. Laurent– it made Laurent feel strange. He felt strange now, at the soft movements of Damen’s mouth, like his heart was turning over in his chest. He closed his eyes and moved with him.
When Damen pulled away he knew what was coming, and arched his neck so Damen could put his lips on the pulse point of his throat. He knew Damen would make a soft, contented rumbling sound in his chest even before it vibrated against his neck, but he couldn’t keep himself from shivering anyway.
“Hmm,” Damen said again. He pulled back a little and put a hand on Laurent’s chest, right where he’d kissed earlier. Laurent’s eyes stung again. “Do you have anything?” he asked. “So I can fuck you?”
A few months ago the answer would have been no. As it was, he didn’t want to say yes. Reluctantly– “In the drawer,” Laurent said.
Damen leaned over to the nightstand and dug out the little tube. “Do you get much use out of this?” he asked, faux-casual.
Laurent rolled his eyes, felt himself relax a little. “It’s full,” he said.
“Wha– oh.” Damen looked unbearably pleased. “Yes, it is.”
Laurent rolled his eyes again. His lips were curving up on their own.
“Don’t laugh at me,” Damen scolded. He leaned down and kissed Laurent again, biting gently at his mouth. Laurent’s lips were swollen when he pulled away. He licked over them to taste Damen again.
“You don’t use it?” Damen asked. His face was only inches from Laurent’s own. His mouth was swollen, too.
“What?” Laurent managed. He was arching his neck again, trying to get Damen’s mouth on it.
Damen leaned down and took a thin sliver of skin between his teeth, worrying at it gently. Laurent sighed at him in pleasure, and then in frustration when he pulled away.
“You don’t use it.” Damen jerked his eyes at the tube on the table. “When you touch yourself.”
“It’s full,” Laurent said again. He tilted his chin back even further– Damen liked the spot just under his jaw.
Damen did press his lips to it, but pulled away again. “But when you jerk off…?”
“I don’t– use it,” Laurent said.
A slight dent, between Damen’s brows. “But you bought it?”
“Obviously.”
“But–” Damen was still frowning, and still not kissing his neck.
Laurent let his head flop back with a huff. “There was not a long period of time,” he told the ceiling, “between purchasing it, and being forbidden to use it.”
Damen leaned down again, lips brushing where Laurent wanted them. “Did you put your fingers in yourself?” he asked, a grin in his voice.
Laurent closed his eyes. He had, once, made an attempt. “No,” he said, and then, snapping a little, “out of curiosity, how exactly were you planning on slapping my ass like this?”
“Hm.” Damen kissed once, lazily, at the spot just to the right of Laurent’s Adam’s apple. “I wasn’t going to.”
Laurent felt his brow wrinkle. “But–”
“Shh.” Damen was kissing downwards– the notch of Laurent’s collarbone, the top of his pectoral.
Laurent had never needed to encourage a spanking before. Well– actually, that was a lie, he encouraged it all the time. But usually–
“Don’t worry about it,” Damen advised. His nose skimmed across Laurent’s chest, drifting idly towards his nipple.
Laurent turned his body to keep it out of his reach. “I don’t need to be coddled,” he snapped. “You made the rules, you don’t get to turn around and–”
Damen grabbed him around the ribs– his hands went a considerable way around, God– and pushed him flat again. “I kind of do, though,” he said, propping himself up to look down into Laurent’s eyes. He was grinning. “Don’t I?”
He was infuriating. “You yourself said–”
“Yeah,” Damen said. “But, I mean, what are you going to do about it?”
Laurent didn’t say anything. He could, horribly, feel himself getting hard.
Damen could feel it, too. His hand crept down, fingers grazing Laurent’s stomach, and cupped him, soft but inescapable, over his boxers. “Hello,” he said again, smiling, and he massaged Laurent’s cock, gently.
Laurent stiffened, slowly, into Damen’s waiting palm. He twitched when Damen rubbed at the place under the head, and felt the fabric dampen when long fingers held his balls. Damen watched his face the whole time, expression avid.
It was horrible– worse than being naked, like Damen had peeled off his skin. He wanted to kick him away; he wanted to say something cutting. He wanted to be hit instead. He opened his mouth.
“Fuck,” Damen said, low. He let go of Laurent’s cock. His mouth went back to Laurent’s neck, and Laurent had to snap his jaw shut to stop himself moaning. “Ah, sweetheart,” Damen mumbled into his skin, raising goosebumps. “You’re so– fuck.” He bit gently at Laurent’s shoulder, then started working his way down again.
Laurent didn’t interrupt him this time. He arched his back, instead, let Damen find his nipple and suck it into his mouth, let him graze it with his teeth, let him kiss his way over to the other one and repeat the process. He fought to keep his mouth closed, to take even breaths through his nose.
Eventually Damen pulled back. He was staring down at Laurent’s chest, now flushed pink, his nipples standing out, hard spit-slick points the color of fresh cherries. He looked up at Laurent like he was going to say something, and then shook his head and dipped back down, licking over him like a dog, and then sucking again. His free hand came up and toyed with the other one, pinching and tugging.
Laurent felt every pull of his mouth in his gut like a fishhook– felt it in his cock, leaking wet into his boxers, and in his hole, clenching around nothing. His hips were squirming up into empty space, little movements he couldn’t stop. “I could make you come like this,” Damen groaned, muffled into his chest, and– no, obviously, that wasn’t– but God, what if he could– what if he couldn’t and tried anyway, and left Laurent writhing on the precipice all night, all week –
The thought made him arch– forced his mouth open. He tried to form words instead of a moan, and what came out, pathetic, tremulous, was “but you said–”
Damen pulled away again, this time for real. The lack of contact was a relief, even as Laurent’s body twitched as if to follow him. There was something unrecognizable in his eyes; he resettled himself, propped up on his elbow, and thumbed softly at Laurent’s chin. “Contrary, aren’t you,” he said.
How did one respond to that. “You said,” Laurent said again, stupid, like a child denied a promised sweet.
Damen’s thumb rubbed over Laurent’s bottom lip. “I did say, didn’t I,” he said, and then “do you want me to, sweetheart?”
Laurent knew the response to this, at least, blinked and felt himself on the carpet in his uncle’s office again. He had to swallow before he could say it, forced out the words past a shrunken throat. “I deserve it,” he said.
Damen made a soft noise. His expression did something that made Laurent squeeze his eyes shut. He didn’t make him open them again, but his hand came up, cupped the side of his face. A moment of quiet.
“You didn’t eat,” Damen said– gently, but Laurent winced anyway. “And you didn’t drink enough water. And you lied to me about going home.”
Laurent didn’t say anything.
“Look at me,” Damen said softly.
Laurent dragged his features into something resembling equanimity, then opened his eyes.
Damen was too close, and his eyes were too kind. “Did you try?” he asked.
“No,” Laurent said, automatically.
Damen thumbed something away under Laurent’s eye. “Did you try, sweetheart?” he asked, and Laurent shuddered, and felt his face crumple a little, and said “yes.”
“Then that’s all right,” Damen said. He kissed Laurent’s forehead (Laurent closed his eyes again briefly, felt the press of his lips, the soft scrape of stubble) and then his mouth. “You were good, then.”
That wasn’t how it worked, had never been how it worked. “Okay,” Laurent said, hating how soft his voice was.
“Okay,” Damen agreed. He leaned down and kissed him again. The back of Laurent’s throat felt hot and tender. “Now, do you want–” he stopped when Laurent winced. “I’m going to fuck you,” he said instead. “If you’re good, you can come. Then you’re going to drink a glass of water and get ten hours of sleep. Any questions?”
Laurent didn’t know. His head was fuzzed, filled with cotton balls.
“Answer me.”
“But if– you don’t,” Laurent said, hating how his voice sounded, so soft and stupid, “then don’t you– isn’t it like you don’t– I mean to say–”
“It means,” Damen said, “that you tried. And I’m– that’s good enough for me.”
No it isn’t. Laurent fought the urge to say it, lost, opened his mouth–
Damen wrapped a hand around his neck.
He wasn’t squeezing. Obviously he wasn’t squeezing– if Damen knew not to tie him up without taking classes he knew not to actually constrict Laurent’s airway, the dangers of which were presumably written in giant letters of fire at the top of every poorly-formatted webpage from which he’d been printing his kink list pdfs. His hand was quite gentle, in the way his hands were, his thumb rubbing soft circles just under Laurent’s ear. He wasn’t squeezing.
He wasn’t squeezing, but Laurent went quiet anyway.
“Good,” Damen said, after a moment. He leaned down and kissed him again, and then again, and then one more time, only this one went on and on, and Laurent’s mouth was wet when he pulled back.
Laurent opened his eyes– when had they closed? Damen was kissing his way back down to his chest. He still had Laurent’s throat cupped in his palm. His hands were big enough that his grip went almost all the way around, thumb in the hollow behind his ear and fingertips brushing the highest point of his shoulder. Before he could stop himself Laurent imagined something that went the full circumference of his neck– leather, or a strip of silk, like his tie. Something long enough to loop around one of the headboard columns, or the leg of his desk, and keep him–
Damen must have felt him shudder because he groaned into Laurent’s stomach. His hand finally left Laurent’s throat, leaving a cold space behind, and came down, stopping to thumb over his nipple. Laurent could feel his breath getting shallower, faster, despite his best efforts. Damen’s hot breath was on his navel. Then lower. Damen touched the inside of his leg, and Laurent closed his eyes, pulled it up, and let him crawl between his thighs.
Damen liked sucking cock. That was the only possible conclusion– certainly no one had told him to do it, and if he expected reciprocity at some point he’d been waiting a long time and would wait a great deal longer. He did it with alarming frequency, at least once a week; he swallowed, on the rare occasions he could get Laurent to come in his mouth.
He must like sucking cock, because no one was making him do what he was doing now, which was rubbing his cheek against the wet patch at the front of Laurent’s boxers and taking a loud, lewd inhale. That was disgusting, Laurent thought dizzily. His thighs automatically twitched further apart.
Damen’s breath, then, hot, dampening the fabric; and the tip of his tongue tracing just under the head, and then slowly down; and then his lips, and his cheek, nuzzling. He made the noise again, the pleased little rumble, and Laurent felt it on his balls.
Speaking of balls. Damen kissed lower. Laurent let his head fall back. His stomach had gone tight. Damen licked, wetting the fabric. One time, only one time, he’d put his mouth on Laurent’s hole, and he’d– he’d licked the hair, flattening it down, and he’d put his tongue–
Damen pulled his mouth away, lazily, and kissed the inside of Laurent’s thigh.
Laurent fought down a whine. He controlled his breathing. When Damen met his eyes, he blinked back, features assembled into something neutral.
“Ask for it,” Damen said.
Laurent closed his eyes.
Damen blew a long, cool, leisurely stream of air over the wet fabric.
“Will you,” Laurent said. His boxers were chafing. “Will you– use your mouth.”
A smile, into the soft sensitive skin inside his thigh. “You’re so shy about it,” Damen murmured. “I know you know the words.”
“M’not shy,” Laurent whispered.
Damen hmmed again and bit softly at the pudgy bit of Laurent’s thigh. “Aren’t you?”
Laurent heard his throat click as he swallowed. He tried to modulate his voice, but it came out high and desperate when he said “Will you suck my cock.”
“‘Course I will,” Damen said. “Mr. deVere.”
Laurent couldn’t help the corners of his mouth twitching, a strange bit of lightness in his chest, as Damen wiggled his boxers off. He liked undressing Laurent himself; liked dressing him, too, oddly enough, buttoning his shirt and fixing his tie. And he liked this, mouthing very lightly at the shaft, pushing it softly against Laurent’s belly with his nose to lick fast and gentle and inexorable at the sensitive place under the head. When he took a detour to the side to lap up a trailing bit of precome, Laurent’s hips twitched up on their own, and the friction, the top of his cock rubbing against his own belly, felt so good that he did it again on purpose before he could stop himself.
Damen laughed a little.
“Please,” Laurent blurted. He was sweating, he could smell himself, even though the room was cold. He always had to beg, but sometimes Damen made him do it and then didn’t give it to him. “Please will you suck my co–” he had to cut himself off when Damen took the head in his mouth.
“Tell me when you’re close,” Damen pulled off to say, and Laurent made a noise at him, pleading, and Damen ignored it and slid his mouth down and up and down again, and cupped his balls, and wiggled a spit-slick finger in between his cheeks, and when Laurent whispered “please,” he pulled off, and kissed Laurent’s thighs while he calmed down, and then did it again. Laurent dug his nails into his palms, and tried to breathe. His DNA was twisting and untwisting like a towel being wrung out. The ceiling was blurry.
“Damen,” Laurent said the third time.
Damen pulled off– and then propped himself up a little more, so he could look down at Laurent. His spit-soaked cock, his flushed thighs. His face was like a hungry animal’s; Laurent’s wrists jerked against their bonds automatically.
Damen was reaching for the lube. Some things Laurent could not control– not the tacky wet he’d left on his stomach, not the blush from the top of his head down to his nipples, still red from their earlier treatment– but he could, at least in theory, keep his legs from spreading, his back from arching, his mouth from hanging open like a panting dog’s–
Damen kissed him, awkward, open, a mouthful of teeth. One finger, insufficient– when Laurent made a noise he flirted the other one around the edge, and then slid it in slowly, scissoring back and forth and finding–
Laurent made a noise so loud he flinched away from himself, cringing into the curve of Damen’s shoulder. Damen’s cock, still confined, twitched against Laurent’s hip– he liked it when he made noise– but he leaned down and kissed him again, firmly, muffling the noise Laurent made when he pushed in the third finger.
It was a stretch. Damen had such big hands. He had such big hands and such big eyes and a such lovely, full mouth, hanging open a little while he opened Laurent up, while he pressed exactly where–
“Close,” Laurent heard himself say, panicked.
“Okay,” Damen soothed. The fingers retreated, and then Damen retreated, pulling away, standing up. Laurent yanked at the ties, but he was just taking his boxers off.
He was looking, though, at the foot of the bed. He was visibly hard, and then he stepped out of his underwear and Laurent’s throat went dry. He could suck him off, maybe, if– if Damen told him to. Damen was staring at him again. He had– God, he had his cock in his hand, not really stroking, just rubbing a thumb over the wet head. Laurent’s legs had pressed back together, once there was no longer Damen between them. Hesitantly, offering, he spread them back apart.
“Fuck,” Damen said, low. His grip on himself tightened; Laurent had to squeeze his eyes shut again, kept them closed and his legs open while the mattress, shifted, Damen over him, all fours licking his neck, and then pillow under his lower back and hole blooming open, pain that was nothing like pain at all.
When he was all the way in Damen toppled forward onto him, elbows on either side, his skin on Laurent’s skin, feverish hot in the cold room. He was staying still, trembling with the effort, to give Laurent time to adjust.
Laurent kept his eyes closed. He clenched down, a little flutter.
Damen’s hips jerked a little.
Laurent did it again.
“Brat,” Damen said breathlessly, and started to move. Not much, really; that was how they liked it, short slow grinding thrusts, Damen pressing himself against Laurent’s prostate and Laurent’s ass clutching at him, and Laurent– moaning, really, grateful, he was so grateful, he loved this so much, he never thought he could love this–
“Laurent,” Damen groaned. “Look– look at me–”
Laurent opened his eyes. Damen was looking at him like he’d never seen him before, and like he’d known him since he was born. Something filled his chest, an unbearable swell like the rising tide, and he yanked at the ties to ground himself and his hands came tumbling out, landing on Damen’s shoulders.
Damen froze– Laurent froze, too. It didn’t matter, really; Laurent certainly wasn’t tied up every time they did this– but Damen was still, panting, the faintest look of embarrassment on his face.
Laurent found he disliked the expression. He squeezed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see, but he could tell it was still there. Damen still wasn’t moving, his shoulders tense under his fingers. Laurent could dig his nails in, if he wanted, mar the smooth skin. Instead, after a moment, Laurent lifted his hands back up and pressed them carefully flat to the plaster of the wall behind the bed.
Damen took a long, ragged inhale– Laurent could almost feel the hand on his neck again. His cock twitched inside Laurent, discernibly hardening.
He wasn’t moving, though. “Damen,” Laurent said.
“Look at me,” Damen rasped.
No. Laurent squeezed Damen’s hips with his thighs, gave up any dignity he’d had left, and let himself roll his hips, fucking himself as best he could.
“Fuck,” Damen said again. He sounded like he was in agony. “Fucking– tight, look at me, sweetheart look at me–”
Laurent’s eyes came open on their own. He was tearing up and didn’t care; he was leaking precome over his stomach like a fountain and didn’t care; he might have been drooling, and he’d never cared less about anything in his life. His stomach had wound tighter and tighter. “I’m gonna,” he said, and Damen said “no,” assured, and then Damen curled over, his forehead in the crook of Laurent’s shoulder, soft curls and the smell of shampoo, as he finished inside him.
Laurent waited. Damen was still- Laurent could feel the new laxitude in the body on top of his, the sweet, precious seconds of helplessness. He could feel Damen softening inside him, his own cock a distant throb, feel currents of cool air on sweaty skin. He could hear himself breathing, every exhale with the faintest edge of a moan, but his own need felt distant, unimportant. Damen was warm.
After a moment, or a thousand years, Damen propped himself up on an elbow and pulled out, a slow lingering drag that made Laurent clench ineffectually. He didn’t go far, though, just hovered above him, touching his cheek, his neck, and then tracing slowly up Laurent’s straining shoulder to the sensitive skin of his inner arm and wrist. His hands were still pressed to the wall.
Laurent was– Laurent could come, right? He had gotten fucked, and– asked for things, and– spread his legs, and, and been–
“Good,” Damen sighed. His hand encircled Laurent’s wrist. “Sweetheart.” A clumsy kiss to Laurent’s cheek. “You’re so sweet.”
Laurent didn’t know what to say to that, but he didn’t need to– Damen was kissing him softly on the mouth. And then downwards; Laurent made soft noise of protest.
“You want to hold onto me?” Damen asked, squeezing Laurent’s wrist a little to emphasize what he meant.
Laurent liked Damen’s hair– it would be no hardship, to touch the soft curls while Damen applied his mouth. But– Laurent tilted his chin up meaningfully.
Damen let out a breath of amusement. “Okay, sweetheart,” he said, and tucked himself more firmly against Laurent’s side, body like a furnace. “Do you want to move your hands?”
Why would he want to move his hands? Laurent frowned at him.
Another soft breath. “Okay,” Damen said again. His free hand traveled down Laurent’s body and wrapped around him, firm. “Tell me when you get close.”
Tell him? Laurent felt tears prick at his eyes.
“No,” Damen soothed. “I just want one more, honey, and then you can come.”
Once more, to the begging, thrashing edge of coming and then back down. Laurent sniffled a little, but nodded.
Damen groaned and kissed him again. His hand moved, dry at first but not for long, Laurent leaking wet down his cock. He was so sensitive he could feel each drop of precome blurting out of the slit, leaking down the head, only to be gathered up by Damen’s calloused hand. Laurent felt like every nerve in his body had been replaced with a live wire. His ears were roaring; he made noises but couldn’t hear them. Damen muffled them with his mouth anyway.
When the moment came he couldn’t say anything, just sobbed, loud and helpless, and Damen said shhh, and pulled his hand away, and held him while he closed his eyes and took deep, ragged breaths. “Sweetheart,” Damen kept saying. “Oh, sweetheart, honey, I know. Good boy.” He could feel himself crying, slow fat tears. Damen kissed them off his cheeks, made soothing noises.
Eventually the hand drifted back down again. Laurent’s breathing sped up again; the muscles in his stomach were twitching involuntarily. “Whenever you’re ready,” Damen soothed, but Laurent waited, as Damen’s hand moved, shoulder flexing, waited until Damen said “now.”
After, Laurent was– useless. Damen rubbed his sore shoulders, held him until his trembling eased, half-carried him into the bathroom. He came back to himself a little in the shower, not enough to keep Damen from washing his hair for him but enough to make a noise of complaint when Damen suggested he pee.
“Everyone pees in the shower,” Damen said.
“You’re gross,” Laurent mumbled.
When his hair was combed, and he’d been carefully dressed in Auguste’s old T-shirt, Damen tucked him into bed. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, smoothing the comforter, and then he was gone.
Alone, sense reasserted itself. Damen had hit the wrong switch on the way out, and the fan spun lazily above him. The gears whined a little as it approached full speed, and Laurent heard the echo of his own earlier simpering.
He’d begged Damen a thousand times; he’d let him tie him up, spank him, come inside him and leave him hard and aching. He fooled himself, pretending there was any dignity left to maintain, any respect left to preserve. This wasn’t– putting his hands on the fucking wall wasn’t even–
“Laurent?”
Laurent lifted his face out of his hands. Damen was carrying two plates, one big and one small, with a water bottle tucked under his arm. He should buy a reusable one, Laurent thought. Better for the environment.
The big plate had potstickers; Damen had dug a frozen pack of them out of Laurent’s fridge and put them in the microwave. There were packets of dipping sauce that had come with Chinese takeout last week and gotten stuffed in his empty fridge. On the small plate was a cut-up apple.
“Fruit is good for you,” Damen said, when Laurent gave it a look. “Hold on, I’m going to put a towel down.”
It was a good thing he did– squeezing sauce out of the little packets onto the dumplings was awkward even when Laurent wasn’t half-drunk with tiredness. He ate one just to try, figuring he would leave the rest to Damen, but the taste woke something up in his stomach, and he’d eaten half the potstickers and most of the apple before he realized. He licked the juice off his fingers and looked up to find Damen watching him, only a little lustfully. There was wariness on his face too, and beneath that something else, a foreign emotion Laurent didn’t recognize.
“I should be going,” Damen said, a question in his eyes.
Laurent’s mouth still wasn’t working properly. He shrugged a little.
Disappointment, flashing across Damen’s face. Then he shrugged, too. “Goodnight,” he said, gathering up the towel. He wasn’t looking at Laurent. “Make sure you actually sleep, this time–”
Why not. Why not ask, Laurent had asked for more humiliating things, had begged for them, and Damen– Damen had always given them to him. “You could stay,” he croaked. “It’s a quick walk to the office.”
A flicker of surprise– and then Damen smiled. The dimple made something flip in Laurent’s chest. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll stay.”