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Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 4/5
Date: 2014-11-09 05:03 pm (UTC)Butch puffed up with pride, grinning roguishly. "Sorry ladies," he said, preening, "I'm all booked up for the day." He shot a sidelong glance at the King, and his heart very nearly stopped. "But call me sometime, I'll treat you real nice."
The girls pouted, and the King dismissed them before Butch could change his mind. "Thanks, ladies, but we got this one handled. Run along now, the men are talking."
The blonde rolled her eyes and prodded the other, Katie, awake. They left the room, glancing back over their shoulders at Butch and the King, giggling the whole while. Butch winked exaggeratedly at them, and they shrieked with laughter and slammed the door behind them. Butch dropped his bag on the ground and turned to face the King, hands on his hips.
"So were you serious about the bath, or we doing this raw?" He stepped forward, set his hands on the King's waist.
Before he answered, the King reached down and kissed him. He'd only meant to test his boundaries, get a feel for the younger man's body, but he felt Butch's tongue pressing against his lips, and he opened his mouth agreeably, welcoming the intrusion. Butch kissed fiercely and expertly, one hand running up to tangle in the King's hair, the other snaking south the grope his ass. He pressed their bodies together, insistent, demanding. He was already hard, and the pressure of his erection send a shiver down the King's spine.
Butch caught the King's bottom lip between his teeth, and they broke apart, connected by a trail of saliva. He was breathless, could still taste Butch's tongue, but he pushed the younger man away, held him at arm's length. There was no need to rush.
"Go on in, take a bath," he said. "I can wait."
Butch seemed surprised, but he took the new development in stride. "Alright," he said. "Bath, then."
"It's just back there," the King said, pointing. "Take your time."
Butch left the room, but didn't close the door behind him. The King knew that he was hoping that he'd get impatient, come in and fuck him in the tub, but he was determined to savor the moment. He wanted Butch spread-eagle on his red satin sheets, moaning and glistening with sweat. He heard the tap squeaking in the bathroom, the rush of running water, a low, impressed sound. The King smirked. The hair drove women wild, the running water drove everybody wild.
He crossed the room to the mirror. His hair was mussed, his jacket wrinkled from a night on the Followers' folding chair. He had time to change, certainly, but he didn't want to come across as too eager, too desperate. Instead, he opened a tin of pomade and ran a comb through his hair. Satisfied that everything was in place, he straightens his jacket and gets out his shaving kit. It was a genuine antique; Pacer had found it in an old barbershop and given it to him for his birthday years ago. He poured water from the pitcher on his vanity into the cup, then worked up a lather with the brush. He hummed to himself as he shaved, an old song from one of the now-defunct holotapes that they'd found when they first moved into the building.
The shaving lather is Pre-War, exquisitely thick and rich. The King orders it special from Mick and Ralph, and they know better than to sell it to anyone but him. He pays through the nose for the luxury, but it's worth every cap. It is good to be King.
In the other room, the tap turns off, the rushing water stops. The King smooths a flyaway hair, applies a little cologne, still humming to himself. There's splashing in other room, a curse as the soap slips from Butch's fingers. "You wanna shave after you're done in there," the King calls out, "I've got extra stuff in the basin under the sink."
A pause. "'Kay. I'll be a few minutes."