Untitled Demetri/John O rentboy fic (Oneshot)
Title: Untitled (oneshot)
Series: TDS
Rating: R
Pairing: Demetri Martin/John O.
Warnings: Language and sexual situations
Summary: The prompt was: Demetri Martin and/or John Oliver in some kind of rentboy/hookerfic. And this happened. Dedicated to _lady_vanilla_, and I apologize in advance for any grammatical errors.
The most they’ve caught sight of each other-actually able to look at each other eye-to-eye-was somewhere within a second, and yet, Demetri still remembers him despite its gratuitous significance. Perhaps it’s the glasses; the rimless glasses roughly encircles the his wide eyes. He notices the shadow of his shave; its hinted gray paints at his thin face. Maybe it’s even the hair-short but perfect for his face. His bangs barely brush his eyebrows.
And he often wears business suits, Demetri realizes. Wonders if he has a real job, like a wealthy businessman just on another day to work or get scolded by their bosses. For all he knows, the glassed man can also some wanna-be who wears the same suit in public just to look professional. (Has to put this into consideration because fuck, has he met many of them.)
Perhaps the most reasonable answer is that, whenever he walks by, Demetri catches him looking right at his general position and quickly avoids contact, scurrying away.
No matter what day, though, he is always there. Same time and place. The street’s not often crowded, per se. It’s had some horrible reputation for drug dealing and prostitution, and he’s no exception for the label. Luckily for him, he’s never been caught, so he keeps his business out from the public. And he’s limited his clients to better looking people (they’ve got more tips to spare).
But there that man is, always. It’s about three o’clock in the afternoon. He buys the newspaper from the same guy at the same stand across the street, take a quick glance up at where he is and then, again, scurries away.
Sounds like his life in a nutshell, it seems; people come and go. It sucks, but when you’re pushing for some cash, it becomes the easiest way out. Like crack, people also desire a good fuck. Part of human life, he likes to think.
And then one day, out of the blue, he decides to ambush. the strange Business Man.
Demetri tries to be sly about it too; as the man approaches the stand, his hand extending to part his fifty cents. While his other hand reaches for a papers, Demetri snatches it away.
“Oh, thanks,” he tells the man, backing away as he takes a quick look at the cover.
“Do I-do I know you?” Business Man asks, seeming more amused than angry.
Demetri lifts a brow and makes no word. He starts walking toward the alleyway, motioning him to follow.
When he arrives, Demetri flings the paper against the cold pavement, grabs the collar of the man’s suit and shoves him against the bricked wall of some building he doesn’t care about. His hands are on either side of the other’s head.
“Dude,” begins Demetri, bemusedly, “You’re British.”
“Did the accent give it away?” he replies, trying to stand straight. Even so, he feels shorter.
Demetri pauses for a moment and then makes a face. “…All right. Cool.” He then moves in, slowly closing the gap between them.
“I just… want my papers back,” gasps the man as he squirms.
“What’s your name?”
“John. John Oliver,” he answers, accent thick.
“John, why do you always look at me?” Demetri asks, his breath ghosting over John’s lips, sending chills down his spine. “And you know I notice it too. I was wondering when you’d grow the balls to talk to me. Why don’t you?”
Demetri’s hands are enjoying their own lives at this point; his right hand caressing his face, his thumbs brushing at his cheekbone, and the other travels south-lower and lower until his fingers find a bulge.
“You’re hard,” Demetri notes, smiling as he takes an effort grind slightly, earning a groan from the Brit.
John’s hips buck, desperately trying to pickup the friction although every rational part of him screams ‘what are you doing!’ and ‘Jon will start calling you soon if you don’t get the fuck out of there’
“Nugh… Demetri,” John huffs as he places his hands on the other’s shoulders, lowering his head.
“How’d you learn my name?” Demetri asks, his tone static as he works at the Brit’s belt.
“The man at the news stand-” He pauses, inhaling sharply as Demetri’s fingers found his cock, teasing pumping, “Jesus, Demetri.”
“He’s far from Jesus, last time I checked. What else did he say?”
Gasp. John gathers enough will to put a hand on Demetri’s chest, shoving him away. “Not here,” he manages between staggered breathing.
To this, Demetri smiles. “My apartment’s across the street.”
Series: TDS
Rating: R
Pairing: Demetri Martin/John O.
Warnings: Language and sexual situations
Summary: The prompt was: Demetri Martin and/or John Oliver in some kind of rentboy/hookerfic. And this happened. Dedicated to _lady_vanilla_, and I apologize in advance for any grammatical errors.
The most they’ve caught sight of each other-actually able to look at each other eye-to-eye-was somewhere within a second, and yet, Demetri still remembers him despite its gratuitous significance. Perhaps it’s the glasses; the rimless glasses roughly encircles the his wide eyes. He notices the shadow of his shave; its hinted gray paints at his thin face. Maybe it’s even the hair-short but perfect for his face. His bangs barely brush his eyebrows.
And he often wears business suits, Demetri realizes. Wonders if he has a real job, like a wealthy businessman just on another day to work or get scolded by their bosses. For all he knows, the glassed man can also some wanna-be who wears the same suit in public just to look professional. (Has to put this into consideration because fuck, has he met many of them.)
Perhaps the most reasonable answer is that, whenever he walks by, Demetri catches him looking right at his general position and quickly avoids contact, scurrying away.
No matter what day, though, he is always there. Same time and place. The street’s not often crowded, per se. It’s had some horrible reputation for drug dealing and prostitution, and he’s no exception for the label. Luckily for him, he’s never been caught, so he keeps his business out from the public. And he’s limited his clients to better looking people (they’ve got more tips to spare).
But there that man is, always. It’s about three o’clock in the afternoon. He buys the newspaper from the same guy at the same stand across the street, take a quick glance up at where he is and then, again, scurries away.
Sounds like his life in a nutshell, it seems; people come and go. It sucks, but when you’re pushing for some cash, it becomes the easiest way out. Like crack, people also desire a good fuck. Part of human life, he likes to think.
And then one day, out of the blue, he decides to ambush. the strange Business Man.
Demetri tries to be sly about it too; as the man approaches the stand, his hand extending to part his fifty cents. While his other hand reaches for a papers, Demetri snatches it away.
“Oh, thanks,” he tells the man, backing away as he takes a quick look at the cover.
“Do I-do I know you?” Business Man asks, seeming more amused than angry.
Demetri lifts a brow and makes no word. He starts walking toward the alleyway, motioning him to follow.
When he arrives, Demetri flings the paper against the cold pavement, grabs the collar of the man’s suit and shoves him against the bricked wall of some building he doesn’t care about. His hands are on either side of the other’s head.
“Dude,” begins Demetri, bemusedly, “You’re British.”
“Did the accent give it away?” he replies, trying to stand straight. Even so, he feels shorter.
Demetri pauses for a moment and then makes a face. “…All right. Cool.” He then moves in, slowly closing the gap between them.
“I just… want my papers back,” gasps the man as he squirms.
“What’s your name?”
“John. John Oliver,” he answers, accent thick.
“John, why do you always look at me?” Demetri asks, his breath ghosting over John’s lips, sending chills down his spine. “And you know I notice it too. I was wondering when you’d grow the balls to talk to me. Why don’t you?”
Demetri’s hands are enjoying their own lives at this point; his right hand caressing his face, his thumbs brushing at his cheekbone, and the other travels south-lower and lower until his fingers find a bulge.
“You’re hard,” Demetri notes, smiling as he takes an effort grind slightly, earning a groan from the Brit.
John’s hips buck, desperately trying to pickup the friction although every rational part of him screams ‘what are you doing!’ and ‘Jon will start calling you soon if you don’t get the fuck out of there’
“Nugh… Demetri,” John huffs as he places his hands on the other’s shoulders, lowering his head.
“How’d you learn my name?” Demetri asks, his tone static as he works at the Brit’s belt.
“The man at the news stand-” He pauses, inhaling sharply as Demetri’s fingers found his cock, teasing pumping, “Jesus, Demetri.”
“He’s far from Jesus, last time I checked. What else did he say?”
Gasp. John gathers enough will to put a hand on Demetri’s chest, shoving him away. “Not here,” he manages between staggered breathing.
To this, Demetri smiles. “My apartment’s across the street.”