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Inside Out
Project Runway; Daniel/Nick; R.
The familiar breathing at the other end of the line soothed the day's nerves unlike any of the drinks Chloe had fed him that night. Daniel settled back into the crush of pillows at the foot of his bed and shifted his hips to ease the pressure on the erection straining against the stupid underpants he'd claimed after the whole runway debacle (Daniel's demands dictated Nick's moods, and Daniel had wanted nothing more than to make Nick smile just then). Over the pin-drop clarity of fiber optics, Nick's breath shuddered; Daniel knew without thinking that Nick was only a few strokes away from coming, on his back with his knees loose and opened, the way Daniel had requested.
Daniel squinted at the semi-darkness of the suite's ceiling (it was never really dark in the city, ever) and tried to imagine himself upside-down, looking down at Nick instead of straining to hear the exact moment of Nick's unspooling. Daniel closed his eyes then -- to disorient himself, to picture better, to try and ignore his last suitemate's oblivious snoring -- and pushed his hand down the front of the briefs, fisting his cock loosely. He always made Nick come first; he'd be damned if distance and an unfortunate dove-grey suit would alter their ritual.
Daniel, both earnest and calculated, whispered Nick's name and listened for the groan that poured into his ear like warm breath.