Taking Undue Liberties

Sometimes he still thinks it should bother him that Luck’s number comes up second in his recent calls menu, but Dallas can’t seem to get upset about it anymore. There are much better things to be worried about, if he’s still going to freak out about this…thing they have.

Like the fact that he’s sitting here wondering if it’s too late to call New York. It’s about 9:30 in LA, the earliest he could get away with ditching his business dinner — fortunately the Japanese guys had jet lag even worse than he does; they were happy enough to say goodnight and start over tomorrow — and coming back to the hotel. The other suits he brought with him have been pressed and hung up in the closet, so Dallas doesn’t worry too much about the condition of the one he was wearing today. Looks like he could leave it in a pile on the floor and the concierge service would be completely on top of it.

He climbs into bed in his undershirt and boxers, and the sheets have the crisp smoothness of freshly-laundered ridiculous-thread-count cotton, and if he has to be three thousand miles from where he wants to be right now, at least he’ll be comfortable. He’s still holding his phone. And he knows he shouldn’t call Eve this late.

The phone only rings twice. “Hello,” Luck says, warmly, like he was happy to see Dallas’s name come up on his phone’s screen. “I didn’t expect to hear from you again tonight.”

“Yeah, well.” Dallas smiles, feels like he ought to be looking away even when Luck’s not there to see him. “I figured you might be up past your bedtime.”

Luck makes one of those little amused noises that isn’t quite a real laugh. “Even without you here to be a bad influence,” he says.

“Not fair,” Dallas says. He stretches out, cradles the phone against his ear. It’s going to be a long week. “I haven’t been a bad influence on anybody in years.”

“Decades,” Luck agrees. “How did your meeting go?”

“Ah, you know how it is,” Dallas says. He wonders if that’s true, if the yakuza do business the same way the legitimate companies do. “The first meeting is just sort of everybody saying hello, how lovely to see you, how’s your family.”

“Of course,” Luck says. Even if it is different with the mob, he’ll never say. And definitely not on the phone. “Too early to tell anything definite, then?”

“Yeah,” Dallas says. Somewhere outside, sirens wail, and for a second it almost makes him feel like he’s at home. “I didn’t — I didn’t really call to talk about business, though.”

“No?” Luck says. He pauses, like he’s wondering whether he should ask. “Why did you call, then?”

Dallas takes a deep breath, realizes he backed himself into this corner with no help at all. “Because I — I miss you,” he says quietly.

He thinks he can hear Luck take a breath, in that kind of shaky way he still does sometimes when Dallas is decent to him and he’s not expecting it. “I miss you, too,” Luck says.

There’s a kind of awkward pause, because what do you say after that? Dallas laughs a little. “Hell, it’s only a week, right? I’ll be home on Friday. People live through worse all the time.”

“They do,” Luck says. He should know. There’ve been plenty of times when — okay, Dallas didn’t call for a guilt trip, either. He called to hear Luck’s voice, and right now Luck’s saying, “You’ve spoiled me lately.”

Dallas smiles. “Guess I’m still a bad influence after all, huh?”

“Still a delinquent, after all these years,” Luck says. “Maybe that’s why I can’t leave you alone.”

“Yeah?” Dallas says. He closes his eyes. Picturing Luck’s smile is better than studying the patterns in the stucco ceiling. “Polite, clean-cut Luck Gandor likes bad boys?”

“One bad boy in particular,” Luck says. He must be smiling now. His voice has that sound to it. Dallas pictures him sprawled out across the sheets, looking over with his eyes half-lidded and that little smirk tugging at his lips like he’s about to insist on going again before he’ll let Dallas sleep.

God, that’s a gorgeous image.

“You in bed already?” Dallas asks. It comes out hoarse.

“It’s after midnight,” Luck says. “Yes.” There’s a faint sound over the line, like he’s shifting, getting comfortable. “Why?”

Dallas swallows. “Just, you know.” It sounds ridiculous to say it. “Trying to picture you. In my head.”

“Mmm.” It’s the sound Luck makes when Dallas bites down on his throat, slides a hand up slowly between his thighs. God. They’re three thousand miles apart. This isn’t the time. “Should I help?”

Or maybe it is. “If you want to,” Dallas says. His cock stirs. Apparently Luck doesn’t even have to be in the same time zone to turn him on anymore. “Yeah.”

“Yes, I’m already in bed,” Luck murmurs. “Stretched out on my back. Thinking of you.”

“Naked?” Dallas asks.

Luck almost laughs again, and the sound is warm, but it makes Dallas shiver. “You want me to be.”

Dallas licks his lips. “Yeah.”

He hears cloth shifting noises, the faint sound of breath too close to the phone, and then Luck’s voice: “All right. In bed. Naked. Wishing you were here to touch me.”

“Jesus,” Dallas says. “Are you hard?” He switches hands, so he can hold the phone with his left, reaches down with his right to push his boxers down out of the way. “I am.”

“Yes,” Luck breathes. “I’m hard. Stroking my cock right now. I want you.”

Dallas wraps his hand around his cock. His ring’s cold against his skin, but that won’t last long. He moves slowly, lingering, trying to mimic the little twist at the peak of the stroke that Luck does just right. “Want to be there, want to see you,” he says. “God, I bet you look gorgeous right now.”

“You wouldn’t be just looking, would you?” Luck purrs. “You’re not that good at keeping your hands to yourself.”

“No,” Dallas says. His face feels hot. “No, I’d want to touch you. You know I — I like your cock.” Luck’s answering hum makes him move faster. “You want me to touch your cock? Tell me what you want me to do to you, Luck Gandor.”

Luck’s breath hitches. God, that’s hot. “I want you in my lap, Dallas,” he says. His voice was fucking made for this. Dallas’s cock aches. “I want to feel you rub your cock against me. I want to feel the way you squirm when I slick you up.”

“Yeah?” Dallas says. He’s not sure what’s hotter, the image of Luck doing this to him, or the image of Luck lying in bed right now jerking off over him. “You want me to sit on your cock?” he asks. “You want to be able to watch me fuck myself. You like that.”

“You know I do,” Luck says. “You look as good as you feel, tight around my cock, hard for me, for my cock up your ass,” and his voice shakes faintly — all the warning Dallas usually gets before he loses it.

Dallas strokes his cock harder. “You’re going to come, aren’t you?” he says. He thinks this should have taken longer. He thinks he’s about to lose it, too. “Tell me you’re going to come. Jerking off over me.”

Luck moans. “Yes,” he says, “Dallas, yes,” his breath loud enough to hear and Dallas can picture him like that — cock in his hand, back arched off the bed, coming all over himself oh God — and he says, a couple of breaths later, “You too, Dallas, come on, you too.”

“Keep talking,” Dallas says breathlessly. He’s close, so God damn close.

“Yes?” Luck says. “You want to hear how much I want you to come? How much I want to watch, to feel it?” Dallas moans, too close to manage words properly, and Luck laughs. “I want to make you come, Dallas, want to stroke your cock until you come for me, give it to me, now, let me hear you, now,” and he probably keeps talking after that but Dallas isn’t paying attention because instead he’s panting and cursing and coming for Luck when the bastard’s not even there.

Afterward he can hear Luck’s soft laughter through the phone. “You’re the only person I’ve ever known,” Luck says, “who uses ’son of a bitch’ as an endearment.”

Dallas laughs, too, giddy and relaxed and almost — almost — as content as if they’d actually done stuff together. “You know I don’t mean it,” he says.

“I know,” Luck says. “I’ve had a fair amount of time to get used to your bad habits, Mister Genoard.”

“Yeah.” Dallas smiles and he bets he can picture the look on Luck’s face right now, too. “I’m just lucky you’re patient, Mister Gandor.”

Luck takes an audible breath, and then lets it out again without saying anything. On his second try, he manages, “It’s going to be a long week, isn’t it?”

Dallas laughs weakly. “Yeah,” he says. He opens his eyes, looks over at the clock. Getting close to ten now. “I should let you go, get your beauty rest, huh?”

“Probably,” Luck says. “You’re not the only one with morning meetings.”

“Right.” Dallas hesitates, but not for all that long. “Should I, ah, call you tomorrow?”

Luck hums. “I’d like that,” he says.

Dallas feels warm, thinks he’s being ridiculous, can’t help it. “All right,” he says. “And, ah, I — um. You know.”

“I know,” Luck says. “You, too.”

“Night, Luck,” Dallas says.

“Good night, Dallas,” Luck answers. “Sleep well.”

Dallas keeps listening until the trill of his phone tells him the connection’s ended.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, August 6th, 2008 at 4:29 pm and is filed under Baccano!, Which Way Home. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.