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The phone rings at eleven thirty in the evening and Jaime considers not answering it — he’s tired, he feels dirty after the fourth time he’s seen Selyse Baratheon this week and he just wants to go get a shower and collapse into bed, but —
But it’s January and December is a shit month and he has bills to pay, so he picks the phone up. Fucking hell, he hopes it is —
“Is it too late?” The rasp coming from the other side of the phone almost makes him moan in relief, but he doesn’t — he has a dignity.
“Please,” Jaime snorts, “Lannister escort service, in lack of an intercom you can always knock —”
“Oh, I didn’t know you were an escort now,” Sandor snorts.
“Well, why shouldn’t I call myself in a refined way? And is this a social call or do you want to come over?”
For a moment there’s no answer, then —
“Could I come over? Don’t say yes out of desperation,” he immediately adds, “if it’s too late I can come tomorrow.”
Jaime could tell him to. Sandor’s about the only single client he has that he knows he could turn down without regretting it, never mind the only single one who understands that maybe he would want to put a limit to how many people he fucks per night.
And yet.
He shudders, feeling dirty all over again.
Tomorrow he has no appointments and he had planned on just… getting some rest, which means that he could maybe squeeze him in now. He doesn’t think anyone will call, for that matter — it’s a weekday, and none of his female clients come without letting a few days pass in between turns.
“It’s not too late,” he says, “you can come in half an hour.”
“It’d be midnight,” Sandor says.
“Well, I’m a professional. Wouldn’t want you to smell three other people on me now, wouldn’t we?”
“As if I’d give a fuck, but all right. Half an hour.”
He closes the call and Jaime goes upstairs. He takes the shower, washes his hair carefully and by the time he’s out he doesn’t smell like Selyse anymore, good thing that. He considers just putting on old clothing, it’s not like Sandor gives a fuck about that, but still, he’d like to be presentable for the one single client he doesn’t hate having, and so he puts on freshly washed jeans and a decent white shirt, turns on the heating and waits. It doesn’t take long — five minutes later, there’s the usual knock on the door.
He half-smiles to himself and goes to open the door. “Lannister escort service at your disposal,” he says, moving to the side so that Sandor can walk in. Jaime doesn’t miss that he also didn’t wear his worst clothes and that he actually did put some cologne on, but he doesn’t point it out. He has a feeling it would just make things awkward, and telling the man that he appreciates how he doesn’t show up looking like he just fell out of the bed when the guy in question is… Sandor Clegane, well. It would just bring unnecessary awkwardness, considering that he takes compliments even worse than Jaime himself does. Which is… probably saying all and a lot to unpack, but he’s not even attempting to go there. He’s not.
“You’re hilarious,” Sandor rasps, and then stares at him straight. Jaime stares back, half-shrugging — one day Sandor is going to grasp that Jaime can’t honestly give a single fuck about the state of the left side of his face, and maybe he did grasp it when he refused to get extra to touch him there, but still.
“So?” He asks. “Any philosophical question to ponder or…?”
Sandor shakes his head, then takes two hundred out and dumps them into Jaime’s palm. “You look like utter shit,” Sandor rasps again, “and I haven’t — well. Since the last time.”
“… It was in October,” Jaime blurts, realizing that maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.
Sandor half-smirks. “Yeah, well. Why do you think you are the only asshole who doesn’t tell me to fuck off when it comes to sex in this entire town? Anyway, that’s for — however long we manage.”
“It’s too much —” Jaime starts. It’s what he charges Sandor for an entire night, usually, which means that they start at nine in the evening and end at two in the morning, and there is no way he can hold on that long until then. Not tonight —
“Lannister, fuck’s sake, I know how business is this time of the year. You can give me a discount next time if you’re that hung up on it.”
“You know,” Jaime says tiredly, pocketing the money, “we could try to —”
“I might be paying for a fuck, but I’m not a goddamned sadist and you know it.”
Oh, he does.
He damn well does. People wouldn’t think of it, and yet —
Jaime shakes his head. “Sure,” he says, smiling a bit wider, and he knows he means some of it. “Then follow me,” he winks. “The escort service is glad to provide tonight’s entertainment.”
Sandor rolls his eyes, leaves his leather jacket on the sofa and follows him upstairs.
Jaime feels for a moment like that money is burning his pocket, and wishes they could afford to have casual sex without his bills depending on payment, but that’s not going to happen and he knows that, and it’s already a miracle that they’re actually friendly and that he actually — well.
It wouldn’t exactly be fair to say he doesn’t hate sex with the man.
He actually does like it, most of the time.
Too bad that he can’t quite get over the fact that they’re not having it for free.
— —
Thing is: they’ve been fucking for long enough that Sandor can read the signs. He can see that Jaime goes up the stairs tiredly and that his preening before had less bite in it than usual, and that he hasn’t slept in a while, and he feels like shit for having showed up at all, but he also can read when he’s not wanted, and for some reason he still doesn’t fathom… Jaime does look like he wants him here, for now, and so he follows him upstairs and into the guest room, where Jaime takes off his shirt the moment they’re inside, kicking off his jeans, too. He’s not wearing underwear, but he hadn’t expected that, not when he showed up with such short notice.
He also notices that he has a few bruises on his back that weren’t there in October.
He could ask. But he can see the sharp nails behind them and he doesn’t think Jaime would answer him regardless.
He kicks off his own shoes.
“Is —”
“First drawer,” Jaime half-smiles, and Sandor nods before he also finishes taking off his clothes and opens it. There’s lube and condoms, and while in theory he certainly doesn’t have sex with other people, they’re certainly not that type of fuckbuddies, and so he grabs both lube and one of the condoms, then slams the drawer closed and turns his attention back on Jaime. He’s lying down on the bed, making himself comfortable, that lightly tanned skin and gold hair so vivid against the white sheets, and he’s smirking up at him as if he wants Sandor to join him, and —
He shakes his head, puts the condom on, places the lube next to Jaime’s hip and climbs on the bed, looking down at him, his hair brushing against Jaime’s face. Jaime shudders, and smirks up at him again.
“I might have missed your glares,” Jaime says, and Sandor has to laugh, and for a moment he wishes kissing wasn’t off limits. And yet, it is, and so he breathes in.
“Honored to hear it,” he rasps. “Now how about you let me handle this in peace?”
“How romantic,” Jaime gasps, and then he rubs his cock against Sandor’s thigh, spreading his legs.
Well, shit, Sandor thinks, breathing in and out, and then pours some lube on his fingertips because like hell he’s going to make this rough or dry, worst of all. Jaime breathes in sharply when Sandor touches the rim of his ass, and he’s tight, so Sandor supposes that at least he’s tonight’s first man and he’s not going to have and do anything else because he has given up on touching Jaime there a few times, when after other guys he’d have felt like downright shit to ask Jaime to take him, too. Now, though, he’s moaning softly and spreading his legs wider, whispering something about having some fun at least, and so Sandor pushes those fingers in tighter, and then Jaime moans out loud, his hand reaching for Sand0r’s face, touching lightly over his cheekbone, his thumb brushing over a part where Sandor knows you can almost see bones —
He breathes in. These are the moments he wishes he could kiss the guy if only to show some appreciation for the gesture, but he thinks he knows why it’s off limits and he certainly won’t go and begrudge him for only wanting to kiss people who aren’t clients, most likely, and so he just breathes out and relishes in it, in how good it feels that someone is touching him there, and not like it’s a hindrance — admittedly, he thought Jaime faked it very well before, but after he stopped taking money for it, he had to admit to himself he most likely just doesn’t mind.
He breathes in once, twice, basking in the feeling of fingertips right there, and then he breathes in again and grabs for Jaime’s wrists and pins him down to the bed.
The way Jaime moans at that, he knows he’s not faking it. He’d have to be a downright idiot not to.
“Leave them there,” he groans, letting them go.
Jaime doesn’t, in fact, move them. Hell, he doesn’t even give him some smart-ass retort, which Sandor had factored in — they’ve been fucking for this long, he has figured that out now, and so he lets an approving sound leave his mouth before he grabs the Vaseline, opens it and coats his fingers in it; when he moves a couple of them right over the rim of Jaime’s ass Jaime moans out loud, and when Sandor pushes them both in slowly he moans louder and no, he’s definitely not faking it whatsoever. He coats his fingers in grease again, then pushes them in again, and again, and he doesn’t miss how even if Jaime’s about writhing around them he’s not moving his wrists from the mattress, and he wishes it wasn’t getting to him as it actually is, except that it is and when he reaches down with his free hand to touch himself he’s rock hard, and fuck he usually likes to drag it on a bit longer, but it’s been a long time and Jaime’s muttering harder when he pushes his fingers in deeper, time and time again until he’s stretched open and it won’t hurt when he slides him, and —
Maybe there can be another round where they drag it longer later.
Now he needs —
He needs, and so he moves his hand back, not minding Jaime’s groan of displeasure as he does, and then he grabs one of Jaime’s wrists, puts it above the other and pushes them both down — he his hand is large enough to do it, and Jaime looks up at him with half-blown pupils and with parted lips and he’s moaning yes go ahead do it do it do it and so he nods and he moves further up and pushes inside and at that Jaime moans louder before moving his legs behind Sandor’s back.
“Fuck,” he groans when Sandor buries himself to the hilt, going as slow as he can, “fuck, yes, you can move —”
“I know,” Sandor replies, moving another hand to the back Jaime’s head, grasping his hair, pulling a bit, and Jaime moans again. “I’m moving. When I decide,” he goes on, not missing that Jaime’s cheeks flush scarlet at that, and then starts fucking him, slow, steady, taking his time. Jaime keeps on moaning, louder and louder and louder, and Sandor keeps on sliding back and forth, and Jaime’s arching up into his hands over and over and his face is all flushed and he’s saying yes all over and gods but Sandor might have fucking issues but so what if he likes it when people he fucks enjoy it and he knows they’re not faking it?
“Come on,” he says, “no need to show off.”
“Fuck,” Jaime says, “fuck, I —”
“Don’t drag it out,” Sandor groans, “go ahead.”
And he does — he slides in and out another couple of times and then buries himself inside Jaime with a last push and Jaime clenches around him, moaning loud enough that someone could probably hear them from the floor below, and then he’s coming all over his stomach and Sandor can’t hold it in anymore either — he follows suit, letting one of Jaime’s wrists go, and Jaime immediately reaches up and grabs at the scarred side of his face while he’s coming still and shit, it shouldn’t feel this good and he shouldn’t like it this much, but he does, and then he just stops thinking altogether as a wave of pleasure takes him again, and again, and fuck but it feels good, so good, and if only they weren’t who they were —
Never mind that.
— —
He lets himself fall on Jaime’s side after he pulls out, throwing out the condom and breathing in again, and Jaime makes a sound in the back of his throat before he turns on his side. He looks wrecked, flushed cheeks and hair sticking to his face, and he’s not asking, but —
Sandor holds out an arm, not asking either, and Jaime presses up against him a moment later, breathing in once, twice, and then —
“You know,” he says, “I can be good to go again. I mean, in a bit.”
“Guess I could as well,” Sandor replies. “But not now.”
“Well, you did pay for the entire night. There’s time.” He’s half-smiling now, a sliver of white teeth showing before his hand lands on Sandor’s side.
He breathes out in relief, then groans in approval. “Fine,” he says, “then we can wait if you’re not kicking me out.”
“Fuck no,” Jaime says. “And for that matter, let me tell you, it’s a damned pity you have to come here for this. Anyone who refuses you on account of that,” he gestures towards his face, “has zero taste.”
“What,” Sandor snorts, “I am that good now?”
“You wouldn’t know,” Jaime sighs.
“Well,” Sandor admits a moment later, “at least someone appreciates my skills.”
Jaime shakes his head. “People who’ll make a guy have fun in bed are scarce in this economy.”
He says it so flippantly it almost hurts to hear it. “I know it’s wasted breath,” he groans, figuring that at this point he can say it, “but that’s bare decency and you ain’t cut for this job at all.”
“How flattering,” Jaime winks at him, “now do you think you could show me some of those skills again or do you need more time?”
“A minute,” Sandor says, and not because he couldn’t get started again but because if he’s the fourth fuck of the evening maybe he wants to take it slow.
Sometimes he wishes they were… less fucked up than this. Sometimes he wishes the both of them could be a first choice for the other and maybe they’d go somewhere.
Except that he knows it’s not going to happen.
He doesn’t even dare hope that one day they’ll find better and they’ll be able to have a drink about it and tell each other that hey, they could do better than this.
That would be deluding himself way, way too much. But if any of them might it won’t be him, so he’ll wait another minute, take his time making sure both of them enjoy the rest of the evening, and stop thinking about it.
Until next time, at least.
End.