samson-hart

[samson-hart]

He gets a light show to go with his blowjob. An intense flare of lights as he hits the back of Vic’s throat. He wasn’t lying when he complimented: Vic knows what he’s doing and what he enjoys. His instincts are usually to close his eyes when a client has their mouth on him: think of another (he finds the options changing lately) and instead he focuses on Vic. The top of his head, beautiful black hair, cheekbones chiselled out of stone, and eyes that always seem a step away from him. 

Victor likes it when Samson’s exterior breaks down: but only when it’s honest. And by fuck, feeling Sparky’s dick against him does just that. “Long as I can, baby.” Ropes tighten so Samson leans into it, flexes his arms so the muscles bulge a little more through the ropes, so he has something to focus on besides his messy hard on out for both to see exactly how Vic makes him feel.

His tongue licks at the underside of his cock, the taste of it ever present and settling into a heated fury as he loses himself against Samson. His own erection strains in his pants, and the aching of it only makes him come back for more, trying to set his pace and moan around his shaft. Victor's light flares slightly as he bottoms out, feeling it hit the back of his throat, and the sticky mess he makes as he sucks him off voraciously. Tears well up and are blinked back as he feels his throat strain. No rehearsals tomorrow. Good. Spit-stained and messy, Victor looks at his work and licks his lips. "I know, Sam. I know. Least I can do for someone lookin' as pretty as you are like this." Maybe the man's lying for his benefit, but it's a good one—he likes being lied to like this. The feral little want in his gut bares its fangs and the ropes stiffen in place, muscles looking like a painting he can stare at for hours. "Damn, you're—I mean. Good enough to eat." Victor walks forward, pressing his body against Samson's and breathing him in, feeling his dick pressing hard against his own. "How long you think you can last like this, Sammy?"

[samson-hart]

The playful answer nearly has Samson rolling his eyes: instead, he keeps on enjoying the view. Watching with a small smile at the way Seth preens for him. He’s so obvious: the hair pushed back, arm flexing. It doesn’t make it any less enjoyable. It’s always a pleasure seeing Seth like this. Sometimes, Samson likes to think it’s real honesty. He knows better because there’s too much suave charm to him.

Even lying shirtless on his bed, he seems controlled, Samson doesn’t know how to feel about it besides doing what he does best: indulge. Sam rubs his hands together, a little bit of heat so Seth won’t startle at the touch of cold fingertips.

“You’re already my bitch,” he jokes, as he ignores Seth’s instructions to start slowly. Firm but not to the stage of hurting. Shoulders first, he begins. Years of practice meant he could probably give up sex work for massages! All that to say, he does a good job, slowly wringing out knots in Seth’s shoulders. “Tell me if it hurts.”

He's equal parts relieved and disappointed when Sam chooses the bed: obviously it's the most comfortable option and things do tend to unfold organically when two people share a horizontal space, but the hopeless degenerate in Seth was hoping for something a bit more... novel.

Still, he relishes the way Sam's wilderness-yellow eyes fix on him as he undresses, every mar and gnarl that decorate his arms and chest and back: Seth wears every one of them as a trophy, vestiges of a difficult life that's failed to kill him this far. He sometimes wishes that Samson's body would reflect some of the same struggles, but it's also refreshing to glance over and see him mostly unchanged, still as smooth and trim as they both were all those years ago... maybe instead of both growing old in Seth, they were both staying young in Sam.

"Yes sir," Seth playfully growls, slicking a hand back through his hair to give Sam a glimpse of the hard-cut muscles in his arms and chest somewhere beneath his mess of faded tattoos. Then he stretches onto his stomach across the bed with another of his melodramatic groans, folding his arms into a pillow. "Don't be gentle... Make these old fuckin' muscles your bitch."

[samson-hart]

[samson-hart]

Sam puts an arm around Max protectively. Distance would help him cool faster, but someone (or Seth) coming over would do much worse. The water’s already gone from his hair, simply making it a little fluffy as though it were just washed. He looks over the scene ahead of them: after so long the noise of the club is a simple backdrop to him. The quiet seems impossibly loud when there’s nothing like this to fill it. “Yeah, you weirdo,” he jokes, “Could you at least move some of my meat into the fridge? Your hot ass keeps spoiling it.”

"my hero." max makes sure to bat his eyelashes before he leans to cuddle up against samson's side. he could use the break, and with his friend here... nobody would dare to try and tell him otherwise. even seth might hesitate. he's not eager to find out either way, but he tries to force himself to find the thought funny. "you mean your fridge? yeah, don't worry. you'll be finding me in there sooner than later. honestly, i've been missing it since we all went under. is that weird?"

[samson-hart]

“Bed.” Chair would be safer, floor would be more uncomfortable. The bed? Samson knows where this will lead. He’ll follow Seth to the ends of the world, complaining the entire fucking way, but he’ll never deny him. Seth strips down and Samson enjoys the show.

Seth doesn’t show off. He’s started to fold in, sometimes, when he has a rare moment of shame. His age shows on him in a way it doesn’t for Sam. Little evidence of Sam’s life is in his skin, yet he can see the story play out on Seth’s. Watch time touch him in wrinkles and scars, in graying hairs in the thicket on his chest. He admires it and stares openly. This could just be a massage. 

It’s never just a massage. Why bother pretending?

Samson drops his suspenders, jeans hanging a little looser as they sway at his hips and he pulls off his shirt. “On your front, old man.”

Though he (hopefully) doesn't look like it, Seth squirms. He thinks of how unfair it is that Sam has access to every one of his preciously-guarded strings: surely he knows how his sympathetic expression weakens Seth's knees almost as much as it weakens his resolve, how his quiet reassurances and offers to make it feel better have Seth aching to roll over and become vulnerable.

When Sam offers the massage, it's a twin opportunity: not only does Sam have the strength to dig into the tissues and pull some of the pain out, but Seth prefers anything over spilling his guts on his best friend's couch.

"Damn, took you long enough to offer," Seth accepts, abruptly hauling himself up off the couch and abandoning Sam there with his emotions. He invites himself right into Sam's bedroom, already beginning to shed his layers of jackets and shirts into untidy piles on the floor until he's just bare chest and jewelry. "So where do you want me, Sammy? Bed, chair, floor?"

[samson-hart]

Shame and lust pool heavily in his gut: jeans ripping him back to the moment. The ring is forgotten, the blip of failure on his part pushed aside as he’s exposed. Samson moans low as Victor laps him up: cock stirring as Victor works slowly at first. He’d struggled at first around Samson, and there’d been nothing more attractive than watching him work at it, Samson cooing and complimenting him as the gags disappeared.

Now he’s so practised, so good for him, that Samson is grateful for the restraints. He flexes against them. “Your mouth's fuckin’ heaven-sent, baby,” he tips his head back, lets the feeling wash over him. Let Vic take as he pleases and keep himself focused on lasting as long as he can for him.

The hitch of Samson's breath is already something that alarms Victor—the man works with his body, he should know a way to better control it, but no. It's on his face, clear as day as he holds it in his hands. It's not obvious, of course, nothing with Samson is, but he knows something's off as his muscles tense under the ropes. Setting it aside on the dresser, he strokes the cool metal for a second, his body shifting as he returns, an easy smile given effort. Someone to run home to? Even more reason to think that this is just a job. Which it is, of course—but he'll lie to himself, anyway.

It takes a moment, and Samson's pants are torn from the front, heat and light in his hands tearing apart the fabric like silence after music. The scraps of it, he leaves by the wayside, his mouth tasting the salt of his skin and feeling the warm glow of the ropes against his cheek as he trails down, hands less gentle as he tries to claw back the feeling moments before. Victor tastes him, slowly at first, before losing himself in it—mouth working the tip and swallowing easily, as if Samson's cock was easy to take. (It wasn't. The first time round, at least.) He strokes, and swallows and his hand tightens, as he tries to restrict Samson's movement—no surprises. Not yet, anyway.

[samson-hart]

She’s worth changing for. He thinks she is, he thought Sable was worth changing for too. Fat load of good that did, right? He didn’t change. He got worse. Still, he knows he loves them both but he’s truly starting to see that love is not enough. Maybe it never was. From day one, his work was a challenge. From day one, he’s held more anger than any one person should. 

“You can’t—” he begins, about to snap she can’t tell him what to do. He asked. He quite literally asked. “You know it’s harder than just choosin’ for me, Sabe. If I could, I would’ve never snapped to begin with.” He readjusts his grip on the mug as he sees his knuckles turning white. Not now. “It’s not fuckin— it’s not self pity. I just know what I’m like. Can't be in denial about that anymore."

"Don't do that." Sable says sharply, fingers tightening around her coffee mug. Richard struggles to bring his melancholy gaze up, but she meets it sharply. "Self pity is just going to drag you down. What if you are that man? Well, what if you are? If you really think that, then what steps are you taking to change? Delilah is your daughter; she's worth changing for."

It's not the answer she'd have given ten years ago. But so much has changed. Everything has changed. Delilah barely sees her father, but she's a kid. It's not her responsibility to fix that. Richard needs to take the responsibility, and she hates to see him wallow in self pity. It's too late for 'what ifs'. Maybe he couldn't have changed and been the husband Sable needed, but surely, surely he can be the father Delilah needs. She deserves that much: a father that will try instead of accepting his flaws and giving it all up as a lost cause.

[samson-hart]

The 'apology' is taken as a compliment so he smiles briefly before letting his face remain fairly neutral. Samson listens to the quiet scratch of pencil on paper. The way he pauses and makes sweeping motions, looking at Samson with a very different gaze than he used to. It's not a bad feeling, simply a new one.

Of course there's going to be conversation. He's used to it, usually turning flirtatious and gentle, to ease people into whatever they've paid for. At least with newer clients. He scoffs, lightly, at the question. It's annoying. Definitely not meant to be ever so slightly demeaning, thinking they would have very different workplace conversations. "We talk about our lives. Our families. I'm usually talking about my fucking fridge going on the fritz, again... The weather. Regular shit." There's still the urge to please, though. Seth would be furious if Samson scared away his new pet project. He smirks at Miju, asks in a low voice, "What did you really want to talk about, hm?"

Since these are just preliminary sketches, Miju isn't worried about lighting or anything; so Samson finds a pose, and it's easy as that. It is a good pose. As an artist, Miju can appreciate that. It's purely academic, obviously. And he really does try to tell himself that, because goodness knows this poor sod gets enough objectification in his day to day life. Doesn't need it from Miju, too. God, is it awful that Miju sort of wishes he'd been able to boss Samson around a bit more to get him into a good pose? It's definitely awful.

"Sorry, didn't mean to doubt your abilities." Miju says with the ghost of a cheeky grin twitching at one corner of his mouth as he begins laying the basic shapes out on his sketch paper. "You know, I'll admit-- I've been wracking my brains all morning for 'safe for work' chit chat topics and come up rather short. What do you guys talk about when the lights come up and all the punters have gone home?" Miju does try and chat with people if he's drawing them in any official capacity, because it helps stave off the aforementioned boredom. But... as he says, a lot of usual topics (what do you do for work? Good day at the office? What do you do for fun?) all seem somewhat... inappropriate in this setting.

[samson-hart]

"Keepin' you company," he smiles down to Max before letting his attention wander over the club. Not everyone's a client, of course, there's plenty of people who are either genuinely oblivious or find the simple thrill of being a sordid place with friends enough of an appeal. "Not like I have far to crawl to my own bed. You know, if you need a place to cool down, my little apartment upstairs is always free."

"hey, be my guest." although ugh, it's hard to let the achievement slip him by. oh, to be a fly on that wall. see exactly how seth react to that... or not react. very little seems to faze him. samson is similar in that regard, max has found. he tries to claim the same... but it's just not so simple being him. he cares too much. about himself, that is. about what people think of that self. "speaking of, you off yet or just keeping lil ol' me company?"

[samson-hart]

The necklace in his small pocket feels heavy. He’d have tucked it away safely in his own apartment if he knew there’d be some light destruction. He can only hope Vic won’t take note of the ring at the end. It could be any old ring, he thinks. Readying a lie if asked: His mother’s ring. That would work. If only he wouldn’t ruin things twice in a row. Any sort of light shouldn’t burn through metal: Vic wouldn’t burn him or apply enough heat to melt the metal. He hopes. That hope isn’t enough. “Small pocket, I have a necklace, chuck it on the couch for us, love.” His smile shows his fangs, he makes sure to lean into the touch, hips jerking forward at the trailing hand. He’s already hard, has been for a while, but now he feels himself throb. “Then get to work.”

The hesitation makes the moment sour—and he wonders if he gets the man he likes or the one he pays for tonight. It's no secret what the deal is between them, but sometimes, even Victor wonders. But he's all his, for what that's worth, and he hums. His hands trail against his waist and dance against bare skin, the hum of light against Samson's belt, against his jeans, threatening to simply pry off every piece of clothing off him in a bad dash of desire, held back by a modicum of control. "Dangerous let, Sam," he purrs, closing the distance, his body pressing against Samson's own. Solid. Real. A little hot, given the ropes of light, but that is not his focus now. "One last ask, then. If you say yes, I hope you're not particularly attached to these jeans." A hand starts on the his waist and starts to dip down slowly. Tantalizingly slowly. "Even though your... everything does look nice in them."

[samson-hart]

Seth’s easy, sometimes. It just takes a few gentle words or touches from Samson and he’s being honest. Or at least as close to honest as he can be.  They’re no longer holding each other’s gaze, Seth losing this game of chicken. He hates seeing it, and really wishes there was something tangible he could do to help Seth when it gets bad. There’s little he can offer, he only gives people temporary fixes. Distractions. Usually from problems he’s caused himself.  “Massage?” he offers, a friendly thing even if Seth will inevitably try to turn it into something more. It works, Seth also does a bit better when he lets Samson help him out. “You know you don’t have to tough it out with me, Seth. ”

He closes his lips around the cigarette to take a long, whistling drag, conveniently long enough to stall a bit, but then Sam reaches over, so gently pulls Seth's face toward him and... damn it, if his resolve doesn't buckle right down like a pair of weak knees. His eyes meet Sam's and he knows that brassy, wolfish stare can see clear through him. Seth hates how handsome Richard is when he cares.

Seth holds that stare for as long as he can before his expression breaks apart into a scoffing grin, acrid smoke expelling from between his teeth. "Oh, fuck off with that look. It's the same old shit, Sam," he sighs. "You really gonna make me say it? I took the meds, there's nothing else to do. And there's definitely no fucking use complaining about it."

[samson-hart]

That night. A cold shock that makes even the warmth of the coffee mug feel like too much. Richard sets it down, twines his fingers together and squeezes. That fucking night when he finally snapped and showed his true colours. Sable had to fix the drywall herself, he was home so much later she'd beat him to it. The same night he later stumbled into Seth’s bed and royally fucked everything up. Stumbled. As though it wasn’t a string of decisions he made, as though there wasn’t every opportunity for him to turn away. 

He knows this is why they couldn’t patch things up. He clams up and knows if he starts talking he’ll get angry. He’ll think about her filed-down teeth, the sad desperation. The terror in her eyes that outmatched anything Sable had accidentally caused with her determination to keep Delilah safe. If he looks up, he’ll grovel.   “What if I am that man?” he says finally. He looks up. He can feel the sadness in his own expression, and wants to wipe it away because he’s not Sable’s problem anymore. “What if it’s better for her to never know me?” It goes unsaid he wonders the same about Sable.

She can see in his face that she ruined the moment. It's for the best; she'd rather be a wet blanket than give him false hope. It would be too easy to fall into old habits. Laughing, flirting, coaxing. But it would be cruel, to both of them.

It's just a difficult line to toe, trying to keep things cordial without finding those old habits. "It's a mother-daughter thing." Sable shrugs, as if the world exists in this simple dichotomy, as if having a son would have meant their child got on better with Richard. It's just hard to address his actual question, about Delilah wanting to see him. Sable tries to keep her gaze level, but it wavers almost immeditely. She feels her eyes soften, and she casts them down. "God, I don't know, Richie. She... it's complicated. You know that. She finds it hard to put-- that night behind her." He knows which night. She'll spare him the elaboration, and the reminder that Delilah blames herself for it. "But her feelings aren't going to change if you keep being distant. You have to show her you're not that man."

Sable isn't going to be able to change her own feelings on the matter, but she really does hope (for Delilah's sake) that Delilah can repair her relationship with Richard at some point.

[samson-hart]

There’s a blip of embarrassment—a rare feeling for Samson within the Lady’s walls. Not so rare outside of it. Miju’s smiling like Samson has done something stupid. It’s easy to brush off for the moment as no comment is made. It’s just a look. Samson takes off the jacket, and walks over to the desk and chair. He lets his denim jacket hang off one side of the chair. Whilst he’s never posed for a portrait: he knows how to make himself look appealing.  “First time for everything.” Turning the chair so it’s angled, Samson can face Miju side on. One arm leaning on the desk where he takes an empty glass. Samson sits a little straighter, lets his legs spread and rests his other arm to show off his arm, the tight fit of his white vest top. “I can sit still. People ask for all sorts you know.”

The childish part of Miju almost wants to giggle at how ready this guy is to take his clothes off. It probably shows on his face a bit, too. "What you're wearing is good. You can lose the jacket. Just sit on the cuck chair by that desk, pretend like you're at the bar. Have you ever sat for a portrait before? You're probably going to be bored."

It is surprisingly hard to find good sitters. Most people can do it for five or ten minutes but if Miju wants them to sit still for hours on end... not many people are up to the task. Good thing Samson is being paid! Miju won't be surprised if he's miserable by the end, though. He looks like he's used to more... active engagement.

[samson-hart]

"Won't tell him you said it, but I'll definitely add it to my roster of nicknames for him." It doesn't truly register for Samson that some people find Seth genuinely an intimidating figure to work for. Mr. Penis Pills gets a laugh from Sam, it's something he will repeat to soften the blow when Seth does, inevitably, forget or lose track of some medication. Samson leans one arm against the back of the couch behind Max's head. A mildly protective stance that, if the bucket of ice wasn't enough of a damper, would keep some clients at arm's length before seeking out Max. Give him a chance to cool down.

"you've got time to throw ice on me, don't you?" not always. it's a good thing that sam takes the time he does to keep him sorted—god knows that max isn't in the state of mind to do it himself. it's just so much easier to forget, to believe that this time will be different. that he'll be fine. somehow, the lesson has refused to stick—without the proper care, his body just isn't compatible with life. "what, you mean mr. penis pills over there?—don't tell him i said that."

[samson-hart]

Samson looks over Seth, he knows him well enough and Sam's had more than enough practice in reading people. He looks to see if Seth's tensing or shifting his weight differently: any sign he might've strained himself or pulled a muscle. The way he looks ahead, continues speaking as though nothings wrong is a clear give away. Samson reaches out for Seth, using the first knuckles of his fingers to catch the bottom of Seth's chin. Turn him to look at him, just so. "I appreciate the help, but I'd prefer some honesty." His fingers leave Seth's chin to continue smoking, blowing the smoke away from their faces.

"You love it." Seth doesn't think twice as Sam none-too-gently moves him to a new footrest: maybe it occurs to him that it's improper to put his shoes up on the furniture and he just doesn't care, but most likely the thought escapes him entirely. He's definitely not the type to keep nice things nice, especially if it means being uncomfortable.

"Pft, nah," he answers with a scoff as Sam sits alongside him, but doesn't look over, just keeps his eyes trained on...something else. Anything else besides his friend's piercing yellow stare. "I wanted to help. I skipped so many arm days down in the bunkers, got a lotta catching up to do." Plus, the brief rest is already doing him wonders, and the pill he popped a few minutes prior is starting to get to work. Seth lets his head drop back onto the back cushion too. "Kinda nice to see the sun again, huh?"

[samson-hart]

It's moments like this where Vic's true beauty shines: the concentration, the power. Lights flicker. Shadows darken up every corner of the room except for Vic. A blink and you'll miss it moment that Samson's lucky enough to witness. He grunts at the feeling of more knots. Like a wild beast caught in a trap, tied down, only more than happy to remain caged. For a moment Samson wants to voice his opinion. For a moment he forgets himself: this isn't his situation to control beyond hard boundaries. "I'm all yours," Samson says with a practiced flirtation, voice low and smooth, even as he feels his chest tighten at the thought. A pleasant tightening, the sort that was rare for him having been with so many people and had to grit his teeth through most of the encounters. He wants, this. Wants to Vic to ruin him. "Ruin me. Use your hands. Whatever you want, Sparky."

The ropes snake around him before releasing his neck, the danger passing as Victor takes a breath out. He focuses on Samson, literally tied to the floor below him in a way that has Victor eager to do some ungodly things and forget himself into next week and Victor has to show some restraint. Though, he cannot see the lights flickering behind him, threatening a halo and casting shadows around the room for a moment, before it dims just as fast. Ropes of light tie themselves down his chest and through his arms, binding them at the wrist, light enough to break but enough for a knot to be fitted in between. "Just a hand?" Threads start dancing around his belt and he wonders if he could—well, he should ask. "I mean, I think I can get you clothes, if you don't mind ruining some of these if I can get my—you know on them. Or maybe you like a hands-on approach."

[samson-hart]

mikey and nicky (1976) dir. elaine may