Saturday - Lofty

It wasn't the man's striking eyes that caught Blaine's attention, nor the perfect coif of his hair, nor his confident, lofty stride. It was something so innocuous as his jawline. Blaine wanted to trace it with his tongue, smooth down the arc of his neck and wet the dip of his collarbone. Mapping. Tasting.

Blaine wanted to prostrate himself at this man's feet, remove his fancy designer shoes so carefully and lick the lines between his toes; peel the material from his sculpted legs and worship the miles of them until he reached the jut of his hipbone, traveled to the places in between.

He shouldn't be staring. He shouldn't even have looked. Blaine fixed his posture, settling into the practiced pose of the lineup like it was his second skin. It wasn't enough to be as good as the sub next to him. Blaine had to be better.

Blaine always wanted to be better for Him.

The man was coming closer now; Blaine's eyes followed his careful, heavy footsteps. Large feet. They were something of a contradiction to the lean lines of the man's body, to his almost delicate features.

They only made Blaine want Him more. He had never wanted so badly to be chosen, to be worthy.

The feet stopped right in front of him, and Blaine wanted to stop breathing, wanted to inhale so deeply he would tremble with it, ruin his careful presentation, fall apart so utterly and helplessly that this man would see him and be drawn to his need and they could fit so right together, if only Blaine had a way to let him know….

Long fingers, sliding gracefully through his curls and curving there, grasping—just enough to feel the pull.

Blaine imagined how He would pull tighter, bend Blaine's head back too far, and Blaine's mouth would fall open and the man's cock would push inside; heavy, so heavy, filling him up until every second was a struggle not to choke, and there would be no space for thought or expectation or performance and Blaine could just be there, just be; he would show Him. He would take it so well.

"Look at me."

Blaine's head shot up, his eyes lifting, and the world was blue. The world was beautiful, and it was smiling at him. It was smiling at him like Blaine was beautiful, too.

The man looked away from him towards Sir, who was waiting patiently just beyond. "I want this one," He said with surety, then turned just as quickly back to Blaine. His free hand trailed lightly across Blaine's throat, and Blaine knew—he knew—the man was picturing a collar there. "How would you like to be mine, sweetheart?"

Blaine couldn't speak; he nodded.

Didn't He know that Blaine already was?