tampered | Log; complete

Log; complete

When; December 2nd
Rating; PG-13
Characters; Styles

under_secretary and the Corinthian

bitingnightmare
Summary; A drink, a conversation, and self-loathing.
Log;

It wasn't very late, but that was generally expected. He knew that Brocklehurst would worry, but at this point, he didn't care. Last night was disaster; the past couple of days had been a nightmare. If he didn't know better, he could swear that Brocklehurst was avoiding him.

So the nightmare was available for a drink. That was usually the case. He liked the Corinthian - at least the Corinthian always told him the truth. He had invited him out because he wouldn't be sentimental; a reason to not invite Emmett, and he wouldn't be forceful, like Elle or Faye. He would just be; a smart, rational other man.

Sort of like the smart, rational other man who had lost his mind as asked Styles to marry him.

Styles pushed that thought away, and nursed his drink.

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He entered without ever having gone back to his apartment. Cassidy and Custer were getting on well without him, the vampire would show his old friend the ropes around the City. The Corinthian had no reason to worry, no reason to venture in and out, except for when Christopher Styles had contacted him. Cori liked Styles, a smart rational man who didn't wear his bullshit on his sleeve or a skeleton on his back. The nightmare was tired of it. At the very least, his little finger had been repaired by the Dream King himself.

Cori entered the bar, wearing his normal fare of jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket. His clothes were completely free of blood, his hands and face washed of the copper. Only his boots were questionable, but they were black and that hid the stains well.

"Styles," he said in his cool American voice, he'd adopted the accent decades ago, "already drinking?"

Styles laughed. "If you had been here on time, I may have waited." The mirth was evident in his voice. He didn't mean what he said. "Sit down," he pointed at the chair next to him. "I ordered you a gin and tonic. If you don't like it, you can order something else."

He listened to the nightmare's voice. It was only training that let him pick out the note of dissatisfaction that ran through it, and as he pushed back from the bar to give the other man more room he asked, "How was your day?"

"No shittier than the last," he answered while taking his seat. "Gin and tonic's fine," said the nightmare, waving his hand in dismissal.

The white of his shirt and hair smelled of Mild Seven cigarettes, plenty more than usual. The Corinthian had been pushing his habit to chain smoking lately. It had nothing to do with his old room mate, the bad luck magician, and everything to do with a little stress and frustration. When Cori received his drink he tossed a gulp back right away.

"Yours?"

The smell was strong, but that was fine. He could deal with the slightly smoky aroma. He lifted his glass for a sip. "Brocklehurst proposed," he admitted carefully.

He didn't remember if he had told the nightmare. The days were running together. "I said no," he added cautiously, rubbing his head. "He's been doing overtime at work ever since."

At least it was a reason to be avoided.

"Oh," sounded the Corinthian in such a way that Styles had to know: this wasn't breaking news.

"Is that where you got the shot for small pox," Cori asked with a smirk, then another sip of his gin. "He's not taking rejection very well, is he."

Of course. It was water-cooler gossip - why was the dragon so angry lately? What had happened to make him hate everyone in the office so much?

He smirked. "He keeps apologizing. But I don't really care, either way," he added as an afterthought. "Of course I knew it would get awkward...."

But I thought it would pass. The words didn't leave Styles lips. He looked over at the Corinthian. "I'm antsy," he confessed.

"Why," asked the Corinthian in response to Christopher's suggestion. "You made the decision you felt was right," he added under another sip. His tone suggested otherwise, playing devil's advocate perhaps, but even the nightmare could tell Styles' rejection wasn't the honest answer.

Styles shook his head. "Yes." he said, in contrast. "I did what I thought was better."

There was just no other way to say it. He did what he thought was better for Brocklehurst. Not really what he had wanted. "He's given...contact, in a manner," Styles added. No sex in a week and a half. God. He was going to go crazy. "It's strange. We've never been at such high odds."

He looked over at the Corinthian. "But you don't really have an opinion, do you?"

"Better for who," Cori continued, anticipating Styles' inner thought process. He didn't know Christopher well, aside from what he could derive from dreams, at the same time the nightmare felt he could predict the brunette's machinations. They were similar to his own.

"Nor have you ever worked and lived this closely," the Corinthian added. He didn't know the exact length of time but it was evident to him as an observant sort (as a dark mirror) that Christopher and Nicholas had only recently been living together in an open manner. Then he shook his head before leaning closely towards Styles' ear.

"I think you need to get laid," Cori whispered.

"Better for him." Styles said. It sounded lame, it felt lame coming out of his mouth. He didn't try and explain. He simply shook his head at the ridiculousness. "We've been together a long time. But his proposal made it obvious."

He felt the whisper and closed his eyes. "I haven't had sex in a week and a half."

The admission was harder than he had anticipated.

"Afraid of commitment," the Corinthian asked, warm breath (despite being a nightmare) rolling over Christopher's neck.

Just as he thought, an awkward relationship made for even more awkward sex, especially when neither could leave some change and a number on the nightstand. The first face at sunrise and the last face at nightfall would always be the other's. It wasn't always like that at their home, the white horror could smell it; they'd never had a shared home in the first place till the City. His lips pressed against the side of Christopher's neck.

"That's a shame."

The kiss wasn't unexpected. He let the other man press his lips against his neck - he never felt harm in that, knowing that the Corinthian would stop the moment he told him to. Instead he took a sip of his liquor. It was so different - Brocklehurst rarely kissed him like that, so seductively, mostly because Brocklehurst rarely ever had to work that way.

"I'm not, really," he lied convincingly. He knew that he lied well. He was afraid of commitment - if only because he was afraid of Brocklehurst changing his mind. There was only so much rejection that Styles could take. At least, if they weren't married, he hadn't lost that image of, however cheesy it was, forever.

He slipped a finger into his martini and fished out the olive in a gesture that was far too crass for him normally, but tonight he didn't care. He slipped it between his lips, chewed, and asked, "Why is it a shame?"

"Because I know you won't let me take care of it for you," said the Corinthian as the tip of his tongue tasted Christopher's skin. "People like you think forever isn't long enough, but you don't tell anyone that. It ruins your presence of the present." He started to suck on the man's throat.

"Corinthian," Styles began, almost smiling, "You only want to sleep with me because I said no, and meant it," he turned to look at the nightmare's bleach-white hair and his fingers slipped back, to touch the other man's skin under his waistband. "I won't let you take care of it because while you're attractive," he turned, and pushed the Corinthian up, "and while you would be able to fuck me until I came," he pressed his lips against the other man's in a searing kiss, "You're missing one thing."

He turned to the bar and shook his head. "If I wasn't so fucking in love with him, I would fuck you in a heartbeat."

He parted his lips for Christopher's tongue tainted with vermouth. The taste of it, of that affluent southern comfort, was almost intoxicating. He was right, Styles presented a legitimate challenge to the nightmare; someone who couldn't be bargained into having sex like Wolfwood, someone who couldn't succumb to the attraction of variance like Lee once did, someone who wasn't so business-savvy about it like Saya.

"I know," Cori said without even a nod. He could feel those darker fingers against his skin. "You're so fucking proud of it Styles, but you don't believe in it enough to commit."

Styles smirked. "You can call me Christopher," he said casually, his fingers pressed against the soft spot above the Corinthian's tailbone. The Corinthian had tasted like cigarettes - the brand didn't matter - and it was different. It wasn't bad. Just not what he wanted.

"Pride isn't really it," he said, knocking his leg against the Corinthian's, making the other man spread them. He was teasing, it wasn't fair, but he didn't care. "You taste like too much tobacco."

"Christopher," he repeated Styles' name.

That pale dip under the small of his back tickled under the American's touch. He really was a fucking tease and it wasn't hard for the nightmare to see why Nicholas found him attractive. It wasn't hard to see why Nicholas loved him either, though the Corinthian clearly had no empathy in that department. His knees spread appropriately, those teeth hidden behind shades showing little to no surprise over the gesture. The Corinthian wasn't afraid of a little fooling around over the fabric.

"Says the plantation faggot," he downed the rest of his gin and pushed the glass aside. Without another word he reached out to pull Christopher into a kiss again, full on the mouth, lips parted.

Styles laughed before the sound was swallowed by the Corinthian's lips. He had imagined that the nightmare wanted to do that - it was different from the other two kisses, it was stronger, more primal, harsher in taste and texture. It was a kiss that Brocklehurst never gave, because it had desperation that Nicholas never had.

Styles hadn't been kissed that way in a long time. He ran a hand over the Corinthian's hair and pulled away, finishing his own drink before licking the taste of the nightmare's lips from his own.

"Corinthian," he replied with a smirk. "Cotton, not tobacco."

"Cold as a witch's tit," the Corinthian remarked as Styles pulled away, but Christopher already knew how he felt about rejection after rejection. It wasn't very difficult to maintain a professional relationship, or even a friendship, with each advance and rebuttal. There was something consensual in how the white blond and brunette conducted their 'affairs' and that aroused the nightmare more. Fortunately he hadn't pitched a tent, yet.

"Same difference, they both fit well stuffed in your mouth," Cori said, waving his hand once again. "How long are you going to keep this up," he asked regarding Styles' rejection of the proposal, already moving beyond their tongue-twisters. Back to the topic at hand with a smoothness a serpent would envy.

"You'd prefer my mouth stuffed with something else," Styles said before he could stop himself, but he enjoyed the comment, too. It was pleasing to know that someone thought he was attractive, especially when that someone was two thousand years old.

At the more serious question, Styles took a drink, a pause and lull in the conversation. "Honestly?" he asked, rhetorically. "I'm just trying to keep it together day to day." He shrugged. "I don't know if this relationship will last."

"The wrap of your lips and the flick of your tongue have turned cocksucking into an art," said the Corinthian, who considered himself a master at oral sex. Just from kissing Christopher he could tell the former undersecretary could give him a run for his money.

"Don't bother short changing yourself," said the nightmare as he shook his head. "You know he'd do anything for you, and you'd do anything for him. There's no day to day, just fear," Cori shrugged casually. His tone remained unbiased. He was a fear machine, after all.

Styles snorted. "I've driven men to tears with my cocksucking," he said grandly, exaggeratively.

Styles ordered another drink. "You think I should accept, don't you?"

"I've driven men to tears with my bite," he countered with equal grandiose pride.

The Corinthian didn't; he would keep sober for this one.

"I think you want to do what's best for you and your old man, and up till now you've thought the best for him isn't you," the nightmare shook his head. "He's a grown man and nowhere near a fucking saint, Christopher. He doesn't want to be anyone's knight and you don't want to be anyone's prince," the Corinthian shrugged once, "you're fucking made for each other."

Styles nodded. He didn't thank the Corinthian, he didn't remark on what the other man said.

It was something that didn't need a reply. He took a sip, and changed the subject. "There's another reason I won't sleep with you," he said, raising his glass in a fashion that almost suggested a toast.

"You'd lose respect for me. I'm not another one of your catches, or a notch on your belt," he added. "You respect my loyalty."

He nodded to the Corinthian. "I respect yours."

He noted the way Styles raised his glass and nodded in return. "Oh?"

The very word caused the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. Loyalty. The Corinthian by his very creation was obligated to his Lord, and despite their Master and Servant arrangement the nightmare did feel a sense of duty towards his function. Beyond that, it was a gray area. Lee had already pinned it down once. His skin pricked to hear it addressed; he defined himself by his loyalties. But they were always changing.

"Thanks," was all he said in response to Christopher, toothy gaze averting briefly to his repaired hand.

Styles nodded. The alcohol was getting to him, and his stomach hurt. He pressed a finger up against his neck where the Corinthian had kissed, and nodded.

He stood, and the ground didn't move too badly. His stomach throbbed with pain. "I'll see you later, Corinthian," he said, pressing his cupid-bow lips against his wrist where a drop of liquor had spilled. "I should get home."

Upon noticing the spot Christopher had touched, the Corinthian reminded himself to suck harder next time. He shook his head and stood up from his seat. "I'll walk you to your building," offered the nightmare, not one to see his 'boss' stumble his way home nor one to incur the wrath of Brocklehurst. He'd had enough boyfriend rage for the weekend.

And as a reminder, hands tucked away into his own pockets... "I need a new phone."

Styles put his scarf on over his suit coat and nodded, thankful for the Corinthian's gesture. He moved to the door with a remarkable amount of grace, hoping he wouldn't stumble on the way out.

At the comment he raised an eyebrow. "Do I want to know?" he asked as he pulled out his PDA to write a quick note. "Do you have a preference for the type, or should I just get you the cheapest model?"

He noticed the scarf as well. All layered up for the winter was he? Fortunately the Corinthian was semi-immune to the cold; his flesh wasn't human enough to regulate temperature. Because he was no gentleman, and because he knew Styles had a particular list of regulations for his personal space, Cori didn't bother to give him an arm for stability. If anything he could tug on that suit coat or scarf to keep Christopher upright.

"No, you don't. Anything that works will do," he nodded.

Styles hated the cold. When he had lived in China, he was always bundled up, warmers ever-present in his pockets. While he was dating Vincent, the other man always took care to bring an extra coat with him to keep Christopher warm.

Brocklehurst never bothered with that - he always used his body to keep the Virginian from freezing, either by standing in the wind or by invading his private space, if they were somewhere like Paris, where no one knew who they were.

Styles felt that odd, unfamiliar itching below the skin of his nose. He missed Brocklehurst.

"Alright. I'll send the memo to Nanao in the morning, you can pick it up in the afternoon."

"Glasses right? Sure," he nodded.

The Corinthian didn't even flinch at the cold night air. His breath didn't produce any billow of white from warmth. For this very unnatural reason he pulled out his cigarettes and lit a Mild Seven. The smoke covered his lack of a living body.

"I'm sure he's just as horny for a fuck as you are," the nightmare said after a silent walk. They were nearing the entrance to Styles' building. "Tell him what you told me," smoke drifted from his teeth eyes as he learned in closer to Christopher's ear, "face down, ass up. I could fuck you so deep when I come, you spit." He hissed into the other man's ear, almost genuinely serious about this claim as he flicked the tip of his tongue into the inner shell. Then he shrugged. "Too bad I'm not the right fit for you."

"It was a good try," Styles assured the Corinthian. He stood at the entrance for a moment, then grinned.

He pulled the taller man carefully, just so he could whisper, "What the hell makes you think you'd be fucking me?"

He opened the door to the building and started climbing up. "See you at work, Corinthian."

"I do my best," he puffed smoke upward just as Styles pulled him in, "... you're a fucking tease, Christopher."

The Corinthian smirked, staying his ground at the entrance as Styles walked up. He only nodded to the American in response and waved his cigarette in farewell.

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