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The Art Of Waiting

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„Is everything alright, Ian?“

Claire lays her hand on his forearm and Ian almost jumps, his eyes flitting to Fergus’ sly grin for a split-second before focusing on his Auntie. He makes an effort to smile innocently at her, in stark contrast to the string of expletives running through his mind.

„Oh aye, I’m just a little tired,“ he reassures her.

„You’ve barely touched your food. Are you coming down with something?“

Ian grits his teeth at the sound of Fergus’ low chuckle, cursing himself for agreeing to this madness.

„I promise I’m fine, Auntie.“ His breath hitches at the word fine, when Fergus amps up the vibration, Ian’s fingers gripping the edge of the table so hard, it causes little waves in his wine glass.

Claire doesn’t look convinced, but lets it go for the moment and with a final curious glance at Ian she turns to Jamie and Fergus who are discussing Voltaire from what Ian can gather.

The vibration has a rhythm now, buzzing and pausing, and Ian feels like it’s spreading from his cock into his whole body, feels like he can’t sit here for another minute and pretend this is a normal family dinner, like he wants to fuck and murder Fergus all at once.

Fergus, however, is the picture of calm. He appears to be completely focused on Jamie and their conversation, perfectly playing the role of the nephew’s boyfriend. What gives him away to an inquisitive observer is the cheeky glint in his eyes and his hand, wandering between his wine glass and the remote control in his pocket.

Ian forces himself to focus on his surroundings, takes in the quiet atmosphere of the restaurant, looks for the bathrooms, the exit. His fingers are drumming the restless rhythm of the cock ring onto the tabletop and he thinks he might break, might use the flimsiest of excuses to just get out of here.

He sends Fergus a pleading look and gets a sweet smile in return, and then – relief and loss at once – the vibration comes to a halt. Ian sighs, hiding it quickly behind a long drink of wine.

The waiter takes their dessert order, and Ian isn’t sure what’s stronger, his anxious need to get out of this restaurant already or his relief that the end of the meal is in sight. He only orders an espresso.

They talk about Lallybroch, about Ian’s sisters and Claire’s book – the reason she and Uncle Jamie are in London. They talk about Ian and Fergus’ new apartment and whether they’re coming home for Christmas, and all the while Ian watches the dessert plates and coffee mugs like a hawk, their emptying way too slow for his taste.

The vibration returns the exact moment Uncle Jamie swallows the last of his coffee and the waiter sets the bill on the table. It feels stronger now, no pauses anymore, and it only takes seconds for Ian to be fully hard again. He can’t help the low curse that escapes him.

Ian meets Claire’s puzzled look with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders, and it takes all of his self-control to muster a calm voice.

„Maybe ye’re right, I think I am coming down with something. No hugs, okay? I dinna want ye to catch it.“

His uncle’s expression tells him it’s not a very convincing excuse and he’s bound to expect awkward questions on their next phone call, but he doesn’t care, not now. They say their goodbyes and Ian and Fergus hang back, slowly putting on their coats and scarves, letting Jamie and Claire get a headstart.

They don’t talk, don’t touch as they leave the restaurant, but their steps are brisk, heading towards the next tube station. They haven’t reached it yet when Ian grabs Fergus by the coat and shoves him into the dark entranceway of an office building, pressing him against the wall in the shadows.

He steps close and closer yet, his body pressed to Fergus’ so tight that the other is bound to feel the vibration in his pants. Fergus makes a breathless sound and Ian feels triumphant for a second – he’s clearly not the only one affected here. He gives in to the overwhelming urge to kiss his boyfriend and they meet in a brief but intense clash of lips and teeth and tongue.

„Turn it off.“ Ian’s voice is hoarse, almost panting, when they break apart and he talks into Fergus’ ear, underlining his words with a pointed grind of his hips.

„Why?“ Fergus laughs, a breathy sound so sexy, Ian wants to lick it off his lips.

„Turn. It. Off,“ he repeats, each word accompanied by a nip of his teeth against Fergus’ neck. „Now.“

Fergus amps up the vibration and gives a throaty gasp at Ian’s involuntary snap of the hips.

„I’m going to come in my pants in about two minutes if ye keep that up, and I trust ye’d rather I was still able to fuck ye once we get home.“

The sound Fergus makes at that is somewhere between a laugh and a wanton moan and it goes straight to Ian’s groin.

„Fuck, Fergus. One minute. Turn! It! Off!“ He breathes it into the shadow of stubble on Fergus’ jaw, his hands buried in Fergus’ hair, his body barely its own entity anymore.

And then the vibration stops.

Some of the tension melts off Ian’s body and he lets himself lean on Fergus for another second, both of them breathing heavily. He smiles into Fergus’ throat, and pushing himself off his boyfriend, he snakes his hand into Fergus’ pants pocket, taking a sweet moment to brush against Fergus’ cock, a promise of what’s to come. Fergus captures his lips in answer, but before he can press closer again, Ian moves away, the remote safe in his tight grip.

„Not here,“ he says, and steps back onto the sidewalk, resuming the way home. Fergus appears at his side in a heartbeat, much closer than before, and Ian grins.

„Next time, I’ll be the one with the remote.“

„I can’t wait, mon loup.“

Fergus’ answering grin is unbearably smug, and Ian thinks of all the things he’ll do to wipe that grin off his face in just a few minutes.

No. He can’t wait either.