Love Across the Tracks

"You're the prettiest thing working for me right now. Why waste such a pretty face with such a mopey expression?"

Dark eyes slowly roamed away from the figure taunting him, never wanting to answer but knowing he should because he was addressed. He shook his head and shrugged. He hissed in pain when a ringed hand gripped his bruised thigh,

"That wasn't a proper answer, now was it?"

"N-no sir," he hastily replied, wishing he had the courage to spit in the man's face.

A deep chuckle answered and it sent the worst sort of shivers curling down his tired back. The tycoon he was seated upon thrummed his thick fingers on his thigh in thought while the other played with the hem of his tight leather pants, thickest fingers fiddling with the sewn-in tag.

"What has made you so glum?" the other mocked in faux concern.

Oblio knew he was only toying with him but he answered honestly anyways.

"This. This whole mess I am in. I am…tired," he muttered, knowing he was mostly speaking to himself.

And the dark-humored man dangled a steak in front of his starving dog's mouth, "You wish to see your family?"

Eyes widened in surprise, a drastic sort of relieved surprise. Oblio's captor hadn't gone on another of his tirades about taking him in and paying him for certain services with money to bring his family from overseas. He knew the answer, they both did, but he desperately didn't want to tell the other.

"I do," he stated simply, inwardly flinching, waiting for a blow of some kind to come his way.

He was pulled closer and a pair of chapped lips brushed against his ear, "Wish granted."

Oblio nearly toppled over, clutching at his chest. There had to be some sort of catch, there always was, and his suspicions were confirmed when he opened his mouth to speak again.

"There's a man who's marrying in a month or so, an arranged marriage of sorts and his father refuses to believe that his son is a faggot. Show him a good time," he murmured.

"Then I can leave? I am finished with all this?" Oblio started, trying not to sound too hopeful.

The man groaned and tilted his head back, as if searching his painted ceiling for answers, "If you can break him then I'll let you go."

The dancer shifted, turning to face the other, "Break him?"

He regretted facing the tanned man when a smoky kiss clogged his lungs.

"Make him straight. I don't care how you do it, but make him like tits and ass, not cock and ass."

Oblio hummed his understanding. He had done worse, much worse.

"But first…" the other began with a smug smirk, unzipping grey slacks, his middle finger trailing Oblio's spine and making Oblio shiver unpleasantly.

"Tell me how much you want it."

False teeth nipped at his ear while disgust pooled in the punk's belly, "I want it so badly."

An uncontrollable quake rattled his frame as he spoke, meaning something else entirely—something that had nothing to do with his captor.

He slipped from the wealthy man's lap with an effeminate grace, gingerly placing hands over clothed knees and watched with a pitiful expression as the other hastily removed his pants.

'Like an animal.'

Their position made it impossible to see the man's face, for which he was grateful for. A task like this became easy, though never pleasant—it was routine, an unpleasant task.

Sex, of any sort, was a chore to him.

There was still an ounce of rebellion in his bones, so when the man came in small, sticky spurts he only swallowed what accidentally slid past his tongue. Aiming to spit the rest out, he lowered his head beside the oaken chair to empty the blood-chilling contents of his mouth.

Ringed fingers lifted his chin up, with faux tenderness, as muddy browns met steel blues.

"All of it."

Muscles around his mouth almost tightened into a snarl, but he obeyed; cold eyes closed in shame as it slid down his throat.

"Taste good?" the other chuckled.

Refraining from lashing out, his lush voice taking on a weak resemblance by now, "I love it."

Rough lips briefly met his, lungs squealing in protest as smoke attacked them again, "Dismissed."

Oblio's eyes nearly lit up, if they hadn't been so dulled by living the life he was, and he curtsied before taking his leave. He returned to his room full of posh pillows and thick walls.

Despite however soft or seemingly comfortable his surroundings appeared to be, they were anything but relaxing. Now he waited until night, or when another opportunity for money arose, with his nose buried deep into the salty scent of dried tears on his pillows. His duties had been fulfilled for the day and he'd been allowed a couple hours for recovery—his last client bruised him and his boss didn't particularly approve of selling damaged goods.

Unfortunately, a couple hours turned into fourteen hours and he slept well past 6 o'clock. Instead of waking pleasantly, he bursted awake with frantic eyes— wide and fearful, his face drenched in sweat. He'd slept more than was allowed because his fear of punishment consumed his psyche. Wild eyes searched his room quickly, landing on a striped hoodie.

His voice came out harsh and raspy, "Mo?

Mo was another fish who was caught in the net, though Oblio never knew how because the guy never told him and the man's street smarts far surpassed anyone he'd ever met. He was seated at the far end of the lavish room, on a chair rich in velvet, leaning on his knee with a loose arm; face obscured by that awful hoodie that always hid his true intentions.

A toothy grin permeated the tense air and then thick lips parted, "G'mornin' sunshine."

The trickster became close to the owner of the house, his right hand man one could say, but still had rules to abide by—though not many. He was a lapdog, but one that was free to roam as he pleased, as long as he didn't bite the hand that quite literally fed him. Loyal as ever, he stayed by his Master's side, but for how much longer?

Oblio had picked up on quite a bit of information, about the mansion and who lived within the walls, from gossiping whores but never learned much about Mo. The African-American was known for his limited kindness, not abundantly so but enough to not have many enemies, and Oblio enjoyed his company. He didn't have much else to look forward to, why not take what he could? Besides, Mo never once touched him. He preferred 'pretty lil' white boys'—like the one next door.

The lucky, miserable bastard in the next room—guarded by Mo like he was a precious bone.

It was true, Mo was a softie, but the blue-haired punk's heart was still racing because, 'What was he going to do?' and 'What the hell was going to happen to him? He broke a few rules already. Reword.

Mo noticed, observant as ever despite the shadow constantly looming over his eyes and raised a palm to prevent panicking, "Don't sweat it, Oblio."

A sigh of relief escaped his lips and he sunk back into the confines of his bed, knowing he could relax, if only a little, around the other male.

"Yer allowed ta sleep in, seein' as how yer special and all."

"I don't follow."

"Doc tol' me 'bout this big client of yers and I know this guy from way back when. He's a genuinely good guy, but he's heavy in the' tortured soul department', ya dig? His pops is a real dickweed, but him an' Doc are pretty tight so no fuck ups."

The way the dark-skinned male spoke spurned Oblio's hope for some strange reason, the guy always used the strangest words and moved his hands a lot while he spoke, and he possessed qualities of a leader—whatever his current status was. The undying pain in his chest was dulled for a moment and he nodded.

Mo stood, "He ain't a freak like the last one, so don't be shakin' in yer Mary-Janes."

"Thank you." Oblio was grateful for something that he shouldn't have to thank a person for. He shouldn't even be here.

"Yea, yea," he spoke with a rhythm as he headed towards the door, turning to face the ex-biker with his hand on the knob.

"Remember to break him."

Knowing there's nothing left of importance to say, Mo exits with a few words and a wink that was seen by no one, "Imma get myself a mornin' snack."

When he left all the warmth was sucked from his frigid room again, just the way it was last night.

-AngeBlioPlz-

Oblio played it cool. His sore bottom was currently seated upon a stool in a high-strung bar called Sixx. He was waiting for his "date" to show up, doubting he would show because he'd been sitting in this same spot for 3 hours already. Countless women, followed by the occasional man, had approached him. All wanted to dance with him but all were turned down.

He wasn't here to enjoy himself; he was here so someone else could enjoy him.

"Let's go."

A warm feeling coated his backside and spread to his core, banging on the walls of his heart. He blamed it on the soothing effects of the alcohol he consumed and nodded in confirmation to the man's curiosity. A ringed hand gripped at his, the cold metal a reminder of his boss, and led him away—to the backrooms of the club.

Oblio was pleasantly surprised, the rooms he was led into were empty of other persons grinding and biting at each other. At least now he'd manage to save face, if only a little. His clients were usually meek and humble, wanting him to take control, but occasionally he would snag one with ideas of his own, or the V.I.P. members writhing against each other.

The Latino stopped at a fat, luxurious sofa and sat, sinking in and ordered the poet to plop down next to him. They rested in an awkward silence awkwardly for a few beats because his date hadn't initiated anything. Oblio squirmed in his skin, wanting to shed it like a snake and slither away, afraid that this was turning dangerous too quickly.

This man was too quiet; what would he want if not sex? Would he kill him?

If Oblio didn't make progress—

"Shy?" he asked coyly, trailing a skillful hand down the man's thigh towards his knee then back up, fingers ghosting over his inner thigh.

Angel shuddered visibly, even in the dim lighting, and scooted away. "Wouldn't you like to rest?"

"Tonight is about what you want, Angel." He kept his voice low and deep, always pausing for greater effect, and pronounced the Hispanic's name in a way that made his stomach flop.

A tanned hand pushed his invading one away, leg overlapping leg, while a lower lip was gnawed at between perfect teeth. A white fedora had been lowered over his eyes, making half his expression unreadable. Figuring he simply wanted to hide some hideous scar on his eye, Oblio pressed on not wanting tonight to last any longer than it needed to.

"Tell me what you want. Tell me what you want me to do, Angel. I can do anything."

Oblio didn't see his eyes clench shut, trying to blink away this bottled up lust.

The gearhead held back a sigh of frustration, but was still grateful that this man was as soft-hearted as he appeared; otherwise, Oblio would be pressed against a bathroom stall until Angel finished, leaving him to crumple into a heaving pile on the tiled floor crying.

"Just a kiss," the man muttered, accent thick and sweet.

He smiled, sickly sweet, at him and placed a peck on his cheek.

Angel unhooked his trembling legs but pressed them together, "Not like that, kiss me slowly."

Oblio finally understood. This man just needed to be loved and he connected with him on some emotional level.

He couldn't love him, but he could pretend he did.

That's the whole reason he's here.

He threw his leg over the man's lap, purposely brushing their crotches together, feeling Angel's already formed erection.

"Santa Maria," the other breathed, immediately grabbing his hips.

Oblio was satisfied, finally able to rock the boat with this troubled soul. He was going to paddle away with more than a kiss tonight; he was setting sail—ready to float away with his freedom.

He discarded his shades long ago, his hair falling over his eyes. Angel brushed bangs from his face, hands burning from pent-up passion. Hands that were screaming 'Let me touch you'.

Oblio tenderly cupped the poker king's face, feeling the need to take charge because this man wasn't going to, and placed soft lips to his, avidly rolling his hips. Loud vibrations shook his form, because Angel had moaned like they were already fucking hard, desperately hugging Oblio closer, pushing his hips down with searing hands. He wanted Oblio to feel the same pleasure he was getting from this.

Why had he been denying himself this pleasure for so long?

Oblio's head was whirling suddenly and everything felt pleasant. He could finally feel again, frozen emotions thawing out from the heat of another messy, anxious kiss. An emotion he couldn't understand, something he hadn't felt since he was a young teenager, consumed him.

It wasn't love, but it was close enough—it was happiness.

The Latino was bold now, thrusting upwards and slamming Oblio's hips back down after he raised them, "I need…" his voice was shaky, unwavering, like he was still completely unsure of himself.

He'd only have one night with whoever this astonishing man was; he didn't even know his name!

"I need to know your name!" Angel shouted, horribly embarrassed, but couldn't help letting his inhibitions loose.

The feeling of their erections and thighs rutting together was unbearable yet he yearned for more. He could finally explore his true self, what he really wanted under all the masks from his father's expectation of being a bona-fide womanizer.

"O-Oblio," he hissed, drawing out the last vowel before his loose shorts were soaked and clinging to his thighs. His body twitched spastically, Angel spurring on more pleasant feelings with his movement until he came with a loud groan, rough pounding mellowing out into nothing but a pair encased in loose arms and sharing sloppy, wet kisses between gasps.

"I want to see you again. Is that okay?" the Puerto Rican was breathless; sex with a woman just wasn't the same. They were too soft, too demanding. Women bended too easily under his touch, always crying when they snapped, always becoming too much for him to bear and he hated it.

His whore bit back a laugh; a laugh dipped in conflicting emotions, and settled for the stronger emotion threatening to bubble from within his throat. This man wanted to see him again, for reasons like most others, but he'd helped him feel happy—even if it wasn't for the reasons he expected or wanted.

He choked back a soul-wrenching sob, "If you pay enough."

He could sense Angel tense, and then relax with his handsome face burying into soft locks and inhaling deeply, "I'm willing to risk bankruptcy."

It was then that Oblio laughed, for all the wrong reasons.

He was laughing, the wretched, increasingly inhuman noise growing in volume, because he was a human, not a trinket to be sold and played with on a whim. He was laughing because he looked forward to another payment. He was laughing because he was such a fucking hypocrite.

Angel was kissing the crown of his head, murmuring things he didn't understand in a smooth foreign language that made his heart melt and reform into an irregular shape in his chest.

Steel-grey orbs fluttered shut, tear-stained face burrowing into a strong chest and then everything came rushing back like a freight train, leaving his mangled pieces behind.

He completed the first half of his 'mission'—satisfying the needs of Tan's very close friend's son. Oblio felt sorrow overwhelm his being for a thousand different reasons all over again. His first time back in the living world, the world where people felt love and happiness, was bound to kill the both of them. The stranger rocking him closely, the one crying with him, pieced him back together only to have his own soul eventually torn asunder in reprimand.