((I'm so sorry for just about anything that happens in this. there's gonna be lots of smut probably because Tez is a doirty boy.))
He leaned back against the wall, his slim form trembling against the cold brick. The red light dyed his hair a soft black, made his cheeks flush pink, made the lines on his arms and neck the same black as his hair.
It was one of the reasons he liked the lighting.
He slowly sat, perched on all his worldly belongings in his rucksack. He folded one slender leg over the other. He could hear low thrums of music from the seedy bars, a window above him let out a wanton moan and he felt a slight smirk pull at his lips. That sounded so faked.
His eyes watched the forms of people around him. Rowdy young men shoving at eachother playfully, murmuring about the brothel he sat besides. Young women hiding their eyes as they scurried past. A few boldly walking in, tipping their head politely to him, as if they were going to talk business.
Well, it was a transaction, he supposed.
The reason he was sitting out here, perched on his back, his too-large shirt falling from one slender shoulder and a promising smirk playing with his lips was simple. He needed money. He was going to use the only way he knew how to get enough money for a meal and a train ticket quickly.
He was going to provide favors.
He felt something in his stomach roil against it and he took a calming breath. He wasn't a prostitute. He wasn't selling his body. He was just. Providing a service, either with his lips or his hands. He wasn't a prostitute.
And yet, something still weighed on him. The idea that perhaps he was wrong pressed on his shoulder, but he kept them still, eyeing the men that walked past with interest, giving a few a delicate wave and a wink.
He leaned back against the wall, his slim form trembling against the cold brick. The red light dyed his hair a soft black, made his cheeks flush pink, made the lines on his arms and neck the same black as his hair.
It was one of the reasons he liked the lighting.
He slowly sat, perched on all his worldly belongings in his rucksack. He folded one slender leg over the other. He could hear low thrums of music from the seedy bars, a window above him let out a wanton moan and he felt a slight smirk pull at his lips. That sounded so faked.
His eyes watched the forms of people around him. Rowdy young men shoving at eachother playfully, murmuring about the brothel he sat besides. Young women hiding their eyes as they scurried past. A few boldly walking in, tipping their head politely to him, as if they were going to talk business.
Well, it was a transaction, he supposed.
The reason he was sitting out here, perched on his back, his too-large shirt falling from one slender shoulder and a promising smirk playing with his lips was simple. He needed money. He was going to use the only way he knew how to get enough money for a meal and a train ticket quickly.
He was going to provide favors.
He felt something in his stomach roil against it and he took a calming breath. He wasn't a prostitute. He wasn't selling his body. He was just. Providing a service, either with his lips or his hands. He wasn't a prostitute.
And yet, something still weighed on him. The idea that perhaps he was wrong pressed on his shoulder, but he kept them still, eyeing the men that walked past with interest, giving a few a delicate wave and a wink.