Tailored

Romance short. A man tailors a suit for his boyfriend.

Rated M. 585 words, some size kink, some banter, teasing.

“Fuck, Sam,” Ted murmurs, and Sam stands in his place all but swimming in the suit, the rich brown of it bringing out the colour in his eyes, in his hair, the darker skin that makes up the moles on his neck, under his eye.

“I told you it was really big,” he says, and he actually looks insecure about it, which Ted can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for as he moves forward, nudges Sam in front of the mirror where he can see him properly.

Ted is three times as wide as Sam is, reminded of it in the mirror, and he considers resisting the urge, then doesn’t, puts his hands over Sam’s waist through the suit jacket, presses in until he’s holding him around the middle.

“Is it too big for you to tailor?”

“Not really such a thing as too big to tailor,” Ted replies, giving him a small smile, and he pulls the blazer jacket closed over Sam’s narrow chest without pulling the fabric taut, gets him to hold it in place as he places pins down his back, tracing where he needs it brought in. “Too small to tailor, sure. But we can always cut more fabric off. Whose suit was this?”

“My uncle’s.”

“How big was he? As big as me?”

“Taller. Maybe a little thinner, not as fat as you are? He didn’t have much of a belly. But he was always broad, always big.”

“Gym guy?”

“Firefighter.”

“Mm,” Ted hums, rolling up the sleeve to the right length and pinning it in place before he does the same on the other side. “There a shirt to go with this?”

“Splayed collar. Paisley.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Ted, grinning at Sam in the mirror. “Sexy.”

Sam laughs, and the sound trails off a bit, breathless, as Ted measures out his shoulders and then pulls the jacket off him, hanging it up. He’s already rolled the trousers up so that he’s there in three-layered turn-ups instead of with the hems on the floor, but he’s only managing to hold them up by pressing his knees together and keeping one hand on the waistband.

Ted hooks two fingers in it, pulls it to one side, and takes up the handful of excess fabric until the band is tight around Sam’s waist.

Sam shivers.

“This a new kink for you?” asks Ted in his ear, breathing on the shell of it on purpose and feeling his heart flutter when Sam lets out a little noise, almost a moan, just at that, just at Ted’s breath. “Gonna go digging through the back of the closet for more suits I can tailor to you?”

“I just like how you touch me,” says Sam, and Ted feels warm at that as he puts pins along his waistband. “It’s — authoritative. Skilled. I like that you’re good at your job.”

“That’s your kink? That I’m good at my job.”

“Mm.”

“Can you put that in a five-star review?”

Sam laughs, shoving him, his cheeks red, but that’s nothing compared to the colour he goes when Ted drops to his knees to start bringing in the legs, although Sam struggles to concentrate on what sort of hems he wants when Ted keeps dipping toward his crotch and then not actually giving him his mouth.

“Please,” he says finally, and Ted laughs.

“How can I say no to that?” he asks, and lets Sam shimmy out of the trousers before he bends him over his bench.