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Freedom of Fantasy

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He slams his hand into the stall door and leans heavily against it, his other hand already thrust down his pants, moving quickly, tightly, desperately, the image of Sergievsky’s calculating expression as he watches Freddie’s hands on the pieces still sharp and hot in the front of his mind.

It’s not really Sergievsky, he tells himself hazily, it’s just - shit, it’s just the way he’d looked, curls falling into his dark eyes, raking over Freddie’s angular features.

He’s always had weird, particular tastes when it came to sex and fantasies but - God, yes, fuck, he’s so close already, Jesus he’s never been so fucking hard, goddamn Sergievsky - this is the first time he’s had to storm off directly after a match to rub himself off because it was too much just sitting there across from him, not even two feet away with his jeans chafing his hard on and those eyes flickering over his face, his hands…

"Fuck," he gasps, thumb rubbing desperately over the head of his cock, smearing sticky pre-come and thrusting forward into his hand. "Fucking - Sergievsky.”

It’s a complaint and a groan and he feels the hot surge of his orgasm jolt from his gut a fraction of a second before he’s coming over his fingers, still rubbing, desperate, chasing that electric tingle, wondering feverishly what Anatoly would think of watching them now, moving over his cock skillful and practiced and clumsy and sluggish all at once.

He pants and draws his hand back out of his pants, wiping it halfheartedly on his boxers, and zips himself back up. The stall door creaks when it opens and he winces, slipping out and freezing halfway to the sink.

Sergievsky is staring at him, dark eyes, calculating expression.

(Freddie is suddenly very certain that he could come again, right now, maybe twice.)

"Was that an exclamation, or an invitation?" he finally asks, meeting Freddie’s eyes boldly, lips twitching up into a knowing smirk. Freddie sucks in a sharp breath, cheeks still flushed with orgasm.

"…How long do we have until the next match?"

Sergievsky takes a casual step closer. “They will wait for us.”

He thinks dizzily that he’s going to have to make room for that devious smile in his next fantasy as Sergievsky reaches up to curl his fingers into his tie.