Work Text:
And I wanna swim between your thighs
I wanna fuck you 'till you scream and cry
(Måneskin, For Your Love)
James stumbles upon him on Grindr one night when bored out of his mind and looking for a distraction.
The man’s entire profile seems to be catered especially to him: his main picture shows him wearing black slacks, a black leather belt with an imposing silver buckle with a couple of chains attached to its loops, a black leather vest, and— nothing else underneath. James can make out the delicious swell of his belly underneath the garment, and how nicely his chest fills it out. He’s got broad shoulders, looking like he could easily cover James’ body with his own. The picture is cut just above his mouth, so James can’t really see his face, but he can, however, see and appreciate the knowing smirk curling his lips, and the short beard on his chin. He wonders how that would feel against his skin, perhaps in between his inner thighs.
The rest of the man’s profile ticks all of James’ boxes as well: he's a dom who loves to top, apparently has a huge dick, he’s fifty-seven, divorced, into D/s, he likes to be called “daddy”, and he’s looking for casual sex only. His top three listed favorites are: rimming, marking, penetrative sex (“with both women and men”).
James gives him a like as soon as he’s done staring and processing all of that, praying to his gay God that this Aglooka guy will like him back (and then, maybe, if he's lucky, lick him as well. Possibly everywhere).
💦
James is, indeed, very lucky, because a couple of hours later Aglooka matches him back. He grins to himself (and perhaps kicks his feet a little, but that’s between him and his bedroom walls), opening their chat at once, but the other man is quicker.
Aglooka: hi angel
His stomach does something funny at the pet-name. It’s nothing new: James knows, by now, that he’s a sucker for being called any kind of cute, sweet little name that will leave him melted in a puddle at some man’s feet. He’s been a sucker for praises since he was a child, losing his mind for people telling him he’s good, great, so good. He still remembers the first time it happened: he was in middle school and his English teacher had called him a good boy for following whatever easy instruction he had carried out. James’s brain had short-circuited, going fully blank for a few blissful moments, making him discover something crucial about himself: basically, that he has a praise kink. He didn’t know the term at the time, but he nevertheless has been chasing that high ever since.
Growing up, James had come to realise that he always loves being praised, but it only works like that when it’s men —older men— doing it. Even better if it’s older men who have some kind of power over him (his teachers; his Professors; the manager at his last summer job) because James is very gay, in desperate need of validation, and into people who could destroy him with a nod of their heads, apparently.
He’s completely fine with it. The only problem is that it’s harder than expected to come across men like that in his daily life— which is why he ended up on Grindr, arguably not the best option, but he’s tired of waiting for the perfect man to find him, so James is going to find him instead.
He waits a few minutes before typing a reply to Aglooka though, not wanting to come off as desperate— he may be, but the other man doesn't need to know. Yet.
TomBowlineX: Hi daddy 😍
Aglooka wrote that he’s into daddy kink and, lucky coincidence, James is also extremely into it and into every other kind of similar power dynamic that lets him play his favorite role, where he's only expected to be lavished with nice words and pushed onto his knees while being called beautiful, gorgeous, good boy. James likes to be good, but what he likes best is being told he's good (even if he’s not, but especially when he is, putting all of himself into it). Then, he sometimes likes to be naughty as well, because why not? It's fun. He knows how attractive he can be when he moves the right way, speaks the right way, flutters his eyelashes just so. He has worked hard on it, staring at his own reflection for hours, learning how to turn his flaws into attractive features (softening his squared jaw behind long wavy hair; adorning his fingers with rings so his hands won't look so big; disguising his inexperience with eagerness).
His phone vibrates against his thigh.
Aglooka: hows your night going
Great question: James’ night has the potential to be a good one, finally, but he’s not going to say it yet. He’s going to check if Aglooka wants him first, if he’s already dreaming about seeing James, having James, worshipping James.
Let’s see if Aglooka deserves him.
TomBowlineX: I'm bored. Been looking for someone interesting here for sooooo long but I found no one
Aglooka: we cant have you bored now can we
TomBowlineX: We can’t 😇 Might be because I have high standards
Aglooka: seems like I matched them ?
TomBowlineX: Yes, you tick all of my boxes. ALL of them
Aglooka: is that so ? you like what you see?
God, Aglooka texts like an old man. James is hooked.
TomBowlineX: I kinda love it tbh
Aglooka: what do you like best?
James starts typing at once, words flowing naturally. He doesn’t even have to go through the other man’s profile again— he remembers everything all too well.
TomBowlineX: You're handsome, just my type. I noticed ALL of your favorites and I'm interested in ALL of them even though I don't have much experience with D/s...😇
(James has zero experience with D/s. But this is a detail Aglooka doesn’t have to know.)
TomBowlineX: I love that you're older than me 🥵
(Which is a polite way to say how much he’s dying to get railed by a man who could be his own father, uncle, his professor.)
Aglooka: 26years is a bit of an age gap. it doesnt bother you ?
Twenty-six years would indeed be considered a bit of an extreme age gap by most people, but not by James. He wonders what Aglooka would say if he'd find out that their actual age difference is thirty-six years, not twenty-six. James might have set his age as thirty-one on his profile, but he is, indeed, twenty-one. If he’s honest, it wasn’t his intention to lie about it, and he did put his real age when he first joined Grindr; however, it got clear fairly quickly that he wasn’t getting what he wanted (namely, old man dick), because he was only finding people around his own age, maximum in their thirties, even though he did set his preference up to fifty-eight years old. None of the men James liked reached out or matched him back, which he guessed was because of his own age, because come on, the rest of his profile and his pictures couldn’t be the problem (his main photo is a shot he took lying naked on his side, on his bed, back arched in a sinuous pale wave against the ink-black sheets; in another, he’s grabbing a fistful of his own long hair, pulling his head to the side, pale skin practically begging to be bitten).
Eventually, James got tired and changed his age, which worked just as he was hoping: he got more reactions and texts in a couple of days than in the past weeks combined.
Setting his age at thirty-one also stopped most of his actual peers from reaching out, which he found to be a relief anyway: he has never been interested in them, ever in his life. But then, he’s not even attracted to men in their thirties. Forties is where he finally starts looking, and fifties is the main prize. He doesn’t know where his desire for men more than twice his age stems from, or what it says about him, and he doesn’t want to know— he just wants them. Quite desperately, if he’s honest.
James likes older men. And not like everyone else his age seems to do, vaguely wishing to be with a thirty-something, or forty year old, at best. No, James likes them old, thirty years his seniors, with lines on their faces and bellies to hold onto. His head only turns when crossing paths with middle aged men whose kids are his own age: he doesn't care about people ten years older than him, wouldn’t know what to do with them. He dreams about the family fathers, the men who have long lost the chance to be with someone as young as James, as fresh as him. He wants them to lose their minds over him, wants them to only think about him day and night, to lose their sleep over him, wants to be a femme fatale for them, their dirty little secret they can’t stop obsessing about, yet have to keep hidden.
It's not like anyone will ever find out about his real age anyway. James is certainly not going to tell, not even to this Aglooka guy who seems to be quite promising: he knows people freak out when they find out what he likes, who he likes. If Aglooka agrees to meet him, James will simply say that he looks younger than his age and that will be it. James will get his dick, Aglooka will get his young, fresh gay virginity and everyone will be happy and sexually satisfied.
Because this is the other thing about James: he's a slut at heart, but he hasn't had the chance to do most of the things he dreams about yet, for the abovementioned issues of finding available older men to do them with— taking dick being at the top of the list. His peers don’t seem interested in what for James is the ultimate goal, the main prize: they only seem to be wanting to jerk each other off in a circle, because dude, I'm not gay.
So, yeah. James is still a virgin. A slutty one at that. He intends to change this as soon as possible to finally turn into a slutty young man who has casual sex with very hot older men on a semi-regular basis.
Hence, Grindr.
TomBowlineX: Bothers me? It's HOT as fuck
Aglooka: is it
Aglooka: you like older men love?
I do! He wants to scream, I love them, I love how they look at me when I'm wearing my shirt half-buttoned, how I can feel their eyes on me when I play with my hair, how I can make them lose their train of thoughts with a smile. I want you to look at me that way, will you look at me, will you—
TomBowlineX: I like older men calling me pretty names
Aglooka: thats lucky since Im thinking all sorts of pretty names for you
TomBowlineX: Such as?
Aglooka: wouldnt you like to know
TomBowlineX: Yes, please. Tell me?
Aglooka: demanding
Aglooka: do you deserve it ?
TomBowlineX: Yes, I've been good
Aglooka: yeah? have you been a good boy waiting for daddy to find you?
Oh. James' dick twitches in his boxers.
TomBowlineX: Yes, I have. I swear
TomBowlineX: I've been good
Aglooka: mmh well. you do look like a good boy
James sucks in a breath, one hundred percent focused on the best conversation he’s had on this app so far, and possibly ever.
TomBowlineX: I am, I'm good
TomBowlineX: I can be so good for you
Aglooka: yes? think you can follow what I ask of you?
He nips at his bottom lip, getting a bit lost in the image of a sexy old man with delicious thick thighs and a devilish smirk asking if he knows how to be good for him.
TomBowlineX: I promise. Try me, you'll see
Aglooka: where are you right now? are you alone?
Oh shit, this is happening, isn’t it?
TomBowlineX: In my bed. I'm not alone,
TomBowlineX: I'm with you
Is it too much? God, perhaps that was cringe, too sudden, Aglooka doesn't even know him—
His phone vibrates almost aggressively in his hands.
Aglooka: you really are an angel
Aglooka: youre right im there with you. how pretty you must look. waiting to be touched by someone who knows how to give you what you need
Fuck. James is getting hard.
TomBowlineX: You know better than I do
Aglooka: indeed. thats why im going to take my time with you
Aglooka: unwrapping you piece by piece like the pretty cake you are
Is this real? James fears he's hallucinating. It feels too good to be true, this is the type of conversation he fantasized of having on this damn app for weeks, and if it’s true that Aglooka is sexting him even though they don’t know each other, he's putting himself in it, paying attention to what James says, what James wants. I mean, no one ever called James a pretty cake on bloody Grindr before. It’s exactly what he wants to be: pretty, desired, delicious.
TomBowlineX: I'm sweet and good, want a bite?
Aglooka: i do
Aglooka: spread your legs for me so i can do just that
A shiver runs down his spine as he spreads his legs underneath the blankets, pushing his sweatpants and boxers down, kicking them off.
TomBowlineX: Done. What now
God, he's horny. He takes a shaking breath, focusing on typing.
TomBowlineX: Are you gonna blow me?
Aglooka: no
No?
Aglooka: ill kiss your cunt
A full-body shiver goes through him like a shock, his phone almost slipping out his hands. He focuses on breathing until he feels (slightly) more in control, though he’s fully hard by now, the caress of the sheet against his skin a delicious torture.
TomBowlineX: No one did it to me ever, he types, I mean I’ve never done it I don't know what it feels like
Aglooka: darling where have you been all this time
TomBowlineX: Waiting for you to find me
Aglooka: thats right
Aglooka: do you have lube with you
TomBowlineX: Yes
Aglooka: get it. ill show you what it feels like when someone licks you there
James does drop his phone this time, in the haste of obeying as quickly as possible, not wanting to miss a beat of what Aglooka will tell him to do next. He kicks the blankets aside, spreads his legs again, and gets comfortable, bottle of lube in one hand and his phone in the other.
TomBowlineX: I'm ready. Tell me please
The other man types and types. James almost passes out with anticipation.
Aglooka: put lube on your fingers and play with it until it warms up. the warmer the better. it will feel like spit on your hole
James has to bite at his bottom lip to keep quiet, which does nothing but turn him on even more. He follows Aglooka’s instructions, managing to avoid making a mess of his phone as he types one-handed.
TomBowlineX: Done
Aglooka: good boy. spread your legs nice and wide start stroking around your hole lightly with a finger or two
Aglooka: play with it. dont touch your cock
James squeezes his eyes shut against the wave of arousal investing him at the order casually thrown there. With a shaking breath he does as Aglooka said, keeping his eyes closed to better picture the other man touching him in between his legs.
TomBowlineX: More
TomBowlineX: Pls
Aglooka: the more lube you use the better. eating someone out is messy. spit gets everywhere. always get half of my face wet with it
James hides his own face in the pillow as he pictures this man, older than him and built like his own personal wet dream, with his face tucked in between James' thighs (he would tremble with pleasure, he suspects, he always ends up a shaking mess when playing with himself). Would Aglooka lift his gaze on him while eating James out? Would he fold James in half to get better access? Would his big hands leave red marks on James’ skin, that he could retrace the following morning? Would Aglooka tear James apart in ways he’s never dreamed of before?
TomBowlineX: Do u like it
Aglooka: bloody love it
Aglooka: youre gonna love it too it feels good warm and nice
Aglooka: stroke your hole with all four fingers now
James obeys, teasing himself with his fingers flat together to cover a wider surface. It sends little shivers through his entire body, his heart skipping a beat. He experimentally scratches his nails around his rim, pretending that’s Aglooka’s beard and ends up moaning at the sensation.
TomBowlineX: Sogood
Aglooka: yes love? like daddy eating you out?
The sound leaving his throat almost alarms him— he’s never heard it in his own voice, had no idea he could make such a slutty broken noise. He sounded wounded, like he's trying to breathe around a spear pierced in his side. He wonders if taking cock would tear the same noise out of him.
He’s dying to jerk himself off, his cock hard and leaking by now, but Aglooka said not to do that and James is going to trust him. He doesn't ask himself why he deems it important to follow a stranger’s instructions to the letter, but it feels vital to do so, to not disappoint the man who’s been treating him so well. What he does, is pushing his t-shirt up on his chest, taking the hem between his teeth to keep it out of the way.
TomBowlineX: Yes yesyes plse
TomBowlineX: Can i play with my tits
Aglooka: fuckinghelel
Aglooka: yes do it youre fucking amazing have you any idea? dying to see you as you play with yourself love
James is so taken in touching himself that he forgets to answer for a while. When he finally manages to stop pinching and twisting his nipples and teasing his rim, everything he manages to type is a weak "fuck" that doesn't convey how horny he is, cock leaking profusely against his stomach, the cold air of his room a tingly balm over the delicate skin of his balls and dripping wet hole.
His phone vibrates.
Aglooka: i like to tonguefuck my partners
Jesus Christ— James is going to come. Like this, without even jerking himself off, just by pinching his nipples and playing with his hole and reading a stranger’s texts which are possibly the hottest things he’s ever read in his brief gay life.
Aglooka: baby
That’s it: he’s going to die here. He doesn’t even manage to read the rest of the text, has to shut his eyes at being called that by a man, a man who openly wants him, a man who’s describing in great detail what he’d do to James if he’d be there with him.
God, he’s been wanting something like this forever and how that he has a taste of it, he wants more: he wants Aglooka to fuck his hole with his tongue as he said, until James would be boneless and overwhelmed, and then he wants Aglooka to push his thick fingers into him and fuck him through his orgasm and beyond, until James would be begging for him to stop and Aglooka would stop, but only to replace his fingers with his cock, fucking him into oblivion while telling him how pretty, how perfect he is for him, how Aglooka could only dream of a pretty boy like him, how obsessed with James he is, how he will never let him go.
He slaps a hand over his own mouth as his moans become exponentially deeper and harder to silence, as he apparently can’t control his own bodily reactions anymore. He somehow manages to grab his phone, getting back to the text that almost broke him.
Aglooka: baby push one of your fingers in. lightly
Relief washes over him and he suddenly realizes how much he's been wanting for Aglooka’s permission to do just that.
James has fingered himself extensively, by now. It’s been a very early curiosity for him, almost as early as playing with his dick, though a more pressing one: he has always been attracted to the idea of being filled, and if at first he couldn’t really understand why, what, how, he’s now had enough experience with himself, his own fingers, and his two beloved dildos that he knows pretty well what he likes. He also knows he can never, ever reach it, not completely, not as he really needs it. Despite how good of an orgasm he can push himself to reach by spearing himself on his suction cup dildo, or by fingering himself for an hour, it’s never quite right. He knows what’s missing is another man’s fingers into him, opening him up for their big, fat cock. He has literally been dreaming about it quite enough times to know there’s nothing else he wants more than this.
Even though he may not have the real thing right now, he does have precise, maddeningly hot instructions to follow: so he pushes his index finger all the way into himself, like Aglooka told him to do. It’s an immediate relief, but not nearly what he wants. It's more like the prelude to something he can never reach on his own, which frustrates him, and he feels a bit like crying, because God he just wants to get fucked, has to, there's no other way around it, and he wants it now, wants Aglooka to come here, pin him down on his own bed, spread him open and sink so deep into him that James will pass out.
His cock leaks more pre-come at the mere thought of being manhandled by someone bigger, stronger than him, someone with a bit of a belly and a strong grip— someone like Aglooka.
TomBowlineX: More
TomBowlineX: Please dont stop imtoiching mysekf
Aglooka: youre so fucking hot tom christ
Aglooka: dont push your finger all the way in
Too late for that, James thinks, with his index finger deep into his arse.
Aglooka: not yet
Aglooka: stroke yourself with one or two fingers from the outside. feel how i lick your pretty little hole
He whimpers into the pillow. God, what's happening to him? He's never been this aroused before, ever, he feels like he's about to lose his mind, and the person he's hard for isn't even here.
He follows Aglooka’s instructions again, stroking his rim while stretching himself out. It feels really fucking good, which is crazy because James has done this before and it never once was this intense, not when he was watching porn, not when he was picturing scene after scene in his mind, but somehow this man’s words alone are enough to drive him crazy. He feverishly wonders what he might get reduced to if he'll ever get the real thing.
TomBowlineX: Pleas
TomBowlineX: Need
Aglooka: greedy boy you cant even use your words anymore
Aglooka: im pushing my finger into you now can you feel it
TomBowlineX: Need u to fuck eme
Aglooka: baby
James’ brain goes to static mode. He really has to tell Aglooka how much he loves being called that.
Aglooka: tell me how you feel on my tongue
TomBowlineX: Im wet
TomBowlineX: Messy
TomBowlineX: Shaking
TomBowlineX: Hot
Aglooka: fuck
Aglooka: do u like fingering yourslef
TomBowlineX: Yes
Aglooka: good.want you to come like that while i finger you open
It's only a matter of a couple more texts before James finds himself with two of his own fingers up his arse while avidly reading Aglooka’s texts. He squints at the screen, so horny he can barely make out the words.
TomBowlineX: dpls
His texts don’t convey how desperate he is, how painful it is to be this hard and unable to touch himself, but by some miracle Aglooka seems to understand He’s reaching his limit.
Aglooka: come love come on
Aglooka: fuck yourself hard for me babygirl
If being called baby was enough to make James melt, being called babygirl sends him into another dimension. No one ever called him anything like this, not on bloody Grindr, not in real life, ever. It manages to shut his own brain off and James can only pump his fingers in a few more times, rubbing desperately against his prostrate as he manages, until he comes hard, face pressed into the pillow, violently riding his own fingers.
God, his arm is sore. His brain is probably leaking out of his ears. It's a few minutes before he manages to get his phone back from where it ended with all his thrashing and writhing on the bed. He quickly wipes himself clean and gets back on typing.
TomBowlineX: Came so hard oh my god
TomBowlineX: Never had it like that before
Aglooka: fuck tell me what you look like right no w
Oh, this James can do. He lets his fingers fly over the keyboard.
TomBowlineX: I'm in my bed laying on my back, pants off, blankets pushed down. Kept my tshirt up with my teeth so I could play with my tits and now my nipples are still hard and puffy they hurt a bit bc I twisted them too hard :'( you should kiss them better
TomBowlineX: My stomach is covered in cum, I made a mess
TomBowlineX: Clean me up, please? 😇
His phone vibrates a couple minutes later.
Aglooka: came hard picturing you love
James grins, bone-deep tired and satisfied.
Surprisingly, Aglooka keeps texting him just as enthusiastically for an extra hour —with his boomer typing style that speaks of his age and complicated relationship with technology,— throwing sexual appreciations here and there, though mostly keeping it conversational. He asks what James does for work (because he thinks James is thirty-one, right, he has to remember that; James says he's a graphic designer, since that’s what he plans to do in the future anyway), he tells James it was a joy to spend the night with him (which makes James feel all funny inside), and finally proposes to meet him.
Aglooka: tom. fancy doing this again? face to face next time. with my fingers up your arse instead of yours
And then:
Aglooka: by the way my names francis
James texts back an embarrassing amount of heart eyes emojis and "Yes, FRANCIS, please. I would like that very much."
💦
For the past couple of hours James has been trying to figure out what he’s supposed to wear when he’s about to meet a complete stranger more than double his age who made him see stars while sexting the night before, who's hopefully going to dick him down for the very first time in his life later tonight.
His room is a mess of discarded pants, shirts, blazers, even a couple of skirts. He was first contemplating a casual look, then a slutty one, eventually ending with a mix of the two, with his tightest pair of jeans and one of his best button downs, the one that cuts his waist like that. The jeans are a bitch to put on, but James values sluttiness over comfort, so that’s that. He’s also hoping to make a good first impression on his date, though he’s not sure it can even be called a date, if it will only entail sex (repeatedly, in various positions and rooms, he hopes), but still. He wants to look good. For Francis.
When he’s done messing with his hair he dabs his most expensive cologne (the Jean Paul Gaultier he keeps for special occasions) on his pulse points, grabs his keys, gets an unrequested but appreciated overly-enthusiastic cheering from Dundy, and, finally, heads to his Grindr date-slash-hookup.
By the time he makes it to what’s supposed to be Francis's place, James is about to jump out of his own skin. He tries to tell himself that he's only about to have sex with the man of his dreams, not a big deal. He simply has to smile, nod (and hopefully kiss, lick, suck) and that will be it. Easy. Doesn’t matter that he’s never done any of this before: he knows the theory, and he’s a quick learner, especially about stuff he’s enthusiastic about, so it’s gonna be fine. Everything else will follow, and Francis will never have to know about him being a bloody virgin or being ten extra years younger than what he thinks James is.
When he finally makes it there, he easily finds Francis (Crozier)’s intercom. He rubs his sweaty hands on his leather jacket, taking a deep breath. He checks for the millionth time that his hair is alright, that his shirt falls the right way across his chest (he undoes another button; for good measure), that his phone is in vibration mode. When he's left with nothing else to double-check, he finally buzzes the intercom.
"Yes?" Asks a male voice.
"Uh." James says, charmingly. Bloody hell. "It's Tom!" He cringes at himself. The last thing he wants is to sound like a damn teenager, since he’s going for thirty-something. Be cool, he reminds himself, you know how to fake it.
"Tom," Francis greets him. His voice seems nice, even through the intercom. "Come up. First floor on your right."
James steps into the building, heart in his throat. He mentally scolds himself, frustrated with how he’s managing this— it’s just sex. Not such a big deal. The problem, he thinks, is that he wants this to go as he has been picturing in his mind so badly that he can’t phantom to let himself (or Francis) down. It’s going to work out, he tells himself, it will be fine.
Before taking the stairs he snaps a thumbs up selfie for Dundy to give himself courage ("about to get DICKED DOWN see you on the other side"). He also attaches Francis' address and his phone’s location, just in case. After all, it's still someone he met on the (gay) internet.
When he finally gets to the first floor, on the right, there he is: Francis waiting for him on his doorstep and, bloody hell, he’s gorgeous. James almost trips on his own feet on the last step, but somehow manages to recover, throwing him his best flirtatious smile. "Francis."
The man’s eyes widen a little. "Tom?" The surprise in his voice does not sound too good, if James is being honest. He does his best to ignore it.
"Of course." He steps closer, extending his hand out. "Nice to meet you."
Francis does not take his hand. He straight up ignores it, actually. James feels a bit silly, standing there with his hand stretched out. He forces himself to smile through it. "What—"
"You're—" Francis stammers. "Erg. Young."
He grins, summoning all the confidence his thirty-one made-up years of life are supposed to give him. "Thanks."
Francis doesn't look pleased about it, if the frown on his face is anything to go by. He still doesn't invite James in, so James finally opts for dropping his hand. He squares his shoulders back, trying to appear more at ease than what he feels.
"Tom,” Francis says, “forgive me if I ask, but how old are you?"
Ah, shit. Here we go.
"I’m thirty-one.” James replies, trying to sound surprised and even a bit annoyed by the question. “It’s on my profile as well, I thought you saw that?"
"I did, which is why I’m asking.” Francis counters. “Pardon me, but you look too young to be thirty-one."
James gives a short laugh. "I always get that. It’s the lack of facial hair."
"Mh,” is all Francis says. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and, despite the nervousness, James can’t fail to notice how the fabric of his shirt stretches around his biceps. He forces his gaze back on Francis’ face.
“Can I come in? Or were you planning on having dinner out here?”
Francis is not amused by his teasing either. If anything, he seems to actually consider the question, like he’s really thinking about turning James down. What the hell. This shouldn’t be hard, James should have already been invited inside, should have been languidly looking at Francis from underneath his long lashes, he shouldn’t still be out here in the damn hallway, trying to convince this man that he can, in fact, fuck James, more than once, even.
At last, Francis steps aside. Thank God. “Come in. But we’re not done talking about this.”
James mentally swears, but makes his way inside with a self-assured smile plastered on his face. “What’s there to talk about?”
Francis doesn’t invite him to take his jacket off, nor to step further into his space. He really seems firm about having a discussion on his doorstep. “The fact that I don’t think you’re telling me your real age.”
“But I am.” He insists. “I just have an excellent skincare routine, what can I say.”
“Tom.” Francis says, crossing his arms again. Damn. “I want to believe you, but I’m finding it hard, with you looking like,” he emphatically gestures at James, “this.”
“Thanks for the compliment.” He grins widely.
Francis actually rolls his eyes at that, sounding more exasperated within each passing minute. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” It’s kinda hot how he tells James what he knows and what not, isn’t it? “You look young. Too young. Younger than what you’re supposed to be in fact, younger than what I was expecting you to be.”
"It’s just how I look, Francis. I’m sorry if my appearance offends you, there’s not much I can do about it.”
“Don’t be a smartass with me, kid, I’m trying to have a conversation here.”
It’s James’ turn to look affronted. “I’m not a kid, and If you don’t believe me that's your problem, not mine.”
“Very well then.” Francis says, widening his stance. He nods toward the front door. “The door is still unlocked.”
James gapes at him like a fish out of water. When Francis only keeps staring at him, he tries to laugh it off. “That’s bullshit.”
Francis arches an eyebrow. “The way you’re answering is not really playing to your favor, do you realise that?”
He scoffs at how utterly ridiculous Francis is being at suspecting him for a lie he is one hundred percent telling.
“I don’t understand what the problem is.” He insists. “If you don’t like me you can just say that to my face.”
“You’re lucky you’re damn pretty.” Francis says, and the contrast between the nice words and his strict tone makes James almost sway. “Otherwise I would have thrown you out myself already.”
“Again, thanks for the compliment.” James answers back, not moving an inch.
They stare at each other for a long moment, both of them silent, evaluating their next move.
“Well, Tom.” Francis says at last. “If you really are thirty-one, I want you to tell me which year you were born."
James blinks at him. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me.” He says. “What year were you born?”
"What kind of question is that—"
"One that I'm asking you." Francis says. "And you should answer me."
James can't do math, he’s gay.
"I'm not going to play your games, Francis.” He notices how nervous he sounds, which only makes him more nervous. Fuck, no, focus. “You’re overreacting for something that is not a problem at all.”
“So you do admit something’s up.”
James’s cheeks sting. “I— no—”
“Then answer my question.” Francis says once again. “What year were you born?”
James is mad. And possibly turned on, but mostly mad, because goddammit, they had fun last night, and now this is happening? How is it that James is desperate to get laid and no one seems available to do it?
Francis shakes his head, realising. "You really don't know."
He decides it’s better to keep silent since he really does not know what damn year a thirty-one year old is supposed to be born, because he hadn’t thought about checking beforehand, as he didn’t think his date who seemed ready to fuck him through the mattress would be so adamant in knowing. Christ.
Francis gives a short, sour laugh. "Are you even eighteen?"
"Of course I'm bloody eighteen, Francis.” James raises his voice, really starting to lose his patience. Doesn’t Francis want to fuck him? Is his age such a deterrent to it? Is James not enough as he is? Shouldn’t his real age be an actual push for Francis to want him? James is young, a virgin, attracted to Francis: what’s there to be discussed?
“Why are we even talking about this?” He asks, trying to regain control of the conversation. “I thought you were planning to fuck me."
Francis is not even taller than him, but there’s this aura of self-control and self-assurance radiating from him that is enough to make him look bigger, larger. James swallows. "I was planning to fuck Tom, a thirty-one old man, not Tom a maybe-twenty something boy who could be my own bloody son."
James' face burns with frustration. "I told you I'm not twenty." He says through gritted teeth.
Francis takes a step toward him, somehow pinning him in place with his gaze only.
"Then tell me how old you really are." He demands. “No more lies. My patience is running out.”
"If you really want to know, Francis,” James finally snaps, “I'm twenty-one."
Francis just stares at him for a moment, deadly silent. Then he laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Oh my God. Christ.”
It’s James’ turn to cross his arm in front of his chest, in the desperate attempt to protect his ego.
"Fucking hell, kid.” Francis swears, looking at him. “That's thirty-bloody-six years between you and me, do you know that?"
"I do and I don’t see how that’s a problem."
"You don’t see—" He repeats, arching an eyebrow. "Then let me make it explicit for you, Tom: I'm not going to touch a child."
James is going to scream.
"I am not a child."
"You are."
James is going to punch him. Then scream. Then cry out of frustration. "You don't know anything about me, Francis."
"You're right." Francis says at length. "I don't. And I made the mistake of meeting you despite that, and this is the result.” He says, and then: “I think you should leave."
For the second time in maybe fifteen minutes James is speechless. "What?”
"I said I think you should leave, Tom. If that’s even your real name.”
James freezes. He can feel the tip of his cheeks getting flushed with embarrassment.
“Are you bloody serious?” Francis asks, eyes wide. “This is unbelievable.”
“Because you are so much better than me and you were using your real name, right, Aglooka?”
“Don’t treat me like I’m the wrong one here, kid.” Francis says, placing an accusatory finger to his chest. James distantly realises this is the first time Francis has touched him. “I am a responsible adult, who told you my actual name immediately after our first talk, and definitely before meeting you in real life. And I most definitely did not lie about my age, so don’t try to be a smart-ass with me, because it won’t work.”
James takes a shaking breath, frustration burning through his veins.
"I'm not leaving." He says at last. "You're making it sound like I'm a child, Francis, but I'm not. I'm an adult, I have a job, a flat," (well, a room in a flat, but Francis doesn't need to know this), "I have the right to vote, I have a driving license, I'm legal. I'm not a bloody child, so stop treating me like I can’t make decisions for myself."
"Easy, tiger." Francis says. "You may not be a literal child, but you are when compared to me. I could be your father, Tom." He says the name with a mocking tone that makes James visibly flinch. Francis notices and mistakes his uneasiness. "Exactly what I meant."
"That's not— it’s not about what you said." James tries to explain. "I wouldn't hate that— the concept of it."
This is what makes Francis finally stop in his pacing. "For me to be your father?"
"No," James sighs, because nothing of this conversation is going as planned. "My father wasn't a good man. But this has nothing to do with that."
"Of course it does." Francis counters, "otherwise you would be out with a girl or a boy your age, instead of here with me."
"Who says that? You? You don't know what I like or don’t like, Francis."
They end up in another staring context, until Francis closes his eyes, sighing, somewhat resigned. "You’re not going to leave, are you?”
He shakes his head. "I'm sorry I lied about my age. Do you want to know why I did it?”
“I guess you’re going to tell me anyway, aren’t you?”
It’s almost funny how Francis has him figured out within three online conversations and a twenty minute meeting spent mostly fighting each other.
“I did it because it was the only way to find the kind of people I like.”
“Which would be?”
“In your words, men who could be my father.” James says. “And before you say anything, I am one hundred percent sure about it. It’s always been like this, since I remember feeling any kind of attraction. It’s never been guys my age, it just doesn’t work for me. I tried, trust me, but I don’t feel anything. Plus, it’s not just the age anyway.” He adds, looking suggestively at Francis.
“What is it, then?”
“As I told you while texting, it’s everything else you had listed on your profile. It matches perfectly with me,” he catches Francis’ gaze, “with what I want.”
“Mh.” Francis seems to finally consider it. “Then tell me more about what it is that you want from your partners. In your own words.”
“Do we have to do it here?” James looks pointedly around them, still standing in the entryway.
“You may come in.” Francis concedes. “If you tell me your name first. Your real name, Tom. And any other secret you might have conveniently left out or lied about so far.”
“No other secrets. I promise.” James says with an angelic grin and his fingers crossed behind his back, as Francis doesn’t need to know about his lack of sexual experience. He’ll find a way to wing it, it can’t be so hard to fake being experienced if you love the act itself already, right? James will be fine.
He holds his hand out, like he did less than twenty minutes ago. “Nice to meet you, Francis,” he says in his best well-behaved voice, “my name is James.”
Francis studies him for a long moment, and James suspects he’s leaving him hanging on purpose as a punishment for how he behaved, which makes him feel a bit funny inside. Finally, Francis grabs his hand, shaking it vigorously. His skin is warm, and James wonders what it’ll feel like caressing the rest of his body.
“Nice to meet you, James.” Francis says. “Took you some bloody time, kid.”
“I’m not—” He starts, but Francis looks pointedly at him, so he shuts his mouth. Francis looks pleased about it. It’s a nice look on him.
“For the record, I still don’t approve of what you did." He points out.
James nods. “I get it.”
Francis releases his hand, still holding his gaze. His eyes are a beautiful icy color and James is a bit mesmerized by it.
"Listen, I hate to do this,” Francis says, interrupting his observations, “but I don't trust you on this matter after what you just did, so: I’d like it if you could show me your ID. I have to be certain about your age before we do anything else, James."
Before we do anything else. James has never handed his ID to anyone faster.
"It's not fake, don't worry." He promises. "I was born on July 27th, 1994. I'm twenty-one years old, I will turn twenty-two next July. I'm an adult, Francis, and I know what I want."
Francis seems satisfied with what he sees. He hands the document back to James. "And what is it that you want?"
“To spend a nice night. With you."
Francis softens. "We have that in common."
James smiles timidly, then pushes himself to say more, because goddamnit he wants this, and he’s gonna get it. "I want someone who would tell me that I'm being good when I'm being good."
"Do you want to be good?" Francis asks, in a lower tone that makes James’s skin prickle with goosebumps. He nods.
"I'll need you to use your words for this, James."
Fuck, the way he rolls James’ names in his mouth—
"Yes." He says, feeling his cheeks flush. "I want to be good. I can be."
Francis holds his hand out for him. "Come, then."
💦
After the initial troubled start, Francis' annoyance leaves behind a charming, funny man. A charming funny man who went through the trouble of preparing an entire meal for them, a meal he’s eating only half as enthusiastically as opposed to how he’s devouring James up with his eyes.
He has been squirming on his chair since the first bite, trying to play cool but being secretly flustered with the attention. He wasn’t prepared for it, not at this intensity: Francis has eyes for him only, and is actually listening to him, all while touching him here and there, more or less casually, but always making sure James takes notice of Francis’ elbow bumping against his as they set the table, of Francis’ hands on his hips as he gently moves James out of the way as he finishes plating the pasta, of Francis’ hand in between his shoulders as he asks James how bloody tall is he, and you could be a model, ever thought about that?
And they talk: James wasn’t nervous about doing small talk with a stranger, he excels in filling silences, but he’s positively surprised by how easy it is to talk to Francis. They've been chatting about Francis' work, James' university life, and Francis' university memories, and truth it, James is having a great time. The food is comforting, the red wine Francis poured him (“One glass only. I want you lucid”) is excellent, and the company is better.
He has been pushing his chair closer and closer to Francis with each passing bite, not even trying to be subtle about it: he wants Francis to notice. Francis, in turn, has his entire body turned toward him, physically giving him his undivided attention. At some point, he drops his hand on James’ knee, making him almost choke on his bite of pasta. Francis had the guts to ask if he was alright, while obviously enjoying seeing James struggling, if the glint in his eyes was anything to go by.
With dessert, they relocate to the couch, and with that comes the realization that dinner is about to come to an end and that this is moving in a different direction. James' stomach closes up with nervousness and anticipation, making it impossible to finish his portion of tiramisù.
"I loved it." He rushes to say, not wanting Francis to think he doesn’t appreciate it. "It just was a lot, I'm pretty full."
"Not too full that you won’t be up for the next part of the night, I hope?" Francis asks, placing his hand back on James’ knee and, this time, keeping it there. James can only shake his head, words gone.
Francis takes a look at him. "If you are alright with—"
"I am!" He jumps to say. "Sorry. I am. Really. Just a bit nervous, is all. But I’m good!"
Francis nods silently. Then, he places his glass of wine down with an air of finality, and uncrosses his legs, leaving his thighs to suggestively fall open.
"Why don't you come here, then?"
James goes, shifting closer to him, until his thigh is pressed against Francis’.
"How do you feel?" Francis asks, voice low, light blue eyes fixed on James.
Like I'm about to explode if you don't tell me how to do this. Confused. Excited to death. Scared.
"I'm good." He says, taking a final sip of his wine to get some courage, then placing his glass down. "That was a nice dinner. Thank you."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it." Francis smiles.
Now that they are sitting closer James notices the specks of grey in Francis’ hair and beard, and the freckles dotted around his nose and cheeks. He notices the softness of Francis’ skin, the marks on his face, the bags under his eyes, how big his hands are, and how tight his shirt is around that bit of a delicious belly he has. He swallows.
"Listen to me, James." Francis says with a solemn tone that makes him look up. "If there is anything you don't want me to do, anything you don't like, you'll tell me. Right away. Is that clear?"
This is an echo of the texting conversations they had throughout the day: Francis had gone into details about what he wanted to do to James, not with sexting intentions, but to set boundaries and limits. Despite his broken texting style he managed to explain the stoplight system and said it was possible he’d ask James to use it if (when) things might get intense; he told James he likes to push his partners to their limit, that he likes to watch them struggle with pleasure and pain, and best of all, how he likes to watch them suffer; he said he wanted to watch James go through it too. James agreed to everything not because he felt pressured, but because those were things he’d been dreaming about for years without knowing how to pin them down, just having a vague sense of wanting to be pushed to the edge but not knowing how to ask for it. Thankfully, Francis put it into (grammatically questionably typed, granted) words for him.
He nods. Then he remembers Francis asked him to use his words. "Yes. Crystal clear. I will."
"Good lad." Francis says with an approving smile. "Would it be alright if I’d touch you?"
He nods at once, eager and nervous in equal measures, expecting Francis' hands on his face, along his arms, perhaps on his chest; but Francis caresses his hair instead, gently pushing it behind his ear. James can't tear his gaze away from his face. He licks his lips and is transfixed by Francis’ eyes tracking the movement.
“You’re so pretty it’s unbelievable.” Francis says. “Look at you.”
James is on his way to get hard, has been since the start of the dinner, to be honest, and he’s pretty sure Francis wouldn’t mind seeing him like that, but he’s not sure this is too soon, perhaps? Francis seems to be wanting to take things slow, and here’s James feeling like he’s going to pass out if Francis won’t touch him soon.
“Thank you.” Gosh, his voice comes out all shaky and he suddenly realises that he is shaking, bloody hell. He hides his hands underneath his thighs, sitting firmly over them. He gives Francis a smile, but he’s not sure it works, as the man just stares at him.
"You're shaking." Francis indeed says.
He shrugs with a smile, trying to play flirtatious to hide his nervousness. "Must be the anticipation."
Francis makes an unimpressed sound. "Are you a virgin, James?"
He chokes on his own saliva. "Wh— no. I'm— not. Obviously."
Francis makes that unimpressed sound again. "Do you like to top or bottom?"
“I—”
Francis stares at him, looking almost bored, and why is that such a turn on?
"Both." James answers, panicked, without really giving it too much thought.
It was easy to play this game behind a screen, safe and sound in his own familiar bed, but here he’s reduced to a bundle of nerves, with Francis looking at him like he’s about to eat him alive.
"So you've done both already." Francis says, leaning toward him. "Fucking and getting fucked."
His pulse speeds up. "Yes." He croaks out, because it’s not like he can spill out the truth right now.
"And what do you like best?" Francis asks, not breaking eye contact for even a second, not letting James breathe.
"I…" He swallows, trying to think. "Fucking." He feels his face flushing red as soon as the word is out of his mouth. It’s not even the truth, it’s not what he really wants, but he felt pressured and he panicked and oh God.
"Is that so," Francis arches an eyebrow. "So you would like to fuck me."
The mere concept has James wincing. He can't even picture it in his mind, has no idea how he would do it, not with Francis.
"Yes." He forces himself to say, because he can’t take it back.
Francis tsks.
James arches an eyebrow, trying to keep his face straight.
"Do you want to know what I think, James?" Francis asks, threading his fingers in the hair at the back of his head.
"What?" He manages to whisper.
"I think you're lying. Again. I think you're making all of this up, and you know why I think so?"
"Why?" James asks in a feeble voice.
"Because I can read it on your face, that you've never fucked or got fucked before." He says. “I can see how you're gagging for it."
James squeezes his thighs together. "It doesn't matter if I've done it or not," he says, "I want to do it with you. Tonight.”
“Which one of the two?”
“Getting—” His face burns. “I would— I want you to fuck me. Please."
"It's a little early to beg, kid." Francis says, voice low. "Save that for later."
"You'll have to teach me when to do it." James whispers. “Teach me how to do it.”
They’ve been increasingly leaning toward each other, with Francis playing with his hair.
“Are you sure you want that?” Francis double-checks. “There are many other things we could do, you don’t have to force yourself on this one."
"It's not— I'm not saying it just because. I want it." He insists, trying to convey how he’s not going to go anywhere until he’ll get what he wants. "I want to try, with you. Tonight. You're gonna like me—"
"I have no doubt I'm gonna like fucking you, love, no need to convince me on that."
The pet name in Francis’ voice makes his stomach jump, and suddenly James can't wait any longer, all the anxiety, anticipation and fear accumulated during the day seem to explode in his chest in a firework of desire and need, so he lets himself trip forward in Francis’ lap, kissing Francis, whose first reaction is a surprised groan against his lips. His second reaction is to take James by the hips and maneuver him to properly straddle him. James twitches in his pants, suddenly aware of being hard, and of how much he needs Francis to do something, anything, to make him feel better.
"Slow down, love." Francis murmurs against his lips, gently but firmly pulling him back by the hand in his hair, almost killing him on the spot. "There's no rush.” He says, the tips of their noses brushing. “Savor it."
"Teach me how." James whispers. "Make me."
Francis cups the back of his head to guide him into a slower kiss, so deep it makes James' toes curl. He probably whines at some point, because Francis groans against his mouth, squeezing his arse with both hands. James’ hips stutter against his belly, which oh God, it's unspeakably sexy, is it weird to find a belly sexy? Not that he could care any less at the moment, with Francis' tongue in his mouth and Francis' hands groping him like he’s been dreaming for days.
"You like this." Francis says, and it's not a question.
James nods, can’t stop kissing him. “I like you.” He kisses him. “How you touch me.”
Francis nibbles at his bottom lip, making his hips stutter against him. He can’t seem to stop himself from doing it, his body moving on its own volition under Francis’ touch, who pushes a hand underneath James’ shirt, causing a waterfall of shivers to cascade down his back. He holds tight onto Francis, panting into his mouth.
“How sensitive you are.” Francis whispers. “Makes me wonder how you’ll react with my fingers up your arse.”
James bloody mewls. “I— Shit.” He hides his face in Francis’ neck. “Sorry. Wasn’t expecting that.”
“Was it bad?”
“No.” He says at once, moving back to look at him. “Not bad: too good.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘too good’ when it comes to sex.” Francis says, pushing a lock of hair away from his face. “That’s what you want to aim for, when you have sex with someone.” He says. “To reduce your partner to a shaking, blabbing mess.” He kisses behind James’ ear. “To leave them soaked and speechless, unable to form a thought after you're done with them.” He grazes his teeth along James’ neck. “To fuck the cleverness out of them entirely.”
“Will you—” He starts. “Will you do those things to me too?”
“Love,” Francis says. “I’ll do more. You’ll have to beg me to stop.” He undoes the buttons of James’ jeans. “It’s likely I’ll make you cry.”
Fucking hell, James feels like crying now, with how turned on he is.
“I would like that.” He breathes. “Very much. Please.”
“You beg so beautifully, did you know that?”
He kisses Francis, because he has no possible answer to that. Francis once again has to slow him down, taking his face in both hands to guide him into a gentler, deeper rhythm.
“Like that,” he murmurs, “feel it.”
And by God does James feel it, down to the tip of his fingertips.
“Feels good.” James whispers. “You feel good.”
“Darling.” Francis says. “Thank you, but this is nothing. Would you like to feel how good this can really be?”
“Please.”
Francis grabs him by the hips at once, and James thinks this is to keep him still, but instead he guides him into thrusting against himself. James’ mouth falls open in a silent sound as he lets his forehead drop against Francis’. He looks down between them, at Francis' hands tightly holding onto his hips, maneuvering him to thrust his covered erection against Francis’ belly.
“Oh.” He moans brokenly, transfixed by the sight.
“Keep going like this.” Francis instructs, voice rough. “Let me see how you chase it.”
James does what he’s told. It’s easy, with Francis setting the rhythm, showing him how to do it the right way, the way he wants it. He follows Francis’ movements, tentatively thrusting against his belly, still covered by the shirt because yes, they are both still entirely dressed, except for James’ jeans which are undone, but he’s still wearing them and Francis seems to have no intention of changing this. It disorients him, somehow making him feel even more at Francis’ mercy, like he is the one knowing where this is going, while James has no bloody clue.
He keeps doing what he’s told though, because he wants to be good, knows he can be good at this, but the more he shifts and thrusts, the harder it gets to maintain a rhythm— he’s more turned out by the minute, which makes it harder to focus.
“Francis—” He breathes, not knowing what else to add exactly.
“You’re doing well. So well, darling.” Francis encourages him, tightening the hold on his hips. “Keep going.”
The bloody tight jeans bite into James’ thighs with every movement, and there’s an embarrassing patch of wetness on the fabric of his boxers, feeling raw against his now straining erection. He wonders how long is it going to take for a similar patch to transfer onto Francis’ shirt, where he’s rutting against like a dog in heat, and the thought makes his head spin. He’s panting and sweating, and he must look terrible but can’t stop, this feels too good and there’s no way in hell he’s stopping until he’ll come like this, in Francis’ arms, all over them both. Fuck.
Francis seems to notice his state: he grabs James’ hips so hard he actually manages to stop his movements.
“James,” he calls for him. “Look at me.”
James opens his eyes, which he didn’t even notice had closed, finding Francis’ burning gaze trained on him. He looks frustratingly in control, despite the hardness in his pants James can clearly feel.
“You’re close.”
James nods, panting hard.
“You’ll get this and nothing else.” Francis says. “If you want to make yourself come, that's how you’re gonna do it. Understood?”
“I— don’t know if I can.” He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to think. “Can’t you just touch me?”
Francis shakes his head gently, looking at James like he’s not grasping a very simple concept. “This. Or nothing else.”
“Why?” He actually whines.
“Because I say so.” Francis says, stroking his back.
“Fuck.” James says. “I’ll ruin your shirt.”
Francis actually chuckles. “I do hope so, darling.”
“Fuck.” He says again, vocabulary reduced to swearwords. “But you— weren’t you going to fuck me?”
“James.” Francis threads a hand in his hair and pulls him backwards, painfully so, somehow managing to make him look up at him, despite James being taller and in his lap. He bites back a whine.
“This,” Francis repeats, “or nothing else.”
James makes a pitiful sound, understanding how serious he is about this.
He takes a deeper breath, and nods.
“Did you forget to use your words already?”
“Sorry.” He apologizes, embarrassed by having done something so stupid. “I understand. This, or nothing else.”
“Good boy.” Francis praises him with a small, but sincere smile. “See, it’s not so hard if you put your mind to it.”
He loses track of things for a moment, turned on by casually being called slow, because apparently this is something that he likes and had no idea about.
“What are you waiting for, then?” Francis asks, arching an eyebrow. “Get to work, pretty boy.”
James does. He resumes his shifting and thrusting against Francis’ belly, and somehow the short break only served to make him feel everything even more: the pressure of Francis' body against his aching erection tears moan after moan out of his throat, and he tries to keep a resemblance of a rhythm, not to disappoint Francis, but he’s getting close, and he just really wants to come.
He can barely tolerate the sight of the bulge in his own boxers against Francis’ soft, delicious belly, and fuck, the idea of having to rut against him as his only way to come makes something shift in his brain, shrinking his perception to Francis only: he wants to be able to do this the right way, to show Francis how good he can be. It’s hard, though, with his thoughts reduced to I need to do this, I need to do this, I need to show him I can. He’s not sure he can reach it on his own, was expecting Francis to do it, but now he has to work for it while Francis stares at him with hungry eyes, watching him struggle and sweat and rut against him.
Fuck, he’s close. He’s going to come in his own underwear and make a mess of them both, and Francis is going to stare at him for the entire time.
“Please.” He begs, feeling a bit desperate.
“You’re almost there, love, I can see that from how wet you are here, making a mess of your clothes.” Francis looks in between them, at James’ straining cock hidden by the soaked fabric, which only serves to make him twitch visibly.
“Look at that,” Francis says. “So sensitive to words, aren’t you?”
He shuts his eyes, suddenly embarrassed by his own need. He tries to hide his face in Francis’ neck, but he’s firmly kept in place by the hand on his hair, can’t go anywhere.
“Keep going.” Francis commands.
“I—” He struggles to say. “I don’t know—” I don’t know what’s happening to me, I don’t understand how you are managing to unravel this bundle of dark, thick desire I somehow always had inside of me and no one wanted to see, let alone touch, but you are doing it, and it’s confusing and unbelievable as I have been waiting it all my life.
“I need— please, Francis.” He thrusts against him, movements getting erratic.
“You can come like this for me, mmh?” Francis digs his thumbs into his hips, making him cry out a moan, hips stuttering.
“I don’t know.” James whines, feeling like he’s about to cry for real now. “Please— I just need more.”
“You need to come.” Francis says firmly. “And you’ll come. Like this.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t—” He’s starting to feel lightheaded because of how much he wants, no, needs this.
“You can and you will.” Francis firmly says, looking him in the eye. “You’ll do as I say, because you want to be good for me, don't you, James?”
James sobs loudly, actual tears rolling down his cheeks, his chest heavy. His boxers are soaked, he’s staining Francis’ shirt with pre-come, and he doesn’t want this, doesn't want to disappoint Francis again after he lied to him earlier, oh God, but at the same time he can’t stop moving against him. “I’m— sorry.”
Francis cups his face. “James,” he says, “you’re doing well, love. So well.” The praise feels good, makes something in James settle minutely. “Just a bit more now. You can do it. You’re so close to it, darling and you’re doing really well.”
He shakes his head, pushing his forehead against Francis’. “Please.”
Francis is breathing almost as hard as him, but, apart from that he’s totally in control of the situation: yes, there’s sweat on his hairline and his eyes are burning hot, but his grip on James is steady, his words measured.
“Come on, darling. Let me see how pretty you look when you come.” Francis encourages him. “For me.”
James hides his face in his neck, moaning, and finally, with one final thrust, comes in his own damn boxers, rutting again the hottest man he’s ever seen.
“Beautiful, that’s perfect, James.” Francis praises him, caressing his hair as he shakes through his orgasm. “Perfect boy, you did such a good job.”
James is moaning these pitiful little sounds against Francis’ skin, eyes shut, just feeling all of it. He doesn’t even care about what he looks like, because goddamnit it felt good as fuck.
“See? That wasn’t so hard.” Francis tells him as he calms down. “Well done, sweetheart.”
James groans weakly in reply. God, he feels wretched. And sticky.
“I’m sticky.” He states, feeling more than hearing Francis’ chuckle against him.
“Can you move? I’ll get you something to clean you up.”
James forces himself to move back to look at him. “Wouldn’t it be better if I’d just shower or something?”
“Darling, do you think I’m done with you already?” Francis asks like he’s stupid.
Fuck. James just gapes at him.
Francis smiles, leaning toward him. “I haven’t started yet.”
He swallows. “Ah.”
“Mh.” Francis nods. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
James couldn’t move if he wanted to.
(He doesn’t want to.)
💦
After Francis cleaned him up —insisted in doing so, in fact, to James’ equal delight and mortification— he made him strip off his clothes (“You won’t need them for what we’re doing next”), guided him to the bedroom, and disappeared to get the laundry going.
James lets himself fall on the bed, dark blue bed sheets like a caress against his overheated skin. He’s been half-hard since Francis methodically wiped cum and tears away from various areas of his body, murmuring sweet nothings to him, like how good James was for him, how perfect he was at following what he was told, how he had exceeded Francis’ own expectations.
He still can’t believe this is happening. He can’t wait to tell Dundy everything, down to the last detail. He’ll probably have to prepare a PowerPoint presentation.
“Comfortable?” Francis chuckles when he’s back. He’s still fully clothed, has only rolled his shirtsleeves up, which drives James a bit crazy: he wants to see more of him, all of him, but, at the same time, the contrast between Francis still wearing clothes and him being stark naked in Francis’ bed does something to him, and he’s not mad about it.
“Very.” James rolls onto his stomach to give him a good view, arching his back to accentuate the curve of his arse. He can physically feel Francis’ gaze running over every inch of skin. He tries not to shiver too visibly.
“I’m running a quick cycle with your clothes,” Francis says, placing a hand on the back of his thigh, “it’ll be done in half an hour or so.”
“Talk dirty to me—ah!” James yelps out of surprise more than pain because Francis has pinched the tender skin at the back of his thigh.
“You never stop running that mouth of yours, mh?” Francis digs his thumb into the sore spot.
James hisses, but keeps still, shaking his head. “I have a lot to say.”
“I’ve noticed that.” Francis says, letting his hand slide upwards to cup James’ arsecheek. "You've got such a pretty little ass here."
James is 187 cm tall. He is not little, there is nothing little about him, not in the slightest, yet Francis has been treating him as if he was smaller, a tiny thing in need of defence, and James feels like it: small; delicate; a flower in Francis' hands.
"Dadd—" He shuts his own mouth, horrified. He pretends to be coughing, hiding his face in the bed sheets. One thing is to text it, but this— he doesn't want to make a fool of himself or worse, have Francis stop.
Francis does stop, though, and James braces himself for it.
"Finish what you were saying."
“It’s nothing. Keep touching me, come on.”
"Hold on, love. Look at me."
James shakes his head, face hidden.
“James,” Francis says, hand firmly placed on his arse. He feels the mattress dip under his weight. “I said look at me.”
He doesn’t want to, but Francis’ tone leaves no room for objection. He turns his head to the side, finding Francis leaning above him, a hand braced next to James’ head. “Finish what you were saying."
“What if I don’t want to?”
“You want to be good.” Francis says, matter-of-factly. “Then be good.”
He closes his eyes. Tries to buy himself some time. "What will you give me if I do?"
"I'm going to eat you out."
His eyes snap back open. He's probably gaping like a fish out of water, again. This man seems to have the unusual talent of rendering James speechless multiple times per hour, which is a rare thing for him and, apparently, something he finds hot.
Francis gently caresses his hip, giving him a tiny kiss on the lips. "Come on," he murmurs, “say it for me, sweetheart. It’s alright."
He hides his face again, and Francis lets him, this time, probably understanding that he needs a moment.
"I loved what you texted me." He tentatively admits. "The things you called me."
He doesn’t want to be the one to say it out loud. He wants Francis to do it for him, to lead him there. He can’t do it on his own, he needs Francis’s help.
“Which one was your favorite?" Francis asks, patient despite the obvious desire in his eyes. "Little one? Baby? Cherry?"
"Babygirl." He blurts out.
Francis threads his fingers in James’ hair at the back of his head, pinning him in place like a butterfly in a glass case, making it impossible for him to hide. "I had no idea if you would have liked that, you had nothing on your profile that made me think you were into feminization."
"It's not— it's not that. Not exactly."
"What is it, then? You like it if I call you pretty names, is that it?" Francis asks. "Doesn't matter if they're male or female."
James nods. "Female things just make me feel prettier."
Francis hums in understandment; he gently but firmly pulls at James’ hair, forcing him to tilt his head back, a soft sound leaving his parted lips.
"You're so pretty it’s unbelievable." He tells him in a whisper. “Why don't you lay down for me, beautiful?”
James, his heart in his throat, obeys. How could he not, when Francis treats him like he’s the most stunning thing he’s ever laid eyes on? He pushes himself at the centre of the bed, pillowing his face on his forearms, looking at Francis from above his shoulder: “Like this?”
Is this what you want, how you want me? Am I doing it right for you?
“Just like that.” Francis breathes, gaze trained on him.
James is mesmerized as he watches him finally strip off his shirt. He almost moans out loud when Francis palms himself through his clothes.
“Christ, you’re desperate for it.” Francis says, voice rough around the edges. “Look at you, humping my bed like a bitch in heat.”
“Fuck.” James freezes, realising that Francis is right, he was moving against the mattress without even noticing, oh God. It’s mortifying and it turns him on even more. “Sorry. You’re just— so fucking hot.”
Francis smiles like a predator about to feast, and James should perhaps worry about it, but he wants nothing more than to be devoured by this man, so he stays exactly where he is. Only when Francis gets a bottle of lube and nothing else from the bedside-table does he have a moment of lucidity.
“Uhm. No condoms?” He asks.
“Should I?”
Shit. Is this the red flag he has been waiting for all night? He’s about to turn around and run, when Francis adds, in an openly degrading tone: “What kind of slutty virgin are you? Never had a cock in you but you’ve been around so much I need to be careful before even laying a finger on you?”
James’ face flares up. He knows he’s right in wanting to protect himself (and Francis), knows he’s saying the right things, asking for the right things, but the way Francis casually calls him a slut makes him lightheaded. “I—”
Francis squats next to the bed, face leveled with his. He flips a condom out of his pocket and fucking throws it in James’ face. “Keep it safe for later. If you can manage.”
It takes him a moment to actually grab it, hopelessly trying to process what Francis’ casual insults are doing to him. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it though, because Francis moves back and pats a hand on his thigh: “Open up.”
James, for the millionth time tonight, follows his instructions.
“So,” Francis says, conversationally. “What is it about being called a whore that you like so much?”
It’s likely James blacks out for a moment. He’s not even sure he makes any sound, his head abruptly emptied of each and every thought.
“I asked you something.” Francis urges him.
The mattress dips under his weight, next to James.
“It’s not— I’m not a whore.” He says, face on fire.
“You don’t have to be one to like being called so.” Francis looks at him like he’s stupid for not getting such a simple concept, which makes him feel like he shouldn’t be thinking with his own head at all, should let Francis do that for him and why is that hot? He had no bloody idea he likes being degraded in bed but he apparently does, and very much so too.
“Guess I like the idea of being one, then.” He whispers, challenging.
“Yeah? You like the idea of being passed around? Think you can never get tired of men playing with you?”
“I think I want you to play with me, Francis.” He counters, holding his gaze.
“So what you’re saying is that you want to be a whore, but just for me.” Francis translates. “You want me to use you and play around with you whenever I feel like, is that it?”
James doesn’t trust his own voice at this point. He nods.
Francis smiles; then steps back.
“This is what we are going to do, James.” His voice is calm and controlled, as if he was giving a lecture. “I’m going to eat you out and open you up with my fingers until you come at least once, which will leave you nice and relaxed. Then, I’ll fuck you while you’ll still be loose from that. You’ll probably be overstimulated and you might wish to stop. But I won’t stop. Not until I'm done with you.” James is literally holding his breath, hanging on Francis’ every word. “If you do want to stop, for real, if it gets too much, you’ll use the color system we discussed. Green, yellow, red,” he reminds him. “You’ll use ‘yellow’ if you need to slow things down or stop for a moment. You’ll use ‘red’ if you immediately need everything to stop, for whatever reason. You won’t have to explain the reason to me if you’re not comfortable, but you have to use it if you feel like you need to. This is important, James.” He finishes. “Tell me you understand and you’ll do it.”
“I will, I promise. Everything’s clear.” He forces himself to speak despite his heart beating wildly at the mere idea of what is about to happen, of what Francis is about to do to him, because he knows Francis is right, this is important, for the both of them. “I’ll use my colors. And it’s green now.”
“You gorgeous boy.” Francis praises him, voice warm. “Alright then.”
That’s everything James gets before Francis is on him, quite literally. He sits in between James’ legs, spreads James’ arsecheeks with both hands, and James doesn’t even have the time to blush about it before Francis' burning tongue is on him, right there. The sensation breaks him in two.
"Go-d— ah." He gasps, horribly loud, burying his face into the pillow. Francis licks at him again and James ends up moaning against his own volition.
God. He barely has time to take a breath before Francis does it again, for real this time.
"Oh— fuck—" He moans, already painfully aroused from all the talking and being naked at Francis’ mercy, and now this— it’s almost too much already.
Francis' tongue on him feels like nothing he has ever experienced before. He has fingered himself and played with his arse quite extensively, but it never, ever felt even remotely like this. This is wet and dirty and obscenely loud. James pushes his face into the pillow, whining into it, has to bite down on it to keep himself from shouting when Francis does something insane with his mouth. Then Francis pinches him again on the back of his thigh, making him yelp out loud, the pain of it paired with pleasure driving him a bit crazy.
"Stop that.” Francis commands him, and oh God, his voice is rough and he’s panting. “Stop hiding your face. Let daddy hear you."
Hearing Francis refer to himself as daddy tears a moan out of him, which makes Francis spank him in turn. Fucking hell.
“I said stop that.”
“S-sorry.” He brokenly apologises, pushing the pillow away with trembling arms. He looks back at Francis and almost collapses on his own face at the sight: his cheeks are flushed, a strand of hair falling in front of his eyes, mouth shiny with spit. James’ cock twitches against the mattress. “Do you really want to—hear me?”
“Every single sound.” Francis says. “Stop denying me from that.”
“Fuck.” He says, eloquently. “Fine. Okay.”
“Good boy.”
"Fuck.” He repeats, just before Francis dives back down on him.
Every lick of his tongue against his hole releases a shock of pleasure James never before felt. He didn’t even know his body could reach this kind of pleasure, but perhaps this is just Francis’s doing. Perhaps James would have never discovered any of this without Francis’ guidance, perhaps he was supposed to wait all this time just for Francis to reveal it to him.
Time loses its meaning after that. He tries to stay present, but lucidity leaves him with every swipe of Francis’ tongue. He distantly realises he’s thrashing against the bed and can’t for the life of him do anything about it except moan like a whore, just like Francis said. It feels so good it’s painful. He tries to tell Francis, but everything that comes out of his throat are broken high-pitched nonsense noises.
At some point he thinks about Francis still wearing clothes, despite everything he’s already done to James, and wonders if he’ll even manage to see him naked before passing out from pleasure.
“Look at you,” Francis breathes against his wet skin. “Hungry hole gaping around nothing.”
James groans, hyper-aware of his body, of what he must look like, sweaty and trembling.
“I’m going to use my fingers now,” he hears Francis say, “you should be loose enough, but you know what to say if it gets painful.”
“Ye—” His voice breaks. “Yeah. Yes. Green.”
“Good boy.” Francis praises him. “Relax your pretty body for me now.”
James does, not that it’s hard, with how turned on he is.
The cap of the bottle of lube snapping open is the only warning he gets before Francis plunges a finger into him. He tenses up without meaning to, moaning between gritted teeth, not used to someone else doing this.
“Shh,” Francis shushes him, without stilling his movements. “Let me do my job.”
He has no idea what his job is supposed to be— killing James on the spot? Turning him even gayer than what he already is? Whatever it is, it’s working wonders and James has no intention of stopping him, ever.
Francis is not uncharitable in his movements, but he's relentless: he takes and takes, leaving James no time to breathe through it, adding more pressure (a second finger, James guesses) in no time, making him choke on it, as if they were pushed down his throat.
“Fuck.” He moans.
“That’s a lot, isn’t it,” Francis comments, without really waiting for an answer. “Look at how well you’re taking me. You’ll take my cock just as easily.”
The mere idea makes him groan out loud, and he feels himself leak against the bed. He’s wet everywhere: he’s wet with pre-come, he can distinctively feel Francis’ spit drip down his perineum, and he’s— oh God, he’s drooling on the bed sheets. He snaps his mouth closed, but Francis twists his fingers inside of him, ripping a moan out of his throat, and he’s back at square one, mouthing at the fabric.
At some point, Francis slides his fingers out, putting his mouth back on him, making James howl, wrecked with sensations. It feels like he won’t even be able to let it all out by reaching an orgasm, though he’s pretty sure a single touch on his straining cock would be enough to send him tumbling over the edge.
Fuck, he’s close, again.
"I'm, I— Francis—" He tries to tell him. "F-Francis—”
Francis spanks him harder than before, making him yell out of both shock and pleasure.
“Haven’t I told you you have to call me what I’m due to be called?” He asks, panting hard and tightening his hold on the back of James’ thigh.
“Sorry, I—”
“Sorry what?”
James is about to burst. “Sorry— daddy.”
“Good girl.” He praises him, alternating scissoring his fingers and lapping around his rim.
James can only hold onto the bed sheets as best he can, arse in the air and back curved almost painfully, cock bounding heavily against his own stomach. If only he could touch himself he would come all over the bed, he can feel it, but he can’t form words, let alone sentences: Francis’ mouth and the pleasure radiating from it is everything he can understand, though it is so intense he sometimes fails to register when Francis takes his fingers out of him, or how many he’s using. James is mewling like a dying animal, which is embarrassing and the hottest sounds he’s ever heard coming from himself, especially combined with the lapping wet noises coming from Francis.
Fuck, he wants to come. It suddenly hits him in the face, how much he needs it, just like earlier, when he suddenly couldn’t think about anything else.
“Fr—” He starts, before biting his own tongue. He’s past feeling embarrassed, but moaning “daddy,” and “please,” and then “need to— come,” still makes his face burn.
At least, it works. Francis slides on top of him at once, still dressed, the fabric of his clothes rough against James’ overly-sensitive skin, but it nevertheless feels amazing to be pinned down by his solid weight.
“Such a good boy, remembering to do what I asked.” Francis breathes raggedly against his ear. He threads his fingers in James’ hair, twisting his neck to the side to kiss him deeply. James moans brokenly, chasing his mouth, uncaring of where it was just a minute ago: he will take anything Francis gives him.
“I want to be good for you.” He feverishly rambles. “I can be good, I swear.”
“Yeah? You want to be a good boy for daddy?”
He nods, licking aimlessly at his mouth.
“Then you’ll come on daddy’s tongue.” Francis instructs him. “And after that I’m going to fuck.”
James nods, accepting anything he says.
Francis gives him one last open-mouthed kiss, then goes back to eating him out, and it somehow feels more intense than before, with how on edge James is.
Francis licks and sucks and laps at his rim, and James is so hard it hurts and he really, really needs to come, right fucking now. (He’s too far gone to question why he just doesn’t do it, not realizing he’s waiting for Francis’ permission.)
“Daddy,” he moans, “can I— can you—” He tries to touch himself, but Francis bats his hand away and finally, blessedly wraps his own fist around him, making him almost shout, hips pistoning into it.
“Come.” He orders, pushing the tip of his tongue into James, and that’s everything James needs to be sent into the strongest, almost painful orgasm he’s had in his life.
He distantly realises how loud he’s being, and just how much he’s getting himself wet, his stomach and the bed sheets drenched with it despite having come not even an hour ago. He also realises Francis doesn’t stop lapping at him all through it, and if it feels incredible at first, it slowly gets intense, then shifts into too much, until it inevitably becomes painful.
“Ah—” He moans through gritted teeth, trying to shift away, but Francis grabs firmly onto his hips and drags him back, effectively tongue-fucking him.
“F-Francis—” James pleads, trying to look back at him, but Francis only spanks him, making him collapse against the mattress with a pained yelp.
“Stay put.” He commands, panting hard. Gosh, he sounds so hot James wants to give him everything— so he does: he stays exactly where Francis wants him, right there in his disgusting pool of cum.
The distinctive sound of a belt being undone is what eventually startles him out of his drugged-up state, his heart skipping a beat. He feels Francis moving back behind him, so he risks another look, can’t resist, and oh God Francis is finally, finally getting out of his clothes and he’s gorgeous, broad and sweaty and his cock— his cock looks incredible it quite literally takes James’ breath away. Thick and red, and ready to split him open. Fuck, he wants it in his mouth, wants to find out what it feels to have his jaw arching from being stretched around a big cock like that, he wants to taste Francis and have him look down at James with rapt eyes, like James is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He licks his lips, swallowing the saliva pooling underneath his tongue.
“Condom.” Francis demands, and James remembers he has thankfully pushed the packet somewhere on the side, almost knocking it off the bed in his earlier thrashing. He almost throws it at Francis, who makes no comment on it, just as impatient as James, by now.
After that, neither of them speaks: James has no presence of mind to do so, and Francis seems to be in a similar state. James knows what’s going to happen anyway, so he prepares for Francis, arching his back and pushing his arse upwards, giving him a good view of his lubed, spit-wet hole.
“Fucking hell, baby,” Francis swears under his breath. “Look at you.”
He waves his hips again, looking at Francis through half-lidded eyes. “Fuck me, daddy?”
After that, it is a blur.
Francis sits on the back of his thighs, firmly pushes James down with a hand in between his shoulderblades, spreads him open, and sinks into him.
James’ shocked pained groan gets stuck in his throat with the intensity of it. The stretch of Francis’ cock slowly but surely breaching him almost alarms him, way more extreme than anything he’s used to with either of his dildos: Francis is bigger and real and oh so warm and hard and oh my God his cock is inside James.
After everything Francis already did to him this is so much, too much, like Francis predicted. James cries out, face half-pushed into the mattress as Francis gets deeper, deeper, impossibly so. He distantly realises he’s crying, actually crying, his face and the bed sheet underneath it getting damp with tears.
If he thought what Francis did to him up till now was a lot, he was wrong. This is— something he can’t even put into words. He’s only aware of Francis’ cock splitting him open, inch by inch, and of the broken sounds coming out of his own throat.
“Like that,” Francis pants in his sweaty hair, hips snapping against him. “Christ, you were born for this, you fucking slut.”
James moans brokenly at his words, in disbelief that this is happening, finally, for real. He’s so stretched out around Francis that it burns, but there’s also a sense of finally being filled just right, after all his waiting, which is so good he’s literally crying about it. And then there’s Francis, all over him, his ragged breath against James’ skin, licking sweat off the back of James’ neck, biting down on his shoulder, taking whatever he wants from him.
“Color.” Francis pants in his ear. “Tell me your color.”
“N-no, fuck, don’t stop, please, don’t—” His pleas get cut off by Francis’ hips violently snapping against him.
“Not what I asked, doll.” Francis says. “Focus. Tell me your color.”
“Green, green! I swear.” He begs. “Don’t— fucking stop.”
“You’re not the one giving orders here, babyboy.” Francis punctuates the pet-name with a twist of his hips that make James’ eyes roll back.
“Sorry, da—ddy.” He tries his best to apologize while trying to breathe. “Oh, God— please.”
“Never gonna let you go,” Francis growls in his ear, hips snapping against him. “Made for me, weren't you.”
James nods, at best he can. He gives up talking, blindly grasps for something, anything of Francis to hold onto, ending up clawing at his biceps, nails digging into the skin.
“That’s it, baby, take what you need.” Francis encourages him, delighted by it. “You deserve it. Been so good waiting for me, kept yourself whole till daddy got his hands on you, isn’t it right?”
James tries to say something like yes, yes, whatever you say, exactly what you say, but he only manages pitifully loud sobs. Gosh, the bed sheets underneath him are soaked in tears, snot, saliva and cum and Francis is pushing him right into it with every thrust, the side of his face dragging against the covers with each movement. It’s probably going to be all red and irritated tomorrow, and everyone will be able to see what James has been up to, everyone will read it on his face what a slut he’s been, what Francis did to him.
“You gonna come again for me, babygirl?” Francis asks against the back of his neck.
James tries to assess if he can do that, but he genuinely can’t understand if he’s about to come or not. He’s past that: he’s just feeling, at this point, has no control over his body. He’s just a hole for Francis to fuck into, he doesn’t have to think about anything anymore: if Francis wants him to come again, he’ll come; if not, he won’t.
Francis yanks his head to the side. “Look at that,” he licks the saliva off James’ chin, “can’t even control yourself.”
I can’t, James wants to say, I need you to do it for me, to control my body for me.
“Do you even know if you’re still hard or do you need daddy to check for you?”
“Y—you.”
Francis groans, forehead dropping against James’ temple. He shifts his weight onto his forearm to slip a hand in between James and the bed, grabbing his half-hard cock again. James cries out, raw after having already come twice.
“Feel this?” Francis asks, merely holding it in his hand. “You’re gonna give it to me. Once more.”
He shakes his head, whining in pain. He can’t do it, it’s too much.
“You are.” Francis insists, relentless in his movements. “Daddy’s gonna help you.”
Then, he starts stroking him, and James kind of feels like he could come again, but it’s way too painful, especially after having already had two orgasms in the span of a short time, and oh God, why does his cock hurting feel so good to his brain? This is crazy— James is crazy, there clearly is something wrong with him, this couldn't possibly be right, yet the impossible stretch of Francis’ thick cock inside of him makes him see stars, especially when—
“Ah!” He slams his fist against the mattress. “Oh—God, ah—Fuck!”
“There you are,” Francis purrs against the back of his neck. “Want to feel that again, babygirl?”
“F-fuck.” James hiccups on a sob, tears rolling down his cheeks.
To this, Francis abruptly stills his movements, just staying firmly buried into him. It’s so sudden that for a moment James thinks he must have passed out, but no, he’s conscious (if barely, with how overstimulated he is), the stretch and pressure unbearable with no friction. He tries to breathe, to move back, to encourage Francis, but nothing seems to work.
“Again, not what I asked.” Francis says, voice hard as stone.
“Yes!”
“Tell me you want it.”
He feels wretched at Francis bringing him right to the edge only to pull him back at the last moment.
“P-please. Again. Francis— daddy, please.”
Francis blessedly resumes his movements; it takes him two thrusts, but there it is, that spot that apparently makes James’ brain melt out of his ears. He holds onto Francis’ arm, clawing at his skin and whining like he’s in pain, which he is, actually, though it feels so good the pleasure also hurts, way too intense to handle.
“What does a good boy say?” Francis rasps against his skin. “After he gets what he wants?”
God, James doesn’t know, his thoughts are not working right anymore.
“He’d say thank you, daddy.” Francis says for him, with a punishing thrust. “So? What do we say, love?”
“Thank you!” James shouts, face half-buried in the mattress with the way Francis is fucking into him. “Thank you, daddy. Thank—you.”
“Beautiful.” Francis rewards him with snap after snap of his hips. “Beautiful, perfect James.”
He wraps a hard around James’ chest, burying his face into the side of his neck, and starts pumping his hips in a rhythm that takes all the breath out of James, making him sob harder, thoughts utterly gone. He loses track of things, only distantly aware of Francis hitting his prostate at a merciless rhythm that somehow manages to make him come again, for the third time tonight. He doesn’t even try to tell Francis; the only thing he can do is breathe through it as his cock weakly spurts some more fluid, adding it to the mess he’s already swimming in.
Francis holds him through it as James cries and writhes underneath him, half out of his mind.
“So good for me,” he hears Francis panting, over the white noise in his ears. He sounds like he’s also about to burst, his breath short and ragged. “Wonderful boy, so good, perfect for me.”
James’ third orgasm is stronger than the previous ones as it almost makes him float out of consciousness, reduced to a bundle of sensations. He’s not sure how long it is before Francis’ rhythm starts to stutter, before he latches his mouth to the place where James’ shoulder and neck meet, biting down as an animal claiming his mate as he fucks himself into James once, twice more, finally coming with a growl, cock buried into him to the hilt. James can only whine weakly, letting him do anything he pleases, trapped in place by Francis’ full weight on him.
They stay like that for a long moment, both of them panting hard, trying to assess the damage they’ve done to each other: everything of James aches, more or less intensely. He feels like he’s got run over and like he just got the most thorough massage of his life, together.
Eventually, Francis carefully untangles himself from him, letting James collapse into the mattress, his arms weak and literally trembling.
“Fuck, kid.” He breathes against the back of his neck.
James can only murmur back. His head hurts. Is it even a thing? Is it normal to feel this wrecked after sex? Is this how people feel all the time afterwards, or is it just Francis?
“I’m gonna move out now, alright?” Francis asks, tapping on his hip.
James can only murmur in assessment again, completely spent. He shivers when Francis slides out of him, the loss strange, making him feel unexpectedly empty. He doesn’t have time to mourn it though, because Francis pulls him into his chest at once, spooning him even though James is taller than him and could very well be the big spoon, but it doesn’t matter: Francis makes it feel like James is smaller, and he’s perfectly content with it.
“I’ll clean us up in a moment.” Francis says. “I need to get my breath back first.”
James manages to hum in agreement, making Francis chuckle against the back of his neck. “Are you alright, sweetheart?”
“‘am.” James pushes himself to say, even though he doesn’t feel like talking, but he knows Francis is checking on him. He grasps for Francis’ hand, holding it tightly, hoping to convey that he is alright— hopelessly fucked out, yes, but alright.
Francis seems to be satisfied with it, because he leaves a kiss on his shoulder and slots a leg in between James’, holding him close. It would be perfect if it wouldn’t be for the utter disgusting pool of fluids they are lying into. James makes a displeased noise in the back of his throat. “‘m falling asleep. But I need water.”
He feels more than hear Francis’ chuckle reverberating through him. “You do, and we need to clean ourselves up and throw these sheets somewhere far, far away. I don’t want to deal with them until tomorrow at least.”
“Mh.” James agrees. “Falling asleep.”
“Mh.” He hears Francis say back. “That’s alright, kid.”
And he’s out.
💦
He’s not sure how long it is before he’s woken up by Francis moving around. Probably not long, as Francis is still rosy-cheeked and beaming from his own orgasm. And he’s still naked, except for his underwear.
“Apologies, but I really need you to move so I can get us clean.” He’s saying, gently threading his fingers in James’ hair. “Come, I’m running you a bath.”
“Mh.” James says, once again, because Francis fucked the entire English language out of him.
He clumsily makes his way to the bathroom on unstable legs, with Francis actually helping him upright, because oh shit yeah, his arse is sore as hell and his limbs are now made of rubber apparently. Francis just smiles patiently and lets him take his time.
“Stay?” James asks, grabbing Francis’ wrist once they make it to the steamy bathtub. “Please? If that’s not weird.”
“James, I had multiple parts of me inside of you just half an hour ago.” He says, making him grin stupidly. “I’d say it’s more than alright.”
Fitting two adult men in an average-sized bathtub is quite the challenge, but James is determined and extremely clingy, and Francis looks equally unwilling to part, so they somehow manage. There’s a lot of sloshing of water above the edge, but who cares, honestly. James just had sex— he just had sex with Francis. He couldn’t worry about anything if he tried.
“Can we do that again?” He asks drowsily.
“Which part, sweetheart? We did a lot of things.” Francis says with a devilish smirk that James simply has to kiss.
“All of it?” He grins back.
“I suppose we can.” Francis grins back. “Which one was your favourite?"
“You doing whatever you wanted to me.” He replies honestly. “And the names. Loved what you called me,” he turns his face toward Francis to leave a kiss on his jaw, “daddy.”