Chapter Text
Francis hadn't masturbated in a week.
It wasn't a big deal, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd gone without it for more than three days (not since the incident).
The realization embarrassed him more than he cared to admit.
He was on his lunch break, once again reading that damned Farm Boy and the Sick Calf. He visualized the scenes as he read, et voilà —the uncomfortable tightness in his pants.
Honestly, he should stop doing this in his truck. The last thing he wanted was to deliver milk with a bulge in his crotch.
He had tried practicing visualization at his apartment, but the persistent feeling of being watched made it impossible to focus.
Over the years, Francis had become quite good at distinguishing hallucinations from reality. He suspected that whoever—or whatever—was watching him was Yves's "God."
Even if it was all in his head, the mere possibility of being watched was enough to deter him.
Come to think of it, all the unnecessary turmoil in his life had started with Yves.
I should stop letting Yves in, he thought.
Yet, for some unfathomable reason, the thought made something in his chest twist—a strange, familiar sensation. (Heartburn again?)
The clock in his truck rang, signaling the end of his lunch break.
Francis crumpled up the sandwich wrapper and tossed it into his lunch box. He supposed he'd have to ask Yves about it tonight. (Good grief.)
In the evening, Francis stepped into the bathroom, eager to wash off the sweat and stress. He turned on the shower, adjusting the water until it was just shy of scalding—exactly what he needed to relax.
He stripped off his work clothes and tossed them in the corner. The steam was already building up as he stepped into the shower. He sighed, leaning forward with one hand braced against the cool tile wall.
The water against his back started to ease the tension, and before he knew it, his hand drifted downwards, almost of its own accord. It had been a week, after all.
He didn’t really think about anything at first. It was just a simple habit, something to take the edge off. But as he continued, his mind started to wander.
Vague images, nothing specific—flashes of past encounters, pictures from magazines. But then, unbidden, Yves’s face slid into his thoughts: those plump, pink lips, those easy, charming smiles.
He shuddered, trying to think of something else. But the harder he tried, the more Yves seemed to linger in his mind. The hands that had massaged him so expertly night after night, those gentle yet firm touches…
Francis drew in a sharp breath, his hand moving faster, almost desperately now. He hated that Yves was in his head, hated how much his body responded to the thought of them, but he couldn’t stop. The water was almost too hot, the steam too thick, and his heart was pounding harder than it should.
His mind betrayed him, conjuring images of Yves closer, more intimate. He could almost feel those hands on him again, but not just massaging—touching him in other ways, more deliberate, more possessive.
The hot water pounded against his skin. Francis’s hand moved faster, the pressure building, his breath quickening, heart hammering in his chest. Just when he thought he might finally find release—
The door creaked open.
Francis’s eyes flew open, and there was the doorman, standing in the doorway, their expression unreadable.
Shock and embarrassment flooded him, heat rising in his cheeks. He tried to pull his hand away, but his body was too far gone, the climax crashing over him in a wave of blinding intensity just as his knees buckled.
“Oh—” he managed to choke out before the world tilted, his legs giving way beneath him.
But before he hit the floor, Yves was there. Strong arms wrapped around him, holding him up as his legs spasmed in orgasm.
Francis gasped. He was completely naked, dripping wet. Yves’s hands were firm and steady, one around his waist, the other at the back of his neck, the fabric of his shirt growing damp, pressing against him.
“Easy,” Yves murmured, their voice low and soothing. “I’ve got you.”
Francis tried to catch his breath, his lower limbs still twitching. Yves’s presence was overwhelming, their touch electrifying.
He wanted to hide, to cry, to pull away and flee, but Yves held him firmly, unyielding yet gentle.
“Francis, look at me,” Yves whispered, and despite his growing panic, Francis lifted his gaze.
There was something in the doorman's eyes—something warm and kind, but also an intensity that made Francis’s breath hitch.
“Relax,” Yves said softly, their thumb brushing against Francis’s cheek, wiping away a drop of water—or maybe a tear. “You’re beautiful when you let yourself go like this.”
Instantly, the raw edges of his panic were soothed, the words wrapping around him like a blanket. Francis’s heart was still racing, but the fear was ebbing, replaced by a strange sense of calm, of safety.
Yves leaned in closer, their lips just a breath away from his. There was a glint in Yves’s eyes.
“In fact,” they murmured, a hint of teasing in their tone, “I think it’s very… captivating.”
Before Francis could react, Yves closed the distance, their lips pressing against his, deeply, slowly, all-consuming.
Yves’s lips and tongue moved in a way that sent shivers down Francis’s spine. It was a kiss that demanded a response, and despite the lingering shame, Francis found himself kissing back.
Yves’s hands moved with certainty, one still holding Francis upright, the other sliding down his back, fingers trailing over his skin with a firm yet gentle way that was almost possessive.
Shame mingled with arousal, confusion blending with relief.
Francis wanted to protest, to push Yves away and reclaim some semblance of control, but his body would not comply. Yves’s touch was too comforting, too addicting, and he found himself leaning into it, craving the closeness, the contact.
Yves finally pulled back, breaking the kiss and giving Francis a chance to catch his breath. At the loss of their warmth, a soft whine escaped Francis’s lips.
“Relax,” Yves whispered against his lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Yves’s fingers slid lower and lower, feather-light touches. Francis stiffened at the movement, but he did not resist. The hand slid between his cheeks, finally pressing at his hole.
Francis stifled a moan as Yves pressed in.
The initial intrusion made him tense, his body instinctively clenching at the unfamiliar sensation. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him there. He shuddered, pushing down a flicker of fear.
Yves took his time. One finger at first, then two, three. Their fingers moved with a gentle persistence that sent jolts of pleasure through his body.
“Mmm…ah, ngh—”
What is this? Francis thought, experiencing a mix of fear and desire.
It shouldn't… how does it feel so good?
Even with doubt present in his mind, his body betrayed him, hips grinding against Yves’s fingers.
The feeling was intense, a mix of unreal pleasure and a dull ache as he adjusted, the fullness overwhelming and satisfying.
He clenched involuntarily around Yves’s fingers, responding to the intimate touch with a need he didn’t know he had. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, each one shaky as Yves’s fingers pressed deeper, deeper, making a rhythmic squelch with each thrust.
“Good boy,” Yves coaxed, their voice a soft hum against his ear. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”
“Mmnph.” He could only moan in response. He didn’t dare open his mouth, afraid that if he did, he might start begging.
Those sinful fingers curled inside him, and they brushed against a spot that made Francis’s entire body jerk, his back arching off Yves’s chest as a sharp cry escaped his lips.
“Ahhh…” It was like a bolt of lightning shooting through his spine. The pleasure traveled to his dick, down to his toes, and up to the top of his head.
The fingers thrust inside, the thumb pressing just below his balls. Francis pressed his face against the wall as saliva began to pool at the corner of his mouth. He was struggling to breathe; the thrusts were too much.
He bucked his hips and was met with another wave of pleasure. His toes curled, scraping against the floor, barely touching the tiles.
The thrusts quickened, and Francis clamped down, moaning.
“Mmph, mmph, mmph—!”
Every nerve ending lit up with a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. His head fell back against Yves’s shoulder, his mouth hung open in a silent gasp as he desperately tried to suck in air.
Francis’s heart was pounding erratically. He was shaking uncontrollably. He couldn't stop shaking. The way Yves’s fingers moved inside him, curling and pressing hard against his prostate, sent shockwaves through his entire body. He opened his mouth in a silent scream, eyes rolling back in his head.
“Nghh, ngh, mnnn—” Francis cried, a loud, nasally whine.
He wriggled, blindly grappling at the wall, trying to shut his thighs, but Yves would not budge. An arm held him against the shower wall, the thrusts were too powerful. Four fingers slid in and out of his quivering, loose hole. Another wave of pleasure made his knees buckle, and he was completely held up by Yves and the fingers inside him.
His hands found Yves’s arms, clutching them desperately, his nails digging into the fabric of the damp shirt as he tried to ground himself. But there was no grounding in this, no escape from the waves of pleasure that only built and built. Yves was holding him in an embrace, half a palm deep inside of him. Francis shook his head from side to side, saliva dripping wet to his chin. He saw sparkles behind his eyelids.
He’d never felt something like this. Not with himself, not with Nacha, not when the cultists held him down— He was writhing, panting against Yves. His hips moved of their own accord, rocking against Yves’s hand, chasing that orgasm, that sharp edge of pleasure.
“Francis, you’re doing so well,” Yves murmured, their lips brushing against the shell of his ear. The words were gentle, the fingers were ruthless. The thumb slipped into him. His back arched against his will. He screamed.
Stop. No. Please. More.
“AAHHHH—NO, ple, plath—plase—”
“Of course, anything for you.”
That was the last thing he was able to hear. His thoughts were a tangled mess; he could no longer think. He could only concentrate on the fist inside his ass—so big, so full, filling him up so good. He was convulsing in the doorman's arms. Legs clamped shut around the hand with all his might, inner thighs spasming with effort.
The hand inside him seemed to expand, and Francis let out another scream. Garbled cries and pleas, with drool dripping from his chin. It was going so fast, so deep, he was getting dizzy from the jolts.
“Mmm. So good, so tasty,” Yves mumbled, but the words did not register.
The fist was hitting against his prostate, making him scream with every thrust. Stars burst behind his eyelids, and Francis’s breath finally caught within his throat, a silent scream. His back arched, his whole body stilled, rigid. Chest pressing against Yves’s torso. It was too much, too intense, no.
His climax hit him; he was screaming, crying, shaking. His body convulsed in Yves’s arms, the sensation overwhelming, consuming, pulling him under. The pleasure was like fire coursing through his veins, burning him from the inside out; he stopped breathing for a while.
His hips started to jerk; cum shot out from his untouched penis. Yves fucked him through it, slow and deep, with the muscles clenching down on his fist, milking him. Francis could not escape. He sobbed into Yves’s shoulder, his insides pulsing with heat, body twitching, pleading for the doorman to stop, pleading for mercy, for more.
A final bead of cum seeped out. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was over.
Francis slumped against Yves, his body spent. His hole was still clenching down on the intrusion, unable to let go. His insides were on fire. His nerves tingling in the aftershock. Yves held him close, their touch gentle, almost reverent, as they slowly lowered him to the floor of the shower.
The cold tiles were a shock against his overheated skin, but Francis barely registered it, his head too foggy, his body too drained to care. Yves knelt beside him, their hand still resting on his chest, fingers splayed over his heart, feeling its rapid, unsteady beat.
“Are you alright?” Yves asked, their voice soft, full of genuine concern.
Francis managed a weak nod, his eyelids fluttering closed as he let the coolness of the floor distract him, hoping it would make him forget the shame, the confusion, the intensity of what had just happened. But Yves was still inside him. The proof of his debauchery.
The shower head fell from its holder, making a loud crash. And in a blink, Francis woke up.
He was in his shower, alone. With cold water raining down on him. It was a dream.