Work Text:
James Fitzjames aimlessly looked at his laptop screen from where he had ensconced himself in a cocoon of blankets, the light from the screen the only thing illuminating the room, as he continued to ignore that it was nearing 2am on a Sunday night, now Monday, and his alarm for work would go off far too soon. It had been an alarmingly uneventful weekend, no longer full of clubs, adventures, wild hookups and late nights. He had spent the weekend doing laundry and trying (unsuccessfully) to learn how to make sourdough bread. He had been enjoying himself just fine when it struck him, some few hours ago, that he was indeed enjoying himself just fine. In fact, he found himself nearly struck dead with elation over how well a new brand of stain remover had worked on one of his white dress shirts that he had found himself in an inexplicably good mood for near a quarter of an hour, until he had caught himself, and then was nearly struck dead with horror. He had been telling himself he was a young thirty-five, but it was occurring to him that he might simply be thirty-five. So, here he was, scrolling through porn sites, up so late his eyes were burning with exhaustion, hoping to wank himself out of an existential crisis.
He despondently types into the search bar hairy daddies .There were too many smooth, lightly muscled boys in porn these days. Honestly, how old were some of these boys? Nineteen? And whenever a twink puts on a few pounds of muscle, he puts on a leather cap and harness and calls himself a daddy. It's a disgrace. James scrolls through the first page of results aimlessly, seeing men too young, far too muscled (who still uses steroids anymore, really?), too aggressive, nothing just right. He reaches the end of the first page and dejectedly clicks over to the second page of results. Who even looks for porn long enough to venture beyond the first page of results? Who does that? James does, now. James Fitzjames, connoisseur of organic stain removers and sad porn scrolling. He sighs deeply and scrolls down this second page, until something catches his eye.
Out of all of the ridiculous titles like “ANGRY DADDY POUNDS TEEN TWINK” or “SCHOOLBOY SPANKED TIL HE CRIES” is a title that only consists of a date, that would have been this past Friday, and nothing else. The thumbnail looks to be a man straddling some sort of chair backwards, his arse and back towards the camera filming him from the shoulders down, sitting on some sort of dildo. It does seem to be a very nice arse. Intrigued, James clicks on it.
The video opens on a nicely sized purple dildo, a good bit longer than James’s longest, maybe about seven inches, and plenty thick as well. It is stuck to the chair by its suction cup, and two hands enter frame to briskly lube it up. Watching those hands and forearms, something tickles in the back of James’s mind, some faintest hint of recognition, but he ignores it in favor of watching those strong forearms work over the dildo. He shifts slightly, filling out in his pants already. Then, the man on screen straddles the chair, showing off his round, plump arse, and, when he spreads himself slightly–James’s breath catches–an already lubed hole, pink and shiny and just slightly visibly loose. The man positions himself at the top of the dildo, nudges the thick head against his hole, and with a coarse grunt, eases the head just past his rim.
James slams on the spacebar to pause it, his head suddenly spinning wildly, his heart racing out of his chest, soaring into his throat as he makes a choked, shocked gasp. Because he knows that grunt. He knows that grunt exactly. That is the exact sound Francis Crozier uses for approximately eighty percent of his disinterested conversational responses, which James has had ample opportunity to become familiar with. And, come to think of it, those are certainly Francis’s hands and arms, down to the small scar on the back of his right hand that he had told James came from the family cat when he was young, in a rare moment of companionability. As such, that must be his arse. And his arsehole. Stretched open, shiny and invitingly pink around the dildo. James’s pulse thunders in his ears. Sweat pricks at his brow. He realizes distantly his cock is aching fiercely, urgently. He reaches forward with a shaking hand, and watches himself press the spacebar again.
The man–Francis!--sinks down slowly on the dildo with a gusty sigh as James hurriedly fumbles to get his hands inside his boxers, his hands suddenly clumsy and uncoordinated, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. As Francis reaches the thickest part of the dildo, just near the base, he makes that grunting sound again–James gasps and starts tugging at himself even faster, no time to wet his hand with spit or anything, he’s dripping plenty besides–and then he groans , quietly, as his hole stretches over the last bit and his arse meets the chair. James whimpers and pants, rutting into his hand.
Onscreen, Francis (!!!!) rocks on the dildo for a few moments, while James frantically rocks into his hand and tries to consider if he can make himself last for the whole video, or if he will simply die before it ends. Then, Francis lifts himself up a couple of inches and sinks back down, grunting more breathily this time. Francis settles into a slow rhythm then, keeping the dildo deep inside of him, and working himself over the thickest part, making himself feel the stretch, grunting, and sighing, and occasionally breathily groaning. James’s heart is beating so fast he thinks he might die, and he can’t stop himself from whimpering and moaning along with Francis, tugging at himself so fast he thinks he might chafe, but it is simply impossible to stop. All of it is impossible. Francis, cold, implacable Francis, who hated him explosively before he went to rehab, and now that he’s back, only seems to hate him somewhat less explosively. Francis, who loves playing with his arse. Maybe, maybe Francis would like to ride his, his–James comes so violently he cries out, his leg kicking out wildly as he spasms, stroking himself with both hands until he can’t take it anymore, then collapsing on his back and slapping the laptop shut.
James lies on his back in the now complete darkness and stares up at the ceiling, chest heaving. He blinks a few times. Well, this is going to be a problem.
—-------------------------
A few hours later, James stumbles into the elevator at work, matcha latte in one hand, stanley cup in the other, holding his coat in the crook of one arm, his gym bag in the other, and a packet of powdered electrolytes between his teeth. He manages to press the button for his floor with the toe of his loafers to the offended shock of one woman in a pantsuit who could certainly stand to be a lot more helpful, thank you! He had spent much of the night scrolling through Francis’s page, and wanking as often as he could get it up, resulting in sleeping through his alarm, a startling level of dehydration, and a fairly cataclysmic amount of mental turmoil. Francis had been uploading videos about every week or so, for the better part of the past six months, coinciding with his return from rehab. Some of the videos have the same toy, but with different positions, but most of the videos feature a new toy, implying a frankly prodigious collection. James tries to breathe evenly around the electrolyte packet held between his teeth. What will he do when he sees Francis? Run away? Scream? Laugh hysterically? Fall to his knees and beg to be used? He can already feel pit stains starting to form. The elevator door dings open.
—---
Two hours later, things have both drastically improved and deteriorated. He has hidden in his office, eschewing his normal routine of making the rounds and putting on a masterclass of small talk in the kitchenette in favor of sitting in his office chair with the door firmly shut, chugging water with badly mixed-in chunks of electrolyte powder, and contemplating leaving the country. Since then, he has calmed down somewhat, but only somewhat, because he has his regular Monday meeting with the executive staff, one of whom is Francis, and he is now faced with the impossible task of acting relaxed, normal, and generally as if his entire worldview has not been upended in the most arousing way possible.
So, here he is. Sitting at the back end of the table, directly across from Francis, pretending to be entirely riveted by Irving’s expense reports and not at all keenly aware of Francis’s body a few feet away. Is he blinking too much? How much is too much blinking? Would anyone notice? Surely he is swallowing too loud. He normally taps his foot, doesn’t he? That wouldn’t be out of the ordinary, would it?
The two hour meeting passes in agonizing fashion, minutes creeping by like hours as James tries desperately to keep from unraveling at the seams. By all measures, he does do rather good, only getting a few strange looks from Dundy, but, to his apocalyptic distress, also a few looks from Crozier. Nothing drastic, just a few squinty glances, seeming to toe the line between confused and irritated before he loses interest, but enough to make James feel tense and shivery all over, a sudden bodily awareness that makes his skin feel too tight for his body. But, the time passes, and he flees back to the safe haven of his office, texting Dundy the always safe excuse of being hungover. But, once he is sat in his office, with a moment of quiet, he is confronted with the very real possibility that his brain will never be the same. Because now, he can never go back. His life has been neatly bisected: there is before Francis Crozier the Porn Star, and After Francis Crozier the Porn Star.
The issue is this: before everything, he had been quite excited to meet Francis Crozier. A giant of the advertising space, a trailblazer, everything James wanted to be. And then they had met, and sparks certainly flew, but they were not the type to lead to a lovely relationship, more the kind that led to HR “becoming concerned about the volume level”. And so James had necessarily forgotten about the endearing gap between his two front teeth, his clear deep blue eyes, his smile lines, the pleasing solidity of his body, the width of his shoulders. But not anymore. No it could not be forgotten anymore, not at all. Now he knows a good deal of Francis’s body, what it looks like, what it needs, the way his arsehole stretches open, and the way he gasps, stuttering and strained, when he comes. A man can’t simply forget something like that. James stares at the blank screen of his desktop computer and realizes he is half hard in his trousers. He reminds himself very firmly that he absolutely cannot wank in the workplace, it is Not Done. Not Done!
In any case, he’ll likely forget about all of this soon enough. Probably. He clears his throat, sits forward in his chair, and forces himself to get to work. He just needs to busy himself, is all.
—---------------------------
It is Thursday morning, and James does not know how much longer he can go on. He has felt feverish these past days, sick with desire. He thinks of Francis all day and very nearly all night, and the intensity only grows. First he had wanted in the most purely animal sense, had wanted to grope and feel and fuck, but now it is more . He wants to feel the plush give of Francis’s hips, he wants to know how their bodies press together, he wants to feel that gap between his teeth with his tongue, he wants to make Francis sourdough bread and see him smile. He has yet to go a night without watching several of Francis’s videos, and they nearly bring him to his knees every time. How can a man be so lovely? How can it be done? How can James want so much, so totally? He feels as if he has an organ entirely for wanting Francis, and it has laid dormant for many years, only to awaken, suddenly ravenous. When he is too near Francis he trembles, and he forgets everything he has ever known about charm, but when he is too far, he yearns, and he wonders if Francis is cold, all alone in his bed, if he is even alone at all. The urgency encompasses him, unmans him.
The elevator doors ding open and James makes for his office, then the kitchenette. Office small talk will still need his careful and skilled husbandry, regardless of his descent into madness. He reaches for his mug and is drawing it down when Francis appears in the doorway. He freezes, then remembers belatedly to continue the movement of his arm and bring the mug down. Too busy staring at Francis, the mug hits the counter with a CLACK . James flinches and stares at the mug in mute betrayal.
“Can you do eleven?” Francis says. James blinks at him. Eleven? His mind spirals. Eleven inches? Like that green tentacle toy you have? I can do that, they have cock extenders, I can get one of those, I can do eleven inches, I can do whatever you want, whatever you need.
“Hurhm?” James squeaks. Francis squints at him with that face like he doesn’t know whether to be confused or irritated.
“Our one on one. Can you do eleven instead of ten? My morning meeting got shifted to run longer.” James blinks rapidly, trying to dispel notions of a one on one with Francis, and something getting longer. How can a man be so randy while masturbating practically every hour?
“Yes! Of course!” James says cheerily. He had no idea there was a one on one with Francis scheduled today, and he has no idea what it is about. He has no idea if he can do eleven. Francis nods.
“Cheers. My office, then?”
James swallows heavily and clears his throat.
“Yes! Of course!”
Francis looks at him strangely, but seems to decide it isn’t worth his while and simply nods and walks away. James stares into his empty mug and wonders where small talk is when you really need it.
—------------------
It is 10:55 and James is pacing in his office. He can do this. He can. He can recall several instances in his life where he has been charming. Not only can he make friendly conversation with Francis, but he can also make himself appealing. Francis has been more kind to him lately, hasn’t he? There was that apology, after he came back from rehab, which was really quite nice, and, well, Francis doesn’t shout at him hardly at all these days! All perfectly good reasons to forge a close friendship, and then possibly edge in for more. He can. Nothing a meticulously plotted out, long-term plan can’t fix.
He looks at his watch, and sees it is now 10:58. He scrambles to grab his folder off of his desk and strides over to Francis’s office. He reaches the doorway, and there Francis is, frowning down at his computer screen through his glasses with the burgundy neck cord. James’s insides warm and he feels himself smile softly. Jesus. He really is beyond help now. Francis looks up and sees him, beckoning him inside. James sits down and makes an excellent show of seeming like a man that feels very normal and relaxed and does not feel his heart beating out of his chest or butterflies making a mess of his stomach.
And so the meeting proceeds, and James manages to be remarkably normal throughout, if he may be so bold. It helps that Francis is darling in his argyle sweater vest and button up. He furrows his brow when he thinks and has a habit of chewing on the end of his pen, and James cannot take his eyes off of him. How has James forgotten about all of this? The light coming in from the window catches his hair just enough to reflect off of the reddish gold still left there, and he feels as if something in him has always known exactly what an angel is as long as he has known Francis.
Eventually, Francis seems to have covered what he wants to cover, and he shuffles up the paper and corrals them into a folder that he then shoves into a pile seemingly at random. James shifts in his chair and steadies himself. Now he must begin to lay the groundwork. James clears his throat at the same time as Francis leans forward, his forearms on the desk, hands clasped, and fixes James with a sudden, intense, Look. James freezes. Francis’s ice blue eyes bore directly into his own, and he suddenly feels as if Francis is looking straight through him, at everything he’s ever done and ever will do.
“Now, James, tell me if I’m wrong, but something has been different with you this week,”
James’s heart drops, then surges into his throat, racing wildly.
‘You’ve been in your office more, you’ve been quieter in meetings, and you’ve been practically skittish around me,” Francis sighs, maintaining eye contact, and tilts his head slightly. James feels, impossibly, as if Francis is managing to look deeper into him still. His voice gentles, “You don’t need to talk to me about it by any means, but if there is anything I can do to help, anything at all, then you must let me know.”
James stares, completely ensnared in his gaze. His blood roars in his ears, heart pounding, and his mind is completely blank. He swallows, the sound seeming loud in the complete silence. James opens his mouth, closes it, opens it, closes it.
“I’ve seen your videos.” He blurts, then freezes once more as all of the blood in his body suddenly rushes to his face. Francis frowns at him, his brows furrowed.
“My videos?”
“Online,” James croaks. He cannot possibly describe them, “The…adult ones.”
Understanding dawns on Francis, and he leans back in his chair, his brows raised.
“I see,” Francis says in an inscrutable tone. The quality of his gaze has changed. Before he was cradled in the comfort and safety of his attention, now he is being tracked like a predator’s prey. “You will have difficulty proving those are, indeed, mine.”
“Oh, oh, I don’t, mean that,” James’s mouth is desert-dry and he is blushing so hard his cheeks faintly itch,”I only meant…” James swallows, and his throat clicks. Francis raises one punishing brow as the silence grows.
“You only meant…?”
“I only meant,” James’s voice is faintly wavering, and he notices, with a dim horror, that he’s half hard in his trousers, “I only meant that maybe we could go out for dinner.”
Francis blinks once, twice.
“Dinner?”
“If you’d like,” James can only stare as his heart pounds, “You don’t have to, I don’t mean to say I’ll tell anyone.” Francis watches him. Silence stretches out for several agonizing moments as Francis assesses him. Then, he nods to himself.
“Am I to understand, then, that you have discovered certain adult material that you believe to feature myself, and not only has it driven your work performance into the ground, but it has also caused you to pursue a personal relationship with me?” A slow, syrupy grin has begun to spread across Francis’s face, and James’s breath hitches as he nods dumbly. He watches, wide eyed, as Francis rises from his seat, and walks around his desk to James’s side where he places a hand on each of James’s shoulders and leans down to speak in his ear.
“Have you gotten so desperate to fuck me you can’t think about anything else? Hm?”
James shudders and stares at Francis’s face, mere inches away from his own. Then, to his horror, Francis looks down into his lap, seeing the tent there plain as day.
“My, my what is this, Hm?” James squirms and covers himself with his hands, but Francis catches his hands and pins them to the arms of the chair, moving to stand directly behind him and speak into his ear. “Best not to hide that from me, I think. After all, I imagine you’ll be wanting to put that inside me, is that right?”
James gasps absurdly, like he’s somehow never heard of sex, and nods, squeezing his eyes shut.
“I’ll do whatever you want, whatever feels good, I want to make it good, whatever you’d like,” He trails off into a shocked gasp when Francis’s lips graze his ear. Then, the hands on his wrists are gone, and Francis is walking back to his desk.
“Come find me at five. I’ll take you home with me.” Francis smiles at him, and James has the strangest feeling he must surely be living someone else’s life, this can’t have possibly gone this well.
—----------------
And so it goes. The rest of James’s day passes in a shocked, jubilant haze, seeming to both drag and fly by until 5 o’clock. Francis smiles at James, and puts a hand on the small of his back to escort him to his ancient sedan and drives him back to his charming flat, where he meets dear Neptune. Francis gives him a wonderful meal of some sort of leftover stew and they chat. James feels warm all the way through and can’t stop looking at Francis.
Then, he is sitting on the sofa while Francis showers, fidgeting with the fraying edge of a throw pillow and avoiding eye contact with Neptune. He’s not one for topping generally. He prefers a bit of roughness, a bit of power play in bed, and what he is looking for is most easily found as a bottom. Now he has topped, certainly, but it has been years, and he certainly doesn’t want to disappoint Francis.
But there he is, appearing around the corner in a dressing gown with charmingly tousled hair, looking clean and flushed from the hot water. James’s heart swells.
“Come on, then,” Francis says gently, beckoning James forward. He follows as if pulled by invisible strings. It would take a man stronger than him to resist such an image. Francis takes hold of his hand (James thrills) and looks him gently in the eye, “You must know you can change your mind.”
James nods, unable to look away.
“I haven’t.”
Francis smiles and leads him down the hallway to his bedroom, coaxing him to sit on the edge. There, Francis stands between his spread knees, holds his face between two warm, calloused hands, and kisses him gently. James makes a strange sort of gasping whimpery sound and brings his hands up to Francis’s hips and leans into him eagerly. Francis smells like musk and pine, tastes like salt, and clean skin. Francis licks into his mouth, and James moans, his cock easily filling out to full hardness, and James tries to pull Francis closer. Francis goes for the buttons of his shirt, and kisses him deeply, making these small grunting moans, like he’s trying to savor the taste. James cannot recall having ever been kissed so thoroughly, like someone needs to kiss him at all costs. He loses himself in Francis, finding himself not at all in control of the kiss, only able to grasp at Francis’s arms, hips, shoulders, and push into every place Francis touches him as he pushes off his shirt and jacket. Then Francis pulls back, and James looks at him, feeling almost drunk, hazy and distracted. Francis puts his hands on his shoulders and smiles down at him, almost ruefully.
“You’ll have to forgive me, I’m afraid I might be a bit rusty.”
Then he puts his hands on James’s pectorals, pushes him onto his back, and straddles his hips in one fluid motion. James moans, his hands flying to Francis’s hips, and then moans again at the way they give under his fingertips. God, but Francis emanates warmth, and he is so soft . Francis shifts back to sit over James’s erection, trapped in his trousers still, and James gasps violently, blinking, shocked.
Then, Francis begins to rock his hips gently, and James pants and moans up at him, somehow beside himself already after a bit of heavy petting. But then, Francis reaches for the belt of his dressing robe and nonchalantly draws it open, just barely too slowly. James stares, open mouthed and gasping, throbbing between his legs, as Francis rocks on top of him, drawing open the sides of his dressing gown, revealing a lightly furred, flushed pink chest, with those two gorgeous pecs with pink nipples and that perfectly rounded belly. He shrugs off the dressing gown and tosses it to the side, smiling down at him as he steadies himself with his hands on James’s chest.
“Are you alright down there?” Francis asks, smiling crookedly. James gasps, reaches up to grasp his hips and his hands meet smooth, warm, lightly furred, bare , skin. He chokes on his breath and his hips stutter. Then, as if suddenly remembering he can participate, he tries to pull Francis down onto him and rub up against his, Good God, his bare arse, he is so hard he is aching now, he just needs – Francis grabs his wrists and pins them to either side of his head and looks down at him, lifting off of his knees to deny James any friction, and instead hover above him on all fours. James moans, betrayed, and stares up at him, his hips stuttering against nothing but air.
“I think,” Francis says firmly, “I ought to have been more clear,” He shifts neatly off of James, and arranges him swiftly sitting up against the headboard and grasps his chin firmly, forcing eye contact.
‘I like things in a very particular way,” Francis says,”I like to be on top, I like to be in charge, and above all, I do not like a bossy top.” James swallows and nods eagerly, rubbing a hand over his straining cock through his trousers and moaning at the relief. Francis smacks his hand away and James gasps, a sudden bolt of heat running from his scalp, down his spine all the way to his toes. His cock twitches visibly, and Francis raises an eyebrow. Nearly undone, James grasps at Francis’s shoulder and arm and finds himself squirming restlessly.
“I’ll. I’ll do whatever you’d like, please, please, I just need…”
Francis grasps the back of his neck and forces eye contact.
“I know exactly what you need. You need to be used like one of my toys, don’t you?”
James nods eagerly, his cock starting to drip in his pants, feeling like some stupid small thing that doesn't know how to do anything other than be used. A toy . He taps clumsily at his belt, trying to avoid another scolding, but badly wanting more.
“Can we, can we, you can..” Francis smiles at him gently, and reaches down to undo his belt with steady hands. James tries not to expire at Francis’s hands so close to his cock, and then Francis is drawing his cock out of his pants, and James can’t hold back a moan of relief. Then, Francis gives his cock a few experimental strokes, and James groans, far too loudly, as his hips jacknife off of the bed. God, but those callouses… Francis chuckles and holds him by the base, and stares at his cock with an assessing gaze. James flushes and whimpers, pawing at Francis’s shoulder, his legs shifting restlessly as he fights not to rut into that tantalizing grip. After a few moments of being stared at, James moans humiliatingly, and his cock blurts out a drop of precome, right under Francis’s watchful gaze. James gasps and covers his eyes, his face burning, and pants heavily as his cock throbs helplessly.
“I think this will do quite nicely.” Francis muses, and then pushes his trousers and pants off until James is sitting against the headboard, fully naked. His bollocks feel tight and full, his face is burning, and his cock is so stiff he can feel it in the insides of his thighs. Francis fumbles in the side drawer for a moment, then comes back with a condom and a bottle of lube.
“I imagine you’ll be wanting to watch from behind, then?” He asks. James stares for a moment, uncomprehending. Then Francis shifts to turn around, and James reaches out instinctively. Now that he has seen all of Francis, he cannot imagine viewing only certain parts. He is a ravenous creature, greedy for everything Francis has to offer.
“Would you want, on my lap?” He says breathily, licking the sweat off of his upper lip. Francis looks at him, eyes as blue, clear and deep as a lake’s smooth surface, and straddles his thighs.
“Like this?”
James nods mutely, looking up at him, transfixed.
Francis nods once, looking away for a moment, then swallows, clicking open the lube, getting some on his fingers, then reaching back. James watches his face, riveted, as his brows bunch together briefly as he rubs, then fits the first finger in, all while squeezing his eyes shut. James cradles that beloved face, enthralled. Francis grunts again, and bites his lips, and it occurs to James that he has a much better plan for that lip. He leans forward and kisses him deeply. Francis tilts his head and deepens the kiss immediately, something in the curve of his spine and the roll of his hips now softening, becoming liquid as he opens himself up on his fingers. Time stretches out and dissolves as they lose themselves in each other. Francis moves one of James’s hands to his hips, and James grabs a generous handful of his arse and moans, pulling him close.
Francis grunts and pulls away, scooting back briefly to lube up James’s cock and slide the condom on in a businesslike and practiced manner that leaves him gasping for breath, then he is shuffling back forward, pressing their fronts flush together as he positions himself above James’s cock. He looks down at James, asking a question with his eyes. James nods breathlessly, and Francis lowers his hips.
He feels the first kiss of Francis’s rim to the head of his cock and gasps, desperately convincing himself to stay still. Francis leans their foreheads together, and James hears that grunt as his cockhead eases past his rim, and sinks into Francis. Francis rocks his hips and breathes deeply, while James grips his hips and pants and wheezes, throwing his head back and nuzzling into Francis in turns. Finally, Francis’s arse meets his hips and Francis groans lowly, squeezing his eyes shut and rocking slightly back and forth. James forgets how to breathe and pants raspily until he groans suddenly and loudly, his knees coming up instinctively to cradle Francis’s hips. Francis’s mouth finds his and they kiss for a long heated moment. Then, Francis starts rocking his hips with intent, lifting up a few inches slowly, and then sinking back down, just like he does with his toys. James grasps at his hips and groans, much too loudly, and then again, and again. He just can’t seem to stop himself. Francis is unbearably tight, searing hot on the inside, grasping, and squeezing and sucking his cock inside on the downstroke and seeming terribly reluctant to relinquish it on the upstroke. Sweat stings at his eyes and he grabs handfuls of Francis’s arsecheeks, plump and full and perfect .
“It's perfect,” James slurs, rocking up into Francis’s rhythm, panting. Francis chuckles breathlessly.
“My arse?”
“All of you,” James moans, ”God, all of you…But your arse…”
Francis throws his head back and laughs, his rhythm stuttering for a moment as he trails off into chuckles. The laughter moves his insides so that James becomes suddenly aware he is unbearably close to coming and he squeezes Francis’s arse, gritting his teeth as that only worsens the problem, and tries desperately to think of anything that is not Francis’s impossible eroticism. How long has it been, five minutes? Surely not long enough to finish just yet. But Francis is smiling, easy and open, the movement of his hips liquid and sure, he is moaning and gasping gently, and James gasps and groans as every muscle in his body locks up one by one and he is gone, spasming, suffused by blinding golden light from the inside out, radiating and spilling out everything inside him for ages, an endless moment stretching forever until he finally relaxes by degrees, slumping against the headboard and abruptly falling to the side without any strength to hold himself up.
Francis chuckles and climbs off of him, James’s cock slipping out of him, and arranges him lying down on a mound of pillows, then gently removing the condom and tying it off and throwing it away. James lies panting, blinking sluggishly at the ceiling, his ears ringing. Something occurs to him and he clumsily reaches for Francis, lying down beside him, and reaches for his lovely cock, short and nicely stout and strokes him as best he can, kissing him deeply. Francis rocks into his hand, panting into his mouth, pressed up against James in a tangled mess of arms and legs until he gasps, that lovely, strained, stuttering gasp, spilling into James’s hand and against his belly, and relaxes against him.
They lie in each other’s arms for several long moments, trading lazy kisses and sharing breath. James’s mind is blank and soft, scrubbed clean of any remnants of thoughts. He mumbles into the soft silence,
“Boyfriendsnow.”
Francis stares at him for a moment, then rolls his eyes and pats his arm. “Boyfriends.”