Francis is inside him when he says it, forehead hot and sticky on Jamesʼ collarbone, arms curled up around his back, cradling James where he lies against the pillow.
“Christ, Francis, yes — daddy, please.”
Francis goes unnaturally still. “What did you say?”
“Nothing, nothing.” James runs a shaky hand down Francisʼ back. “Keep going.”
But Francis lifts himself on his elbows and looks down at James. “What did you say?”
His cock is hard and heavy in James, splitting him open, unbearable without the friction of movement, without the slide of Francis’ belly on his prick, without teeth at his throat or uneven breaths against his hair.
“It was nothing, Francis, forget it.” James attempts a nonchalant laugh but it comes off badly, and he feels his face go red.
Francis is frowning. “Sorry, it’s just a bit—”
“It’s fine,” says James quickly. “It’s fine, darling. I’m sorry.”
Francis says nothing, but lowers his head to kiss James. James locks his ankles around Francis’ arse and strokes his upper arms, meaning it as an apology, a plea. Let’s forget it; just fuck me, please.
But Francis still isn’t moving. He holds James’ jaw, keeping his head immobilised, frowning down at him again. “What do you like about it? About calling me—about calling me that?”
“You do.” Francis gets a hand between them. “I felt it, here.” He squeezes James’ cock, and James lets out a high-pitched cry. “And here." Francis touches where they’re joined, tracing James’ stretched and tender rim. James is so wet he could get a finger in as well, or his thick, blunt thumb. The mere thought of it nearly makes James come right then and there.
“That’s not what you said.”
Francis sits up and settles back on his heels, bringing James roughly with him, yanking him down the bed by the crease of hip and upper thigh. James groans at the jolt of Francis’ cock inside him, his head sliding off the pillow. Francis grabs it and shoves it under James’ arse, lifting him, exposing cock and balls and belly to Francis’ stern, observant stare.
“You called me daddy,” he says, a dangerous, mischievous glitter in his eyes.
“And you didn’t like it,” James enunciates through gritted teeth, hiding his face with his hands. This is monstrous. “It’s fine,” he says again. “Forget it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What?” James snaps, feeling like he might explode, or pass out, or possibly die.
“That I didn’t like it.” Francis is stroking James’ sides, ticklish against his ribcage, across his tummy, skating close to where his cock lies dripping and ignored. “I’m old enough, for one thing.”
“That’s not it,” says James, swallowing. “Not exactly.”
“I can’t explain it—oh for God’s sake, Francis, will you just hurry up and fuck me?”
Francis leans forward, hands braced either side of James’ head. He bares his teeth. “Is that what your daddy would do?”
“Yes,” says James, his voice suddenly very small.
“Have you been good?” Francis sits up again, runs appraising hands over James’ chest, pressing his thumbs into James’ stiff nipples.
“ Yes,” James hisses, “yes, yes.”
“Yes what?” But there’s a different question in Francis’ face, in the crook of his eyebrow, in the creases on his forehead. Is this alright? Do you really want this, James?
“Yes,” says James. He meets Francis’ eyes and wets his lips with a quick dart of tongue. “Daddy. ”
Francis growls and slides out of him at last, before pushing ruthlessly back in. James howls and Francis claps a hand over his mouth.
“Be quiet,” he snarls, mouth close to Jamesʼ ear, breath hot against his neck. “Be a good boy.”
James sobs under Francis’ hand. It's too much and yet not enough: he wants more and more and more. He wants to hide his face in the sheets but he can’t, not pinned down like this. He wants to shut his eyes, but he needs to look at Francis through the blur of tears; needs to see him, needs to be seen.
“That’s it, love,” Francis says more gently. He forces his thumb between James’ teeth and James sucks it hard, comforted and chastened all at once. “Is that what you needed, hm?” says Francis. “To be a good boy for me?”
In answer, James sucks harder, hollowing his cheeks, and above him Francis says, “Jesus, James,” and fucks into him again with a deep roll of his hips. James gives a muffled moan and Francis withdraws his thumb and thrusts two fingers into his mouth instead; solid, exploratory, invading.
“There you are, darling,” Francis says, and James chokes, eyes watering again. Francis sets a steady pace, firm and unrelenting, and James claws at his back, helpless as each stroke finds his prostate with cruel and unerring accuracy.
“That’s my good girl — daddy’s lovely girl. You’re doing so well, little one.”
James has never felt little in his life, not even as a child. Heʼs always been too gangling and too tall, his hands too big and his arms and legs too long: a gawky cuckoo in a robinʼs nest. But in Francisʼ eyes, when Francis says it: James feels it. He feels small and vulnerable and fearful — but not afraid. Because Francis is here: Francis is drawing wet fingers out of his mouth, trailing spit onto his chin; Francis is kissing him, deep and hungrily; Francis is rocking into him again and again and again.
And this is how James comes apart, shuddering; speared between Francis’ fingers and his cock, with nothing in between but empty air, a smattering of stars in a great void of sky. James vanishes from himself, passing into blank, ecstatic bliss.
He returns to find his mouth empty and his face wet, Francis breathing hard against his chest.
“Francis?” he says weakly.
“James.” Francis lifts his face, which is very pink. There are fine strands of hair plastered to his forehead.
“Yeah.” Francis slides out of him with a slick, vaguely disgusting noise. James can feel his arse dripping onto the sheets, but he can’t move, can’t do anything but hold onto Francis, making amends for the inevitable scratches with careful strokes to Francis’ back.
“That was, er—”
“Yeah,” says Francis again. He’s resting his whole weight on James, and James adores it; he always has.
“Was it okay?” James can’t keep a tiny tremor from his voice. “I’m sorry if I—if it was—”
“James.” Francis plants a biting kiss on James’ collarbone, another against his neck, his jaw, his mouth. He pulls back, holding James’ head in his hands. “It was amazing. You’re amazing.”
James bites his lip. “You’re not… repulsed or anything?”
“No.” Francis mouths at his cheek, his temple. “Never, James.”
James reaches for him, wanting another kiss, but Francis is sliding away from him, licking down his chest, tonguing at a nipple, palming his spent, wet cock. James twitches at the pressure.
“What are you—”
“Shh.” Francis strokes his thighs, pushes them firmly open, kneading the tight muscle with his thumbs.
“James.” Francis gives him a stern, sharp look as he lowers his head. “I can’t reach your mouth from here, so you’ll have to keep quiet by yourself. Can you do that for me, darling?”
James takes a deep breath, feeling his nostrils flare.