etreoupas
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For his fortieth birthday, James had only a single request: to draw Francis nude.
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James is staring openly, unable to unpin his sight from the four metal beads visible through Francis’s shirt. Just an hour ago, at most, some fortunate piercer was grasping his nipples—the same nipples James greedily licks and bites and sucks at every opportunity—with surgical-gloved hands, and then forcing through a thick metal needle in a stinging instant. He would have liked to hear Francis suck in air through his teeth, to weather the pain; he would have liked to watch the piercer extract the needle and insert the jewelry in single practiced move; he would have liked to watch them rake their eyes over Francis’s thick torso afterward and think, He’s mine
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There’s nothing Francis can feed you that you won’t devour; when you are out in public, playing at propriety, you habitually clench your cunt around the empty space within it, longing for his thick cock or strong sailor’s fingers to push back against you. But it’s his tongue inside you that you crave most of all—to feel it stroke and probe just inside your entrance, as it does now, sharp and searching, then soft and broad and blunt, filling you up as best it can.
You were fortunate, when you were mysteriously pulled 170 years into the past, to recognize some familiar faces. Very fortunate, as it turns out.
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Before the rescue, and before James’s body had begun to break down in earnest, he’d started to find the nighttime cold on the shale unbearable. He’d shiver for hours before passing out from exhaustion—excruciating, when every movement caused him a spark of pain. One night the cold was particularly sharp—the flaps of their tent snapped loud as thunderclaps in the unforgiving wind—and he’d been shocked to feel his cot dip behind him, Francis’s solid form pressing up against his back.
“Francis,” he’d said, heart pounding, “what are you doing?”
“Whisht,” Francis had hissed. “Can’t sleep for the chattering of your teeth. Now rest.”
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"Need you both," James sobs. "Please. Oh, Christ, please.”
Francis is hit all at once with the vivid image of James’s precious, greedy hole stretched between a pair of thick cocks, forced into containing far more than God had ever intended it to accommodate.
Were he rational, and patient, and gentle, he would tell James no, not just now, whisper into his ear lurid stories of how they would get him ready, stretch him over days and weeks until he could take two men as if he were designed to do so. But James wants to hurt, and Francis, perverse creature that he is, is all too inclined to let him.
He looks straight into Edward’s wide eyes and gives a curt nod.
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He is in the Kremlin waiting hall, surrounded by white Neoclassical columns, sitting on the pseudo-Rococo silk couch, with Ivan killing his son to his left. He holds Deputy Chairman Shcherbina's report the aide just gave him.
He doesn't know what he's doing here, even if his hands know the motions. But the motions are odd, like his first, awkward drags on a cigarette at twelve. Why does he feel out of step with himself? A vague curiosity for the report of an apparatchik is there at the back of his mind, as well as the throat-tying apprehension of sitting in a room with members of the Council of Ministers and General Secretary Gorbachev.
Well, his throat should be tied. He hanged himself a few seconds ago.
Bookmarked by etreoupas
25 Feb 2022