“You okay?” Alfred whispers. Francis merely nods, righting himself when Alfred wraps a hand around his bicep and drags him to the bed.
Any gentleness Alfred showed before disappears as he tosses Francis onto the bed. He lands across Matthew’s thighs with an ungraceful “oof,” almost turning back to glare at Alfred.
But then he looks up and into green eyes. A gentle hand comes up to cup his chin, a thumb strokes across his jaw, and Francis swears that if he gets any harder it will become a physical pain.
“Look at you,” Arthur sneers. “Rutting against the bed.” Francis blinks and realizes Arthur’s right; he stills his hips, but it’s too late. “Don’t you have any self control?” Arthur asks, hot breath washing over Francis’ lips. “Of course you don’t. You’ll do anything that moves, won’t you?”
Francis finds his voice. “Kiss me,” he whispers, almost a broken sob. “Please.”
Arthur’s hand travels up past his ear, into his hair. He grabs and jerks, making Francis’ neck arch back. It hurts and it’s rough, and it’s so incredibly good.
“On the bed,” Arthur snarls. Francis is eager to comply, scrambling on as best he can with bound arms and poor balance. Matthew catches him around the shoulders, helps position him on the bed; knees bent, calves trapped underneath his thighs, back bent forward at a rather uncomfortable angle.
Francis dares to look up to find Arthur kissing Alfred, one hand splayed across Alfred’s cheek. Alfred returns the kiss with eager moans and tongue, and Francis spies the secret sort of smile at the corner of Arthur’s mouth that makes his mouth go dry. It’s a smile of conquest, of total power, and it’s burning down on them.
Francis would come, if it weren’t for the damnable cock ring.
Matthew sighs and presses his chest to Francis’ back; something stirs against his ass, and Francis realizes Matthew’s getting hot again. He smiles and presses back, taking what little power he can even though he knows Arthur’s in control, and Matthew whimpers and presses his face into Francis’ shoulder blade.
“I hear you’ve been very friendly with Alfred as of late,” Arthur murmurs, and Francis’ head snaps up again to see Alfred crawling towards him on his knees. “Your boss seems very eager to make friends with Alfred’s boss.”
Francis swallows, thinks he hears a bit of jealousy in that tone. “And…?”
Arthur’s thick eyebrows narrow and his lip curls. He pushes Alfred forward so that Alfred’s cock juts into his face, twitching and leaking.
“You seem to be content with sucking up to him,” Arthur says. “So you should be just fine with sucking him off.”
It’s an order, not a suggestion.
Francis gazes up at Alfred with half-lidded eyes. He realizes that he’s not wearing glasses; they make him look younger, so much younger, and softer too. His eyes are clearer. He holds their gaze, neither one looking away.
He loves watching the way Alfred’s face tightens in shock as Francis swoops down and takes Alfred’s erection into his mouth, warm and hard around his tongue. He swirls the tip of his tongue over the seeping tip, sips up the bitter taste before sinking down on Alfred’s cock.
“Fuck,” Alfred hisses, and it’s completely unoriginal, but excusable - Alfred is so young after all, so unrefined. “I - haaahFrancis -”
Behind him, Matthew gives a soft keen, rubs himself against Francis harder. “Alfred,” he whimpers, but he doesn’t sound scared, and it doesn’t feel like he wants to stop.
Francis smiles around Alfred’s cock, takes him deeper and deeper into his mouth; he does his best to relax his throat when Alfred loses control and starts thrusting in hard jabs. He rubs his ass against Matthew’s cock, coaxes him deeper and deeper back into arousal.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement. Arthur watching, Arthur touching himself, Arthur holding unknowable thoughts behind deep, dark green.
Arthur calls him a whore. So Francis does his best to act the part, even though his shoulders are killing him and the leather feels uncomfortable.
“Stop,” Arthur says, and they all pause where they are. Three sets of blue eyes turn to Arthur, half-lidded and distracted.
Re: Prey [6/?]
anonymous
June 2 2009, 23:04:33 UTC
Good fucking christ, author!anon. I realize that, like Alfred, I am not being very original (and I don't have his youth as an excuse), but I hope you will forgive me for this fill has seared my brain, and my mastery of the English language along with it. There's so much utterly gorgeous imagery in this, I don't know where to begin--so I won't. I'll only tell you this is fabulous, and I hope the "?" that indicates the number of parts never turns into an actual number. ♥
Any gentleness Alfred showed before disappears as he tosses Francis onto the bed. He lands across Matthew’s thighs with an ungraceful “oof,” almost turning back to glare at Alfred.
But then he looks up and into green eyes. A gentle hand comes up to cup his chin, a thumb strokes across his jaw, and Francis swears that if he gets any harder it will become a physical pain.
“Look at you,” Arthur sneers. “Rutting against the bed.” Francis blinks and realizes Arthur’s right; he stills his hips, but it’s too late. “Don’t you have any self control?” Arthur asks, hot breath washing over Francis’ lips. “Of course you don’t. You’ll do anything that moves, won’t you?”
Francis finds his voice. “Kiss me,” he whispers, almost a broken sob. “Please.”
Arthur’s hand travels up past his ear, into his hair. He grabs and jerks, making Francis’ neck arch back. It hurts and it’s rough, and it’s so incredibly good.
“On the bed,” Arthur snarls. Francis is eager to comply, scrambling on as best he can with bound arms and poor balance. Matthew catches him around the shoulders, helps position him on the bed; knees bent, calves trapped underneath his thighs, back bent forward at a rather uncomfortable angle.
Francis dares to look up to find Arthur kissing Alfred, one hand splayed across Alfred’s cheek. Alfred returns the kiss with eager moans and tongue, and Francis spies the secret sort of smile at the corner of Arthur’s mouth that makes his mouth go dry. It’s a smile of conquest, of total power, and it’s burning down on them.
Francis would come, if it weren’t for the damnable cock ring.
Matthew sighs and presses his chest to Francis’ back; something stirs against his ass, and Francis realizes Matthew’s getting hot again. He smiles and presses back, taking what little power he can even though he knows Arthur’s in control, and Matthew whimpers and presses his face into Francis’ shoulder blade.
“I hear you’ve been very friendly with Alfred as of late,” Arthur murmurs, and Francis’ head snaps up again to see Alfred crawling towards him on his knees. “Your boss seems very eager to make friends with Alfred’s boss.”
Francis swallows, thinks he hears a bit of jealousy in that tone. “And…?”
Arthur’s thick eyebrows narrow and his lip curls. He pushes Alfred forward so that Alfred’s cock juts into his face, twitching and leaking.
“You seem to be content with sucking up to him,” Arthur says. “So you should be just fine with sucking him off.”
It’s an order, not a suggestion.
Francis gazes up at Alfred with half-lidded eyes. He realizes that he’s not wearing glasses; they make him look younger, so much younger, and softer too. His eyes are clearer. He holds their gaze, neither one looking away.
He loves watching the way Alfred’s face tightens in shock as Francis swoops down and takes Alfred’s erection into his mouth, warm and hard around his tongue. He swirls the tip of his tongue over the seeping tip, sips up the bitter taste before sinking down on Alfred’s cock.
“Fuck,” Alfred hisses, and it’s completely unoriginal, but excusable - Alfred is so young after all, so unrefined. “I - haaahFrancis -”
Behind him, Matthew gives a soft keen, rubs himself against Francis harder. “Alfred,” he whimpers, but he doesn’t sound scared, and it doesn’t feel like he wants to stop.
Francis smiles around Alfred’s cock, takes him deeper and deeper into his mouth; he does his best to relax his throat when Alfred loses control and starts thrusting in hard jabs. He rubs his ass against Matthew’s cock, coaxes him deeper and deeper back into arousal.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement. Arthur watching, Arthur touching himself, Arthur holding unknowable thoughts behind deep, dark green.
Arthur calls him a whore. So Francis does his best to act the part, even though his shoulders are killing him and the leather feels uncomfortable.
“Stop,” Arthur says, and they all pause where they are. Three sets of blue eyes turn to Arthur, half-lidded and distracted.
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I'll be over here, F5-ing like mad. Please, soldier on writer!anon ♥
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