fic: this fire rising [4/4]
Title: This Fire Rising (chapter four of four) (chapter three here) (chapter two here) (chapter one here)
Rating: oh, very NC-17. Very.
Warnings: fairly explicit good-morning sex; discussion of upcoming fantasy-fulfillment involving dubious consent (to clarify: prior consent already established, and it’s part of James’s fantasy, but in the specific moment, intoxicated and pliable and being manhandled by Michael, he likely couldn’t say no-but that’s chapter four…)
Word Count: 15,780 total; chapter four, 7,270 words
Disclaimers: only doing this out of affection, no disrespect intended! Title from Flyleaf’s “All Around You,” which had too many perfect lyrics for me to pick one to quote here.
Summary: In which James has very interesting fantasies, and Michael is a very good boyfriend. Lots of negotiation, lots of love, and James labeling porn in Elvish. In this chapter, those fantasies get fulfilled. Quite well.
day four: James
“So,” James said, and eyed the tiny pale-pink pill. It sat in the palm of his hand and eyed him right back, far too innocuously. “It looks very much harmless.”
“Ian said it’d work.” Michael was hovering-no other word for it-at his side. Those Celtic-springtime eyes were an endearing combination of eager and anxious. “If you don’t want to, if you don’t feel-”
“Come on, it was my fantasy, wasn’t it, I want to…” All true, despite the nibbling edge of nervousness. He did. He meant the words.
They were-or at least he was; Michael was still quivering like a worried greyhound on the very edge of the sofa-comfortably settled in the flat’s living room, surrounded by rain and city lights outside, serene lamplight and pillowy furniture inside. Scattered X-Men yet-another-sequel preliminary script notes sat on the table, from the conversation with Bryan Singer earlier; they were down to contract negotiations, time and salary and all the things agents worried about behind the scenes, so Bryan’d mostly called just to pitch ideas at them and chat about character development. James was holding out for a Professor X/Magneto reconciliation kiss on screen. Bryan had, rather surprisingly, not ruled this entirely out of the question.
The laptop was playing, very softly, the Beatles cover of “Twist And Shout” at them; it was James’s laptop, in fact, the one that’d begun the whole discussion. It looked electronically self-satisfied. It’d gotten Michael to sing along while making drinks.
He played with the pill again. Poked it and made it roll across his palm. “Did they tell you what it was?”
“Yes, in fact.” Michael folded long legs up next to him, and then unfolded one and set it on the floor, and then crossed it over the other one. “I wanted to know. I mean, in case…just in case. I wrote it down. I had to call back and ask, because they gave me an unlabeled bottle, because Patrick and Ian like seeing me panic.”
“Sorry.” The bottle in question was sitting on the table. Six more tiny rattling tablets inside. Michael glared at it, and then picked up James’s other hand and started playing with his fingers. “Don’t apologize. That’s them, not you. Are you sure-”
“You waited until after you’d made me two drinks to ask?” Michael had. Had made him a languorous and smoky Manhattan, all slow-burning golden whisky and vermouth and cherry sweetness on his tongue; had made a second one, grinning with all those teeth, after James had consumed the first in long repeated sensuous sips, eyes shut.
He might already be a wee bit tipsy. The room wasn’t wobbling or anything, but they’d last had food two hours ago, and he was having to think about words for an extra second before letting them come out, in case they emerged not quite right.
“You are,” Michael said, and kissed his fingers. “Just a little. You look at me more intently when I talk. Should I feed you first?”
Apparently he’d said that aloud. Hmm. “No. I like the way this feels. And thank you.”
“For what?”
“For the drinks, the evening…” He started to wave a hand, explanatory gesture of inclusivity, but Michael was still holding it. “You did plan this. You even turned off my mobile, and yours, after Bryan hung up. I saw you. And you’re here taking care of me.”
“Yes, I am. You didn’t answer. Are you sure?” While you’re still relatively sober, said that tone.
James rolled his eyes, tossed the pill into the air one-handed, caught it on his tongue-Michael looked suitably impressed by this display of coordination, though no less apprehensive-and chased it with the end of his second drink, and then considered this action, belatedly.
“Should I have done that?”
“What? Oh. No-I mean, no, you’re fine. Um. Ian said alcohol’d be…actually, he said it’d sort of intensify things. Sorry.”
“As I think you said, for what?”
“Oh…all right…how’re you feeling?”
“Nothing yet, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m pretty sure it takes more than five seconds for drugs to kick in, y’know.”
Michael sighed. Scooted closer, cooperatively, when James looked purposefully at him and patted the spot beside him on the sofa. Then reached over, wrapped a long arm around his shoulders, and applied pressure until James toppled into his lap. Not so cooperative, then. Continuing to be nervous.
“Love you,” he said into Michael’s chest, now at face level, “and this is hideously uncomfortable. Move your knee.”
“Sorry!”
“Here.” He sat up, rearranged limbs, fit himself under Michael’s arm again, and wondered whether the slight vertigo had been the pill, or two fairly stiff drinks, or just sitting upright too quickly. Michael kissed the top of his head, and then leaned down to scrutinize his face.
“Stop that.”
“I love you.”
“I know. I’ll tell you if I’m feeling….anything…”
“What?”
“Okay, maybe a little dizzy. Are you…did you move, just now?”
“No?”
“Hmm.” He tried lifting a hand. Discovered that he could, but with more effort than should’ve been required. He poked Michael’s shoulder experimentally. Still solid.
“James?” Michael’s hand was on his face, lifting his chin, and when had that happened? “Still here?”
“Still here…I think…” He blinked, and the room spun, a festive whirl of colors and light, amber and gold. “…oh.”
“Oh, good? Or…”
“Good, I think…” He tried moving the hand again, reaching up for Michael’s face, wanting to smooth away some of the concerned furrows. His fingertips brushed Michael’s cheek instead. Found the rough texture of scruffiness there, Michael enjoying weeks off between filming, and that made him smile. “You feel nice.”
“I do?”
“Mmm. This…you didn’t shave. I like it when you don’t shave.”
“You do?”
“Not when you grow the terrible seventies sci-fi villain moustache, but like this…I like it when you kiss me like this. I like feeling it on my skin.”
At which Michael leaned down and kissed him, swift and sweet; Michael’s mouth tasted like lemons and limes, because Michael had been drinking fizzy soda and not alcohol, staying entirely sober. Limes were delicious, James decided, and tried to lick the flavor out of every corner of those lips.
“Love,” Michael interrupted, not quite laughing, “not that I’m not having fun, I am, but I want to check on you, look at me…”
Hands steadied him, held him upright; James whimpered a little, because Michael and the deliciousness were too far away. The world shimmered, chalk paintings splashed with wetness, blurry.
“Hmm,” Michael said. “Should I get you water? James?”
“ ’m okay…”
“And you’d be able to tell me if you weren’t, would you? Look at me. Just for a minute.”
It was surprisingly difficult to focus. The world swam, hallucinatory. He was leaning back into the circle of Michael’s arm, that was real, and he let his head fall onto a supportive shoulder. He did feel good, though: a bit disconnected, hazy, but a beckoning kind of haze, glowing and sensual as molten honey, spreading lassitude through his bones.
He blinked, lazily, and found Michael’s eyes; focused, aware that it was the false coherence of intoxication but unworried about it. “I think,” he offered, “it’s working,” and he could hear it in his voice, the faint slurring of words, but he’d meant it as an obvious joke, and Michael smiled.
“I love you. That hit sort of all at once, didn’t it…remind me to shout at Ian, later…can you make it to the bed?”
“Wait,” James said, and then, as Michael’s eyes went all darker green with concern, sharp color edging out the excited grey, “no, not like that, I just…that’s not right…you’re not supposed to…never mind. Bed?”
“I’m not supposed to what?” Michael’s hand stroked his hair, very softly. “Talk to me.”
“Y’know…” He waved a hand. Was impressed that he still could. “Ask.”
Michael looked startled for a second, then got it. “Oh. And you are all right, then. So…you want me to just…go ahead, then? Whatever I want to do, with you…not asking for permission…”
James heard himself inhale. Felt the blood thump in his ears.
“I can do that,” Michael mused, and that lovely Celtic-German lilt gained an edge, a hint of unsuspected leather and sin. “I do want to fuck you, James.”
He actually heard himself breathe in, automatic response. He could feel himself staring, guessed that his eyes were wide, and wondered how he must look, flushed with alcohol and drugs, gaze enormous, dilated and wanting…
Michael’s hand settled on the nape of his neck, the way it had the very first time, the day they’d ever discussed this fantasy, the day Michael’d suggested someday carrying it out.
Michael’d promised to take care of him.
James wanted to be taken care of. As mercilessly and relentlessly as Michael wanted, however Michael wanted to use him, everything Michael wanted to do with and to him. His whole body ached with it: with the need to be taken and possessed and made to stop thinking, lost in the flood. With Michael, because he trusted Michael, and he knew he wouldn’t come to any harm.
“Christ,” Michael said, and tightened the hand around his neck, enough to make his pulse race. Unless that was the drugs. He blinked, and the world quivered, harpstring plucked and ready.
“You would do anything,” Michael said, very softly. “Right now, for me…get on your knees, James.”
He gasped, shivered, wanted. Obeyed, sloppily, sliding to the floor; and felt the shocking thrill as he did, awkward and off-balance as the room tilted, spinning into a new configuration. Himself kneeling in front of their old familiar sofa. Michael seated, lounging, legs spread. One hand in his hair.
Michael didn’t say anything, and the rain pounded away, outside and indoors, in his head, low cadence lulling him into recklessness. He leaned forward. Pressed lips over worn denim. Over the hardness he could feel beneath.
Michael made a sound. The hand in his hair got fiercer. Held him in place, lips open and wet over the bulge in those tight-fitting jeans.
James trembled, fought back for a second-the end of his coherence, shrieking at him that he was about to suck Michael off in their living room with the curtains open and himself drugged and drunk and he’d never remember this in the morning but oh god he wanted to remember this in the morning-
And then he possibly blacked out a little, except it didn’t feel that way, he was still present, just somehow no longer in control, because he was mouthing at the zip of Michael’s jeans, making small needy noises, and his whole body was softening-except for his cock, which was upright and demanding-and he felt free somehow, loose and pliant and absolutely in favor of all that leather and sin.
Michael’s hand curled into his hair, pulling. “So this is all I’d have to do…tell me, James, would you do this for anyone? Anyone who wanted you, in a club, in a bar? If they got you drunk, if they told you-not asked you-if they ordered you to kneel…”
His whole body shuddered. He couldn’t stop it. Yes, yes, and no, never; he wouldn’t, not sober and rational and articulate, no. He only wanted Michael. But the thought, the imagined vision of it, himself being so thoroughly abandoned to desire, down on his knees and forced to please anyone who wanted to take him…
The arousal, the fearful temptation, the yes and the no, oscillated in his head, and left him shaken.
“No,” Michael said, kindly, word dropping cleanly into his thoughts, an answer to cling to. “No. Because I’d be there. Because no one else would ever go home with you, James. You’re mine. Always.”
Yes, he thought. Yes, please, because he’d never been anyone else’s, he’d never belonged to anyone before, he’d never had anyone who’d loved him this way. Michael cared about him, cared for him, cared when he was happy. Was making this whole night happen, for him.
“I love you,” he breathed, over the faded denim at his lips. “Love you.”
Michael’s hand was strong and certain. “I know. I promise. I know.”
He might’ve moaned a little. Nuzzled his face into Michael’s crotch. Couldn’t help it.
“But,” Michael mused, sounding entertained, “you, like this…no one else’s ever seen this…James, you realize what you look like? Like….oh…I could invite anyone in here, couldn’t I? Casting directors, our agents, anyone…would you like that, James? An audience, watching you…while you’re on your knees, lips wrapped around my cock…”
No. Yes. No. Oh god. His entire body went hot. Cold. Shivering. Please, no, please.
Yes. Yes, if Michael asked it of him. Yes. He knew he’d obey. And he knew he’d enjoy it.
“No,” Michael purred, “no one seeing you like this but me,” and jerked his head back, making their eyes meet.
James trembled, and knelt at the foot of the sofa with Michael’s hand in his hair.
The rain burst in splendid orchestras, caused thunder, beat against the windowpane.
“Love,” Michael said, not in-role for just a moment, looking at him.
James nodded, as much as he could with the hand holding him in place.
“Yes,” Michael breathed, understanding, and stood up, and pulled him to his feet, and shoved him ahead.
Ahead to their bed; or he assumed it was, though with closed eyes he couldn’t in fact tell. Without sight the world was secret and decadent, molasses and flame. He felt Michael’s fingertips flicking at the buttons of his shirt; he didn’t want to simply lie there and not contribute, so he tried.
“Stop that.” Michael’s voice was authoritative, and amused. Affection threaded through the melody. “You’re not helping.”
Sorry, James wanted to say, but his words seemed to’ve all at once gone missing.
“Here…” Those long fingers lifted his arms easily, as if he were a plaything, a doll. Stripped away the thin fabric of his shirt. He couldn’t tell where it went.
“You want me to take what I want, correct, love? You want me to…take you.” That voice, wild heather and emerald sunsets; those hands, now tugging at his belt, and he moaned. Yes. Yes to everything. Please.
“So beautiful,” Michael breathed, breaking character for just a moment, the awe utterly genuine; and then, reasserting: “and mine, James, you asked me for this, you want this, you’re so ready for it…”
His jeans vanished. Possibly some time as well, or he was fading in and out, because his underwear’d gone away too, and he was lying naked in the sheets. The satin was smooth and cool against his skin when he moved, shifting position just to feel the glide of it, so intense and intimate.
The air was cold; he felt his nipples crinkle with it. He tried to bring a hand up and touch one; succeeded, and played with the peak a bit, rolling it between clumsy fingers, because it made his body shiver deliciously. Someone breathed in; a large hand fastened over his shoulder, and James let his hand fall into his lap.
His cock was hard, a fact that registered belatedly, as if from a distance: hard and hot and aching, and it felt good when he ran fingers over himself, so he did it again, and again, mindlessly pushing up into his own hand, chasing that pleasure over and over.
“Christ,” Michael was saying, very far away. “James-”
He heard himself moan in reply.
“Still here, then. And…so eager…just look at you, wanting it…this is what you wanted, James, all those fantasies…” Michael’s hand landed on his hip, heavy and solid, fingers biting down. “You’re getting wet…here…”
One finger-the other hand?-but only one, skimming the swollen hot head, trailing over that slit, drawing more drops out in its wake. “You get off on this, don’t you, James? Being used, helpless, knowing you need it…absolutely filthy, you are, all wet and shameless…you want to be fucked, don’t you? You need it. You want to be…the toy you fantasize about being, with me, for me, James?”
He felt the shudder all through his body, an elemental ripple of surrender and want and shame and desire. Felt his cock twitch, stir, rise further; Michael obviously took note. “You do like that, then. Being told what you are…and you know you are, aren’t you?” Despite the words, the hand was gentle, stroking an apology over his hip: I love you, I’m here, we’re okay.
He shut his eyes, drifting in the tides.
Michael’s fingers walked down to the base of his erection. Squeezed once, firmly-James felt the groan as if it were someone else’s, pulled raggedly out of his throat-and then wandered lower, fondling his balls, toying with the tight-drawn weight, cupping, testing. Tugging downward, just a bit; and he nearly sobbed at the flash of pleasure and pain.
“Ah, but you like it,” Michael’s voice murmured, intimate and leisurely, even as the fingers slipped further back, exploring shadowed valleys, private areas of skin. Pushing his thighs further apart; he let himself be manhandled, rearranged, displayed. He couldn’t’ve fought if he’d wanted to. And the thought made him whimper. Made his cock jump, leaking slowly.
“Such a good little toy, for me.” That low voice resonated through his bones. Obsidian and emerald. Promising and dark. “Not a whore-I’m not paying you, and you want it all-but you’d let me do anything to you…” Fingers over his hole, dry and teasing, and he whimpered again even as the muscle clenched, involuntarily. “Not that you could stop me. And you love that. Being overpowered, by someone who can take you without even asking…”
The fingers lifted. Came back, slippery and cool. Lube, potentially, though he couldn’t see. Couldn’t open his eyes.
The pressure was swift and sure, filling him. Too big to be one finger; two, Michael must’ve begun with. At least. They slid in and out of him, obscene wet sounds adding to the deluge of sensation; they crooked upward and found a spot inside him that made him gasp and twist uncontrollably under the weight of Michael’s other hand, holding him down.
And then they didn’t stop. Insistent, ruthless rubbing, tapping tattoos of pure ecstasy over that same place, pulling new explosions of fireworks from his bones. He felt his whole body tighten and swell with it, release imminent and all-encompassing; heard a purposeful laugh and a “Not quite,” and there was the hand on the base of his cock again, gripping his balls, suddenly too hard, pulling down and squeezing, and, oh, it hurt, but he needed more, needed to come, needed to be allowed to-
He collapsed, sobbing, mind empty, in frustration.
There was a pause, or maybe he only thought there was. Time shimmered, golden and burning and liquid, waterfalls of fire all around. The bed. His veins. Running under his skin with every pounding heartbeat.
Lips brushed his cheek, astonishingly tender; he swallowed the next sob, surprised, and it caught in his throat like a jewel and dissolved.
“I love you,” Michael told the corner of his mouth, licking at the crease, drinking tears from his skin, penitence and promise. “I’m not going to hurt you…”
Fingers slipped out of him, plunged back in. More this time. He couldn’t count. Could only open up, malleable as candle-wax, molten all the way to the core, for the invasion.
“…but I am going to give you what you need.” Legs lifted, repositioned, spread wider; hands along his thighs; and the length of Michael’s cock, at last pushing into him. He knew that length, every inch of it; his body comprehended it, recognized the penetration and welcomed it all, speared, conquered, impaled.
Michael drew back, thrust, found rhythm; neither slow nor fast but steady, as if planning to fuck him all night long just this way, while James sobbed and writhed beneath him in bliss.
Fingers at the head of his cock, teasing, maddeningly light; the trickle of need followed, though, and Michael made a sound, pleased. “So easy for me, aren’t you? So ready for it. Gorgeous.”
Yes, he thought, though he couldn’t speak. Yes. Yours. Please. He was Michael’s, he’d be that easy for Michael, legs spread and body open for use everywhere, the way he wanted to be. He’d’ve begged, if he’d had words left. Please.
Michael’s thumb landed on his lips. When he parted them, letting the weight press onto his tongue, he tasted salt and bittersweetness; himself, he realized, Michael making him lick up his own need.
“Oh, James,” Michael breathed, and started moving in him again, faster now, as if unable to hold back. That glorious length pistoned inside him, friction over one electric place in particular, perfectly aimed; James cried out, arching up, and Michael gasped, “Yes, now, yes-” and heat flooded his body from within, even as he jerked and shuddered and came in long drawn-out splashes between their bodies, sticky drops smearing over his own stomach and chest.
“Christ,” Michael managed, panting. “Sorry, too fast, sorry, I meant to-to make that last-longer-you’re so-” and then stopped, evidently out of words. So what, James wondered, but the question wasn’t terribly important just then.
He felt languid all over, nerve endings glimmering with heat; languid but somehow unfulfilled, as if it hadn’t been enough, as if his body needed more. Michael’s cock was softening inside him, but still long and thick, resting over swollen sensitive tissue. He shifted hips, experimentally, and was rewarded by a frisson of sensation, vivid and fleeting.
“Oh, really,” Michael said, and nudged back into him, deeper, pushing, half-hard but enough, and James moaned and came, a second time or maybe unfinished remains of the first, tiny weak spurts from his cock and clenching muscles inside, delirious climax on the sensation of Michael’s cock buried in him, Michael’s orgasm leaking out from his body, dripping down his thighs.
Michael kissed him, deliberately commanding, in the wake of it. Tongue tracing the contours of his mouth, laying claim; fingers on his nipples, pinching, testing. James gasped. Michael laughed.
And then moved, the whole length of that spent arousal at last slipping free of his body, trailing over sore edges, head catching briefly on the fluttering ring of muscle. Michael began to lick at him, tongue lapping over the sticky tip of his cock, his balls, sore from earlier tugging and denial. Sensitive, too sensitive; and he sobbed and clawed at the sheets, or meant to, but couldn’t move his arms. Michael stopped just before the hurt outweighed the pleasure, though. And that tongue moved lovingly lower, cleaning him, exploring, sweeping over the newly stretched rim of his hole…
James shuddered, twitched, stopped fighting the sensations as they blew through his body. Stopped thinking altogether.
Michael must’ve been slightly worried, at that-possibly because he’d ceased moving-and there was a pause, a rush of cool air over tingling skin. A hand cupping his head, turning his face. “James?”
He wanted to open his eyes, but the lids felt awfully heavy. Michael’s voice got more worried. More insistent. “James, look at me. I know you can’t talk, that’s okay, but I need you to be here. Tell me you’re still here.”
He managed to open his eyes, saw Michael’s face ringed with flickering colors, and closed them again.
“James,” Michael said, and tapped fingers over his cheek, not quite hard enough to be a slap but close. “I won’t fuck you if you can’t wake up. I can’t. You have to at least be awake, understand?”
Yes. He understood that Michael was frightened; and so he opened his eyes again. Crooked one uncoordinated finger: come here.
Michael leaned down. Their noses bumped. James breathed, “Love you,” and Michael’s eyes changed: relief, excitement, elation.
“Good,” Michael whispered, “good, thank you, I love you too, so fucking much,” and James wanted to laugh, and he thought maybe Michael did too.
“Good,” Michael said again, “okay,” and put fingers back on his left nipple and pinched, rolling the tight little bud between fingertips. James would have screamed, but couldn’t, and felt the scream echoed throughout his body instead, nerve endings alight and singing.
Michael smiled. And proceeded with all those aforementioned plans.
Fingers inside him again, working that glorious spot; a hand on his cock, a hand on his nipples; too many hands, or maybe they were just that busy, Michael ensuring that he lost track, drowned in euphoria, in the agonizingly splendid wringing-out of a third orgasm, or a fourth, somewhere in the night.
Michael kneeling over him, hand in his hair and forcing his head up, holding him in place and fucking his mouth, keeping his nose and lips buried in coils of ginger hair.
Himself struggling to breathe, giving up and relaxing into the grip, gag reflex utterly subdued by drugs and airlessness and the marvelous feeling of Michael filling his throat, taking him fast and deep and careless of discomfort, the way that he needed to be taken…
Michael tensed, cock stiffening even more, blocking his air; a rush of fluid heat flooded his throat, so deep he thought he might be choking on it, and he was vaguely aware of his own arousal swelling and pulsing at the distant idea, even while he struggled to swallow as the world wavered, while Michael’s hand jerked his head up and back, permitting him to breathe.
The end of Michael’s orgasm landed on his face, his nose, his lips. More spilled from his mouth, what he’d not been able to swallow. The heat trickled down his chin, and he felt the warmth of it and trembled, letting his body react how it would, and how it would apparently meant the ghost of another peak rising heedlessly all through him.
Time blurred and extended, supple and elastic. The satin of sheets. The motion of bodies. Sweat and stickiness and the drumming of the rain, loud enough to echo his pulse. He felt hyperaware of it all, sound and scent and the friction of skin on skin; aware but drowsy, removed, as if it was all happening both immediately to him, and simultaneously very far away.
Fingers pressed inside him, seeking out that sparking pulse-point anew; the world narrowed, quivered, suspended between inhale and exhale, ecstasy and pain. Too much, too much, and he never wanted it to end.
Michael was saying something, but he couldn’t make out words. He moaned, though: whatever Michael wanted to do, yes. Forever yes.
Were those fingers? If so, that had to be three. Four. And-
-and, oh, that was what Michael wanted, what Michael was planning to do to him-
“James,” Michael whispered, hand on his hip, steadying. “Tell me if this hurts. I’ll stop. All right?”
He found enough coherence to nod, and was glad Michael saw it, because even that took all the effort he could summon.
“I want to see you,” Michael breathed, “want to see if you can, like this, so wet and so open, I think you can take it, James, you’ll take anything I give you right now,” and pushed, unhurried but unstopping, on and on, and he felt his body quiver and collapse and give in, drugged and euphoric and barely conscious as the thickest part of Michael’s hand eased past tight walls and into his body.
Michael was breathing rapidly, he could hear it; at least one of them was. He wasn’t certain he was, at all.
Michael paused, adjusted the angle, inside him. Pushed deeper, whole hand sinking into him at last, and James heard his own gasping inhale, high and thin and broken, desperate for air, for Michael to move, for another orgasm, as every atom of his body seemed to tighten and quake, under siege.
“Shh,” Michael whispered reverentially, and moved the fist inside him, testing the smallest of thrusts.
The waves closed over him, vast rolling depths of bliss. He thought he was coming again, or he’d never stopped, muscles clenching helplessly and releasing, inundated. The heavy blunt weight sank even deeper inside him; he felt his hips lifted just a fraction, rearranged, and he moaned. The next inexorable thrust went deeper, and he thought he might be split open, but his body gave way around the pressure, yielding impossibly wide and so full now that he couldn’t move, but he didn’t need to, as every helpless dazed twitch set off new glittering billows inside his body.
The cascade of sparks went on and on. He felt his fingers, his legs, his cock, as almost disconnected, awash with ecstasy but individual highlights lost in the omnipresent golden sea. He knew he was trembling uncontrollably; thought he might be crying. His face was wet. His mouth felt wet as well, bruised and swollen from kisses, from use, from fingers and a cock down his throat, how many times had that been, saliva and stickiness on his lips, his chin…
A voice, murmuring: Michael’s voice, and he basked in the low susurration of it, though he couldn’t make out any words. He felt unmoored, floating.
The huge thick intrusion shifted, slid back, pulled out of him, leaving hollowness behind. Too fast, and he was too empty, and he whimpered, sobbing freely.
A hand touched his face, and Michael’s voice whispered something indistinct, fingers cupping his cheek. James turned his head clumsily, nuzzled into the hand, feeling loved and cherished and unworried. He did trust Michael.
Michael breathed out-loud enough to be audible-moved away, came back. James couldn’t tell how long it’d been, but the fingers when they touched his lips were dry and tasted faintly like soap; had Michael paused to wash up? He wondered whether he’d lost consciousness for a while; he’d not thought so, but time had become unreliable, blurry, distorted and ringed with gold.
He licked sloppily at the fingers, wanting Michael to know he was all right; Michael laughed, and said something that sounded like, “One more, then…” and oh, a new sensation, harder and cool and slick with lube, moving easily inside him now, where all those muscles were stretched impossibly open and unresisting. It was almost enough, but not quite; not thick enough, when he was so loose and wet and spread apart; he whimpered again, incoherent, unable to explain.
“Shh,” Michael whispered, “I know,” and shoved those fingers deeper into his mouth, no longer freshly clean but messy with his cries and sobs, keeping his voice muffled and lips apart, unable to close, a gag and a command and another penetration. And James felt himself quiver all over, head to toe rush of incandescence, at that.
“Now,” Michael breathed, and the toy came to life inside him; not thick enough, no, but buzzing and vibrating madly against that perfect spot, demanding and electric and right there-
The climax hit out of nowhere, showers of stars becoming supernovae in his veins. But the vibration didn’t let up, ceaselessly pulling him on into the brilliance. He couldn’t think, couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe, heart pounding with overstimulation; he might be coming once again, body convulsing, last spurts of fluid from his throbbing cock; or that might be something else, something even beyond anything he’d imagined, final total irrevocable loss of control, liquid warmth pouring over his skin as all his senses imploded-
The world went inarguably white around him, and he was dimly aware that he was on the verge of passing out, body and mind giving way to implacable orgasm and humiliation and bliss and ultimate surrender, and he fell into infinity with profound joy.
After some time, he became aware that he had a body again, and moreover that he was probably waking up.
He felt…safe. And comfortable. Surrounded by fluff, soft and cloudy as cotton-candy blankets, pink and full of air. He also felt wholly exhausted, entire body sore and overextended and tender. But it was a good soreness. The kind of euphoric ache that lingered after a long hike and an intense yoga session, pushed to the limits and triumphant.
He lay still for a while, breathing in and out, remembering, listening to the low-voiced rustle of the rain. Thunder muttered intermittently, but it didn’t mean the crankiness, not when it was comfortable too. He could tell.
He tested wiggling a foot. It responded, though not by much; he panicked for a moment, and then figured out that he’d been bundled so tightly in blankets it was a wonder he could move at all.
He tried a hand next, and a deep breath. Fingers, check. Excellent. Maybe with fingers he could dispose of some of the overbearing blankets.
There was also a weight on his shoulder, which was strange because the rest of him felt rather weightless and exultant. Tentatively, he opened both eyes.
The room looked the same. Their bedroom, all pale walls and colorful bookshelves and one of Michael’s sweaters in a heap on the floor, visible around the side of the bed. He couldn’t tell the time of day, not from the watered-pearl quality of the rain-light, but that wasn’t important just now. The world was timeless. Flawless, in this instant. Home.
He tipped his head to rest against that other head on his shoulder. He’d figured out what the weight was, along the way. It was Michael, who’d plainly fallen asleep sitting beside him and toppled over. Michael’s hair, getting long enough to curl upwards, was tickling his neck; but he liked the feeling.
He did sort of want to move his arm, though; his elbow, of all possible body parts, was threatening to return to sleep. He spared a moment to wonder how that was possible, and then attempted squirming around in the blanket-cocoon.
Michael yawned and murmured sleepily, “James?” and then sat bolt upright, eyes huge. “James!”
“Hi.” He raised eyebrows, since waving was currently impossible, what with Michael’s weight pinning blankets down. “Good morning-is it morning?-I love you.”
“It is-are you all right? I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I was trying to-I love you. How do you feel?”
“Good. Tired, I think. I’m fine.” His head was a little fuzzy, but it was only a faint layer of wool, not an entire sheep. He’d had worse hangovers by far. “How’re you? Also come here and kiss me. I apparently can’t move.”
“You can’t-”
“Because you’ve mummified me in quilts. What on earth is this top one? Why is it red and purple?”
“Birthday present from Matthew. Just before we moved in together. I found it in a box. Are you cold? Can you sit up? Do you want water?”
“Did you excavate the closet just for me? And…emphatically no, probably yes, and maybe. And you didn’t answer my question.”
Michael took a deep breath, let it out, said, “Water first,” and ran to the kitchen, and ran back. “Here.”
The clean coolness of it did feel good in his mouth, along his throat, when he swallowed. He couldn’t help the tiny wince; the motion brought back physical reminders of all the use. Michael practically vibrated with concern, witnessing that.
“I’m okay,” he said, and handed the water back. “Really. Maybe kind of sore. But I like it.”
“You do?”
“I do. I feel…” He stretched arms over his head, stretched legs out under the vibrant quilt, pointed toes, shrugged shoulders. “Lighter. Equilibrium. More anchored. Ow.”
“Ow?”
“All right, not so much sitting on that spot. Did any of that make sense, though? You can say no.”
“It did,” Michael said, and got under the blankets with him, put arms around him, and rearranged their bodies, sitting back against the headboard, taking most of James’s weight. “It does. I love you.”
“Mmm. Love you. Thank you.”
“No.” Michael leaned down; James tipped his head up and back and a little to the side, and their lips met. “Thank you. For this-for giving me this. You. Us. I like being an anchor for you. I can do that more. Not just last night, I mean. I can do more for you.”
“I like taking care of you,” James said in reply, not exactly a disagreement, and tucked his face into Michael’s neck and closed his eyes, breathing. “Did you clean us up?”
“You don’t remember that?”
“No…was I awake?”
“Um. Not at first. I tried shaking you, I tried-you did wake up. You looked at me and told me you were okay and I shouldn’t be worried and you offered to make me cinnamon rolls. I thought you were-I gave you water and you went back to sleep and that’s why you’re not waking up in an emergency room, because you seemed-you honestly don’t remember?”
“Cinnamon rolls? No. But it does sound like something I’d say.” He set a kiss on Michael’s collarbone, lips over skin and bone, trying to chase away guilt and apprehension with certainty. “You were perfect. You did take care of me. You-did you sort of change the sheets around me?”
“It’s a skill. What do you remember, then?”
“Pretty much everything until that last one. Which, by the way, you should be sort of proud about. You literally made me come so hard I passed out. I didn’t know that was possible.”
“Neither did I.” Michael’s shoulder tensed almost imperceptibly beneath his temple. “I could’ve lived without that one. You have no idea how terrified I was.”
“Really?”
“James, you were drugged and you’d been drinking and I knew I’d made you cry already and I told you you wanted it and I made you come, I made you-you might not remember, that last time, but that was more than-you did come when I told you to, but you also sort of-and I didn’t know I’d pushed you that far, you just sort of went limp, even while you were still in the middle of-and at first I couldn’t tell if you were breathing and you wouldn’t wake up-” Michael stopped, very fast. The rain chattered lazily, companionably filling in the gap.
“Oh,” James said, mostly to get a word out there in place of the weather-commentary. “But I did. Wake up, I mean. You said.”
“You did…except you didn’t, did you. You don’t remember that.”
“I might, a bit.” Not a lie; with the prompting, bits and pieces were returning. Michael’s eyes, wide and frightened and thankful when they found his. A cloth, warm and damp, on his face; another, even more cautious, between his legs, cleaning hypersensitive skin. The voice he loved, murmuring apologies when he whimpered from renewed stimulation. That’d been when he’d said something: Michael’d needed comfort.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and put an arm around Michael’s waist. “I didn’t know you’d pushed me that far, either. I could’ve said no-yes I fuckin’ could have, don’t look at me like that, I did hear you when you said one more. I wanted it all. Even that thing at the end that I might have to be embarrassed about later when you tell me the details. I’m fine, and you’re here, and we don’t have to do this again, you did it once, for me, and I love you, and we’re good, okay?”
“Love you,” Michael said, face buried in his hair. “So much, James.”
“I know,” James told him, and patted the nearest slim hip, purposefully in between reassuring and patronizing. Michael made a sound that was half a laugh and half an exhale of pent-up fear. “James?”
“Cinnamon rolls? Since apparently I offered?”
“If you want them I’ll make them. You’re not getting up today. But…you said we didn’t have to do this again. But you liked it.”
“I did, but not if it’s going to traumatize you.”
“No…I mean, yes, sort of, but…watching you…getting you to come for me, over and over…and at the end…knowing I could give you that, even that, and the way you looked when you…you want me to be honest about this…”
“That’d be nice, yes.” He had an idea of where that sentence might be going, from the tone, from the hesitations, from the unwilling admission in the face of lingering anxiety. He caught himself beginning to smile: they wanted the same thing.
“…I liked it,” Michael finished, and then tipped his head back against the headboard and shut his eyes, despairing retreat. “Christ. James, I’m so sorry.”
James actually rolled his eyes at that unnecessary melodrama. Sat up gingerly, swung a leg over slender hips and settled into place, got nose to nose with the man he loved, and said, “Why?”
Michael’s eyes went comically wide. “But-you-I hurt you, I-”
“Do I look hurt?” He waited; Michael didn’t seem to pick up on the idea that it wasn’t a rhetorical question, so James just rolled the eyes at him again, leaned forward, and kissed him. Michael, after a dumbfounded second, kissed tentatively back.
“Sore, yes, okay. And maybe next time we don’t give me two drinks on top of it, and we make Ian feel guilty about that one for, oh, the next week or so, and we save the rest for special occasions, there’re only six left, it’s not like this is an everyday thing. Still with me?”
“I…maybe…you would…you’d want to…”
“Do this again? Absolutely I would. And so would you. It was good. And we’re spectacular. Right?”
“…yes,” Michael said, very slowly, but there was jubilation growing behind those eyes, sunrise over wild Irish riverbanks. “Yes.”
“Settled, then.”
“I love you,” Michael said, and, out of nowhere, put a hand in his hair, tipped his head back, held him in place to be kissed, forceful and drawn-out and plundering. James actually felt his knees go weak, which was rather impressive considering that he was sitting in Michael’s lap in bed. The rest of him decided to go all compliant and malleable too, and he was breathless when Michael drew away.
“What,” he got out, “why-you stopped,” accusation which got Michael to start laughing, anxiety banished and replaced by merriment, and the laughter was echoed joyfully by the rain.
“Just wondering. And now I know it’ll work.”
“Yes, well,” James grumbled, and poked him in the ribs with one admonishing finger. “Don’t be smug about it.”
“Don’t listen when I tell you to put your hands behind your back, then,” Michael retorted cheerfully, and James sat there and glared at him and couldn’t think of a decent response, mostly because he really wanted to follow the order, and he wasn’t going to.
Not immediately, at least.
“So easy, for me,” Michael observed, fond and satisfied, and tapped a long finger over his lips, and James utterly failed to not breathe in and lean forward at the hint of command. “Mine. And I love that. And the way you’re scowling at me. D’you want me to bring you cinnamon rolls in bed?”
“No,” James said, and sighed. “Yes. I love you. You don’t in fact know my recipe, you are aware.”
“I know,” Michael said, and those eyes softened, heated, kindled, finding his. “I’ll be creative. Imagination.”
“Bring me cinnamon rolls naked,” James said, “in bed, with cream-cheese icing,” and Michael used the cheerfully commanding fingertip to lift his chin for one more kiss, getting up, and said, “Have I mentioned I love your-sorry, our-fantasies.”
Rating: oh, very NC-17. Very.
Warnings: fairly explicit good-morning sex; discussion of upcoming fantasy-fulfillment involving dubious consent (to clarify: prior consent already established, and it’s part of James’s fantasy, but in the specific moment, intoxicated and pliable and being manhandled by Michael, he likely couldn’t say no-but that’s chapter four…)
Word Count: 15,780 total; chapter four, 7,270 words
Disclaimers: only doing this out of affection, no disrespect intended! Title from Flyleaf’s “All Around You,” which had too many perfect lyrics for me to pick one to quote here.
Summary: In which James has very interesting fantasies, and Michael is a very good boyfriend. Lots of negotiation, lots of love, and James labeling porn in Elvish. In this chapter, those fantasies get fulfilled. Quite well.
day four: James
“So,” James said, and eyed the tiny pale-pink pill. It sat in the palm of his hand and eyed him right back, far too innocuously. “It looks very much harmless.”
“Ian said it’d work.” Michael was hovering-no other word for it-at his side. Those Celtic-springtime eyes were an endearing combination of eager and anxious. “If you don’t want to, if you don’t feel-”
“Come on, it was my fantasy, wasn’t it, I want to…” All true, despite the nibbling edge of nervousness. He did. He meant the words.
They were-or at least he was; Michael was still quivering like a worried greyhound on the very edge of the sofa-comfortably settled in the flat’s living room, surrounded by rain and city lights outside, serene lamplight and pillowy furniture inside. Scattered X-Men yet-another-sequel preliminary script notes sat on the table, from the conversation with Bryan Singer earlier; they were down to contract negotiations, time and salary and all the things agents worried about behind the scenes, so Bryan’d mostly called just to pitch ideas at them and chat about character development. James was holding out for a Professor X/Magneto reconciliation kiss on screen. Bryan had, rather surprisingly, not ruled this entirely out of the question.
The laptop was playing, very softly, the Beatles cover of “Twist And Shout” at them; it was James’s laptop, in fact, the one that’d begun the whole discussion. It looked electronically self-satisfied. It’d gotten Michael to sing along while making drinks.
He played with the pill again. Poked it and made it roll across his palm. “Did they tell you what it was?”
“Yes, in fact.” Michael folded long legs up next to him, and then unfolded one and set it on the floor, and then crossed it over the other one. “I wanted to know. I mean, in case…just in case. I wrote it down. I had to call back and ask, because they gave me an unlabeled bottle, because Patrick and Ian like seeing me panic.”
“Sorry.” The bottle in question was sitting on the table. Six more tiny rattling tablets inside. Michael glared at it, and then picked up James’s other hand and started playing with his fingers. “Don’t apologize. That’s them, not you. Are you sure-”
“You waited until after you’d made me two drinks to ask?” Michael had. Had made him a languorous and smoky Manhattan, all slow-burning golden whisky and vermouth and cherry sweetness on his tongue; had made a second one, grinning with all those teeth, after James had consumed the first in long repeated sensuous sips, eyes shut.
He might already be a wee bit tipsy. The room wasn’t wobbling or anything, but they’d last had food two hours ago, and he was having to think about words for an extra second before letting them come out, in case they emerged not quite right.
“You are,” Michael said, and kissed his fingers. “Just a little. You look at me more intently when I talk. Should I feed you first?”
Apparently he’d said that aloud. Hmm. “No. I like the way this feels. And thank you.”
“For what?”
“For the drinks, the evening…” He started to wave a hand, explanatory gesture of inclusivity, but Michael was still holding it. “You did plan this. You even turned off my mobile, and yours, after Bryan hung up. I saw you. And you’re here taking care of me.”
“Yes, I am. You didn’t answer. Are you sure?” While you’re still relatively sober, said that tone.
James rolled his eyes, tossed the pill into the air one-handed, caught it on his tongue-Michael looked suitably impressed by this display of coordination, though no less apprehensive-and chased it with the end of his second drink, and then considered this action, belatedly.
“Should I have done that?”
“What? Oh. No-I mean, no, you’re fine. Um. Ian said alcohol’d be…actually, he said it’d sort of intensify things. Sorry.”
“As I think you said, for what?”
“Oh…all right…how’re you feeling?”
“Nothing yet, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m pretty sure it takes more than five seconds for drugs to kick in, y’know.”
Michael sighed. Scooted closer, cooperatively, when James looked purposefully at him and patted the spot beside him on the sofa. Then reached over, wrapped a long arm around his shoulders, and applied pressure until James toppled into his lap. Not so cooperative, then. Continuing to be nervous.
“Love you,” he said into Michael’s chest, now at face level, “and this is hideously uncomfortable. Move your knee.”
“Sorry!”
“Here.” He sat up, rearranged limbs, fit himself under Michael’s arm again, and wondered whether the slight vertigo had been the pill, or two fairly stiff drinks, or just sitting upright too quickly. Michael kissed the top of his head, and then leaned down to scrutinize his face.
“Stop that.”
“I love you.”
“I know. I’ll tell you if I’m feeling….anything…”
“What?”
“Okay, maybe a little dizzy. Are you…did you move, just now?”
“No?”
“Hmm.” He tried lifting a hand. Discovered that he could, but with more effort than should’ve been required. He poked Michael’s shoulder experimentally. Still solid.
“James?” Michael’s hand was on his face, lifting his chin, and when had that happened? “Still here?”
“Still here…I think…” He blinked, and the room spun, a festive whirl of colors and light, amber and gold. “…oh.”
“Oh, good? Or…”
“Good, I think…” He tried moving the hand again, reaching up for Michael’s face, wanting to smooth away some of the concerned furrows. His fingertips brushed Michael’s cheek instead. Found the rough texture of scruffiness there, Michael enjoying weeks off between filming, and that made him smile. “You feel nice.”
“I do?”
“Mmm. This…you didn’t shave. I like it when you don’t shave.”
“You do?”
“Not when you grow the terrible seventies sci-fi villain moustache, but like this…I like it when you kiss me like this. I like feeling it on my skin.”
At which Michael leaned down and kissed him, swift and sweet; Michael’s mouth tasted like lemons and limes, because Michael had been drinking fizzy soda and not alcohol, staying entirely sober. Limes were delicious, James decided, and tried to lick the flavor out of every corner of those lips.
“Love,” Michael interrupted, not quite laughing, “not that I’m not having fun, I am, but I want to check on you, look at me…”
Hands steadied him, held him upright; James whimpered a little, because Michael and the deliciousness were too far away. The world shimmered, chalk paintings splashed with wetness, blurry.
“Hmm,” Michael said. “Should I get you water? James?”
“ ’m okay…”
“And you’d be able to tell me if you weren’t, would you? Look at me. Just for a minute.”
It was surprisingly difficult to focus. The world swam, hallucinatory. He was leaning back into the circle of Michael’s arm, that was real, and he let his head fall onto a supportive shoulder. He did feel good, though: a bit disconnected, hazy, but a beckoning kind of haze, glowing and sensual as molten honey, spreading lassitude through his bones.
He blinked, lazily, and found Michael’s eyes; focused, aware that it was the false coherence of intoxication but unworried about it. “I think,” he offered, “it’s working,” and he could hear it in his voice, the faint slurring of words, but he’d meant it as an obvious joke, and Michael smiled.
“I love you. That hit sort of all at once, didn’t it…remind me to shout at Ian, later…can you make it to the bed?”
“Wait,” James said, and then, as Michael’s eyes went all darker green with concern, sharp color edging out the excited grey, “no, not like that, I just…that’s not right…you’re not supposed to…never mind. Bed?”
“I’m not supposed to what?” Michael’s hand stroked his hair, very softly. “Talk to me.”
“Y’know…” He waved a hand. Was impressed that he still could. “Ask.”
Michael looked startled for a second, then got it. “Oh. And you are all right, then. So…you want me to just…go ahead, then? Whatever I want to do, with you…not asking for permission…”
James heard himself inhale. Felt the blood thump in his ears.
“I can do that,” Michael mused, and that lovely Celtic-German lilt gained an edge, a hint of unsuspected leather and sin. “I do want to fuck you, James.”
He actually heard himself breathe in, automatic response. He could feel himself staring, guessed that his eyes were wide, and wondered how he must look, flushed with alcohol and drugs, gaze enormous, dilated and wanting…
Michael’s hand settled on the nape of his neck, the way it had the very first time, the day they’d ever discussed this fantasy, the day Michael’d suggested someday carrying it out.
Michael’d promised to take care of him.
James wanted to be taken care of. As mercilessly and relentlessly as Michael wanted, however Michael wanted to use him, everything Michael wanted to do with and to him. His whole body ached with it: with the need to be taken and possessed and made to stop thinking, lost in the flood. With Michael, because he trusted Michael, and he knew he wouldn’t come to any harm.
“Christ,” Michael said, and tightened the hand around his neck, enough to make his pulse race. Unless that was the drugs. He blinked, and the world quivered, harpstring plucked and ready.
“You would do anything,” Michael said, very softly. “Right now, for me…get on your knees, James.”
He gasped, shivered, wanted. Obeyed, sloppily, sliding to the floor; and felt the shocking thrill as he did, awkward and off-balance as the room tilted, spinning into a new configuration. Himself kneeling in front of their old familiar sofa. Michael seated, lounging, legs spread. One hand in his hair.
Michael didn’t say anything, and the rain pounded away, outside and indoors, in his head, low cadence lulling him into recklessness. He leaned forward. Pressed lips over worn denim. Over the hardness he could feel beneath.
Michael made a sound. The hand in his hair got fiercer. Held him in place, lips open and wet over the bulge in those tight-fitting jeans.
James trembled, fought back for a second-the end of his coherence, shrieking at him that he was about to suck Michael off in their living room with the curtains open and himself drugged and drunk and he’d never remember this in the morning but oh god he wanted to remember this in the morning-
And then he possibly blacked out a little, except it didn’t feel that way, he was still present, just somehow no longer in control, because he was mouthing at the zip of Michael’s jeans, making small needy noises, and his whole body was softening-except for his cock, which was upright and demanding-and he felt free somehow, loose and pliant and absolutely in favor of all that leather and sin.
Michael’s hand curled into his hair, pulling. “So this is all I’d have to do…tell me, James, would you do this for anyone? Anyone who wanted you, in a club, in a bar? If they got you drunk, if they told you-not asked you-if they ordered you to kneel…”
His whole body shuddered. He couldn’t stop it. Yes, yes, and no, never; he wouldn’t, not sober and rational and articulate, no. He only wanted Michael. But the thought, the imagined vision of it, himself being so thoroughly abandoned to desire, down on his knees and forced to please anyone who wanted to take him…
The arousal, the fearful temptation, the yes and the no, oscillated in his head, and left him shaken.
“No,” Michael said, kindly, word dropping cleanly into his thoughts, an answer to cling to. “No. Because I’d be there. Because no one else would ever go home with you, James. You’re mine. Always.”
Yes, he thought. Yes, please, because he’d never been anyone else’s, he’d never belonged to anyone before, he’d never had anyone who’d loved him this way. Michael cared about him, cared for him, cared when he was happy. Was making this whole night happen, for him.
“I love you,” he breathed, over the faded denim at his lips. “Love you.”
Michael’s hand was strong and certain. “I know. I promise. I know.”
He might’ve moaned a little. Nuzzled his face into Michael’s crotch. Couldn’t help it.
“But,” Michael mused, sounding entertained, “you, like this…no one else’s ever seen this…James, you realize what you look like? Like….oh…I could invite anyone in here, couldn’t I? Casting directors, our agents, anyone…would you like that, James? An audience, watching you…while you’re on your knees, lips wrapped around my cock…”
No. Yes. No. Oh god. His entire body went hot. Cold. Shivering. Please, no, please.
Yes. Yes, if Michael asked it of him. Yes. He knew he’d obey. And he knew he’d enjoy it.
“No,” Michael purred, “no one seeing you like this but me,” and jerked his head back, making their eyes meet.
James trembled, and knelt at the foot of the sofa with Michael’s hand in his hair.
The rain burst in splendid orchestras, caused thunder, beat against the windowpane.
“Love,” Michael said, not in-role for just a moment, looking at him.
James nodded, as much as he could with the hand holding him in place.
“Yes,” Michael breathed, understanding, and stood up, and pulled him to his feet, and shoved him ahead.
Ahead to their bed; or he assumed it was, though with closed eyes he couldn’t in fact tell. Without sight the world was secret and decadent, molasses and flame. He felt Michael’s fingertips flicking at the buttons of his shirt; he didn’t want to simply lie there and not contribute, so he tried.
“Stop that.” Michael’s voice was authoritative, and amused. Affection threaded through the melody. “You’re not helping.”
Sorry, James wanted to say, but his words seemed to’ve all at once gone missing.
“Here…” Those long fingers lifted his arms easily, as if he were a plaything, a doll. Stripped away the thin fabric of his shirt. He couldn’t tell where it went.
“You want me to take what I want, correct, love? You want me to…take you.” That voice, wild heather and emerald sunsets; those hands, now tugging at his belt, and he moaned. Yes. Yes to everything. Please.
“So beautiful,” Michael breathed, breaking character for just a moment, the awe utterly genuine; and then, reasserting: “and mine, James, you asked me for this, you want this, you’re so ready for it…”
His jeans vanished. Possibly some time as well, or he was fading in and out, because his underwear’d gone away too, and he was lying naked in the sheets. The satin was smooth and cool against his skin when he moved, shifting position just to feel the glide of it, so intense and intimate.
The air was cold; he felt his nipples crinkle with it. He tried to bring a hand up and touch one; succeeded, and played with the peak a bit, rolling it between clumsy fingers, because it made his body shiver deliciously. Someone breathed in; a large hand fastened over his shoulder, and James let his hand fall into his lap.
His cock was hard, a fact that registered belatedly, as if from a distance: hard and hot and aching, and it felt good when he ran fingers over himself, so he did it again, and again, mindlessly pushing up into his own hand, chasing that pleasure over and over.
“Christ,” Michael was saying, very far away. “James-”
He heard himself moan in reply.
“Still here, then. And…so eager…just look at you, wanting it…this is what you wanted, James, all those fantasies…” Michael’s hand landed on his hip, heavy and solid, fingers biting down. “You’re getting wet…here…”
One finger-the other hand?-but only one, skimming the swollen hot head, trailing over that slit, drawing more drops out in its wake. “You get off on this, don’t you, James? Being used, helpless, knowing you need it…absolutely filthy, you are, all wet and shameless…you want to be fucked, don’t you? You need it. You want to be…the toy you fantasize about being, with me, for me, James?”
He felt the shudder all through his body, an elemental ripple of surrender and want and shame and desire. Felt his cock twitch, stir, rise further; Michael obviously took note. “You do like that, then. Being told what you are…and you know you are, aren’t you?” Despite the words, the hand was gentle, stroking an apology over his hip: I love you, I’m here, we’re okay.
He shut his eyes, drifting in the tides.
Michael’s fingers walked down to the base of his erection. Squeezed once, firmly-James felt the groan as if it were someone else’s, pulled raggedly out of his throat-and then wandered lower, fondling his balls, toying with the tight-drawn weight, cupping, testing. Tugging downward, just a bit; and he nearly sobbed at the flash of pleasure and pain.
“Ah, but you like it,” Michael’s voice murmured, intimate and leisurely, even as the fingers slipped further back, exploring shadowed valleys, private areas of skin. Pushing his thighs further apart; he let himself be manhandled, rearranged, displayed. He couldn’t’ve fought if he’d wanted to. And the thought made him whimper. Made his cock jump, leaking slowly.
“Such a good little toy, for me.” That low voice resonated through his bones. Obsidian and emerald. Promising and dark. “Not a whore-I’m not paying you, and you want it all-but you’d let me do anything to you…” Fingers over his hole, dry and teasing, and he whimpered again even as the muscle clenched, involuntarily. “Not that you could stop me. And you love that. Being overpowered, by someone who can take you without even asking…”
The fingers lifted. Came back, slippery and cool. Lube, potentially, though he couldn’t see. Couldn’t open his eyes.
The pressure was swift and sure, filling him. Too big to be one finger; two, Michael must’ve begun with. At least. They slid in and out of him, obscene wet sounds adding to the deluge of sensation; they crooked upward and found a spot inside him that made him gasp and twist uncontrollably under the weight of Michael’s other hand, holding him down.
And then they didn’t stop. Insistent, ruthless rubbing, tapping tattoos of pure ecstasy over that same place, pulling new explosions of fireworks from his bones. He felt his whole body tighten and swell with it, release imminent and all-encompassing; heard a purposeful laugh and a “Not quite,” and there was the hand on the base of his cock again, gripping his balls, suddenly too hard, pulling down and squeezing, and, oh, it hurt, but he needed more, needed to come, needed to be allowed to-
He collapsed, sobbing, mind empty, in frustration.
There was a pause, or maybe he only thought there was. Time shimmered, golden and burning and liquid, waterfalls of fire all around. The bed. His veins. Running under his skin with every pounding heartbeat.
Lips brushed his cheek, astonishingly tender; he swallowed the next sob, surprised, and it caught in his throat like a jewel and dissolved.
“I love you,” Michael told the corner of his mouth, licking at the crease, drinking tears from his skin, penitence and promise. “I’m not going to hurt you…”
Fingers slipped out of him, plunged back in. More this time. He couldn’t count. Could only open up, malleable as candle-wax, molten all the way to the core, for the invasion.
“…but I am going to give you what you need.” Legs lifted, repositioned, spread wider; hands along his thighs; and the length of Michael’s cock, at last pushing into him. He knew that length, every inch of it; his body comprehended it, recognized the penetration and welcomed it all, speared, conquered, impaled.
Michael drew back, thrust, found rhythm; neither slow nor fast but steady, as if planning to fuck him all night long just this way, while James sobbed and writhed beneath him in bliss.
Fingers at the head of his cock, teasing, maddeningly light; the trickle of need followed, though, and Michael made a sound, pleased. “So easy for me, aren’t you? So ready for it. Gorgeous.”
Yes, he thought, though he couldn’t speak. Yes. Yours. Please. He was Michael’s, he’d be that easy for Michael, legs spread and body open for use everywhere, the way he wanted to be. He’d’ve begged, if he’d had words left. Please.
Michael’s thumb landed on his lips. When he parted them, letting the weight press onto his tongue, he tasted salt and bittersweetness; himself, he realized, Michael making him lick up his own need.
“Oh, James,” Michael breathed, and started moving in him again, faster now, as if unable to hold back. That glorious length pistoned inside him, friction over one electric place in particular, perfectly aimed; James cried out, arching up, and Michael gasped, “Yes, now, yes-” and heat flooded his body from within, even as he jerked and shuddered and came in long drawn-out splashes between their bodies, sticky drops smearing over his own stomach and chest.
“Christ,” Michael managed, panting. “Sorry, too fast, sorry, I meant to-to make that last-longer-you’re so-” and then stopped, evidently out of words. So what, James wondered, but the question wasn’t terribly important just then.
He felt languid all over, nerve endings glimmering with heat; languid but somehow unfulfilled, as if it hadn’t been enough, as if his body needed more. Michael’s cock was softening inside him, but still long and thick, resting over swollen sensitive tissue. He shifted hips, experimentally, and was rewarded by a frisson of sensation, vivid and fleeting.
“Oh, really,” Michael said, and nudged back into him, deeper, pushing, half-hard but enough, and James moaned and came, a second time or maybe unfinished remains of the first, tiny weak spurts from his cock and clenching muscles inside, delirious climax on the sensation of Michael’s cock buried in him, Michael’s orgasm leaking out from his body, dripping down his thighs.
Michael kissed him, deliberately commanding, in the wake of it. Tongue tracing the contours of his mouth, laying claim; fingers on his nipples, pinching, testing. James gasped. Michael laughed.
And then moved, the whole length of that spent arousal at last slipping free of his body, trailing over sore edges, head catching briefly on the fluttering ring of muscle. Michael began to lick at him, tongue lapping over the sticky tip of his cock, his balls, sore from earlier tugging and denial. Sensitive, too sensitive; and he sobbed and clawed at the sheets, or meant to, but couldn’t move his arms. Michael stopped just before the hurt outweighed the pleasure, though. And that tongue moved lovingly lower, cleaning him, exploring, sweeping over the newly stretched rim of his hole…
James shuddered, twitched, stopped fighting the sensations as they blew through his body. Stopped thinking altogether.
Michael must’ve been slightly worried, at that-possibly because he’d ceased moving-and there was a pause, a rush of cool air over tingling skin. A hand cupping his head, turning his face. “James?”
He wanted to open his eyes, but the lids felt awfully heavy. Michael’s voice got more worried. More insistent. “James, look at me. I know you can’t talk, that’s okay, but I need you to be here. Tell me you’re still here.”
He managed to open his eyes, saw Michael’s face ringed with flickering colors, and closed them again.
“James,” Michael said, and tapped fingers over his cheek, not quite hard enough to be a slap but close. “I won’t fuck you if you can’t wake up. I can’t. You have to at least be awake, understand?”
Yes. He understood that Michael was frightened; and so he opened his eyes again. Crooked one uncoordinated finger: come here.
Michael leaned down. Their noses bumped. James breathed, “Love you,” and Michael’s eyes changed: relief, excitement, elation.
“Good,” Michael whispered, “good, thank you, I love you too, so fucking much,” and James wanted to laugh, and he thought maybe Michael did too.
“Good,” Michael said again, “okay,” and put fingers back on his left nipple and pinched, rolling the tight little bud between fingertips. James would have screamed, but couldn’t, and felt the scream echoed throughout his body instead, nerve endings alight and singing.
Michael smiled. And proceeded with all those aforementioned plans.
Fingers inside him again, working that glorious spot; a hand on his cock, a hand on his nipples; too many hands, or maybe they were just that busy, Michael ensuring that he lost track, drowned in euphoria, in the agonizingly splendid wringing-out of a third orgasm, or a fourth, somewhere in the night.
Michael kneeling over him, hand in his hair and forcing his head up, holding him in place and fucking his mouth, keeping his nose and lips buried in coils of ginger hair.
Himself struggling to breathe, giving up and relaxing into the grip, gag reflex utterly subdued by drugs and airlessness and the marvelous feeling of Michael filling his throat, taking him fast and deep and careless of discomfort, the way that he needed to be taken…
Michael tensed, cock stiffening even more, blocking his air; a rush of fluid heat flooded his throat, so deep he thought he might be choking on it, and he was vaguely aware of his own arousal swelling and pulsing at the distant idea, even while he struggled to swallow as the world wavered, while Michael’s hand jerked his head up and back, permitting him to breathe.
The end of Michael’s orgasm landed on his face, his nose, his lips. More spilled from his mouth, what he’d not been able to swallow. The heat trickled down his chin, and he felt the warmth of it and trembled, letting his body react how it would, and how it would apparently meant the ghost of another peak rising heedlessly all through him.
Time blurred and extended, supple and elastic. The satin of sheets. The motion of bodies. Sweat and stickiness and the drumming of the rain, loud enough to echo his pulse. He felt hyperaware of it all, sound and scent and the friction of skin on skin; aware but drowsy, removed, as if it was all happening both immediately to him, and simultaneously very far away.
Fingers pressed inside him, seeking out that sparking pulse-point anew; the world narrowed, quivered, suspended between inhale and exhale, ecstasy and pain. Too much, too much, and he never wanted it to end.
Michael was saying something, but he couldn’t make out words. He moaned, though: whatever Michael wanted to do, yes. Forever yes.
Were those fingers? If so, that had to be three. Four. And-
-and, oh, that was what Michael wanted, what Michael was planning to do to him-
“James,” Michael whispered, hand on his hip, steadying. “Tell me if this hurts. I’ll stop. All right?”
He found enough coherence to nod, and was glad Michael saw it, because even that took all the effort he could summon.
“I want to see you,” Michael breathed, “want to see if you can, like this, so wet and so open, I think you can take it, James, you’ll take anything I give you right now,” and pushed, unhurried but unstopping, on and on, and he felt his body quiver and collapse and give in, drugged and euphoric and barely conscious as the thickest part of Michael’s hand eased past tight walls and into his body.
Michael was breathing rapidly, he could hear it; at least one of them was. He wasn’t certain he was, at all.
Michael paused, adjusted the angle, inside him. Pushed deeper, whole hand sinking into him at last, and James heard his own gasping inhale, high and thin and broken, desperate for air, for Michael to move, for another orgasm, as every atom of his body seemed to tighten and quake, under siege.
“Shh,” Michael whispered reverentially, and moved the fist inside him, testing the smallest of thrusts.
The waves closed over him, vast rolling depths of bliss. He thought he was coming again, or he’d never stopped, muscles clenching helplessly and releasing, inundated. The heavy blunt weight sank even deeper inside him; he felt his hips lifted just a fraction, rearranged, and he moaned. The next inexorable thrust went deeper, and he thought he might be split open, but his body gave way around the pressure, yielding impossibly wide and so full now that he couldn’t move, but he didn’t need to, as every helpless dazed twitch set off new glittering billows inside his body.
The cascade of sparks went on and on. He felt his fingers, his legs, his cock, as almost disconnected, awash with ecstasy but individual highlights lost in the omnipresent golden sea. He knew he was trembling uncontrollably; thought he might be crying. His face was wet. His mouth felt wet as well, bruised and swollen from kisses, from use, from fingers and a cock down his throat, how many times had that been, saliva and stickiness on his lips, his chin…
A voice, murmuring: Michael’s voice, and he basked in the low susurration of it, though he couldn’t make out any words. He felt unmoored, floating.
The huge thick intrusion shifted, slid back, pulled out of him, leaving hollowness behind. Too fast, and he was too empty, and he whimpered, sobbing freely.
A hand touched his face, and Michael’s voice whispered something indistinct, fingers cupping his cheek. James turned his head clumsily, nuzzled into the hand, feeling loved and cherished and unworried. He did trust Michael.
Michael breathed out-loud enough to be audible-moved away, came back. James couldn’t tell how long it’d been, but the fingers when they touched his lips were dry and tasted faintly like soap; had Michael paused to wash up? He wondered whether he’d lost consciousness for a while; he’d not thought so, but time had become unreliable, blurry, distorted and ringed with gold.
He licked sloppily at the fingers, wanting Michael to know he was all right; Michael laughed, and said something that sounded like, “One more, then…” and oh, a new sensation, harder and cool and slick with lube, moving easily inside him now, where all those muscles were stretched impossibly open and unresisting. It was almost enough, but not quite; not thick enough, when he was so loose and wet and spread apart; he whimpered again, incoherent, unable to explain.
“Shh,” Michael whispered, “I know,” and shoved those fingers deeper into his mouth, no longer freshly clean but messy with his cries and sobs, keeping his voice muffled and lips apart, unable to close, a gag and a command and another penetration. And James felt himself quiver all over, head to toe rush of incandescence, at that.
“Now,” Michael breathed, and the toy came to life inside him; not thick enough, no, but buzzing and vibrating madly against that perfect spot, demanding and electric and right there-
The climax hit out of nowhere, showers of stars becoming supernovae in his veins. But the vibration didn’t let up, ceaselessly pulling him on into the brilliance. He couldn’t think, couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe, heart pounding with overstimulation; he might be coming once again, body convulsing, last spurts of fluid from his throbbing cock; or that might be something else, something even beyond anything he’d imagined, final total irrevocable loss of control, liquid warmth pouring over his skin as all his senses imploded-
The world went inarguably white around him, and he was dimly aware that he was on the verge of passing out, body and mind giving way to implacable orgasm and humiliation and bliss and ultimate surrender, and he fell into infinity with profound joy.
After some time, he became aware that he had a body again, and moreover that he was probably waking up.
He felt…safe. And comfortable. Surrounded by fluff, soft and cloudy as cotton-candy blankets, pink and full of air. He also felt wholly exhausted, entire body sore and overextended and tender. But it was a good soreness. The kind of euphoric ache that lingered after a long hike and an intense yoga session, pushed to the limits and triumphant.
He lay still for a while, breathing in and out, remembering, listening to the low-voiced rustle of the rain. Thunder muttered intermittently, but it didn’t mean the crankiness, not when it was comfortable too. He could tell.
He tested wiggling a foot. It responded, though not by much; he panicked for a moment, and then figured out that he’d been bundled so tightly in blankets it was a wonder he could move at all.
He tried a hand next, and a deep breath. Fingers, check. Excellent. Maybe with fingers he could dispose of some of the overbearing blankets.
There was also a weight on his shoulder, which was strange because the rest of him felt rather weightless and exultant. Tentatively, he opened both eyes.
The room looked the same. Their bedroom, all pale walls and colorful bookshelves and one of Michael’s sweaters in a heap on the floor, visible around the side of the bed. He couldn’t tell the time of day, not from the watered-pearl quality of the rain-light, but that wasn’t important just now. The world was timeless. Flawless, in this instant. Home.
He tipped his head to rest against that other head on his shoulder. He’d figured out what the weight was, along the way. It was Michael, who’d plainly fallen asleep sitting beside him and toppled over. Michael’s hair, getting long enough to curl upwards, was tickling his neck; but he liked the feeling.
He did sort of want to move his arm, though; his elbow, of all possible body parts, was threatening to return to sleep. He spared a moment to wonder how that was possible, and then attempted squirming around in the blanket-cocoon.
Michael yawned and murmured sleepily, “James?” and then sat bolt upright, eyes huge. “James!”
“Hi.” He raised eyebrows, since waving was currently impossible, what with Michael’s weight pinning blankets down. “Good morning-is it morning?-I love you.”
“It is-are you all right? I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I was trying to-I love you. How do you feel?”
“Good. Tired, I think. I’m fine.” His head was a little fuzzy, but it was only a faint layer of wool, not an entire sheep. He’d had worse hangovers by far. “How’re you? Also come here and kiss me. I apparently can’t move.”
“You can’t-”
“Because you’ve mummified me in quilts. What on earth is this top one? Why is it red and purple?”
“Birthday present from Matthew. Just before we moved in together. I found it in a box. Are you cold? Can you sit up? Do you want water?”
“Did you excavate the closet just for me? And…emphatically no, probably yes, and maybe. And you didn’t answer my question.”
Michael took a deep breath, let it out, said, “Water first,” and ran to the kitchen, and ran back. “Here.”
The clean coolness of it did feel good in his mouth, along his throat, when he swallowed. He couldn’t help the tiny wince; the motion brought back physical reminders of all the use. Michael practically vibrated with concern, witnessing that.
“I’m okay,” he said, and handed the water back. “Really. Maybe kind of sore. But I like it.”
“You do?”
“I do. I feel…” He stretched arms over his head, stretched legs out under the vibrant quilt, pointed toes, shrugged shoulders. “Lighter. Equilibrium. More anchored. Ow.”
“Ow?”
“All right, not so much sitting on that spot. Did any of that make sense, though? You can say no.”
“It did,” Michael said, and got under the blankets with him, put arms around him, and rearranged their bodies, sitting back against the headboard, taking most of James’s weight. “It does. I love you.”
“Mmm. Love you. Thank you.”
“No.” Michael leaned down; James tipped his head up and back and a little to the side, and their lips met. “Thank you. For this-for giving me this. You. Us. I like being an anchor for you. I can do that more. Not just last night, I mean. I can do more for you.”
“I like taking care of you,” James said in reply, not exactly a disagreement, and tucked his face into Michael’s neck and closed his eyes, breathing. “Did you clean us up?”
“You don’t remember that?”
“No…was I awake?”
“Um. Not at first. I tried shaking you, I tried-you did wake up. You looked at me and told me you were okay and I shouldn’t be worried and you offered to make me cinnamon rolls. I thought you were-I gave you water and you went back to sleep and that’s why you’re not waking up in an emergency room, because you seemed-you honestly don’t remember?”
“Cinnamon rolls? No. But it does sound like something I’d say.” He set a kiss on Michael’s collarbone, lips over skin and bone, trying to chase away guilt and apprehension with certainty. “You were perfect. You did take care of me. You-did you sort of change the sheets around me?”
“It’s a skill. What do you remember, then?”
“Pretty much everything until that last one. Which, by the way, you should be sort of proud about. You literally made me come so hard I passed out. I didn’t know that was possible.”
“Neither did I.” Michael’s shoulder tensed almost imperceptibly beneath his temple. “I could’ve lived without that one. You have no idea how terrified I was.”
“Really?”
“James, you were drugged and you’d been drinking and I knew I’d made you cry already and I told you you wanted it and I made you come, I made you-you might not remember, that last time, but that was more than-you did come when I told you to, but you also sort of-and I didn’t know I’d pushed you that far, you just sort of went limp, even while you were still in the middle of-and at first I couldn’t tell if you were breathing and you wouldn’t wake up-” Michael stopped, very fast. The rain chattered lazily, companionably filling in the gap.
“Oh,” James said, mostly to get a word out there in place of the weather-commentary. “But I did. Wake up, I mean. You said.”
“You did…except you didn’t, did you. You don’t remember that.”
“I might, a bit.” Not a lie; with the prompting, bits and pieces were returning. Michael’s eyes, wide and frightened and thankful when they found his. A cloth, warm and damp, on his face; another, even more cautious, between his legs, cleaning hypersensitive skin. The voice he loved, murmuring apologies when he whimpered from renewed stimulation. That’d been when he’d said something: Michael’d needed comfort.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and put an arm around Michael’s waist. “I didn’t know you’d pushed me that far, either. I could’ve said no-yes I fuckin’ could have, don’t look at me like that, I did hear you when you said one more. I wanted it all. Even that thing at the end that I might have to be embarrassed about later when you tell me the details. I’m fine, and you’re here, and we don’t have to do this again, you did it once, for me, and I love you, and we’re good, okay?”
“Love you,” Michael said, face buried in his hair. “So much, James.”
“I know,” James told him, and patted the nearest slim hip, purposefully in between reassuring and patronizing. Michael made a sound that was half a laugh and half an exhale of pent-up fear. “James?”
“Cinnamon rolls? Since apparently I offered?”
“If you want them I’ll make them. You’re not getting up today. But…you said we didn’t have to do this again. But you liked it.”
“I did, but not if it’s going to traumatize you.”
“No…I mean, yes, sort of, but…watching you…getting you to come for me, over and over…and at the end…knowing I could give you that, even that, and the way you looked when you…you want me to be honest about this…”
“That’d be nice, yes.” He had an idea of where that sentence might be going, from the tone, from the hesitations, from the unwilling admission in the face of lingering anxiety. He caught himself beginning to smile: they wanted the same thing.
“…I liked it,” Michael finished, and then tipped his head back against the headboard and shut his eyes, despairing retreat. “Christ. James, I’m so sorry.”
James actually rolled his eyes at that unnecessary melodrama. Sat up gingerly, swung a leg over slender hips and settled into place, got nose to nose with the man he loved, and said, “Why?”
Michael’s eyes went comically wide. “But-you-I hurt you, I-”
“Do I look hurt?” He waited; Michael didn’t seem to pick up on the idea that it wasn’t a rhetorical question, so James just rolled the eyes at him again, leaned forward, and kissed him. Michael, after a dumbfounded second, kissed tentatively back.
“Sore, yes, okay. And maybe next time we don’t give me two drinks on top of it, and we make Ian feel guilty about that one for, oh, the next week or so, and we save the rest for special occasions, there’re only six left, it’s not like this is an everyday thing. Still with me?”
“I…maybe…you would…you’d want to…”
“Do this again? Absolutely I would. And so would you. It was good. And we’re spectacular. Right?”
“…yes,” Michael said, very slowly, but there was jubilation growing behind those eyes, sunrise over wild Irish riverbanks. “Yes.”
“Settled, then.”
“I love you,” Michael said, and, out of nowhere, put a hand in his hair, tipped his head back, held him in place to be kissed, forceful and drawn-out and plundering. James actually felt his knees go weak, which was rather impressive considering that he was sitting in Michael’s lap in bed. The rest of him decided to go all compliant and malleable too, and he was breathless when Michael drew away.
“What,” he got out, “why-you stopped,” accusation which got Michael to start laughing, anxiety banished and replaced by merriment, and the laughter was echoed joyfully by the rain.
“Just wondering. And now I know it’ll work.”
“Yes, well,” James grumbled, and poked him in the ribs with one admonishing finger. “Don’t be smug about it.”
“Don’t listen when I tell you to put your hands behind your back, then,” Michael retorted cheerfully, and James sat there and glared at him and couldn’t think of a decent response, mostly because he really wanted to follow the order, and he wasn’t going to.
Not immediately, at least.
“So easy, for me,” Michael observed, fond and satisfied, and tapped a long finger over his lips, and James utterly failed to not breathe in and lean forward at the hint of command. “Mine. And I love that. And the way you’re scowling at me. D’you want me to bring you cinnamon rolls in bed?”
“No,” James said, and sighed. “Yes. I love you. You don’t in fact know my recipe, you are aware.”
“I know,” Michael said, and those eyes softened, heated, kindled, finding his. “I’ll be creative. Imagination.”
“Bring me cinnamon rolls naked,” James said, “in bed, with cream-cheese icing,” and Michael used the cheerfully commanding fingertip to lift his chin for one more kiss, getting up, and said, “Have I mentioned I love your-sorry, our-fantasies.”