break, blow, burn, and make me new

Fitzjames slips his fingers between the buttons of his waistcoat to snag open the fastenings and catch the white folds of his shirt. Francis’ drawers have been obligingly relocated to a more southerly location and the bare pink flesh of his freckled backside is open to the air. In making love atop a mound of cushions, one feels the slip and slide of chintz and brocade with every thrust – Fitzjames is momentarily very grateful that none of the furniture in their new suite of rooms is any sort of prized family heirloom, and none of the pillows are picked out in charming old-fashioned embroideries liable to be spoiled by a sudden gush of man’s nature.

He has never buggered a man face to face – side by side like a pair of china cups in straw, he has done well in the past, but Crozier is laid out beneath him with the broad sunny expanse of his chest and the soft swell of his stomach and the proud absurdity of his cock all laid out for groping and gripping. His hair is all tossed and disheveled and terribly yellow.

“You’re a beastly fellow, do you know that? An absolute swine. Entirely intolerable.”

“Not so beastly,” Francis says, and tosses his arms around Fitzjames’ neck like a halter. Fitzjames lifts him up to achieve a better position against the furniture, hoisting his bottom with both hands, and Crozier repays him by shamelessly grinding his erection against James’ hip.

His own trousers are proving a distinct encumbrance, even unbuttoned. Crozier’s thighs are spread for him, and his knees have him fixed between them like a pleasant sort of vise – the two of them are prick to prick, and James can gather their blushing flesh together in one hand to tug and stroke. Face to face, in an awful tangle of cloth and creaking upholstery.

“If we carry on like this,” Fitzjames says breathlessly between kisses, “we’ll spoil the furniture.”

“Don’t tempt me, James. I’ll knock down every stick of furniture in this bloody place if I have to.” The sound of his voice is rough, raw, and immediate; the way Crozier uses his Christian name when they are alone together never fails to excite him. “You’ll just have to fuck me on the floor.”

“Mmf,” Fitzjames says, eloquently. Francis’ mouth is attached to his collarbone now, and the flitting motion of the tip of his tongue banishes all conscious thought. The heat of his breath against Fitzjames’ damp shaven skin is something sweetly fierce; it sends an electric bolt running directly to his groin without interruption.

One way or another, conjunction must be achieved. His fingers find Francis’ secret places, guiding his slippery cock into line to make the first breach – he will be a gentleman with him and take care, though not the sort of gentleman with which he himself has become acquainted. A gentleman does not accompany his buggeries with unnecessary discomfort, nor undue haste. Oh, but he throbs, and it is a very near thing indeed – undertaking to introduce his fingers and prick to Francis’ intimate places without rushing in all at once to slake himself is a form of exquisite torture, and only the press of Francis’ body and the sweet coarse sound of his breathing assures James he is doing well.

After the first few thrusts, ungainly and pumping, he is just beginning to establish a steady pace when Francis darts up against him to suck a kiss from the side of his throat – from that tenderest place beneath his jaw where the pulse sits. The sweet shock is enough to jolt him loose, with a forceful full-body shudder that grips him just as he must grip the furniture to keep from complete collapse. His essence has spilled quite beyond the confines of Crozier’s body, painting the crevice between his thighs – Fitzjames yelps, and tumbles down again among the cushions.

“James,” Crozier says, audibly suppressing laughter, “are you all right?”

His face would be scarleting, if not for all the blood in his body having been summoned elsewhere on more pressing business. “My good man, if I could have a moment, please–”

Crozier’s lunar face is quite pink, with the gap between his front teeth shining. “Have I queered your pitch, James?”

Fitzjames tosses his head. “Oh, intolerable,” he breathes, and kisses him.