GLITTER

Title: Lapdance Fever
Author: Glossing
Pairing: JM/VK/'Tiara'
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Takes place in the Soupverse

"Vincent," James says as the boy twirls and stumbles, giggling madly, past him. "I do believe you can't hold your liquor."

"Nah," Vince says, stopping, swaying. Hair in his eyes, grin on his face. "I'm fine. Just fine."

Boy has hideous taste in alcohol: Peppermint schnapps, apple brandy, rum punch, everything sweet and strong. And it goes right through him, makes him bounce and giggle and blush. Too fucking irresistible.

"You think so?"

Vince nods fervently, sucking in the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. I'm just having a really *good* time."

James uncrosses his legs and stands, stretches, cocks his head to take in the happy boy, shirt rumpled, jeans hanging so low on his hips that almost three inches of the soft trail of pubic hair below his navel are visible. *Candy and wine, kittensoft fur tasting like seawater and Ivory soap.*

"Gonna have an even better time in a minute," James says.

Vince keeps swaying, blinking. Confused. James puts his hands on the boy's shoulders, grips and rubs.

Knock at the door.

"Trust me," James says, pushing Vince down to sit on the edge of the bed, then turning to answer the door.

The stripper steps inside the room, blonde hair glowing gold under a fuzzy pink Kangol cap, shaking off her red wool coat, handing it to James.

"Mr. Green?" she asks. "Seth Green?"

James nods as he takes the coat. Fucking *wool* in Vegas?

Vince laughs at the fake name, then claps his hand over his mouth.

"What's with the coat?" James asks, remembering just in time to hang it up rather than toss it over a chair.

"Chilly out there," she says and shakes his hand. "Hi. I'm Tiara."

"Honey, I spent time in Chicago. Don't talk to me about chilly."

"Tiara?" Vince says, laughter like carbonation in his voice. "You wear a tiara?"

"No, sugar," she says, turning, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I *am* Tiara. Don't need one if I am one."

"Oh," Vince says. Nods like that made any sense at all. "Right. Cool."

"So," she says and turns back to James. Slips her hand from his and lays it on his shoulder. "What're we doing here?"

"Little boy over there," James says. "Poor, deprived little guy. Never had a lapdance. Need to remedy that."

Tiara smells like lilies of the valley. Her lipgloss shines unnaturally on plump pink lips. Fucking perfect girl, all tits and high round ass, breathy voice. James is proud, if he does say so himself. And he does.

"And you, sir?" she asks. "Shame to let you sit on the sidelines."

"He likes that!" Vince says, then shivers, hearing himself.

"I'm good for now. Just a little taste--" He ducks in and she's already opening her mouth, twisting her fingers in his hair. *Perfect* girl. Taffy, salty and sticky and so sweet. Bright pastels the color of babies' clothes. Pink camisole, pink panties under a tiny white and pink plaid kilt.
"James?" Vince asks. Quiet and hoarse, somehow loud and long for being a single whispered syllable.

James steps away and looks at the boy, slumpshouldered on the bed, gnawing his lower lip. Baby boy, scared and needy, and James can help with this. Wants to see that fear clouding blue eyes, wants to soothe the anxiety tightening narrow shoulders.

And if the anxiety, the little-boy whine, just tightens James's balls and nudges up the fire in his crotch, then he's a sick fuck and he's just fine with that.

"Yeah?" he asks, arm around Vince's waist, turning him away from the girl. "What's up?"

"I don't know," Vince mumbles and rubs his cheek against James's shoulder. Kitten marking his territory, boy seeking reassurance. "It's just --"

Someday, they're going to run out of new experiences, new things that shock and intrigue Vince, make him nervous and make James come almost too fast.

James doesn't plan on letting that day arrive anytime soon.

"Sure you know," James says. Coaxes, light fingers on skinny arm. "You've been with girls before. You like girls."

Vince blushes but meets his eyes. Fucking long lashes, darkgold like syrup, over that blue that's more than sky, more than sea.
"It's just, it's different, that's totally different, and I don't know --"

"What don't you know? She's pretty. Think she's pretty?"

Vince twists at the waist and looks at her. "Yeah." Wide-eyed, nodding. "Real pretty."

James licks the boy's cheek--*cinnamon sugar, dark strong rum, salty come*--and closes his teeth around an earlobe. Whispers hot and rough, "Wanna touch her?"

Vince swallows. A lot, again and again. He keeps looking back and forth, twisting around and back. Finally, one more swallow, the bob of adam's apple and hollowed cheeks. "Yeah, sure. Of course. Just --"

James cups Vince's cock, already hard, almost all the way there. Squeezes, then kisses his temple with chastely closed lips. "Just nothing. Not gonna swat you away, little man."

"Yeah, I know. Just --"

"I'll be right here the whole time."

Vince nods, almost startled, obviously relieved. "Yeah, you'll be here."

James drags teeth up to Vince's hairline. "Watching you."

Vince doesn't answer, just twists closer to James, rubbing his cock against James's hip, tightening his hold around James's waist. Breathing with open mouth, gulping air.

James smiles and licks the outline of Vince's lips. "Like watching you. You know that."

He slides them across the room, hand tucked into the back of Vince's jeans, whispering all the while. "Talk to me, while she dances. Let me know how you're feeling, what you're thinking. That'll help."

*Which* one of them it will help, well. James leaves that up to Vince.

"We ready?" Tiara asks, and James nods. "Why don't you sit him down, Daddy. Any way you want."

Vince smiles shyly, half-swallowing a giggle at the 'daddy'. Heat, sugarwater boiling over, sizzles down James's chest at the word, at Vince's reaction.

He sets Vince down on a stool from the bar, tugs his shirt off over his head, and Vince looks up at him. Looks up through half-closed eyes: Sleepy little boy expecting his goodnight kiss.

Instead, James runs his hand through Vince's hair and rubs his knuckles over one nipple.

"Enjoy yourself, little man," he says as he steps away.

Wide eyes, lips in an O of surprise that's a shade too close to his cocksucking look for complete comfort inside James's jeans.
Tiara shakes her hair back as she slides around Vince, trailing fingertips.

"Hey, baby."

"Hi," Vince says. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

She laughs and James takes his seat, perfect sightlines, the two of them in profile. So pretty.

She starts doing her shimmy-thing around him, dropping to squats that pull up her little kilt and show off her panties, rising and wrapping long tan arms around Vince. Drags her mouth and tongue down his spine, then sucks up a hickey on the small of his back. James watches her dark tongue, sees Vince sucking in his breath so his rib cage vaults up and his stomach hollows.

When Vince finally lets loose a groan, she rises, shaking out her hair and twining around him until she's leaning in between Vince's knees, her hands grasping his thighs.

One of Vince's hands is rising, petting her hair. She arches back, pressing right into his crotch, murmuring encouragingly.

"Pretty," Vince says. "Blonde." He twines a lock around his finger and giggles. "Real blonde. Not like you, James."

Tiara laughs and drops her head so her hair brushes around Vince's face, over his chest.

"Like cornsilk," Vince says. "Had a palomino pony once. Same color. Pretty."

"Yeah, sugar," she whispers. Amused and indulgent, and James is already shifting in his seat. "Oh, yeah."

Tiara wiggles and shimmies against Vince's groin, cradling his head in one hand, rubbing the heel of her other hand up and down his cock as she kisses him, deep and smacking and wet. Vince kisses back, hands in her hair, tangledRapunzelshine, pretty pink tongue licking up her lipgloss and sucking her bottom lip fat and wet. Pushing inside her red lips and she sucks in deep, grinding and rubbing his dick, and somehow, perfectly, she's moaning, Vince is moaning, and it's all too fucking *pretty*.

And it's all a show, James knows that. Cheap, professional, mimicking actual desire and real touch, pantomimes of lust and reaction. Nylon that looks like silk, tits that look like paradise, moans that sound almost sincere.

James doesn't give a fuck if it's fake.

She's running her nails, pinksharp, down the center of Vince's chest, coral on moonstone, as she backs away and his hands drops out of her hair. Pretty pink mouth dropping open, too, gaping, tongue chasing blind.

"Hey --" Vince tries to protest. Drunk enough that he's almost pouting. "Hey."

Nearly a whine as he attempts to assert himself. *Good to want things*, James has told him a hundred, a thousand, times. Boy's learning. Pretty.

"Sssh," she says, twirling slow, hips twitching, back to the boy as she pulls the camisole off, slowly, godawfully slowly, over her head. Vince leans in, tries to touch her hair, the small of her back, and she clucks her tongue. Just once, and he snatches back his hand, sits back, perfect posture, and even if no one's looking at James, he's grinning like a fucking fool. Proud and happy, and, come to think of it, thank fuck no one's looking at him. Next thing he knows he'll be as goony as goddamn Green.

Tiara turns, clutching the camisole over her chest like a sorority girl caught during a panty raid. Still dancing, tan skin sliding, soft and tight.
"Good boy," she says, moving back towards Vince, straddling one of his knees. "You want to touch me, honey?"

Vince bites his lip. Nods. His blush is bright enough to rival the pink of her lingerie.

"Yes, please. Ma'am."

"You sure, baby boy?"

She's *teasing* him, like he's a goddamn open book, and James has to pop the top button on his fly, slide down a little and spread his legs, and there's nothing but heat in his mouth, over his face.

Vince shifts around on the stool, ducking his head, glancing at James. Blue eyes deerwide, cheeks furiously red. Lips parted, just like they do in those final tortuous seconds before he comes, when he's silent and half-terrified, half-exultant.

James nods his permission. Easier to play big daddy without any lines, without trying to speak.

"Yes, ma'am," Vince says, reaching two fingers to stroke a fold in the fabric. "Please."

"How's that feel?" James manages to ask. Smoke in his throat, fire over his skin. The sudden straightening of Vince's spine, the rapid bobbing in his throat, is enough - almost - to make James come right there. Like the boy's integrated everything, every tone of voice, every flick of the eye, every torque of James's need, into himself, under his skin, through his muscles. Like he doesn't have to think. Pure reaction, beautiful instinct.

"Soft," Vince whispers. "So pretty."

James has to light a cigarette, distract himself, back away from the vertiginous edge.

Harsh smoke, borrowed fire, and he leans forward. Watches as she twists and shimmies around Vince, all pink-tan-gold, beach sunsets and cocoa butter haze.

James loses time then. All that sunset light, winding around pale, skinny boy. Equally soft skin on both of them, he's sure of that, but she's velveteen and cushiony against his sharp white bones and hard angles and hollows. But the curve of Vince's neck as he gazes up at her -- she's got her fingers hooked into the hem of her kilt as she swishes it back and forth -- that curve of neck-skull-dome of forehead, unearthly pale, is more graceful than any of her dance moves.

She dances over Vince's thigh, all skimming, whispering, sliding, and even if Vince looks like he's still, James knows better. Knows that Vince is trembling inside, all over, quivering with imagined fear and real arousal. One hand on the soft dip of her waist, the other hovering, uncertain, over her elbow, shoulder, haze of her hair, swell of her breast.

Tiara grabs Vince's wrist--*thin, bony, James can hear all over again how those babybird bones grind when he grips that wrist*--and licks his palm. Gleaming raspberry tongue, from the looks of it almost as talented as Vince's own.

Vince gasps, James swallows a groan with his smoke, and Tiara presses that slicked palm to her breast.

"Jesus God," Vince whispers.

Vince never swears.

Vince is, however, a breast man. He kneads, teases, brushes, and Tiara might be throwing back her head in faux-ecstasy.

James doesn't notice that. It's all about Vince's fingers, long, so long and graceful, splayed over rosy beachsand swell, fascinated and curious. *Those fingers in James's mouth--wrapped around his dick--sliding around then up his hole. Those fingers on Vince's own cock as James whispers filthy secrets to him, white on red, snow on a child's scarf, Valentine's Day, hearts and doilies.*

"Yeah, sugar," she murmurs. Grinds two inches over Vince's leg, her arms looped around his neck, breasts swinging across his face. "Oh, baby."

Vince is pink-white, mottled, his breathing rough and loud, his spine pulling and twisting and dipping in time with her dance. Little pebbles of vertebrae skipping through moonlit water. He has one hand on her ass, rucking up the little skirt, light fingertips plucking at pink panties, stroking round flesh.

Dancing together, white-gold-pink, sashaying and shimmering in place. Ribbon candy, pretty pastels folded and twined around each other and James's mouth is watering, sucking air and smoke.

He's torn. The sight's fucking beautiful, he's got the mother of all rocks between his legs and a film of sweat on his brow, stinging his eyes.
He could just keep watching and enjoying.

On the other hand, they're not the only people in this room. Best they remember that.

James clears his throat, stubbing out his cigarette without looking away.

Vince's head turns too fucking slowly to look over at James. Hooded eyes, pink cheeks, hair in his eyes. Goofy half-smile.

Then he licks his lips.

Fucking *licks* them as he raises his eyebrows and flicks his gaze to the girl draped all over him.

A sting like breaking blisters, like exhaustion, cascades through James, all over his skin, deep inside him. Little man's got a pair on him.

James narrows his eyes. Glares and shakes his head. Just once.

Vince's mouth drops open into that cocksucking O--*round, tight, Jesus fuck, so tight*--and his cheeks pale. He clutches at Tiara and looks like he's about to bury his face against her taut stomach.

Scared him. So pretty when he's half-afraid like that, unsure and pale.

James licks his own lips. Slow and thorough, rocking his hips a little to stoke the burn in his dick, drawing fingernails down his chest, flicking his tongue. Hypnotizing Vince.

Vince watches. Gasps, chest hollowing, then inflating. He arches and bucks against Tiara, his head dropping back as she speeds up the grind and licks her way up the long bow of his throat.

Vince tastes like cinnamon redhots and maple syrup right there.

She glances over at James, tanpink hand in Vince's silky hair and holds Vince's head right there. Looking straight at James.

"Making Daddy happy," she mock-whispers. "Such a big boy--" Knuckles down the lump in Vince's jeans until he squirms and squeals.

"--Good boy, aren't you?"

Vince can only nod, eyes blown out, latched on James's face. His hand's still on her tit, still, always, thumb knuckle doing that hop-skip-rub over puckered skin that makes James's own lips burn and hips buck.

"Kiss her," James says. "Kiss her tits."

And Vince cranes right in, leading with that tongue that's softer and stronger than anything, miracle tongue, and he pecks kisses around her nipples, then licks their tips, rolls them over his tongue, and Tiara keeps moaning breathily like it's the first time, the best time.

Pinkwhite fake innocence, she's got to be Vince's age, and neither is a kid, but they're both acting so shy and horny and touching each other and James has to concentrate and squeeze his hands into fists to keep from whipping out his cock and stroking himself.

"How is it?"

Vince moans, high and sweet, choirboy caught in ecstasy. "So good, so good. Like vanilla ice cream. You have to taste, it's --"

"Gonna trust you on that," James says. Growls, digs nails into his palms. "Maybe you taste elsewhere, I'll join you."

Tiara's moan turns into a laugh, she's winking at James as she combs her fingers through Vince's hair.

Vince freezes and James *knows* he's trying to work that one out.

Then he gets it. His blush deepens and he hides his face between her breasts as she pats his back and murmurs into his hair.

This isn't enough.

Never fucking enough.

James needs more.

Needs to watch Vince fuck her, kneel between her legs, eat her out with that sacreligiously sweet tongue while James fucks him long and slow and deep from behind. Needs to see Vince grunting on top of her, his tiny round little ass flexing and tightening as he thrusts inside. Needs to see teeth on nipples, fingers on clit, raspberry tongue on his boy's big beautiful dick. Needs to hear gasps and shouts, slap of palm on ass, needs to taste redhot boysweat and sweet girlhoney. Needs more, needs it all.

James needs to --

Harsh, rapid beep of her pager, and Tiara rises, as if reluctantly, from Vince's lap, sliding her palm up his arm, cupping his cheek, kissing his forehead.

"Sorry, sugar. Time's up."

"Really? You sure? But --" Vince looks between her and James, back and forth, little kid evaluating how to play the parents off of each other to get what he wants. Fucking beautiful boy; only Vince would think a working girl could relent. Only Vince could probably *get* a working girl to relent. "Really?"

"Have an appointment," she says.

"Oh. But --"

"Lady's got work to do," James says thickly. Smoke and want clog his throat. "C'mere--" to Vince and to Tiara, "It's on the bar. Lots extra, 'cause you, darling, are fucking *good*."

She grins then, wide and toothy, eyes crinkling up. First real expression she's worn all night, and James grins back over Vince's head.
She must get dressed, grab the cash, leave, but James has a lapful of trembling, clutching, sweaty Vince, smelling hot and sweet, tasting even better. He sucks Vince's tongue into his mouth, bites down, rakes his nails up that naked back.

"You done good," James says, breaking the kiss, because Vince *did* and, anyway, he's about to ask.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," James says and rolls one little pink nipple between thumb and index finger, makes Vince squirm just right. "But --"

"But what?" Incipient pout, worried eyes.
James pinches harder and slides on the wolfshark smirk. "Used up all her time, didn't you?"

Vince shakes his head, rocks against James. "Not my fault. Just, see, she --"

"No blame," James says, quiet and flat. "Sure you can make it up to me."

"Yeah," Vince breathes. He nods furiously. "Want to. I *can*."

"Yeah." James palms Vince's ass and grinds up hard against him. Nips down on the knob of his shoulder. So fucking hard, both of them. Vince smells like lily of the valley perfume and grape lipgloss--*high school dances, heavy petting in the utility closet, blowjobs in tuxes*.

"Know you do."

Long white fingers in James's hair, pretty mouth sucking on his lower lip, bony pelvis riding his own, frictiondenimburn as they rock.
"Do," Vince gasps. Big wet shiny eyes, cabbageroses in his cheeks. "What should I do?"

James leans against the chair's back, holding Vince at armslength at the waist and ass. Cocks his head, lets the sharksmirk glide slowly over his face. Heaving flushed chest, sweaty hair in blue eyes. "Think you could dance for me, little boy?"

Teeth in his lip, arms trembling, Vince nods slowly and stumbles to his feet. "Could try."

"Trying's good," James starts to say, but then Vince is grasping his wrists, pressing them against the chair's arms, leaning in and grinding against the air over one thigh.

He's drunk, flushed and mottled, sweaty, and so horny, nipples hard, breath loud and rough, but somehow--*miracles, church choirs, dance recitals, long soft kisses*--somehow, Vince is moving slow and sinuous, perfectly in control, hips twitching like something natural, water over rocks, smooth flanks of horses, panthers. Tongue running over swollen lips, eyes dark and wet.

"Like that," Vince whispers.

James swallows the burn, aftertaste of scotch without the benefit of wetness, and nods. Digs his nails into the upholstery.

"Yeah," Vince says, grinding down, one hand running slow down James's chest, hovering over his navel, twirling through the air over overheated skin, and James bites his cheek and counts backward to keep from bucking upward. "Know you do--" Drops his sweaty face against James's cheek and brushes two fingertips over his fly. "Daddy. So hard."

Growling. Bucking. Groaning. Sounds with claws scuttle up James's gut, out his mouth, and he grabs Vince by the back of his head, yanks him down and kisses him with teeth and tongue, fucking his mouth and shoving one hand down the back of his jeans.

"Dance's over," he mutters, wrapping his arm around Vince's waist, tipping them to the floor, clawing at Vince's fly, tugging and yanking until he's naked, cock hard and yearning, gleaming red and angry against pinkwhite skin, bobbing. "You ready for me?"

Vince writhes and smiles, shyness washed away a long time ago in tides of alcohol--and if this is what schnapps and rum punch do to him, James is going to have to reconsider his opinion of those girly drinks--and lust, and he's rubbing against James's thigh, wrapping one leg around his waist, panting so hard he can barely speak. "Yes, sir, so ready, want --"

Oh, fuck, *yes*.

Sugar-sizzle, caramel burning and smoking in his nose, down his spine, and time's a fucking bitch, slowing this down. James kisses him again, sucks the sound out of his throat, clacks teeth on teeth and shimmies desperately out of his jeans.

This is no fucking show, this is sweat and fire and Vince's hard dick riding James's belly, and it's still not enough, still never enough. Hunger billows, bellows, growls in his gut and he goes back on his knees, swiping at the sweat stinging his eyes.

"That's right," James says, shaking his head, shaking the haze of scotch and want, trying to think clearly, trying to make his hands stop shaking. Nothing doing. "What do you want, baby?"

Vince gasps as James scrapes his nails down his ribs, then slaps his flank. "Anything, please, Daddy, please --"

"Liked the girl?" Words. He can do words while he fumbles for the necessities. He might shoot like a fucking virgin while he does, but he can try. "Looked like you did."

"Yeah. *So* much, so pretty."

"She make you hard?" Knuckle down the boy's cock, hotsofthard. So hard. Knuckle into the slit, around the ridge. Back downward.
Vince arches into the touch, jaw tightening, ribs vaulting out, and James clucks his tongue, presses the heel of his hand into Vince's belly, pushes him back down.

"Answer the question."

Shake of the head, up and down, back and forth, yesandno. "I--"

Choked-off sound, confused and scared. Slickwet eyes, red cheeks on chalk skin, teeth prints in swollen lip. At the sight, the sound, boy trembling and pounding his fists slowly against the carpet, James has to pull himself once, twice, touch the burn, try and ease it.

"She. Make. You. Hard?"

Wheezing reply, lips dead white with the strain, tendons thin and stark in Vince's neck, flush like sunburn down his chest. Cock twitching. "You. You make me hard."

Sunsets, novas, flames that blaze and consume, blinding. James groans, falling forward on his elbows, thrusting rough and random over tighthot boy skin. "That's right. That's right, baby boy."

Vince's arms wrap around his neck, cling and tighten, sticky tongue licking up James's cheek as he thrusts up, wraps a leg around James's waist, pushes his cock alongside James's. "Liked her. So much. But. Did it for you --"

"Yeah." More a grunt, primal, thick with need, and he's fumbling for the rubber and slick while Vince pants in his ear, whining and shaking beneath him, nearly a blur, just sound and heat and pale shimmering skin. Begging James, begging for this, for him, incoherent and melting so fast, gasping when James pushes two fingers at once inside, crossing them, stretching and stroking until Vince throws his back and throws open his legs. James bites his chin, cord in his neck, shaking himself, pushing in faster than he should, lilies of the valley and clawing fingers in his hair, on his back, over his throat.

Black spots, pinpricks, spread and multiply over his vision as Vince writhes, sucks him in deeper with a long panting gasp, deeper into redslick tight secrets, and James licks over Vince's lips, stretched wide, rictus of need and pleasure, just as red and secret. So many holes, so much pleasure, and he ought to make this new and different, special and memorable, but his cock's already pulsing ominously as Vince squeezes his throat, starts to crush his windpipe. Probably doesn't even know what he's doing, babbling and blinking, crazystupid with need.

James knows the feeling.

"Fucking you," he says through gritted teeth. "You're gonna take it."

"Please, Daddy, please--"

Vince's voice high and strained as steel wire, thin enough to slice skin and flesh, James's voice like rocks tumbling in his ears, barely enough air to speak, and Vince is squeezing him in time with his thrusts, no rhythm beyond fast-hard-deeper. Pulls out, sucks a breath, shoves in, loses air. Simple and dirty and the boy's pushing back, sliding around on a puddle of sweat, and he tastes like the whore, chemical grapes and flowers, fake silk and real moans. Skin like thick cream, butter, foamy and sweet, sliding under James's teeth, around his dick, opening everywhere for him, taking him in, closing like a vise, trapping.

"Like this, baby?"

Vince shouts and shoves up, thumps back down to the floor. Fucking beautiful, redpinkwhite, cock bent under James's pelvis, and James pushes up onto one arm, needs to see. Looks down, fisting Vince's cock, bending it out of the way, and Vince *knows*, smart boy, so smart and pretty, knows to tilt up his hips and wrap his leg around James's ribs, and James can see. Right there, his cock throbbing at Vince's hole, stretched obscenely, everything red and straining. Sees and knows, right there, the simplest thing, the scariest thing. Where they meet, where they join, where they're never going to part.

Because he's going to fuck Vince until they're both dry, until there's no more air in the room to moan with, until everything's soaked in sweat, until it hurts, until they're crying from it. Until they're dead.

"Never gonna stop," he chokes out and Vince bears down, takes him deeper, tilts then switches his hips back and forth. "Fucking me back, boy."

"Yeah--" Tears in eyes bigger than his face, Vince's mouth open and obscene, tongue coated in spit and foam. Rabid, beautiful. "Anything. Daddy--"

And every time he says that word, every time he makes *this*, this sick scary frightening terrifying thing they have, literal, they both moan and grunt and that's the best part, the worst part, both of them flayed and open and so hard, and they both need this, and James has never seen anyone so naked with need, never known that someone else could need him quite so much, could match his own need, exceed it, give it back to him wrapped in skinny sweetskinned boy body with blue eyes and angel's face, silky hair that smells like oranges and cinnamon, lips that suck and kiss and giggle and tell him words like *love* and --.

Love.

This is fucking like the animals do it, with teeth and holes and flesh, but this is not fucking. This is what James dreads and craves. His spine arches, lengthens impossibly, and his head's thrown back, Vince is stealing his air, soul, heart with clutching hands and he fucks deep inside, slick tightness going tighter, so much tighter, as his cock pulses and shoves and Vince wails. Vince knows. James is on his knees now, looming like radio towers, like satellites, like gods, jerking Vince so fast he's got to be stripping skin.

"Coming--" Vince shouts and it might as well be in Chinese, in panther roars and the beat of surf, James knows no language but understands, knows, and he fucks harder, shakes those skinny bones apart as Vince freezes, does not breathe, just widens his eyes as he tenses, as the first hot drops splatter over James's belly. Then he's coming in earnest, whipping up and down, shooting in spurts, and James can smelltastehear it all, knows it all, loves it all, and he's coming inside Vince, coming so hard that he's losing sensation in his legs, shooting come and everything he has. Shouting, falling.

Collapses on top of Vince. No bones, barely any skin, bundles and networks of raw nerves that spark and throb and fire blind.

No air, no thought.

Nerves and heart. Just. Dick and drained balls.

Whisper of dry swollen lips over his cheek. Against his temple.

Arthritic ache everywhere, stiff and dark. Babylight fingers in his hair, murmurs against his face, palm rubbing slow tingling circles over his shoulderblades. Kisses like rain, gentle and rapid, over his face, on his mouth. Bringing it all back, teaching himself to himself again, returning sensation then knowledge.

"Vince." That's the best he's got, croaked and creaking as it sounds.

"Hi," Vince whispers. Kisses him softly. "Love you."

"Mmmm," James mutters. Rolls them onto their sides, tucks Vince's head onto his shoulder and kisses the crown of his skull. "Fuck yeah."

-End