Francis is damaged, maybe even broken in places, but he's not empty, not cold. If anything, he's maybe too full of feelings if you catch him right. And so he chokes it down because it's easier, because he doesn't have to feel the weight of loss if he never felt something in the first place. But like this he's unraveled and exposed, and it's easier to tell how affected he is when their faces are tilted in close. No kisses, just breathing the same air as their bodies move together and their eyes meet but don't quite match. The pace is a rough give and take, hard and demanding and the archer craves it.
The man's fingers curl against his cock, smearing the precum as it leaks from his erection, and he moans hot and wanton. For all that there are a lot of things he hides, how much he wants this isn't one of them. So he almost whimpers when the pace of the thrusts slow to almost nothing. It's not enough contact, and not even the almost pleading jerk of his hips can get him more friction.
Their positions shift so he's pressed closer, supported between his body and the bed beneath them and it's giving up a little bit more control. Letting him set the pace, even when Francis wanted more; letting him keep him like this. Just enough sensation to keep him on edge, which was its own sort of torment. He doesn't quite realize what the other man's aiming for until he finds it. But when it does, it hits him so hard he forgets to breathe. Instead it comes out in a sharp exhale, a high moan pulled from his chest almost involuntarily. His body tenses as that spike of pleasure hits him, and it feels almost overwhelming as his blue eyes go wide and unfocused.
"O-oh, that's--" Francis shudders, and his nails are short but they still scratch against skin, holding on like he might just fall apart. He nods to the question, even if it's probably mostly rhetorical, skin flushed lightly pink. "--Please." It takes him a moment to rephrase from just that sentiment of want. "Do that again." His hands dragging down from his shoulders, curling against the small of his back and tugging a little, like he wants him closer. He's greedy, comes alive for pleasure like he does for violence, which makes Bullseye a hell of a drug.
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The man's fingers curl against his cock, smearing the precum as it leaks from his erection, and he moans hot and wanton. For all that there are a lot of things he hides, how much he wants this isn't one of them. So he almost whimpers when the pace of the thrusts slow to almost nothing. It's not enough contact, and not even the almost pleading jerk of his hips can get him more friction.
Their positions shift so he's pressed closer, supported between his body and the bed beneath them and it's giving up a little bit more control. Letting him set the pace, even when Francis wanted more; letting him keep him like this. Just enough sensation to keep him on edge, which was its own sort of torment. He doesn't quite realize what the other man's aiming for until he finds it. But when it does, it hits him so hard he forgets to breathe. Instead it comes out in a sharp exhale, a high moan pulled from his chest almost involuntarily. His body tenses as that spike of pleasure hits him, and it feels almost overwhelming as his blue eyes go wide and unfocused.
"O-oh, that's--" Francis shudders, and his nails are short but they still scratch against skin, holding on like he might just fall apart. He nods to the question, even if it's probably mostly rhetorical, skin flushed lightly pink. "--Please." It takes him a moment to rephrase from just that sentiment of want. "Do that again." His hands dragging down from his shoulders, curling against the small of his back and tugging a little, like he wants him closer. He's greedy, comes alive for pleasure like he does for violence, which makes Bullseye a hell of a drug.