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Hank is struggling to fall asleep as he presses himself closer to Francis, his arms wrapped around his slim waist, his face pressed against his shoulder blade—though his hips are twitching as he tries not to let them buck into Francis.
He's painfully hard, but he wants to get off with Francis, though Francis is asleep, so he has to resort to shamefully rutting against him as he rests. He knows that this is wrong, and also somewhat illegal, but he doesn't know what else to do and he knows his hand won't do the job. He's letting out quiet whimpers against him, his face terribly hot, and his pants feel a few sizes too small.
He freezes every time Francis stirs, because his worst nightmare right now is Francis possibly waking up and catching him, and hating him, and never wanting to sleep with him again.
When he lets out a louder cry than he should've, he abashedly covers his mouth with a hand, his whole body trembling and tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. Due to his eyes being shut tight he doesn't realize Francis's eyes have fluttered open, and he's awake now, and he feels more than Hank's cock pulsing against him—he also feels the back of his shirt being damp due to Hank's hot breaths, as well as Hank himself shivering in fear.
Francis thinks of how he should approach this now, as he doesn't have a problem with it, though Hank did it without asking Francis if it was okay, so it's only fair that he does something.
When Hank's leg drapes over him, he quickly figures out what he can do. He places a hand on Hank's thigh, and he flinches violently, letting out a guilty whimper as he attempts to pry himself free.
“Hank,” Francis says, his voice firm and low.
Another whimper is all that leaves Hank, and Francis can't help but grin, struggling as he flips over with the weight of Hank's leg on top of him. Hank is completely frozen now, staring at Francis with wide, terrified eyes, and Francis can see his guilt, how sorry he is, but he still feels the need to do something about it. Francis places a hand on Hank's face, his thumb on his cheek and the rest of his fingers in his hair. “Somebody thought he could use me for pleasure when I was asleep and get away with it, huh?”
Hank's eyes screw shut, and he braces for impact, though all he hears is “But you can't control it, can you? Like a dumb little puppy in heat, you can't control what you do when you're aroused.”
His eyes now shoot open, and a warm feeling blooms in his chest at Francis's words, though he's still staring in shock, confusion, and fear, but also arousal. “Mhm, there's the proper explanation for that.”
Hank whines as his hips buck, and his eyes are pleading as he looks up at him, begging for mercy without any words. “Sit up, buddy,” he coos, and Hank complies, frantically pushing himself up as Francis does the same but calmer. “On my lap,” he then adds, and Hank still listens, straddling Francis as his bulge is obvious in his tight, tight pyjama pants. “Do you know what time it is, Hank?” Francis asks, before gripping his chin and forcing his head to stay in place, “no peaking.”
Hank hums in disagreement, and Francis says, “It's two AM. When did we go to bed, my love?”
“T-Ten? Maybe?”
“How many hours are that?”
In his tired state, Hank has to take his time to process the question, as well as come up with an answer. “Four?”
Francis nods. “So we went to bed four hours ago, and yet you're awake, unnecessarily hard.”
Now Hank is nodding, and he still feels guilty, and sorry, though his dick is throbbing in his pants and it's hard to focus—so it's keeping him from forming a coherent apology. Hank's hips thrust in front, and Francis immediately grips his hips tightly to keep him in place for any further reactions. “You want me to touch you?”
“Y-Yes,” he chokes eagerly, but Francis just hums, not following with anything. “Please?” Hank then adds in an attempt to convince him, though Francis shakes his head, and Hank whines in despair. “What you did can't be excused, McJones,” Francis says, his tone low, and enough to make Hank squirm, “I think you have to be taught some kind of lesson.”
Hank whimpers, and he reaches a hand over as an attempt to start palming himself, though Francis catches his hand, and instructs, “Hands off tonight.”
Hank purses his lips but grips his thighs tightly, and Francis is glad he's listening—he starts to tease the hem of Hank's shirt with his fingers, and he signals him to tug it off, and he listens. Instead of throwing Hank's shirt off the bed, Francis takes it—rolling it up, and now he has a long fabric mass which mimics rope, and he whispers “hands behind your back” to Hank. Hank obeys, and Francis is reaching over to tie his hands together with the fabric, and it works, even though he struggled to tie the second knot.
Hank is helpless—he has a boyfriend refusing to touch him, and he can't touch himself, so he's stuck like this; but he forgets everything when Francis attaches his lips to his neck, blissfully sucking at the sensitive skin, leaving marks that make his neck red, a red which eventually turns into a deep purple. Hank is resting his head on Francis's shoulder as his teeth graze the overly sensitive spot behind his ears, and he cries in pleasure, and Francis hums, amused with the sight.
“I'm thinking, Hank,” Francis coos, “if I should really let you take off your pants or keep them on.”
Hank only lets out a sound akin to a sob in response. “I'll take my time to decide,” Francis concludes, and he pushes Hank back a little before he leans into his chest, darting his tongue out and circling the muscle around one of Hank's nipples. He moans, and he can't silence himself due to his lack of free hands, so the neighboring rooms can likely hear all of his noises. “So sensitive,” Francis sighs, “it's beautiful.”
Francis's hands travel further on Hank's body, though they touch everywhere but his cock, and Hank squirms impatiently, but all it does is fuel Francis's drive. “Hank McJones,” Francis mutters, “usually always the tough one. I adore how much hormones change you, love.”
Francis decides to have some kind of mercy, untying Hank's drawstrings and reaching into his pants to take his cock out—it’s throbbing, leaking, and the tip is red, and Hank stares down at himself, Francis doing the same. “God, Hank, I wonder how long you've been doing this,” Francis purrs, and Hank's hips rock forward, and Francis is being nice when he doesn't make him stop. “Please,” Hank mewls, and Francis just smiles, his hands reaching to frame Hank's face.
His cheeks are hot, obviously, and Francis feels an even hotter sensation against his fingers when tears roll down Hank's face—Francis lets out a pitiful “oh” as he rubs his thumb against Hank gently.
“Poor thing is crying,” he remarks, “but it still has to learn his lesson.”
Hank gives up on trying and slumps forward, burying his face back into Francis's shoulder and sobbing against it, and Francis's hands tangle in Hank's hair, running through it affectionately. “You know why I'm doing this, and you know what you did wrong, right?”
Hank nods, and Francis hums, though he follows with “How close are you?”
“Very,” Hank wails, but it's muffled by Francis's shirt, and he feels Hank's dick pulse in between their stomachs, warm and staining Francis's shirt. “I-I can't believe I-I'm here and crying my goddamn e-eyes out because I'm not getting touched,” Hank complains, “it's fucking pathetic…”
Francis hums again, though he responds, “It's normal to be pathetic sometimes, McJones.”
Hank groans against Francis, but it turns into a moan when his cock pulses again, begging for contact, begging for pleasure.
Francis gains an idea—he tilts his head so his mouth is directed towards Hank's ear, and he jolts once he senses Francis's hot breath against the shell of his ear. “You want to be inside me, I can just sense it.”
Hank's hips buck again, Francis's tone making him shudder, “You want to feel my lips, my mouth, my tongue all against your cock as you use me, use the warm, tight, wet heat.”
He moans, his hands struggling behind his back, desperately wanting to be free—free so he can grab at Francis, kiss him roughly, grope him aggressively, make him just as submissive as he is now, though he knows he's not even capable of that right now. “Do you? Am I correct?”
“Yes,” Hank sobs, “yes, you're correct, good fucking god—”
“Mhm, but you know what I want, Hank?”
Hank shakes his head, and Francis continues, “I'd love to strip you down to nothing before I tie you up, and after that I'd be teasing you until you're nothing but an overstimulated, babbling mess.”
Hank slurs incoherent words in frustration, and his length is throbbing even more now, the imagination unfortunately affecting him, too. “I h-hate you,” he stammers, though Francis smirks and says “You don't and you know that.”
Hank pulls away from Francis's shoulder, his eyes wet, and his cheeks hot, his lips in a pout as his curls fall in front of his features. Francis is still just grinning at him, his hands moving to grip his hips again, and he laughs when Hank says “You're being the biggest asshole ever right now.”
Francis's right hand slowly travels to the area below Hank's stomach, and he jolts immediately, nearly crying when Francis starts petting the spot slowly—he’s questioning how Francis knew that was by far the most sensitive part of him.
“O-Oh, fuck, oh fuck—,” he weeps, “F-Francis—Francis please—I-I’m close, oh god—”
“Come, then,” Francis coos, “come for me, Hank.”
Francis's touch is ghostly, but it's still pushing Hank over the edge, and he lets out a long, high pitched whine as the tight knot in his abdomen finally snaps—and he comes over Francis messily, ruining his shirt and patches of his pants. Francis casts a glance onto his shirt, the one that is now stained with Hank's fluids, though he ignores it and grabs Hank's face to pull him into a—this time—soft, short and savory kiss, and Hank remembers how plush Francis's lips are, how perfect they feel against his own.
They pull back away, and Francis unties Hank's hands, tossing the now wrinkled up shirt onto the floor—Hank flexes his wrists, and they're somewhat sore, but it doesn't matter now, because the orgasm he just had was delightful. Francis tugs off his dirtied shirt after Hank climbs off his lap, and he stands up to go to his closet to find a new pair of pyjamas—Hank is disappointed when he realizes Francis won't keep his shirt off tonight.
He stares unabashedly as Francis changes, and although it's dark, he still attempts to make out Francis's features—Francis catches his eyes, and smirks again, and Hank can swear he's purposely changing slowly now.
When he's done he's back in bed, yet Hank's shirt is still missing—he wants Hank to be shirtless, so he stays silent, and they're back to cuddling innocently as they fall asleep, this time for the whole rest of the night.