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Polar Explorer RPF - Prompt Post 1
This is for prompts for all things general Polar Explorer RPF.
If you've filled (or started filling) a prompt, please make sure to link it in the comments of the Fills Post. And if you would like to cross-post your fills on AO3, here is the collection!
Under this umbrella you can prompt:
Prompts in line with adaptations of Heroic Age stories can also fit here, for example if you want to specifically prompt Hugh Grant!Cherry from The Last Place On Earth getting wrecked (which someone really should).
No blorbo too obscure for this post! EXCEPT: NO PEARY ALLOWED. God I hate that guy.
Rules:
Regular view: https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html
Regular view, last page: https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html?page=999#comments
If you've filled (or started filling) a prompt, please make sure to link it in the comments of the Fills Post. And if you would like to cross-post your fills on AO3, here is the collection!
Under this umbrella you can prompt:
- Historical versions of Franklin Expedition(-adjacent) guys (Rossier, Gore/McClure, etc)
- Madhouse at the End of the Earth/Belgica Expedition
- Heroic Age of Antarctic Exploration - Shackleton, Scott, Amundsen, Mawson
- Andrée Expedition
- Karluk Expedition
- etc
Prompts in line with adaptations of Heroic Age stories can also fit here, for example if you want to specifically prompt Hugh Grant!Cherry from The Last Place On Earth getting wrecked (which someone really should).
No blorbo too obscure for this post! EXCEPT: NO PEARY ALLOWED. God I hate that guy.
Rules:
1. Be fucking nice. YKINMATO/KINKTOMATO at all times.
2. This meme is CNTW (Choose Not To Warn) but warnings are highly encouraged.
3. Prompts should use this format in the subject line: [SHIP], [DESCRIPTION]
e.g.
Mertz/Ninnis, sex crying
Solo gen can be prompted as well alongside (a) character name and description
e.g.
Gen, Emil Racovitza, discovering a crazy new fish
4. Fills should use this format in the subject line: FILL: [TITLE], [PAIRING], [RATING], [ANY WARNINGS]
e.g.
Fill: The Very Next Day, Cherry/Birdie, E, cw self-harm
5. One prompt per comment please.
6. Multiple fills for each prompt are welcome!
7. You don't have to be anon for your prompts or your fills but we do encourage it because of the vibe. You're also welcome to deanon your stuff by posting on AO3/Tumblr as you please!
8. Feedback on prompts and fills is AWESOME; please take longer conversations to the discussion post.
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FILL: will you love me tomorrow, Hurley/James, E, sexual harassment, dubious consent 1/2
(Anonymous) 2024-12-28 10:02 am (UTC)(link)Despite having spent the past six weeks insisting hotly to all and sundry that he is not being employed as Mr. Hurley’s secretary, they are simply sharing an office, in the presence of the man himself James finds himself tongue-tied. Hurley is smaller than him, but his personality fills up the room. James smiles weakly.
The main reason for his reallocation, so it has been explained to him, is that Hurley is an incredible ideas man, but needs a chap with a real grasp of the figures to make sure all his grand schemes will function on a large scale. He's also said to be a great favourite of Mr. Shackleton’s. This made accepting the position a sound career move, even though he was warned he might have to pitch in and do some secretarial work.
“Might take a while for me to adjust,” says Mr. Hurley with a wink. He walks past James, and as he does so, pats him on the bottom.
James is so surprised he doesn’t know what to do. Part of him doesn’t quite believe it happened. He shakes his head, and resolves to forget the whole thing.
If it had only been the one time James might have convinced himself it had been some sort of freak accident. But over the next few weeks it keeps happening - if James is standing up or worse, leaning over, and Hurley is around, he can be assured of receiving a neat smack of his arse.
James should probably try not to lean over, or stand up. He should probably stay seated the whole time he's in the office.
*
The pace of work with Mr. Hurley is very strange. In his old office, they had worked quite steadily for hours at a time, and although the work could be tedious he had never felt they lacked for fun. There was always some little joke that amused them, or an evening of drinks after work to look forward to.
Hurley’s office is evidently rather different. There are people bursting in unannounced at all hours, who will stand around laughing and drinking with Hurley before leaving to be replaced with the next crowd of noisy people, all while James fights to keep the latest set of figures straight in his head.
“Hurley, I see you’ve invented your most useful product yet.”
James turns in surprise from the filing cabinet to see one of Hurley’s rowdy guests looking right at him.
“What’s that then?” Hurley’s reply comes from the drinks cabinet.
“A secretary you can’t get pregnant.”
There is uproarious laughter from the crowd of men to whom James has yet to be introduced. He clutches the papers to his chest, conscious of how hot his face feels. Hurley turns back to the room, a wry smile on his face. Rather than going directly to his friends he goes to James’s side. James feels a swell of gratitude: they are facing the rabble together.
“How ridiculous,” says Hurley, sternly. But then: “Although you’re welcome to try.”
The laughter erupts once again, and Hurley swat James on the arse before grabbing him there firmly. James’s eyes widen - he worries tears might be welling in them. But there are more pressing concerns, and he hurries away from Hurley to sit back down at his desk before he can be embarrassingly, conspicuously erect.
The most frustrating thing, James reflects as he surreptitiously dabs his eyes with a handkerchief, is that somehow, improbably, Hurley seems still able to get all his work done, even with all this commotion. He will come up with some bright idea just as the third crowd of men leaves, and pass it on to James to test its practicality. It is something he has encountered only once before, seeing someone get by on fits of brilliance rather than steady progress, and while it is a little infuriating it is terribly impressive. He can’t help but marvel when he sees Hurley work like that, can’t help but feel he, by means of proximity, is somehow touched by the aura of his genius.
*
James is puzzling over a particularly thorny problem in the scaling up of one of Hurley’s devices when he looks up to see Hurley is turning up the air-conditioning for the sixth or seventh time that day. He shivers reflexively. Knowing Hurley was an Australian, he had initially feared they might suffer the opposite problem, as surely England would be awfully chilly in comparison to the deserts of the outback. But for some reason, Hurley is set on keeping the office as cold as a refrigerator. Could it be, James wonders, that the seasons being the other way round at home, Hurley is trying to recreate midwinter in July?
Hurley finishes his fussing over the air-conditioning unit, and instead wanders around the back of James’s chair, to look over his shoulder at the calculations. James begins to explain his work but trails off when he feels Hurley’s hands on his shoulders. He sweeps them from James’s neck out to his shoulders as if searching for something.
“No undershirt today, Jimmy?” he tuts.
James shifts in his chair, suddenly hot even in the chilly room. Hot from the nickname, the embarrassment at his forgetfulness, and from Hurley’s hands on his body, hands moving lower, roaming over his chest.
“Bit indecent, wouldn’t you say?” says Hurley.
He pinches one of James’s nipples, risen to peaks in the cold. James yelps in pain. Hurley grabs James’s chest in response, chuckling as he gropes the soft flesh there, of which James is more than a little ashamed. He can feel Hurley’s breath on the back of his neck, and wonders how long he will enjoy himself like this. James doesn’t know whether he wants it to be over or if he wants it to continue, if he wants there to be something… something more?
But then there is a buzz on the intercom, and Hurley springs away from James to attend to whatever business is afoot. James exhales shakily, and looks down at his hands, which are trembling.
*
Despite the humiliation of it, James finds himself daydreaming about that day. He imagines himself being bold enough to go to the office without an undershirt for a second time. Hurley might want to touch him again. Even though it is all a joke, it would feel nice to be touched. Perhaps this is how it feels to be desired, even if it’s just pretend.
It’s certainly the closest James has had to any kind of sexual experience, and so now, when he touches himself instead of a muddle of faces and bodies and an instinctive yearning for closeness he feels Hurley’s hands on his body, hears his mocking laughter, smells his cologne.
Sometimes, he convinces himself he will forego the undershirt tomorrow, just to see what happens. But every morning he thinks the better of it. The next time he actually does go in without one, it is pure scatter-brained accident. This time he realises his mistake on the bus into work, and spends a panicked fifteen minutes wondering if he should return home for one or not. He elects not to, and is both vindicated and disappointed when Hurley says nothing about it all day.
“I used to work this way with Miss Leighton,” says Hurley.
James looks up from his figures to nod. They are working late in Hurley's office, either side of the large meeting table. James doesn't like it when Hurley mentions his previous secretaries, because he isn't one, and because it annoys him to hear about them.
“The view's a little different,” observes Hurley, cocking his head to one side. “Although… Jimmy, take off your tie and undo your top button.”
James frowns, but pauses in his calculations to acquiesce. He usually tries to keep his ties in a knot and just loosens and slips them over his head, but in his nervousness around Hurley he unties it completely, making it unlikely he'll get it back on today. He looks expectantly at Hurley.
“Another button.”
James blinks, the familiar heat rushing to his cheeks. He undoes the button.
“Another. And another.”
His shirt is open down to his chest, showing an embarrassing amount of pudgy freckled skin. James’ pocket protector weighs the fabric down, making it gape further.
“Now cross your arms tightly. Ah yes,” Hurley leans back, folds his arms behind his head. “Perfect.”
James looks down. His arms now push both sides of his chest together like a ladies’ cleavage. He averts his eyes from the sight as if to protect his own modesty. Hurley laughs, but then seems to return to his work.
He doesn't quite know what to do with himself now. Hurley might tease him for being shy if he gets dressed again, but he really does need to get his work done. He settles for simply uncrossing his arms and getting back to crunching numbers. But James keeps his arms close to his sides, and if he occasionally leans forward over his work, and tightens his arms by his chest enough to make it do the thing, well then… he's only playing along with the joke.
*
“Ta-rah, darling.”
Hurley hurries past Clark and James, giving James a hearty smack on the bottom as he does so. Then he's off - holding his trenchcoat to shield him from the rain as he hurries from the office building into a waiting cab. James pauses under the roof. Clark stops too. He fixes James with a very serious look, which is ironically the one which usually means he's joking.
“You all right with him, Jimmy?”
James makes a vague, wavering noise. Clark turns, taking James by his shoulders and spinning him so they're face to face.
“I'm serious. You shouldn't let him treat you like that.”
“Oh… Well, it's a joke, so…”
Clark looks at him for a moment. His hands are still on James's shoulders. His gaze is very fierce and James finds it even harder than usually to meet his eye.
“Look, if you change your mind, or - well, just so you know, me and the lads from the office we'll…”
He takes his hands from James's shoulders and punches a fist into an open palm.
“Pow.”
James laughs at Clark's solemn expression.
“All right, although I promise it's-”
“Robert Clark!”
They both turn to see the smart figure of Clark's fiancée Christine heading down the rain-soaked pavement towards them, holding an umbrella. Her bright blue Mac is open, showing the tartan lining inside.
“Chrissie,” says Clark. His voice is soft, and a smile quirks at the corner of his mouth.
“Do you know,” says Christine, “that Robbie here is a terror for forgetting an umbrella?”
James tries to sound surprised, but worries his wobbly “ohhh?” may be less than convincing. He is certain that for at least some of those times the missing umbrella had in fact been leant out to him.
“Hush,” says Clark fondly. He reaches up to brush a stray strand of Christine's dark bob out of her eyes.
“Less of that,” says Christine, primly. “I just don't want you dripping all over the cinema.”
James has observed this before: Clark and his fiancée play a sort of game together where they put on a performance of disliking each other, and yet are, in secret, absolutely besotted with one another.
“God forbid anything come betwixt Chrissie and the pictures,” says Clark, clutching a hand to his heart and putting on a tragic expression.
Christine's stern expression keeps twitching into a smile as she takes Clark's arm.
“Better shake a leg,” she observes, with a glance to her wristwatch.
Clark presses his own umbrella into James's hands. When he tries to protest, Clark smiles and winks at him. James isn't sure how to interpret that gesture, but the uncertainty takes him just long enough that Clark is already on his way, safely under the umbrella Christine holds between them.
James sighs, and turns from them. The prospect of even the ten minutes to the bus stop in this weather is too miserable to contemplate. He looks back, considering taking shelter in the office, but his friend hasn't made it far enough from the building for James to avoid spying on the couple as Clark is taking the umbrella from Christine. As he does so she smiles, takes his face in her hands and pulls it down into a kiss.
After watching them for a stupefied moment, James turns back around, and walks swiftly and red-faced to the bus stop. He shouldn't have seen that, probably. But then they were kissing in the street. He can't help but fixate on the way Clark's hand had slipped under Christine's raincoat to caress her waist. He waits for the bus, watching the rush of people slide past him without so much as a second glance. He knows very well what he looks like, and he knows he hasn't the personal charm to make up for it, romantically speaking. His expectations in that area are limited to say the least. So why does he feel this ugly, gnawing sensation in his stomach?
The fact is, James muses as he fumbles handing the correct change to the conductor, that there are nice things he can't have, not properly. But perhaps, if Mr. Hurley will pet him and compliment him and make him blush - even if it is all just a big joke - then isn't that the next best thing?
Re: FILL: will you love me tomorrow, Hurley/James, E, sexual harassment, dubious consent 2/3 oops
(Anonymous) 2024-12-28 10:04 am (UTC)(link)“I didn't get you anything,” he blurts out.
“That's all right,” says Hurley with a wink.
James looks to his left and sees a line of secretaries, all of whom have also just been presented a gift by the man they work for. He's about to protest but Hurley pats James’s shoulder, then squeezes it. His hand lingers there for longer than necessary, his fingers stroking James's back. But perhaps James imagines it; perhaps his body is just looking for an excuse to get all hot and awkward.
Cautiously, James unties the ribbon of the box. He doesn't recognise the brand printed on the lid, only that it must be something fancy - that much is obvious from the muted pastels, the flowing gold writing. He removes the lid, and pulls back the tissue paper, half-expecting chocolates but what he pulls out is…
Something… silky? And pink? It takes him a moment to realise what he's holding and when he does he flushes and drops the box. He's conscious of laughter around him.
“You're too bad, Mr. Hurley,” says someone. Their voice is halfway between amusement and criticism, but Hurley doesn't seem to mind. James crouches down on the floor to pick up the package and the ladies’ underwear inside it.
“Hm? I'd say I treat my secretary the best out of the lot of you!”
There's more laughter. James straightens up, and thrusts the box at Hurley. Hurley gasps, and clasps a hand to his chest, pretending to be offended at the returned gift.
“Aren't they good enough for you, Jimmy?”
“What? No it's not that it's…”
Everyone is laughing again, and James realises he is in a situation he cannot win. He grits his teeth, presses his mouth together unhappily. It feels like being at grammar school all over again.
Later that evening and back at his digs, James struggles with where to store the unwelcome gift. Every so often his landlady comes in to dust, clean, and with affectionate sternness tidy away the worst of his chaos. He has never any thought as to how much she sees of his possessions, but then he's never had anything to hide. What will she think if she finds the knickers and… other things?
After a moment's anxious contemplation, he seizes a suitcase from under the bed, shoves the box inside, then throws in a couple of pairs of old socks and an undershirt over it. He first goes to stash the suitcase on top of the wardrobe, but then thinks the better of it and puts it back under the bed, as if nothing had happened.
That night is a restless one, spent knowing that Hurley’s Christmas present is beneath him, silky, pink and mysterious.
*
“I notice you haven’t made use of my gift yet,” says Hurley. He looks sad, and even though James knows it’s a performance he can’t help but want to comfort him.
“Sorry,” he tries, “It’s just that, well, I…”
He hopes the rest of his point will be supplied by his physical presence. He is not a pretty girl, he is an ungainly young man with a shock of red hair and glasses. Hurley sighs ruefully.
“I picked them out specially, you know.”
*
It takes a moment for James to overcome his embarrassment and actually lay the things out on the bed, and somehow on the cheerful striped sheets the pink silk looks even more debaucherous.
His landlady is out, as is her other lodger. He has the house to himself and yet James is self-conscious. This is the punchline to a joke: a lonely man trying on lady’s underwear in secret. Not that he's tried it on yet, but…
“Damn it.”
James pulls his knitted vest over his head and tugs his tie loose. He has undressed many times in this space, but more often than not in a rush getting from one set of clothes to another. It feels strange to take his time, even if only because he is so nervous.
He puts the knickers on first. Nothing terrible happens, no one bursts in. They sit a little higher on his waist than his own briefs. The material is… different. James is particular about which fabrics sit next to his skin, and is so used to white cotton in this area he couldn't imagine anything else would feel good. But the silky stuff feels nice. It is lighter, and luxuriously cool against his skin, especially those parts where he isn't so hairy - his cock, for instance. The front of the underwear isn't constructed with room for this portion of his anatomy, but then there's nothing there so generous it won't fit inside.
With a deep breath he moves on to the girdle and brassiere. His hands are clumsy with nerves, and it takes him several attempts to get the fiddly little metal hooks to sit in the eyes. He hops awkwardly into each stocking, giving himself yet more bother with the garter clips.
Fully-dressed - or as fully-dressed as one can be in underwear - he takes a moment to collect himself. The girdle is tight around his waist, but not impossibly so. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say he feels secured; as if everything were held in place.
Cautiously, he screws his eyes shut and opens the wardrobe door, steeling his nerves for a glance in the mirror.
He opens his eyes, then closes them tight. Then opens them again.
He doesn't know what he was expecting. It was never going to be a complete transformation into the kind of person Hurley and men like him would actually desire. He does not want to be a woman. But if he could look a little more womanly then Hurley might -
He ignores his face. There's no doing anything as far as that is concerned, he's painfully aware. The effect of the girdle is more subtle than he'd supposed from all that effort getting the thing on, but it certainly does something. It nips in the belly where a lady's waist would be and encourages the fat down to his hips, insinuating him into a more shapely figure. He runs his arms up and down the fabric, feeling out the new shape.
Speaking of which… James can see his face redden in the mirror at the thought of it, but he brings his attention at last to the brassiere. He had pulled it on haphazardly, and takes a moment to shift the flesh inside to be more comfortable.
James knows he has more flesh on his chest than is considered attractive in a man. He has tried to console himself by observed how Clark's chest is even larger than his own, but Clarks is muscle and James's just flab.
He doesn't know how Hurley can have bought him something that fits so well, but fit it does. The brassiere holds his chest up, but it also must have some sort of padding in it because it really makes him look like he has… tits. That's the sort of word Hurley would use. Tits. James prods his enhanced chest cautiously. Then he cups his hands around it, feeling with interest. Is this what a girl's bosoms would feel like? Surely not.
James turns to one side for a different view. His bottom is too flat, his stomach - even in the girdle - too round. But his tits, while perhaps not as generous as actual women’s, are a notable change. He remembers imagines for a moment what it would look like if he wore this get up to the office, the brassiere making itself known under his work clothes. He imagines Hurley's eyes widening as he sees James’ chest protruding under his white cotton shirt. Hurley would lock the door, press James up against a wall, touch him all over and then maybe, perhaps he might… kiss him.
James is hard in his knickers. Not wanting to ruin them he struggles out of the clothing. Just as he unclips the stockings he fancies he hears the front door go, and with his movements both clumsy and frantic, manages to tear a huge hole in one of the stockings.
“Bugger.”
*
Hurley rests a hand on James's desk, leaning right down so their faces are mere inches apart.
“Why don't you use the nice present I gave you, Jimmy?”
This time, torn between a polite acknowledgement of the gift and an indication he won't be wearing it to the office any time soon, the wires in James’s brain get crossed somehow.
“I ripped a hole in the stockings,” he blurts out, thankful that no one is present to overhear them as Hurley chuckles delightedly.
“Well, never mind that, Jimmy,” he says, standing up and tousling James's hair, “I'll get you more things. Nicer things.”
Then he breezes off out the door, leaving James blinking and dry-mouthed.
Re: FILL: will you love me tomorrow, Hurley/James, E, sexual harassment, dubious consent 3/3
(Anonymous) 2024-12-28 10:05 am (UTC)(link)These worries are plaguing him still as he downs the dregs of his third drink. Hurley says something he doesn’t quite catch among the chatter of other guests and the soft piano music.
“Pardon?”
“Would you like to see my hotel room?”
“I thought you lived in the city,” says James.
“I do.”
All the way to Hurley’s room James keeps up a nervous chatter about how it must be nice to stay in a different place for a little while, even if you haven’t gone away from home - home as in the city that is, not home as in the house. Although does Hurley think of London as being his home, given that he is an Australian? He certainly thought of Cambridge as home for a little while although -
Hurley opens the door to his room, and James follows him inside. He looks around dutifully.
“It’s splendid,” he says, truthfully. “It’s a very lovely room.”
The room is large, far larger and far, far more lavish than James’s actual bedroom. Even though the room is so large, Hurley stands close beside him.
“Oh, I’ve got the - “ James turns to face him, clutching his briefcase to his chest and patting it. “I’ve brought the… stuff.”
Hurley chuckles.
“I could tell. I’m only surprised it wasn’t intercepted by a spy from the Eastern bloc, the way you were guarding it.
James opens and closes his mouth several times.
“Get dressed,” says Hurley, gesturing to the bathroom. “Oh, and take these.”
He takes a pair of stockings from his inside breast pocket, and tosses them over to James, who does not manage to catch them. James is alarmed at Hurley’s recklessness, carrying such compromising items around with him, but awfully impressed at his daring. He picks up the stockings from the thick carpet and retreats to the bathroom.
He is a little more experienced in how to dress himself than before, but also a little tipsy, and this averages out to the same amount of clumsiness. He looks in the mirror, unsure what Hurley wants to see in him. His face is very red, and he tries to smooth down his hair, which is reasserting its natural height and unruliness. He hasn’t really thought this far ahead. He just wants to please Hurley and for Hurley not to stop touching him. Are they going to kiss? Will he like it if they do?
He slips back into the bedroom, only to see Hurley standing at the foot of the bed, tinkering with some kind of camera. He looks up, and wolf-whistles, while James looks down at his stockinged feet, abashed.
“Lovely. Pop on the bed, will you, Jimmy.”
“What’s… what’s all this?” says James, looking at the camera cautiously.
“You don’t mind, do you?” asks Hurley, as casually as if he were requesting permission to smoke.
“No,” says James, nonplussed, “No, of course not.”
“Marvellous.”
James climbs onto the bed, and Hurley grins.
“Lovely, James. Look at you. Now, do exactly as I tell you.”
What follows is a bit of a blur, as Hurley guides James in how to position his body, where to look and what on earth he should do with his face. James is sure he’s a terrible model, but he does his best. The trickiest part is that with the soft fabric over his prick, and the gentle touches from Hurley to guide his body into the right pose, he’s in constant danger of getting hard. It comes as a relief when Hurley tells him to relax, and starts fiddling with the camera.
“All right,” says Hurley, going to the wardrobe, “Now this one.”
He pulls out something powdery blue, hangs it over his arm and thrusts it at James. James blinks in confusion. He wants to ask some more questions, but Hurley seems so assured, so absolutely natural that perhaps James has missed something obvious.
The second outfit is a little nighty with a fluffy trim, and a fancy ladies’ dressing gown in the same translucent material with more fluffy stuff. As James poses for the second set of photographs the feathery bits tickle him in a way that is more pleasant than uncomfortable, but still makes him squirm.
As before, Hurley asks for him to assume some embarrassing postures, but seems quite pleased with the results. He hums happily to himself as he goes back to the wardrobe.
“One more,” he tells him, cheerfully.
James emerges from the bathroom for the third time in some confusion. The bra of this white underwear is all joined up with the girdle and he can’t fathom how to get the thing on. Hurley reassures him as he helps him into the garment, telling him how well he’s done with the outfits so far, how super the pictures will be. James nods, unsure how else to respond, and worried about how his body is reacting to Hurley’s hands on his body, and the way he tugs the corset lacings tighter around his waist. It had been easier to hide his half-hard cock under the nighty but now he’s in knickers again his erection is unfortunately apparent.
Hurley comes back to the front of him, looking him up and down.
“Sorry,” says James, miserably. He goes to cross his hands over his crotch, but Hurley gently takes hold of his wrists and pulls them apart.
“Don’t worry about it,” says Hurley, looking up at him reassuringly. “Happens to us all. We’ll get these photos done double pace.”
James can hardly think, his mind is preoccupied with his heartbeat in his chest, the pulse of arousal in his prick, and the click click click of Hurley’s camera shutter. When Hurley tells him to relax, James flops back on the bed, the relief of not having to stay in awkward positions trumping the relief that would be getting out of the tight clothes. He hears movement beside him, but doesn’t realise until Hurley is right in front of him that Hurley has removed his trousers.
“Hello,” says James, then feels foolish for having managed to say something and nothing at all at the same time.
Hurley shuffles between James’s legs. He realises now that Hurley has taken off his underpants as well - James can see the head of his cock as his shirttails ride up. James isn’t sure what to do, but Hurley is looking at him reassuringly, and he moves James’s legs wider and further back with the same care he had taken over the poses for photographs. Hurley’s erection presses against the crotch of James’s underwear. He rubs his cock there, thrusting his hips so it rubs James’s balls and and the base of his prick.
James can’t help but cry out - it’s only partly the surprise: mostly it’s just nice to have someone touching him there. And Hurley is hard too, so he must want to do this to James. He must like the way he looks, or something else about him. If James has to dress up like this for Hurley every time so they can do this, he doesn’t mind.
Hurley leans forward over James’s body, grabbing where the underwear turns his chest into tits. He presses his head into James’s neck. James feels his open mouth there, and wonders if Hurley is going to kiss him, and he sort of does, because he starts to suck and bite him, which hurts, but James doesn’t mind. It feels nice, as if Hurley can’t help but want to taste more of him.
Now that Hurley’s body is pressed against him completely there’s more pressure on James’s cock. He knows from dirty jokes that it would be embarrassing to come too soon, so he holds back, even as he can’t help himself from rutting up against Hurley.
At last, Hurley groans and his hips stutter. Certain this must at last be his sign to let go, James closes his eyes and gives in to the pleasure that’s been building and building, and lies back as his cock pulses fluid into his underwear.
He expects, when he opens his eyes, to see Hurley with a soft, delighted look in his eyes, like a man in a film. But Hurley is looking down between them, where their combined semen soaks the white fabric of James’s knickers. Then he pulls away. James watches as Hurley pulls his underpants back on, humming a little tune to himself.
“You’d best clean yourself up and pop your togs back on,” says Hurley, turning back to James as he rebuttons his trousers. His customary grin is plastered on his face. “Shall I call you a cab?”
James heaves himself up from the bed and shuffles off to the bathroom, mumbling something about the Bakerloo line.