(pull) - sender pulls receiver roughly to them
James knows a lot of things are wrong.
He knows it's wrong to sneak into someone's room in the middle of the night, uninvited.
He knows it's wrong to crawl into bed with them, uninvited.
He also knows it's wrong to get under the covers with them, in only a t-shirt and boxers, and put an arm around them and press close to them, uninvited. Bury his face against their neck, breathe against it. Uninvited.
It was perhaps most wrong of all to slip sleeping pills into that person's dinner meal shake, wasn't it? Maybe? Who knows what's most wrong at this point. One thing has led to the other, all a part of what he has been calculating this entire time, the sole reason why he asked the father of the person sleeping next to him to let him come over for slumber parties in the first place - so that he, James Wolfe, could have him.
Have him, and eventually keep him. Wouldn't that be nice?
Well, he'll have to start with having him first. He's waited so long. It's all been leading up to this, all the sucking up to his father, all the pampering, the delicate dancing around the other man's preferences and requirements and needs. James has needs too, and wants. And what he needs and wants are the same thing. And sometimes, James knows, you have to take what you need and want.
He knows that's wrong too. But that has never stopped him before. And it won't stop him now. Especially not when he has what he needs and wants right here, right now, ready to be taken.
He's not in any sort of rush. He doesn't want to hurry. He'd rather take his time. Savor this. He'd much prefer it if his precious little pet savors it too. They have the rest of the night, after all. And his many other nights to be spent here. James has this opportunity to show him what he's been missing; to show him what he could always have; and all James needs to do is make it good for him. That's not difficult at all. He knows all the right places to touch, and if he doesn't, he knows how to find them. People always give themselves away. They can't help it. It's just simple biology.
So he lays there for a little while, holding his charge close, snuggling, waiting for him to properly wake up. When he does, should he try to struggle, that's when he will tighten his grip on him, pin him to him, back to chest, and chuckle into his ear, "There you are, my dearest Ed. I've really missed your company lately, with you spending all your time in here and on that project at work. I hope you don't mind that I came in for a cuddle."
(I'm so sorry Ed! I feel so gross writing this and you deserve so much better! 😞)
Ed doesn't know why he'd gotten tired so suddenly. He'd been... mostly fine through the day. Yes, he'd been putting in more hours, pushing to figure out why the laser wasn't returning anything, pushing past when he probably should have stopped to rest, but he was used to that, used to working late at night because if he stopped to rest, his mind would wander places he'd rather not, and because it gave him an excuse not to talk to the man who was looking after him.
It happened sometimes like that: he'd be fine, he'd push through something, and then a day or two later, he'd crash.
Except he couldn't place what specifically he'd overexerted on.
Either way, he'd had his shake and an hour or so later, had to been too tired to think clearly, and had gone to bed.
He awoke sluggishly to the draft of cold air as the covers were lifted, and the mattress shifted beneath him.
He could barely process what was happening beyond vague confusion, but his reaction to arms wrapping around him was instinctual and near instantaneous:
All at once, his muscles relaxed, and he became limp, as though he were nothing more than a human sized rag doll.
Struggling only ever made the situation worse.
