Francis Milton | Dresden U

Francis didn’t hate his father. Hatred would’ve meant feeling something. What he felt was a kind of static, a background buzz that reminded him he was still owned, no matter how far he ran.

His father’s love was always conditional. Like a contract with invisible ink. The kind he could only read after he’d already signed away his self-worth.

Being rich didn’t protect Francis from being made small. If anything, it taught him how to bottle it all up, how to put on a mask. He looked like someone who should be happy. The Milton name opened every door except the ones he actually wanted to go through. That was the cruelest part.

He learned early that love in that house came in transactions. Behave. Smile. Sit still. Be manly. Obey. Break any of those rules?

Well. Ernest Milton didn’t always need to hit to hurt. He just needed to look at his sons like they were wasting his time. Francis had made a talent out of wasting it.

He’d also learned the consequences of doing so the hard way.

When they were kids, Vince, his twin brother, took a hit meant for him. He was older by seven minutes and he would never let Francis forget it. He’d always been the strong one, but Francis knew it wasn’t because he wanted to be. It was because someone had to be. Ernest Milton didn’t always need to hit to hurt because he had his men do it for him.

It was the first time Francis truly understood how his father’s corruption worked. He’d keep his hands clean by making other people do it. Ernest genuinely believed he was innocent of his crimes for that reason, but Francis knew how deep his father’s corruption went.

Vince, on the other hand, still gave their father the benefit of the doubt. He’s a good father. Just has his own ways of raising us. He does it because he loves us, is what he always said after being disciplined by their father’s men.

It took Vince getting scarred for it to stop. One scar on his right eyebrow, and one under his left eye. Francis remembered getting his right eyebrow pierced as an act of solidarity for his brother as soon as he turned eighteen. His father had stared at it with distaste, while his mother pursed her lips to cover her smile.

It was the first time he’d seen her smile in years. Blaire Milton had once been beautiful in the way that made tabloids ache. Now she was quiet. Glass-eyed. Her presence felt more like an echo. Francis could’ve burned the mansion to the ground and she wouldn’t have looked up from her pills. She didn’t object to anything anyone did. But that was the problem, she didn’t react at all. She once held the power to influence Ernest. She was the only one he listened to, and then she turned to drugs.

Now, at twenty-two years old, Francis was shoved into a Law major while his brother did Political Science. Grooming at its fucking best.

Francis had earned his title as the problem child. He was always getting into trouble, regardless of the consequences. Maybe it was cruel of him. Manipulative. Entitled. But he always stirred trouble with the relief of knowing his brother would fix it.

He didn’t ask Vince to clean up his messes. He just... expected it. Because Vince always did. Vince never told him to stop. He just looked at him like he was wasting something valuable, something Vince had bled to protect.

But it wasn’t enough to stop Francis from seeking trouble. The thrill made him feel alive, the attention sipped into his dry bones and revived him from the tight leash the Milton name had on him.

The first time Francis turned on the camera, he hadn’t meant to keep going, but the attention came like water to a starving plant, and he drank too fast. It was easy to strip for the camera. Easier still to touch himself in ways that once made him flinch, because the viewers didn’t care who his father was. They just cared about the tilt of his mouth, the sweat on his chest, the flush on his cheeks, the way he gasped and moaned and begged for more.

The attention hit harder than any drug. The praise– messy, constant, anonymous, it felt like being touched without consequence. He told himself he could stop whenever he wanted. But who would he be without the gaze?

He’d just finished uploading his latest video on LUXEstream.com under the username ‘GlassPrince’. The comments were already flooding in.

i’ll be good if you just—” babe i’m already buying you the collar.

He cries pretty. I’d ruin him and then apologize with flowers. and then ruin him again.

someone needs to ruin this boy on a livestream and never let him leave

That gagging sound??? when he begged??? anyway i’m proposing marriage in the DMs, don’t tell my husband.

Aren’t you a dude? Why do you whine like a submissive bitch, bro? This is gross.

“Maybe it’s because I am a submissive bitch, bro,” Francis muttered as he scrolled past that one. The comments weren’t always kind. But at least they were watching. At least he existed.

His father had always tried to drill masculinity into him and Vince. It worked on Vince, worked on Francis too, to some degree. He was confident in his masculinity. He just didn’t think he had to be dominant to be masculine. There was something about being controlled, being held during sex that healed him a little. He knew it was the parental issues. He had no problem with it.

Francis’ eyes brightened as his eyes landed on the comment he’d been most excited about.

‘Good video as always, Prince.’

If he had a tail, it would be wagging by now. The comment came from one of his earliest supporters. He’d been streaming since he was twenty. Two years with this supporter who always praised him– not too much, but just enough to keep him wanting more.

There was something unnerving about them. That kind of loyalty felt too pure for this space. Too quiet. It made him feel seen in ways that scared him. He often found himself waiting for their name to light up in the chat when they occasionally texted him after his streams. He remembered a question they asked once. “Do you ever get lonely when the stream ends?”

It had taken him back so badly that he didn’t reply. Instead, he’d turned his wifi off and hit them with the lame excuse of, “Sorry, fell asleep” the next day. They didn’t push and he felt relieved.

Francis continued to read more comments, some making him roll his eyes, some making him smile. He was good at making people want him. He was better at making them feel like he wanted them back. That was the trick. That was the illusion. Sometimes, he didn’t recognize the person he became on camera. Other times, it was the only version of himself that felt honest.

Ping.

Francis’ eyes moved to his inbox. A new message. His palms grew sweaty as he opened it, a new message from his favorite supporter.

‘Tuesday at 7PM. Obscura Motel. Want to meet up?’

His breath hitched. His neck went hot. The hoodie clung like it wanted to choke him. There were so many reasons why he should say no. What if they were someone he knew in real life? What if they knew his father? What if they exposed him and everyone found out? He’d always worn masks in his videos, always covered his face, hair, draped his room in darkness so people couldn’t trace him.

But this wasn’t just anyone. It was them. He imagined they’d be the same in person: calm, curious, undemanding. But part of him hoped they wouldn’t be. He hoped they'd need him the way he needed them.

He read the message six times before he replied, and even then, he didn’t know why he said yes.

---

Francis thought about it for days. Thought about what kind of person they might be. What kind of person he must be to say yes.

Tuesday couldn’t have come quicker enough. He was noticeably excited. Even Vince had asked him if he was up to something from how jumpy he was. Francis fervently denied, but Vince always knew when his brother was up to something.

Francis didn’t tell Vince about the cam stuff, not because he was afraid though. Vince would protect him no matter what. But because if Vince knew, he’d never stop trying to save him from it.

It’s simply that there were things he couldn’t explain to his twin, how it felt to finally be wanted, even if it was through a screen.

Now, Francis stood in front of room A516 on the second floor of a cheap hotel. Every part of him felt sensitive, and it was not because he’d filmed a video earlier that day. He’d already placed the key in and unlocked the door, but his hand hovered over the knob, too scared to turn it.

No going back now.

He turned the handle, and pushed the door open. The room was draped in darkness as he stood in the doorway. They’d already texted him earlier that they’d arrived, and knowing that they were hiding in the room somewhere had his heart beating faster.

What if they kill me here and no one finds my body for days? A part of him thought. Too fucking late for that, another part chimed in.

“...You didn’t say it would be this dark,” He mumbled, hand still on the knob.

Silence. He squinted, making out the shape of a chair in the middle of a room. He closed the door behind him, walking deeper into the room.

“Is this... for me?” He asked, running his fingers along the edge of the chair. He heard shuffling, and his lips tipped up at the corners into a small smile. “You’re real,” He murmured. “I wasn’t sure.” A pause. “You know, it’s kinda creepy to greet me like this.”

Francis plopped down onto the chair, playing with the zipper of his jacket.

“Wanna come out and say hello?” He asked, eyes scanning the dark room. “Or is there something else you want me to do?”