Critical Role kink meme post #3: Unprompted Kinky Writing

[criticalkink]

For people to share their kinky writing that doesn't fit a particular meme prompt. (Links can still be shared to the Completed Fills post.)

Comments

Caleb/Mollymauk, E/NC-17. Voyeurism, needle play, wax play, fire

[(Anonymous)]

ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/13509828

Caleb watches through Frumpkin’s eyes as Molly saunters into Orna’s tent. She looks up and beckons to him.

“Once more with feeling, then?”

“Not if you keep up that attitude.” She points. “Leave your things over there.”

Molly tugs off his boots, first, and then shrugs off his coat. He lays it out and reverently wraps his swords in it. The jacket goes next, folded and laid atop of the swords. Then he pulls off his shirt. Caleb, back in his room at the Nestled Nook, sucks in a breath at the layers and layers of scars crisscrossing Molly’s lavender skin. The soft lamplight throws both them and the wiry lines of muscle in his arms and shoulders, into sharp relief. Little bits of gold glint in his nipples and navel. He sees more when Molly tugs his pants off his hips. Caleb counts them-- ten running from root to tip, and one hooked through-- well. Caleb reaches down to tug at his trousers.

He should just blink back to his own body, read those books, work on noting down any new spells…

Back in the tent, Orna lights candles. They are white and blue and green, in sharp contrast to the burnt umber walls of her tent and her fiery hair. Mollymauk stretches out on the floor and folds his arms beneath his head.

“Blindfold?” She asks.

“Not this time. No. Thank you.”

He shifts and fidgets on the floor as Orna moves around the tent. For a moment, he looks over to the mouth of the tent, where Frumpkin’s head pokes under the bottom of the flap. Then, as she passes him, she lands a resounding slap on his thigh. Molly yelps. His eyes snap back to Orna. His cock, Caleb cannot help but notice, stirs between his legs.

“M’all yours, gorgeous.”

“I’d believe that if you weren’t leaving us.”

“Orna…”

“I know. We don’t have to talk about it.”

Mollymauk lets out a long sigh. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” She sets down a rolled leather case and a dark glass bottle.

He raises his head, the jewelry on his horns glinting. “Keep going until I beg you to stop, s’that it?”

“No.” Orna takes him by the jaw and shoves him back down. Molly’s eyes flutter shut and his mouth drops open on a sigh. “Look at me. No. Because you’re an idiot, and you’d let me really damage you. How do you stop me?”

“Scimitar.”

“Good. Sit up.”

He does, and Orna picks up a length of rope. With it, she binds Molly’s arms, the rope forming webbing between his hands that cradles his head and tangles around his horns. When she’s done, Molly cannot lower his arms. When Orna leans in to check the bindings, Molly whispers something to her. Again, his eyes wander to the tent flap. She nods and tugs him up onto his knees. When she kisses him, it’s sharp and demanding. She tugs at his lower lip and runs her tongue over the sharp point of one of his canines. Her fingers drag at his hair, bending Molly back. His hips press flush against hers. She backs off, ignoring his whine of protest. Then her fingers curl around his cock and stroke.

Caleb, hand trembling, undoes the fastenings on his trousers and matches her rhythm. His calluses drag at his cock until he blindly fishes out the little bottle of oil, half empty, and slicks his palm.

Molly’s fully hard, now, the head of his cock reddened and shiny. He pants against Orna’s mouth. Caleb can see the flex of his muscles as he tries to hold still. Then Orna raises her hand. The swing is widely telegraphed, but the crack of her hand against Molly’s cock makes Caleb flinch. Molly yells and folds on himself, hands jerking against the crisscrossing rope.

“Hell’s bells--”

He doesn’t get any more out before Orna’s hand catches him across the face. He drops, half sitting. When he tries to push himself back up to both knees, she strikes him again. He hasn’t, Caleb sees, gone soft at all. He eases himself back, abdomen tensing until he’s flat on the ground again, his legs in a careless sprawl. Orna gives his cock a final stroke, and then reaches for her fans-- a smaller pair than what they saw her using in her performance. She lights them from the candles before kneeling over Molly’s thighs. The fans swing down.

Caleb freezes. Molly arches as the flames lick over his skin. They don’t seem to burn him, and Caleb lets out a long breath.

“C’mon--” Molly starts, and then yells as the fan rushes past again. The purple of his skin takes on a pinkish tinge.

The fan swings by again, but high enough that nothing happens. Molly shivers and whines. He opens his mouth, catches some look from Orna, and grins up at her. Then he arches up to her. Twice more, she denies him. Molly starts to writhe under her, tugging at his bonds. He yells again, stomach flexing as the flames lick his chest. The light catches on the gold and silver of his piercings. Again, the fans swing past, raising a flush on Molly’s upper arms. He bucks and shouts as she works him over with them, louder when she leaves him wanting. He only twists away once-- when the fans swing past his cock. Orna settles her weight more firmly on his thighs, but she keeps the fans higher after that. After a few final passes, she puts the fans out and sets them aside. Molly lies panting on the floor. And again, his eyes flick open. They don’t seem entirely focused.

Orna hums. She smooths her hands down his chest, over his abdomen. Her nails scrape just above his hip bones. Then she drags a finger up the underside of his cock.

What, Caleb wonders, do those little gold bars feel like?

“Would you like me to hurt you more?” She asks in a low whisper.

Molly nods and clears his throat. “Please. I need whatever you’ll give.”

She shifts off of his legs. “Roll over, then. And don’t you dare rub off on my tent.”

With a sigh, Molly rolls onto his front. Orna reaches under him to arrange his cock comfortably. Then she unties and unrolls the leather case. Caleb realizes a moment late that it contains long, thin pins with copper handles. The bottle holds alcohol which she uses, in addition to the flames of the candles, to sanitize them. She scrubs her hands with some of its contents. With a bit of bandage, she swipes a little of the alcohol over the back of his shoulder. Then she braces a hand between his shoulder blades, the first needle pinched between the thumb and forefinger of her other hand. Caleb can see the slowing rhythm as his ribs rise and fall. It hitches for a moment as the needle sinks in high on one shoulder. Molly gives a long, low whine. His fingers twitch and curl tight in his hair.

Caleb’s hand tightens on his cock. He can’t hear himself groan, but he can feel it. He brings his free hand up to cover his mouth. He wants to reach out and smooth the tension from Molly’s arms. Orna does that for him. She picks up the next needle and a new bit of bandage. Swipe and pin, swipe and pin. She continues as the tension slowly bleeds out of Molly, rolling away with the little drops of blood that trickle down his back. The copper and steel gleam in the firelight. Back in his room, the pace of Caleb’s hand slows. Molly’s hips shift occasionally, but rarely with any real intent.

“Good job.” Orna murmurs, setting the next needle. “Deep breath.”

The needles make an almost lace-like pattern on his skin that runs from halfway down his back. When she finishes, she rinses her hands with more alcohol. Then she runs her fingers down the handles of the needles. Molly keens. A tremble works through him and a string of words in a language Caleb doesn’t speak pours from his lips. Orna flicks one, and Caleb gasps along with Molly. A fresh bead of blood spills down his side. She laughs, and Molly swears softly.

“You’re almost sweet when you’re quiet, you know.”

And, predictably-- Caleb has known this man for a matter of days, and he still knew this was coming-- Molly curls in all of the fingers on both hands except for the middle ones. Orna slaps him hard on the ass. Molly’s hips jerk and he moans, long and low. Caleb, back in his room, echoes him. He watches Orna slowly withdraw the shining needles and drop each one into a second bottle. She corks it and runs her hands up his back. Molly stretches beneath her and sighs.

“Do I get to thank you, now?”

Orna laughs again. “Turn back over.”

Molly does, and Orna wastes no time in hiking up her skirt, tugging off her leggings, and sinking down on Molly’s cock. Both of them cry out. Caleb imagines it because he can’t help it. What those gold bars would feel like sliding up inside someone, the bump and-- He stops, curses-- hopefully under his breath, and squeezes tight at the base of his cock.

“Fuckin’ angels--” Molly groans, his eyes squeezed tight shut.

She rides him-- hard, fast, and greedy, and he takes it. He thrusts up into her as much as he can.

“Don’t come.” She orders, breathless. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare.”

His answer is to groan and dig his nails into his scalp. The slap of skin on skin is loud in the tent. They make a beautiful picture together, Orna above him, Molly arching beneath her. She comes grinding down on his cock. Then, slowly, she pulls off of him. He makes a plaintive sound.

“Oh shush.”

Molly nips at the finger that she presses to his lips. But he raises his head when she slips her hand under it, and holds himself like that, half upright, as she unpicks the knots around his wrists. She shoves the pillow from her bedroll beneath his head. He shakes out his hands and stretches his arms out to either side.

Orna lifts her skirt again. This time, she settles with her knees to either side of his head, facing the rest of his body. She gasps and her eyes close. A moment later, she reaches over and picks up a candle. Orna tests the wax on her forearm before she tips the candle over Molly’s chest. White wax spatters down on his skin. He whines, and she shivers. She tilts it again. This time, she draws a line up the center of Molly’s chest. His nails dig into the cloth floor of the tent.

If Caleb only had a decent vantage point, he might hear better the sounds Molly makes. If Orna were not riding Molly’s face, Caleb would be able to take in his expressions. He keeps watching his hands, the flex of muscle in his abdomen and at his hips. He listens to Orna’s keening praise. If she took off that skirt, he would be able to see what Molly was doing with his wicked tongue. Caleb strokes himself a little faster. His breath comes ragged, and probably loud, although he can’t hear it. He can only be glad that Molly won’t hear him, either.

Orna comes again, her thighs squeezing around Molly’s horns. The candle in her hand wobbles. Wax splashes just above his hips. Caleb clearly hears Molly’s shout, muffled as it is. For a moment, he tenses all over, hips thrusting up against nothing. When Orna climbs off, Caleb hears that he’s cursing. The lower half of his face is wet, his mouth and cheeks flushed. He goes still after another moment. His hands press flat on the floor of the tent again.

“That was close, wasn’t it?”

Molly nods and lets out an incoherent noise.

“I want to hurt you a little more, first.”

He nods again, much more emphatically. Orna laughs and takes up a fresh candle. Once more, she settles over Molly’s thighs. With one hand, she tugs at the jewelry in his nipples and navel. With the other, she drips wax over his chest, his stomach, his hips. She runs her nail just under the head of his cock.

“Please--” Molly arches up. He starts to say something, visibly changes his mind, and continues “Please, please, please.”

“Shhh…” She gives his cock a lazy stroke and stands. “Spread your legs.”

Molly obeys immediately, bending his knees and pressing his heels into the floor. Orna settles between them. She plays back and forth between dripping wax over Molly’s skin and striking the insides of thighs. Her hand cracks against his cock. Molly bucks, yells, and Caleb spills over his hand.

“Scheiße.” Caleb pants. “Fucking--” He feels rather than hears the rough, half-strangled noise he makes next. He claps his clean hand over his mouth while he fumbles for a cloth.

Molly is panting and whimpering, now. Wax drips closer to his cock, and he shouts again.

“Fuckin’ please.” His voice comes out half a snarl, half keen. “Mercy.”

“Alright.”

There’s a final slap, the sound cracking through the small tent, and Molly comes. For all his earlier shouting, he’s silent now, shaking, with his eyes squeezed shut.

Orna blows out the candles, leaving them in the relative shadow of her single lamp. Then she arranges herself on her bedroll and pats her lap. Molly lays his head in it. They speak quietly, in a language Caleb does not understand, as she cleans the needle marks on his back and removes the hardened wax from his chest. He takes sips from a skin of water. Slowly, his thumb rubs back and forth over the inside of Orna’s knee.

“Thank you.” He murmurs, back in Common. “S’good. I feel good.”

“We’re going to miss you, Molly.”

“I’ll miss you, too. But it was time for me to move on. I’ll see you again.”

“Will you?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Her fingers comb through the amethyst curls of his hair. “Who will you go to when you need someone to give you this?”

Molly shrugs. “I’ll figure it out. You look after yourself, too, alright? I know there are more people than me who’ll let you light into them from time to time.”

He lingers and kisses her softly before getting to his feet. “Thank you.”

Molly dresses, very carefully arranging his clothes over what has to be sore skin. He pulls on his boots and checks the hang of his swords at his waist. Then he slips quietly from the tent.

Caleb, sitting in his room, jolts back to himself too late.

Molly looks down at Frumpkin and smirks. “Well? Did you enjoy the show?”

"A Little Too Close" (Caleb/Nott, Rated T)

[afullmargin]

I wrote a shippy little Caleb/Nott episode tag for C2E5 that absolutely nobody asked for.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/13628577

Fill: "Puppetmaster" (Ivan/Erika, Explicit, D/s)

[(Anonymous)]

A/N: Inspired by Fitting (https://criticalkink.dreamwidth.org/2589.html?thread=529693#cmt529693) by afullmargin. CW: straitjacket bondage, D/s, apparently reads like dubcon at the start but this is a pre-negotiated scene, threatened eye trauma.

xxx

The straitjacket, probably pushing the limits of what Xander could fit into, hangs loosely on Erika’s slight frame. Ivan moves around her, tightening buckles as she stands barefoot in the middle of the set, a small white-walled room with a bland generic single bed in a corner. Because Selina’s the one who was actually institutionalized, Erika gets that one extra prop; the others all shot in front of a very plain wall.

“If anyone saw just this part as a preview they’d get totally the wrong impression,” she says.

Ivan doesn’t respond but crosses her arms by tugging on the straps; Erika follows his lead and obediently makes herself semi-comfortable, as much as she can with the heavy canvas pressing into her skin. Her white tank top affords her some protection but the jacket’s scratchy and she’s already looking forward to getting out of it.

There’s a scraping sound from the doorway as someone brings in some large piece of equipment, probably a camera rig, that Erika can’t see because she’s currently facing the bed. She does, however, notice that someone has made an odd addition to the room’s decor: a single white rose lies upon the bed’s one flat pillow.

“Ivan, what’s with the rose?”

He doesn’t say anything, and Erika feels the first thrill of fear down her spine. She’s seen Dread, she knows a little of what to expect from him, and yet she can’t quite get a handle on what he’s up to.

He pulls her back against him, turning them both as the piece of equipment is moved across the room so that she can’t yet see it, and whispers, “Scared yet?”

“You wish,” Erika says, but his lips are so close to her throat that he can probably feel the uptick in her pulse. She can certainly feel his mocking smile in response. Realization begins to trickle into her mind. “This isn’t the actual shoot, is it.”

“You wish,” Ivan echoes her, and yanks the straitjacket’s sleeves, tugging the last of the arm buckles tight and whipping closed the ones that march down her back. “This is something to give you a little practice at horror gaming... scaredy cat.”

Erika turns her head to see if whoever brought the noisy equipment in is still in the room, ready to ask for aid, and sees only the closing door. Ivan lets her go--Erika falls to her knees--and moves to lock the door. When he comes back to her he stands over her just looking down for a long moment, and Erika feels fear rise in her throat.

“Don’t bother screaming.” He sounds disinterested as he picks her up off the floor by the back of the jacket, like she’s a bag of groceries.

“I assume nobody’s around to hear,” Erika says sarcastically, unable to resist an attempt at kicking him.

Ivan just lifts her higher and holds her away so that she misses. “They’re around. They just know we’re filming horror, and that could mean all kinds of noises.” He carries her over to the bed, Erika flailing the whole time, and plops her down on her back.

The thing that was brought in is a freestanding pull-up rack. For some reason it has fake ivy twined around the uprights. For a reason that makes much more sense, there are coils of rope hanging from one end of the crossbar, and Erika goes bright red as she wonders what whoever brought it in thought they were going to do.

They were probably right.

Ivan fusses with the ropes, getting them knotted to and hanging from the crossbar to his liking. Erika tries kicking him again and he catches her foot, producing a wide canvas tiedown from under the thin mattress and restraining her by the ankle. He barely looks at her, like he's just swatting a pesky fly before going back to weaving the ropes together.

When he's done there's still a couple of hanks of rope left. Erika looks at them and the rig and bites her lip. Ivan catches her expression and grasps one of the uprights, pulling himself up to actually stand on the bed, pristine black shoes either side of Erika's thighs, before lowering himself to kneel over her, both hands gripping the crossbar. He's not speaking, but when he pulls up, initially just a couple of inches so he's almost swaying over her, then right up til his chin’s over the bar--with a soft grunt of effort that's surprisingly arousing--the rack barely moves. He holds his position for a count of five and then lowers himself back down, ass resting on her thighs.

Erika's so busy being relieved by this demonstration of the strength of the rig that Ivan's got her pants unbuttoned and is meditatively fingering the mint green lace on her panties before she snaps back to the present.

“Hey, whoa, what the hell?” Her voice comes out embarrassingly squeaky and she curses herself.

Ivan just looks down at her, fingers creeping up to the small strip of belly exposed where the jacket has ridden up.

When he begins to speak she understands why he's been so quiet thus far. Why waste words when using a select few will heighten the effect?

“A Storyteller’s role is to captivate their audience, to make them feel deep emotions.” He leans forward, his weight solid on her, and Erika trembles. His breath is warm against her lips, but he doesn't kiss her. Instead, he retrieves the rose and sits back up. Now she's looking at it she sees it's white, long-stemmed, with some but not all of the thorns removed, and what looks like a lobster clasp affixed to the end of the stem with silver wire. “The three base emotions are love, hate... and fear.” He strokes the soft petals against her cheek. Erika’s practically holding her breath waiting for his next words. “The best stories incorporate all three, often in combination.” He turns the stem and brings one wicked curved thorn into view, maybe three inches from Erika, and Erika stops breathing altogether. “I always try to create the best stories.”

And he begins moving the thorn toward her eye.

Erika breaks when it's still an inch away, screaming shrilly and wildly shaking her head. Ivan puts the rose down beside her head and cups her cheeks in his hands, stilling her thrashing. His mouth comes down over hers, muffling her, and Erika catches his lower lip between hers, turning it into an actual kiss for a second before she snarls, lips drawing back, and her teeth sink into his lip.

Ivan pokes her temple with a thorn, and Erika lets go, panting.

“That's hate and fear,” Ivan says, sitting back up. “Fight and flight, respectively.” His hands move again to her cheeks, thumbs sweeping away two errant tears, and he smiles benevolently down at her. “By the time we're done, you'll love me.”

Erika glares at him. “I don't think so.”

“Hate, fear, love,” Ivan says. “Fight, flee... fuck.”

“They're not the same thing,” Erika retorts.

Ivan slips the stem of the rose under the back of her neck, adjusts it so the white petals are under her chin, and clips the stem’s end just below the lightly scented flower. “You need to let me finish the story before you get to judge that, and we've barely begun.”

Erika's heart is racing, her breathing quick and light and angry and, while Ivan gets off of her and goes back to peeling her tight tartan pants off, she ducks her head, trying to dig her chin under the stupid rose collar and pull it off.

The restraint stays on her ankle even once Ivan's got her pants off the other leg and dragged down to the knee on the restrained one, and Erika looks up, having managed to snag one petal between her teeth, raising an eyebrow.

“While I'm sure doing a frog tie with you trying to kick me in the face would entertain you, I'd prefer not to try it.”

Erika thinks she's misheard for a second but, when Ivan leans over her to begin binding her ankle to her thigh, bending her knee, she understands.

“Oops,” he says deadpan once that leg is restrained. “Forgot these.” He spider-walks his fingertips up her inner thighs, eyes sparkling with good humor as she trembles, and teases along the lace of her panties. “Well, well... I'm already not sure your little objection about loving holds up.” He goes to his knees beside the bed and buries his face against her mound, inhaling deeply. “That's a pretty scent, little petal,” he murmurs.

“Fuck off,” Erika says, spitting out the bit of flower.

She feels his tongue pressed against the wet spot between her thighs, slowly dragging her taste out of the fabric, and part of her wants to call the scene off right now and just do fun things with that tongue and her wetness and the bulge in his neatly pressed pants. But the greater part of her--scaredy-cat, true, even little petal, but final girl--wants to go on.

She refuses to give him the pleasure of a vocal reaction to his tongue, even when it dips briefly under the cloth, but when he brings out the round-ended scissors and carefully snips each side of her panties open so he can remove them without undoing his rope work, that she protests, almost losing her grip on the scene.

“Ivan, those were twenty bucks!”

He looks briefly ashamed, then rather more startled as the price sinks in, and murmurs “fuck, sorry,” before regaining his composure. “I'll be sure to make it up to you,” he says, putting the scissors aside and giving her a heartfelt apologetic look.

Then her friend Ivan's gone and the Storyteller is back.

Re: Fill: "Puppetmaster" (Ivan/Erika, Explicit, D/s)

[(Anonymous)]

Erika feels exposed as he pulls her panties off and drapes them over the railing at the foot of the bed; more so as he begins binding her other leg, calmly focusing on the ropework as though he hasn’t just spread her thighs enough to be able to look straight at the gleam of slick arousal between them. He stops halfway through to roll his sleeves up to mid-forearm and Erika hitches a worried breath, wondering if the gesture’s to precede a slap or something more intimate, but he's just getting them out of the way.

Ivan finishes the frog tie and looks down at her to admire his handiwork. Erika experimentally tries to close her thighs; she can bring them together a little bit more, but not much. She wasn’t expecting to be comfortable bound ankle to thigh, but it’s surprisingly not too bad.

Then Ivan spreads her wide again, passing a cord from each ankle up to her elbows with a jingle of metal rings, and this time she can’t close her legs at all.

It’s embarrassing how aroused she is. There’s still that undercurrent of fear, true, but his level gaze on her, now slowly roaming over her body from rose collar down to wet pink folds, is filled with heat. Erika can feel the hairs on her arms prickling, her nipples hardening, and squirms a little in the confines of the jacket, trying to relieve the tension.

“I’m going to make you fly,” Ivan says, voice darkly promising, and the overhead ropes come into play, attaching to she’s not even sure what on the back of the jacket. He gives them good solid tugs before he hoists her so much as an inch off the bed, silently demonstrating their strength. Erika nods. This is a multi-layered trust exercise and that trust goes both ways; Ivan has to know that Erika’s all right with each step before continuing.

She feels exhilaration on top of everything else as he lifts her in earnest. Being manhandled across the room was one thing; this is entirely different. Dangling in the air, feeling the tug at her back but also the way her slight weight is distributed across the ropes. Ivan raises her to a foot off the bed, lowers her almost right back down as a test of the ropes’ flexibility, and then raises her again til she’s two feet off the bed and swaying a little before coiling the ropes around blunt hooks on the uprights and tying them off to keep her in the air.

“What a pretty little petal, tangled up in my web,” Ivan says softly, watching her with dark intent eyes. His earlier formal disinterest is long gone. With a touch he sets her slowly spinning. Erika moans, disorientation quick to grip her desire-dazed mind. She can’t turn far before the ropes cling to each other and turn her back the other way, but it’s plenty.

Ivan picks up the petal that she spat out from the white hospital waffle blanket that covers the bed. Reaching between her legs, his eyes lock on hers as he slowly rubs it along her slick vulva. Erika whimpers and closes her eyes, but she can still feel it when he presses the petal firmly against her clit, rubbing a couple of tiny circles before withdrawing his hand and leaving the petal stuck to her.

“I think this story’s beginning to center too much on one emotion,” Ivan says, and his voice has gone from darkly seductive to cold. He loosens his tie and pulls it free, and though Erika tries to tilt her head away the silk drops over her eyes and all she gets is a couple of rose scratches for her troubles as Ivan knots the blindfold in place.

Darkness falls, and so does silence.

“Ivan?” Erika asks after what she thinks is a minute.

The darkness says nothing. Erika strains her ears but she doesn’t think she can even hear him breathing. He didn’t leave the room; she would have heard the door. But she can’t hear him or anything else, and it makes the darkness close in tighter.

“Ivan?” Her voice is small; scaredy-cat is emerging again. “Ivan, talk to me.”

The silence continues. Her skin feels like it’s creeping and maybe he’s touching her legs with something and maybe she’s just imagining it. She’s beginning to tremble, and it’s making her swing, and the dizzying disorientation is worse in the dark.

“Ivan, please!”

“Boo,” Ivan whispers immediately next to her ear, and Erika shrieks.

Now she can hear him, because as she gets her shit together and stops screaming, he’s laughing; a low, nasty chuckle that sends shivers down her spine. “Oh, scaredy-cat.” He gives her a small push that starts her swinging harder and Erika shrieks again, feeling the world whirl unseen around her.

After a long moment of swinging in space, she hears the squeak of bedsprings and then his arms are around her, bringing her back to equilibrium. His breath is warm on her ear, and there’s a rapidity to it that speaks of excitement, of delight at seeing her in this predicament.

“Look at you, you beautiful creature.” His voice holds the same note of enjoyment. “Where would you even go, if you could get down? Would you crawl out of here to seek help, even if it meant being seen so helpless...” His fingers spider-walk up her thigh again. “So helpless and so wet.”

He’s barely grazing her outer labia and yet Erika can feel that his fingertips are practically gliding over her skin.

“There’d be someone,” she whispers.

“There’d be someone who wouldn’t understand,” Ivan counters. “Don’t you think you’re safer in here... with me?” His lips caress the side of her head, where the newly shorn stubble means she can feel his mouth warm on her scalp.

“No.” Erika tilts her head away from him and feels the thorns bite into her throat again. She’d almost forgotten about the rose collar. “In here, maybe. With you, no.”

Ivan draws in a long breath and lets it out in a satisfied sigh that has a definite sexual quality to it. “I don’t think that’s true.”

Erika gives up on words. She knows where his face is from his breath. She turns her head and spits at him.

“Fuck!” She hears the shifting of the mattress as he pulls back. She doesn’t know whether she hit him or not but feels terribly smug at the reaction that she’s elicited. “Oh, petal, you’re going to regret that.” There’s a moment where she doesn’t know what he’s doing and then the scent of her own arousal comes strongly to her. “Open your mouth.” Lace brushes against her lips; Erika presses them together and shakes her head. “Open it!”

“Mh,” Erika says, shaking her head again.

Ivan’s fingers find her throat, but it’s only with the barest of light touches, a soft press of his thumb under her chin. “Open it,” he says for the third time, and Erika opens her mouth, tasting herself on the damp satin that makes contact with her tongue as Ivan pushes the small bundle between her lips.

“No more spitting. And no more of that silly screaming.” He cups her face between his hands and kisses her forehead. “Well, I suppose you can scream if you like, although you’ll only get a sore throat.”

Erika makes a helpless muffled noise through the gag and hears another of those sighs. When he speaks again his voice holds more than a hint of desire.

“What are you really afraid of here, scaredy-cat?” One finger traces along the top of the blindfold, then down her nose, before coming to rest on her upper lip. “The darkness?” Erika shakes her head. “The disorientation?” He spins her roughly and she squeals, but shakes her head again once he pulls her back to stillness. “Me touching you?” His hands grip her thighs, pulling her against him; she can feel he’s still wearing his shirt and quite possibly everything else as well. She makes a negatory noise and shakes her head for a third time.

“Or...” His fingertip nudges against her clit, dislodging the petal, which flutters to the blanket. “Are you afraid I’ll stop touching you? That I’ll leave you here like this, wet and needy with no recourse to relief?”

Erika nods.

“Ahhhh.” Ivan kisses her forehead again, and then the squeak and shift of springs announces that he’s relocating. She still can’t see him, of course, but every thrill of fear, every pulse of hot anger, is turning to desire, and dear god if he really does leave her now she’s going to have to chew through the canvas and get herself off. She makes a helpless sound of wanting and hears him laugh.

She also hears the sounds of his belt buckle, and a zip, and two thuds as his shoes hit the floor. Suddenly she’s gripped by the need to see him, to touch him, and her hands flex uselessly inside the straitjacket.

A hand touches hers through the stiff material. “Cramps?”

“Nh.”

“Numb?”

“Nh.”

“Just stretching?”

“Nh.”

Ivan pulls her panties out of her mouth. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Want to touch you,” Erika says plaintively.

“Do you, now?” He sounds amused. “You’re not interested in finding out what else I have in mind for you?”

“Of course I am.”

“Then choose.” His breath and then his whiskers tickle her lips as he offers her a soft kiss. “There’s no time that you can’t change your mind.” He touches the rose, plucks a single petal, and brushes it against her cheek. “Just say the word.”

Erika doesn’t have to think it over. “I don’t want to interrupt the story.”

Ivan kisses her again. “Thank you for trusting me,” he murmurs.

He still gags her once more, but this time she thinks she can work it loose on her own if she wants to. It’s nice to have the option on the table; maybe she can turn his own dirty talk back on him.

Re: Fill: "Puppetmaster" (Ivan/Erika, Explicit, D/s)

[(Anonymous)]

Then he’s slipping a finger inside her, taking her quite by surprise--she was expecting more emotional turmoil--and making her moan. His thumb is on her clit and though she can’t see him she can picture his studious expression as he touches her, seeing what she can take and what makes her squirm for more. It’s only when he pushes a second finger into her that she realizes just how turned on this combination of rollercoaster feelings and physical play has made her; she can hear his fingers move slick in her, and he lets out a satisfied, “Ahhhh, good,” that’s on the verge of just being a groan of lust.

His fingers go away and Erika makes a disgruntled noise. She hears the soft slurp of him licking his fingers clean and starts hoping like hell that he comes back for a proper taste, but he shifts away. Her face must show her frustration despite the blindfold and gag because he lets out another low laugh.

There’s some more motion, below her this time, and now she can hear more urgent wet sounds, skin on skin, and sighing. There’s no way he’s not already rock hard after playing with her so much, so he’s up to something else.

Then the ropes holding her up shake, and she’s moving--vertically, this time, instead of around in circles. One side drops a little faster than the other and she feels the slippery press of his cock against her left thigh first; he’s definitely stroked lube over himself. More than he needs to, considering her state of arousal. Why?

The ropes steady once more with Erika hovering just above Ivan, and when he begins working the head of his cock against her, impossibly slick and teasing and not quite where she wants it, needs it, she starts keening softly.

When he relents and slips inside her, she feels like she’s too wet, like she’s not going to get far without more touching, and he lets her attempt to rub against him, to take him deeper, to anything, for a good minute, until she’s writhing in frustration and just about ready to try spitting at him again to see if he’ll at least slap her ass or something.

She can tell when he unhooks the ropes again because there’s another lopsided jerk and suddenly he’s driven deeper into her. No--she’s dropped further onto him. She hears him groan and tries to rock atop him while he’s still getting the ropes figured out, but he’s too quick for that. Erika finds herself rising again until he’s barely in her, just the head pressed within her entrance.

“Look at you.” His voice is thick with lust and she doesn’t think it’s even remotely an act anymore. “Precious petal. Are you still scared I’ll leave you wanting?” She shakes her head, hears him laugh. “Maybe you should be.”

A moment later she understands his meaning, as he begins to manipulate the ropes. Unable to exert any real movement in her own right, she’s left with only the strange but not unpleasant sensation of being moved on him. It must be hell on his arms, though she’s seen the strength that they hold, but he seems to be holding out all right. Her wetness and the lube mean that she moves on him easily, too easily for her liking, and how he can stand the slick, almost frictionless tease she doesn’t know.

“My pretty puppet, all tied up in my web.” His voice is dark, caressing, but she can hear the undercurrent of tension that speaks of quickening need. She can feel it in his cock, too, sliding within her; he’s hot and hard and for the first time she realizes that in his own way he’s been getting every bit as turned on as her through this whole scene, and if she’s delirious with wanting then he’s probably in the same place. “Dance for me, darling doll of mine.” He pulls her up, almost right off him again, and Erika tries in vain to move down, to take him back in. Though she knows she’s only just above the bed now, she feels as though she’s flying miles up, only the solidity of his cock inside her anchoring her to the ground. A little lower, and he holds her there until she’s bucking her hips frantically, needing, craving more than half of his length.

“Please!” The word bursts from her lips; she hadn’t even realized that she’d spit out the gag until it does. “Please, oh, please...”

“You want the teasing to stop, puppet?” Rough quick words. No finesse.

“Yes!”

“Sure?”

“Please!”

For a few moments longer her torments her with long slippery strokes, but she can tell from the quality of his breathing that he’s close. He lowers her right down, and fuck he fills her up so nicely, and Erika feels his hips lift, feels the slow hard pulse of him inside her as his persona shatters in that moment and he cries out her name--

--and then he lifts her back up off him. Just. Right off him, leaving her empty and aching and, after a dazed moment of figuring out that technically he did stop teasing her, swearing.

“Oh fuck, Ivan, fuck you, damn it! I need--I want--”

Her protests end there because he ties the ropes off again, scoots down the bed in a rustle of blankets, and oh fuck okay starts licking her clean. Really clean, really thoroughly, the flat of his tongue working in broad sweeps over her labia to clean off his own essence, and then as she begins to gasp and whimper, pushing inside her to curl and move there.

For some reason, this is what triggers the thought Ivan, you kinky bastard for her, and Erika starts giggling helplessly. He’s restrained and suspended and otherwise messed with her, but licking his own come out of her? Yeah, apparently according to her mind, that’s the tipping point.

She’s still giggling when he seals his lips around her clit, tongue sliding against her with certainty, and the sound turns to gasping as heat thrills through her. The gasps turn to low urgent cries as he brings her close, and for one moment he takes his mouth off her and she thinks he’s going to start in again with denying her what she so desperately wants--

--and then his mouth closes over her again, lips and tongue working hard, and Erika no longer feels any connection with the ground at all; she’s hanging suspended in a place of pure pleasure that rocks her body, tearing cries of delight from her as loud as her screams of fear earlier.

She’s still trembling with aftershocks and he keeps going, pushing her over that edge again, and her cries turn back to gasps as breathing eludes her, too overwhelmed by the full-body reaction he’s wringing out of her to let such silly things as basic autonomic functions cross her mind.

And then he does it again, and it’s good, so good, but it’s also enough, she’s getting uncomfortably close to the point where she’ll be way overstimulated, and she manages to get out the words, “Stop, Ivan, stop, the end.”

He pulls the ropes, lifts her up, and rolls out from underneath her before lowering her gently to the mattress. There’s a very brief pause as he evidently puts his clothing back together, probably so his pants don’t fall down while he’s untying her. That’s okay; Erika lets herself flop onto her back, feeling embraced by the warm darkness.

“Okay, petal.” She has no idea how he regained his composure so fast but he certainly seems to have done so, his fingers skimming over her thighs as he unties each ankle. “Careful now... stretch out slowly. Any pins and needles?”

“No.” Erika flexes her legs, points her toes, taking her time. She’s surprised by how comfortable the frog tie was, though she has the feeling she’ll have the rope imprinted on her skin for some time. That’s fine; it isn’t anywhere anyone’s going to see.

“Do you want to sit up, or do you want to roll over?”

“Am I going to fall if I roll?”

“Not if I help you.”

It’s less of a roll than a shuffle, and a lot of it depends on Ivan more or less shoveling her over onto her stomach, but Erika’s growing quite accustomed to him lifting her around, and in fact is also growing to enjoy it.

The buckles at her back come undone, and she feels the sleeves come loose, and right then her right shoulder seizes up. She lets out a cry of pain.

“Where?” Ivan asks immediately.

“Right shoulder.”

He gathers her up into his arms. “Can you stand? Just for a moment?”

“Yes. Wait.” Erika plants one foot on the floor, her shoulder singing in agony, and braces her other knee on the bed. “Okay.”

Ivan’s fingers are quick on the buckles and he doesn’t need to tell her to unfold her arms carefully. She’s maybe a little too quick to straighten her left arm and it twinges a little, but she wants her left hand functioning as fast as possible to rub her right shoulder when Ivan eases the jacket all the way off.

“No, petal, let me.” Ivan slips the tie off from over her eyes and Erika keeps them closed, prepared for the room to be as bright as it was before the blindfold went on, but to her surprise she eases them open to see that there’s just low lamplight, cast from a lamp on a low table at the foot of the bed that she doesn’t recall seeing when she came in. The round-ended safety scissors are on it, along with a spare hank of rope, and a big bottle of water that makes her salivate just looking at it.

She becomes aware that she’s shivering a little. Ivan bundles her up in a blanket and presses the bottle into her left hand, then sits down against the head of the bed and pulls her close against him, those clever fingers working at the knot in her right shoulder. It loosens almost immediately and Erika sighs with relief, grabbing for the screw cap of the water bottle and opening it to take a big drink. The water is blessedly cool on her scream-raw throat.

Ivan keeps massaging her shoulders, reaches around to carefully unhook the rose collar, and sets it down beside them, not that there’s much room on the narrow single bed. Erika feels the soft press of his lips kissing each little scratch that it left and sighs with pleasure.

“Do you love me now?” His voice still holds more than a hint of the Storyteller.

“Of course I do.” Her shoulder still aches, her neck itches, and her clit’s going to be too sensitive to touch for hours, but she loves him very much.

She feels the curve of his smile against the nape of his neck. “And they all lived happily ever after.”

"Daddy's Boy" (Ivan/Xander, Explicit: age play, straitjacket.) 1/?

[afullmargin]

(I don't write ageplay often, and sexual ageplay even more rarely but *shrug* I did a thing?)

It had been Ivan’s idea in the shape of a text three days before they were scheduled to shoot asking if he wanted to do a fitting and try on the jacket. At first, Xander had thought it was going a little overboard - really, how difficult could it be to get less than an hour of footage? - but as soon as he saw the thing laid out on the foot of Ivan’s bed he wasn't so sure anymore.

The house was quiet save for the sound of running water in the master bathroom, they had set aside a few hours of private time where there would be no interruption and as Xander ran his hands over the front buckles he understood why. “Holy shit...” He muttered under his breath as he picked up a heavy sleeve and let it drop with a startling rasp of canvas on canvas.

“It's real.” Ivan said, walking in as he finished drying his hands and tossed the small towel on the bed. “Taliesin lent it to me for the shoot.”

“Of course he owns a straitjacket. Because Taliesin.” Xander smiled, still fixated on it. It looked intimidating even just laying there impotently, it was just a thing but also kind of a thing that had a long history of unsavory implications.

Ivan approached him from behind and wrapped an arm around Xander’s soft middle, holding him a moment. “You're gonna be okay.” He said in an assuring rumble as he rested his chin on Xander’s shoulder. “I'm right here with you.”

Xander nodded slowly and let out a nervous chuckle. He wasn't entirely certain about it being easy anymore, but his complete trust in Ivan made it more palatable.

Feeling Xander’s unease, Ivan gave him a squeeze and added, “I have an idea to make this a little easier on you.”

“Oh?” Xander twisted his head to catch a peek of ginger curls as they brushed along the side of his face.

Ivan smiled reflexively and pressed a small kiss on Xander’s chubby cheek. “Let's put on your pjs and then Daddy can help you put on your special jacket.”

He didn't mean to squee out loud, but Xander’s sharp intake of breath betrayed his excitement at the thought. It had been a while since they'd played, since he'd gotten more than the funny tingle when Ivan used his DadVoice to say literally anything, and the intent in Ivan’s voice made him just a little eager. “Yes!”

Ivan chuckled and gently patted Xander’s ass with one hand. “Go on and get your sleepover bag from the closet.”

Xander crossed the room in three hurried bounds, finding the green vinyl Ninja Turtles backpack right where it had been stowed after his last sleepover at least eight months back. “Oh my God it's still here!” He grinned, flopping down cross-legged and dragging it into his lap. “I can't believe you still have it. For the record, it’s kind of ironic that it’s hiding in the closet when literally nothing else about me is.”

Ivan couldn't help but smile as he watched Xander pull out the rumpled cotton one-piece and fold it over carefully in his hands. Already he could see the tension shifting away, Xander’s posture pulling inward as he began to allow himself to regress. A clean sippy cup tumbled out and Xander didn't so much laugh as giggle.

“Drink?” Xander asked, holding it up with an impish smile.

Ivan nodded, moving toward him. “I'll get you a drink while you take off your daytime clothes.”

Xander pouted then and bit his lower lip. He began to fumble with the buttons on his shirt, tugging fruitlessly as Ivan looked down at him. “Buttons.” He frowned deeper, sinking into that familiar helplessness that made him feel innocent again. “No! Buttons.”

Ivan clicked his tongue, offering a slow head shake before tucking the cup in the crook of his elbow. “You can do it, Xander... one at a time. Go ahead and try, I'll be right back.” He half expected Xander to fuss, he often did, but he only sighed and began to slowly work open the bottom button of his shirt, fumbling with his thick fingers. Slowly, Ivan backed away to fill the thick tumbler with ginger ale and a spike of Jameson in the kitchen before screwing the lid back on.

It was easy to pretend, to sink deep and let himself be taken care of. The first time had been an accident involving a little too much liquor and not enough supervision. He remembered how he'd blushed and stuttered and been utterly humiliated when he threw himself in Ivan’s lap with a “Take me home, Daddy” that had been intended as flirty but slipped out in the little soft voice that had previously only lived in his head. Almost everyone laughed, and Xander laughed too even as he felt suddenly ashamed and very small. Ivan didn't laugh though, he leaned in close and kissed him on the forehead and then wrapped him up tight in a cradling hug. He spent the rest of the night like that, curled up in Ivan’s arms, sucking on his thumb until he fell asleep with strong hands stroking his hair and rocking him so gently. It wasn't an always thing after that, but it was definitely a thing... a thing that they never really talked about but just seemed to understand.

Little space was an easy place to go where he was safe and loved and even bad things could be fixed. It was simple, unlike buttons when his hands were shaking with excitement and feigned inexperience. As he heard Ivan’s steps closing in, Xander scowled at the half-finished task and then scrambled for the bed, kicking off his sneakers and wriggling most of the way out of his cargo pants before the door opened.

Ivan took it slow, closing the door quietly to buy time to watch Xander kick off his pants. He couldn’t resist smiling to himself, it was just too charming a sight. “Good job!” He said softly as he approached the bedside. “Four whole buttons.”

“Five!” Xander held up his hand with a cheeky smirk, fingers fully splayed with enthusiasm. “Help me?”

Ivan’s smile spread just a little. “Here...” He leaned over the edge and pressed the cup into Xander’s hands, waiting until he'd taken an eager sip to continue. “Daddy will get this all done.”

Xander murmured appreciatively and suckled on the small plastic nub, bubbling booze spilling into his mouth as he let Daddy take charge. Strong hands slid his underwear down his thighs only to then gently rub the warm skin there until Xander felt the coil and tug of arousal in his belly. “Tickles, Daddy...” He squirmed, not rolling away from the touch but subtly pushing into it, a soft groan catching in his throat when Ivan tenderly caressed the thickening shaft of his cock.

“Just a little, sweet boy...” Ivan cooed in response, catching Xander’s eyes with a mischievous wink. “Okay, sit up here now.” Xander obeyed, allowing the shirt and his undershirt to be striiped off.

When Daddy picked up the green cotton pjs with blue and red dinosaurs parading all over it, Xander expectantly stretched out his legs for feeties to be hooked over his toes. The zipper ran all the way down, a bright red plastic that was pulled carefully from the top of his left foot up his leg to where Daddy ushered him to stand up

“Good boy.” Ivan said, collecting a sleeve to pull it over Xander’s arm one after the other. “You're being such a good little guy right now.”

Xander grinned around the nub as he held it in his teeth, wiggling his fingers when they cleared the sleeve. If he had to pick a favorite part of these sort of moments, it was the calm and confident reassurance in Daddy’s voice, and the way he was always so gentle and loving.

The red teeth joined slowly together, Ivan careful to pull the thin fabric where it gathered at Xander’s crotch - admittedly lingering there a little longer than he should - as he drew it closed over Xander’s thick thighs and then the rise of his belly. He was tempted to lay him down then and smother that cute chubby tummy with kisses and raspberries, he could almost hear Xander’s giggling about scratchy whiskers that always made him want to do it more. No, he thought, there would be another time for that. This was about seeing what happened when Xander was most vulnerable, most pliant and willing to do what he was told.

"Daddy's Boy" (Ivan/Xander, Explicit: age play, straitjacket.) 2/?

[afullmargin]

Wiry curls tickled Xander’s chin and then his cheek as Daddy brought the zip all the way up to his throat before fastening it down with a snap. He gasped and then giggled as those familiar lips brushed across his and lingered there for a long moment, further stirring the pot of butterflies in his gut. “Daddy...” He whimpered. “Tickles!”

“I know.” Ivan grinned against Xander’s lips before taking a half step back only to watch him sink to the bed as soon as he did. “Come on now, sweetie. I need you up just a little longer...”

“Don’ wanna!” Xander whined, lips curling into a pout that was genuine. All he wanted in the moment was to curl up in the big bed with his Daddy and his cuppy. “Wanna nap.”

Ivan rolled his eyes, but with affection. The brat was peeking out early. “Xander...” He dropped his voice to the all-too-familiar warning signal for anyone under the age of twelve. “Do you want a spanking?”

Xander’s lower lip wibbled, an honest stripe of youthful fear cutting through him. “No! Daddy! Thas’ mean!”

“Bad behavior earns punishments...” Ivan glared down at him, steely eyed and ready to turn him over a knee if need be. He watched Xander crumble, a light shine to his eyes as he stood up, head hung low. “There we go. Now we’re just gonna try on the special jacket.” He’d learned Xander’s tells well over the years, the way the left corner of his lips tweaked upward when he had an idea he didn’t want to share, the way he shuffled his feet just to look a little more innocent than he actually was, and especially the way his shoulders slumped forward and knees bowed slightly when he had hit the sweet spot and taken on the little persona. He was ready to listen, to not pretend but to actually be small.

Well, as small as a man his size could be.

Shifting on the balls of his feet, Xander pliantly allowed Daddy to lift his arms - holding them up only a little reluctantly. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the straitjacket lifted almost effortlessly into Daddy’s strong arms, held against his chest and then turned until it was opened to him. His gut suddenly felt very heavy, each jingle of buckles drawing out a strand of dread that made his anxiety ratchet up all the higher. “Daddy...” He whimpered, biting down on his lower lip to hold back further sound.

“It’s okay.” Ivan said calmly, stepping sidelong to stand in front of him again. “Daddy’s right here and after I make sure it fits just right, you’re gonna get special tickles.”

“Special tickles?” Xander gasped, eyes lighting up, that dread vanishing immediately. “I wan’ special tickles!”

“I know you do...” Ivan grinned, his cheeks warming slightly. Special tickles had been an accident at first, something he hadn’t intended to be a thing when at first their intimacy and roleplay had been innocent with sexual overtones at most. A slip of the hand while little Xander played in a warm bubble bath had informed him that he wasn’t the only one aware of those overtones. And really, it had been far too adorable to see Xander red-faced and crafting bubble spikes on his soft wet skin not to touch just a little. A little became... well, quite a lot, and like most of their somewhat strange situation they just never said it wasn’t a thing. “You can even have a bubble bath later.”

The gasp slipped out even higher than before, then lit with a full giggle. “Oh! The watermelon kind or blueberry or pink? Please say the pink!”

Ivan shook the jacket slightly, letting the heavy canvas drag the buckles for a loud clatter. “You’ll just have to see, won’t you?”

Xander pouted deeply. “Not fair.”

“I never said life was fair.” Ivan thumbed out the tabs that would wrap around Xander’s collarbone and then quickly slid both arms into place, tugging it up over Xander’s wide shoulders before he could protest too much.

“It’s heavy!” The anxiety returned with a vengeance, rolling in the pit of his belly. “I don’ wanna do this...”

“Shhh...” Ivan stepped carefully behind him, brushing kisses across Xander’s cheek as he took hold of the back straps. “It’s okay baby boy, just a little more... you’re doing so good right now.”

Xander swallowed the lump in his throat, already feeling the burning behind his eyes as tears threatened to fall. “Daddy...” He whispered, barely audible over the loud thunder of canvas on metal as Daddy pulled the first buckle at his shoulders tight. “Please...”

It was physically difficult for Ivan to continue, his instinct to care for the little one - as big as he was - momentarily overriding the scene. There were indications, always, Xander could stop it at any time with only an alteration of his voice to show him the moment was broken and things were going wrong. For the first time, he couldn’t help but feel a little like that might need adjusting. He didn’t understand the little headspace as well as he’d like to, didn’t know how deep that pliable mind went. Leaning in close, he let his voice shift to the natural pacing and tone. “I’m right here, Xander. I don’t want to hurt you.”

The corners of Xander’s mouth twitched, his cheek shifting enough that Ivan could tell he was almost smiling. “Love you, Daddy.” Xander whispered, and then drew a deep breath. “I’mma be a good boy. Promise.”

The words warmed him as much as they confirmed that things were still okay and Ivan continued, making quick work of the second buckle and then the third. He’d cinched it down tighter on Liam, leaving no room to feel anything but canvas weighing him down, for Xander he tried to assuage the rapid heart rate he could feel when he pressed his cheek to Xander’s neck. Just a little loose, some breathing room that wouldn’t alter the utility of the device. “Almost there.” He murmured, tugging on the bottom to let it strain against the thickness of Xander’s chest. The next strap rasped across the body of a green t-rex, an amusing contrast tickling his brain as he looped it through the steel buckle and cinched it down. “Daddy’s so proud of you right now.”

His feet shifted again, the weight of the jacket feeling almost too much to support on his shoulders as it pushed down snugly against his belly. “I’mma good boy...” He whispered, swallowing back a sob with a gulping breath. He was trying, he wanted to do good and be good and make Daddy’ proud more than anything. Against the tension, he struggled to lift an arm and wipe away the first tears rolling down his hot cheeks with the canvas sleeve only to smear it across his skin.

“You are such a good boy.” Ivan verified, starting on the final buckle. The fear was audible in Xander’s voice, he could practically feel it wafting off of him. “Almost done with the buckles.”

A small whimper escaped Xander’s throat and he closed his eyes against the welling fear. It was tight, confining, scary, but he trusted his Daddy. Daddy wouldn’t hurt him, not more than a few swats if he was naughty - which he tried so hard not to be - but that thought couldn’t make the panic fully go away. He tried again not to cry, but it was all quickly becoming too much and the tears began to roll freely down the sides of his nose as he lowered his head. When Daddy held him close a long moment only to fold his arms across his chest and then pulled the straps at his wrist toward the buckles, Xander cried out. “Daddy! No! I can’t! I can’t!”

Once again, Ivan stopped and let the guilt wash over him. He didn’t break, he simply gave Xander a moment to breathe. “Just a little more, Xander. You’re gonna be okay. Daddy’s almost done. Is that okay?”

Xander didn’t move his arms, only hugged himself tighter and let out a meekly sobbed sigh. “Iss ok, Daddy.” He sniffled, and the snorted back another sob. He was really barely holding it together, but he didn’t want to stop. This was something he was going to have to face one way or another and even in the little mind he knew that. Daddy knows what he’s doing. Daddy will keep you safe.

Taking his time, reading every twitch of Xander’s muscles as he slouched into the gentle tug of the straps, Ivan secured his arms a little looser than he would have to for the shoot to look right. “Okay. Nice and tight. Let’s get a good look at my special boy.” Xander shivered under his touch as Daddy traced a heavy hand down his shoulder mid-step, keeping him aware at all times of his presence. “Look at me, sweetie. See? Daddy’s here.”

It took all the power in him to stay upright, but Xander tilted his head back up to catch Daddy’s soft eyes watching him. Sniffling, shaking, Xander shifted his shoulders and let it sink in that he really was restrained. “Daddy... ‘m scared.” He gulped, fresh tears streaking his red cheeks.

“Shh.” Ivan leaned into him, peppering kisses across his tear stained cheeks and then his puffy lips before wrapping both arms around him. “Don’t be scared,” Ivan cooed, “Daddy’s here. It’s gonna be okay.” He reached up, stroking the back of Xander’s head. “Let’s sit down okay?”

Pulling again at his restraints, harder this time, Xander strained to return the hug he couldn’t give. A choked cough ripped through his chest and in a moment of desperation, he buried his face in Daddy’s shoulder let the sobs just come.

It had occurred to him that it might work out this way, that Xander might break under the strain, and while he’d tried to prepare emotionally as much as he could, he knew that there were things he couldn’t have accounted for. Things like Xander’s weight falling onto him, pushing him no matter how he dug his heels into the high pile carpet. “Come on, lay down with Daddy right here...” Ivan pressed right back, shifting his weight into Xander’s chest much more forceful than he’d anticipated. Xander bucked, and then folded, bending just enough for Ivan to get the upper hand and maneuver him onto the duvet. “You’re getting big, sweetie...” He grimaced, and then grinned once he was certain Xander was safe and wouldn’t fall off.

Xander’s sobs hitched and the second the bed dipped beside him, he rolled to find Daddy’s chest with his face and the curled on himself. It was awful, bearable but awful. He could feel Daddy’s strong, sure hands stroking his hair, hear the low rumble in his chest when he spoke, but it didn’t make the fear go away.

“I love you so much.” Ivan murmured, letting Xander work through it, letting him stew just a little longer in his bondage. “You’re such a good boy. Xander, listen to my voice okay? Can you hear my voice?” He wailed softly into Ivan’s chest in response, it was close enough. “Hey, Daddy’s proud of you. Do you know that? I’m so proud.”

He sniffed and nodded against the familiar solidness of Daddy’s chest, drinking in the tender care. There was a gentle tug at the strap on his chest, and then a much harder yank as Daddy rolled him onto his chest. Opening his eyes, he caught a glance of bulging strong forearms that flexed and then let go. “Daddy-”

“Shhh.” Ivan murmured, stroking a firm hand over the back of Xander’s head as he straddled him across the thighs. “Daddy’s got you. Just relax. Breathe nice and slow. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

It was harder than it sounded. Xander forced himself to draw a deep breath in through his nose, letting it out as a wobbly sigh. “Ok...”

"Daddy's Boy" (Ivan/Xander, Explicit: age play, straitjacket.) 3/4

[afullmargin]

Spreading his weight, Ivan pressed his hands against the small of Xander’s back, letting him feel that reassuring weight on top of him as found his perfect spot at the thickest part of Xander’s thighs. “I’m gonna help you relax, sweetie. Just a little tickle...”

“Tickle?” Xander sighed another shaking breath, mind dimmed in the moment. “Special tickles?”

“Mmmhmm.” Ivan’s hands slid slowly downward, tugging purposefully at the buckles to get Xander just a little more acclimated to the jacket. “And I need you to breathe for me.”

“Breathe.” Xander’s small voice echoed and he turned his head back to the blanket, covering his face. He felt Daddy’s hands on his hips, groping and squeezing, stroking his soft jammies in soothing circles. He was trying to be calm, trying not to let the fear and excitement overwhelm him, but something about the very real inability to reach out to Daddy and ask to be held made it soo much harder.

“I’m going to give you your cuppy and I want you to take little sips, okay? Just a little bit.” Xander whimpered in reply and Ivan took that as a positive. Leaning into him, barely resting his chest on Xander’s back, he snagged the discarded mostly-full sippy cup from where it had rolled and then guided it to Xander’s lips. Watching, he smiled when Xander’s head turned just enough to take the nub between his lips and draw gently at the soft plastic until he could hear the liquid burble over Xander’s frantic breaths. “Good, very good Xander. Nice and slow. Just like your ba.”

“Ba...” Xander sighed around the wet tip, letting just a little drink dribble from the corners of his mouth. He didn’t often crave the bottle, but as stressed as he was the allure of crushing a soft silicone nipple against his tongue was sounding very nice. His mind flitted to wondering if Ivan had kept one around just for him, maybe tucked away on a high unused shelf - he didn’t keep any himself, but there was an emergency pacifier tucked away in his overnight bag. He took another small sip, the carbonation already fading but the warm fuzzy sensation of alcohol calming to his belly just a little. Shyly, he asked; “Daddy? Paci?”

The small coo was not what Ivan had expected to hear and it took a moment to register just what Xander was asking. “Oh. Baby boy, you want your paci?” Xander nodded against the mattress and Ivan shifted up to his feet without missing a beat. “Okay, I’m just going to go get it, I’ll be right back. Daddy wants you to lay very still, okay?”

Whispering, Xander managed an answer. “Ok Daddy.” He didn’t have it in him to turn and watch, so he closed his eyes and tried to focus on breathing nice and slow just like Daddy said.

It was an unexpected request, he’d only seen glimpses of the baby blue plastic ring that peeked out from the front zipper pouch where Xander stored snacks on the rare weekend they got a chance to play and he’d never actually asked for it. That said, he was very well aware of a certain oral fixation and stress was very present at the moment. Sure enough it was there, sitting between an expired apple juice box and a mostly empty baggie of Froot Loops.

His logical brain knew that it was only a few seconds, but logic had gone out the window along with concepts like modesty and appropriate the moment pjs came into the picture, so Xander fretted silently until he felt the press of Daddy’s weight on top of him and then leaning over him like a calming wave of warm love. “Paci?”

“Right here...” Ivan whispered, purposefully nuzzling his scratchy facial hair against Xander’s cheek before turning his head to catch the barest hint of a sweet smile showing. He offered it with an awkward push of the clear silicone against Xander’s pink lips, opening them before slowly pushing it in. In any other context, specifically one where Xander wasn’t a few degrees from a panic attack, it would have actually been kind of hot. In the moment, it was more calming for both of them. Xander bit down and then gave several hard draws with his lips before the shift of tight straining muscles underneath Ivan was obvious. “There you go... that’s much better, isn’t it?”

Xander grunted, biting down again and letting the feedback take the brunt of his tension. Better. Better. Safe. Calm. Everything is fine. This is all fine.

“Such a good boy.” Ivan sighed, feeling his own strain and worry ratchet down. He let out another soft murmur of approval before pressing a line of kisses along the collar of the jacket and the back of Xander’s hair. “We’re just gonna rest for a few minutes and then we’ll get you in the bath.”

“Baf...” The word was muffled, Xander’s lips holding tight to the binkie. Bath sounded very good, nice warm water and bubbles and Daddy’s kind hands.

“Mmmhmm, a nice bath for my precious boy.” Ivan whispered, kissing the tip of his ear. “Just a few minutes.”

Xander let himself drift, initially drawing careful breaths between long draws but soon letting his mind be blank and not think about anything but Daddy’s weight holding him down and his scratchy hairs tickling along his neck and his cheek. It wasn’t so bad, not with Daddy there.

Ivan counted the ticks of the mantle clock on his nightstand, not wanting to glance away from him for even a second as Xander’s breaths began to slow to a comfortable ease. If it had been more than a couple minutes, he might have assumed Xander had drifted off, as it was, the lull was the best he could have expected once Xander had started to panic. Three minutes. He rubbed the length of his nose over the smoothness of Xander’s throat, letting him feel the gentle tickle before the press of fingers to carefully take his pulse. Five minutes and the click of plastic drew his attention to where the pacifier had dropped from Xander’s slack lips, he checked his pulse again. Eight minutes and a small snore heralded full and total relaxation.

“Xander...”

Daddy’s sing-song voice roused Xander easily, his blurry eyes opening to the warm browns of the blanket under his face. “Daddy?” He answered in a sleepy breath.

“You need to move your arms slowly, they’re gonna be a little buzzy in your elbows.” Ivan didn’t wait to let Xander try himself as he pushed up and quickly freed the left hasp. His hands carefully held Xander’s arm at the elbow and guided it out first and then up, stretching it out. “Okay there, baby boy?”

He couldn’t feel his fingers until his arm was fully extended and prickles of blood rushed back enhanced by the stiff canvas underneath them. “Uh huh.” The right side was easier, Daddy’s comforting touch showing him just how to stretch and bring back the feeling fully. “Buckles?”

“Mmmhmm. Lots of buckles, but Daddy’s real fast.” Ivan was already tugging open the first as he spoke. He had the third open by the time Xander stretched his long legs and flexed underneath him, the heavy jacket falling open. “Do you want to sit in Daddy’s lap for a little bit before bathtime?”

“Nu-uh.” Xander groaned, his limbs moving freely and the weight of the canvas shifting away as another buckle came free. “Bath first. Want bubbles.”

“Of course. Silly me. Bubbles and then special tickles.”

“Huh?” The word came out a dulled, exhausted slip of sounds as Xander’s brain caught it just a little slow. “Tickles?”

“Well, maybe. Daddy likes lap time too.” He liked it a lot. Far too much. And it sounded really, really good given his own body’s response to tension is the exact opposite of panic exhaustion. His cock was straining at the zipper of his jeans, and rocking against Xander’s ass as he frantically popped buckles wasn’t exactly helping.

It wasn’t a fair choice... bubbles or lap time, who could choose? The last strap pulled free of its buckle and like a weight off his chest, Xander could breathe deep again. He took the freedom to roll onto his back and wiggle out from Daddy’s knees to grab him and pull him down close. Daddy’s whiskers scraped against his skin, feeding him kisses punctuated with soft little groans of pleasure and relief. That sensation sealed it for him. “Up?”

Ivan’s lips curled in a reflexive smile, he was just a little relieved to have that answer. Xander needed the closeness just as much as he did. “Of course.” He answered tenderly, wrapping his arms under Xander’s shoulders to heft him up as he slid cross legged underneath him to provide support. “Daddy loves you so much...” He groaned, his arms wrapping their way around the thickness of Xander’s barrel chest as strong legs pressed tight against his back, locking them together. “You were so brave.”

“Scary...” Xander murmured into the crook of Daddy’s neck, nuzzling and seeking out skin with his mouth. He burrowed his face in harder, taking a deep inhale of Daddy’s woody cologne, prickles of shadow burning on his face like familiar light. Daddy jostled him, bouncing him slightly in his lap to fit in together somehow even closer as lips and tongue tasted his own sweaty skin.

The frantic search for stimulation calmed gradually until Ivan found himself contentedly rocking Xander’s heavy body in his arms, drinking in each one of his eager touches. “You don’t have to be scared anymore.” He murmured, one hand gently lifting Xander’s face until they pressed forehead to forehead. “I’ll protect you, always.”

The deep lines of sincerity were writ on Daddy’s face, the creases at the corners of his tender eyes leading into the wrinkles where his smile shone. Xander nodded as best he could, accepting a gentle whiskery kiss that lingered on his lips and then split them, the taste of something smokey on Daddy’s tongue reminding him just how good this part of play time felt. Xander sighed, melting around the edges while a firm hand traced circles on his back, and just like that the fear was gone. Daddy would protect him and hold him in strong arms that were never really mean and always knew just what he needed. “Thank you.” He whispered as the kiss broke, his voice cracking with it. “I love you, Daddy.”

Ivan’s body throbbed, a voice in the back of his head kindly reminding him that hoo boy this is wrong as fuck only to immediately squashed with his much louder id grabbing for Xander’s hand and guiding it to where he felt the last half hour most. “I’m so proud of you.” He whispered, lips finding their way to the curve of his ear. “Can you feel how much I love you?”

Xander’s fingers traced the thick denim under his palm, very easily feeling the hardness underneath. “Nuh-uh.” He shook his head, offering up an innocent doe-eyed look.

“You need a closer feel.” Ivan answered, knowing full and well it was a lie. No less, he thumbed open the button and tugged his fly down, inviting Xander’s hand to fumble at the waistband of his shorts and tug until his awkward fingers wrapped around the thick shaft of his cock through thin cotton. “I’m in a bit of a state.”

Xander cooed, genuinely pleased with the fullness in his palm, but fully aware that he could get even more. “Wanna feel it.” He pooched out his lower lip, batting his lashes for an extra touch of near-innocence. “Please Daddy?”

A groan bubbled up from Ivan’s chest, with that look he couldn’t have refused if he wanted to. In the moment of absolute clarity between feeling Xander tug at his boxers and shoving down the waistband, he tucked away a tiny reminder to tell Xander just how persuasive his innocent face could be when he really wanted to be naughty. Also, that he was a total brat. Those thoughts were pushed away when thick fingers grasped at the head of his cock and then carefully teased at his skin.

Biting down into his lower lip, Xander slid his fingers down around the base of Daddy’s cock and give a firm appreciative squeeze.. “Big Daddy...” He giggled, cheeky delight tucked behind his mask of innocence.

A gasp escaped, but was then colored with a rumbling moan. “All because of you.” Ivan rocked a little harder then, pitching himself to trap Xander’s hand between them and force just a little more pressure as those smooth fingers began to idly stroke him. “Because you trusted Daddy so much and were such a good boy.”

The whimper that came out was a drastic change from the terrified whine of before, it was needy and eager and just the right amount of embarrassed as Daddy doted on him. His pink cheeks stretched with a wild grin and Xander let himself go just a little limp to rock with Daddy, squeezing and stroking at the length in his hand supported only by Daddy’s strong embrace.

He could come from just that tender touch alone if given the time and inclination to not push even further, but in for a penny in for a pound and if things were going to be naughty he was going to truly spoil his sweet little Xander. “I’m gonna let go and get the slippery stuff, don’t move.”

Xander fussed when Daddy laid out on his back, that warm touch lost for the seconds it took to blindly grope for his nightstand for the bottle, but focused his attention on the exposed length still throbbing against his fingers. He stroked there, faster than before, catching wet beads on his fingertips to draw them back down until Daddy was groaning and bucked back against him. It wasn’t until Ivan’s attention turned back to him that he lifted his moist fingertips to his mouth and idly sucked the sweetness from them.

“Gosh you’re cute...” Ivan sighed, glancing up at the strange tableau of Xander idly suckling his fingers with a nearly vacant look of innocent bliss, all the while rubbing practiced strokes over his cock and teasing out what was very clearly near. “I just wanna eat you all up!” He growled playfully, once more rolling his torso to wrap around him, attacking Xander’s throat with wet sloppy lips and tongue and nibbles of teeth.

Xander squealed and leaned into Daddy’s arms, distracted by the tickle of whiskers and heat rising up all over his body until he felt a strong grasp squeezing his butt ardently and the kindling became a blaze. “Daddy!” He gasped, pushing back as Daddy pulled him forward.

The loud rip of infrequently used velcro cut through their heavy breaths when Ivan tore free the bottom flap under his hand, giving himself full access to his prize. “Cute boys get all the best presents...” He murmured against the crook of Xander’s neck, fingers already tracing the welcoming curve of Xander’s ass, opening his cleft to find his own gift with the pad of his index finger.

"Daddy's Boy" (Ivan/Xander, Explicit: age play, straitjacket.) 4/4

[afullmargin]

“Ah! ‘S naughty!” Xander whispered weak protest, squirming and letting go of Daddy’s cock as he grabbed around his chest instead to hold on tight.

Ivan leaned his chin on Xander’s shoulder, drinking in his full-bodied response as he blindly filled his palm with lube, letting it drip down his fingers to be smeared first, and then pushed into him - penetrating slowly at first. “Daddy can be a very naughty man...” He whispered. “When he’s so proud of his big boy.”

Xander shuddered and squeezed tighter, this time closing his eyes tight against the pleasure he let wash over him in place of the waves of deep fear. “Daddy...” He whispered, a soft throaty cry that held sound far longer than intended. Long fingers pushed readily into him, one at first and then two hooking slightly to massage that wonderful tingly place that made him go just a little swimmy in the head.

“Better?” Ivan murmured, nuzzling against Xander’s cheek just to hear his soft giggles as he thrust faster into the heat of his hole.

Sighing, blissfully unaware of the lewd wet spot of arousal spreading on the front of his jammies as he rubbed against Daddy’s belly, Xander pushed back against the deep touch. “More?” He whined plaintively, “Wan’ Daddy’s thing.”

“Oh?” Ivan chuckled under his breath, always just a little surprised at Xander’s turn of phrase when the mood struck him. “Is that what you want?” He shifted his knees, jostling Xander’s heavy form in his lap to drive home a hard thrust of fingers that elicited a keening cry. “Are you asking for Daddy’s cock?”

Biting back the urge to just demand that very thing, Xander let out a frantic whimper. “Daddy...”

“You know how to use your words.” Ivan withdrew his fingers, tracing around the stretched opening before thrusting into him as deep as the awkward angle would allow. He could feel the puddle of what used to be Xander shaped grinding against him, needy and unashamed despite the innocent ploy. “Tell Daddy what you want.”

Pink heat rose in Xander’s cheeks, conflicted between worlds. He swallowed a throaty moan as Daddy's third finger began to tease and stretch him wider still, making the whole thinking thing difficult at best. “Is’ naughty, Daddy...” He shuddered, punctuating the thought with a groan. “Not ‘posed to swear.”

Thrusting his fingers harder in a suddenly punishing pace, Ivan dropped his voice to a menacing growl against Xander’s ear. “You're not supposed to go against Daddy’s wishes either, are you?”

Xander stammered a simpering “No” that ended in a loud and lusty cry. He couldn’t break the rules but... but Daddy said-

Ivan interrupted before the long pause could culminate. “Tell Daddy what you want, Xander. I don't want to have to put you over my knee... but don't think I won't.”

Xander yelped and tried his best to focus himself. A spanking he could bear, but making Daddy mad or disappointed was just too much. Barely whispering, he did as he was told. “I-I-I... wanna... you know...” He whined in the back of his throat as Daddy's deep fingers slowed. “Wan’ Daddy’s thing in... in there. My naughty place.”

It was so endearing, a little distractingly immature but nothing he hadn’t heard tumble from those lips before. Ivan stilled his fingers then, letting Xander feel the thickness of them as he stretched him wider still. “Big boy words, Xander. Last warning.”

It was all he could do not to whimper and beg, but Xander forced himself to focus and let the humiliation set in. “Wan’ Daddy’s cock.”

“Good.” Ivan nodded against his cheek. “And where does Daddy's cock belong?”

Closing his eyes tight, Xander let out a shaking half-sobbed breath. In any other context it would be a joke, it'd be absurd, but in the depths of fragile put on innocence it was shameful to think it let alone say what Daddy wanted to hear. He whispered, “In my butthole.” His cheeks burned red, genuine shame washing over him, as Daddy's fingers slowly pulled out. In a fluid shift, the world came out from underneath him as Daddy's body rolled him down on his back in the big bed. His legs were pushed up, exposing him through the open flap with full access.

“Open your eyes, sweetness,” Ivan cooed, already looming between Xander’s bent legs.

Obedient and needy, Xander looked up into Daddy’s eyes to see them full of adoration and lustful intent. “I did ok?”

A reflexive smile stretched Ivan’s mouth fully, warmth radiating between them. “You did such a good job, Xander.” He murmured as he stroked the swollen head of his cock along the slick lube streaks he'd made. “I like it when you use your big boy words.” He let out a low, rumbling moan as he barely had to push along his cleft to begin sinking into the delicious heat that pulled at his manhood.

The first nudge of pressure elicited a gasp, and then a heady cry as Daddy's cock split him slowly, his hips barely moving to push deeper. “Daddy...” He whined, grabbing for his t-shirt and tugging at the hem.

“Shh...” Ivan groaned softly, ripples of pleasure engulfing him. “Nice and slow, baby boy. I want you to feel just how much Daddy loves you.”

Each shift of hips felt like a new inch inside him, despite the fact that Xander knew full and well Daddy’s cock wasn’t some disturbing monster appendage, and sent new keening whimpers to squeeze at his throat. “Da...” He panted harder, eyes half-lidded and body throbbing with the prolonged sensation. Focusing himself, he watched Daddy’s eyes and tugged his shirt again. “Shirt?”

Allowing it, Ivan lowered his head and let Xander struggle to peel off tight tee, giving him all the more time to withdraw and then push his cock deeper as though struggling to fit what he already knew intimately. “Such a needy little one...” He leaned in closer, bracing his hands under Xander’s arms. “Have you missed your Daddy?”

“So much...” Xander’s voice cracked as his arms wrapped around Daddy’s chest, stroking his newly bare skin and drinking it in.

Moaning low and loud, Ivan closed the short distance between them and claimed Xander’s mouth in a slow and loving kiss, tasting him deep until his cock rooted firmly and fully inside him. Breaking away, dragging a deep breath, he answered the unspoken question. “I missed you too baby boy.” His hips shifted in slow, deliberate thrusts. “Missed this. Missed your sweet stupid face... your... you.” He chuckled, no longer able to let the line between his little Xander and the man he’d had the blessing of knowing some time. “I’m sorry we don’t get more time to play.”

Xander kissed desperately at the prickly facial hair under his mouth, nuzzling up into Daddy’s beard, feeling full of love and lust and so much cock. “More?” He whined, not quite a question but a request.

Laughing softly, Ivan pulled up to flash him a gentle grin before kissing him again, taking his time with the delicate pace of his body merging into Xander’s large form with each gentle push of his hips. Supersoft cotton rubbed at his chest, doing little to dull the very present heat off Xander’s body, nor the dampness spreading across his belly as Xander’s cock prodded him ardently. “You feel so good, sweetheart.” He sighed, picking up his pace as Xander clenched tighter around him. “Want to make sure you don’t forget how good Daddy feels inside you.”

He wouldn’t forget, not ever, especially not when he would smell Daddy’s aftershave days after and be unable to look at certain things the same way for months. No, Daddy wouldn’t be forgotten. Not his lap, not his steady hands, not the way he could make him feel so scared and so loved in the same fucking breath. Xander’s arms squeezed tighter, forcefully pulling Daddy to his chest and holding him as tight as he can. “Won’t forget.”

Ivan’s breath hitched and the hard crest of his orgasm snuck up on him from behind, a shuddering keening cacophony of noises distilled to a single husky gasp as he smacked harder against the thickness of Xander’s ass. Rooting hard there, grinding against the solidness of him, he let the instinct he’d been holding back since he cinched that last buckle take hold and gave in to his desire. His body moved in eager strides, offering what little he had left to feel the hot spread of wetness through cotton plastered against his belly.

Xander gasped when it hit him, the surge of - yeah, oh god that’s a thing - Daddy’s come inside him intoxicating and exhilarating in all the right ways. He’d earned his gift, he’d been a good boy and made Daddy so proud. His hips lifted, grinding him up against the curve of Daddy’s soft and yielding belly. “Ahh....” He flushed hotter still and turned away only to have Daddy’s hand on his cheek forcing him to pay attention whether he could focus fully or not. “Daddy!”

Holding himself up on shaking arms, Ivan leaned into him and found his mouth, closing off the cries with a firm kiss - letting up only when he felt Xander’s body uncoil and relax beneath him. Breaking away, he let out a relieved sigh, smiling when Xander giggled at the tickle of his whiskers like they hadn’t just been rutting like animals and there wasn’t a mess on the bed and spreading between them. “Good boy.” He murmured, brushing a kiss first across the bridge of Xander’s nose and then several more across his chubby cheeks. “You wore Daddy out.”

It took a moment to collect himself, a moment full of beardy butterfly kisses and Daddy’s weight pushing down on him. They came back to the real world in mirrored breaths. He laughed, a startlingly small sound, and nuzzled up against his lover’s cheek. “Such a good Daddy.” He whispered, wrapping his arms around Daddy’s waist to hold him close. “Bath?”

“Bath.” Ivan groaned just a little, not quite ready to find his feet again. “I made a promise, I always keep my promises.”

“No tickling.” Xander smiled against the prickly skin that scrubbed against his face as another barrage of Daddy kisses teased him. “Bath. Sticky.”

It took all the effort he could muster just to roll off his lover and manage steady feet to the master bathroom. But, it was worth it for the soft squeals of excitement he could hear as he started the tap and added a capful of bubblegum colored soap. “Come on now, Xander... let’s get you cleaned up before naptime.” He watched the open door, the way Xander slid off the bed and awkwardly padded toward him with a sheepish grin somewhere between feeling dirty and utter innocence. As strange as their particular play could feel sometimes, that was a moment he always thought about later. The duality of debauchery and sweetness in Xander’s smile as he struggled with the tight shoulders of his sullied pajamas, twisting and biting his lower lip until Ivan’s Daddy hands took care of the hard work that was undressing.

“Pink!” Xander grinned, leaning to snatch bubbles from where they piled and wafted on the hot water. “My favorite.” Well, tied with blue and also the shimmery glittery ones that he wasn’t allowed to use anymore because apparently even soap glitter doesn’t come off anything. Daddy struggled to tug off his footies before he could submerge them as he slid into the tub on his belly, letting wonderful pink bubbles and hot water envelop him. The fear he’d had before was long gone, replaced fully by Daddy’s love and the soft work of his hands rubbing away tension and lingering remnants of their naughtiness. It was gonna be okay, Daddy would keep him safe.

"The House Dress", Taliesin(/Matt/Marisha)

[(Anonymous)]

(Someone had to do it, and I decided it would be me. I truly didn't mean for this to be as heavy on character study as it became, but I guess there's not much you can do when the plot bunnies bite. Feminization/crossdressing, except not really?)

The house dress isn't exactly simple, per se, but it is elegant. It certainly doesn't sport much colour; black on black where it falls, the ruffled hem dancing just below Taliesin's knees as he strolls around the house going about his regular business for the day. The skirt flows to and fro, which from time to time bathes his thighs in a gentle breeze. It's got layers. It's softer like that. Fluffier.

He refuses to let it be weird. Of course, it has been well established that there are aspects of his very identity that rely on distilled weirdness, but not this. Really, it's quite nonsensical that there aren't more men who enjoy dressing up in a nice, airy skirt now and then. This could be normal, should be normal, even, so Taliesin refuses to let it be weird. Except for the fact that he doesn't wear it outside, of course. It's easy to hide an unsteady decision behind a steadfast purpose.

“It's a house dress,” he'll say. “It belongs indoors.”
Explanations, not excuses.
He doesn't wear it to feel feminine, or even feminized-- although that's also fun, of course. Sometimes. He's gone through his fair share of male partners, some of whom looked absolutely delicious in something tight and fashioned from satin and lace. All of whom would, had they just taken the plunge and tried it.

(“You should see Matt in panties”, he blurts, drunk-sleepily, maybe to Key, perhaps Satine, he no longer remembers, and everyone and their mom knows he means Mercer. Perhaps that much is obvious; that milquetoast man with his silky locks who's simply too pretty for his own good. “Goes bright red. Looks fuckin’ edible like that”.)

For him, however...no, the dress is for comfort. At least that's what he bought it as, a years back when the humid LA summer made even the thought of wearing long trousers when not strictly necessary sound torturous. He bought it a couple sizes up back then, from fear that he might not dare return for another and the intention that it wouldn't see much rough wear.

When one has lived with as many people as Taliesin has, one learns quickly that self-expression needs to happen without shame, because otherwise it won't happen at all. The first time he donned the house dress, arms bare and pale in the early morning light, thighs rubbing together beneath the ruffled skirt, he expected there to be no trouble. And there was none. Confusion, perhaps, but never trouble. He carries himself as though respect is already given, and so it is.

It was when he started falling into bed with his friends that the unforeseen started happening. He's made good use of that open relationship status over the years, and he's always been just a little bit in love with them all, so he figured fuck it, why not, if he's doing this it better happen while he's still got a refractory period of less than 24 hours and semi-functional knees.

He began spending evenings at Matt and Marisha’s house, which turned into nights at Matt and Marisha’s house, which turned into nights in their bed, which turned into lazy mornings spent spooning a helplessly quivering Matt, stroking him slow and sweet, with Marisha whispering filth into his ears and uncapping a bottle of lube.

They've always known that Taliesin owns a dress (several now, actually, because why would he stop at one), yet he waits longer than he initially expects to wear it when they're around. They're wonderful people, and he loves them dearly, but he can't help but feel like they'll misunderstand; like they'll think he wears it to humiliate himself. So he hesitates. Although-- he supposes they've seen him all kitted out for Burning Man, not to mention groaning with need while covered in intermingled lube and come and with a girthy plug still adorning his ass. So why not.

“Have you ever considered...going all in?” It's Marisha who asks, bless her, and it doesn't sound like judgement. Her tone is curious. Interested.

“How?”

“Oh, you know. Stockings. Lingerie.” She throws out the usual suspects, nothing too out there. Nothing they haven't already thoroughly defiled when worn by Matthew in the dim, private light of their bedroom. He would never dream of wearing it anywhere else. Matt's an easy read-- it's all about the humiliation for him. “We already know you look all dark and mysterious in eyeliner. It wouldn’t be much of a change.”

Taliesin sighs. “It's not about that. I mean, it could be? If the two of you would like me to dress up I certainly wouldn't refuse to--”

“But?”

He fiddles with one broad strap; dress bundled in his arms. “It's for comfort. Any other purpose is, you know...”

There is a glint of something hungrily hopeful in her eyes. “A welcome bonus?”

He offers an intrigued half-smirk. “Something like that.”

She nods, before a wicked grin makes her lips curl. A moment to let him decline passes without incident, and she leans in, lips on his, kissing him thoroughly. When he deepens the kiss-- one arm holding on to the dress, the other pulling her close-- her hands sneak past his belt, bypassing the hem of his underwear to cup two generous handfuls of ass. The angle is awkward, heaped ruffles pressed between them, but the way her nails dig in produces sharp little bursts of pain that without fail make his cock stir awake. Dress or no dress.

“When I think about it,” she says, squeezing before withdrawing her hands, “I think I’d prefer you going commando.”

putting all your thoughts back together, liam/everyone, nc17

[(Anonymous)]

Hosed at AO3 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14926949)

Notes: Super cool how horny the cast was for Liam's old headshot. This was titled "I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT" in my gdocs for like a month. Basic gist of this fic is Liam de-ages, must bone the rest of cast to recover his memories and his lost years. This chapter focuses on Travis/Liam/Laura. There will be additional chapters with Taliesin/Liam, Liam/Marisha/Matt, and Liam/Sam. :)

Re: putting all your thoughts back together, liam/everyone, nc17

[(Anonymous)]

THIS IS GLORIOUS

Re: putting all your thoughts back together, liam/everyone, nc17

[(Anonymous)]

*WHISTLES*
Well fuck that's good

"Public Indecency", Sam/Liam, Explicit, 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

Liam should never have mentioned the damn police incident on AWNP, because he knows Sam filed it away in the NSFW part of his brain, and so now he’s here running lines (from Kindergarten Cop, because he is an asshole), pacing back and forth until a strong hand clamps down on his shoulder from behind.

“Sir, we’ve had a call about a person engaging in suspicious behavior in this neighborhood. Mind showing me what you’ve got there in your hand?”

“It’s just my phone,” Liam says defensively. “I’m an actor, I have an audition—”

“Sure. Sure.” The hand that runs down his arm and relieves him of his phone is familiar, but the touch is somehow impersonal. “Just step this way for a moment.”

“Really? I—” The air escapes Liam’s lungs in a whoosh as he’s pushed face down over the hood of a car. The surface is warm but not uncomfortably so; Liam notes that Sam’s draped something over it, possibly a poncho, but he doesn’t have time to examine it before he’s bent over, face pressed against warm rough fabric. “What—”

“Just a quick frisk. It’s standard procedure.”

“It was just my phone!”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not concealing any other weaponry, and it’s my job to keep this neighborhood safe.”

His sides and ass get a rudimentary pat down, although a little more lingering than any he’s experienced before. Solid hands check his ankles, his calves, his knees, and then work in between his denim-clad thighs. Then one hand is on his ass again, squeezing, and the other is overtly groping at the front of his jeans. Liam feels an embarrassed, angry flush rise to his cheeks.

‘Is—is this really necessary?”

Sam expertly strokes his cock, palm rubbing and fingers curling. “Feels necessary to me.”

“Officer, please, this isn’t appropriate—”

Sam chuckles at the honorific, but his hand does at last stop its far too intimate search. He takes a step back and Liam moves his feet, about to straighten up when he feels something close around one wrist. It’s thick padded leather rather than metal and so the thought of handcuffs doesn’t enter his head immediately. When Sam pulls the second cuff snug around his other wrist, that’s when it comes together, and Liam tries to tug his hand away.

“Just be calm, this is standard procedure,” Sam says again, clipping the cuffs together. Liam tests them with a loud rattle of the short chain, adrenaline rushing through his system. He’s trapped and at Sam’s mercy, but even in the midst of this quite different for them scene, Sam has taken care to make the cuffs comfortable and give Liam a modicum of freedom of movement.

Not that he’s terribly focused on that; the at Sam’s mercy part is foremost in his mind.

When he turns his head he can see the crisply ironed blue cotton of Sam’s shirt and the triangular emblem at one shoulder. It’s not a perfect imitation (although of the things they could be arrested for, impersonating a police officer is probably quite low on the list), but from the moment that Sam’s hand first clamped onto his shoulder, it’s been extremely sufficient. Apart from anything else, they have more than enough imagination between them to bring the scenario to life.

He tries to straighten up again now the cuffs are on, but Sam’s hand lands between his shoulderblades, pushing him back down.

“Please stay put, sir. I have to be absolutely certain you’re not a threat.”

“This is ridiculous,” Liam protests, and Sam kicks his feet apart this time, if Liam weren’t already pinned to the hood of the car he’d collapse, then Sam’s groin is pressed tight against his ass and fuck he’s hard, rolling his hips to draw a cry out of Liam that is not entirely one of protest.

“Do you want me to arrest you for obstructing an officer in the course of his duty?” Sam growls, bent over Liam’s body to say it right by his ear. “You need to cooperate, sir, or I’m going to have to make you comply.” And there’s the prod of something else long and hard against his ass, a surprise accessory.

“You’re going to beat me with a baton for running fucking lines for a fucking audition? You’re crazy.”

Sam whaps his hip with the baton just hard enough to establish that it’s not a baton but something with a little more give to it. Liam’s heart rate increases exponentially and a low moan escapes him, his hips shifting.

“Well, look at this.” Sam’s hand strokes down Liam’s spine to cup his ass. “Are you getting horny? Is that what being treated this way does to you?” Liam hears the smirk in his voice. “I guess I’ll be adding soliciting an officer to the charges.”

“What? I haven’t offered you shit!”

“Really?” Sam slides his hand between Liam’s legs, rubbing along his cleft. “You’re face down ass up over the hood of my squad car, wearing jeans that look painted on. Seems like an offering to me.”

“You put me here, you asshole!”

“That’s enough profanity,” Sam says, which nearly sets Liam off, the fussy way he says it, but then Sam’s pulling him to his feet by the cuffs. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you. Turn around.”

“Wh—”

“Turn around,” Sam repeats less patiently, yanking on the cuffs. Liam stumbles and Sam catches him; then they’re face to face and Liam can drink in the whole picture. This man is far from his smiling Sammy; with his scruffy beard and stony eyes above his uniform, this is a cop who got called to investigate what turned out to be some yahoo waving a cell phone around and decided to take advantage of the private area to have a little fun off the record.

That’s all Liam has time to think—that and how embarrassingly hot the scene has turned out to be—before Sam’s hand is on the top of his head, pushing down the way they’ve seen people be pushed down into patrol cars on every cop show, except that instead of into the backseat of the car he’s going to his knees on the pavement, masked from the world by the car, and there’s a rush of blood to his cheeks and his groin at the treatment.

Then Sam tugs his head back by the hair and with a tug of his zipper he’s guiding his cock out of his blue uniform pants and nudging the head against Liam’s shock-parted lips.

“You can’t be serious,” Liam says, attempting to keep his teeth together while he speaks and failing. He can already taste Sam on his lips and it’s hard to hold back from just opening up and taking him in.

“Shut up.” Sam pushes his thumb into Liam’s mouth. Liam nips him. Sam just shakes his head. “Open.”

“Or?”

“Or I summon an eagle to fly you to freedom, pat you on the head, and let you go. What do you think?” He glances down to where the baton is back in its holster at his hip. “There are worse things I could put in your mouth.”

Liam glares up at him, but lets his jaw relax, Sam’s thumb readily levering his mouth open. Sam moves fast; his cock is sheathed in Liam’s mouth within moments, a low filthy groan escaping him as the head pushes into Liam’s throat. Liam manages a quick deep inhale through his nose before Sam starts fucking his mouth, using him carelessly, gripping Liam’s hair.

“Fuck yeah,” Sam says with a grunt of effort, planting his other hand on the hood of the car, caging Liam in. “That’s it, don’t move, don’t you fucking move...”

It’s rough. It’s visceral. It’s incredible.

They aren’t exactly new to a little roughness, a little kink, a little PDA when they can get away with it. Throwing all the ingredients together and shaking them up has elevated this to a heady new level of desire.

Liam barely notices the slight strain on his shoulders. He’s utterly focused on the moans and curses emanating from Sam’s mouth, and the relentless reckless thrusts into his mouth. Sam could be playing this up as much as anything else, but it doesn’t feel like he is. It feels real.

“I think you were waiting for something like this,” Sam says, voice strained. “Why else would you be out here doing dumb shit, if it wasn’t for attention?”

“Hhhh,” Liam chokes out around Sam’s length.

“Any attention’s good attention for miscreants like you.”

Liam snorts saliva out of his nose and starts coughing laughter. Sam pulls out of his mouth and goes to one knee, watching Liam’s face go red until Liam can breathe again. There’s the edge of a smile on his face, but it is a sharp smile.

"Public Indecency", Sam/Liam, Explicit, 2/2

[(Anonymous)]

“All right, get up,” Sam says. “I don’t want your vomit on me.” He hauls Liam to his feet and turns him around. Sam doesn’t need to kick his feet apart this time; he’s already there. The intrusive groping is single-minded, Sam wrangling his jeans and boxers down with an intimate squeeze of his cock on the way. Liam hears a holster unclasp and the sudden shock of slick lube lavishly trickling down his cleft.

“Aaaah.” Sam’s fingers spread him and find the base of the thick plug. “What have we got here?” He turns it, slips it out a little, teases Liam with a couple of quick thrusts against his prostate. “Was this meant to convince me you weren’t out here to get fucked?” He drives it in again and Liam moans. “I think we can definitely add solicitation to this list of charges.”

“Listen, Officer... just do whatever you want and let me go.”

“Whatever I want?”

Shit. His smile is even sharper, and Liam can only barely see his face in the dim light.

“Yes,” he says helplessly, because he knows his Sammy won’t do anything too far, and because he wants to know how far Officer Riegel will go.

“Well.” Liam feels the plug pull out of him, leaving him open and wanting, and then the tear of a condom packet opening, which is weird because they quit using those ages ago. Maybe Sam’s avoiding making a mess of him?

When the cool rounded head of something more solid than Sam’s cock but still with some flexibility presses against him, the realization that Sam has remembered basic safe sex practices when it comes to using toys is but a fleeting second’s thought next to the realization that Sam’s pushing the long slender length of the—the definitely not a baton inside of him.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Sam whispers, leaning down over his back, and then his hand is across Liam’s mouth as he begins to slowly fuck Liam with the black dildo.

It’s lucky he put his hand there; right or no right, silence isn’t an option. Liam squirms and whimpers as Sam works on him, the slow deliberate strokes only making it more unbearable. His eyes dart frantically around but there’s nobody in the area; still, the thought of being caught has him attempting to push back against the rocking thrusts, hoping that maybe if he comes on it (if that’s what Sam wants—is it what he wants? The rough panting breaths in Liam’s ear suggest that maybe it is) he’ll be free to go with a warning before someone catches him like this.

“Good to see you’re not trying to resist.” Sam’s voice is silky-smooth in contrast to his heavy breathing. “You have the right to come like this. If you choose to give up that right, I can’t promise you’re going to come at all.”

Normally he’d need more, but with his cock trapped between his belly and the hood of the car, plus the relentless steady strokes of the baton (and he can’t help but think of it that way, as an improvised instrument of pleasure instead of the no doubt carefully selected toy that it is), plus Officer Riegel’s warning as his solid body pins Liam over the hood of the car, it’s going to be enough, it’s got to be—

Sam buries the baton in him right down to the crossbar and Liam wails against Sam’s palm, cock twitching and jerking, spreading come over his belly and whatever it is Sam’s put down for him to rut against.

“Oh, that’s good.” The baton hits the ground with a clatter and then the hot hard length of Sam’s cock is in him. “I knew you could take it, take it like the whore you are, walking around just asking for trouble—” His words trail off into a series of thick grunts and Liam braces harder against the car as Sam buries himself balls-deep and then with one last groan shoots his load.

The usual shared collapse of post-climax comedown doesn’t happen this time. Sam remains still but a moment as his cock softens before pulling out, a sticky mess dribbling down Liam’s thighs going ignored as Sam prioritizes getting the cuffs off Liam, letting them fall to the ground alongside the discarded baton before laying strong hands on Liam’s shoulders, loosening them back up from the position they’ve been pinned in.

Liam feels—well. Certainly well and truly fucked out; he’s sure that without the hood of the car under him he’d have slithered to the ground by now. There’s the sensible voice in the back of his head that’s always present to remind him that it’s okay, they’re just acting out a very different kind of scene than usual. But the majority of his mind is still lost in how full-on that just was. Sure, they’ve played with toys before. He’s surprised Sam by having stretched and plugged himself before. They’ve done the cuffs and the rough and the public stuff. It’s putting it all together that makes him moan like he’s coming again.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Sam murmurs in a far kinder tone. “You okay? Give me a color.”

“Blue,” Liam says.

“That’s not actually on the list, but I’ll take it.” Sam’s hands go away and there’s the sound of him buckling and zipping back up. A wet wipe takes care of most of the mess on Liam; the rest of it is on what indeed turns out to be a poncho, one in a navy tartan that’s probably quite nice when it’s clean. Liam’s aware enough to pull his own jeans back up and button them, even though the five-button fly is usually a nightmare to do. Sam bundles the poncho, cuffs, and baton into a plastic bag, stowing the lot in the backseat of the car (not even remotely a cop car, but in the dark it doesn’t matter) before rejoining Liam, who’s allowed himself to sit down on the nearest stack of wooden pallets.

Sitting where he is, looking at Sam in the low light, he can at last appreciate the small details. The pale blue shirt is no longer tucked into the navy blue pants, one tail hanging out over the now empty holster where the baton hung. At Sam’s other hip is a pump bottle of lube. If he was wearing a tie it’s long gone. Liam doubts he bothered. His shoes are meticulously shined; Liam resists the urge to prostrate himself and kiss them. The navy blue pants bear familiar, if slightly ridiculous yellow stripes up the outer legs. A triangle patch on one shoulder displays the NJ State Police logo; Sam turns so Liam can see the Weehawken Police patch on the other shoulder (it also has a Brooklyn Nine-Nine patch below it, just in case anyone thought Sam was ever 100% serious about anything).

And his nameplate does indeed say Officer Riegel.

“Thank you,” Liam says as Sam sits down beside him. Then, “Fucking hell.”

“Yeah.” Sam puts his arm around Liam and kisses the side of Liam’s head. “All okay?”

“I did not think when I told that story that you’d turn it into a sex fantasy at all, let alone one so intense.” A slow delicious shiver runs through Liam’s whole body. “God I love you when you’re authoritative.”

Sam laughs awkwardly. “I was so sure I was going to fuck it up.”

“You put so much effort in. I love it. Where the hell did you find a dildo shaped like a baton?”

“Amazon.”

“I can’t believe you put that in me.”

“Yeah, well, you took it like the greedy little slut you are, didn’t you?” Sam observes in that scary too-calm voice, and Liam groans, the sound of Sam’s words sliding over his body and squeezing his groin.

“Jesus, Sammy...”

“I was scared I was pushing it too far. The whole scene, I mean. And you just kept taking it.”

“It can’t all be clandestine handjobs in the studio bathrooms.”

Sam looks around the high-roofed, echoing space. “Not when we have a whole loading dock to play with now.”

“Public but not,” Liam agrees.

“I know you like the danger,” Sam says almost dreamily, fingers stroking Liam’s upper arm. “I know you like the potential of being caught... or of having someone watch...”

Liam whimpers softly; Sam’s really pushing all his buttons tonight. It’s almost terrifying to think about what else he might come up with, given free rein. But it’s exhilarating as well, in the same way that Sam caging him in with his body was.

“Are your arms all right? Shoulders?”

“Nothing dire.”

“Could you have stayed there longer?”

Liam considers the notion. “Maybe? I don’t know... how much longer?”

“For a dangerous felon like you? Long enough to bring a few more of my squad in, just to be certain we can take you into proper custody without you doing any stupid shit.”

“Fuck, Sam.” Liam’s body is wracked with another of those long slow shivers. Every time he thinks they’re done and the scene is over, Sam puts his thumb firmly on another one of his buttons.

“Too much?” Sam’s voice returns to its normal register.

“I’m thinking about you and Mercer playing good cop, bad cop. Except it’s more like bad cop, evil dragon cop.”

“Oh.” Sam sounds like he wasn’t expecting Liam to take to the idea. “Is... is that something you’d want?”

“I—maybe? With everyone’s permission? And if I didn’t think Marisha would murder me?”

“I think Officer Ray would be more than happy to give your mouth something to do. She might actually help you remain silent.”

“Fuck, Sam,” Liam repeats, turning his head to nuzzle into the side of Sam’s neck. “Trust you to put the ‘and’ in ‘yes, and’.”

Sam laughs a little awkwardly. “Yeah, well, I bet Ashley’s played disappointed parole officer with Brian before.”

“I refuse to speculate about that,” Liam says with as much dignity as he can muster to cover up the fact that now he’s wondering if it were the two of them side by side, the rest of the group thoroughly working them over, who’d be the first to break and start begging for it to stop.

“But you are,” Sam whispers before nipping his earlobe lightly.

“Yeah. Yeah.”

Sam kisses his earlobe, his temple, his cheek. “This wasn’t supposed to be an interrogation scene, but I think I just got a few interesting confessions out of you.”

“Feel free to use them against me any time, Officer Riegel.”

Re: "Public Indecency", Sam/Liam, Explicit, 2/2

[(Anonymous)]

*fans self* holy fuck that was hot

Re: "Public Indecency", Sam/Liam, Explicit, 2/2

[(Anonymous)]

Jesus fucking Christ that was amazing.

Re: "Public Indecency", Sam/Liam, Explicit, 2/2

[(Anonymous)]

Fucking hell. That was fire.

Re: "Public Indecency", Sam/Liam, Explicit, 2/2

[(Anonymous)]

fucking hell. if they ever do "bring the squad in" it would be too much hot in one place. this was. fuck

Slow Fuse. Caleb/OFC. E. Feel-good oral

[(Anonymous)]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16885398


“Why don’t you take off your coat?”

It is, Caleb knows, a suggestion. A kind one, delivered in a warm, slightly smoky voice. His mouth quirks and his hands flutter. Smoky and warm certainly suit the woman in front of him. She is pale, black-eyed, her hair tied up in a loose knot. It is the same color as the fire in the fireplace, and the curl that falls against the back of her neck seems to flicker. Her hands are steady and very warm as they slide beneath the lapels of his coat.

“I— hm. A moment, please.”

She steps back, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She toys with the belt of her robe. It is just a shade darker than her skin and drapes over her curves. In the firelight, it turns buttery gold.

Caleb’s hands flex by his sides. Then he tugs off his coat. There’s a hook by the door, and he hangs the coat on it. Then he pulls off the holster in which he keeps his books and hangs that up as well.

“Should I. Ah—” he gestures at his shirt, his pants.

“Do you want to?” the woman asks.

Caleb pauses, shrugs. It’s warm in the room, and he doubts he’s the ugliest thing that this woman has seen, but, well. He’s scrawny and scarred.

“How about just the gloves. And the top button or two.”

Mutely, he holds his hands out to her. His heart batters at the inside of his ribs. His breath comes hard and fast. His throat works as she takes his right hand in both of hers and begins to work the laces on his glove free of the eyelets. The leather rasps against his skin as she pulls it off. Then she moves to the other glove.

He brings his free hand to rest on her hip. The woman looks up, black eyes glinting. Caleb looks away immediately, but he does not drop his hand. The heat of her scorches through the robe and into his hand.

The second glove comes away. She moves that hand to her waist, as well. Then she backs him up to the bed. He’s good at doing what he’s told. This is fine. This is— her hands are warm and the smile on her lips makes his stomach go tight and heat build behind his cock. There’s a tasteless joke about cats getting cream in here somewhere and the thought almost makes him choke on air. He sits down too quickly.

“Mm?” she asks, running her fingers through his hair.

“Ah— nothing, sorry. Stray thought.”

“You seem to have a lot of those.” She presses him back, then, her hands on his shoulders and then running down his chest, over his stomach, to his belt. “Shall I make them stop?”

She’s welcome to try. He doesn’t say that— more gestures at nothing and blinks up at the ceiling and tries to ignore how hot his face feels. “Be my guest.”

His breath hitches as she undoes his belt. Caleb raises his hips a little so she can tug it free of the belt loops, which she does slowly. She’s just as slow about unbuttoning his fly. Her fingers just graze against his cock through the worn fabric of his smallclothes as she flicks each button open one by one.

Caleb lets out a long, unsteady breath and squeezes his eyes shut.

When she tugs a little at his trousers, he lifts his hips again. His face is burning. But this woman does not comment. She presses a kiss to one freckled thigh as she drops his trousers to his ankles. He kicks them away a moment later. She does not bother to remove his smalls entirely, just tugs them aside so she can free his half-hard cock. The air in the room in warm, but not body-warm, and he shifts a little as it brushes his skin.

She has not taken both hands off of him this entire time. He thinks he might have jumped otherwise when she leans in and kisses his hip. Her hair tickles where it brushes against him. It is warm, too, but not scorching. Not true fire.

Caleb exhales again.

“Oh, good,” she comments, laughter in her voice. “I thought you might be trying to knock yourself out.”

He makes a weak, wheezing sound that might be a chuckle which hitches and dissolves as her hands slide up his legs and nudge them apart.

He’s known what she was planning since she sank to her knees, but being this close to the reality still makes his palms sweat. Caleb balls both hands in the sheet and breathes through the spike of heat that snaps like a whip or like lightning up his spine.

The sound of a bottle opening is loud in the small room— the pop of a cap, followed by nothing he can catch other than a slight smell of something both sweet and somehow spiced. But he is not surprised to find her hand wet when she curls it around his half-hard cock. His hips jerk upwards.

Caleb stills himself. “Sorry.”

“No need.”

“It’s, ah, it’s been a while. Since…”

“I’ll go slow.”

“Oh.” he blinks at the ceiling and manages not to choke on his tongue as she gives him a lazy stroke. “Good.”

He is not slow. His cock hardens almost embarrassingly easily in her hand and Caleb, who had been quite prepared to make excuses for when his brain got in the way of his performance, feels as though the room beneath him has tipped. He keeps clinging to the sheet. By now, he has the pattern of dots and whirls in the wood of the ceiling seared into his memory.

She shifts, rising up onto her knees. Her shoulders brush against his legs, the silk of her robe soft against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. She curls two fingers around his base, firm, but not tight. Then her tongue drags up his cock from her fingers to its head.

Caleb’s stomach clenches. The sound he makes is a bit like he’s been struck.

“I’m— fine,” he assures her before she can ask. Then, stupidly, “your mouth is very warm.”

“Would you like more?”

Caleb nods mutely and squeezes his eyes shut.

She still goes slowly. She laps around the head of his cock and just beneath it before taking it into her mouth and sucking like it’s a particularly nice lollipop— and he’ll analyze why that image was the one to make his hips twitch later. Her mouth is hot, and Caleb feels an answering surge in the warmth gathering behind his cock, a clenching in his stomach and thighs. He makes another sound, something thready and tight, and he thinks he feels her smile. But she does not speed up. The first time she pulls off entirely, Caleb groans aloud. He wonders if imagines the note of reward in the motion of her tongue.

This time, she takes his cock about half way before she begins to bob her head. All that heat pulls tight, as though she is trying to draw it into her mouth. He bats at the sheets. His hips jerk and he lets out a cry. She slows, and the blaze in his belly recedes. Sweat sticks his hair to his neck. Caleb lets out a panting groan and tugs at the collar of his shirt. The top button, its stitching loose, slips from the buttonhole. For a moment, he thinks about sitting up and pulling the whole shirt off, but—

The woman’s tongue makes another purposeful drag and Caleb’s thoughts scatter. His mouth drops open on a groan that rolls up from his chest.

Her answering hum of approval has his hips jolting upwards, body drawn tight.

Again, she backs him away from the edge. One hand splays flat over his stomach, just pushing beneath his shirt. The other gently cups his balls. He almost raises a hand to his mouth as another cry punches out of him. He tries to focus on breathing. The heat of her mouth floods his thoughts and leaves him scattered. His eyes fall closed. He’s panting a little, soft, involuntary sounds rising from his chest as he exhales. And all the while, the warmth in him builds, slow and insistent. He’s not sure if he wants to relax into it or tense and cling to the sheets. His body tries to do both, his heart hammering and his breath coming harder even as his expression goes slack. He can feel the prickling and drag of it spreading through his limbs.

The woman shifts again. Caleb finds himself drawn toward her, hands moving to squeeze his ass. His cock slips deeper, and she swallows around him, her throat going tight. His hips jerk without his permission.

“Sor —” he starts. Then she hums, and he has nothing left but “Bitte, bitte, bitte…”

His hips twitch upwards again. Caleb feels one of her fingers slip back farther and press just at the edge of his hole.

Heat washes through him, all of it pouring out of him.

She holds his hips to the mattress until he finishes and goes limp against the bed.

“Fuck,” he breathes, rubbing his cheek against the bed.

The woman stands, wiping at her mouth with a handkerchief. She sits next to him. “Did you enjoy yourself, Mr. Widogast?”

His throat works. He manages a low, inarticulate noise. Then he raises a hand and gives her a thumbs-up. A moment later, it occurs to him that she was teasing, and he looks up in time to see her bite back a giggle.

Caleb sits up slowly, raking a hand back through his hair. “Do we have time left?”

“Some,” she glances down at where his cock lies soft against his thigh. “Why?”

“I thought I might return the favor. If you were interested.”

She considers him for a moment, a lazy smile curving her lips and crinkling the corners of her eyes. Then, slowly, deliberately, she spreads her legs. He ducks down between her thighs to lose himself once more in her heat.

Caduceus/OMCs, noncon h/c, 1/2

[(Anonymous)]

Somebody asked for Caduceus getting roofied, and then I went into a fugue state and when I came out of it I had written something which was absolutely nothing at all like the prompt, so its going over here instead. Trigger warning for ignorance/violence directed at intersex people, including misgendering, which might be a transphobia trigger although the character in question is cis.
-----

His attackers don’t expect what they find, when they undress him, and Caduceus uses their surprise and confusion as cover to cast Sending to Jester, hoping against hope that she is still downstairs. The others went out earlier this morning, and will surely be outside his range.

“Hello”, he whispers, as quietly as he can. “Please come to my room. Three men ambushed me. They are...sexually aggressive. I cannot fight them. One is a wizard. Bring the others.”

There is a long pause, and then he hears Jester’s shocked voice- not with his ears, but directly inside his head.

"Caduceus? Oh no, no! Yes, of course we’re coming to get you! Stay there! I mean-"

He cannot hear her speak out loud, but in this second pause he pictures her counting feverishly on her fingers, and smiles despite himself.

"-get out if you can, but we’re coming! Soon!"

Well, that’s nice. Jester is reassuringly predictable, in some ways. He can feel her outrage on his behalf ringing clear and sharp in his mind, like a bell, and he’s quite sure that none of these men will make it out of his room alive. For that reason he had considered speaking his message out loud, but if they panicked and ran it was possible that they would kill him first, so that he couldn’t identify them later. Fear is neither an elegant nor a safe weapon to wield against strangers. You never quite know what they’ll do.

The strangers have regrouped, and Caduceus sighs. Pinned to the floor as he is, in the grasp of the wizard’s arcane hand, he cannot move. He had been making his way up the stairs of the inn only minutes ago, when its shimmering phantom fingers had wrapped around his torso and pinioned his arms, and then someone’s flesh and blood hand had covered his mouth. He had fought them instinctively, but they had caught him alone and off his guard in a place of safety and rest, and his struggling had been futile. He has stopped resisting now, saving his energy for the fight he knows is coming, when the rest of the party finds him.

The man who had been removing his smallclothes gets back to it, tugging them off completely and then getting his hands behind Caduceus’ knees to push his legs up and spread him out.

(There is something small and selfish in his bounding heart, something which demands attention, which wants to scream and writhe no matter how futile or undignified it would be. But Caduceus has had many seasons of experience quieting that part of himself.)

“I could have sworn it was a male”, the man who is just watching says, returning to the subject of their confusion. Caduceus rolls his eyes. It goes unseen; these people aren’t looking at his face. He feels fingers trail with perverse gentleness up the furred lips of his vulva to play with his phallus.

“They’re probably all one sex”, suggests the third man, the wizard. He is standing further back, keeping an eye on the locked door and holding his hand out in midair, to grip Caduceus with unseen force. He does not seem especially interested in the sordid details of his friends’ conquest, but he had turned to look when they first exclaimed in surprise. “Giantkin, yeah? They’re pretty strange folk.”

“I am male”, Caducues says, and the man holding his legs startles.

“It can talk through this spell?” he asks, and the wizard gives him a withering glance.

“You’re the one who wanted his mouth free, Skrain”.

The second man ignores both of his companions to address Caduceus directly. “Sorry, but you don’t exactly...look male”, he says, with incongruous delicacy. As if Caduceus was having a normal conversation. As if he had chosen this.

“Yes, I do” he says. Tall and scrawny. Flat-chested. Unshaven beard, since I’ve not had time to wash since we’ve gotten back to Zadash. “You didn’t realize I was a twin, but you must have known I was male when you attacked me.”

“A...twin”, the man repeats.

“Yes, I- do humans bear only single offspring? Do you not know the word?”

The first man, Skrain, lunges forward and grabs Caduceus by the jaw.

“Don’t you get smart with us” he growls. He has big, strong hands, which reach all the way to Caduceus’ temporomandibular joints, exerting a precise, mechanical pressure. Caduceus’ mouth is pushed open. A threat.

But Caduceus is not being ‘smart’. Twinning is basic fact, the natural order of things. Their ignorance bewilders him. And he must walk a delicate line here, if he is to manage not to come across as condescending, not to damage the fragile pride of his captors while speaking as simply as he would to a child. When Skrain lets him go he works his jaw back and forth until it feels right, and then answers their (rude) questions with one of his own.

“What do you know of how bodies change and grow?” he asks, “in the womb?”

They stare blankly at him, and as Caduceus readjusts his expectations of their intelligence downward once again, he is hit with the unexpected gift of a memory- he is sitting with Octavia, telling her about the insects in the garden. The day is summersweet and warm, and his little sister’s curiosity bubbles over in endless questions. He feels slow and stupid and annoyed trying to keep up with her, to find answers which will satisfy her young, hungry mind. But how does it know to be a swallowtail, when it’s just caterpillar soup? How does it know its not a skipper, or a glasswing? His patience had been tested that day, but it had held, for he so dearly loved her, and in that memory he finds his patience once again.

“Before we are born”, he says, “our bodies already have plans for how we are to grow. These plans are just random chance, the recombination of our parents’ bodies into new shapes. If a body which means to be female is formed in the same womb as a body which means to be male- like my brother and I- the Wildmother intervenes. Since their plans are incompatible, the goddess alone decides which course they will both take.”

There’s a moment of silence as the three men absorb and process this, and then the second man settles back onto his heels and snaps his fingers in sudden understanding. “She’s a freemartin”, he tells the others.

“A what?” Caduceus asks, thrown by the unknown term as well as the dizzying switch of pronouns. Common is difficult enough to follow at the best of times.

“What is that, Esar?” the wizard echoes, with obvious interest.

“It, uh, it happens with cows sometimes? One time our neighbor back home, you know, my family’s farm? His prize cow had twins, a bull calf and a heifer. But the heifer never went into heat, never calved. Years and years they kept her, just ‘cause her ma gave milk so good, but she just got bigger and meaner, and it wasn’t until they called someone out to look at her that they figured out she was a freemartin. Totally infertile. Somehow all the fluids get mixed up, with twins, and they don't turn out right. Happens to sheep, too, I think. I never heard of it happening to people.”

Skrain raises his eyebrows at Esar with a smirk, clearly calling Caduceus’ personhood into question.

“Well. You know what I mean”, the former farmer says.

“Yes, thank you for the livestock lesson”, Skrain says, scathing. After releasing Caduceus' jaw he had moved on to running his fingers through long pink hair, and now he is stroking the skin of his captive's face and neck. He seems to be growing bored of talk. The look in his eyes makes dread pool in Caduceus’ gut like cold water.

“I am not female”, he repeats, desperate to make them understand. “I have a vestigial organ, yes, from a time before my body understood what the Wildmother wanted for me.” For us. For him and Ascelpius. Caduceus falters slightly at the familiar ache of thinking about his brother, and has some difficulty finding his next words. “If you...mount me, my arousal will not ease your way. And it is shallow, a blind passage. I do not even know if what you want is possible.”

“Because no one’s ever tried” Skrain replies, and his eyes are hungry.

Surely Jester should have been here by now. When Caduceus had gone upstairs he had left her drawing in her sketchbook at the corner table- she was so close! But of course he had asked her to gather the others first, so the two of them would not be outnumbered. And the Mighty Nein were scattered throughout Zadash- at the marketplace, the park, the baths. He pictures Jester bursting through a door carved in the air to gasp a warning, pictures Fjord’s eyes growing thunderous and dark with anger. He imagines them all looking up from their books and turning away from their errands, a small army mustered to come to his aid. Any moment now.

But then again, perhaps not. Perhaps someone has waylaid them. Captured them, the way he was caught. The way their Molly died. They way he had first met Yasha and Fjord and Jester, chained in a dungeon. These people, much as he has grown to like and trust them, are not invincible.

Caducues’ attention is drawn forcefully back to the present by the sound of a belt being undone, and he closes his eyes.

At least they don’t draw it out any longer, no more touching or talking. Skrain slicks him up with oil, which Caduceus refuses to be grateful for, and then mounts him without preamble or ceremony. A human cock can fit inside him, barely. This wasn’t information he’d especially wanted to have.

His attacker groans, not into his neck but against his chest- Caduceus is small, but humans are smaller. The room is utterly quiet except for the noises of the man working upon him. Caduceus can feel very little of what is happening- perhaps his nerves do not function as a female’s would, or perhaps sex is always like this. He has no basis for comparison. But he is mostly unsurprised to learn that he can feel only the burning stretch where his body is held open, and a sort of dull pressure inside.

The man on top of him can certainly feel it, for he has begun shoving himself into Caduceus quick and hard. Like the deer in autumn, except this mating lasts longer. No doe would tolerate such brutish treatment for long. They’re sensible people, deer.

“Fuck”, Skrain gasps. “Barl, you have to try this.” The wizard shrugs. He looks uncomfortable, keeps glancing at the door like he wants to leave. His thoughts are not hard to read on his face, and in any other situation, Caduceus would try to convince him that his second thoughts are right- that he is above this, that his power is worth more than serving the whims of men like Skrain. But the breath is being driven out of him by the relentless thrust of hips into his body, and somehow the feeling of it drives away his words, which escape his grasp like wisps of fog. He cannot speak.

After a short eternity, Skrain shudders and empties himself inside Caduceus. It is a distasteful sensation. When he pulls out he stands up, tucks himself back into his pants, and immediately pushes Esar forward.

“Go on”, he says, slapping the other man’s back. “It really is just like a woman.”

Caduceus does not open his eyes.

He feels smaller, more hesitant hands on his hips as Esar takes the same position on top of him. Caduceus had managed to keep himself relaxed, the first time, but now that his body knows so intimately what is about to happen and what it is going to feel like, his muscles have gone tense. The guard struggles to mount him, like a too-eager stag with bad aim, jabbing the air. Skrain, who has settled down cross-legged on the floor to watch, laughs. And then suddenly his hands dart out and pinch two of Caduceus’ nipples, and he twists, viciously hard. Caduceus yelps, and his attention is jerked away from his groin and onto the twin points of pain on his right side. He writhes against his magical bonds, and as he moves, somehow the head of Esar’s cock slips right up inside him.

Skrain lets him go, still laughing, and Caduceus gasps as the pain blooms.

“Fuck off” Esar snaps, glaring at his friend. “I don’t need your help.”

“Looked like you did to me” Barl says, amused.

Esar swears at him, and the other two laugh again. His cock is big, bigger than Skrain’s, and although he has penetrated Caduceus, he’s still struggling to work himself deeper. He pushes forward and Caduceus winces as another bright flash of pain runs through him, this time followed by genuine fear. No matter how much they hurt him, this just isn’t going to work.

“Fuck it”, Esar says, pulling out. “That’s not happening. I’m going back to plan A”.

Plan A...oh, right, they had been expecting a male victim in the first place. Barl says “ugh” under his breath but twists his hand in midair, and Caduceus is spun around onto his front. Dizzy and disoriented, he isn’t quick enough to catch himself with his hands, and he lands on his face. Esar doesn’t seem to mind. He seems bolder now that he doesn’t have to look at Caduceus’ face, and begins to explore, stroking the soft down of Caduceus’ thighs. Skrain hands him the bottle of oil, and then Caducues feels slick fingers press inside him. The sensation is invasive, but not unpleasant. Caduceus doesn’t have much time to think about that, though, because Skrain grasps his chin and pushes three of his fingers into Caduceus’ mouth.

Caduceus feels his brain shudder and overheat. For a long moment he is simply held there, suspended between the two of them. Their fingers work inside him. His fingers scrabble against the floor, trying and failing to push himself up onto his hands and knees. The two of them do not speak, but simply push him back and forth between them. He feels, for the first time, the hot pulse of blood between his legs, making him stiffen and long for touch. His body, trying so desperately to make sense of what is happening to it, has decided that the correct response is arousal. Caduceus no longer has any power in this situation, not knowledge to hold over their heads, not even his own physical indifference. He feels utterly lost.

Eventually Esar pushes Caduceus’ knees up underneath him, to give him a better angle as he guides his cock inside. Caduceus cannot tell if he wants to buck towards the pressure or away from it, so he just sucks helplessly at the fingers in his mouth. Skrain moans. He’s hard again, and he is going to put himself into Caduceus’ mouth soon, and there’s nothing whatsoever Caduceus can do about it. They take him and take him, and he is beginning to lose track of how long he’s been here, how long he has been an object for these people to use. He is fully hard, now, and flushed pink from head to toe. Is this what sex is supposed to be like? There is a quick jolt of pleasure ever time Esar thrusts into him, then a wickedly slow withdrawal while Skrain pushes forward into his throat. He can’t touch himself, can’t do anything but hold himself up. He wants to come, but he doesn’t want to want to, doesn’t want any of this, but his body is so warm and pliant now, content to let them share him. Just taking it and taking it. He can feel his toes clench and uncurl as the rhythm pushes him further and further along towards- something, some parody of satisfaction. Caduceus, overwhelmed, feels sound well up in his throat and can’t bite it back.

Skrain looks down at Caduceus when he hears it, smiling his mean, toothy smile. “Oh?” he asks, “You like that?” And he’s just about to say something else when Jester breaks down the door.

Re: Caduceus/OMCs, noncon h/c, 2/2

[(Anonymous)]

There’s an explosion of splinters as the wood cracks beneath her fists and splits open in her claws. Her hand reaches through the wreckage and gropes for the doorknob, and Caduceus can hear her swearing a blue streak on the other side. Ha, he thinks, still fuzzyheaded. Blue. That’s funny. Finally she finds it, unlocks it, and pushes the half-busted door open.

Esar and Skrain scrambled off of him as soon as they’d heard the door break, but are still in disarray, with their pants half-buttoned. Barl, badly startled, has finally dropped his spell. Caduceus uses his newfound freedom to roll up into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest to hide himself. He is sore, and he is heartsick, and he is still hard, but most of all he is quite certain that his friends have this fight well in hand without him.

He’s right. Caleb knows better than to throw fire around in such a limited space, with civilians below stairs, so he’s hanging back. Caduceus sees Nott get Esar with two crossbow bolts in a row, one in his heart and one in his liver. Jester obliterates Skrain with an unusually powerful Inflict Wounds. Beau takes Barl down to the floor with her staff and pins him while Fjord brings the falchion down across his neck- like a chef’s knife, Caduceus thinks- and then it’s over. He can feel the spray of blood drying on his face.

Jester throws herself onto her knees next to him the instant the dust settles. Shaking, she alternates between laying healing hands upon him and using her sleeves to wipe away the tears which continuously overflow from her big, blue eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Dueces” she says, sniffling. “There are magic wards on half the city now, and I took me ages to find everyone, and we just weren’t fast enough, and I am so, so sorry.”

He can feel the pain leaving his body, his limbs awakening with fresh energy, and still Jester continues to pour her magic into him, as if she could wash away the memory of what has happened along with the physical traces. Caduceus is very fond of her.

Fjord sighs.

“Jess, couldn’t you have waited a minute? We have three human corpses up here and now there’s not a scratch on Clay. It looks...bad.”

Jester, her eyes swollen and red, still manages to glare at him with righteous rage. “No, I couldn’t have waited, Fjord!” she cries. “I don’t care what it looks like, they hurt him-”

“I’ll speak for you”, comes a new voice from the doorway, and Caduceus looks up to see the innkeeper, a thin older woman. Jan, he thinks her name was. Her eyes are hard and the muscles in her face are taut with anger. “We all knew Skrain was a creep, but I couldn’t do fuck-all about it. He never quite crossed the lines in front of witnesses. Always had his shitty friends to back up his alibis. Scared more than one girl into recanting. Don’t know what he was thinking, jumping someone in here like that. Little idiot just got cocky, I guess.”

She presses coin into Fjord’s hand and turns to make her way back down the stairs. “I’ll fetch the Crownsguard, tell them some version of the truth. You get that child a hot bath on me. As my thanks for clearing out the vermin.”

“I’m older than you” Caduceus says, gathering himself to stand. “I’m not a child”. The words sound petulant even as he says them, and his ears droop in embarrassment as Jan scoffs gently at him.

“Yeah, I know your people son. You’re what, 80? 85? Don’t let him give you that wise elder shit”, she says to Beau and Fjord, and then she troops back down the stairs.

“A bath sounds nice”, Caduceus says, into the silence.


---


By the grace of the goddess, his teammates are able to wrap the legality of the whole thing up and put it away without involving him at all. Once he is clean, damp, and wrapped in a robe and a thick down comforter, Caduceus goes to sit on the stairs. They are the same stairs where the men found him earlier, and he knows that whatever happens above where they turn at a right angle to form the landing is invisible to people below. He sits, and listens. The guards ask, several times, to question the alleged victim. Fjord refuses point blank, in a tone so scrupulously deferential they hardly realize that's what he's doing. Caduceus is unspeakably grateful for his thoughtfulness, for everyone's concern. When he’d come out of the bath earlier (and it had been a long, long bath) he’d found Beau leaning against the wall beside the door like a bodyguard, scowling at passersby.

The blood and bodies are cleared away, and they are assigned new rooms. Caduceus isn’t involved with that either. They are guilt-ridden, all of them, and won’t let him lift a finger, even to make dinner. So he lies in bed, hours earlier than he would usually retire, and does not sleep. Does his best not to think. He can’t make himself pray, not yet.

Eventually, Nott drags her bedroll into his room and dumps it on the floor. She meets his eyes with a defiant glare, as if daring him to comment, and he just pats the bed, inviting her up. She hops onto the mattress and curls up at Caduceus’ feet, back against the wall, for all the world as if he were Caleb. her tiny, ferocious presence is more comforting than he expects it to be, and at some point he drifts off to sleep. He wakes again some time after midnight, to see Nott’s eyes glowing green in the dark, reflecting the dim light of the moon.

“You’re still awake?” he whispers, and she crawls over to him. He throws a blanket over their heads, so they won't disturb Fjord, who was allowed to crash in the room's other bed at some point while Caduceus was asleep.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I just can’t sleep.”

“Mmm. Thinking about something?”

Her eyes are sad. “You. What you said last time we were here.”

“What did I say?”

“That you were, a virgin.”

“Oh. Yes. That disturbs you?”

“Its just that-" she squirms around under the covers, her breath hot in the small space, and drops her eyes away from his. "Its just that my first time was- like that, like what happened to you. And for a long time I didn’t know that it could be any different, because I didn’t have anything good to compare it to. I don’t want that for you, Mr. Clay. For anyone.”

Caduceus is not terribly surprised to hear this, from the little he knows of her life story. He wonders a little who had changed her frame of reference- Yeza or Caleb? Then he sets his wondering aside, along with a brief flash of (unfair) anger that he now has to soothe her pain when he was the one injured. He knows that this type of injury lives in the body, can already feel the pain of it settling into his bones and nerves. Nott is feeling his terror and helplessness tonight just as surely as if she had been the one in that room.

“You needn’t worry”, he says. “I know what love is.”

She pats his face, her eyes luminous and watery with unshed tears. “Good”, she says. “That’s good.”

Caduceus doesn’t tell her that the idea of being loved like that feels stifling; just another type of violation. He thinks of the type of love she speaks of and feels the phantom sensation of a magic hand pressing him into the floor, human arms caging him in. He has never wanted that kind of love. What makes him feel loved above all else is Nott's presence here with him, ready to kill to keep her family safe. It is Beau at his door, Jester at his side, Fjord guarding his privacy. Caleb's silver thread around them at night. Yasha's quiet support. All the love he needs lies in the tight circle they have drawn around him now, like a herd of bison would guard their calves, horns lowered, to keep the wolves away.

He has been alone for too long, Caduceus Clay. He misses his sisters dearly, misses his parents, misses...at least the concept of Asclepius, the idea of a brother, if not the reality. Misses his certainty that the Wildmother would guide and protect him.

It is good not to be alone.

Nott falls asleep eventually, too exhausted from crying to keep up her self-imposed vigil. Caduceus tucks her in beside him. He does not fall asleep for a long, long time.

Re: "Public Indecency", Sam/Liam, Explicit, 2/2

[(Anonymous)]

jesus fucking christ
when i think it couldn't possibly get hotter you had to go and suggest T H A T
i'm ded

The Third Side of a Coin - Travis/Liam - T/not smutty, werewolf AU

[(Anonymous)]

A story that climbed into my brain and wouldn't leave. So, it lives.

Travis forgets - one little slip up - but it leads to something that might flip their friendship on its head. AU in which Travis and Liam are both werewolves. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/17316110

Sharp— Fjord/Avantika, E. dub-con piercing

[(Anonymous)]

Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17556941

“Sensitive?” Avantika asked, rubbing her thumb around and around one of Fjord’s nipples.

“Uh—” he cleared his throat. Watch the voice. “Yeah. Yes, Captain.”

She hummed, rolling her hips against his. The fabric of her pants dragged against his bare cock and Fjord bit back a groan. He let her guide his hands to the headboard and did not pull away even when she took her scarf and used it to bind his hands in place.

“Captain—?”

“Shhh, ne t’inquiéte pas,” she climbed off of him, a sharp smile on her lips, “I will be right back.”

She went only to her desk a few feet away, bending and rummaging in a drawer before coming back with a lit candle, a bottle of clear alcohol, a cloth, and a leather case. Avantika unrolled the case on Fjord’s stomach. It was full of needles of various thicknesses and lengths.

Fjord jerked against the scarf. “Captain, hold on just a—”

“Do you want to come, mon cher?” she brushed her fingers up the length of his cock.

“Yeah— yeah, I do.”

Gods help him.

Avantika straddled him again. She worked her hips against his as she toyed with the various needles, comparing them to a pair of gold hoops she withdrew from a pocket in the leather case. And, despite himself, he pushed up against her.

“Hold the candle for me,” she ordered, setting it between his hands.

Hot wax dribbled down its sides and over his fingers, but he held it steady as she heated the needle. Alcohol splashed across his chest. It stung faintly. Avantika wiped away the excess. She poured more alcohol over the needle before pinching his nipple tight between thumb and forefinger and bringing the needle’s tip to it.

“Now, Fjord,” she was still grinning that wicked grin.

His stomach turned into a tight, hard knot.

“Hold very still.”

Then she pushed the needle through.

Fjord screamed. Without a battle to numb it, the pain stayed with him, seeming to radiate through his chest. When he looked down, the needle was still in place, a bead of blood running down his chest. He panted through his nose, eyes wide, hands clenched around the candle. More wax splattered his hands.

“Your friends are going to think I’m killing you,” Avantika tutted as she drew the needle out.

She put the hoop in its place and clicked it shut. The needle went back on top of the case. Then she stood. She shoved her pants off of her hips and slid out of her smallclothes as well.

“Open.” Fjord hesitated and she reached out to dig her fingers into the hinge of his jaw. “Open.”

He opened his mouth, and she stuffed her smalls into it. Her taste flooded across his tongue. They muffled the groan he let out as she settled over his hips again.

Again, the needle went into the candle flame. Again, she splashed his chest with alcohol. It stung the first hole she’d punched in him and he bucked under her, arms jerking as he tried to reach for his chest. He couldn’t stop panting.

“You need to hold still.”

There was steel in her tone. It froze him where he lay, his breath stopped in his throat.

She punched the needle through again. This time, his cry was muffled by the wad of fabric in his mouth. Avantika left his hands bound as she fitted in the second hoop and splashed more of the alcohol across his chest. She flicked both rings and fresh beads of blood trickled from the piercings. Fjord yelped. Then she stood and took kit, candle, bottle, and cloth back to her desk. When she returned this time, she held a familiar vial.

Fjord opened his mouth without protest, this time. Avantika tugged her smallclothes from between his teeth and then poured the healing potion down his throat. There was a prickle in his chest as the piercings healed.

Experimentally, she flicked at them again. He gasped, but at least this time it did not feel like he was going to get the rings yanked out.

“Magnifique,” Avantika declared. Then she settled over him again and took hold of the rings with either thumb and forefinger. “Let’s see what we can do with these.”