criticalkink | Critical Role kink meme post #3: Unprompted Kinky Writing

Critical Role kink meme post #3: Unprompted Kinky Writing

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.)

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(i posted this under a semi-relevant prompt on the rpf thread but this post is very helpful! i'm not comfortable posting rpf anywhere besides here.)

They’re supposed to be having a nice dinner out, but Taliesin feels awful.

He’s felt pretty terrible all day, to be honest. It’s a combination of physical and mental problems- he can feel a head cold coming on, starting with a low pulse of pain in his skull, and his brain hasn’t been great either, feeling apathetic at best since he got up in the morning. He very badly wants to be in bed, but he and Matt and Marisha have been arranging to have a real date night for a while now, and god, he doesn’t want to fuck it up.

Language aside, there’s another issue- he’s feeling little, especially after a long day of work. But he can’t, not here, not now; they’re out having a normal date, or as normal as they get, having dinner and laughing over wine, and Taliesin has a twinge of guilt because he wishes he was home in his dinosaur jammies, watching cartoons with a bottle of chocolate milk.

It’s not fair to Matt and Marisha. They take such good care of him when he’s little, and he doesn’t have anything to give in return. There’s sex and romance he can provide when he’s big and normal, but it can’t compare to them holding him, singing to him, letting him be a ridiculous child.

“Taliesin?” Marisha says. “You okay?”

Taliesin pulls himself out of his thoughts and nods. “Yeah, yeah.” He gives Matt and Marisha a crooked grin that he hopes doesn’t look too forced. “I’m all right. Just kinda tired. But I’m here, I’m listening.”

Matt gives him a tiny concerned frown and says, “You can always tell us if something’s up.”

“I’m fine, d- Matt.” He chuckles, trying to cover up where he stammered over Matt’s name, nearly calling him daddy. “Promise.”

They still look unconvinced, but then the waiter comes by with their meals, interrupting that line of questioning. Taliesin smiles politely and thanks the server even though he’s completely uninterested in eating this perfectly good stir fry.

He only pokes at his dinner but he does his best to participate in the conversation. Matt and Marisha chat about work, games, movies, and even when he doesn’t have anything to add, he tries to laugh or make agreeing sounds in the right places.

It’s so stupid. He should’ve told them to have a nice night on their own, that he was sick and that they should have fun without him dragging them down. He’s such a nightmare to deal with, worse than a real child because he’s supposed to be a normal adult.

He feels Marisha’s hand on his arm and he realizes his vision is blurry with unshed tears.

“Taliesin,” Marisha says, her voice serious and concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” He tries to wipe his eyes without drawing attention to the fact that he’s on the verge of crying. “I- I should’ve told you I’m not feeling well, I should’ve stayed home, I don’t want to ruin your night-”

“Our night,” Marisha says firmly. “Taliesin…”

“I’m fine,” he repeats, but his voice cracks, and the jig is up.

Matt nods towards the front of the restaurant. “I’ll get the bill,” he says. “You two sit in the car and I’ll be right out.”

Taliesin starts to argue, but Marisha ushers him outside like a woman on a mission. She opens the back of the car and sits down next to him. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

Taliesin sniffles and stares at the car floor. “I really am just feeling sort of sick. And…my brain isn’t great today. I didn’t want to say anything because I wanted you two to have a nice night.”

“Tal, it’s not just for me and Matt, it’s supposed to be a good night for all of us.” She holds Taliesin’s hands in her own for a minute. “Ah- I know. I have just the thing.”

Taliesin glances up as she digs through her purse and pulls out a little plastic case, the size of one of those travel first aid kits, except it’s decorated with stickers. She pops it open and holds out two things- a tiny Beanie Baby turtle and a blue pacifier.

He bursts into tears, unable to hold it back any longer, feeling so guilty and selfish. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t want- I didn’t want this to happen tonight, I just wanted us to be semi-normal. I wanted you to not worry about me being a mess, or- or have to think about taking care of me- I’m sorry.”

Marisha pulls him into a tight hug, hushing him and kissing his cheeks. “Oh, baby, it’s okay. Please don’t worry about that. We love you so much.”

Taliesin didn’t notice Matt’s arrival, but feels his hand gently patting his leg from the front seat. “We love taking care of you,” he says. “You know that, right?”

“I just- you put so much energy into it, and you don’t get anything back-”

“We do, though,” Matt says. “Do you know how happy it makes us that we make you feel safe and loved?”

“We love playing mommy and daddy for you,” Marisha adds. “You can be small and vulnerable with us because you trust us. That makes us feel so good, baby.”

Taliesin stares at them with wide, wet eyes. They smile warmly, Marisha leaning in to kiss his forehead, Matt reaching back to stroke his cheek. “Can we go home?” he asks softly.

“Of course,” Matt says. “Buckle up, baby. We’ll be there soon.”

Marisha slides the pacifier into his mouth and hands him the little stuffed turtle while she clicks his seatbelt closed. She stays in the back with him, lightly scratching his scalp while he sucks on the pacifier and makes the plush turtle dance in his hands.

When they get home, Matt and Marisha guide him inside. “Daddy’s gonna get you changed while I get us all cozy,” Marisha says. “Do you want some cocoa?”

“Bottle,” Taliesin says quietly. Marisha smiles and gives him a quick kiss before Matt leads him into the bedroom.

“Okay,” Matt says, digging through Taliesin’s drawer. “How old are you feeling, buddy?”

Taliesin hesitates, then shyly holds up one finger. Matt gives him a soft, warm look and nods.

Matt gets him out of his clothes and gently dresses him again, replacing his shirt and dark jeans with a pull-up and his softest pajamas, the Superman ones. They pick out a couple more stuffed animals- a well-loved, scruffy cat, a soft dog, and a handsomely-dressed Build-a-Bear. Matt gives him another soft kiss and walks him back out to the living room, holding his hand.

Marisha is waiting on the couch with a bottle of warm milk. “Come here, my sweet baby,” she coos, pulling Taliesin into a hug. “We’re gonna watch Robin Hood. Maybe we’ll do a whole Disney night, yeah?”

Taliesin smiles and nods. He curls up in between Matt and Marisha and sighs, content.

Liam waits until after the rest of the group have scattered and Matt's packing up his dice to ask, "What exactly were you planning on happening between Vax and Gilmore?"

Matt looks up from sweeping the polyhedrals into their bag. "Hmmm? Oh... well. It would have depended on what Vax was okay with. You seemed pretty chill about the whole thing." His lips quirk into a smile. "How far would you have gone?"

"That depends on what Gilmore would have offered," Liam says.

Matt stands up, and there's really not much to pick in height between them, but Liam feels like Matt's looming over him. "That depends on how seriously Vax would have taken it."

There are still other people in the studio—Ashley's laughing at something Laura just said—but Liam can't really hear them. He's focused on Matt's piercing blue gaze that seems to be boring deeply into him, and on the way Matt's tongue darts out to wet his lips.

"Vax would..." He has to swallow; his throat is dry. "Vax didn't spend the afternoon with Gilmore for nothing."

Matt cocks an eyebrow. "Oh? It wasn't just a friendly stroll around the city to catch up on the local news? Good to know."

"Gilmore—" Liam starts.

"Are you staying here all night?" Sam interrupts.

"Liam just wants to know whether Gilmore can make Vax a certain magical item," Matt says smoothly.

Sam snickers. "With the right incentive, I think Gilmore would make Vax anything."

"That's the gist of it," Matt says with a sly smile, and Liam's stomach does a backflip. "I do have to look up the rules for item crafting, though. Liam, do you want to stick around and make sure I'm doing this the way you want it?"

The sneaky, sneaky bastard. "Sure," Liam says, snagging his PHB just so it looks like he's paying attention to their cover story—and so he can hold it in front of himself. Matt's been throwing flirty looks and winks his way all session, but now that it seems to be Matt-and-Liam instead of Gilmore-and-Vax, he's not sure what to make of the way that his body is reacting. Matt picks up his DMG, a pencil, and a piece of scratch paper.

They make their way to the sofa, waving as the others leave one and two at a time. Before very long they're alone in the room. Matt is drumming his pencil against the cover of his DMG. Liam just watches the way his fingers move, flicking the pencil again and again.

Matt breaks the silence between them. "How far would you have gone?" he asks again, and this time Liam knows for sure that Matt means him and not Vax.

Liam chooses his words with care. "It's clear Gilmore has a special interest in Vax. It would hardly be fair to take advantage of that just to bend him to helping out the party. I don't think he'd be fooled if Vax weren't reasonably serious." He realizes he's still clutching his PHB and sets it aside, trying to pretend that when he tugs down the hem of his brown t-shirt it's just a casual gesture. "And I don't think we'd be welcome back at Gilmore's Glorious Goods if Vax turned around and brushed him off after giving every indication that he was... that he wanted to explore that special interest."

"I see." Matt stops drumming his pencil on his book. "So Vax was sincere about having Gilmore visit any time... day or night?"

"Yes." Liam looks down to where Matt's now twirling the pencil between his fingers instead. "And if you say 'good to know', Mercer, I swear I'm going to kill you."

Matt laughs. "Well, it is. It's always good for a DM to know what they might be able to exploit about their players' characters."

Liam feels inexplicably wounded. "Is that what this is, a chance to find something to use against me—Vax?"

"No," Matt says, and his voice shifts, and he's not quite Gilmore because they're sitting on the couch and not up at the table, there's no DM screen between them, but there's a low, insinuating tone to his voice all the same. "It's a chance to find out just how much of himself Vax would have offered to Gilmore."

This is, on some level, profoundly fucked-up; they are not their characters. This is, on some level, the opposite of a good idea. This is, on some level, something that could fuck their friendship up forever if either of them misreads the situation.

On this level, the one where Liam's sitting barely an arm's length from Matt on the couch where they do their Q&As, Matt can see that Liam's considering his response very carefully. He can't stop twirling the pencil between his fingers, waiting for Liam to tell him that he's being fucking ridiculous.

Instead, Liam reaches out and plucks the pencil from his hand, throwing it fairly accurately in the direction of the tables. "Vax thinks Gilmore drives some hard bargains, but he's noticed a crack in Gilmore's own armor, something that he could exploit if that was what he wanted to do."

"Go on," Matt says.

Liam clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair. "It's not. He's too curious to see what Gilmore's intentions are toward him to even think of using it against him."

Matt lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "You should probably know that Gilmore's interest in Vax goes beyond just being friendly."

Liam chuckles. "Yeah... I was getting that impression."

The gap between them is small. Small enough that an observer, if one were there, would be hard put to say which of them leans in first.

(Spoiler: it's both of them. They mirror each other, in fact, each lifting a hand to the other's face, palm curving a little to cup the jaw. They even close their eyes at the same moment, the breath-apart moment when it's too late to turn back.

Spoiler: neither of them want to turn back.)

She smelled of the forest. Pine needles and moss, fungi, the dense ferns that hid all sorts of pathways through tightly knit trees that had seen ages whisper quietly away from them. She was timeless. His own personal deity to bend a knee to, kiss softly, whisper his wants into the memory of fields and forests. Unlike other gods, his whispered back, slid a hand over his own, made promises in return, and sealed her words with tongue and teeth against his skin.

Unfortunately for Percy, Vex’ahlia was in Syngorn as he thought of her, a fact that made any dramatic memories turn somewhat sour. To his credit, Percy had lasted a good two weeks before he abruptly locked the door to his workshop and strode into the forest, face set in determination. He had the sense of mind to grab his firearms, to posture a bit, make an appearance of going to the forest to hunt. Along the path to the woods he inspected bullets as he loaded Animus, and checked the balance of Bad News. A wonderful little physical tick he thought would be most effective.

Percy walked for a few hours. Quiet frustration met with quiet bird song and the movement of leaves and his own footfalls. He stopped and leaned against a tree, breathing in on a loud gasp, focusing on *this*. ‘This’ with outstretched branches and grooves in the bark where deer had come and attempted to scour the velvet from their antlers. ‘This’ of dappled sunlight making the fabric of his coat dance between different colors. ‘This’ being his Lady Vex’ahlia’s and everything that is of her. She was his unending forest and his home.

A loud shuddering breath followed by hands scrambling at fabric. His hands. His hands because she wasn’t here and he needed her. He needed her and so he came to the woods because they were hers. The smell of the mossy undergrowth bringing to mind their last night together before her stay in Syngorn. How he pulled her close and smothered his face in her hair as they lay under the night sky. Then lower when she spread her legs and pressed his face into her sex.

In times where he was completely alone, he wondered how he let himself go so far. How it became that one person held so much sway over him, and how terrifying it was that he would do anything for her. A fact he moaned into the waiting wilds as his hand grasped his cock and he began sliding up and down. He continued for a moment before spitting in his palm and twisting his thumb around his shaft. Vex swam in his vision, soft browns of her eyes, the remnants of the wilds leaving green around the very edges of her pupils. His forest goddess in front of him, lips wrapping around him, her tongue pressing into the sides, swirling around the tip. Percy fell back with his full weight against the tree and he moaned.

He moaned her name, her full title, the small endearments he used just for her, slipping into Celestial, as even if she wasn’t there, he knew she’d have loved to hear him speak it. Percy’s hand slipping up and down his shaft, as he thought of moonlit nights and hair adorned with stars, briefly pausing once or twice to slick his hand again, enough to continue the movement, but not enough to make his length entirely wet. He had long since given up attempting to explain his desire to be in some discomfort during sex. The thought of his dick rubbed raw and throbbing made him grin.

Lips around him. Fingers teasing him before thrusting inward. Gods, he left any supplies he could have had with him back in Vex’s manor. Percy’s legs tightened, his fist moving faster as he thought of Vex smiling at him as she inserted a smooth glass toy into his anus. He wanted her in him more than anything. That was almost the aim of the forest. Outside, he was drowning in her. He was inside of her, and with each breath he took a part of her in. The toy would have been nice, and quite preferable, but it was all still her.

Percy came into his hand, Vex’s name on his lips, the forest that was and was not her around him, wind whispering quietly, as if it knew it wasn’t quite complete without it’s mistress there. He slid down the tree he had been leaning against and sat on the ground.

He may have given up on gods and magic, but Lady Vex’ahlia was a force of nature. A goddess made out of sheer will and necessity. He had let her permeate his very being, had made him incomplete without her steady hand at the back of his neck, guiding him gently.

Percy was wary to call his excursions to the forest a form of worship, but there was truly no other word.

Delilah comes back for her daughter.

Episode 100 spoilers, warnings below.

RAPE/NON-CON, implied/referenced underage, mommy kink, pseudo incest, forced orgasm, fingering, sex while one party is impaired.

Deadest Dove, Don't-est eat. If you read beyond here, on your own head so be it.

---

Cassandra woke to the deeply familiar sensation of the mattress depressing under someone else's weight beside her.

She stirred, and began to roll when she felt a cool hand on her brow.

“Shh dear,” and as Cassandra felt her stomach plummet and freeze as she placed the voice, a shiver passed from the hand on her forehead into a feverish weakness in her limbs, before she was even fully conscious.

“Shhh, darling,” said the voice of Delilah Briarwood, “No need to be afraid, mummy’s here.”

Cassandra tried -and fails- to surge from the bed, elbows buckling as she tries to push herself up, kicking feet failing to free herself even from the blankets as Delilah’s hand came to rest on her shoulder, pressing her back into the mattress.

“Yes, I know dear,” she says, leaning over Cassandra in the bed. This close, Cass can see the firelight in her eyes, glinting off her jewelry, the genuine fucking relief and joy on her face, “I had missed you too, my darling daughter.”

There is just enough time for Cassandra to wonder how, how this could possibly be before Delilah closed the distance, and kissed her full on the mouth.

There was a hand, Cassandra was barely aware where it came from, holding her face in place with iron fingers. Cassandra tried with all her diminished strength to push away, banging closed fists weakly on Delilah’s chest, and the fingers clenched around her jaw, pressing bruises into skin untouched for nearly two years.

Delilah tasted exactly as Cassandra remembered; the wine and blood and grave dirt on her tongue as Delilah forced it into her mouth.

Delilah pulled back, and brushed her thumb over Cassandra's bottom lip, sending an involuntary shudder through her body.

“Darling,” Delilah said, “Don’t be like that, I came as soon as I could.”

Cassandra looked away, and made another effort to roll away from her off the bed, halted by an iron hand on her hip.

“I mean it, dear,” Delilah said, a warning tone that even after all this time made Cassandra freeze in terror. Once she stilled, Delilah relaxed slightly, slipping right back into the simpering, faux loving tone that made Cassandra’s stomach turn,

“I just want to catch up with you,” Delilah continued, as though Cassandra wasn’t pinned to the bed, as though the hand not on the neckline of her nightgown was pulling the blankets from her legs, “We’re together again, soon we all will be, and I wanted to see how you had been without me.”

She slid her hands under the hem of Cassandra's nightgown, and began to slide them up her legs. Cassandra wished she could convince herself that it was just the change in temperature giving rise to goosebumps on her skin, but Delilah’s fingers were light and skilled as they ever were, making her jump and twitch even as they merely grazed her outer thigh.

They stilled, when they reached her undergarments, nails skittering on unexpected cotton.

“What bad habits you’ve developed,” Delilah said “Without anyone to guide you. When did you start wearing these?”

She traced a nail, gently for now, down the middle of the panties, hard enough to make Cassandra, buck, hard enough for her to whimper and turn her head to the pillow to try to escape in some small way, enough for Delilah to laugh at her.

“There will be plenty of time for that later, I think,” Delilah said, “although it is nice to see that you missed me, darling.”

She returned to the hem of Cassandra’s dress, and Cassandra seized it in both hands, pushing it back over her legs, a completely futile attempt at retaining a modesty stolen many years ago. The small effort left her panting, her head spinning, and Delilah pried her fingers from the fabric with far more ease than Cassandra remembered her capable of, pulling them one at a time from the hem of her dress with determination.

Delilah slammed Cassandra’s hands back to the bedding, and dug her nails into the soft sensitive skin of Cassandra’s wrists hard enough that she cried out, and continued to hold her there, digging crescents into the skin for another long few seconds before letting go. When Delilah released her, Cassandra did nothing more than fist her hands in the sheets where Delilah left them, twisting into the fabric even as Delilah's hands returned to her gown, forcing it farther up her body.

When it cleared her breasts, tangling up around her neck and under her arms, Delilah sat back, one hand resting on the centre of Cassandra’s chest. It rose and fell with the tiny, terrified hitches of Cassandra’s breath, Delilah’s making it difficult for her to breathe. The hand, and the gentle, casual pressure Delilah was using kept her pinned to the bed like a butterfly on a board, keeping the dress up where it offered no protection whatsoever. Taking her time to rake her eyes down Cassandra’s body, Delilah made and appreciative noise deep in her throat.

“Darling,” she said, “You’ve grown!”

She pulled her hand from Cassandra’s chest, and no sooner had Cassandra sucked in a full breath of air was she crying out again, and Delilah grabbed one of her nipples and twisted, making her arch full off the bed into Delilah’s waiting hands. Delilah, damn her, laughed, and rolled the nipple between her fingers until it stiffened, and Cassandra whimpered, legs twitching, as each new movement sent traitorous jolts through her body. Delilah’s grin, warm and fond in a way that should never have had a place in Cassandra’s bedchambers, only grew with each noise she made.

“There we are, darling,” Delilah said, “Haven’t I always known just how to take care of you?”

Her hand stilled, pressing back on Cassandra’s sternum for a moment. Cassandra tried to get her breathing back under control, to control the terror (and worse, far far worse, the tremors in her stomach) that Delilah had always inspired. Even as she did, she felt Delilah’s other hand, previously motionless on her hip, start to move.

“Nn-” Cassandra said, “I-”

“Shh, dear,” Delilah said, tracing the top of Cassandra’s panties with one finger, causing Cassandra to try to clench her legs in response, “I know you can’t talk right now, that’s alright, just let your mother take care of you now, I’ve missed you so much.”

She slipped her hand beneath the band of Cassandra’s underthings, and simply let it sit there, watching the gentle tremors in Cassandra’s legs. She curled one finger, and Cassandra turned her head into the pillow so she wouldn’t have to see Delilah’s face when she found wetness between her legs.

“Oh, darling,” Delilah said, and hooked that finger, bringing slick and friction directly to Cassandra's clit, making her cry out, “You’re so good for your mother, I had nearly forgotten.”

She stroked slowly up and down Cassandra’s slit, pinning her to the bed with her other hand, and Cassandra twitched every time Delilah’s finger brushed her clit. She moved slowly, with no hurry in the world, seeming to relish in every whimper that escaped Cassandra’s lips.

She finally began to circle Cassandra’s clit, feather light, not enough friction to result in anything but whimpers and anticipation, causing her hips to buck entirely without her permission. Cassandra, at some point, had started crying. Delilah cooed, and wiped the tears from Cassandra's eyes with her free hand.

“Oh, darling, it’s alright, I missed you too.”

With that, Delilah slipped two fingers gently into her cunt, which was so wet under her touch that Cassandra barely felt it until they curled, and Cassandra arched off the bed and cried. Delilah shoved her back to the bed as she continued to work her open with two fingers, thumb brushing her clit, expertly kindling a heat between Cassandra’s legs.

Cassandra whined in protest as her legs began to shake in earnest, making one last desperate attempt to clench her legs, to pull away from the fingers inside her as Delilah laughed in delight, moving her other hand back to Cassandra’s hip, pinning her in place once more.

The pace of her fingers picked up, thrusting inside her, thumb pressing relentlessly on her clit, all still restrained by the panties now soaked by her own juices, and Cassandra felt herself begin to tip over the edge.

“You’re even more beautiful than I remember darling, that’s it, come for me Cassandra,”

With one last flick of her fingers over Cassandra’s clit, she did just that, sobbing into her pillow, shaking uncontrollably as she clenched around Delilah’s fingers still buried deep inside her.

“There now,” Delilah cooed. Cassandra twitched one last time as Delilah pulled her fingers from her cunt, leaving one sitting between her puffy lips, “That’s the darling daughter I remember.”

She pressed on Cassandra’s oversensitive clit, circled it twice, making Cassandra twitch again. This had always been Delilah’s favourite game, Cassandra already boneless and sensitive, when she could tip her back over the edge with a single finger.

Blessedly, Delilah sighed, and pulled her fingers out of Cassandra’s panties, wiping them on the nightgown still twisted around her neck.

“There will, I suppose, be time enough for that later.” She patted Cassandra’s cheek, and she could smell herself on Delilah’s fingers. “I have business to attend to, I’m afraid darling, but I’ll have you all to myself again when I return. I won’t let anything stand in the way of reuniting our family again.”

And then, she rose and left, leaving Cassandra shaking and terrified, in a puddle of her own slick on the bed.

Takes place the Tuesday after Liam's Quest part 2. This could have vaguely fit several prompts, but is a little more general than any single one. Hurt(sick)/comfort, bath fingering, snuggling, nothing explicit.

----------------------

The phone vibrates, but he doesn't look at it immediately. He waits until he's finished with the conversation he's having, ending with laughs, a pat on the shoulder and the declaration that they'll meet up again next week.

Hey can u check on Laura?

There's something that's a grin and a fond smile on his face at the same time.

Still sick? I'll stop over

He'd been able to feel her energy ebb Thursday night, and been completely unsurprised when she'd gone home before the second half of the game. A shame; he liked sitting next to her.

His phone buzzes again.

Just make sure she eats something

Of course, don't worry

***

He pulls into the driveway, sees Laura's car there and Travis' absent. The sun is dropping behind the trees and rooftops now so that the street is in shadow and is lined with lights, but theirs is dark. He gets out of the car and texts Travis quickly; the show is close to starting.

Here now. I'll take care of her

The front door isn't locked when he tries the handle, which isn't surprising, and when he steps inside, it's dark and quiet. He shuts the door behind himself, making as little sound as possible.

"Baby, is that you?"

He goes to the living room, finds her on the couch with a blanket around her and hair in a mess from sleep, and waves. "Sorry, it's just me. Travis asked me to check in on you."

Laura smiles and sits up, revealing that under the colorful blanket she is still in pajamas. "Hi, Taliesin." She looks sick, she sounds sick, but she's welcoming and cheerful as much as her body allows her to be.

"I can guess," he says, eyeing her carefully but with an exaggerated expression and tilt of his head, "that you haven't eaten."

And she looks immediately offended to a degree that means she isn't. "I ate some toast. Travis saw me."

"Uh huh, and how long ago was that? It's dark in here, but still light enough that I see the guilt on your face." He removes his shoes and shoves them aside, then goes and sits next to her. Gently, he tells her, "You need to eat something. I can order out, or if there's something here, I have been known to feed myself."

The smile fades, and Laura slumps. "I'm just not feeling very hungry."

Without hesitation, Taliesin puts his arm around her. "I know you're not." He pulls her gently closer. "But you have to eat something. Not just to help yourself heal, but for me because Travis will hurt me if you don't."

She looks up, and they smile at one another. "Maybe some soup? We have some."

He waits, just letting her lean on him, until he feels her start to relax, no doubt falling back asleep. "I'll be right back," Taliesin whispers, and separates from her.

Without him there, Laura slides back down so she can stretch out on the couch once again, her eyes closed.

*

Laura is sipping at the soup, a bottle of sports drink next to her, which must be a fantastic combination, but Taliesin won't criticize, when his phone buzzes once more.

About to start. How is she?

Eating some soup right now

Thanks bud

The bowl is mostly empty when Laura finally pushes it away and exhales deeply. Her hair is still sticking up in odd places from sleeping on the couch, and it's a good guess that she hasn't changed out of her pajamas in over 24 hours.

"You know what would make you feel better?"

"Sleeping for a year?"

"Maybe," he answers cheerily, "but I have something else in mind."

Laura looks at him and arches an eyebrow.

"For you."

But in the moment, they're both thinking the same thing, even if only in jest.

"A bath," Taliesin says, and takes her hands in his own. "And some clean PJs, and then to sleep in bed, not on the couch." He lifts her left hand and kisses the back of it. "All right?"

"Fine fine fine," she answers like it's all a burden but in reality doesn't mind at all. It doesn't even take someone who knows her to understand this, and it's not just the smile on her face.

He stands, still holding her hands, and helps her up. He waits as she loops her arm through his and leans against him, and then they walk to the bathroom.

Laura sits on the toilet and absently brushes her hair while Taliesin starts to fill the tub. "That one," she says as she points to a bottle of green liquid on the edge of the tub against the wall.

As it mixes with the water, it starts creating a pale green foam and sending a floral apple scent into the air. "Smells good," he says absently, keeping his fingers in the water to monitor its temperature. He turns the knob to add a little more cold water.

"It's Travis' favorite." Laura stand and puts the brush aside before she starts stripping out of her pajamas.

When the tub is three-quarters full and the water has a generous head of foam, Taliesin shuts off the faucet. He extends his arm for Laura to hold as she steps into the tub with one foot, then the other, and carefully sits down.
The bubbles come up to her chin when she finally settles and relaxes. Taliesin turns off the overhead light, leaving the room in the dim, orange glow of the nightlight.

Laura smiles, with her eyes closed, and says, "No candles?"

"Maybe if you weren't sick." He chuckles quietly at her pout. "All you had to do was ask. Do you want candles?"

But as is Laura's nature, she shakes her head. "Did you see that video of the woman who caught her hair on fire by a candle on the edge of the tub?"

"No, but I don't want you to catch your hair on fire. I don't know how I would explain that to Travis." Taliesin fishes in the water for Laura's hand as he simultaneously reaches over and grabs a bar of soap. He starts washing her, starting at the hand.

"Your clothes are going to get wet," Laura warns, a small, sleepy smile on her lips now.

He shrugs. "They'll dry."

They fall silent after that, Taliesin continuing to wash her, reaching into the water far enough that the sleeves of his t-shirt start to get soaked.

Laura's eyes are already closed when she bites her lip and brings her hand out of the water to brace it on the top edge of the tub. After a moment, the other comes out as well, grabbing on to Taliesin's shirt, soaking it with water and leaving a mound of suds on his shoulder.

"Like that?" he asks quietly.

With a whimper, she nods, and arches up.

The quiet sloshing of water, Taliesin's breathing, and Laura's whimpers are the only sounds.

She pulls on his shirt and arches sharply, drawing a grin but no words from him. His body follows that pull until his chest is leaning on the edge of the tub, just a breath from getting a face full of suds. When Laura arches again, almost violently, the water comes up to slop across his front and he finally gets that face of bubbles.

With sputtering mixed with laughter, Taliesin doesn't stop, keeping his eyes on Laura as she gasps and moans between short bursts of giggles. He leans in to press a kiss to her cheek as she calms, and withdraws his hand from the water.

Laura releases his shirt, and braces herself so she can sit up from where she's slipped lower in the tub. Her hand slips though, splashing the both of them, and sending them into another round of giggles.

"Maybe give it a minute," he suggests, staying close as she reaches up with a wet hand to clumsily pets his hair. "How are you feeling?"

She answers, satisfied and sleepy, "Am I allowed to sleep now?"

Reaching down, ignoring how much wetter he's getting, Taliesin helps her stand, then exit the tub on legs that are still a little wobbly. "Dry, pajamas, and bed. Then sleep."

Looking down between them, Laura says, "I got you all wet."

Taliesin gives her a cock-eyed grin. "It's only fair."

A light slap on his chest, loud in the room as her hand strikes wet cotton. "Taliesin! You're terrible." But Laura leans up and kisses him softly. "Thank you."

Nothing is expected in return as he reaches for a large, fluffy towel, and wraps it around her. "I'm the worst person you know."

"Sure you are." She leads him to the bedroom where he towels her dry before she slips on a cotton nightdress. After, Laura slides into bed, under the covers with a sigh, and snuggles a pillow.

Taliesin steps back, sees she's almost asleep already, and says, "I'll wait until Travis gets home. If you need something, just call."

"Thank you, Tal."

And just like that, she's asleep once more.

*

The house is quiet and mostly dark when Travis opens the door. He finds Taliesin on the couch, looking at his phone. "Sorry I'm so late. You know how it is."

"No problem." Taliesin tucks his phone away as he stands, and goes to put his shoes on.

"How was she? Did you get her to eat?"

If they weren't friends, the closeness of the larger man might be threatening, but Taliesin just nods with a smile. "Most of a can of soup. And I don't know if it's really that good for you to drink anything that's the same color as my hair."

Travis laughs quietly. "Thanks." He glances down at Taliesin starting to get one foot in a shoe, then looks back up. "Hey, why don't you stay? It's late. We can order something. If you want."

For a moment, Taliesin pauses, with his hand on the wall for balance, and then nods. "Sure." He takes his foot from his shoe.

Without hesitation, Travis slings his arm over Taliesin's shoulders and pulls him close for a one armed hug. And then, suddenly, he buries his nose in Taliesin's still-damp hair, inhaling deeply. "That's my favorite."

"That's what Laura said." He leans into Travis the same way Laura leaned into him.

*

Taliesin, in only his boxers, gets into the bed in the guest room, and pulls the sheet and single blanket over himself. Once he finds a comfortable position, he relaxes and wills his brain to quiet itself so he can sleep.

The door opens with a soft click, then shuts in equal silence.

"Tal?"

"Hm?" He half rolls over to see Travis standing at the bedside.

"Scoot over." And without waiting for him to move, Travis gets into the bed.

"Aren't you going to…?"

"Hell no, she's sick as shit. I've been sleeping in here since Friday." Travis is settling in, taking up a good portion of the bed.

"Oh, I'll go sleep on the couch then. I thought-" But Travis' arm settles over his side, hand resting on his stomach, which in comparison to the larger man, Taliesin is a little embarrassed of, and pulls him closer. Taliesin can squirm, become the little spoon to Travis' big spoon more completely, but that's as much as he can do. Maybe it's as much as he wants to do, as much as Travis wants him to do.

It's fine because he'll wake up late, and Travis probably gets up early to work out or something. He won't have to try to climb over Travis or anything.

"You gonna stay tomorrow to wash the sheets?" Travis asks, his voice pulling Taliesin from his slow descent to sleep.

"Which ones?"

Travis' hand slides from Taliesin's stomach lower. He exhales heavily against the back of Taliesin's neck, and shrugs.

I'm not sure where the idea of "Vax/Briarwoods dubcon in a modern AU constructed for that sole purpose" came from, but I do know I'm a little too sheepish to post it un-anon but hope some folks here might appreciate it.

Heavy on the dub part, as it includes attempted/partially successful drugging, unnegotiated rough sex, and a general vibe of "Vax is into this but that's because he's a walking disaster".

***

A less observant man would have missed Sylas Briarwood slipping something into his drink, and someone less quick on his feet would have a harder time pretending to down the drugged cocktail while managing to spill most of it on the floor while Sylas's head is turned. As it is, Vax only swallows a mouthful or two of the stuff, and says a quick prayer that won't be enough to fuck him up too much.

The Briarwoods are talking to each other, close together, Delilah's hand on Sylas's chest and his wrapped around her slim waist. These are the people who very probably killed one of his best friend's parents, Vax reminds himself as he looks at them. The DA in Whitestone couldn't gather enough solid evidence even for an indictment, but Percy's sure of their guilt. They're probably murderers, and they definitely just tried to roofie someone who as far as they know is just a flirtatious young man in an Emon nightclub.

They're also both really, really good-looking.

Vax can't make out anything they say to each other over the bass-heavy music filling the club, but after a moment Delilah holds out her other hand to him with a smile.

"Come dance with us, dear," she says in an inviting tone, stepping back toward the crowded floor.

Vax has to guess at exactly what the drug was supposed to do to him and how soon it was supposed to kick in--his head is starting to swim a little, but he can't tell how much of that is the little bit he got, and how much is the first drink he had before the drugged one--but he tries to be loose and pliable as they steer him onto the dance floor. Delilah's in front of him with her hands on his shoulders, close enough for him to smell her perfume, Sylas at his back with one big, heavy hand on Vax's hip. Five, maybe ten minutes later (Vax isn't sure), he's got his arms around Delilah's waist, pressing her to his chest while Sylas grinds unsubtly against him from behind.

Delilah kisses him first, her dark-lipsticked mouth soft as velvet, and then Sylas threads a hand into Vax's hair and pulls his head back for a rough, demanding kiss. He's pinned between them, his choices reduced to "try to break away and probably blow his cover" or "just go with it", and gods help him but he is so turned-on right now.

When Delilah murmurs "You are coming home with us, aren't you, pretty boy?", he just nods.

They pour him into a car--not a cab or an Uber, but a big, shiny car with a driver who gives a brisk "Sir, ma'am," and then rolls up a pane of dark glass between the front and back seats. Vax is canted sideways on the wide seat, his knees splayed wide enough for Delilah to maneuver herself between them while his shoulders are braced against Sylas's chest. He blames Sylas's hot breath on his neck for the fact that he doesn't notice Delilah undoing his fly, then blames Delilah palming his (stupidly, ridiculously, no-sense-of-self-preservation-ly hard) cock through his briefs for his not noticing Sylas's fingers sliding back into his hair until they suddenly twist and pull, yanking his head back to expose his throat.

By the time they pull up outside what Vax recognizes as one of the fanciest hotels in the city, he's sure there's the start of at least one giant hickey on the side of his neck, and his swaying stumble is not entirely an act. The doorman Sylas tips says nothing, and neither does the night security guard who nods politely to the Briarwoods as they pass him on the way to the elevator. Vax half-expects them to keep touching and kissing him on the ride up, but Sylas just stands quietly with one hand on the back of Vax's neck, thumb sweeping slowly back and forth over his skin, while Delilah fixes her hair and smeared lipstick in the mirrored glass.

They step out of the elevator and into a penthouse suite, the kind of luxurious minimalism that only comes with wealth. Soft, thick carpet under Vax's feet when he obeys Delilah's instruction to take his shoes off, one wall that's just floor-to-ceiling glass, a bed bigger than Vax's entire bedroom in the shithole apartment he and Vex shared when they first scraped together enough to move out of their dad's house.

Vax only really gets one good look around, because as they walk through a tastefully-arranged sitting area Sylas puts a hand on his neck again and bends him over the back of the couch.

Vax hazards a guess as to how much he should be slurring his voice by now. "Whoa, getting right to it, huh?"

Delilah settles on the couch, drawing her legs up elegantly, and pushes Vax's hair away from his face. "I think we've had enough dancing for the evening, don't you?" she asks, the question punctuated by the clink of a belt buckle from behind Vax.

Vax sucks in a breath, resisting the urge to tense up as Sylas tugs at his jeans with one hand and cool air hits his skin. "Y-yeah, okay. Whatever you want."

"There's a good boy," she says, cupping his face and leaning in.

Sylas keeps his hand on Vax's neck, and Delilah strokes his hair and tells him how good he's being when she's not kissing him breathless.

His legs shake when they move him toward the bed afterward, and he fumbles with the rest of his clothing, Sylas's steady grip and Delilah's sure hands guiding him through it. Vax sprawls on the big, soft bed, watching them as Delilah sweeps her hair up with one hand and presents her back to Sylas with a soft "My love?" Her dress is high-collared and long-sleeved, but after a row of buttons at the back of her neck it opens up in a wide diamond shape, bare skin all the way to the base of her spine. The kisses Sylas plants on her as he undoes the tiny buttons are soft, worshipful; a stark contrast to the bruising kisses Vax can still feel on his skin.

Delilah peels off her dress, looking Vax over as she climbs onto the bed. "Whatever we want, you said?"

Vax pushes up on his elbows and nods eagerly. "Yes."

She crawls up the length of his body until she has a knee on either side of his head, hooking a finger into her lace panties to pull them aside. "Good boy."

***

Vax wakes up groggy and sore, sandwiched between Delilah and Sylas. Moving slowly and carefully, he manages to crawl out of bed without either of them stirring, grabbing his clothes from the floor as he pads toward the bathroom.

A sharp breath hisses through his teeth as he flicks the bathroom light on and gets confronted by his reflection. He looks fucking wrecked, hair a mess and teeth and finger marks stippling his skin, some already starting to turn purple. The worst bruising is on his hips, but the red lines on his neck bring back a vivid memory of when Sylas grabbed him by the throat during the last round before they slept.

He splashes cold water on his face, gets dressed, and pulls his phone out of a pocket. He has a few missed calls and about twenty texts from Vex, her "where are you?"s progressing from irritated to freaked out over the course of the night. A handful of worried texts from the others as well--Keyleth, Scanlan, and two from Percy: tell me you didn't go looking for the briarwoods and then, several hours later, god fucking damn it vaxildan if they don't kill you I'm going to. Vax opens the ongoing group message with everyone and texts the hotel address followed by not dead yet. jenga.

Back in the main room, the Briarwoods both still look deeply asleep, sprawled in tangled sheets with their arms touching in the space Vax vacated. He turns his attention to the other thing he noticed in his look around the room earlier--the laptop sitting on a desk by the window. .

Hacking's never been a particular strength of his, but he's learned a few tricks if only by virtue of years of hanging out with the wrong sort of people, and the Briarwood's digital security turns out to be pleasantly easy to crack. Vax doesn't really know what he's looking for--assuming he's not going to find a file conveniently labeled "How we convinced Frederick and Johanna de Rolo to sign over their business to us and then killed them"--but he finds a folder labeled "Acquisitions", and subfolders with the names of cities--Whitestone, Westruun, Vasselheim. Emon.

Vax starts with Whitestone. If there's any evidence of murder in here, it's couched in the most businesslike language he's ever seen, but he does find enough to make it clear that in a few years, the Briarwoods have moved from taking over one of the biggest businesses in Whitestone to basically owning the city. There are contracts, spreadsheets full of numbers, paperwork for other businesses Vax guesses are shell companies. He doesn't waste time trying to puzzle anything out, just grabs his phone again, ignoring a new flurry of text notifications to start snapping pictures of the laptop screen as he pages through things. He repeats the process, hastily, with the Emon folder, his heart starting to beat faster every moment he pushes his luck further.

When he thinks he has enough to work with, he shuts the laptop and turns back toward the bed, but doesn't get there before Sylas rolls over and sits up.

"Oh, hey," Vax says casually, bending to retrieve his jacket from the floor. "Sorry if I woke you, I was just--"

"Leaving without saying goodbye?" Sylas finishes, looking him up and down with a raised eyebrow.

Vax runs a hand through his hair and gives a sheepish grin, edging toward the elevator. "Ah--yeah, guess you caught me on that one. Look, last night was...amazing, but I need to run."

"Now that's a pity," Delilah says without opening her eyes, a slight smile curving her mouth. She sits up, hiding a yawn behind her hand, then opens her eyes to look at him. "Are you sure we can't tempt you to at least stay for breakfast?"

"That's, ah--that's real nice of you, but I really need to get going." Vax replies, backing up a few more steps.

Sylas throws back the covers and starts to get out of bed, and Vax just turns and make a run for it. Delilah's soft laughter as he does so worries him more than Sylas's pursuing footfalls. He slams a hand against the elevator button with no real hope it'll get here in time, and then feels one big, heavy hand land on his shoulder and jerk him backward.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to insist, dear boy."

Takes place immediately after episode 68. Apologies for the roughness; finished it Sunday morning in a hotel room.

----

Marisha is crying even as they leave the studio, and Taliesin can't help but feel a little guilty even though he ultimately couldn't control any of it. Her hand is clutching his almost to the point of pain as they walk out to their cars.

He tries to pull away, move to his car and away from Matt and Marisha's, but she doesn't let go.

"Please," is all she says, and it's so small and helpless, Taliesin lets her lead him.

Even getting into the car, she doesn't let go, just climbs into the backseat after him and leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder. She's not outright sobbing, but it's close, he can tell.

Matt watches carefully, as if he's afraid Marisha might shatter, dissolve into those sobs, while his face remains blank. But there's guilt in his eyes, and when Taliesin looks at him through the car window, Matt raises an eyebrow in helpless resignation.

It's fine. This is how it is: the game, the characters are precious to them. Fictional though they may be, they're all attached, and probably not in completely healthy ways.

Taliesin doesn't pay any more attention to Matt as he gets in and starts the car. The radio is turned down to be a vague background noise behind Marisha's sniffling and his quiet words of comfort.

"I don't want to lose you!" she says suddenly and looks at him, eyes red, tears still rolling slowly down her cheeks.

With a confused and guilty laugh, Taliesin manages a small smile and says, "You're not going to lose me." His smile fades as Marisha looks at him with such heartbreak it starts to hurt. He tucks loose hair behind her ear. There are words he can say, about how it's just a character, about how it was Percy's time especially with Ripley dead, how he has something really cool in his head to play, how Percy wasn't meant to live past his purpose.

None of those words come out. He kisses her forehead. "You won't lose me," he repeats, and holds her to him as the car bounces down the uneven streets.

"You promise?"

"Of course. Why would I ever quit?"

Again Marisha looks at him, but this time they're much closer because of how he's holding her. It's in a rough whisper that she repeats, "I don't want to lose you."

She makes the move, which is a good thing, because he was torn over doing it himself, especially with Matt in the front seat. Marisha's lips are soft on his for a brief moment that still seems to last for an age.

"I can't lose you," she says, and it sounds very different from before, in a way he's not quite sure how to interpret, especially with the way she's almost panting now.

And in response, his own voice is lower, rougher than he plans it to be. "You won't." A glance up and he catches Matt's eyes in the rearview mirror watching them. "You won't," Taliesin repeats while meeting Matt's gaze.

Marisha is on him in an instant, almost savagely, her hands pulling on his shirt to get him closer, a kiss so strong it renders him breathless before he has a chance to return it. Without thinking, his arms go around her, as much to help her balance as to keep her possessively in place, because she is moving as if to straddle him.

The car is roomier than it looks, but it's not that roomy.

Instead, he bodies her back a little so that she's mostly seated, and before she can kiss him and starve his brain of more oxygen than he can spare, especially with the way his blood is being diverted, his hand finds its way under her shirt.

Marisha is not well-endowed, but it doesn't matter at all. Immediately he can feel her nipple pressing into his hand even as she pushes her chest forward to meet his touch. There's a brief moment where that's all there is, just the kissing, devouring each other, and his hand on her breast, and then as Marisha is wont to do, she ups the game.

Without a word, she starts rubbing the front of his jeans with the flat of her hand.

Taliesin pulls away just long enough to gasp out, "Jesus, Marisha." Another look in the mirror to catch Matt looking back, eyes wide now, and pupils wider. He didn't hide who he was from them, they know some of his worst secrets, but in the moment, he isn't sure this sudden new one is a thing he can share.

I want to fuck Matt.

Or maybe let Matt fuck him. Either way, it's not something he entertained before because these are his friends, and they're together, and they're fucking perfect together, and-

Marisha undoes the button and pulls down the zipper.

So this is happening in the middle of traffic, and it's probably not a good idea, but the grip she gets on his cock even through his boxers pushes all that worry away. Now Taliesin's mind is working out the feasibility of actually fucking in this car without giving anyone who might look in the window a show.

Can we?

Marisha is tall, and he is… not small, and as much as his body is demanding penetrative satisfaction, it just doesn't seem possible. But then maybe Marisha's not so picky, because she starts pumping him as she kisses along his jaw.

Matt turns up the radio, because there are apparently lewd noises coming from his mouth and he can't even tell because- "Oh fuck."

And in an instant her hand is gone, and Taliesin wants to scream in frustration. Body trembling, he looks at her, and somehow she looks as destroyed as he feels even though he's hardly even touched her. Well maybe she's not going to get him off in the car (oh god, the sticky chafing), but that doesn't mean she's getting away with it.

Taliesin starts to return the favor, hand cupping her first, watching her eyes flutter shut as a smile curls at the corners of her mouth, and then he presses with the heel of his hand. Even through her layers of clothing, he can feel exactly where he needs to apply that pressure.

The first grind of his hand on her draws out a moan that is clearly audible even over the sound from the radio. And with every movement after, it's the same thing until Marisha is writhing, arching her entire body up off the seat, gripping the neck of his shirt and pulling it to its maximum stretch.

"Matt?" he says, and it comes out as a half-broken croak, his mouth and throat completely dry. "Matt, how far?"

Matt's voice is slightly choked as well when he says, "Not far. Just… hold on."

It's a hard thing to stop the words coming out, but this isn't the place for it, not in the car.

Please fuck me, Matt.

Marisha is still grabbing at him, and Taliesin just wants to get his mouth on her while Matt is fucking him but he has to be satisfied in the moment with just using his hand.

"Just hold on," Matt repeats, and Taliesin jerks his hand away from her, drawing out a cry of protest.

Hold on. He can do that for Matt, even if his fingernails are digging marks into his hand from his clenched fists. Even if he knows he sounds like a water buffalo ready to rut with the way his breath comes out in heavy puffs. Even if Marisha is so close and right there, Taliesin will hold on for Matt.

Time is a non-factor. Taliesin just shuts his eyes, and doesn't think about anything, just tries to get lost in the shifting shapes behind his eyelids, until there's a sharp turn, a soft bump, and the car comes to a stop. The engine goes silent, and the interior of the car remains silent.

Matt clears his throat. "We should go inside." He sounds strained, almost unhappy. No, not unhappy so much as uncomfortable, and no one can blame him for that.

Even with Taliesin's jeans undone, he is as uncomfortable as one man about to get laid (he believes) can be. "Yeah, inside." And though he doesn't mean it that way, he can't help but look at Marisha.

She looks at him, then at Matt, then exits the car and hurries up to the front door.

Women and their lack of hard-ons. With shaking hands, Taliesin zips up his pants, but doesn't bother with the button, and slowly extracts himself from the vehicle. He shares a quick, awkward glance with Matt before they both look down at one another. Oh yes, Matt is in the same state, and there's a thread of tension Taliesin hadn't been entirely aware of that snaps.

He nods, and Matt nods back. They walk to the house with Matt just slightly in the lead.

Once inside, with the door closed, Matt turns and puts his hand on the back of Taliesin's neck. He touches their foreheads together, eyes locked on one another, and says, "Not gonna lose you."

Taliesin can't help but half-smile and half-smirk at that, and say, "I'm not that easy to get rid of."

"Good." It's like a measure of forgiveness is granted with that, one that Matt needed, and with a shyness that hasn't been evident in ages, he looks away. But then he looks back, and presses a light kiss to the corner of Taliesin's mouth. "Good."

And they retreat to the bedroom together, where Marisha is already waiting.

Co-written in a jam on Discord. Authors prefer to remain anon; if you were there please don't out them!

---

After they all five get stoned and Marisha takes Laura off to a tantric sex workshop and Matt’s staring at the stars giggling, Taliesin takes Travis’s hand and leads him into the tent the five of them are sharing.

“I can’t,” Travis says.

“I’m sure any guy can manage to get blown at Burning Man.”

“But Laura...”

Taliesin locates his bag in the pile of stuff they’ve made along one wall and pulls out a folded piece of paper, handing it to Travis.

“I talked to Laura. Lie down.”

Travis lowers himself to the tent floor, wincing a little—he underdid the sunscreen and his back is sore—and settles on one of the thin camp mattresses, lounging back against the tight roll of someone’s sleeping bag. He unfolds the note.

It’s a hall pass.

Laura’s given him a fucking hall pass.

“But I—I didn’t—she didn’t even tell me about this—”

Taliesin lowers himself to his knees between Travis’s thighs. “Hey... it’s only night one.” He trails his fingertips up Travis’s beefy right thigh. Travis is down to boxer shorts and the desert night air is chilly, but that’s not what makes him shiver now. “We’ve got all the time in the world for you to arrange reciprocal rights.” He goes to his belly, fingers at Travis’s waistband. “Right now, I have plans for you.”

He doesn’t need to say what those plans are. Grog may be shitty at math, but Travis can put two and two together and get—

“Oh fuck, Tal... fuck!”

Matt, lounging in a deckchair outside the tent, is terribly tempted to peek. But this is the beginning, and they deserve privacy. Peeking—and perhaps joining in—can come later. It is, after all, only day one.

“You can touch my head if you want.”

“Uh...”

“Do it, go on.”

“Are you—”

“Just grab my fucking hair, okay, Travis? Matt, shut up, I can hear you laughing.”

“Like this?” Travis barely tugs at Taliesin’s hair.

“You can be rougher than that. Jesus.”

“Are you sure?”

“Do I need to bring Matt in here to demonstrate?”

“I’m busy,” Matt says from outside. (He is not. He is drinking a can of premixed rum and coke and stargazing.)

Taliesin sighs. “Fine.”

The thing about deep throating someone is that it’s only really interesting if you keep moving, keep sucking a little, rather than just taking their cock down and then holding your breath like a kid who won’t inhale or exhale until he gets his own way.

Taliesin, being a voice actor, has excellent breath control.

Travis, being a red-blooded male with his cock in someone’s mouth, has very little patience for this “not moving” bullshit, and puts one hand gingerly on the back of Taliesin’s head. Taliesin rewards him with a minute swallow.

Travis doesn’t quite get why Taliesin wants him to be so rough but when the more he pulls Taliesin’s hair and pushes into his mouth, the more encouraging noises and deep sucks he gets, he gets very quickly to the point where he doesn’t care.

Taliesin doesn’t sound like he’s in pain, not even when Travis gathers his wits enough to actually hold Taliesin’s head in place and start thrusting into his mouth. In fact, he sounds downright pleased about it.

Written by myself and Anon, for your (and all of our) enjoyment.

New Territory

This isn't kinky unless you look REALLY hard and count it as petplay, or even smut, but I felt like people probably needed it:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/12773808

This is my first RPF. Would appreciate feedback.

---

It happens sometimes. He’ll put a little too much of himself into a character, a scene, a decision, an episode, and someone will haphazardly destroy him. A comment, a gesture, a disregard for whatever piece of himself Matt had exposed unintentionally. Sometimes he confronted them on it, but usually he shrugged it off. Reminded himself that it was just a game. They didn’t mean it, they cared about him, they were his friends. If he spoke up they would understand. But when he was tired, stressed, and worn down from constant reminders of how different he was, how much he cared about…everything, the world pressed down around him and their laughs were suddenly cruel and heartless. Needles aimed at his weakest points, jabbing into the very life of him. And so he’d throw up a mask, a barrier, and assume the role of whatever was required of him at the time.

After one particularly vulnerable night, Matt can’t sleep. He sneaks out of bed quietly, and locks himself in his office. There’s a mirror and a figure he keeps hidden in a drawer, for this purpose. He stares into his eyes, his reflection, and sees someone else. He sees softer features, lighter hair, and darker eyes; someone ambivalent and androgynous. Not Mathew at all. He sees Senokir. He sees Gilmore. He sees Alura. He sees Kima. The people he wishes he was. It’s so easy to forget they aren’t real. It’s so easy to lose himself in them; they are an extension of him. His creation. He knows them, feels them, is them.

They don’t know what it's like. How can they? They only way he can explain it is through the very things they mock, the very things that exist only in a game. The game that is more real to him than anything else. He’s been called a pioneer of his field, an inspiration to all story tellers and world builders; but he doesn’t see the screen, the map, the figures, the dice, or even the players. He sees the world where he can be anyone he wants to be, everyone he wants to be; no limitations, just freedom. Freedom to fail without consequence. Freedom to love recklessly, to care intensely, to impulsively and continuously be himself. Be selfish.

He hears a knock. “Babe?”

He hastily puts the mirror away.

“You ok?” Marisha asks sleepily.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Just couldn’t sleep.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

She doesn’t try the handle, and he’s thankful for it. She’s respecting his privacy and his need to keep his shame hidden.

“No, I’m fine. I just need some time alone.”

“Ok. I’m here if you need me.”

She leaves. He takes a breath.

It’s silly really. He knows how much they care. He knows Marisha is aware and accepting of all parts of him. But he needs to do this sometimes. He needs to give in to his insecurities and feel sorry for himself. Because no one else will. Because the world can never know what it’s like to live a fake reality. He think about it sometimes, about coming out; about telling the world who he really is. But for now…

He clutches the figure of the brass dragon--looks into the mirror again and sees golden eyes, a long slender face, and dark strait long hair. An existence devoid of gender, the mantle of maleness and biology cast aside. He lets his reflection fade away, closes his eyes and cries

This is probably not a great idea.

But it’s been A Week, privately, publically, and professionally, and he already knows his chances in this thing are slim to none. Keyleth’s a beast and Vax’s fate is already sealed. He might as well enjoy himself while he can.

His phone buzzes. He tries not to smirk as he picks it up.

[why are you the way that you are]

The smirk slips through. He can’t help it. He scrolls up a little, tilting his phone away from Travis to survey his previous handiwork. Oh, he’d been texting his actions to Matt. That was what his plan hinged on, was his secrecy. But private communication afforded him a little more conversational leniency. And digital communication a little more creativity.

He flicked his thumb back up, hiding the gif of a truly impressive deep-throat attempt as Travis’ voice shook him out of his reverie. “Dick pics.”

“No,” he says, failing again to suppress his smile.Not mine, anyway, he thinks, giddily. He looks over at Matt after a beat. “Did you like it?”

Matt gives him a look that could melt glass.

[why do you even have these on your phone]

[is that a real question because I think you already know the answer]

[I’m turning your next character into a frog]

[you can’t possibly fuck him up any worse than I can]

[...you’re probably right]

Liam smiles a little, digging through his stash for an appropriate image of someone getting well and truly fucked, appreciating the way Matt shifts in his seat as he lays his phone face-down on the table.

The beauty of it is, Liam is still sending relevant information, so Matt has to keep checking his phone. He can see Matt’s leg bouncing under the table, the way his fingers are drumming against his thigh. His collection is very carefully curated, and what he shares with his DM is even more carefully selected. He knows what gets to him, what sparks that vast imagination of his, and he’s using that knowledge to ruthless effect.

[what do I have to do to get you to stop]

[ ;) ]

[I am going to kill you in the parking lot]

[promise?]

[ >:( ]

*drools*

I can totally see Matt being that way.

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?”

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

http://archiveofourown.org/works/13628577

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.

(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.

(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.”

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. :)

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.

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.

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.

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

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.”

Liam is having a bad week. It’s his planned night with Sam though, so he has something to look forward to. They’d arranged a monthly date night after realizing how much spending regular time together helped Liam. There’s plenty of stability and routine in his life, but nothing grounded him more than Sam Riegal.

It’s nice having their own studio now; he knows what to expect when he walks in the door. Almost everyone is there, flitting about and getting ready, except for Sam, but that’s normal. The familiar Thursday bustle settles onto his shoulders, giving him a burst of energy and clearing his mind.

Until he rounds the corner and sees Ivan Van Norman sitting on the couch.

It’s not abnormal for guests to come watch the show in the studio, but he usually has some idea who it’ll be, and it’s typically a group. Besides the cast and crew, he doesn’t hear any unexpected voices.

“Ivan!” Liam shakes off the surprise, genuinely glad to see the man.

Ivan smiles wide, gets up and hugs Liam breathless.

“This is a nice surprise. How you’ve been?”

They head to the dressing room and chat with the rest of the cast while everyone gets ready. He missed Ivan, and many others since they left Geek and Sundry. It’s been weeks since he’s seen anyone other than the Crit Role crew, and it made him a little sad.

Ivan sits on the couch and watches the show. During the break Liam sits next to him, laughing and telling jokes and Ivan just nods and listens, not saying much. They’re about to go back on live and before Liam gets up, just as he gets up, Ivan touches his knee and looks at him meaningfully; Liam lowers his eyes and chuckles. He looks up again, strait into his eyes and smiles, with just the hint of a perceptible nod. And then they’re on camera again.

When the time comes and it’s the end and they’re packing everything in their cubbies, Liam and Sam share a moment. Liam hugs Sam and presses their foreheads together.

“Thank you,” Liam says.

“Of course. I always know what you need.”

And Liam laughs.

“Even when you can’t give it to me?”

“Especially when I can’t give it to you.”

So instead of leaving with Sam that night, Liam goes home with Ivan. They talk on the drive, about the campaign and about how they should spend more time together, and speak briefly about going out and just getting a drink. They both know it’s hollow; that there are more important things that need to be done. And when Liam steps into the bedroom, there’s that jacket again, laying innocuously across the bed, limp and menacing.

“You know, there are other things that we could do. I have other tools.”

“Oh?” Liam arks a brow, turns around.

Ivan shrugs sheepishly. “I may have a closet. “

Liam follows him to the end of the room where there is indeed a closet, not as large as Taliesin’s, but enough to rival it; with all sorts of toys, gear, and equipment. “I even have a foldable cross in there,” Ivan says on the back of Liam’s neck, eliciting shivers he wasn’t quite used to yet.

“I think it’d like to explore the jacket some more.”

“Of course.” Ivan says knowingly, shutting the closet. “We should establish things properly this time.”

“Yes,” Liam says. “As much as I enjoyed last time and I trust you, we really should,” he laughs.

So they sit down on the bed, not touching, Liam with a knee curled under him.

Ivan starts. “Is there anything special you’d like me to do tonight?”

Liam thinks for a moment. His senses had indeed been heighted by the bondage of the jacket, and as much as he enjoyed looking at the man, he knew it was his voice that affected him most. “I would like to be blindfolded.”

Ivan nods. “Alright. That’s easy enough.”

“And,” Liam pauses. “I would like you to hurt me.” He says, squeezing his hands into fists nervously. “I get…numb sometimes. And the pain grounds me.”

Ivan nods again, but there’s a slight glint in his eyes, a predatory awareness. Liam becomes aware of his breath.

“What level of pain? Instruments? Blood? I have an array of sharp knives,” his voice is low and dangerous.

“Uh,” Liam swallows. “No blood. Tonight,” he lowers his gaze. “But, yes. Knives sound nice,” he chuckles awkwardly. “I like a lot of sharp pain. Bites, scratches.”

“Marks ok then?”

“Not in obvious places. But my partners are used to them, yes.”

Ivan smirks. “I bet.”

Liam blushes and fidgets with the hem of his shirt.

“So,” Ivan straightens up, his expression neutral, his eyes focused. “You want to be bound, blindfolded, and scratched. Anything you don’t want?”

Liam closes his eyes, takes a breath, and tries to hear Ivan’s breath, sense his presence. He can’t and it’s frightening. “Don’t go far away when I can’t see. Stay where I can feel you.”

Ivan nods.

“And…” he pauses, unsure. “It was more intense than I was prepared for. And we didn’t have time. We really should spend more time together. I liked it a lot and,” he looks up, vulnerable. “I care about you. I just wanted to say that.”

Ivan smiles warmly and reaches out to grasp Liam’s fidgeting hand. “I know. You’re special to me too. I didn’t expect this to happen, but I’m glad it’s with you. Come here,” and he takes Liam into his arms. “I’ll take care of you.” He pets Liam for a while, shushing him and enjoying his warmth.

“Anything you want or don’t want?” Liam asks eventually.

“Use your colors. And if you don’t respond nonverbally when appropriate then I will stop. Stay safe.” That’s a command now, the neutral air of negotiation fading away. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Ivan stares intently, waiting.

“Uhm, green.” Liam states.

“Good.”

And suddenly Ivan is kissing him. It’s easy, familiar already. Those strong hands tethering him, wrapping around him, and that delightful fuzziness is back. He’s relaxing, leaning into Ivan’s body, all of his thoughts and worries tapering off into whispers. And as he drifts, the more he melts, the tighter Ivan’s grip becomes. He is the tide, pulled to and fro by the force of the moon.

“There you are,” Ivan pulls back, and for a moment Liam forgets where he is. “My sweet treasure,” he cradles Liam’s cheeks, strokes the outline of his jaw. “I’m going to have fun with you.”

Ivan stands, his posture morphing into a lithe gait, purposeful and confident. He disappears into his closet and comes out holding a small bag and a thin leather box. He sets the bag aside and presents the box. It’s filled with knives.

“Choose.”

Liam rarely gets to indulge in this particular kink, so it takes a moment to process the command. He picks up a small switchblade with a wooden handle, inspecting it before offering it to Ivan.

Ivan takes the knife and shuts the box

“Good choice. This is one of my favorites.” And in one smooth motion the blade flicks open and is digging into his skin, lifting his chin.

“Pain you say?” There’s something off about his expression. He studies Liam for a long while, guiding his head in different directions with the flat of the blade. “You aren’t afraid, clearly,” he states, sliding the tip into Liam’s mouth with no resistance. Liam sucks on it briefly before it’s removed. He decides something. “Very well,” he sets the knife aside and draws a simple black blindfold out of the bag.

“Look at me,” his voice hardens and Liam’s breath catches, his eyelids flutter. Ivan is so intense, so quickly, and Liam has no control, loses purchase on his consciousness.

His vision goes dark, the blindfold in place. And suddenly he knows again where he is. Can feel the bed under him, his feet planted on soft carpet. His arms are limp at his sides, useless, purposeless. His head is floating, hovering. As if pulled by a magnate he leans forward, seeking contact, and Ivan grants him this. Again he is devoured. Again he feels his blood flowing. He’s being pulled up to stand, turned, and Ivan noses into his neck, places a gentle kiss against his spine.

“I’m going to break you.”

“Yes,” he whimpers. That is what he wants.

He hears rustling, the clinking of buckles, and holds his breath.

“Arms out.”

It’s almost familiar now, the canvas. The slide of cloth obscuring his reality. He will last longer this time. He feels it in his bones. This is where he belongs.

He thought it would be strange, this bond he has with Ivan; that it was a one time thing, so long ago. The pieces had fit just perfectly and there was no way the stars could align again, and yet…

“That’s right,” Ivan croons. “Listen as each chink of armor falls always from your oh so fragile frame.” One buckle is pulled taught. Two. Three.

His vision is internal, his hearing heightened to the point of sharp acuity. His arms are wrapped around himself and tightened, useful now, pinned in place. A shudder wracks his body and then there is stillness.

“Let go,” Ivan whispers. “You have only one purpose now. My toy. So pliant and useful.” Ivan steps away and for a moment and Liam forgets how to breathe, chokes on solitude, on nothing. Breathless, floating. And then there’s a sharp sensation that draws his attention, setting his nerves on fire as a cold point is dragged quickly across the back of his neck.

He gasps, remembers how to breath, and everything slams into sharp focus. The pounding of his heart, the ground beneath his feet, the cocoon of tranquility holding him in place, the hot breath on his neck, and the sweet rumble of that baritone voice.

“You’re mine.”

His knees fail him. He’s breaking. But Ivan catches him; grabs the loop at the back of the jacket. Slows his fall, brings him almost to his knees, but leaves him there, hanging, dangling.

“Look at you Liam,” Ivan growls. “Hanging on by a single thread. You need this more!” He shakes Liam briefly, cutting into sharp focus how Ivan is supporting him, his entire body, with only his singular grasp on the back of the jacket.

“It’s been too long, treasure. Oh how you break so easily. Let me put you back together.”

He hauls Liam up, lays him on his back on the bed, and removes the rest of his clothing until he’s bare, floating in the void. The brush of cloth and the small points where Ivan remains touching him, a hand on his hip, a knee grazing his thigh, always one point of contact, Liam vaguely realizes, are his only anchors. Until the only contact that remains is a cold thin blade resting on the inside of his thigh. It slides slowly back and forth, hypnotizing.

“Give me a color.” Ivan purrs.

Liam searches for his voice, croaks out “Green,” and before he has the chance to identify the deep crackles of his vocal chords he hears a high pitched whine that most surely could not have come from him.

“So sensitive,” Ivan whispers. “You’re not afraid though, no, there’s no need to be.”

Belatedly Liam realizes his thighs are on fire. That tip of sensation raked across his thighs in quick strokes, punctuated by loud, high whines.

“Of course you’re not afraid. You need this.” And it’s true. He’d been dreaming of this for months now.

“You’ve made me wait too long.” Suddenly Ivan bites him. He bends, snaps upward, pain taking control, pulling the rains away from him, firmly in Ivan’s grasp now. He’s on fire, ablaze, caught in the torrent of Ivan’s will.

Soft hairs rub against the now aching bite mark.

“Would you like some more?”

“Green,” he pants.

Liam loses track of time and space. He is nothing but a warm bundle of excruciating nerves and rapturous sensations. Ivan follows each bite with a gentle kiss. Ivan’s chuckles resonate over him until it’s all Liam hears; rapid, shallow breaths escaping him, eclipsed by the firm stroking and kneading of his master’s hands.

Because truly, no one has handled him quite as expertly as Ivan.

“Good boy,” Ivan purrs. “You are my toy now. And I am your master.”

Had he said that aloud?

“Are you ready to serve your purpose?”

His head is spinning from the pain, but he nods as enthusiastically as he can. “Please.”

Ivan rotates Liam onto his side, effortlessly pushes him, and that simple act makes him throb.

“Yes,” Ivan says. “You are completely at my mercy, treasure. I can do whatever I want with you.”

It’s part of him now. Ivan is right, it has been too long. Too long of wandering through the world barely breathing, beaten and battered by life. But the jacket stabilizes him, tucks everything away, and Ivan leads him gently, suredly, to a safe place of contentment.

Ivan pushes his legs into place. He’s on his side, he thinks. One of his knees settles next to his chin easily.

“My my, you are flexible. We’ll have to play with that.” Ivan sounds very pleased. He strokes Liam’s legs appreciatively, kneading the marks that are quickly bruising. They sting pleasantly, and Liam knows they will bring him comfort later.

“Good boy. Relax.” The sting of slick fingers entering him is nice. Ivan takes his time, and doesn’t deliberately tease him. He floats for a while, enjoying the deep pressure. Ivan is surprisingly gentle and soothing. Liam gets lost in the praise, his entire body languid, fluid.

But beneath the peace lurks an unpredictable force. Liam knows this moment of peace will be brief, because Ivan is complex, and it takes much to please him. He desperately wants to please him.

“You are nothing,” he croons. “Just a toy. My toy. Mine. You’re mine Liam.”

For the first time that night Ivan grabs his cock, and it takes Liam by surprise so much so that he screams. He’s making a mess of the jacket, he must be, but it’s what his master wants. It’s ok, because it pleases his master.

“Such a good treasure. So good for me. I could watch you like this for hours. A nice little package all for me. Delicate and fragile.” Ivan rolls him onto his back again, shoves a pillow under him and then crawls on top of him. The weight is anesthetizing, but I van rocks his hips and an electric shock vibrates though him.

“Oh Liam. This is where you belong, truly. Such a pretty treasure.” Ivan breathes hot into his ear, sucks a mark onto his neck. “I almost want to keep you like this all night. Open and ready for me.”

“No!” Liam croaks. “Please! Please, use me. I—“ he stutters, trying to piece together fragments of thoughts. String desire into language, but he can’t manage more than desperate sounds.

Ivan laughs, cruel and menacing. Liam starts shaking, panic rising. He’s trapped. Completely. He can’t think, can’t breath. There must be a way to please him. He’s trying so hard. He lifts his hips, tries to get his feet under him to push up, but Ivan simply sits up, and stops his movements with one hand.

“It’s pointless to struggle you know. You won’t get away. Let me show you.” He rolls off Liam, keeping his hand on his hip, still pinning him. “Try.”

So Liam tries. He rolls to the side, and Ivan pushes him back flat. He flails his legs, tries to kick Ivan, but he meets nothing but air. His neck thrashes fruitlessly side to side, his heart is racing, sweat builds under the mask and Ivan just laughs, mocking him.

“You see? You’re mine Liam. You put me here. You wanted this. You’re absolutely helpless. And it feels good doesn’t it?” This is a check, and Liam almost misses it, caught in the current, trembling with the weight of his surrender.

“Liam?”

“Green. Green.” He chants, fighting the jacket openly now. Using all his strength. But Ivan knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly where to press to keep Liam from rolling off the bed, knows just how to highlight Liam’s helplessness.

And then he’s grabbed, lifted off the bed by his buckles, and damn Ivan is strong.

“Enough!” he shouts. “Be still.”

Liam deflates, limp and heaving.

“Good boy. Breath.” Ivan lays him back down and Liam hears rustling, the bed is moving with Ivan’s weight. And the energy shifts. He’s aware now of how empty he is. How lose and hollow he feels. How much he wants to be filled.

“Please,” he sobs.

Threaded | Flat

Page 1 of 2

"Cozy", Matt/Marisha/Taliesin

"Persuasion, With Advantage", Liam/Matt, NC-17, post-ep-13, 1/3

"Worship," Percy/Vex

Delilah/Cassandra, ep 100 reactionary porn

'House Call' - Taliesin/Laura, Travis/Taliesin, non-explicit

Vax/Briarwoods dubcon, Modern AU

'Loss' - Marisha/Taliesin(/Matt)

"Hall Pass", Taliesin/Travis, Marisha/Laura, NC-17, 1/?

TWC RPF (Amy/Tal/Matt) "New Territory"

RPF Taliesin-centric Gen "Cat Mode Engaged"

"Fantasy" Matt, gender issues, gen

Communication (Liam/Matt, NC17) 1/?

no subject

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Necessity NC17 Ivan van Norman/Liam O'brien; strait jacket sex