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Remember the threesome idea I had? People came up with some wonderful ideas for who the three were, but they were too good; I couldn't pick.
So I wrote this to clear it from my head; 1300 words of PWP with a smidge of a spanking, and it could be anyone. Stargate, Buffy, Firefly, anyone you like... pick three men and fit them in.
Consider it the fic version of a book token :-)
And Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays to you all ::hugs::
Between, Beneath
They put him between them, smiling and murmuring words he can't hear through the dull roar of blood in his ears. They're naked, and he's not, and he lets them strip him, slow hands sure on his body, the drag of clothing all his skin gets to feel because they're being careful not to touch him.
Not yet.
They say it to him over and again until it thrums and beats and echoes around the warm, dim room. He's waited long enough that it shouldn't matter, minutes more shouldn't matter, but it does, they do, he can't stand it...
He's been fever-hot and trembling all day, seeing them in the distance down a long line of corridor, biting his lip to keep the smile inside; dying of lust and longing when they come into his room, singly and together, talking to him about nothing, giving his arm a pat that's meaningless because it can be done openly and he wants more than that. Wants everything.
His eyes are filled with them, and they're close enough here on the wide, high bed that he sees them only in snatched glimpses as they move; the strong curve of a neck and shoulder; the dark interruption of a nipple against paler skin; the shadowed harsh hair on chest and groin he thinks might feel softer than it looks.
When he's naked, cock hard and heavy, weighing him down, pinning him in place, needlessly, because there's nowhere he wants to be but here, they exchange glances then kiss.
He watches them and suddenly it's silent in his head. They kiss, liquid, soft slides of mouth on mouth, tongues licking out, sliding in, running over lips. Their hands are open by their sides, clutching air, and he wants to see them touch each other, nails raking, fingers brushing, palms cupping, but more than that he wants their hands on him.
He sighs out a breath that's all they've allowed him to say and the kissing ends.
He could regret that, if it wasn't for the fact that they're staring at him now and that means soon, soon --
They lie beside him, one on either side and he wonders if they remember all that they promised him they'd do, every deliciously dark and dirty word.
He can.
They didn't tell him that they'd make him beg, but he knows he will.
Wants to.
Wants to plead and whimper and offer himself up.
Anything.
He'll do anything if they'll just --
And he doesn't need to. A hand strokes down his chest, admiringly, appreciatively, a mouth takes his in a kiss, and he realises the eternity he's been aching through was seconds long, counted by the clock.
Time and senses snap into place and his world becomes sharp-edged and clear. His wrists are gripped and held down so that he can't touch them -- wants to, wants to feel -- but they're touching him with their free hands. It's difficult to be done to like this, to lie supine and passive, and he fights it, just for a second, and gets released and frowned at.
He reaches up with one hand, knowing which of them he can cajole into indulgence with a penitent twist of his lips, which will be unyielding. His wrist is captured, dragged up and tied.
Guessed right.
He meets a considering, narrow-eyed look when he'd expected sympathy and swallows. Maybe he guessed wrong. He lifts his arm and stretches up, feeling the skin on one side tighten and burn, muscles pulling tight. The metal of the bed frame is cool and smooth against his fingers and he breathes shallow and fast and panicky until they smile at him again.
He feels unbalanced; held by their wish and his will when he wants it to be out of his hands --oh, bad pun, even now, he can make them, can he? -- altogether.
His fault.
Punish me. Oh, wait; you just did... and I can't even say thank you...
His ass lifts up, an inch, no more, imploring, inviting, and he really didn't mean for that to happen but they're kissing again, as if they need to, as if they look at him and want each other because of him, which is so fucking unfair...
They like him watching. He knows they do because when he shuts his eyes (they're touching now, hands hard and rough and it's killing him here, have mercy, oh Lord, on a poor sinner whose dick's about to burst, ripe and swollen and hot because he groans and jerks when his fingers pinch a nipple scarlet and bruised), when his eyes slide closed on a moan, they stop.
A hand blinds him so that his eyes fly open, startled, and meet shifting shades of darkness, pierced with chinks of light through spread fingers. He arches up again -- can't help it, just can't -- and he goes from excited, obedient silence to moans and babblings and words shooting out, streaming out, spilling over parted, bitten lips because one of them has a hand wrapped hard around his cock and the other --oh, mouth and tongue and teeth and no mercy, none, no slow, sensual rock higher, just a savage, sudden sucking heaven and hell that ends abruptly, leaving him writhing and howling and cursing, soundless protests because his mouth's dry and his voice is lost in the gasping, greedy gulps of air.
When he's worked spit back into his mouth he manages a weak whisper that tells them they're bastards and the hand across his eyes lifts and leaves.
Are we? Well, now.
He's turned, hard cock rubbing eagerly for a fleeting second against smooth, crisp sheets before his hips are lifted and he's on his knees, his bound wrist twisting to find a new hold on the bed, his free hand pivoting, never completely releasing the bar.
He's not sure but he's given no chance to think. They fall into a rhythm early on, too used to working together to need to discuss it. They could have made it faster but they don't. Each sharp smack has a second of empty space after it for him to grunt and gasp into until it fills with heat and an itchy, moremoremore of hurt.
They stop too soon and he feels them staring down at him. His head hangs heavy, his neck bent, giving them a bare bow of skin to press warm fingers against and he feels the touch thrill through him.
He could come from this. He remembers the single kiss and wants another and he waits, forcing himself to kneel still and silent.
Want to start over?
Nod. Small tilt up and down, but it's enough.
And he's freed, rolled over and hugged and suddenly it's okay to touch, and he does, hands grabbing, stroking; okay to kiss and be kissed, mouths meeting, colliding, and they're giving him everything, letting him watch them fuck, so good, so hot, fuck, look at them, will you, just look...
His face. Oh, his eyes, and the way his face screws up, smoothes out, sees God...
And he's there, in the middle again, a mouth on his cock, a cock in his mouth, sucking and fucking and warm.
And later, when they're lying in a tangle, sweaty and sticky, wrung-out and limp, and his mouth's got the taste of them to remember, they roll him over and run their hands over his ass, distantly stinging still, and promise him next time, next time it'll be harder, and he knows they're exchanging glances he can't see, but it's okay, he can wait.
Now, he can wait.
So I wrote this to clear it from my head; 1300 words of PWP with a smidge of a spanking, and it could be anyone. Stargate, Buffy, Firefly, anyone you like... pick three men and fit them in.
Consider it the fic version of a book token :-)
And Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays to you all ::hugs::
Between, Beneath
They put him between them, smiling and murmuring words he can't hear through the dull roar of blood in his ears. They're naked, and he's not, and he lets them strip him, slow hands sure on his body, the drag of clothing all his skin gets to feel because they're being careful not to touch him.
Not yet.
They say it to him over and again until it thrums and beats and echoes around the warm, dim room. He's waited long enough that it shouldn't matter, minutes more shouldn't matter, but it does, they do, he can't stand it...
He's been fever-hot and trembling all day, seeing them in the distance down a long line of corridor, biting his lip to keep the smile inside; dying of lust and longing when they come into his room, singly and together, talking to him about nothing, giving his arm a pat that's meaningless because it can be done openly and he wants more than that. Wants everything.
His eyes are filled with them, and they're close enough here on the wide, high bed that he sees them only in snatched glimpses as they move; the strong curve of a neck and shoulder; the dark interruption of a nipple against paler skin; the shadowed harsh hair on chest and groin he thinks might feel softer than it looks.
When he's naked, cock hard and heavy, weighing him down, pinning him in place, needlessly, because there's nowhere he wants to be but here, they exchange glances then kiss.
He watches them and suddenly it's silent in his head. They kiss, liquid, soft slides of mouth on mouth, tongues licking out, sliding in, running over lips. Their hands are open by their sides, clutching air, and he wants to see them touch each other, nails raking, fingers brushing, palms cupping, but more than that he wants their hands on him.
He sighs out a breath that's all they've allowed him to say and the kissing ends.
He could regret that, if it wasn't for the fact that they're staring at him now and that means soon, soon --
They lie beside him, one on either side and he wonders if they remember all that they promised him they'd do, every deliciously dark and dirty word.
He can.
They didn't tell him that they'd make him beg, but he knows he will.
Wants to.
Wants to plead and whimper and offer himself up.
Anything.
He'll do anything if they'll just --
And he doesn't need to. A hand strokes down his chest, admiringly, appreciatively, a mouth takes his in a kiss, and he realises the eternity he's been aching through was seconds long, counted by the clock.
Time and senses snap into place and his world becomes sharp-edged and clear. His wrists are gripped and held down so that he can't touch them -- wants to, wants to feel -- but they're touching him with their free hands. It's difficult to be done to like this, to lie supine and passive, and he fights it, just for a second, and gets released and frowned at.
He reaches up with one hand, knowing which of them he can cajole into indulgence with a penitent twist of his lips, which will be unyielding. His wrist is captured, dragged up and tied.
Guessed right.
He meets a considering, narrow-eyed look when he'd expected sympathy and swallows. Maybe he guessed wrong. He lifts his arm and stretches up, feeling the skin on one side tighten and burn, muscles pulling tight. The metal of the bed frame is cool and smooth against his fingers and he breathes shallow and fast and panicky until they smile at him again.
He feels unbalanced; held by their wish and his will when he wants it to be out of his hands --oh, bad pun, even now, he can make them, can he? -- altogether.
His fault.
Punish me. Oh, wait; you just did... and I can't even say thank you...
His ass lifts up, an inch, no more, imploring, inviting, and he really didn't mean for that to happen but they're kissing again, as if they need to, as if they look at him and want each other because of him, which is so fucking unfair...
They like him watching. He knows they do because when he shuts his eyes (they're touching now, hands hard and rough and it's killing him here, have mercy, oh Lord, on a poor sinner whose dick's about to burst, ripe and swollen and hot because he groans and jerks when his fingers pinch a nipple scarlet and bruised), when his eyes slide closed on a moan, they stop.
A hand blinds him so that his eyes fly open, startled, and meet shifting shades of darkness, pierced with chinks of light through spread fingers. He arches up again -- can't help it, just can't -- and he goes from excited, obedient silence to moans and babblings and words shooting out, streaming out, spilling over parted, bitten lips because one of them has a hand wrapped hard around his cock and the other --oh, mouth and tongue and teeth and no mercy, none, no slow, sensual rock higher, just a savage, sudden sucking heaven and hell that ends abruptly, leaving him writhing and howling and cursing, soundless protests because his mouth's dry and his voice is lost in the gasping, greedy gulps of air.
When he's worked spit back into his mouth he manages a weak whisper that tells them they're bastards and the hand across his eyes lifts and leaves.
Are we? Well, now.
He's turned, hard cock rubbing eagerly for a fleeting second against smooth, crisp sheets before his hips are lifted and he's on his knees, his bound wrist twisting to find a new hold on the bed, his free hand pivoting, never completely releasing the bar.
He's not sure but he's given no chance to think. They fall into a rhythm early on, too used to working together to need to discuss it. They could have made it faster but they don't. Each sharp smack has a second of empty space after it for him to grunt and gasp into until it fills with heat and an itchy, moremoremore of hurt.
They stop too soon and he feels them staring down at him. His head hangs heavy, his neck bent, giving them a bare bow of skin to press warm fingers against and he feels the touch thrill through him.
He could come from this. He remembers the single kiss and wants another and he waits, forcing himself to kneel still and silent.
Want to start over?
Nod. Small tilt up and down, but it's enough.
And he's freed, rolled over and hugged and suddenly it's okay to touch, and he does, hands grabbing, stroking; okay to kiss and be kissed, mouths meeting, colliding, and they're giving him everything, letting him watch them fuck, so good, so hot, fuck, look at them, will you, just look...
His face. Oh, his eyes, and the way his face screws up, smoothes out, sees God...
And he's there, in the middle again, a mouth on his cock, a cock in his mouth, sucking and fucking and warm.
And later, when they're lying in a tangle, sweaty and sticky, wrung-out and limp, and his mouth's got the taste of them to remember, they roll him over and run their hands over his ass, distantly stinging still, and promise him next time, next time it'll be harder, and he knows they're exchanging glances he can't see, but it's okay, he can wait.
Now, he can wait.