Pairing: IIIxIV
Word count: 5443
[WARNINGS: unprotected sex, light bdsm practices, degradation, orgasm control/denial, edging, overstimulation]
18+ content - minors, do not interact.
As usual, feedback is welcome and very much appreciated. Be kind, though!
Iii is in a foul mood and IV loves it.
He doesn’t know what happened to bring on such a sudden shift, but he knows what it means for him: mean, demanding, controlling III. And he’s not one to complain.
All he knows it’s the pattern is always the same, and sooner or later, III will drag him into a secluded room and tear him to pieces slowly, painstakingly. All he can do is wait.
It’s almost methodical, the way he does it. He takes all his anger, and frustration, and anxiety and channels them into being the most dominant he can be.
It takes two hours, twenty three minutes and about eight seconds.
But who’s counting?
“You,” there’s a long, bony finger pointed at him, “go to my room.”
His blue eyes are dark and serious as they stare back at IV, unmoving, stern, and his voice is deep, accent thick with simmering anger, “I expect to see you undressed and kneeling when I come back. Understood?”
“Understood, sir.”
“Good.”
•
All IV can hear as he slowly undresses himself is the ticking of the wall clock hanging right above the bed, and the white background noise of the cars driving some floors below seeping through the half-opened window.
It’s kind of soothing, in a twisted way.
The anticipation is killing him as he sinks to his knees on the soft mattress, naked skin brushing the fancy silk sheets III insisted on buying in all the colours of the rainbow, hairs all over his body standing straight with excitement.
His cock is already half hard, blood rushing south at lightning speed as he imagines everything III will put him through - but when the door opens and shuts, all the coherent thoughts fly out of the fucking window: III looks like an absolute vision. He’s wearing all black - form fitting t-shirt and loose track pants hanging low on his skinny hips, and he’s towering over the bed like a predator ready to pounce on its prey.
“I haven’t even stepped into the room and you’ve already made three mistakes. Can you tell me what they are?”
IV must look like a complete idiot, because as much as he racks his brain for answers, he still comes up blank, and all he can do is look lost and shake his head.
“Think fast, bitch, because ‘I don’t know’ is not an option, and every wrong answer will grant you ten spanks.”
“I— didn’t fold my clothes properly?”
“Mh. You did four things wrong, then.”
Fuck.
“I,” he breathes, thinks, rinse and repeat. Nothing.
“What? Are you too dumb to form words or are you just trying to piss me off?”
“I— genuinely can’t think of anything, Sir,” his voice sounds alien to his own ears, small and vulnerable, “I’m sorry.”
“Fine, I’ll give you the answer. But that means you’ll get the paddle instead of my hand. And you’re getting spanked however many times I see fit, considering you’re too much of a dumb slut to know what’s best.”
From the outside looking in, a person who’s not familiar with their dynamics will think that III is some sort of evil monster taking advantage of poor little sunshine IV.
Fact of the matter is, though, IV is enjoying every single second, revelling in the attention and the dominance; he loves being told what to do, how to act. Adores being punished - or rewarded.
He can get out of his own head and just feel: every hit of the paddle, every smack of a hand on his skin or pull of his hair takes him one step closer to the special place in the back of his head that has him floating on pure pleasure and adrenaline, and he can’t fucking wait to get there.
“Number one: I told you to kneel, I didn’t tell you to kneel on the bed. Number two: I didn’t tell you you could get hard,” he gestures at IV’s dick with disdain, eyes rolling slightly, “number three: i didn’t give you permission to look at me when I came into the room. Now get down from there, I want you face down, ass up on the carpet.”
As much as he enjoys pain, IV is not a big fan of carpet burn.
He can either disobey and face III’s wrath -fun, painful, ultimately rewarding - or obey - and still be punished, of course, since he did make three, no, four mistakes - but avoid provoking III further, since he’s already in a pissy mood. Choices, choices.
As much as he loves instigating III, a big part of IV lives for the moment when his volatile partner praises him for being good. And he’ll get his punishment in any case - the way his cock twitches and hardens even more guarantees it - so. Rug burn it is.
He can feel him walking around the room, can feel the eyes on his naked skin, burning patterns into it with his mind.
The click of the closet door opening sends a shiver down IV’s spine, a tingle of anticipation bubbling in every nerve ending on his body- he knows the paddle is in there, together with a plethora of other devices made especially for him.
He doesn’t hear rummaging, though- the door clicks shut in record time: which means the paddle was ready all along, that he was gonna get paddled either way, no matter how pristine his obedience was. It means III had a plan all along.
“Can you count, or do I have to do that, too?”
IV shifts in his spot a bit, feels the carpet dig into his shins and his knees, “I can count, Sir.”
“Good,” smack, “go on then, I don’t have all day!”
“One, Sir. Thank you.”
They land everywhere: from the round part of his bum to the lowest part of his thighs, the hits rain on him like blessed water mixed with the flames of hell.
His eyes water more and more with each one, and his body doesn’t know if it wants to move away from the pain or towards it, stuck in a loop of pleasure and pain that’s washing over his senses like tidal waves.
His dick twitches at every strike, hangs heavy and swollen in between his legs, leaking, begging for a shred of attention, yearning for some sweet, sweet crumb of friction.
“T— twenty five.”
The sound of the paddle clanking on the floor tells him it’s over, but he wouldn’t dare moving until told.
“You’re not as dumb as you look, then. Get on your knees.”
His arms are shaking as he attempts to raise himself from the ground, and he almost eats a handful of carpet when his right hand slips and loses grip, but he manages.
“Face this way, slut, I have no use for you looking the other way.”
Shimmying his way around is no easy feat, especially since his knees are scraped pretty badly from rubbing against the carpet during his paddling, and every movement sends a jolt of pain through his nerves. He’s pretty sure one of them is bleeding, a tiny dot of crimson leaving its mark on the pristine white fibres.
III takes a long, calculated glance at him, eyes sparkling with mischief. He looks like a giant standing there while IV is kneeling: his impossibly tall and slender body adorned in all black is an imposing presence, ominous almost, towering over IV’s figure with ease. The light hairs of his happy trail glisten with a veil of sweat and it’s mouth watering, hypnotic.
God, IV is so obsessed with this beautiful man.
“Hands behind your back.”
He removes his hands from where they’re hiding his very obvious erection and puts them where instructed, “yes, Sir.”
“Still hard, I see,” his voice is tinged with something IV can’t quite put his finger on: his wishful thinking says it sounds like awe, his rational mind quips that it’s most likely annoyance, “you’re so desperate that not even twenty five strikes will get your dick to go down? Fucking pathetic.”
He blushes a deep shade of red as his dick throbs at the humiliation.
“If you’re so hungry for it,” III spits, as he lowers his pants just enough to get his half hard dick out, “then have at it. And make it worth my time.”
He scoots his way over to him, barely resisting the urge to flinch every time his scraped knees glide on the carpet, and puts his whole nose into the sparse hairs at the base of III’s cock, taking in the smell of detergent and arousal, letting it invade his senses and put his mind at peace.
“Less sniffing, more sucking,” he pushes his hips forward once to drive the point home, “you’re a bitch, but you’re not a fucking dog.”
The weight of III’s cock on his tongue is familiar, yet every time feels like the first: his reactions to getting head are dependent on his mood, on IV’s behaviour, on a myriad of other variables that make the experience surprising in its familiarity.
IV puts his soul into it, sucks cock like he’s paid to do so.
Apparently though, today his passion, enthusiasm and effort are not enough: the moments he puts his right hand at the base of III’s length -just so he can give attention to what doesn’t fit in his mouth- is the moment III steps back completely.
“I told you hands behind your back. I can’t fathom how is it so hard to fucking listen?”
He walks to the closet again, and this time the noise of objects rattling against each other is almost jarring in the deep silence of the room.
He comes back moments later with a pair of— pink plush handcuffs?
“I— Sir?”
“What now?”
“Are those—?”
He would usually go with rope, if he’s feeling frisky. Or tape.
Zip ties occasionally, and if he’s in a sweet mood, probably silk.
But pink plushy handcuffs are a first - and IV can’t for the life of him figure out where the fuck they came from. Or better yet, he knows where they came from: his fucking browser history.
He’s always had delicate skin, and he doesn’t mind the marks on his body - truly doesn’t. But his wrists always hurt for days after, insistent red welts blossoming on his wrists every time he ends up bound or tied, and sometimes he finds himself browsing for something sturdy yet soft, something that will keep him in line without the added strain on his already damaged skin.
He just never thought—
“I— don’t know what to say.”
“Thank you will do, I believe.”
His voice is still stern, but there’s a hint of affection in his tone that he can’t mask or hide.
“Thank you, Sir,” look at him, tearing up at the sight plushy handcuffs like a degenerate fucking idiot, “thank you so, so much.”
When they click in place on his wrists, the soft material is a stark contrast to what he’s used to: they’re firm, the sharp tug he gives them confirms it, but they don’t hurt, they won’t leave angry marks.
No matter how mean III acts, how punitive and cruel his actions look from the outside looking in, IV knows he’s cherished.
III taps his jaw once with his index finger, and the warmth of his skin against his shakes IV out of his thoughts, “open wide.”
It’s all the warning he gets before III’s cock is shoved so far down his throat he almost chokes on it.
Every sharp snap of III’s hips threatens his precarious balance, and all he can do is focus on breathing through his nose and engaging his core muscles so he doesn’t topple over on his ass and make a fool of himself.
Just when it was getting good - IV had found a rhythm with his tongue that allowed him to give iii pleasure without choking, and III had started making these gorgeous, choked half-moans every time the tip of his cock hit the tender back of IV’s throat - III stops.
And IV can’t help but make a slight noise of complaint.
“Shut the fuck up, Jesus,” his voice is fucked like he’d been the one taking a dick down his throat instead of giving it, “get on the bed.”
Getting up is no easy feat, especially with his hands locked behind him and throwing off his balance, but the promise of something more gives him the strength to obey as quickly as his body would allow.
“Ass up, I’m tired of looking at your pathetic face.”
•
“I’ve opened myself up already, Sir.”
“Playing with your sorry hole like a slut doesn’t mean you’re ready for me.”
As much as IV would love nothing more than being fucked into oblivion sooner rather than later, he knows proper prep is a non negotiable for III: no matter how mean he’s being, he’ll always make sure there’s plenty of lube and plenty of time spent on it.
It doesn’t matter if they fucked the day before and IV feels still loose enough; or if he tells him he’s prepped himself beforehand, III will always, always double check.
Rationally, he knows it’s a good thing.
But the desperate, horny, greedy, impatient part of his brain still sometimes registers it as a nuisance - but he still sags against the sheets, props his ass up high, and waits.
“God,” III whispers as the first finger breaches IV’s hole, “you were made to be fucked, weren’t you?”
IV is glad he’s not facing him, because he’s pretty sure III would start giving him shit for how much he’s blushing at the makeshift compliment, warmth spreading from his face all the way down his chest like wildfire, unforgiving and unstoppable.
“Look at this,” he speaks like he’s talking mostly to himself, voice quiet, no longer as commanding as it was before, “your hole is so hungry for it, for me,” he pushes a second finger in, the slide made easy by copious amounts of lube and the fact that - as much as III doesn’t want to believe it - IV had actually already opened himself up as he said, “isn’t it?”
“Only for you, Sir.”
Two fingers soon become three, pumping in and out of him at a leisurely pace like they have all the time in the universe, and IV wishes III didn’t know his body as well as he does because he’s purposefully avoiding that sweet, sweet spot inside him that makes him see stars: this is methodical, a means to an end, and the end goal is apparently not IV’s pleasure.
He's still impossibly hard though, knees spread wide and cock hanging heavy between his thighs - he’s pretty sure he’s been consistently leaking since the fucking handcuffs clocked shut on his wrists, mind getting fuzzy at the edges, body feeling light like a feather and heavy like a block of lead at the same time.
The moment III’s fingers slide out of him leaves him and get replaced by his cock leaves him gasping for air like a fish out of water, mouth agape and desert dry, “o-oh fuck.”
The rhythm is ruthless from the get-go, every thrust as punishing and fast as the previous one, and each aimed at that perfect angle that makes him feel as if his sanity is about to slip away from his grasp any moment.
IV feels like he’s hanging on by a thread as moans and groans are ripped out of him every time III’s cock slams back inside.
The noises III is making are not helping his predicament: he grunts with every thrust, moans every single time he pulls far enough away that the head of his cock catches on IV’s rim just to slide back inside with ease, then grinds against him like a feral beast in heat, pushing as deep as he can go and brushing all the right places - it’s maddening for both of them, animalistic and primal and so, so fucking dirty.
IV is aware he’s sweaty all over, skin so damp he feels like he’s gonna slide off the stupid silk sheets any minute now but he can’t stop writhing, twitching, moaning - hell, he’d probably pull his fucking hair out if his hands weren’t bound behind him.
He would be grossed out by himself if he weren’t so fucking close, tethering dangerously over the edge of the precipice and so fucking ready to fall over and let the void take over his senses.
His mind is foggy at best and incoherent at worst, and all he can think is pain pain pain pleasure pleasure pleasure, with the way his ass and thighs burn so good every time III’s hips slap against his abused skin, new redness forming over top of the purple spots that were already there, and his burnt knees catching in the folds of the fabric with every forceful thrust.
He’s only vaguely aware of III saying things to him as he fucks him from behind, random words making their way into his muddled mess of a brain, things like “brat” and “slut” and “baby” spoken directly against his ear as III keeps a firm hold on his hair, bending his back in positions that any sane person with functioning eyes would probably deem impossible to achieve.
“I’m gonna come,” he’s not aware he’s spoken until it has happened, and he’s only sure it was him because he’s gone, but not gone enough that he can’t recognise his own voice, thank you very much.
III has him trained so well that he wouldn’t dare come without permission in any circumstance, no matter how taxing.
“No, you’re not.”
He realises he’s crying only because his tears feel salty in his mouth.
That’s all it takes to pull him under.
He can vaguely register himself talking.
It feels as if someone else outside of his body is stealing his voice, speaking for him like a ventriloquist’s puppet, and it’s nothing but a mantra of “please, please, please,” and “need to come, want to come, let me come”.
It’s embarrassing, it’s desperate, it’s his brain losing all filter as reality quickly slips from his grasp.
The moment III’s buries himself balls deep inside him feels like coming home, like IV is floating on a cloud of sugar dust and rainbows and morning dew: the warmth spreads through him as his insides are painted white, and suddenly the urge of coming is overcome by the overwhelming pride of being good.
He managed not to break the rules, he made his Sir come like he’s supposed to, he’s done what his body was carved out for, all those years ago: pleasuring III and nothing else.
•
“Baby,” his eyes feel sticky and gross as he tries to pry them open, “hey? You with me?”
I’m good, he wants to say, but his throat is tight and rough - he nods as best as he can, head feeling too heavy on his weak neck, and attempts a smile that doesn’t come as easily as he would like it to.
There’s delicate fingers carding through his hair and a big hand holding on to his cheek, stroking gently in comforting patterns, lulling him into a sense of safety and home, “you were so good for me, angel. So, so good.”
“Sir,” is what he manages to say as he attempts to find his voice, pain shooting through his throat at every noise, “t-thank you.”
A tall glass of water gets pushed to his lips and he drinks and drinks and drinks until it’s all gone, drops falling from the corners of his mouth and onto his chest, sending shivers down his spine as his overstimulated body registers yet another sensation.
He’s sitting up, he realises.
There are no cuffs on his wrists.
And III is looking at him like he hung the fucking moon- so. That’s something.
The next thing he notices as his body starts making peace with his brain, is that his ass hurts like a motherfucker: he’s probably all bruised up, pinks and purples and reds creating sunsets on the fair skin of his butt and thighs. His hole is also leaking from the remains of III’s load, making a wet, uncomfortable patch under his abused ass.
The third thing he notices is that, despite being sore and battered, despite having blacked out for god knows how long, he’s still rock hard.
“Ngh,” he’s still not capable of forming coherent words, apparently, but III’s attention is on him in a split second despite his muffled noises.
“What’s wrong, angel?”
“…please.”
The smirk that spreads on III’s face is devious, “I don’t understand what you’re begging for, baby. You’re gonna have to be more clear.”
If IV had the strength, or the mental capacity to lift himself up, he would slap the shit out of that smug face.
As of now, though, he can barely keep his head upright.
“Sir, please, I need—”
He stops himself, hyperaware that he needs to play his cards just right if he wants even the slightest chance of going to sleep without blue balls.
“Go on, don’t be so bashful,” he chuckles to himself and it sounds almost devilish, “if you want it so bad, then you should be able to ask for it.”
“Can I come? I’m still hard. Please, sir. It hurts.”
“I thought you liked pain, no? Thought you enjoyed being my little pain whore.”
If III is not budging, then its time for the heavy artillery. It’s only fair.
“Please, daddy.”
*
IV isn’t sorry about the “daddy” thing. It was a cheap shot and he knew using the D word after III had already come would have been dangerous, but as much as he loves pain and edging, death by blue balls isn’t on his “favourite ways to die” list.
That said, what III is doing now feels more like retaliation than release. One hand on his throat, firm orders not to touch himself, and two long thick fingers curled in his ass, and a few minutes that felt an eternity later iv feels like crying.
He must have been, because III tuts, patronizing and merciless. “Poor baby” he says, and if IV wasn’t crying before, the mocking tone he’s using would for sure bring on the waterworks, “so, so sad.”
He isn’t sad, he’s so horny even his dick is crying, as III can very well see, but the guy is really being a bastard this evening. Not that IV could verbalize that.
He moans brokenly and tries to rock his hips against III’s hand, and all he gets is a swift slap for his trouble. And the pressure on his prostate never lets up, multitasking king that III was.
Cheek smarting, IV squeezes his eyes. “Be good” he hears over the sound of his shallow breaths, as III wraps his hand on his throat once again. He’s not actually choking him, it’s more a warning, orders to behave, so of course he skirts the line and bears down even more on iii’s fingers in his ass.
IV hears the smirk in his voice and god, he has no intention of opening his eyes and looking at III’s face. Not now, not while he’s nearly sobbing, body on fire, dick weeping on his belly. The sight of III’s malicious expression could do him in. So he just begs, like a prayer in the darkness behind his closed eyelids. “Sir, please, daddy, I just need to...”
“I’m giving you what you want, and you’re still whining. Maybe I should just leave you manacled to the bed and let you sleep it off.”
“Nononono. Please please please...”
The squelching sound is disgusting and hot, a mixture of sweat and lube and cum making IIi’s fingers slide in and out of him without resistance.
The fact that he can read IV’s body like a children’s book is clear from the fact that every single time he’s about to come, the pressure on his prostate relents just enough to bring him away from the precipice, only to start all over again.
And again.
And again.
“Daddy, daddy, daddy,” the word falls from his lips like a prayer, like a broken record - that’s all his brain can process, all that’s left in his muddled thoughts.
It’s “I’m begging” and “thank you” and “I love you” all wrapped up in a neat bow of desperation, body and mind overwhelmed by the sensations as he fights to stay present, fights to stay anchored to reality as his last slivers of sanity threaten to leave him once more.
It’s an eternity - and a million lost orgasms - later when the words he’d been begging to hear finally leave III’s mouth, “go on then, come for me.”
They sound like an hallucination, a figment of his imagination, far away and muffled, but still his body obeys on the spot, back arching as he spills all over himself like a trained puppet.
III milks him through it, doesn’t stop even when IV’s body feels like he has nothing left to give.
He feels as if a fire has been ignited from the inside out, burning bright hot as pleasure washes through him and mixes with pain and renders him unable to do anything but lie there and take it.
“Again.”
He’s begging for the opposite reasons now: he’s over sensitive and sore and he needs it to stop, needs this to be finally over.
“Please I can’t— I— Sir!”
“You begged like a bitch to be able to come, now what?” the hand on his throat squeezes just enough to drive the point home, “Can’t take what you asked for?”
He’s sagging in the sheets and they’re all bunched up now, wet and sticky and gross - it looks like a scene from the most low budget porn movie, the way the silk glistens with with lube and fluids in the low light of the bedside lamp.
Despite his prayers to stop though, IV’s cock never went down, and he can feel the tell-tale signs of another orgasm approaching, heat spreading through his gut and his groin as his body, taut like a guitar string, snaps once again.
He sobs through it, tears spilling freely from his eyes as his dick twitches and throbs with his second orgasm of the night, wetness pooling on his belly on top of the mess that was already there.
When two orgasms become three, though, there’s not much left to it: it’s almost dry, nothing but a few drops sliding pathetically down his spent, reddened cock.
“One more.”
He can’t do it. He can’t.
He wants to be good, wants to obey, but he doesn’t have it in him, he’s too spent to even think about coming again. His balls hurt, his cock is sore, his hole is now so swollen and achy that he will most definitely have trouble walking without a limp tomorrow.
“Please sir I can’t- I— daddy. I can’t.”
“You can.”
“No, no, please. No more!”
“Then use your safe word and this stops immediately. Until then, you’ll give me one more.”
Avocado.
It’s on the tip of his tongue.
He could say it and the abuse on his poor hole would be over, he would receive his much needed aftercare and probably a bubble bath with the strawberry body wash he loves so much, the one that’s so bubbly that almost feel like it’s gonna spill out from the tub and smother the bathroom in a foamy inferno of bubbles and doom.
But III says he can, and he wouldn’t say it if he didn’t think it, would he?
“I— really don’t think I can.”
“Safeword,” he curls his fingers again with force, pushing against IV’s prostate like he’s trying to punish him for complaining, “or shut the fuck up.”
He debates in his mind the best course of action, but he keeps getting lost, losing his train of thought, losing his fucking mind.
“Avocado.”
And just like that, the fingers that were inside him slide oh so carefully out, and the hand on his neck is removed in favour of caressing his cheek.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t be mad,” he’s crying again, he probably never stopped, and his voice is small and frantic, “I really couldn’t do another one, I’m sorry.”
“Baby, hey,” it’s impossible to think that this is the same person that mere minutes ago was calling him a slut, voice sugary sweet as he addresses IV, “never apologise for having to use your safeword. Never apologise for setting boundaries, do you hear me?”
“But— I let you down. You thought I could do it a-and I couldn’t.”
The words are barely comprehensible, with all the sobs shaking his whole body.
“You didn’t let me down one bit,” his eyes are deep and sincere and so fucking blue, “I love that you give yourself to me so freely, that you trust me so deeply. You did so well.”
••
He’s laying in the bathtub, warm water and bubbles all around him and III perched on the edge behind him, carefully massaging coconut and vanilla shampoo in his hair, when the realisation hits: he is in love with this beautiful, beautiful man.
He also realises that the thought made its way into his mind once already during the night, as he was being tortured with orgasm upon orgasm: in the mess that was his brain, fuzzy and overstimulated and lost, the thing that kept him anchored to his sanity was that he’s in love, and he’s pretty sure it’s mutual. So.
Something to think about.
“You’re awfully quiet there, love,” III’s voice is like a soothing balm on his soul, a salve to ease all troubles and pains, “something on your mind?”
“Jus’ tired, that’s all.”
IV is an awful liar, the way his voice tilts upward at the end of his sentence gives away the fact that he’s not being completely honest, but if III noticed, he doesn’t push further.
“Alright,” there’s a last splash of water to the back of his head, probably to make sure all of the shampoo suds have been rinsed away, “shall we get some lotion on that cute butt? Then we can get some food in your precious belly. How’s that sound?”
“I’m in love with you.”
The words are out of his mouth before he can process that he’s speaking, and the way he shuts his mouth is testament enough to the fact that he did not mean to say it out loud, not while he’s wet and naked and still partly out of it.
Fuck.
And III isn’t replying.
Why isn’t he replying?!
“I—I’m sorry. It just— came out. I didn’t mean to make it weird or-”
He stands up as fast as he can as the last of the water runs down the drain, frantically trying to turn around without smashing his face on the wet, slippery tile of the bathroom.
He needs to look III in the face, needs to understand why he’s not saying anything.
III is still there, perched on the edge of the fucking bathtub, trousers wet from bathing IV with all the care in the world and IV finds himself thinking he looks absolutely glorious even while he’s rejecting him.
He’s down bad.
“Say something?” the fact that he’s on the verge of tears is evident in his shaky voice, the knot in his throat making it hard to speak properly, “III?”
And III is… smiling?
That’s good, right? It has to be good. IV needs for it to be good.
Or maybe he’s laughing at how pathetic he is, falling in love with his best friend who he sometimes hooks up with, after being fucked within an inch of his life.
“You fucking idiot,” that’s not a good start, not when IV’s mind is spiralling in every direction and thinking of every possible worst case scenario his mind can conjure up, “took you a while there to catch up.”
“I— you- what?”
“I’ve kinda, sorta been in love with you since the first time you drunkenly kissed me and then gave me a handjob and covered my dick in black paint.”
“That was last year.”
“Well,” he shrugs like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just made IV the happiest man on the face of the planet, “yeah.”
III wraps a big, fluffy towel on his shoulders - he didn’t realise he was shaking, droplets of water drying in his body at the contact with the cold air.
“So, about that lotion? I don’t want your butt to be sore tomorrow.”
And if IV grabs him by the front of his sopping shirt and kisses the daylights out of him, nobody but them has to know.
