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Percival feels groggy, fuzzy and a little sick, like he’s had too much to drink. He doesn’t remember drinking, doesn’t remember much of last night at all really, so it must have been quite a bit too much. But that doesn’t seem right. Whatever he was doing last night, he doesn’t think he intended to go drinking. Wasn’t last night a Tuesday? He tries to clear the fog from his head and reaches up to rub his eyes.
Except that he doesn’t.
He can’t even open his eyes, in fact, due to the strip of fabric pressing over them. He also can’t raise his arms, since they’re bound behind his back. It is at that point he realizes something is very, very wrong.
He is, as best as he can determine, tied to a chair. Memories of last night start to flash back through his head – he’d been on an assignment. Not his first, but he can still count them in single digits. It should have been simple. It was surveillance. He was good at surveillance. All he had to do was follow the man – Malcolm Carrick, a dealer in illegal magical artifacts – and he’d have enough evidence to make an arrest by the end of the week. He tries disjointedly to remember what went wrong. He’d followed Carrick into a club, one of those underground places hidden from both no-majs and MACUSA, and watched him from across the room. He had ordered a drink – one, not nearly enough to account for the sluggishness weighing him down – when Carrick started talking with another man in the corner. Percival suspected a contact, he’d moved closer to hear what they were saying, and if it was closer than was strictly advisable, well, he was confident he could remain concealed. And when Carrick walked out the back of the club, Percival had followed. He didn’t remember much after that.
The voice of his auror instructor echoes through his head like a ghost. “You’ll make a good auror Graves, there’s no denying you’re at the top of your class. But you overestimate yourself. There aren’t many things more dangerous than overconfidence.”
Percival hadn’t paid much mind to what that was supposed to mean. He’d been mildly offended, actually. It wasn’t the first time he’d been accused of having a high opinion of his own abilities. Some had called it arrogance. Look at him now.
He tries to get some sense of his situation, figure out just how much trouble he’s in, but his head is swimming. Drugs, he thinks hazily, he’s been drugged. The realization sends a dull wave of alarm through him. He pulls at his bonds, but not with the strength he needs. His wrists are tied together behind the chair, and there’s rope cutting into his chest and upper arms securing him firmly to the back of it. His ankles are spread apart, tied to the chair legs, and to top it all off he’s gagged. He struggles, testing for weaknesses in the bindings, but he’s disoriented. He has no idea where he is and he can’t see, he feels lost in the darkness. He has no idea even how big the room is, or – god – if he’s in a room. He struggles, but he can barely move. He tries to draw on his magic, to undo his bonds or figure out what’s around him or anything, really, but he doesn’t know what happened to his wand and his concentration keeps slipping away.
After some time he becomes aware of noises around him. He tries to judge how long he’s been conscious, but he has no frame of reference. There’s someone walking around, moving things, and Percival doesn’t know if he should stop fighting or fight harder. He’s breathing heavily, chest rising and falling as much as it’s able under the rope, but he nearly stops breathing when he hears the footsteps approaching him. They’re coming from behind him, getting close, he tries to judge the distance but he can’t make himself focus.
He startles when a hand wraps around his neck, under his chin, and pulls his head back to press against the chest of the person standing behind him. He makes a startled noise through the gag and tries to rock forward, away, but he can’t.
“Shhh, shush.” Percival doesn’t quite stop struggling, but he starts to still. He has to focus, just focus, panicking won’t help anything. “There’s a good boy.”
Percival swallows painfully, feeling his adam’s apple move against the man’s hand, and squeezes his eyes shut under the blindfold. Something about that voice sends dread running through his veins.
The hand on his throat is firm, holding him solidly, but not rough. He just holds Percival there for long moments, head tipped up and thumb pressing into his cheek, and Percival feels as though he’s being taken the measure of. Finally the man’s hand releases him, and he gives Percival a shove on the back of the head that sends his chin down to his chest. Percival could swear the man scoffs, and it doesn’t bode well for whatever opinion the man has formed of him.
He hears the man walk around to his front, and the scrape of what he can only assume is another chair against the floor. He startles again when the man’s hand pats his thigh, alarmingly close to his groin.
“Jumpy one, eh? Aren’t you a catch.”
The hand doesn’t leave right away, running up his inner thigh, and Percival has to bite back his rising fear. Something about being handled this way, so casually and with such authority, makes his mind stall.
The next thing he knows the blindfold and gag are being tugged off with a muttered “Let’s get a look at you,” and he’s staring face to face with the man who wasn’t supposed to know he existed. Carrick is big, in his forties, and he’s been in the business a long time. He’s the kind of man who takes care of himself, but doesn’t care overmuch about his appearance. Percival was going to catch him. Percival’s eyes flit around the dim room, taking in what appears to be some sort of workshop. There are shelves lining the walls covered with all manner of what Percival is sure are dangerous and illegal magical items, and there are no windows.
Carrick’s thumb lingers on his jaw, touch strangely soft. He takes Percival’s chin between his fingers, turning his head side to side as though inspecting him. Percival thinks vaguely that of it weren’t for whatever drugs Carrick gave him he would probably be in a full blown panic right now. As it is, there’s a dim fear coursing through him that he can feel thrumming deep in his muscles. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen to him.
Carrick twists his hand into the back of Percival’s sweat damp hair and tugs his head back, exposing the line of his throat. Percival doesn’t know what’s going to happen to him, but when Carrick’s eyes flick down his body with a smirk and a murmured “pretty boy,” it gives him a pretty good idea.
He doesn’t even try to pull away, and when Carrick releases him his head rolls to the side in his dazed state. It’s all right, it’s going to be all right, MACUSA has protocols for what happens if aurors miss their check in. They probably already know he’s missing, and it will be a couple hours at most before they come get him out of here, less depending on how long he was unconscious. Yes, he failed his assignment, rather badly, but he’ll be home safe in time to catch tomorrow’s game. If… if he could only be sure what day it is. Fuck.
Carrick’s hands are still on him, back on his legs now and spreading his thighs apart. This can’t be happening.
“They’ll catch you,” Percival slurs, tongue heavier than he would like. “I’m not… they know I’m missing, they’ll find you.”
“Uh-huh. They hire you for your looks, sweetheart?”
Percival flushes and turns his head away, humiliation creeping through him. He shakes his head dazedly because no, no, he was top of his class, he’s from the Graves family, he has every ounce of talent and ability he needs to succeed. He’s a gifted auror, he has the dedication, the drive, and the test scores and connections to prove it.
But none of those seem like particularly convincing arguments compared to Carrick’s hands cradling his hips.
“Thought so. Good taste.”
Percival would like to be fighting, telling Carrick to screw himself, and conducting his own heroic rescue. But he’s so tired, and his body is so heavy. The more he tries to struggle the more exhausted he gets, depleting the precious little energy he has. Carrick is tugging Percival’s shirt free from his waistband, and he slides a hand underneath it to rest on his stomach. His hands find their way back to Percival’s hips, thumbs pressing firmly into the soft muscle just under his ribs, rubbing, and the hot press of his hands fills Percival’s mind. His hands are big, and they seem to circle Percival easily. There’s nothing Percival can do about it. He can’t move under the rope, and even if he could his body is heavy enough that he doesn’t know how far he’d get. Carrick’s hands slide up, slowly, until the reach the underside of the rope wrapped around his chest, and Percival feels every centimeter of their drag over his skin.
Carrick’s hands leave him for a moment, and Percival feels dizzy and disoriented without them. There’s a tug on his shirt, and then there’s a popping as the buttons give and Carrick rips it open up to the rope across his chest. Carrick’s hands land on his shoulders, his collarbone, and Percival watches him through the hair falling in his eyes as he undoes the top half of Percival’s buttons. Carrick’s hand slides under his shirt to cup his pectoral just above the rope, and he smiles.
Percival’s eyes widen as Carrick’s other hand reappears with a knife. He flips it open with a sharp click, and presses the tip to the point where the fabric of Percival’s shirt is trapped under the rope. Percival’s chest is rising and falling as he tries to pull in air and he tries to steady himself, the last thing he wants is to press his own chest up into the knife because god, as if it wasn’t bad enough, why does he have to have a knife.
Carrick chuckles at his distress. “Don’t worry, I like you pretty.”
With that he catches the fabric on the blade and slices it straight to the back, leaving the right half of Percival’s chest exposed as he pushes the sleeve down off his shoulder. He does the same thing on the other side, and on the bottom half of his shirt, until it hangs off him in tatters and he might as well not be wearing a shirt at all.
“That’s better. Get a look at your pretty tits.”
Carrick smooths his palms over Percival’s chest, warm and firm. His hands catch on his nipples, drawing a low, involuntary moan from Percival’s throat. It sets off sparks deep in his chest, momentary tingles that chase Carrick’s fingers. He rolls his head back as Carrick continues to trace over him, fingers pressing into his collarbone and back down the center of his chest. Percival is trapped, held completely still, unable to pull away or… push upwards. His body tries to, weakly, he barely even realizes he’s doing it, trying to get Carrick’s hands back on his nipples.
Carrick chuckles low. “That’s it, pretty boy.” His fingertips brush back over Percival’s nipples, teasing, and it’s not enough. It’s too light, almost tickling, and the little jolts that zing through his chest just leave him needing more. He doesn’t understand it. He’s never been touched like this. He’s been around, this sort of thing isn’t new to him, but never, never like this. He’s always been the one in control, the one doing the touching and the teasing, making his partners squirm and moan. That’s not supposed to be him. He doesn’t understand the warmth pooling in his stomach, the fluttering under his chest, or the way it makes his thoughts stutter. He feels vulnerable, and it twists inside him.
Finally, mercifully, Carrick brings his hands back to Percival’s nipples. He flicks over them until they rise into hard little nubs and Percival is gasping, and Carrick he strokes one finger, slowly, around his areolas. Percival can’t take it, he can’t, he just wants to be touched properly –
“You like me touching your tits?”
The slow circles continue, driving Percival mad. He shakes his head, he doesn’t have tits and please, God, don’t let him like a criminal who abducted him touching his tits.
Carrick lays his palms flat over Percival’s chest, the center of his palms over his nipples, cupping him as though he really did have tits. He closes his eyes and breathes with the warm pressure of Carrick’s palms, but he just wants the man to move. The heat is sinking into him, he can feel the points of his nipples poking up into his palms, and he can’t even move a centimeter to rub himself against them.
“I said,” Carrick murmurs, leaning in close enough that Percival can feel his breath on his cheek “’do you like me touching your tits?’”
Biting his lip, eyes still shut, Percival nods.
“Do you?”
Percival nods again, harder, desperately.
Carrick makes a dissatisfied noise, and Percival whines.
“Yes,” he gasps out, “yes, please, I do.” The words burn through him, and he almost doesn’t care.
“Ahh, that’s it sweetheart. Yeah, I know what you need.” Percival doesn’t even know himself what he needs, but hearing Carrick say it sends a warm jolt up his spine that blooms out into his chest. Carrick’s fingers wrap along the lines of his ribs, and he presses in deep with his thumbs. His hands finally move, rubbing deep circles and pressing in firm, making Percival’s whole chest light up in ways he’d never imagined. He groans, sagging against the ropes holding him and melting into Carrick’s hands. Each point of Carrick’s fingers is bliss, sinking deep into his skin, into his bones, and he feels his cock twitch between his spread legs.
“That’s it, princess. Good boy.”
Percival’s mind is hazy, drugged and flooded with arousal, and one part of him is tinged with humiliation at the words but the rest of him is gone.
“Look at me.”
Percival does. He blinks his eyes open and drags his gaze up to meet Carrick’s, mouth open and panting. The moment their gazes connect Carrick pinches both his nipples and tugs. It’s sharp pain shooting through him, connecting between his nipples and the center of his chest and his cock, and it’s incredible.
He keens as Carrick twists, tears springing to his eyes. When he tries to tip his head back, overwhelmed, seeking some sort of escape, the sensation only intensifies.
“Look at me.” Carrick growls it low and Percival does, instantly, dropping his gaze back to Carrick’s with his eyes blown wide.
He couldn’t say how long it goes on. Carrick settles into a pattern, tugging one nipple and then the other, steady, slow, and Percival sets his breathing by it. Pinch and tug on one side, press on the other. Pinch and tug, press. Pinch and tug, press. His mind is blank, drifting. Pinch and tug, press. He’s vaguely aware of his cock straining under his trousers, but the only thing in his head are the fingers working his nipples. His face falls slack, his breathing shallow, but his gaze never drops from Carrick’s. Pinch and tug, press.
When it stops Percival feels lost. He whines somewhere deep in his throat at the lack of touch, and he hears Carrick chuckle. His hands smooth briefly over Percival’s nipples, sore, puffy, swollen, and he gives a little sob at the damning mix of pain and pleasure. There are tear tracks running down his cheeks, drops falling from his chin, and he must have started crying at some point. He doesn’t remember.
Carrick’s fingers bump under his chin, making his head bob up, and he hears a satisfied huff.
“Let’s get to the fun part, huh?”
Percival isn’t sure what that means, but he nods. Feeling hands back around his waist settles him, and he breathes in relief. Carrick’s hands run from his waist down over his hips, the crease of his leg, his thighs. He strokes slow, deep, hands pressing into the tops of his legs and thumbs wrapping just far enough around that they light up his sensitized inner thighs. Carrick repeats the motion while Percival groans, starting just under the rope at his chest and stroking all the way down his body. His hands massage at Percival’s hips, running over the crest of the bone and down to the insides of his thighs, just missing his cock, and Percival’s hips jerk involuntarily. Carrick smiles.
“Yeah, you like that.”
His fingers are so close, so close but so, so far, and each time Percival thrusts his hips closer his hands pull away. He’s in complete disarray, hair falling in his face and damp with sweat, panting, struggling clumsily to get more of Carrick’s touch. He’s helpless for it. The more he struggles the less he gets, so eventually he stills. He lets his body relax, his only movement little involuntary shudders as hands run over him.
“Good boy, that’s it. You just relax, you’re not in control anymore.”
Percival lets out a breath. It should feel wrong, it still does a little, but mostly it feels good. It feels so good to just let it happen, so much better than anything else, and he can’t believe the first time he’s felt like this is after he’s been abducted.
“It’s hard for you, isn’t it? You’ve always been told your special, one of the best, but you’re just a needy little slut. I’m going to play with you until it’s the only thing you remember.”
The tip of his finger falls on Percival’s cock through his trousers, and it sends an electric bolt so deep into him that he yelps. Carrick taps his finger on his cock, slow, unpredictable, and it’s driving Percival out of his mind. He traces around the shape up it until Percival is sobbing again, half because it’s not enough and half because it’s too much. He would beg if it would help, but Carrick is right. He’s not in control.
The heat is building in his cock, in his stomach, but there’s no way he can come with such light touches. He almost doesn’t notice the glint of metal in the dim light until he hears the click of the blade unlocking. Carrick presses the knife into the fabric at his groin.
“Hold still.”
God help him, Percival does.
Carrick cuts away the fabric in chunks and Percival feels the fear mixing with arousal in his veins. He throws his head back again, face screwed up tight as tears run down his cheeks, trying desperately to hold back his sobs lest he rock forward onto the knife.
When Carrick is finished Percival’s cock is bobbing out of a gaping hole in his trousers, and he feels the cool air of the room across his groin. He feels like he could come at the slightest touch, and when Carrick lays his palms on the bare insides of his thighs he nearly does.
“Now, that won’t do.”
One of Carrick’s hands leaves him, and he digs in his pocket for a moment before producing a small silver ring. Before Percival realizes what’s happening Carrick has slid it around his cock, all the way to the base, and as he taps it with a finger it tightens. It’s odd, too constricting, and it’s cold against his skin. He doesn’t know what it’s for.
But it ceases to matter when Carrick’s hand closes around his cock. It overwhelms everything else, pure liquid pleasure surging through him and he’s going to come –
But he doesn’t. He hangs there on the edge, climax just out of reach, and he sobs. Carrick’s hand rubs loosely on his cock and he doesn’t understand, until Carrick’s fingers nudge against the little silver ring. Oh god, he thinks wildly, he’s going to die. Carrick rubs his thumb over the tip of Percival’s cock, smearing the precome around the head, and every touch feels like it goes straight through his skin to his raw nerves. Fingers are cradling his balls, rolling and tugging gently, and Percival has never felt so exposed and so desperate. He wants the touches to continue, so badly, but he doesn’t know if he can stand it.
The finger rubbing behind his balls is good, so good, it sends pleasure sinking into him so deep, and he moans openly.
“Yeah, you let me work you. You pretty types, never learning how to wait for anything. But you want this.”
Percival nods, and he shakes his head, and he chokes out a pleading, desperate “Please.” He doesn’t know what he’s begging for, but it’s too much. He’s a bundle of nerve endings and over sensitized skin, and while Carrick keeps one hand on his cock the other roams over his body, rubbing his thighs, his stomach, his still sore nipples, and pressing a thumb into the hollow of his neck. Percival swallows against his hand, barely able to keep his eyes open and craving the touch at the same time that it’s almost painful.
“Please what, pretty boy?”
“Please, more – stop – uh, I can’t, I can’t, I need to come, please make it stop.”
“You want me to stop?” Carrick takes his hand off Percival’s cock, and Percival nearly shouts.
“No! No, oh god, please don’t stop, please, just make it stop I need it please –” Percival is begging nonsensically. He’s held upright solely by the ropes around his chest and they’re cutting into him as he sags against them but he doesn’t care, doesn’t even notice, the only thing he can think about is his cock. It’s so heavy, he’s going to burst if he doesn’t come, every twist of Carrick’s wrist is exactly right and it curls into his gut until it’s painful and all he can do is beg, beg for the pleasure to stop because if it doesn’t there won’t be anything left of him at all.
Something soft and wet touches the tip of his cock, and when Percival looks down he’s shocked to see that it’s Carrick’s mouth. The wet heat is so good as it slides over him, so nice, all soft pressure and touches, and oh, Carrick’s tongue licking over his head as he takes Percival’s cock deeper into his mouth, and then he sucks. Percival moans obscenely, relishing every moment. He should be repulsed, his cock is in some criminal’s, some man’s mouth, but he’s not. It makes him feel completely defenseless, helpless, and so good. One of Carrick’s hands is rolling is balls, the other stroking his inner thigh, and he just keeps sucking and working his mouth up and down on Percival’s cock.
Percival is sobbing, deep shuddering breathes and dragging in air, his cock is burning and Carrick pulls off him to grip the back of his hair, sending little shocks of pain through his scalp.
“You want to come?”
“Y-yes, yes, please…”
Carrick squeezes down on his cock and he yelps, unable to tell if the sensation shooting through him is pain or pleasure. Percival doesn’t know if he can survive another second at this man’s mercy, he wants to go back to the tugs on his nipples, the soft warm sensation that seems like a distant memory now, anything other than this torment.
“Maybe I should leave you like this, doll. I’ve got things to do, you’re only worth so much of my time. Pretty boys like you don’t need to come, anyway.”
Percival shakes his head frantically, horrified, barely able to speak. Carrick is holding him at the edge, so close, and the only thing worse than staying here forever would be being dropped back on the other side to writhe.
Carrick seems to know his thoughts. “Aw, don’t worry, I wouldn’t let you hang. You want it to stop, I can ice your cock.”
Percival is shaking, trembling all over, his head still held back in Carrick’s rough grip.
“You don’t want me to do that?”
He shakes his head again, as much as he can with the grip on his hair, but the fight is going out of him. As if it was ever there.
“But you’d let me. Wouldn’t you?”
Percival has lost. He’s lost completely, utterly, and he knows it. “Yes. Y-yes, sir.”
The pressure at the base of his cock releases, and Percival screams. His entire body convulses, sensations ripping through him, shooting down the backs of his legs and pulsing in his cock and abdomen, he can’t stop his hips from jerking, hard, and his vision is obscured with stars. He has no idea how long it lasts. It feels like an eternity of something being pulled from deep inside him, the most intense, all-consuming thing he’s felt in his life.
It keeps coming over him in waves until he’s weak and dizzy, head lolling to the side and a buzzing in his ears. He becomes aware of his cock softening against his thigh, and hot come dripping down his stomach. He’s too exhausted to move. Carrick touches the head of his cock again and it’s pure pain, his hips shuddering violently, unable to give any other reaction. Percival’s eyes are half open, body slumped against the rope, and he hears Carrick’s satisfied chuckle.
The ropes around him fall away suddenly, and Percival topples out of the chair and straight into Carrick’s arms. His body is loose, disjointed, and he can’t get his legs under him when Carrick pulls him up. He feels like he’s been hit with the jelly legs curse, but amplified by ten. Every part of him is wrung out, muscles shaking.
Carrick drags him around behind the chair and throws him down. He lands limply, unable to break his fall, but the surface is soft. It’s a mattress, he realizes, and he had no idea it was there. Carrick pins him down, holding him by the back of the neck roughly, and yanks his ruined shirt off of him. He grabs Percival’s arms and twists them into the small of his back, binding him again, wrist to opposite elbow. It’s not until after he finishes that Percival realizes he was completely free for several long moments, and all he did was let himself be stripped with his face pressed into the mattress. He should have tried to escape, should have fought, but even as he thinks it he knows that even were he still unbound now, he wouldn’t.
Carrick pulls the tatters of his trousers away, leaving him bare, and warm hands rest on Percival’s ass. He starts to rub, kneading and massaging deep in to the muscle. And it feels good. Percival’s cock is still over sensitized and his nipples still swollen, rubbing uncomfortably beneath him, but the hands working over his ass and down the backs of his thighs feel good. He moans, overworked muscles relaxing and tension easing out of him, drifting with the feeling of Carrick’s strong fingers. When Carrick nudges at his balls Percival whines, and then his fingers slip upwards. Carrick is parting his ass, thumbs rubbing at the delicate skin. He doesn’t know what’s happening. He’s never been touched there before, but the warmth and heat is incredible and his cock, somehow, is starting to fill again.
Carrick’s fingers leave him for a moment, and when they return they’re slick. The glide is even better, smooth and slippery and working into his ass and – and the fingers catch on the rim of his hole, making him jerk. He whines but Carrick’s fingers are working in closer and closer, rubbing right over his hole and he can feel it relaxing, his head is spinning and he doesn’t understand.
“What-what are you doing?” He’s not supposed to be touched back there, it’s not supposed to feel good.
“Getting ready to fuck you, doll.”
The words don’t add up in his head. “What?”
“Oh, you ain’t ever been fucked before, huh?”
Percival shakes his head in desperate confusion. Carrick’s fingers haven’t stopped pressing at him.
“Then you just lie back, beautiful. Shut your eyes and moan for me. Think you can do that?”
Percival nods, letting his eyes fall closed. The fingers prod at him until his hole is twitching and he’s aching desperately for more but he doesn’t know of what. When Carrick’s finger first starts to prod inside him he gasps, feels his hole starting to give around it, only a trifle of resistance before his finger slips in. It’s a strange sort of pressure inside him, pushing against his insides, and he squirms. He’s still sensitive, and while it’s a relief to have a gentler, softer sensation it digs into his mind that he’s not supposed to like this. But he does. It’s such a relief for it to be gentle, and the slickness makes it feel so nice, an easy slide.
Carrick may be not be rough, but he is unrelenting. He works Percival’s hole steadily, pressing his finger in deep and pumping it in and out, forcing little moans out of Percival each time. By the time he adds a second finger Percival is gone, laying limp on the mattress and rocking in time with Carrick’s fingers. It’s all gotten mixed up in his head, this whole fucking thing, he doesn’t know whether he hates it or loves it, and if he hates it he doesn’t know if it’s because it feels too good or because he actually doesn’t want it. He forgot a long time ago whether he wanted it or not. Carrick seems sure, keeps murmuring to him how much he must need this, how perfect he is for it, what a pretty slut he is, so maybe he’s right. It does something to him, being held down like this, shown he doesn’t have a choice, like it’s unlocking something in him he didn’t know was there to open. Something he could never reach himself.
Carrick’s fingers curl. They press down, rubbing hard, and Percival yells. It doesn’t stop, he doesn’t know what it is, but he’s coming again and he can’t stop it, it feels like Carrick is forcing the come out of his cock, his whole body is jerking violently and he has no control. His vision whites out as Carrick presses into that spot so deep inside him, that spot he didn’t know existed, and he sobs.
Carrick doesn’t stop, even as he leans low over Percival, breath tickling his ear.
“Huh. I guess you like it.”
Percival is crying, tears leaving wet patches on the mattress as he trembles. Carrick is still pressing down and it’s too much. “No… no, please don’t, please –” He bites off his words as the pressure increases, and Carrick is barely even pumping his fingers anymore, moving just enough to cover the entirety of that spot inside him. Any semblance of relaxation is being driven out of him, his cock is burning, and he doesn’t remember a time he’s come again so quickly. He’s writhing, and he has no idea if he’s trying to rub himself on Carrick’s fingers or pull himself away. It doesn’t matter, because Carrick plants his palm between his shoulder blades and moves his fingers with him. It sears into him, burning a hole through him, and all he can do is sob.
“No, no – I can’t, I can’t come anymore, st-stop, god, please!”
Carrick doesn’t stop. He’s patient, working him thoroughly, consistently, and pinning him easily to the mattress. Percival has no way to keep track of how long it goes on.
When the fingers finally slip out of him he has the disjointed and feverish thought that Carrick might have given up trying to wring another orgasm out of his body. He’s wrong. Seconds later Carrick’s fingers are replaced by the head of his cock, pressing into him unrelentingly. It’s thick, thicker than his fingers, and Percival whines at the stretch. His entire hole feels like it’s made of exposed nerves, and the stretch arcs through him, but he can feel his body yielding. His hole gives, and Carrick slides in deep. His thrusts shake Percival’s bones, and he angles in to hit that oversensitive spot every time.
It fills him completely. He feels stretched taut and thin around it, he can feel it all the way in his throat.
And then Carrick reaches under him and tugs on his cock, squeezing. Percival can't think straight, but he doesn't feel like his cock and his ass are his anymore. He belongs to Carrick, the man's cock is up his ass, and oh god, there's another man's cock up his ass. The thought is blown out of his mind before it can fully form, before he can feel the humiliation of it, because he can't think at all, he can only get fucked. Each thrust of Carrick's hips drags Percival’s cock excruciatingly against the fabric underneath him. It's so much. Carrick's fingers keep worrying at the skin of his cock, pinching and rubbing directly over the head, and the scrape of his thumbnail sends a burst of pain through Percival so intense he nearly loses consciousness. He wishes he could just lose consciousness. It's too much, he can't take it, he needs it to stop.
“Stop, stop, please stop!”
Carrick doesn't listen, and why should he. Percival’s body is jerking away, but no matter how he moves he either drives Carrick’s cock deeper into his ass, or his own cock deeper into Carrick’s hand. He’s fighting by reflex, not willpower. Each thrust reverberates through his body, and he can’t think. He can’t do anything but let Carrick fuck him, and if he could form words, if he could put any meaning together in his head, he wouldn’t even beg him to stop. He just wants him to stop hitting that spot inside him, and to stop touching his cock. The rest of it – the rest of it he would let happen. If it weren’t for the overwhelming sensation, he might even beg for it to continue.
Percival didn't think he could come again, possibly ever in his life, but he does. It rips through him, burning him, as Carrick milks drops of come out of his cock. His whole body seizes up, his hole spasming around Carrick’s cock, and Carrick groans. The angle of Carrick’s thrusts changes, missing the spot in him more often than not, and Percival is grateful. It’s still too much, he’s hypersensitive everywhere after just having come, but it’s bearable. Slowly, he starts to ease back into it, moaning, breathing in time with the thrusts.
Carrick starts to fuck him deeper, harder, and growing erratic. He buries his cock all the way inside Percival’s hole, and he feel it pulsing. After long moments Carrick pulls out of him, and Percival’s ass feels warm and wet. He whimpers at the feeling of Carrick sliding out of him, leaving him disconcertingly loose and empty. His hole twitches, trying to close, but he can’t quite manage it. He’s fucked completely open, and he can feel the come oozing and trickling out of him.
Carrick isn’t touching him at all now, and it feels wrong. He’s adrift with no anchor, reeling with the abrupt lack of contact.
“No, w-wait.”
“You want something, beautiful?” Percival can’t see Carrick, but he can hear the taunt in his tone.
Percival doesn’t want to want it. The pleasure bordered on painful at the end, he can’t possibly come again, but he wants to be touched. To be held down. It’s like some wall is his head crumbled away, and he can’t build it back up. He needs. He needs hands on him, touching him, stroking him, pinning him.
“…yes,” he whispers.
Carrick makes a derisive huff. Percival feels the mattress depressing as Carrick kneels back down over him, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He feels thick hands around his waist, pulling his hips up, and fingers prodding at his open hole. Carrick is inspecting him, spreading him open and running hands over him, and it sends a shiver through Percival. “Yeah, we’ll sort you.”
Percival doesn’t know what that means, but knows he’s about to find out.
Carrick keeps one hand planted on the small of Percival’s back as he reaches for something, and the next thing Percival knows the little metal ring is being slid back over his limp cock.
“Wait, n-no…” That's not what he wanted, he didn’t mean that, no… but the ring doesn't tighten. It rests at the base of his cock, just heavy enough that he's aware of it, and just snug enough not to slip off.
Carrick is doing something else, there are sounds behind Percival like he's searching for something, and then something else is pressing against his hole. It's not Carrick's cock, it's more solid and firm, and it's… bigger. Carrick is working it into him, murmuring things like “easy there, pretty boy,” and “there you go, take it all.” It's much bigger. Percival thought his hole was loose after the fucking Carrick gave him, but it's nowhere near as loose as he'd need to be to take this thing in his ass without a struggle. It doesn't hurt, but it stretches him enough that he worries it might. Once Carrick has it all the way inside him he pauses for a moment, one hand resting on Percival's ass, and Percival feels a quick tap against the thing sitting in him.
It starts to move. Oh god, it starts to move.
It starts slow, pulling back out of him until just the tip is inside, and then pressing back in. Filling him again. It slides excruciatingly over that sensitive spot inside him.
“Wait, I don't - no, it's too much, please, what is -”
His protests are cut off abruptly when Carrick reaches between his legs to tap the ring around his cock.
It starts to shake.
It sends vibrations down the length of his cock and he had no idea such a thing was even possible with magic. The vibrations sink deep into his groin and wipe the thoughts from his head, leaving him gasping between the dual sensations of the ring and the thing fucking into his ass. It keeps hitting that spot, that god damned spot, and no matter how he twists he can't make it stop. It's a rhythm, predictable, but the momentary relief each time it pulls back is overshadowed by the anticipation of it sliding back in, and the way it forces his ass wide. The vibration is constant, running along his nerves and shaking him apart, he's going to unravel starting from his cock and there's nothing he can do.
Carrick is talking, but Percival barely hears. “...in a while, then.”
What? He hears footsteps heading away from him and fuck, it suddenly hits Percival what's about to happen and fuck, no, Carrick can't leave. “God, please! Don't, I-I didn't - I can't do this, please!”
Carrick sighs. “I ain't got all day, princess.” Percival hears Carrick walk out of the room, and then the closing of the door with the click of a lock.
What happened? What in Merlin's name happened? How is he supposed to survive this? It's in every part of him, it's all he can think about, and why would Carrick just leave him? That thought burns in him almost as much as the rest of it.
Percival tries to let his mind empty, to relax and take it and just let it happen, but he can't. He can't ignore it, he can't forget it, it's filling his entire mind and body, saturating every piece of him and working deep into his bones. He can't turn his mind off, as much as he tries, and he can't make himself lie still. He writhes on the mattress, legs kicking against nothing, trying to squirm away, but even though he's not tied down it doesn't make a difference. It keeps fucking into him however he moves, hitting the spot inside him in a steady rhythm and holding him wide open, moving with him seamlessly. He tries to hold his hips up off the mattress, to at least save his raw cock from the harsh rub of the fabric, but it only works for so long. The muscles in his thighs and abdomen shake and tremble, the stress of the position aching and burning into him. There's only so much his body can take.
“Come back! Please don't leave me here, please, no, help me!” He can't stop himself from begging, he doesn't even try, nothing matters except getting Carrick to make it stop. His cock is straining to get hard again and he doesn't even know how that's possible, but it's bobbing up painfully and he's coming again, oh god, it's being ripped out of him from his very center. His muscles give out and he collapses into the mess of come under him, whining at the pressure on his cock. He tries to pull himself back up, he does, but his muscles are screaming. He can't stop sobbing and he can't stop coming.
“Please, please…” He's begging softly, he can't do this. His body can’t do this.
Mostly he cries, body shuddering. He can't help his desperate attempts to get away, hands straining against the ropes and body convulsing, but it's useless. He tries to rub the ring off of his cock, but it's worse, so much worse, to run his cock against the mattress that he gives up almost immediately. It rises in him, again, again, orgasms ripped from his body even when he has nothing left to give, when his cock barely dribbles any come at all, and each time he screams, yelling for Carrick, for God, for anyone, to help him.
Everything is hazy. The room he's in, his thoughts, the way time passes. The only thing that's definite is the burning, screaming pleasure.
He just can’t do it anymore, he needs rest.
Eventually he can't stop screaming. It's so much. His begging doesn't even make sense, he doesn't know if he's making real words, he doesn't know why this is happening. He can't remember anything outside this moment, and this moment stretches on.
And on.
And on.
When the door opens he has no idea how many times he's come, he lost count sometime after Carrick left. It was more, more than he knew was possible, and he's just screaming.
“Please make it stop, please, I'll do anything, I need it to stop, just stop, God please I'll do anything you want -”
He's writhing, sobbing and convulsing and twitching, he has no control over his body at all, there's nothing left of him here but his most instinctive reactions. He's being fucked relentlessly, vibrating out of his skin, slick with sweat and come and tears.
“Please, why? Why, I need - I need it to - to s-stop, I can't.”
There are hands on him, spells being muttered urgently, and every touch on his skin sears through his flesh, making him scream more.
When it stops, when his cock is freed from the horror of the ring and his hole is empty, he collapses. He's trembling uncontrollably, and he can’t move. It's like his muscles have stopped functioning entirely, only capable of random jerks and twitches. His ass is gaping open, his muscles don’t even try to close it, and he can feel the sick mix of the slickness and what’s left of Carrick’s come sliding out of him.
“Please d-don’t fuck me anymore, please don't…” He can barely breathe, he throat is torn to shreds, and he gasps desperately for air. “I'm sorry… I'm sorry I-I asked for it, please, no more, I don’t want anymore…”
Tears are still streaming down his cheeks, more from relief than pain now. He'll do anything, anything at all that Carrick says. He craves the direction, the surety of Carrick’s control, he can’t make his mind function and he can’t think for himself.
When the hands turn him over, the last thing he sees before losing consciousness are the faces of a half dozen aurors looking down at him.