Chapter Text
This cushion is different than the one that lives under Knives' mahogany desk. It's thicker, more a piece of foam than anything else. The cover is smooth, plasticky in the way that it sticks to his knees and shins. His toes tuck against the cool tile floor, and sweat gathers in the seam between his hamstrings and calves. It glues his leg hair to the cover of his cushion. His cock is tucked down between his legs, chubby and sometimes leaking over the curve of his tight balls. Even with the pocket of warmth, the room is cold and he's fully nude except for the metal cuff collar around his throat. The sound of an empty bottle falling off the counter doesn't quite register with him.
Nick likes this cushion, despite its discomforts. Today, he's fit himself into the space beneath the bar counter in Knives' kitchen. He doesn't have to slouch, and his chin slots nicely against the edge of the seat. His favorite blinders are in place: Knives' legs, this time bare to mid calf where his socks begin. His shoulders block most of the view, but he knows Knives has his toes spread over the foot rest that kisses the tops of his knees. The metal has long since warmed up on his skin, but it reminds him to stay kneeling.
His mouth is where it belongs, open and smothering his Master's cunt, tongue flat, loving, obedient. Nothing shuts him down like soaking in the taste of him. Knives pays him little mind, fingers striking keys. Nick has no idea what he's doing. Writing, emailing, it doesn't matter. What Knives does do - and it's something rather uncharacteristic of him - is drop his empty water bottles. This is the third.
The memory of a curvaceous glass carafe filled with jewel red juice swims back up in his mind, hazily paired with one of Knives' tall glasses. It had been further partnered with several water bottles, all of which have joined him on the floor. Nick groans, knowing the sound will vibrate through Knives' core. Maybe he can see the soft swell right in front of his eyes, something threatening to push into his nose. It's impossible for him to focus, pale skin and barely-there peach fuzz a simple blur. He can pretend Knives isn't as flat as he normally is, even if he isn't allowed to touch.
Knives shifts above him, just maneuvering his hips more to the edge of the seat. Nick hears the cup touch down on the countertop, then the slide of the glass carafe. He can't really hear what happens next, but it sounds empty when the carafe is set back down again. One of Knives' legs swings out and hooks over his shoulder, not quite crossing over his back. It just presses him in closer, forcing his tongue against the twitching opening of his pussy. The coy ring of muscle relaxes into the surface of Nick's tongue for a glorious, brief moment before tightening away for him to follow.
Nick forgets whatever he heard, lost in the fresh taste. He isn't sweet, but fresh. Sharp. Barely fruity. He chases it with an open-mouthed swallow, throat working against a flood of drool within and the press of his collar without. Of course, he's messy already and it does little. He picks up on another inward clench, and rolls his tongue against Knives to feel it better.
This one travels upward, which strikes Nick as mildly odd. It's foggy and strange and then it's gone as quickly as it came, replaced by Knives easing even closer. His cranberry glans rubs into the scant space between lip and tooth, and Nick tilts his head back, opening his mouth wider. This way, he can lick a wide, lazy stripe from the bottom edge of his cunt all the way to his cock before re-sealing his mouth over that precious mound entire and sucking in a way that hollows his cheeks.
Knives has no complaints, but his glass does meet the counter with a sudden crack. No pinging shards, just a little firmer than intended. The leg that isn't hooked over him jitters, knee drawing inward. It's stopped by Nico's shoulder. He feels the other leg - Knives' left - try to close the gap.
That's the only warning he gets before vaguely salty warmth blooms in Nick's mouth. It's quickly too much to swallow, and the taste mixes with the slick and spit he's already trying to get down, frantic against the collar. It's so hard to swallow against it with his head tipped back. The smell hits him when it spills over his lips, stinging and a little musky. He isn't a stranger to it, just hasn't ever dealt with this much at once. Knives is overwhelming. With the amount of fluid he's ingested, it really is mostly water.
Knives is pissing in his mouth, and Nick is hardly aware enough to choke on it. His body is craving the opposite, and while he knows he isn't allowed, his hands shoot up to grab milky thighs. It's probably the filthiest thing he's done, continuing to swallow greedily. The realization that Knives is using him as nothing but a urinal flicks something deeply, incorrigibly awful within him.
It's mostly water, mostly, but it's for him, through the very body of his Master. He doesn't want to let it go to waste, belly warm.
Somehow, it's more precious than the slick and cum he's granted. Streams cut through the drying saliva ringing his collarbones and chest. It isn't even cold by the time it pools in the pit of his own thighs. Feels as if he's the one who let go.
Nick's throat closes and he just lets Knives fill his mouth and spill over. It's a blessing and a curse that he's provided with no direction, left shaking and marked with his Master's piss. There's nothing protecting the seat cushion under Knives' ass from the mess, dark and damp. The scent of him clings. Nick finally breathes out, heat and steam and heavy whines until his lungs rattle empty.
There's another spurt that slices across his face. Nick startles, and inhaling is the worst thing he's ever done. Coughing tastes like flat cranberry LaCroix even though it burns his throat the same way breathing the sparkling beverage would. The aftertaste of seasalt sits at the tip of his tongue, teasing.
He's scarcely done catching air before Knives yanks him back in with his legs. It's not to fuck his face, but Nick is still disoriented enough that his spit, cum and piss slicked mouth collides with the equally messy pink of his Master's body.
"Let go."
Nick makes a confused noise, even as he opens his mouth to more actively eat Knives out, urine and all.
"Hands." There's a raw, unraveled edge tickling the lines of each consonant as they filter into Nick's consciousness.
Oh.
Nick's fingers uncurl from Knives' body, leaving marks on his thigh and hip. A flicker of spite curls through him and he closes his lips around Knives' cock. His tongue peeks out between his teeth to press into the hot, sensitive flesh between the underside and his very relieved urethra. He suckles first, pleased with the harsh shudder and dribble on his tongue when he drags it down. The gentle pressure doubles and Nick sucks hard until the tendons behind Knives' knees quake over his shoulders. He isn't given any of his Master's thick cum despite his efforts.
His hands drop, limp to his soiled thighs. What had pooled between them has seeped through, trickling over the tucked length of his needy cock, the hair already sweaty and cemented to his skin, before gathering cold in the divots beneath his shins. It's mixing with the thickening pre stringing from his slit.
Knives digs his heels into Nick's back, and he purrs into the gifts that Knives gives him, dirty, scruffy cheeks at home between perfect thighs. He settles into warming his Master's cunt again, chill prickling up his front exactly because of how warm he feels. It radiates from his tummy, from his mouth, from his cock. Slowly, slowly, everything else bleeds away again, filled with the slightly tart smell, salty sweat and ever important taste against his flattened tongue.
They'll clean up soon, but Knives still has some work to do, and Nick still has some of his own.