Friends Who Continue To Remain Nameless fucking infected me with their Freaky Sex Flowers art and talk and now there’s almost 8k of weirdass sequel to go with the first one.
It’s still weird. It’s still pointless. 7600 words of freaky eldritch porn, with bonus Peter Yang having an existential crisis about having kinks.
Pairing: Peter/Arthur/John
Rating: Explicit
Tags & warnings: Threesome, trans masc Arthur, vaginal penetration (sort of), Arthur and John share a body, aphrodisiacs, party drugs, dubcon due to aphrodisiacs & party drugs, consent is given but everybody is high, but maybe the start of a beautiful relationship?, internal crises, Parker having a D/s sexual awakening, weirdass eldritch sex elements, might actually qualify as monsterfuck, sounding, multiple orgasms
***
“Fucking rich people,” Parker mutters, swaying. “Fucking rich people parties. Shoulda known.”
He’s not sure what they put the drugs in, but hoo boy they put the drugs in something. They put the drugs in real good. He’s got one hand on the wall to help him keep track of the direction up is in while he hooks the other under Arthur’s elbow. “English, you doing alright?” They need a quiet corner or…something. Somewhere away from the temptation to say something stupid to someone with the money to squash their careers like a bug.
In point of fact, Arthur isn’t looking like he’s doing alright. He and John are unsteady on their feet and Arthur looks flushed. John’s hand is clamped over his mouth. Which is kinda weird because if Arthur is about to hurl, John isn’t usually quite that ready to take one for the team.
Read more: Malevolent fic: Freaky Sex Flowers the SequelHe’s also muttering to himself. “…Not. Okay. Just a bit. Hold on, please, just a little further.”
“Arthur? Seriously, buddy, you okay?”
“Parker.” Shit, he sounds strained. “We need…we need somewhere quiet. Private.” He shakes his head—to something John said, Parker thinks—and smothers a groan into John’s palm. “We’ll be okay. We just. Quickly.”
We, he says. So it’s eldritch shit.
Parker begins checking doors. “Talk to me, English,” he mutters between peeking around door jambs, because Arthur’s starting to shake and lean against him and usually that’s a sign he needs last rights. “You allergic to whatever shit they put in the food? ‘Cause I admit, it’s kinda getting to me.” The world is light as air and a bit swoopy, and Parker knows he put his inhibitions somewhere. He ought to find those, before he does something like pull Arthur and John in and kiss them. That flush makes John’s eyes look so bright and Arthur’s lips are pink and soft and that fine tremble in them just makes a man want to put his arms around them and hold them up—
Yeah. Yeah, somewhere private sounds good.
Cloak room. Linen closet. “Nnnnot an allergy, no.” Arthur grips Parker’s shoulder tight enough to hurt. “It…it’s doing things to my head, though. It’s, um.”
Butler’s office—”Hey, sorry, looking for the gent’s.” Library—occupied. Billiards room—occupied. “Back stairs, hey. Come on, Arthur, we can do this.”
“I am conscious, Parker,” Arthur snipes, and shit but the bitchy attitude is a load off his mind. “You can save the patronizing tone.”
So he says, but once they hit the first landing, he groans again and sags. Only John’s white-knuckled grip on the railing keeps them from going to their knees, Arthur’s mouth agape and head thrown back like…uh. “Quickly, Parker,” Arthur gasps as they drag themselves back upright. “We don’t have much time.”
“Yeah,” Parker gasps back. “Yeah.” His dick is real curious suddenly what it is they don’t have time for that could make Arthur look like he just had a spontaneous orgasm in a stairwell—probably pain, Parker, you sleaze—but unlike some people present, he does understand the concept of bad timing, so. Later. “Come on, Art.” He loops an arm around their waist to keep them hoisted, one hand of his own in a death grip on the banister because he’s high and diagonal surfaces confuse monkey brain. And also because getting hard doesn’t do his center of balance any favors.
He’s definitely not equipped for Arthur to melt against him with John’s hand on his chest like they’re a swooning heroine. “You smell very…” he murmurs dreamily into Parker’s fucking collar bone before he snaps himself back into place. “Ah. Fuck. Fuck. I—”
Only that death grip he’s keeping on the railing keeps Parker from clutching him tight to keep him from drawing back. Smells very what? “Yeah,” he groans. “Not much time. I…I think I get it.”
“Shit. Parker, I…” Arthur growls apologetically through his teeth, and then turns to stalk on up the stairs, stripping off his suit jacket as he goes. He looks more with it, but Parker can see their legs quivering. He stays behind them just in case they need catching.
Anyway, behind them John can’t see the state of Parker’s pants right now. Behind, where he can see how tight Arthur’s pants fit across his ass, and the definition on John’s forearm with his sleeve rolled up to the elbow, the clean lines of that smooth bony wrist…
He wants to bruise it. He wants to shove them against the wall so hard Arthur gasps for air while he grinds against that tight ass. He wants to hear them make that low, sultry gasp of pain again.
They cast a startled, concerned glance over their shoulder when he groans and grabs hard onto the banister. “Dizzy,” he stutters. “Just a fuzzy head. They spiked that punch hard.”
“Yeah, they fucking well did,” Arthur mutters darkly.
Yeah, they sure fucking did. He bites the inside of his cheek and mentally slaps himself, and tells whoever’ll listen inside his own head that it was just the punch.
They come out into a cozy, expensive hallway, carpeted in blue and white wool rugs and paneled in glowing wood. It’s not quite tight quarters, but it’s what Parker might call intimate. Here and there, there are cute little tables with pretty vases or little sculptures. It’s all extremely…pompous.
At least the materials cut the way sound carries. It’s quiet up here. Doesn’t exactly help shake off the dreamy muffled feeling Parker’s head is wrapped in. He feels warm. Flushed, even. Touchy. As in, he wants to touch all the classy smooth soft-looking things. They’re standing at a corner where the hall goes two ways. Parker reaches out to rub a drape between his fingers while Arthur’s head swivels back and forth. “Servant’s stair,” he mutters in a half-vocalized mutter that Parker knows is for John. “This’ll be the back. We need…yeah. Follow the most expensive light fixtures. Yeah.”
He starts forward, only to stagger sideways till John lashes out to catch them on one of those expensive sconces. Parker hovers while they practically hang there like a thrown coat, close enough to catch Arthur’s sotto voce, “How much time do we have, John?”
The hissed “shit” he follows up with sounds concerning.
Parker scoops up their jacket where they dropped it and follows them through the corridors. Arthur moves like a homing pigeon. Parker puts it down to instincts honed from growing up with money. Up the hall and around a couple corners, past the double doors that have to be the master suite, to pause by a door set in a little alcove. Arthur’s gait has gone strange by the time they stop, hips swaying in a way that…that.
He’s never fucked them. But has he thought about it? Shit, yeah.
It’d be easier if he could blame it on the drugs. And those aren’t doing him any fucking favors, for sure, but it’s not new or out of nowhere. Deep down in the little black heart of Yang, he’s wanted to wreck that shared, battered body of theirs ever since he and Arthur-plus-John got back together again. After, you know. Arthur…John…some combination thereof…killed him a while before that.
He doesn’t like to think it’s that. He doesn’t want to be an angry person, and the thought of being sexually violent about it makes him fucking uncomfortable. But ever since he…came back, his tastes have changed. It’s hard to get a handle on it, and damn hard to figure out what it says about him. But goddammit, he can’t stop thinking of pinning them down and helping himself to those swaying hips, moving like they want a cock to ride.
“Here,” Arthur gasps. John’s hand sets to the doorknob—unlocked, thank his granny’s gods—and the two of them all but tumble into the room beyond. With a glance either way down the hall, Parker follows and closes the door quietly behind them, then turns the key in the lock.
The room would be light and airy if it were daytime out, lined with peaked, leaded windows and trimmed with light colors. There’s a four poster bed with a chandelier over it. On the far wall, across the bed from them, there’s a fireplace with a bigass mirror hanging over it, and a mantel clock to one side, its ticking faint but audible in the room.
Arthur and John have staggered forward to lean heavily on the bed facing the mirror, their head drooping, both their palms sinking into the plush layers of the covers. Parker moves around them to turn on the little lamp next to the bed, because John hates the dark, and it’s not pitch black in here but if they’re going through it then at least he can make them a bit more comfortable.
Arthur’s head whips around at the sound of the switch. “Parker?”
“Yeah, uh. Did you forget about me?”
“Shit,” Arthur hisses again. “You can’t be here—ugh!” His entire body goes ramrod stiff, back arched tight, and then—Parker watches this closely, he doesn’t miss a thing—softens till he positively melts down into the mattress, moaning in a way that is absolutely unmistakable for anything but having an orgasm.
Yeah, Arthur is definitely having an orgasm right in front of him. Parker stands frozen, staring, trying to absorb those moans and whimpers through his skin because they’re the sexiest sounds he’s ever heard in his life.
“John,” Arthur says, panting and plaintive, on his knees now with his face in the blankets. John seems to be ahead of him. His hand is already heading south to undo his trousers.
Maybe Parker would’ve gone, like Arthur asked—though where the hell is he supposed to go, exactly, stand outside in the hall like a kid kicked out of class?—except that John’s eyes flick sideways to meet his as he undoes their pants. John, also, is…honestly Parker hasn’t figured out how a man without a body can be so scalding hot. But he sure as fuck is pulling it off right now as he makes sure Parker’s watching while he unbuttons Arthur’s pants and pulls them down like a goddamn striptease.
Arthur doesn’t have a lot of ass, Parker reflects distantly as his brain rolls over on its side. But it makes excellent use of form. Tight and round. One cheek’d fit just perfect in his hand.
Done with his task, John’s hand stretches out toward him. He takes a step forward, wide-eyed and pretty much mindless, before he realizes John’s holding up a finger to him. Wait.
Wait. Wait?
Implying…in a moment? As in, not yet but yes?
It’s getting maybe a little hard to breathe. Or is that just his pants too tight? He undoes his tie in a daze.
Arthur and John almost slither up from the floor to kneel on the bed. Watching them work together to pull off their clothes is almost enough to break Parker’s tiny helpless brain. Their body stretches and fumbles and flexes so smoothly. Lean muscles slide under soft skin like they’re a single creature. And yet it’s two of them, working in sync to rescue each other from tangles of fabric, struggle out of armholes and pull buttons open.
Their knees are spread wide, hungry-wide, and Arthur’s hips keep pumping in little movements, like he’s riding somebody’s cock as he kneels there. And quite frankly the little panting gasps he’s making sound like it. Parker’s mouth goes dry.
His cock is so available if they need one.
And then. Then. They drop forward onto their hands and knees, thighs spread wide, back arched into a curve so fucking sexual that they have to be begging to be mounted. Arthur’s pussy is right there, oh holy fuck, unmistakably glistening wet and flushed dark with arousal even in the low light, practically on display for him. He takes another step, the brain between his legs convinced that now, now, now.
And then he stops, because he is not fucking expecting a sexy little dick to come poking out from the lips of Arthur’s vulva.
That’s. That’s.
The thing is. Parker’s good at forgetting that time he died. He’s good at forgetting he <em>was dead</em>, for…for quite a while there. A man has to be good at forgetting shit like that, in order to get on with things. The little day to day. The stupid, delightful little things that make a human life worth living.
But he was. He was dead. And now he’s not. And it’s not exactly that he remembers being dead, but…but on some level, on some fundamental, inescapable level that makes up part of who and what he is as a person, he knows in every single fucking cell of his entire being that he is changed from it. Oh, still human. Every bit of that. But…how can he explain? Even to himself. How it feels wrong. Wrong that he’s here. Wrong that they’re here. Wrong in their joints and their body and their eyes he remembers glaring down at him, and their hands that he remembers being around his neck, in the same way he’s wrong. It makes him want to touch them, hold them, hold them down and explore them and control them until it all makes sense again.
So he watches this thing, this thing that doesn’t belong in Arthur, that isn’t any part of how a human body works, nose its blunt little head out of him, gleaming and dripping with his fluids, and he is riveted.
The way it’s moving—Parker puts two and two together on the spot and realizes it’s been fucking them from the inside. Maybe this whole time, since Arthur came in the stairwell. He has to reach down to undo his flies, because his pants are so tight they’re actually painful. He needs to get his cock loose.
In the mirror, John’s eyes are on him. They’re almost hazy, watching him through lowered lashes the same dark auburn as Arthur’s hair. He looks hot and bothered the same as Arthur does, disheveled and flushed and being taken apart with each tick of the clock’s hands into something messy and lost and exquisitely touchable, exquisitely sensitive.
Their whole body is shivering, trembling with the way this thing is nuzzling in and out of them. Arthur’s tiny little—god, his whimpers are so helpless, Parker could just shove his face into him and eat him out till they’re the only sound he can make.
He realizes it’s a flower bud that’s fucking its way out of them when it starts to bloom.
It’s fucking beautiful. Breathtaking. This…well it isn’t small, this bud, long and twisted together at the tip. Parker gets to see up close and personal the way it corkscrews open within him. Arthur drops his head and bites at his hand to muffle a low cry, and Parker watches his body stretch around its uncurling, elegant petals.
It looks almost like a part of him, like the heart of him is in bloom, unfurled into tender, dewy petals quivering with yearning. Arthur and John’s knees go out from under them. They tip onto their side into the covers of the bed as Arthur unravels with a low, sobbing moan. Body shaking, he climaxes again on the thing that’s spreading him wide. Parker’s breath catches in his throat at the close-up view: Arthur’s body collapsed in a heap, the clasp and flutter and release of his vaginal muscles that Parker can see from this angle, intimate and filthy and fucking inappropriate. He’s being a creep, but it’d take a backhoe to drag him away from the sight of the petals’ tips trembling with delicate passion as Arthur’s body bears down on it. Fluid trickles from him down his inner thigh.
It’s terrible. It’s gorgeous. It’s fucked up and wrong, like they’re all wrong, and he knows, he knows it’s messed up to be getting off on the sight of his friends’ body…what, colonized by this thing? How the fuck did it happen? And yet what it’s doing to them is so unspeakably filthy. The way it’s taking them from the inside out, wringing them out. Doing exactly what he imagines doing to them in his darkest fantasies, the kind he doesn’t even like to admit to himself that he has.
And the flower…it still looks hungry. Its petals almost seem to grasp at the air under their own power, searching for more. Beckoning him. Can it…god, can it sense him somehow? Is it Arthur’s body, knowing he’s here and wanting him? Its scent has begun to waft through the room, sweet and…he can’t describe it exactly. There’s something compelling…no, voluptuous. The promise of his partner’s sweat and sex beneath him, rising around him with his every move inside them.
And now, now, John’s hand edges so very slowly across the blankets toward Parker. Parker watches each inch of its progress, watches John’s eyes in the mirror watching him, sleepy and lost…and a heady notion comes into Parker’s head.
He reaches out, mesmerized, to brush at the tips of its petals. He feels lightheaded and a step to the left of reality, watching them curl around his fingertip, wondrously delicate and eager, like they want to pull him in. He’s so ready to let them pull him in.
Arthur gives a full-body twitch. He twists to look over his shoulder, his face flushed and John’s eyes dark with their orgasm. And oh. “Oh my god,” Parker whispers, “you can feel that?” The flower’s petals tighten around his fingers, urging him closer, and Arthur…oh fuck, he trembles at that delicate little motion.
And as for John…those glorious darkened eyes squeeze shut. His hand claws into the blankets.
Parker stares at them, wide-eyed. “Can you both feel that?”
Without giving either of them a chance to reply, he follows the flower’s coaxing to push his fingers into the bloom—oh shit, it’s so wet and silky—and watches in wonder as not only does Arthur curse and moan, but John’s hand tightens into the bedsheets, gripping till the cloth threatens to tear. “Oh my god, you can,” Parker breathes.
John reaches back, groping till he manages to catch Parker’s wrist and push him deeper into the flower. His eyes roll, before his lashes flutter down over them. Whatever Arthur had been trying to stutter out, he cuts it off with a cry of strangled pleasure, his ass tipping back and up as eagerly as if he hadn’t just come a few seconds ago, his body still dripping and twitching from the last one.
“Oh, you want that,” Parker whispers in awe. He maybe loses his mind a little. The two of them at his mercy? Swooning with pleasure? How can he be blamed, in a situation like this, if he starts fingerbanging them?
In just a few thrusts, he has them losing their shit. It’s everything he could’ve hoped for. They writhe. There’s no other word for it, the way their body torques and arches, the way they both claw at the sheets, frantic as animals. Arthur’s choked-off moans, like he can’t get enough air. Parker strokes his free hand up John’s thigh to Arthur’s flank and their skin is so, so fucking smooth and warm—
And he comes back to himself. He’s an asshole. He— “Arthur. Arthur.”
Arthur shoves his face into the bed with a frustrated, muffled snarl. “Parker. You…you shouldn’t. It’s not…”
He leans down over Arthur’s back. “I want to fuck you. Can I fuck you, Arthur? Is that okay? I’m sorry, I should’ve asked.”
He startles when Arthur punches the bed, and cuts loose with a sound somewhere between a snarl and a wail. “Parker! You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
He’s panting, sucking air between every word. Oh yeah, he wants it, there’s no hiding how bad. The flower—Parker’s sure it’s not just that he’s high—gropes at the air for him when he withdraws his hand, questing for something to pull into their body, and Arthur shakes like he can feel the emptiness. Fuck—
Arthur tosses his head. No—Arthur’s shaking his head, violently, hard enough to send his hair tumbling. “No, no, stop it!” he snaps, and at first Parker thinks he’s talking to the flower, but… “It’s not fair to him, John, you can’t just— What?”
His head whips around. Only he can’t stare at Parker, of course, those are John’s eyes doing that.
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” Arthur hisses, and then, “Yes, I think it fucking well did have to do with me! Parker!”
Parker jerks at the snap in his voice. Oh. Oh shit. “Uh, what did…what did John just tell you?” He doesn’t have to ask. He can see it in John’s eyes.
“He says you.” For a brief moment, Arthur’s irritation was enough to overcome, but that trembling is creeping back into his limbs as he speaks. “He says you…you, you want this. It’s not…not just the drugs?”
Parker feels his eyes go wide. “Oh jesus no, English, it’s not just the drugs. I want to fuck every coherent thought straight out of your head.” Okay, confessing that—that part might be the drugs.
However. Parker may be stoned on the view, and maybe the flower’s perfume, and yeah, whatever was in the punch downstairs, but Mama Yang didn’t raise her boys totally stupid. He sets his hands to Arthur’s waist, strokes his iliac …whatever that swoopy line is called with his thumbs, trying to soothe. Them, himself… Calm. This is eldritch shit. Really, really fucking sexy eldritch shit, but. Head in the game, Parker. For Arthur’s and John’s sakes. “This—what does it do to you two? Will it stop if you don’t…?”
The touches seem to work. Arthur’s head drops down onto his forearm and John’s eyes go unfocused again. Tension goes out of their hands, out of their beautiful fucking back and shoulders, all bone and sweeping lines with the shapes of the muscles beneath. The flower seeks, but maybe a little more calmly, maybe appeased by the promise of what it wants. “It feeds on our pleasure. It wants…” He cuts off, struggling for the composure to say the rest.
Parker takes mercy. Such as it is. “It wants you to get fucked.”
Arthur nods. His shoulders hitch in something that might be a sob. “Parker. Please. Touch us. I’m really…hitting the end of my endurance here.”
Privately? Parker doubts that. In fact he doubts there is any end to Arthur’s endurance. But it’d be no act of love to test that. He puts a hand to Arthur’s shoulder and gently pushes him down. “Come on, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you both.”
Parker strips down as quick as he can—throws off his jacket and shirt, kicks off pants and shoes. Socks and sock garters, those can stay, fuck, who has the time to deal with those? That fine quivering running through their body speaks volumes about what the two of them must be suffering. He strokes them as he gets up on the bed behind them—down their back, over their hips, down their thighs. Lets Arthur feel just where he is, how he’s moving to cover them. “Shhhh, I’m here, it’s okay. Fuck, what that thing must be doing inside you two. Shit, can you even walk right now?” Jesus fuck, that’s a thought and a half.
Arthur’s breath hitches. Something dark and possessive punches the breath out of Parker.
Is that sick? To get off on the notion of them trapped in this bed? He can’t tell if it’s the idea of rescuing them or the thought of them captive. He’ll… Just, yeah, he’ll just interrogate himself later.
Now, though. Now they’re all his. How much they’re his is beginning to sink in. Now they need him. When he strokes down along their back—it’s like fucking satin, their skin, smooth aside from the scars, sheened with their sweat—they rise up into it like a cat, with wordless little murmurs that sound almost ecstatic. “It makes us…sensitive,” Arthur says as if it were an apology.
Sensitive.
Sensitive.
Words fail.
John catches his eyes in the mirror again, and it gives Parker an idea. He nudges them around, helps them move till they face the headboard with the mirror to their left. He cups their jaw with his left hand and turns their head gently to the left.
When he takes them by the hips and lifts their ass up, John can watch their body in profile. He has a nice clear view of how it looks as Parker lowers himself over them till his chest is against their back. As he rolls down against them to let them both feel his weight and strength. They shudder beneath him, their body covered by his bigger one.
He takes the extra strain in his thighs to hold himself so that John’s got an unobstructed view when he pushes the tip of his cock into the flower’s petals. His hand clenches in the covers, moved by the sight of what’s about to happen to them, just before Arthur groans at their penetration.
And then Parker loses his concentration because the fucking flower twines around his cock and starts ever so helpfully guiding him into their soft center. Into them, oh fuck, oh god.
In his peripheral vision, he catches John watching in the mirror as he enters them. Hot as hell, though at first he’s a bit distracted with watching himself enter them. It’s. Oh. Fuck, he feels dizzied. He pulls out and enters them again.
His own cock, sinking into their body. Into that beautiful, sinfully soft and wet flower that’s like an extension of Arthur’s sheath, curling so needily about him, encouraging him deeper. The swell of it wrapping around him, making them feel tighter, fuller, its silkiness mingling with the wet velvet heat of Arthur’s own body.
Then he does watch them. Those beautiful eyes glazing, that expressive sensual mouth in the knife-blade face opening wide on a silent moan or cry, all sound stripped from it.
The giddiness goes all the way down. It’s not just that he’s horny as fuck, or that he wants to play rough with them or even that he’s been wildly attracted to them since they caught up with each other. He loves this man. Hell, both of them. Being able to touch them in this gorgeous marked up skin of theirs, take control of them to pour pleasure into their body, drive them crazy with desire for him till they lose the will to resist being pleasured and pampered and loved…
Arthur and John push greedily back onto him, both their arms flexing, both their thighs. Doing their best to take him deeper. They want him deeper? He wants to fuck them so deep they can feel him in the back of their throat. Maybe if he gets deep enough, he can hear John.
The bed’s a sturdy fucking thing. It only creaks a bit as he goes harder and harder on them. He gives up on the watching himself fuck them thing, bends down over them till his chest is forcing theirs down against the bed. Deep-dicks them from behind and above till he’s grunting against Arthur’s shoulder with each thrust. Arthur’s little sounds are sharp and needy and Parker doesn’t think he’s ever wanted so much to know what John sounds like.
“Tell me,” he growls. “Tell me what he’s saying.”
“He’s losing his fucking mind, Parker, just like I am.” Arthur’s voice is a bare rasp. “What do you fucking think?!”
“More,” Parker demands. “Tell me more.”
Arthur’s clawing at the bed covers this time is maybe a bit more vindictive. Parker closes his hand around the back of his wrist to pin it down. “He…he says…fuck! I hate you.”
Parker blinks. “What?”
“No!” Arthur growls. Like, really fucking growls. “He says he’s known…you wanted us…for ages. And he wants…he wants you to take…everything you want. Make us. Make us…”
“Make you what?” he whispers into the nape of Arthur’s neck, captivated. He wants them to feel him in their bones. In their palms and their tongue, For their mouth to tingle with him, the same way he can taste them in his.
Arthur’s hair tickles Parker’s nose as he shakes his head hard, clamming up. Parker’s left to wonder what the hell it is John wanted to say that Arthur can’t bear to, but John’s hand closes over the back of his, grip almost painful. He’s so fucking strong. Parker’s noticed it before. Stronger than Arthur, somehow.
“He can feel everything,” Arthur hisses, and the deductive part of Parker’s brain is surprised to find it’s still coherent enough to know Arthur’s distracting him. And then it shuts down at what he says next. “Everything I can! When you thrust, we can feel you in our womb, Parker. Fucking….like you’re going all the way up.”
“In your womb,” he repeats, quite serenely, and then he comes.
It’s, holy shit it’s something. Their body milks him. Or the flower. Is there a difference? Clinging, squeezing, caressing as his cock jumps and pumps into their body, over and over.
“That’s where it’s rooted,” Arthur answers, voice taut, rocking back into each sharp thrust. “It transmits up in— It, it almost hurts, how hard you’re taking us— No! Don’t fucking stop!” His voice cracks. “Don’t let us go.”
There’s a ferocity to the words. Something desperate and deep, that sends him into a kind of frenzy. With the judders of his climax still rolling through him, he shoves their shoulders down, flat on their chest on the bed with their ass in the air, captured on his cock, and sinks his teeth into Arthur’s shoulder so they <em>really</em> can’t go anywhere while his hips jolt into them.
The flower keeps at him, something like a tongue or fingerpad flicking at his slit, his fucking sensitive, highly stimulated slit, determinedly wringing more from him when he’d swear he was as wrung as he could get.
Only—those little probing teasing touches start feeling deeper, like it’s not just at his slit, but in it. Deeper. He’s not sure how many breaths he takes before he realizes he’s not imagining it.
Or that Arthur and John are responding to it. It’s in the little extra force they apply with their hips. The way they tip their head back, and the little gasps and excited whimpers in time with the motions of the thing prodding inside him. They can feel it inside him.
When he tries to jerk away, startled, Arthur cries out—not in pleasure this time. Because the flower doesn’t want to let him go. He’s gonna have to tear it if he wants to get free. “Shit. Shit. Shit, Arthur, are you—”
“Sorry,” Arthur gasps. “Parker, sorry.”
And they come. On him, around him, beneath him. Their back bows. Arthur cries out, voice deep and throbbing. Their body clasps tight on his cock, greedy and desperate, a sensation instantly burned indelibly into his memory right along with the way their fingers curl into half-clenched fists against the bed covers, knuckles pressing down into the fabric.
He holds them. Fucks them through their orgasm, exalted by every gasp and shock of pleasure that quakes through their body, every bit of pleasure he can make them feel.
And with each contraction of their body on his dick, the thing tugs inside him. It’s a spooky sensation: slippery and wet, invasive yet sexy. And the little knob he can feel dragging inside, moving deeper into his fucking urethra, is the furthest thing from pain. No, it’s stimulating as fuck. His head is spinning with the slick stuff the flower exudes—into him, now, not just into Arthur. It tingles and tantalizes till instead of softening and going mellow, he feels like he’s well into an enthusiastic round two while he does his damnedest to eke out those sweet little shudders of aftershocks from their lovely body and.
And. And he’s hooked, isn’t he. He, he can’t— “Art? Arthur. I…I don’t think I can pull out. It. Oh fuck, it’s uh. Got me.” Calm. Steady. Keep his voice even. He’s not panicking. He’s <em>not.</em>. Arthur and John have enough to deal with.
It’s got his cock.
“Yeah,” Arthur agrees, strained. He turns his head so his right cheek is pressed to the blankets and John can peek sideways up at him. “It’s alright, Parker. You’re alright. It’s not done. You need to…” John glances away for a moment, looking absent. “John says one more time.”
John reaches back to pet at Parker’s knee. Jesus christ, the guys getting plumbed by a creepy flower are comforting him. He hates that it helps so much. It’s at weird moments like this that he realizes he’s got it bad. “And then.” Slow breath in, slow breath out. “It’ll let go?” They have this. Right? Yeah. They’ve done this before, they know how it works. Trust Arthur and John.
Arthur nods. His face looks strained, and his body’s gone hard as steel under Parker. He’s fucking furious. Parker knows the signs.
He drops his forehead to their shoulder. John’s side, where the shoulder blade keeps flexing as he keeps up his calming stroking of Parker’s thigh. “Bless you, buddy,” Parker mutters to him. In an excess of gratitude, he kisses over their shoulder and up the back of their neck.
He’s kissing them. Oh shit, if he looked up at the mirror, John’d see bigass hearts in his eyes. And all at once, he feels so, so fucking guilty.
“I’m sorry, Art,” he whispers into their hair.
Arthur jerks. “You? You’re sorry? Goddammit, Parker, if I hadn’t let this fucking thing steal all my presence of mind, this never would have—”
“Arthur, no.” Parker reaches around to cup his jaw and pull his head kinda sideways and up to awkwardly snuggle their cheeks together. “No, babe, this isn’t on you. You didn’t mean for this.”
He slides his arms under their body to hold them tight and close. They let him gather them up, unresisting. Their skin sticks to his. Arthur curls his hand around Parker’s bicep, and he can’t have any idea how that intimate, absent little gesture steals Parker’s breath away.
“You’re getting eldritchly fucked by a flower that’s made itself at home in your fucking womb,” he murmurs, low and fierce, into their hair. “That’s getting you off by fucking my dick and Art, I’m pretty sure that’s sufficiently goddamn weird it wasn’t on your bucket list of sexual escapades.” Arthur huffs a reluctant laugh at that, at least. “And I mean, I dunno what John looks for in a good time but I’m pretty sure it’s not getting roofied at a moneybags party. Jesus fuck, you two, if any of us should be apologizing, it’s me.”
Because he’s the one who doesn’t mind all this, he wants to say. He could maybe do without the squiggly up his dick, but. God. If any of them pushed this, it’s him. If any of them would’ve signed up knowing how this would go down, it’s him. They’re in his arms. He’s inside them. They can’t get away. They can’t do anything but receive the pleasure he gives them—okay, that the fucking flower gives them, but he gets to help. He gets to know what they look like having an orgasm while riding his cock. And Arthur’s apologizing?
Fuck, he just wants to drive every other thought out of their head and every other sensation out of their body until he’s all there is, in them everywhere, as impossible to peel him out of them as it is for them to separate from each other.
He really wants to keep fucking them. Often. Not only right now but in later days. Weeks.
He kisses them. Up their neck, behind their ears, nuzzles in to follow along the edge of their hairline and then back down over their shoulders and across their back. He rolls them onto their side and cuddles them so close there’s no space between their bodies while he rocks into them, over and over, as deep as he can be inside them, never pulling out. Not an option anyway apparently, so fine, he can work with it.
On their side, his right arm trapped beneath their body, but that’s fine too. He roams over them and enjoys how they squirm in his arms when he touches their throat, their collar bone, their nipples and belly and clit.
With his left, he catches John’s wrist to pull his hand back so he can suck those long beautiful fingers into his mouth and make love to them with his tongue. They curl with surprise in his mouth at first, soft and passive, but they pick up the idea quick enough at his flicks and flirts, till John’s practically dancing with him in his mouth, stroking and twining with his tongue. His thumb and third and fourth fingers curve around either side of Parker’s cheeks, and he feels held and embraced by them.
“Parker.” Arthur’s voice is low and vibrant. “He’s moaning. He’s saying your name.” He turns their face to nuzzle into their tangle of mouth and fingers, and Parker’s happy humming.
And then there are Arthur’s sounds. Arthur’s sounds, holy shit, so small and sweet and desperate while Parker drives them both slowly mad. While that goddamn flower takes them apart with that extra little fuckjob inside Parker. It thrusts inside him, tiny and delicate and eating up his brain, and they shiver along with its movements. Like it’s them being wedged into that tiny little channel in him, swallowed and dragged along inside him.
Oh. Oh, they’re tied to him, just as much as he is to them. Maybe he’s beginning to get the hang of this, because that’s starting to have one hell of an appeal. Maybe that’s how the eldritch shit starts, with being tempted by your deepest desires and wildest dreams. What’s the risk/reward scenario here? How stupid is he willing to be for these two?
He pulls John out of his mouth—he goes reluctantly, shifts to cup the side of Parker’s face with wet, saliva-streaked fingers—so he can ask, “Can you two feel that? Do you feel like you’re inside me? Does it feel like you’re fucking me back?”
John’s fingers clench at his jaw. Arthur just bites his lip.
Holy shit. If that’s the reward, then maybe he could learn to adapt. Humans are very adaptable.
John’s hand shifts backward, so he can wrap around the back of Parker’s head and clench his hand tight in his hair as they come again. Fuck the bastard’s got a grip. Arthur stiffens in his arms with a soft throaty sound. The coital tension shudders out of them one wave of pleasure at a time, their body struggling real hard to pull him in as deep as they can take him, and it’s only a moment before Parker whines into their hair, milked right over the edge after them.
Ejaculating with that thing inside him is intense. He jolts and gasps with each spurt of his cock into them, his muscles having to go hard to force the fluid around that little plug, till he’s so sensitive he’s almost sore.
And he can feel fucking feel every nuance of it, in the aftermath, as it finally lets him go and unwinds out of him. All three of them can, from the way Arthur and John shiver in his arms. Arthur’s little uncertain moans are amazing. He’d give a hell of a lot to hear how they sound together with John’s sounds weaving in with his.
Free at last, he pulls out of them and rolls onto his back. “Holy shit.” They’re messy as fuck. His crotch and thighs are gooped. It seems like a sexy little grace note to everything in that sweet afterglow of satisfaction that’s already beginning to overtake him.
Shit, it’s not just the glow of sex. Having Arthur and John in his arms…He could happily live like this. Freaky-ass sex and all. He’d take it. In fact, he’s starting to think it might count as a plus.
In fact, maybe they should talk about that. After this? Hell, can it do any more damage to ask? The worst they can do is pitch him out a window. And that’d only be justice.
They don’t move when he works his arm out from under them, though Arthur grumbles a wordless complaint into the messy, thoroughly rumpled bed covers. Rolling over to climb off the bed is maybe the hardest thing he’s ever done in his life. It feels cruel, when they’re lying there naked and boneless and sated, so easily taken into his arms.
But they’re all gonna get their perfect asses thrown in prison if they stay. “Okay, English, we gotta get out of here. Can you move?”
When Arthur starts laughing into the bed covers, Parker turns with alarm from scooping up their clothes.
They’re awkward as they scramble off the bed, but they’re moving. “Oh, Parker. It’d take more than that to stop us.”
He drops their clothes into their lap and John’s waiting hand, and gives them a bit of a leer. “Yeah? How much would it take?”
Then his face goes red. He forgot for a second, this isn’t a relationship. They aren’t on a flirting basis.
He wants it, though. He wants it so bad. Now that he knows what he’s missing, it might just kill him a second time. Getting pitched out a window is starting to feel like it’d be a blessing.
John studies him, eyes sharp and startled. Arthur’s head tilts slowly. “…Huh. Really?”
Oh god. No, no no, don’t say anything to Arthur. He shakes his head desperately at John. Please. Just throw him off a roof, it’d be easier to take than ‘I’m sorry.’
John does not oblige. He can just fucking tell. “…Parker?” Arthur asks slowly. “Are you…all right?”
“Put your clothes on, English, we gotta go,” he says in a desperate and, okay, kinda weak bid to change the subject.
“Did it…do something to you?” He’s genuinely concerned now, pulling up his pants and buttoning them so he can get to his feet and start toward Parker. “Something else, I mean? Or…fuck,” he says with quiet savagery. “It hardly needed to do anything more, did it? Are you…”
Ohhhh, shit fuck. Parker covers his face with his hands. “Nothing I wouldn’t have agreed to with a couple beers in me.”
Arthur’s hand encircles his wrist. There’s so much concern in that touch, so much affection, Parker would be a monster if he just left him hanging like that. He lets his hands be pulled away.
“Art…does this thing do this to you a lot?”
Honestly, that’s a horrifying fucking idea. Outside the haze of sex, this whole situation was a fiasco. With his hormones put to bed and snoring, it hits him that the fucking thing left Arthur and John naked and trapped in a stranger’s bed, in a house they weren’t even actually invited into. How would it have gone down if he hadn’t been here?
Like he helped any. No, he just got all three of them trapped and naked in a stranger’s bed.
“No,” Arthur murmurs. “No. We—we usually, ah, take care of it. If we, um. Keep it fed, then it usually doesn’t…”
His fingers flick illustratively regarding what it usually doesn’t.
“We think,” Arthur adds, a little bitterly, “it got triggered by whatever they spiked the food with downstairs.”
Keep it fed. That’s sick. And hot. Does it bother them? What if…what if he could help? Make it nicer maybe?
“Parker.” Never to be put off, Arthur, tallest and skinniest of pit bulls, returns to his hot topic of the moment. “Did it hurt you? Are you all right?”
Parker stares hard into their face, mouth pursed hard in complete exasperation of the kind only Arthur can manage to inflict on him, and then he cups Arthur’s face to bend in for a soft kiss.
They let him get away with it. Both their hands wrap softly around his forearms, and they don’t try to pull away.
Hope soars in his chest.
“Okay,” he says when he’s withdrawn from them maybe four inches—a triumph of self-restraint. “I’ll come clean. John wasn’t making shit up. I’ve been crazy for you two for a while. You’re gonna think all this through and figure that out within the next few hours, so I might as well say it. I’ll sit still and let you two kill me once we get home, I swear. I know I have it coming. Or. Or, orrrr or or you can let me take you out and buy you a really expensive meal to apologize and maybe. Maybe? Um.”
They’re both staring at him. Both of them. Somehow. He can feel it.
“We should get out of here,” Arthur agrees quietly, “you’re right.” Both sets of their elegant, scarred fingers lace through Parker’s and they step back, tugging him along. “But later. If you don’t hate us. Yes. Let’s talk.”