Nesting Choices

Erotic short. A man comes home to his husband, and the difficulty of choice is taken off his hands.

3.8k, M/M, rated E. Lots of warm, soft, loving BDSM in this one — D/s dynamics, some orgasm denial, bathing, teasing, prostate stimulation, a tiny bit of dirty talk.

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Lucius MacLeod crossed the threshold of his home at six-fifteen precisely, as he ordinarily did. Five-thirty finish time, six minute walk to the station, a ride of twelve minutes, a change of stations, another ride of eighteen minutes, a further walk of nine minutes back to the house.

Moss’ car was in the driveway already, and when Lucius crossed the threshold, he could smell whatever Moss was cooking — some kind of stewed beef, and he could smell the fresh wheat flour because Moss had talked about making some lamian.

He didn’t say anything as he slipped off his shoes, putting them on the rack, hung up his coat, hung up his jacket, set his briefcase in the stowing shelf beside Moss’. This was their house, in law, owned together since they’d gotten married, but part of Lucius really was comforted to think of it as Moss’ home, Moss’ house.

Obviously, Lucius had decorated it. He’d bought every piece of furniture and art in the place, was responsible for the interior décor, the colour and patterns of the wallpapers and the carpets and the maple wood flooring and bannisters. Even the fine art prints of the Qinqiang opera, Lucius had bought — and for rather an extravagant amount of money — but it was more than worth it when Moss’ mother had come to visit and stood in their living room and looked up at them and hadn’t smiled, but had nodded stoutly and said, “Mn,” when Lucius had asked if she liked them.

From Mrs Guan, that was tantamount to a joyful exclamation.

But for all Lucius had decorated it, for all it was Lucius who had bought most of the appliances in the kitchen, which Moss used every day, the many blankets on their bed and the fancy towels in their bath, each of which Moss liked to feel under his fingers as he passed them by or wrap himself in when the moment arose, the thick fur bath mat that Moss liked to stand on for minutes at a time, drip-drying like damp laundry…

He liked to think of it as Moss’ house. Moss had picked the house, had remarked with approval on how much light came through the windows, how well-insulated, how warm it was, how comfortable it would be.

“How comfortable you could make it, A-Lu,” he’d said in rich tones, leaning in to murmur in his ear, his hands settling on Lucius’ shoulder. “What a nest you might build for us, little bird that you are.”

Moss had picked out the house for them, and he’d made the decision, as surely as he might have picked out a tree were they nesting birds together — he would have built Lucius a house, Lucius thought, if he’d asked. The thought delighted him sometimes, thrilled him to the very core, because he thought at times that if he asked even now, Moss would build a house for him. He would make a great many sketches, and once Lucius approved of them, he would quit his job, get to work.

Moss would do almost anything, if Lucius asked him.

When Lucius came into the kitchen, he still didn’t say anything, walked to the sink, ran the tap, washed his hands.

“Hello, A-Lu,” said Moss.

“Hello,” said Lucius.

“Long day?” asked Moss.

“Mm.”

“Mm,” Moss hummed, repeating Lucius’ tone almost precisely, and without even turning to look at his face, Lucius knew that he was frowning very seriously, that he’d done the little nod of his head he often did, when he was imitating one of Lucius’ grunts of assent or acknowledgment after a day like today.

Lucius’ skin itched in anticipation, but he knew that food came first.

When Lucius turned from the sink to reach for a towel, he didn’t have a chance: Moss was there, taking Lucius’ hands in his own through the soft blue fabric of the hand towel. Lucius shivered at the tingle it sent down his spine, the way that Moss gently squeezed at the webbing at the base of his fingers as he dried them, finger by finger, thumbs next, then his palms.

“A-Lu,” said Moss quietly. He was smiling in that gentle, slightly tense way that communicated that he was concerned, that he was going to be stern right away, because he thought that Lucius needed it — Lucius did need it. He was really very grateful. He was always grateful.

“It was a long day,” said Lucius. “As I’ve said.”

“As you’ve said,” Moss agreed. “Stressful?”

“Mm.”

Moss slowly nodded his head, then said, “You are hungry.”

It wasn’t a question, and Lucius knew from experience that it wasn’t an acceptable prompt for discussion, either. Moss was patting his hands gently with the towel now, until he set the towel aside, neatly folded, rested in its nook. His hands were very warm when they came to touch Lucius’ face, his thumbs sliding over the bones in his cheeks, fingers gently cupping the edges of his jaw.

“Did anyone tell you you were handsome today?” he asked, and Lucius laughed, the sound low and quiet. For the first time, he actually looked up at Moss’ face, met his eyes.

“Not since I left the house this morning,” said Lucius, and Moss clucked his tongue in disapproval, shaking his head and pulling Lucius closer with the grip he had on his cheeks.

“A grievous oversight,” he said solemnly. “One I must correct with immediacy, I should think. You’re really very handsome, A-Lu — did you know this?”

“I had an inkling.”

“Only an inkling? Only an idea? How ridiculous. You’re very handsome, A-Lu, my A-Lu, with his fine plumage and his proud features, his sparkling eyes. How handsome, how wonderful, this jawline, these eyes, this nose, this hair. I’m a very lucky man, that I can wake in the morning and look at this face beside me on the pillow, and keep the memory of it with me as I go about my day.”

“Only the memory?” asked Lucius. “How handsome can I be, if the memory is enough to tide you over?”

“Oh, you misunderstand me,” said Moss, leaning in and pressing a kiss to the tip of Lucius’ nose, then one to the centre of his forehead, then two more on each of his cheeks, another on his chin. “I have so many photographs of you that coworkers comment on it — I would not be surprised if some of them assume you’re dead, with the shrine to you it seems I tend on the wall above my desk.”

Lucius laughed at that, his cheeks burning, and he leaned back from Moss’ hands, pushing them off his cheeks.

“That’s better,” said Moss, turning away and going back to stirring his lumian. “That’s the smile I like.”

“Amazing what sort of reaction you can get from me just by refraining from calling my nose a beak.”

“Poetry doesn’t always work in translation,” said Moss dismissively, and Lucius scoffed, stepping after him and resting his cheek between Moss’ shoulderblades, his arms wrapping loosely around his belly. He leaned into him, relaxed into his body, felt the beat of his heart, the warmth that radiated from his body and sank into Lucius’, soothing him from the inside.

“Oh, translation, translation,” said Lucius. “That’s the fault of everything, isn’t it? Saying your beloved husband has a prominent beak is very normal and affectionate normally, it’s putting it in English that ruins it.”

“Precisely,” said Moss. “This humble one seeks only to please his beloved husband, but to do so in an inferior tongue stretches his abilities, no matter how he tries. Has this beloved, cruel and uncaring as he is, no sympathy for this plight?”

“Zhenzhi.”

“A-Lu?”

“You’re a dickhead.”

“Hm,” said Moss. “An unsophisticated language indeed.”

Lucius laughed, and when Moss’ hand touched his hand, palm resting over Lucius’, gently squeezing.

“What do you want tonight, Lucius?” asked Moss, and Lucius leaned around him to look into the pot as he stirred it, looked at the bubbles in the broth, smelt it. He felt a little sick from not eating for some hours, but he knew that once he started to eat, he’d just feel hungry instead of nauseated, that he’d keep eating. “It’s the weekend,” Moss reminded him. “No work tomorrow, no pressing appointments beyond rest, if that’s what you’ll need. Whatever you want.”

“You choose,” said Lucius. He barely put any force behind the words at all, just breathed them out against his back, so it was really no surprise that Moss hummed, not hearing him.

“You’re testing my ears, A-Lu.”

“I don’t know,” said Lucius, a little louder this time.

“You want me to choose for you?” asked Moss. “Is that easier?”

“Yes, Zhenzhi,” said Lucius. “Please.”

“Food first,” said Moss.

“How was work?” asked Lucius, and Moss made another humming sound, his voice quiet and thoughtful and considering.

“Complex,” said Moss finally. “Very trying, very involved. Not bad, per se, and more invigorating than tiring, in actual fact, until my day was finished. On the drive home, I felt like a watch winding down.”

Lucius smiled against Moss’ back, and said, “I love you, Zhenzhi.”

“You love me? Oh, how nice,” said Moss, feigning mild surprise, and that made Lucius laugh even as he reluctantly pulled away, sinking down into one of the seats at the table. He didn’t try to help as Lucius put the lamian into bowls for both of them, and came to sit at the table with him.

Moss watched him as they ate in silence, examining him the way Lucius had seen him examine pieces of porcelain when Lucius had ordered them and they’d come by post, making sure there were no cracks or chips. He liked to make sure that things were perfect for him — Lucius deserved perfection, if Moss could orchestrate it for him, so Moss thought, and so he said.

“My little bird,” said Moss quietly, reaching out and pushing a piece of hair back from Lucius’ face.

“My big hunk of moss,” Lucius replied, and Moss laughed at that, the sound warm and soft and full of honey.

“You’d still use me as nesting material?”

“Mm.”

“The… What is it? The bird? A robin? A red…?”

“Wrens,” said Lucius, and Moss nodded his head, smiling in satisfaction.

“My little wren,” he said. “Eat.”

After they’d finished, Moss stood up from the table and put their bowls in the sink. “A-Lu,” he said, “I want you to go upstairs and run yourself a bath. Bath salts, the green ones, and a little bubble bath, too, whichever one you like the smell of.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Lucius. “After I’m bathed?”

“You want me to choose?”

“Yes.”

“Hm,” considered Moss. “I’m choosing not to tell you.”

That rankled. He didn’t like not knowing, didn’t appreciate the uncertainty, and it must have showed in his face because Moss smiled at him, smiled that faint smile that made Lucius’ body quiver when he thought about it — it was always that particular smile he thought about before he thought about anything else, when he was going to get himself off.

“Unless you’d rather it be your choice?” prompted Moss.

“No,” said Lucius.

“No,” Moss agreed. “Go, then. Run your bath, A-Lu.”

Lucius ran a bath.

* * *

“How long have we been married, you and I?” asked Moss as he ran the sponge over Lucius’ shoulder, rubbing in smooth circles and leaving suds of white foam dripping down into the water, around Lucius’ neck, down into the crease of his arm. He felt drowsy and loose and relaxed, and he moved obediently with Moss’ pull and tug at him, readjusting his body whenever he needed to, so that he could better access Lucius’ shoulders, his back, his neck, his arms, his legs.

“Nine years, come June,” said Lucius, and he closed his eyes as Moss brought the sponge up to his face, scrubbing underneath his jaw, his chin, down his neck.

“Do I make you happy?” asked Moss, and Lucius smiled, leaning into his hand as the sponge came down over his chest, exhaling.

“Yes.”

“You make me very happy,” said Moss, and the sponge was running in circles now over Lucius’ chest, rubbing into the skin, making the water slosh and move. “So beautiful as you are, so very handsome, and so skilled — you have made this home so comfortable, so warm and welcoming, for both of us. You have filled it with all the soft things I love touching — furs, silks, fleeces… I like to touch soft things, as you know.”

He slid the sponge over the flesh of Lucius’ inner thighs, making him breathe out a shuddering sigh, and then he dropped the sponge, loosely grasping at Lucius’ cock under the water. Lucius’ breath hitched in his throat, his eyes squeezing tighter shut.

“Hm,” said Moss thoughtfully. His hand felt good, wrapped around Lucius’ cock, and his palm was warm, his thumb touching against the tip of Lucius’ cockhead. Lucius desperately ignored the urge to thrust up into his palm, to rock his hips into his hand, knew it would get him nowhere. “This doesn’t seem very soft.”

“Whose fault is that?” asked Lucius, and Moss hummed, then picked up the sponge again. “Wait, Zhenzhi, don’t stop, please — ”

“Am I choosing?” asked Moss.

Lucius bit his lip, and after a few seconds’ more pause, he started scrubbing over the sides of Lucius’ thigh again, washing the sponge over the inside of his thigh, his knee, his calf. He scrubbed in slow, smooth circles, tickling and making him twitch, making his cock bob in the water, making him almost laugh breathlessly several times, making him gasp.

“Here I have a wonderful home filled with things I love,” said Moss musingly. “The blankets and textiles I most enjoy, furnishings I find comfortable, art that pleases me — art that pleases my mother, even. All of this crafted, put together, by a husband whom I love very much — am I worthy of such devotion?”

“Yes,” said Lucius, and then laughed breathlessly as the sponge ran over the side of his foot: Moss gripped loosely at his ankle to hold him still as he scrubbed the sole of his foot, then washed the other in the same way.

“A husband who cares for my every desire, my every whim, my every comfort — and he does the same at his own work, does he not? All day long, he attends to people’s needs, manages their expectations, their requirements, keeps their schedules, smooths the running of their lives.”

Lucius swallowed, but didn’t dare open his eyes, half-thought if he looked at Moss in this moment that he might burst into tears.

“Yes.”

“He’s well-compensated for his work, and very appreciated.”

“Yes.”

“The favourite of the office.”

“Mm.” Yes was a little too far out of reach for that one, although he knew it was true, after a fashion — Lucius could be relied upon to remember every date, every birthday, every specific little business or personal preference, every vital detail. He was good at his job, despite not being the most talkative man in the office, and in fact, being one of the least talkative.

Lucius wasn’t a very chatty man by nature, rarely relaxed enough at work that he was in a position to let words flow, but to do what he did he rarely needed to talk much, except to ask certain questions, provide certain answers. Mostly he fed the right lines to the people who did like to talk, the ones who were good at speaking.

Moss was different. Guan Zenzhi was a very talkative man, could talk all day and all night, and he was friendly and warm and gregarious and popular, memorable in his manner and his appearance even before he was memorable for the things he did, his skill as an architect, as a manager, as a cook, an artist, a poet.

“And what can I do, hm?” asked Moss. “What can this moss do for his little bird, to better comfort and surround him? To better warm him and protect him?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” repeated Moss, and took his hand and the sponge away, chuckling quietly when Lucius immediately responded with a wordless protest. “Something?”

“I want to be… yours,” said Lucius, and Moss hummed thoughtfully, tapping Lucius’ knee. Lucius opened his eyes, and he watched the movement of Moss’ fingers, gesturing for him to turn in the bath, and Lucius did, settled on his knees and leaned forward in the water. The sponge slid up between his legs now, rubbing between his buttocks, against his hole, and Lucius let out a breathless moan at the rub and drag of the sponge against where he was slightly open, sending tingles running up his spine. His cock was still half-hard, and now it twitched and lurched underneath him in the water, his hands trembling where he splayed them on the floor of the bath.

“You’re always mine, A-Lu,” said Moss. “You never need ask.”

“Mm,” Lucius grunted, and Moss placed the sponge on his back like Lucius was just a table, positioned in the water on his hands and knees — his back felt cool, coming out of the water like this, chilled by the air, but the sponge was warmer. He liked it, when Moss used him as furniture, when he made Lucius be useful.

“But you like me to show you, yes? You like to know for certain?”

“Mm.”

“He likes certainty, my little bird,” said Moss, and slid two fingers between his buttocks, wonderful friction against the muscle of his rim, rubbing against the wrinkled flesh before he pressed just slightly deeper, touching the pads of his fingers against the inside of his arse, making him groan from low in his throat. “He likes to know he has a warm nest to come back to, and plenty of materials to build it to his liking. I must make sure he’s provided for.”

“I am, I am, you do, you do,” Lucius gasped out, and his elbows twitched and almost buckled when Moss moved one graceful finger inside him and slid it inside, pressing on the muscle of his rim as he did so. His finger was wet, but only with water, and there was a sort of delicious friction in the movement, a little bit too rough — it was fine with a finger, but with something bigger, it would be too much, he knew.

“Does he want to be fucked?” asked Moss, just as evenly and smoothly as he said anything else, and Lucius didn’t know what it was about Moss saying things like this in that smooth, easy voice of his that set his mind on fire, but it was glorious, it was wonderful, it was soul-searing and he never wanted it to stop, never wanted Moss to stop. “Yes, I thought so. He wants to be fucked, my little bird, wants to have his husband’s cock pierce him open, fill him to the brim — what more than that? Does he want to be tied up, bound, fixed in place? Does he want to be bitten and bruised and marked all over — does he want, perhaps, to be fucked from two ends at once? His husband’s cock buried in his arse, his husband’s fingers down his throat?”

Lucius was breathing heavily, and when Moss pressed down on his prostate, just one finger, just enough pressure to light Lucius up from the inside, Lucius moaned and whined and stumbled over any words he could try to grasp hold of, any words he might even think of.

“What’s that?” asked Moss, his voice smug.

“Not my choice,” Lucius blurted out, the three syllables coming out almost as one, he said the words so quickly together, and he heard Moss hum in approval.

“Very good,” he said, and then pressed down hard, hard enough now that sparks flickered behind Lucius’ eyes and his back arched and he made the water slosh and splash, probably got Moss wet, but obviously Moss didn’t care because he was rubbing in circles and turning Lucius’ mind to slurry.

“Please, Moss, please — ”

“Moss?” repeated Moss, and Lucius burned to the tips of his ears with a blush, pressed down harder, made Lucius’ cock twitch and jerk, his balls so tight he felt like he was going to explode.

“Zhenzhi, please, I need to come, I need to, I need to — ”

“Is that your choice, or mine?” asked Moss evenly, and Lucius sobbed, didn’t know how the Hell he was holding on, but he was holding on, even though he couldn’t, even though he didn’t want to and didn’t think he’d be able to, even though every inch of his skin was on fire and his cock hurt and his arse throbbed.

“Zhenzhi — ”

“Who’s Zhenzhi?” asked Moss. “I don’t know anyone by such a name as that.”

“Dickhead,” hissed Lucius, and Moss actually laughed at that, but his finger stilled, and Lucius heaved in such a sharp gasp that it almost caught in his throat, made it burn, made his mouth feel dry. “Moss,” he said again.

“Moss,” repeated Moss sweetly, and he sounded so loving, so indulgent, so affectionate. “I think I’ll choose to let you come. Does that meet with your approval?”

Lucius whined, because Moss said it but wasn’t actually moving his finger, was just stroking over the inside of Lucius’ cheeks with the others, but then he pressed down and rubbed again, and it was too rough, too dry, too wet, too wonderful, and Lucius was coming so hard he saw stars.

Moss was laughing softly again when he came out of it, his knees and his palms trembling underneath him, awkward on the bath floor, and Moss had pulled back his hand very gently.

“I think the little bird needs to come a few more times tonight,” Moss decided, getting to his feet and fetching a towel, one of the largest and one of the fluffiest. Lucius knew he was going to dry his body just as he had dried his hands, knew that he would be caring and focused and diligent and particular and thorough, because he wanted Lucius to be dry and comfortable and warm and happy once they got into bed. “Hm? A-Lu? What do you think?”

“Mn,” said Lucius, coming to stand on the bathmat, and Moss wrapped the towel around his shoulders so that he wouldn’t be cold before he gathered two pieces of it and started first on Lucius’ hand, rubbing back and forth over his palm, pressing between his fingers once again, then up his wrist.

“Mn,” repeated Moss, furrowing his brow, mock-frowning at him.

“Your choice,” said Lucius, and Moss’ mock-frown became a warm and loving smile.

“My choice,” he agreed quietly, and turned his focus back to the towel.