Erotic short. After his roommate brings him to his bondage tutorial, Ignatius pursues a very grumpy little nurse.
Rated E, cis M/M, 7.5k. Rope bondage tutorials and sexy lectures about safe sex, age difference, power dynamics, leather, size difference, role reversals and dynamic play, anal sex, hairy bodies, dirty talk, mild humiliation, teasing, nipple piercings, tattoos.
CW for homophobia used as a manipulation tactic.
“It’s good, I’m telling you,” says Conan, and Ignatius looks at him sceptically without getting up from where he’s sitting back in the armchair, his legs pulled up and crossed underneath him, his book in his lap. It’s raining outside and it’s fucking cold and the bus over to Seven Circle is the 41, which is always running late or early, anything but on time. “It’s fun, and the guy that does it is sexy.”
“Yeah, but he’s not actually, is he?” asks Ignatius, looking up at Conan sceptically. “You always say the nurse is sexy when you go in for your check at the GUM clinic, too. He’s not actually hot, and the process isn’t particularly hot either. It’s just that you have a med kink, and you enjoy getting lectured about safe sex.”
“It’s not that,” says Conan.
Ignatius arches his eyebrow.
“Okay, it’s that a bit,” he amends. “But it’s not just that.”
“What else is there?” asks Ignatius.
“He’s hot,” says Conan, and before Ignatius can retort, he says, “no, like, actually. He’s like… Okay, so he’s short, right? Like, 5’2”. But he’s stacked, kinda fat and muscular, a fucking like, miniature bear — thick beard, thick hair, curly, chestnut brown, with a few bits of ginger and grey. He’s got a lot of tattoos.”
Ignatius doesn’t move from where he’s sitting, aware that he’s keeping his lips together and trying to keep them pursed so that he doesn’t smile, and Conan grins at him, hands on his hips.
“Yeah?” he asks. “Yeah?”
“I’m listening,” says Ignatius. “I’m not committing yet.”
“He’s ex-navy,” says Conan. “Now, he’s a nurse.”
“It feels like we’re backtracking to your med kink, babe.”
“Look, come for me, this one time,” says Conan, “and if you don’t like it, don’t come again — that’s fine. But come this once with me, and we can go for food after, my treat.”
“Sushi?” asks Ignatius.
He watches Conan’s face fall, watches him reconsider things, looking away, and then he exhales hard, and gives in — gives in so that Ignatius will give in, a loss for a loss.
“Fine,” says Conan. “Sushi, my treat.”
With a heavy sigh, Ignatius marks his page, puts his book aside, and lets Conan pull him up.
The ex-navy current nurse slash sex safety educator is called Robin Hill-Durant, and he’s exactly as Conan described — short, fat, strong, with thick curls of chestnut brown hair and a neatly-trimmed beard. His eyes are blue, his skin is pale and tends to redden easily, and his hands are a little bigger than seems proportionate to his body, strong…
And, yeah.
He is tattooed.
He’s dressed in tight black jeans and a cropped leather vest over his t-shirt — he wears the vest buttoned up, but there’s a comfortable pudge to his belly that the vest is tailored to, well-worn, and where the collar of it splays there’s a shadowed gap between the leather and his chest. His arms are covered in tattoos, skulls and hearts and nautical stars and swallows and other stylised pieces of art, and on his cheek, just below his right eye, he has an anchor tattooed in place.
If it weren’t for the t-shirt, he’d probably be able to see the hair on his chest and even more tattoos, and the thought makes Ignatius’ mouth water a bit.
He’s stood up on the stage, and they’ve moved in a lot of the chairs so that they’re in loose rows and people can sit down, which Ignatius does, settling down in the back row as Conan gets drinks for both of them.
Robin is neatly coiling rope in his hand as he makes conversation with the owner, a big, broad guy with dark red hair that he keeps in locks tied up out of the way of his face. The owner — Kes — is in a good mood, has his thumb hooked through his belt loop as he chats away; Robin’s got a thin scowl on his face, and is speaking seriously and quietly.
He does talks on the first Tuesday of every month and the last Thursday, from five ’til seven, and they’re pretty popular, it seems to Ignatius, most of the seats taken up. Conan had said on the way over that they had some nights where they were really busy, when he was doing certain really interesting tutorials.
Tonight is a basic bondage talk.
“My name is Durant-Hill,” he says once everyone’s sitting down — he’s got a good voice, strong, crisp, and while Ignatius isn’t about to pop an erection every time someone in scrubs walks past like Conan can, he certainly sees the appeal in authority like Robin has. “You can call me Durant-Hill, or sir, or just Hill. I don’t give a fuck.” From the back of the room, Kes loudly clears his throat, and Robin sighs, closing his eyes for a second, then says through gritted teeth, “And I’m a he.”
Ignatius has to put his hand over his mouth to stifle his laugh, and Robin stalks across the stage, standing to the side as he looks out across the room and says, “I’m a nurse in A&E, and before I go on about the fucking ropes, I just want to very clearly lay out some basic safety instructions that you’re all grown human beings and shouldn’t need reminding of, but nonetheless. If you put something in your arse, what the fuck should it have?”
Conan and about half the room call back, in the tired way of school kids echoing back a tired “Good afternoon,” “A flared base!”
“A flared fucking base,” growls Robin. “Because do you know what you get if it doesn’t have a flared base? You get me glaring daggers at you as I take you through x-ray and then, if you’re lucky, to a waiting doctor with a fucking speculum and forceps. If you’re unlucky, to the fucking surgical ward.”
“Does he swear this much at work?” asks Ignatius in a whisper.
“I think that depends on if you’re in for a foreign object in your rectum,” Conan whispers back, and Ignatius closes his eyes, clamming his mouth shut to keep from laughing. He’s not the only one in the room who finds it amusing, but Robin clearly doesn’t.
“If it’s going in your arse, it should be designed for your arse,” he’s saying furiously, counting off the points on leather-encased fingers. “It should be lubricated, it should be made of an appropriate non-porous material such as silicone, glass, or stainless steel, and it should have a flared base and/or a handle with a loop to remove it easily and safely. If you share your toys or swap holes around, you should be using condoms where you can, and afterwards you should be cleaning your toys with soap and water or a cleaner. Is that clear?”
There are a few weak responses from around the room, and Robin stamps one of his heavy leather boots down on the stage with a resounding thump and repeats, “Is that fucking clear?”
“Yes, sir,” they all chorus back, Ignatius included, not without a smile on his face.
Robin doesn’t look pleased, but he looks —
What, satisfied?
“Right, then,” he says, and picks up a length of rope. “Volunteer.”
A lot of hands go up, and Ignatius’ is one of them, but he knows that sitting at the back of the class counts against him — Robin points at a man in his forties in the front row, and Ignatius can’t help but wonder if that means he only fucks men his own age, if it counts against him that he’s only twenty-eight and often looks a little younger.
“Name?” demands Robin as he gets on the stage, and the guy, who’s plump and balding, opens his mouth, closes it, seems flustered more by the way that Robin is glaring up at him than he is by the audience.
“Alan.”
“You been tied up before, Alan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With rope, leather, what?”
“Cuffs, mostly,” says Alan. “Ties.”
“Neckties?”
“Yeah.” Robin doesn’t say anything, just fucking stares up at Alan with his blue gaze piercing and a length of rope clasped between his hands, and Alan coughs, cheeks turning more pink, and corrects himself to, “Yes. Sir.”
“What’s the most important part of safety to rope bondage? D’you know?”
“Two fingers?”
“Two fingers is a good rule, always want to make sure you can get a finger or two under any bonds in place,” Robin allows, and Ignatius feels something flutter inside him at the slight quirk up of Robin’s lips, the tiny inclination of his head as he gives an approving nod, even before Alan grins dizzily. “But that’s not it. Anyone tell me what you should be able to do to any rope you tie? You, tall cunt at the back.”
“Untie it, sir,” calls Conan a little breathlessly over the crowd.
“Good lad,” says Robin, turning back to Alan. “Gold fucking star.”
“Gonna cream yourself?” asks Ignatius as Conan fucking glows with the blush under his beard, and Conan elbows him hard in the side.
“Before you do any knot, you should have an idea how to untie it. Don’t just fucking wind rope around your partner and tie it any which-fucking-way — but, you’re new, it’s all new, you’re practising, right? So you want a pair of these.” He holds up a set of safety scissors, letting the blades catch the light before he puts them back through the loop on his belt. “Safety scissors, bondage scissors, trauma shears, whatever the fuck you call ’em — you can get these online from anywhere you buy rope, but you can also get them from pretty much any decent pharmacy. Right, Alan. Let me know if anything’s too much for you.” It is not a very gentle dom thing to say, not the way he says it — the or else is silent, but nonetheless heavily implied, and Alan shivers, but he nods his head. “Arms out, wrists together… That’s it.”
Robin’s fingers move fast with the rope, so fast that Ignatius isn’t sure he could follow it, even to say what it was Robin had done, but in a flash he has the black rope cuffing Alan’s hands, looping around his wrists on each side before knotting in the middle in a beautiful figure-eight, and he pushes Alan to put his hands down so everyone can see.
“I’m using a simple cotton rope, you can buy this shit in basic bondage sets and stuff. When you’re looking at ropes, you want to start off with something that’s got a soft texture like this if you can — don’t need to break the fucking bank, but the problem with the synthetic stuff or the nice natural fibres is that they’re easy to get burns off if you don’t know what you’re doing, whereas this is soft as fucking butter. Isn’t it, Alan?”
“Yes, sir,” says Alan, huffing out a half laugh as Robin reaches up to clap him what looks like hard on the back.
“Now, look, see, how I can get my fingers underneath on each side? And when I pull here… Look at that. These loops don’t tighten, right? Because if we tighten, what happens, Alan?”
“You can constrict blood flow, sir.”
“That’s fucking right. Constrict the blood flow, you can end up with something much worse than bruises and rope burn — nerve damage, or if you cut off blood flow for too long, even really dangerous shit that can lead to serious injury, even amputation if you’re cutting off blood flow to the extremities. You like having fingers, don’t you, Alan?”
“I do, sir.”
“I bet you do,” says Robin, and Alan laughs and stares down at the floor, and Robin smirks at him in a way that makes Ignatius want to fidget, his knees rubbing together as he leans back in his seat.
It’s difficult not to be hypnotised by it as Robin takes the room through different rope ties, using Alan as a model at first and then picking out a woman from the audience too — he talks about different rope textures and strengths, talks about different fibres and weights, levels of flexibility. He shows them how to make cuffs with rope, how to individually tie wrists, and then shows a basic harness.
He fields questions, afterward, about rope safety, and then about other safe sex stuff — about GUM clinics, about safewords, about whether circumcision makes a difference to getting STIs.
Ignatius doesn’t go up to him himself, but he follows after Conan when he trails over, stands at his shoulder. The room has mostly cleared out, and when Robin barks, “Put them ropes away,” Conan hops to it, and Ignatius can’t help but stand back and watch him, the way he neatly coils them and drops them into the plastic box with wheels on that Robin keeps them in.
“Good lad,” says Robin, and Conan’s cheeks flush pink, which makes Ignatius smile until he realises that Robin is not looking at Conan but at him.
“It was a good talk,” says Ignatius.
“Glad you found it informative,” says Robin crisply as he folds up the table and sets it aside. It’s not even one of the cheap plastic tables, but the nice one that’s made of a heavier folding wood, and Robin handles it easily. He’s strong, moves it on his own, even though Ignatius has seen the other boys move it and they always move it two together.
“We’re going for food in a minute,” says Ignatius. “Why don’t you come with us?”
“’Cause I’ve got better things to do,” retorts Robin immediately, and Ignatius stares at him, trying not to laugh out of sheer surprise, even though it makes his cheeks burn.
“Right,” says Ignatius, and goes to pick up one of the last coils of rope to put start winding it around his arm like Conan is doing, but Robin grabs him by the wrist.
“Ah ah,” he says immediately, and Ignatius feels the heat of Robin’s muscled hand on his wrist, the warmth of his palm. “You don’t fucking know what you’re doing. He handled rope in his fucking rowing club. You couldn’t handle a fucking cock.”
“I can handle a cock pretty well, thanks,” says Ignatius, looking down at the older man and arching an eyebrow when Robin looks up at his face. “Would you like me to show you?”
“Arm out,” orders Robin, voice crisp, and Ignatius does, grips the tail end of a piece of rope in his hand as Robin pushes his arm up and shows him how Conan’s coiling it, wraps the rope around and around in a figure-eight using his elbow as the second loop, and Ignatius is a bit clumsier than Conan, isn’t as fast, but Robin nods his head.
When Conan goes and starts stacking up chairs, he’s out of earshot, and Ignatius takes the opportunity to lean just a little bit closer, close enough that he can almost feel how warm Robin is. He’s strong enough to pick up that table — he’d be strong enough to manhandle Ignatius, probably, no matter that Ignatius is a head and change taller than he is.
“See?” asks Ignatius. “Look how obedient I am. Bet I’d be a great little rope bunny for you.”
“I’m not interested in having a faggot like you in my bed, even tied up, thanks,” says Robin, taking the rope off him, and Ignatius feels the pit fall out of his fucking stomach as he stares down at him, feeling like he’s been slapped.
“Fuck you,” he spits out through gritted teeth. “You weaselly little fucking cunt.”
“That’s me,” says Robin dryly, and plucks the rope out of Ignatius’ arm, coiling it around and setting it into the box with the rest.
“Let’s go,” he snaps at Conan, and Conan sets the chairs aside, gives a vague salute to Robin and Ignatius both before he sets to with Ignatius out of the place.
“I don’t see what the fuck appeal you see in him,” mutters Ignatius. “He’s a fucking prick.”
“Yeah,” says Conan, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s — Kind of the appeal.”
Ignatius releases a sound of low distaste, and Conan sighs dramatically, like he doesn’t see what the fuck the problem is, like Ignatius is being theatrical over nothing, and they go for food.
* * *
It’s a few weeks later that Ignatius is in Seventh Circle and is sitting at the bar, miserably staring into his cocktail because he’d come out with Conan and some of the girls, but Conan had gone off with some doctor he already knew and the girls had scattered.
He keeps opening his phone, going through his unopened messages and taps, and then dropping it aside again, because he’s just not in the mood for it, not in the mood for the dance, for any of it.
Robin Durant-Hill is in the bar.
He’s at the opposite end of it to Ignatius, and he’s not drinking alcohol — he’s got a glass of water in front of him, and is seriously talking with a messy girl in a suit that doesn’t fit her, going over something on an iPad with her point by point.
Ignatius has been sat here for an hour, and this girl is the third one who’s come to meet him.
Kes comes to stand in front of him, rinsing glasses in warm water on the brushes before he starts stacking them up to go back in the dishwasher. Following Ignatius’ gaze, he says, “Ah, yeah. He does this a few times a week. Goes through people’s accounts with them or helps them look for jobs, shit like that. When people come through A&E and need help — domestic violence, ODs, assaults, you know. Anyone who needs help but is scared of establishment shit, or the cops.”
“What a saint,” mutters Ignatius. “Why does he have to do it in a gay bar?”
“It’s safe here,” says Kes. “Comfortable. He knows I won’t call the cops for anything, knows I keep a clean house.”
“He hates cops more than he hates gays, then?”
Kes looks at him flatly over the sink, and then looks down at Robin, back at Ignatius. Ignatius isn’t sure what to make of the pinched look on his face, the twist of his lips into a flattened smile, his eyebrows furrowing in a bit.
“What did he say to you?” he asks in a quieter voice, just loud enough to be heard over the music.
“He called me a fucking faggot,” mutters Ignatius.
“I’m sorry,” Kes murmurs. “He does that — keeps people at arm’s length.”
“That doesn’t make it okay,” snaps Ignatius. “He shouldn’t be here when he’s a fucking homophobe.”
“Babe,” says Kes, “he isn’t a fucking homophobe. He’s a goddamn leather bear, and he’s been fucking pricks like you since before you were born — and more than fucking pricks like you, he’s been helping them with their accounts, their job applications, their meds. Funeral arrangements for dead boyfriends. What’d you do, flirt with him?”
“Is that such a crime?” asks Ignatius, although it makes his stomach flip again, and he feels just as stupid as he did the first time, but this time around it’s worse, because he feels stupid and still wants him, because this is —
Mental, obviously.
But the sort of mental that makes him curious, makes him want to get closer again.
“D’you want the good news or the bad news?”
“Bad news.”
“He doesn’t get less prickly when you get closer,” says Kes. “You have to handle him like you handle nettles or brambles. Thick gloves on, and with care.”
Ignatius furrows his brow. “There’s good news, then?” he asks, and Kes grins.
“If he called you names to get you to back the fuck off, it means he wanted the temptation gone right away.”
“Fuck that,” says Ignatius, but he looks down the bar at Robin as the girl gets down off her stool, watches the way Robin puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes in a sort of paternal way, his expression gentler, softer, but it hardens again when she starts walking out and Robin meets Ignatius’ gaze instead.
Ignatius picks up his cocktail and stalks forward, and Robin exhales, leaning back in his seat as he locks his tablet, and Ignatius slams his glass down on the counter beside him.
“You’re buying me another drink,” says Ignatius.
“Am I?”
“What gives you the fucking right?” demands Ignatius sharply. “Throwing about fucking words like that, fucking, being a little cunt. What gives you the right to talk to me like that? To make me fucking scared in a place like this, which is meant to be for us? Just because, what, you’re scared you want to get your dick wet?”
Robin puts his tablet into a case, then zips it up, then puts the case into his satchel. He picks up his glass of ice water and takes a sip.
“If Kes hasn’t told me I would have just assumed you were a creep,” says Ignatius.
“Kes shouldn’t have told you otherwise,” says Robin.
“Another drink,” says Ignatius. “Now. And you’re gonna fucking say sorry, and you’re going to mean it.”
“I don’t want to tie you up.”
“Don’t, then. Buy me my fucking drink.”
“Sit,” says Robin quietly, and Ignatius pulls himself up into the other seat, settling there as Robin raises one hand, gesturing for Kes to come over. “I should fucking smack you.”
“You have smacked me, historically,” says Kes conversationally — he’s already made up another daiquiri and is pouring it into Ignatius’ glass. “I’ve often enjoyed it. Not as much as I’ve enjoyed smacking you, mind.”
“Why the fuck are you friends with him when he’s such a little prick?” demands Ignatius.
“I like that he’s portable,” says Kes. “Pocket-sized.”
“Fuck yourself.”
“And he comes in useful when there’s an accident in the bar, first aider and that. And he helps me do my taxes.”
“You don’t drink?” asks Ignatius as Kes pours Robin more water.
“Seventeen years sober,” says Robin.
“You come to a bar several times a week.”
“I come to this bar several times a week,” says Robin. “I go in Daz on Tuesdays, and Stage Crew a few times a month. A few other pubs, clubs, and bars, too. I get around, me.”
“Isn’t that, like, majorly inadvisable for an alcoholic?”
“Oh, the boy’s a genius,” says Robin darkly. “Knows about everything, he does, alcoholism and all.”
Kes laughs, and he moves down the bar, leaving Ignatius and Robin sat together. It’s a Thursday night, and a lot of the tables are occupied, but it’s a pub vibe tonight — people are talking over the music, chatting together, but no one’s dancing, and even as the hours tick on, it won’t get crowded.
“You like Conan,” says Ignatius.
“Tall lad you were in with?”
“Yeah.”
“He was a rower. Knows how to put rope away, knows how to follow orders. Wanks over me, I assume.”
“Oh, yeah, definitely,” agrees Ignatius. “He gets really hot for medical guys. Doctors, nurses, dentists. Pretty much anyone in scrubs or a white coat in a position of authority, and he’s up for it.”
“And how did he sell me to you? It’s obviously not the bondage that gets you off.”
“I like bears,” says Ignatius. “Especially strong guys, stronger than me. And I really like beards, and I really like tattoos.”
“Pop your first boner watching Popeye, was it?”
“Is that how you got like that in the navy? Ate a bunch of spinach?”
“Mm.”
Ignatius looks at Robin, studies the tightness in his face as he sips at his water, taps his fingers against the countertop, and he looks down at Robin’s clothes — same black jeans as before, but no leather vest today, just a collared shirt, a dark grey one, some kind of corduroy fabric, a few buttons open.
His chest is hairy, and he’s got a ruined lighthouse tattooed over his whole sternum, the light half-lit, bricks coming off it, birds flying around it like it’s a kind of carrion itself, and Ignatius wants to see the whole piece, feels his fingers twitch.
And then he stops them twitching, and he just reaches out, undoes the next button.
Robin sits there, one elbow resting on the counter, the glass held between his fingers, the other on one of his own plush thighs, as Ignatius undoes the next one, too, and a third, until the buttons are undone down to Robin’s navel, and Ignatius can see the black and white brick of the crumbling lighthouse, the rays that spread around his chest from it. There’s a man in the lighthouse’s open door, or a silhouette of a man.
“Why’ve you got a haunted lighthouse tattooed on your chest?” asks Ignatius.
“What makes you think it’s haunted?” asks Robin.
“He doesn’t belong there,” says Ignatius, touching his finger to the black shadow blocking the lighthouse doorway, then tracking through Robin’s grey-and-brown chest hair up through the cracks in the brick, the bits where pieces are crumbling away.
“Maybe he’s leaving,” says Robin. “Maybe the tower is crumbling around him as he makes his fucking departure — or maybe he was just in there for a second. Just having a mosey around.”
“Nah,” says Ignatius. “Look at him, the way he’s inked in. Shape of his shoulders, the way he’s leaning against the frame. Fucking defeated, he is. He’s a ghost — he’s trapped there. He can’t get further out than the steps.”
There’s a slight smile on Robin’s face, even though it’s a severe kind of smile that’s mostly hidden under his beard, and Ignatius reaches out and touches one of the rings through Robin’s nipples — he doesn’t even tug on it, just nudges it through the hole, and Robin spits out a laugh and slaps his hand away.
“Fucker,” he says.
“Well, you’re the one sitting with your shirt open,” says Ignatius. “Don’t you want me to touch?”
Robin clucks his tongue, gives him a stern look that makes Ignatius’ heart flutter. “I’d be careful, lad, or I’ll sign you up for my fucking consent workshop.”
“Kes says you keep people away if you’re tempted by them.”
“Kes bullshits about a lot more bollocks than that,” says Robin steadfastly, but evidently, Ignatius has earned a reward, because he moves in his seat and puts one of his feet on the top support rung on Ignatius’ stool. Ignatius puts his hand on him, slides his fingers under his knee, rests his thumb on the lower part of his thigh, feels the heat of him through the denim. “I don’t care for rope bunnies.”
“What, you don’t like tying people up?” asks Ignatius, and Robin’s face doesn’t change. Ignatius is laughing before he can stop himself, staring disbelievingly at the older man — both of them perched on the bar stools, they’re of a level, the height difference not so significant. “Are you serious? You give tutorials in bondage every month and you don’t even like it? What else don’t you like? Leather, whips?”
“I like leather,” says Robin, raises his heel off the metal rung and makes Ignatius very aware of the heavy boot he’s wearing, the laces of it, the shine of the cared-for leather. “It’s comforting, heavy. Good armour.”
“But you don’t like tying people up.”
“Not particularly.”
“Being tied up?”
“You saw my fucking tutorial,” says Robin immediately, arching one eyebrow. The anchor tattooed under his eye moves slightly, and Ignatius can’t decide whether he hates this man or loves him, whether he wants to scrape his teeth over that little black tattoo or press his lips to it. “Would you trust any of those cunts to tie you up?”
“It was a beginner’s course,” Ignatius points out, and Robin hums disapprovingly, but raises his leg up further, presses his knee against Ignatius’ palm. “But no, you noticed. I’m not really into bondage. Tying or being tied. I’m too impatient.”
“And what do you like? Or am I not allowed to ask that?”
“No, you’re allowed,” says Ignatius. “I’d rather you asked in the first place than give me the fucking runaround.”
“Answer, then. You don’t like doctors, you don’t like rope. You sound fucking scornful about leather.”
“Please don’t give me the lecture about gays and leather,” says Ignatius, raising his palms in a gesture of peace. “Biker culture and masculinity and the Tool Box and open kink and whatever, I don’t need the manifesto.”
“Huh,” huffs Robin disapprovingly.
“I know it’s important. I just don’t like how heavy it is, and I’m too lazy to take care of it.”
To Ignatius’ surprise, Robin actually seems to approve of that, his lips pressing together and making his moustaches move, the corners of his mouth showing as they curve up on each side.
“I like bears, like I told you. Like strong men, like men who can hold me down or pick me up.”
“That what you enjoy, is it?” asks Robin, “Being held down?”
“Not really,” says Ignatius. “Conan thinks it’s funny, but he’s six foot six, and he’s strong. I’m not that strong, I’m average height, I’m not intimidating. So when I bounce a big scary daddy on my cock, pull on his hair, kiss him until his beard leaves a burn on my cheeks, it’s because he’s letting me, and I think that’s hot. That he’s letting me — that he could pick me up and throw me if he wanted to — but he doesn’t. He’d rather let me fuck his brains out.”
Robin’s eyes look even bluer as they widen slightly, and he looks at Ignatius properly, looks him up and down.
“Oh, I see,” says Ignatius, and he slides his palm up the outer side of Robin’s thigh, feeling the thick, corded muscle of it through his jeans. “Does that appeal? Want me to bring you home and fuck you?”
“If you want me to bring you home, my lad,” says Robin, and his voice is low and quiet, “you put that daiquiri back behind the bar, and you drink a full glass of water before we go.” Ignatius doesn’t even hesitate, takes his glass and reaches over to put it down, grabs the nearest glass from underneath the counter — it’s a whiskey glass, and Robin says, “Ah. At least three full glasses of that one.”
“Fine,” says Ignatius, and Robin pours ice water from the jug into his glass. “I’m not even drunk, you know.”
“Good,” says Robin.
“And I can get it up even drunk.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I’ve got a big cock.”
“Alright.”
“And I know how to use it,” Ignatius adds.
“I already set terms,” says Robin. “You don’t have to fucking convince me.”
Ignatius’ mouth is a little dry, and he’s struggling not to bounce his knees in place, is touching his fingers on the underside of Robin’s knee, his palm sliding over his kneecap.
“He is a ghost,” says Robin after a moment passes. “The whole lighthouse is a fucking ghost — remnant of a bygone era. He’s a part of that.”
“Is that what you are?” asks Ignatius, and Robin’s laugh is low and dark.
“Yeah, lad,” he mutters. “That and more.”
They don’t get a taxi back, or the bus.
Robin rides a motorcycle, and Kes has a spare helmet to lend to Ignatius behind the bar.
* * *
“How old are you?” asks Robin in the lift, his helmet under his arm, and Ignatius stands in place with Kes’ helmet against his chest, trying his best to ignore the way his knees are threatening to collapse out from under him.
“Thirty-two,” says Ignatius.
“Liar.”
“Twenty-eight.”
“You never ridden a bike before?”
“Yeah, I’ve ridden a bike, not a fucking — Harley.”
“It’s not a Harley,” says Robin, laughing, and Ignatius feels himself flushing furiously pink as they go out of the lift, as Robin puts his key in his lock, turns it, nudges the door open with his shoulder. The helmet goes on a shelf, and Ignatius puts Kes’ helmet next to it as Robin strips off his jacket and unlaces his boots.
Ignatius kicks off his shoes, shrugs off his coat, and Robin takes it, hangs it up next to his leathers — he’s got a closet next to the front door, and he’s got a longer leather coat hung up alongside the jacket he’s just put in place, and the vest he’s already seen, more boots. His bondage boxes are stacked there too, different kinds of ropes, floggers, toys, all in place.
“Fuck,” says Ignatius, and grabs Robin by a fistful of hair, catching him in a kiss.
Robin tips his head up to let Ignatius kiss him, and his hands move over Ignatius’ body, grasping the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head, tossing it aside, undoing Ignatius’ jeans. Robin’s such a good kisser that he feels dizzy with it, his lips skilful, and Ignatius tries his best to match him, to kiss him back with the same strength, same focus.
Ignatius can’t help the desperate, throaty whimper he lets out when he gets his hands on Robin’s body and sinks his fingers against the swell of his stomach on each side, feels the fat packed over the muscle, feels the round swell of Robin’s belly against his, the hair all over him.
He hooks his thumbs into Robin’s waistband and pushes them down, groans at the way Robin’s arse pops out from the denim, and Robin laughs.
“You’re so fucking desperate,” he says.
“Yeah, I am, so desperate,” Ignatius agrees, and smacks Robin’s arse just to see it bounce, to feel the jiggle of it under his palm, and Robin laughs again as Ignatius kicks off his own, both of them stepping out of their jeans and stumbling toward the bed.
Robin already took his socks off, and Ignatius leaves his on for now, focuses on Robin’s tattoos, on the birds capping each of his shoulders and upper arms — herring gulls, some kind of terns, and another bird, a cormorant, maybe. He’s got ropes tattooed in coiling strands around his forearms, knotting neatly around each wrist; he’s got ships on each of his thighs, the Terror and the Erebus according to the banners underneath each of their gilded portrait frames, and an octopus around his left calf, a squid on the right.
“God, this is hot,” he says.
“Tattoos?”
“Your tattoos are so well-planned,” groans Ignatius, sliding his fingers down the well-furred sides of Robin’s thighs. “Like, total artistic vision, whole thematic set going on. What’s on your back?”
“You can look at my back later,” growls Robin, “I’m on it for now.”
Ignatius nearly trips over wriggling out of his boxers, and Robin is rifling through the drawer beside the bed as he falls back onto it, pulling out lube and a regular condom.
“Can’t use that,” says Ignatius.
“I’m not letting you fuck me without a condom, lad.”
“I don’t want to fuck you without a condom,” says Ignatius, which kind of isn’t true, because the idea of leaving himself dripping out of Robin’s glorious arse sets his skin on fire and makes his hair stand on end. “But I seem to recall something about using a condom that fits.”
“I’ll get a bigger one th — ” Robin starts, and he’s looking between Ignatius’ legs. “Holy fuck, lad.”
“I’ve got condoms in my coat pocket,” says Ignatius. “If you haven’t got big enough ones.”
“I’ve got big enough condoms for your monstrous prick, you idiot fuck,” says Robin, but there’s a marked difference in his voice, a kind of quaver in it, and Ignatius is breathless as he drizzles some of the lube over his fingers and slides them forward.
Fuck, but it’s gratifying, the way Robin’s stern, cuntish features give way to something open and eager and wanting as Ignatius slides his fingers between his legs and doesn’t even push in right away, just rubs wetness behind his balls and over the sensitive skin of his perineum, around his hole.
“You like it hairy,” says Robin.
“I like hairy men,” agrees Ignatius, and rubs a circle under his sac, pressing on the skin there and exhaling at the way Robin sighs, his eyes fluttering closed and his hips tipping up, his knees spreading wider apart. “You like big cocks?”
“Shut the fuck up,” says Robin. “Put that fucking ego away.”
“I’ll put my ego right here,” says Ignatius. “Look at you, big scary daddy dom call me sir, and you want me to drive into you until you fucking lose it.”
“Yes, I fucking do,” agrees Robin, and grunts at the way Ignatius rubs and presses at his perineum, feels how soft and tender the skin is there even dusted with hair, feels the swell underneath the flesh as his cock gets harder, stands further to attention, wet at its head and eager to be touched. “And I do want you to call me sir.”
“Sir,” says Ignatius immediately, takes the condom once Robin’s torn off the wrapper and rolls it down his cock. Robin lets out a half-moaned sigh at the sight of it as Ignatius rolls it down, puts more lube around his hole, presses inward —
“Don’t fuck about fingering me,” grunts Robin. “Give it to me, now.”
“Greedy,” says Ignatius. “You wanted me to fucking get away from you because you laid eyes on me and knew you wanted me to — ”
“Now,” Robin barks out the order, and Ignatius laughs breathlessly as a full-bodied shudder runs through him, and he shoves forward on his knees, lines himself up, and Robin makes to growl at him again but Ignatius interrupts him, just shoves his head forward, presses on the ring of muscle and feels it flutter as Robin clenches, feels it flutter and swallow and pull him in, and when he pops past the ring of it it’s the most exquisite fucking heat and tightness imaginable, so fucking tight he has to concentrate to stay hard and also to not just fucking come right there.
Robin’s eyes are wide, his head tipped back on the pillow and his hands limp where they were coming up to grab at him, his mouth open, red flush not so much on his cheeks but showing on his chest.
“Going to fuck me?” he asks, his voice tight.
“You’re not so good at commanding when you’ve got a cock in your arse, sir,” says Ignatius.
“I haven’t g — fuck, I haven’t got a cock in my arse as yet, lad. Just the fucking tip of holy mother of — ” It’s a fucking whine that comes out of Robin’s throat as Ignatius shifts his knees on the mattress and slowly sinks forward, tries to make it smooth and fuck, but he goes in so easy, Robin opening up to him, clenching around him as he pulls him inward, pulls him closer. Fuck, but it’s a swallowing heat, and he feels fucking frenzied with it, his hands sliding over Robin’s thighs, his belly, moving up to his chest and letting his thumbs tug and pull at the rings through Robin’s nipples, his breaths stuttering, his chest and belly both moving as he breathes hard.
He shoves himself forward to get himself in all the way, and he feels like he looks fucking cross-eyed, is certain there’s an ugly look on his face, because buried in Robin’s arse is something like a fucking ecstasy, and he might well fucking explode from it.
“Sir, you’re fucking magnificent,” he says.
“Less — less talk,” Robin chokes out. “More cock. You said you’d ride me, you little prick, so fucking ride me.”
“You can’t call me a little prick when I’m twice your fucking size,” says Ignatius. “In more ways than one.”
“Trying to distract yourself from popping off too early?” asks Robin, and Ignatius pulls back before he slams back inside him, feels the sweet pull of him, and yeah, he fucking does want to come just at the ragged moan that punches out of Robin even before Ignatius does it again.
He grabs hold of Robin’s knees, and he doesn’t wait for the okay, just shoves them up toward his chest until he’s got the old man bent in two, shoved into a fucking breeding press and suddenly moaning desperately, the sounds coming sharp and hard and wonderful out of his fucking throat, his chest rising and falling so fast Ignatius could almost imagine that the light in the tower there was turning.
“Fuck,” whimpers Robin, his eyes shining, sweat on his forehead and on his chest, his hands scrambling desperately and clumsily for purchase in the pillows as he squirms on the bed, and Ignatius focuses on slamming his hips forward, fucking as hard into him as he dares, as hard into him as he fucking can, keeping rhythm. “Fuck, fuck, lad, I can’t, fuck — ”
“Can’t what, old man?” asks Ignatius, squeezing his hands into the wonderful meat of Robin’s thighs, laughing breathlessly at the way he moans. “Can’t take it, huh?”
Robin grabs him by the jaw, pulling him down closer, and says, “I said to call me sir.”
“Holy fuck,” mutters Ignatius, and shoves him further up the bed, keeps him bent in half as he leans in closer, covers Robin’s body with his and slams his hips forward, feels the wet heat of him, feels Robin clutch at him like he never wants Ignatius’ cock to be unsheathed. “Yes, sir, yeah, I’m gonna keep fucking you, sir, gonna ride you as hard as I fucking can, sir.”
“Stupid tart,” mutters Robin, and Ignatius nips at the anchor on his cheek, moans at the way Robin chokes, arching off the bed for more.
He doesn’t know how long it takes, how many times he sinks into him, thrusts as deep into Robin as he fucking can, but when Robin comes with his cock pressed between their bellies it’s a wonderful thing, his cock spurting messily between them and desperate noises eking out of his throat fucking constantly, the whole fucking time.
“Go on, then, lad,” says Robin, and he’s breathing heavily, his eyes exhausted and a little watery and his body so limp on the mattress underneath him he’s like melted butter between Ignatius’ hand. “Going to come for me, yeah? Going to show me how much it pleases you to impale an old man on that stupidly big cock of yours?”
“Fuck,” Ignatius moans.
“Fuck is right,” says Robin. “Too fucking right, this is what you’re good for, isn’t it? This is what I’m letting you do, what you like for me to let you do, hm? You know I could grab you by the throat right here and fuck you into the floor, break you into pieces, but what I want is to feel that fat prick of yours — there, lad, that’s fucking it, good lad, you can do something right.”
“Fuck, that shouldn’t be hot!” Ignatius whines, his hips stuttering, and he falls on top of Robin as his hips stutter more weakly now, his prick buried right in him as it pulses, his balls drawn up so fucking tight he feels flooded with the pure sensation.
He lies there with his face pressed against Robin’s haunted lighthouse, breathing heavily, imagines he’s breathing life back into it, imagines the light’ll be spinning and all the bricks will be back in place and that the silhouette will be gone from the doorway, that it’ll be a full man, and he’ll be gone.
That’s just imagining, of course — when he pulls back, the lighthouse is just the same as before.
He’s careful about unfolding Robin’s legs, and he winces in sympathy at the way he grunts as he’s unfolded, stretching himself out on the bed as Ignatius pulls back, ties off the condom.
“Are your knees alright?”
“Knees and hips alright,” mumbles Robin, blearily, dizzily, and fuck, how is Ignatius not meant to feel satisfied and smug about that? “I feel like I’ll have pinpoint bruises where you shoved them into my fucking shoulders though.” He pats Ignatius’ flank. “Good lad. Very good.”
“Very good,” Ignatius repeats dreamily.
“How long ’til you can go again?” asks Robin, and Ignatius stares down at him, his whole body still feeling raw and electrified, but he knows the ache will set in after a little while.
“Not longer than an hour,” says Ignatius. “It’ll be — I’ll find it harder to come, the second time.”
“You’ll go for longer?” asks Robin, and Ignatius nods, feeling like his head is somewhere in the clouds, and Robin smirks at him. “Good.”
“Yessir,” says Ignatius, slurs the “s”, and Robin climbs into his lap to start kissing him again, and Ignatius falls back with Robin on top of him, moans, “Sir,” and “Hill,” and “you insufferable bastard,” between kisses until Robin is laughing against his lips.
FIN.
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