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His legs fell asleep hours ago.
Or, he thinks it was hours ago. Time has sort of run together.
He pants, head fuzzy as his torrid breath puffs between the bars of the muzzle in gasps. He’s trying, he’s trying so fucking hard, but the deliberate press of a leather shoe between his legs is making it hard to think of anything other than turning himself over to pleasure and grinding into it like an animal.
An animal. Yeah, that’s what he feels like right now, teeth gnashing and blood singing each time he tries to tug at the restraints, testing if they’ve somehow magically begun to weaken. No dice.
His chest stutters so hard he has to close his eyes, inhaling and exhaling to try and regain some level of control over his thoughts.
“Is my boy having a hard time?” A voice croons, low and rough and completely unsympathetic as pressure intensifies. Flambae huffs, gritting his teeth so hard they squeak as he forces himself to not rut into it.
“You’ve been doing so good so far,” He continues, the buttery-soft baritone dripping over the words like warm honey. “You’ve been so good for me, Flambae.”
The pressure hasn’t increased but he still bites back a noise, trying to focus on something, fuck, anything to keep from coming in his suit right now.
It started small, all things considered. The team was at yet another bar to celebrate the end of the week and Flambae was taking advantage. He could have gone a little slower, sipped and savored and relished in the way the alcohol slid down his throat. But he had always been a little greedy.
It’s not like it’s his fault. It’s a consequence of the powers, always has been. He consumed, went hard and fast until whatever was holding his attention had dried up and he could move on. Sometimes it was booze, most of the time it was guys who fell into his bed. He’d hold them down and ride and ride and ride until the burn pushed into the territory of just-too-much and his head went hazy.
They said it was them, not him, that they weren’t the right kind of person for a relationship that intense. He just scoffed, kicked them out and blocked their numbers and moved on to the next guy that wouldn’t hold him down hard enough.
It wasn’t a problem when he still led a life of villainy. In fact, it probably helped a little bit. You could be the deadliest person in the room but you wouldn’t get anywhere if you didn’t know how to take what you wanted.
He’d tried to rein it in a little after joining the program. He couldn’t burn shit whenever he wanted just to feel that thrill anymore, not unless he wanted to talk to his parole officer a little early this month (and he did not want to talk to that bitch early), so he settled that squirming electricity under his skin by taking. He was so good at it, too.
Robert had joined him, diet soda in hand as he watched Flambae down the row of shots laid out on the bar in front of them. It was shitty liquor, the stuff meant to get you drunk as fast as possible without any consideration as to how smoothly it went down, but he relished in the way his throat burned. It was almost soothing.
“Might want to slow down.” Flambae scoffs, tongue tracing over the top of his palate as he searches for another taste of the cinnamon liquor.
“I can hold my liquor, bitch.”
Robert eyes him consideringly, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the straw in his glass. “I never said you couldn’t.”
He lets that statement hang, the air between them growing thicker as the bass from the speakers thumps hard enough to rattle the bar under his hands.
Flambae resists the urge to shift, resists the urge to fill the silence as a calculating gaze traces a path between the collection of overturned glasses. “You’ve just been throwing them back pretty quick. Don’t you want to enjoy it a little?”
He shrugs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear and watching as the bartender pours drink after drink. “Why would I? I’m here to get drunk.”
“You’re here to spend time with the team.” The words don’t hold that undercurrent of chastisement. Rather, it seems Robert is trying to provide a counterargument, as if to say, ‘Everyone is over there. Why aren’t you with them?’
He answers the unasked question with another shrug. “Won’t remember it in the morning.”
“That doesn’t mean you won’t enjoy it now. It’s not always about the end result. Sometimes the journey is better than the destination.”
“Oh, yeah? What kind of middle management leadership book did you get that one from? ‘How to be a Boss: For Little Bitches’?” Robert doesn’t rise to the bait though, just eyeing him once again.
“When’s the last time you did something slowly?”
Flambae pauses at that, trying to parse out exactly what kind of message is hidden in those words. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“What I said. How often do you just, I don’t know, slow down a little bit?”
He feels that rage bubble up under his skin. How dare he, how dare Robert assumes he knows him better than he knows himself. But, fuck, he’s trying to be better. He’s trying to not antagonize as much anymore, so he just brushes it off with a scoff.
“Fuckin’ lame. Where’s the fun in that?”
Robert eyes him as he lifts the glass and his pink, chapped lips wrap around the black straw to take a languid sip. Flambae can’t help the way his eyes dip to track the motion, watch the way his throat bobs and contracts. He’s ripped out of his reverie by a sentence spoken far too casually.
“Maybe you just need someone to show you how.”
That’s what led to his current… situation.
Ten minutes after he got home today he had been grabbed by the ponytail and shoved to the floor. He flailed as the restraints were secured, tugged and tightened hard enough that Robert had checked his color twice. It was sweet, really, but he didn’t want it to be sweet. He wanted to be forced. He wanted to writhe and kick and scream against the notion of submitting.
Fuck if Robert didn’t know how to handle him though, tsking as strong hands tightened the leather with quick, deft motions. “Do I need to get your legs, too, or are you going to behave for once in your life?”
And he had a hell of a mouth on him. Not quite as vanilla as he thought, apparently.
“Brat.” Robert had muttered as he clicked his tongue, yanking out the hair tie so hard it snapped and Chad’s well-loved, well-conditioned mane tumbled over his shoulders. Something had settled in Robert’s eyes. Satisfaction, maybe, as he ran his fingers through the strands and smiled like he had been waiting for this just as long.
Chad jolts again as a foot nudges against his abs, the toe dragging up the exposed expanse of his chest and yanking him out of his thoughts.
“None of that. You shouldn’t be that far gone just yet. Why don’t we see how you’re doing?”
There’s a little beep, still far too rapid but better than the long, shrill, uninterrupted tone where the screen would flash red and display an error message. Chad keeps his gaze trained on the floor, low and obedient. Like a dog.
“101.3. Good.” Fingers lace into the basket of the muzzle, yanking his head up so he’s forced to acknowledge the amused tilt of the eyes staring right back. “Three degrees to go. You can do that, can’t you?”
He’s nodding before he can even think about it, trying to bite back a whimper at the humiliation that only makes his heart thump a little harder. Robert smiles a small, sardonic little thing. He keeps his fingers laced into the muzzle, tilting this way and that and clearly delighting in the pliability of the man kneeling before him.
The muzzle was a surprise, honestly. He hadn’t been able to scratch like he wanted to with his hands being bound and he wasn’t actually trying to hurt Rob by heating up his skin, so he resorted to the next best thing. Biting.
He didn’t even know it was something he was into until Robert was pulling away with an over-the-top sigh and pulling the muzzle out of the bag. His scalp sang with pain-pleasure as hands had wrapped in his hair and yanked hard enough to force the air out of his chest. It was fastened with a few deft motions, his head spinning even as he gasped out a weak, “Green.”
Robert releases his grasp on the muzzle, settling back into the armchair Chad kneels before. He sinks into it, sighing as he crosses one leg over the other. It’s a comfortable chair, he knows, because it’s his chair. He gravitated towards it when he was hosting the team, letting everyone else squish onto the couch or balance on bar stools as he lounged. Robert clearly picked up on that, gaze lidded from where he’s claimed Chad’s throne.
He lowers his head, closing his eyes and breathing deeply as he tries to drop his temperature even further. It’s hard, he hasn’t done this in years, but the prospect of a reward makes him focus on relaxing the taut line of his shoulders. The room picks up a degree or two each time a rush of heat leaves him in a burst.
It does get harder, though. He can bring his body temperature down to that of a normie, sure, but it’s not natural by any means. With every half a degree he cools the effort gets exponentially harder, his body rebelling from the loss of heat that’s just as much a part of him as his blood or bones.
He’s sweating from the effort, the drops landing on his folded legs from where he’s bent nearly in half and not immediately bursting into steam as he is wont to do.
“Why,” He pants, trembling with exertion. “The fuck. Did I agree to this.” Robert hums, uncrossing his legs so he can nudge the tip of his shoe under Flambae’s chin and lift his head. Robert looks far, far too pleased with this turn of events. Sick fuck.
“Because,” Robert croons, eyes lazily dragging along the expanse of skin bared by the suit. He lifts his foot and nudges the muzzle for good measure. “My good boy needs a lesson in self control.”
He swallows thickly, his eyes simmering with a barely-restrained intensity. “You filthy bitch.”
“Mhm, fighting words from someone who was begging to come on my foot earlier.” He grabs the thermometer, clicking once as he hovers it over Flambae and waits for the beep. “99.5. Close.”
The foot drops, teasing along the inside of his over-sensitive thigh and making him jolt. There’s a rumbling, amused chuckle from above him. His abdomen clenches, muscles twitching uncontrollably as the outsole drags teasing lines from the side of his knee to his inner thigh, up and down and up again.
“Not helping.” He grits out, the fire beneath his skin flickering once again. He tamps down the panic at the prospect of starting all over, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to recall the breathing exercises his one half-decent therapist recommended.
“Good heroes do what they’re supposed to even when it’s hard. You’re a good hero, aren’t you, Flambae?” And, fuck, with the way the words are spoken he isn’t sure whether it’s supposed to be praise or a jab but either way he’s jolting against the restraints against his wrists.
“Fuck,” He huffs weakly, a whine on the edge of his voice. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He squeezes his eyes shut so hard they hurt and desperately wills the heat in his chest to settle, to drop from the typical broil into a gentle simmer.
“Good. So good. Just like that, baby, deep breaths.” He bites his tongue at the pet name. They hadn’t discussed that. He doesn’t protest, though. “You just needed to be tamed, huh? Needed someone to show you your place.”
He nods, eyes closed as his breaths come quick and shallow. “Tell me.”
“I nee-needed to, fuck-” The foot nudges again, dragging up his inner thigh to finally, blissfully land on the bulge that’s been painfully straining against his costume. “To be, tamed. Fuck.”
Another click and a beep. “98.4 degrees. So close.”
In, out. In, out. In-
He hiccups as the foot presses harder into his cock. It’s almost painful, weeping precum into his suit and aching from neglect. Normally he would be thinking about how much of a bitch it would be to clean later but it feels like his brain has liquified, non-functional other than chanting a mantra of ‘stay still stay still’ and ‘cool down or else we can’t cum’.
“You’re quite a handful, hm?” Scarred hands tug at his hair, almost mean in their playfulness. “Poor thing, you just needed a strong hand. So yappy. Y’know, I thought about gagging you too, but that felt like a bad call with the muzzle. Thoughts for next time.”
The words send wave after wave of sensation through his body, hot and heady humiliation and simpering praise doing weird, fucked up things to his head. He hasn’t felt this good in years.
He’s getting that floatiness, a sensation he’s only experienced a handful of times before but craves like a drug. The foot drags a line up his bulge and he can feel tears spring to the corner of his eyes.
“Please, please, I-I need,” He’s gasping. “I need to c-come.”
“Let’s see, hm?”
He feels fucking insane. A tear drips to the wooden floor beneath him as he waits for the beep after the click.
“Oh, very good. Come on.” He ruts forward at the same moment the foot is properly shoved beneath him and a sob is torn out of his chest. It’s so hard to move like this, kneeled with his arms restrained behind him but he rocks forward anyways, the firmness of the leather providing a much-needed relief.
He can feel the laces through the aramid cloth of his suit, hiccuping as he chases, chases, chases the sensation that stings in its bliss. In the end it’s a firm grasp on his muzzle and a murmured, “Come for me.” That sends him over the edge.
He’s not sure how long it takes for him to come back and for a fleeting moment he thinks he came so hard he passed out. He just sighs into the bliss and feels every part of his body go boneless. He’s peripherally aware of touches on his body, the sliding of fabric against his skin and the firm press of skin against his. It means little to him, really, completely lax as he manoeuvred to… wherever.
And maybe it’s just because he just fed Chad his fantasy or his brain is all liquefied from one of the best orgasms he’s ever had, but he finds himself unconcerned with the fact that it’s Robert handling him. The only thought that really floats into the clouds with him is, oh. I trust him. It’s not as distressing as he thought.
When he does finally float back down, it takes him a few seconds to register that he’s in his bed. He doesn’t open his eyes yet, electing to relish in the fuzz and let the sensations come back to him slowly.
He drags in a breath and feels the tickle of hair against his face, arching up into the touch of nails dragging through his scalp. He’s pretty sure that if he could purr, he would be.
“Hey. You with me?” Robert’s voice is softer now, smooth with a gentle amusement. Chad can’t quite speak yet, just nodding and pressing his face even further into the chest his head has been laid on. Robert pets him like a cat, muttering soothing nothings of ‘there you go’ and ‘good, so good’ that keeps the fuzz around for a little longer.
Eventually the haze lifts enough for him to open his eyes, blinking slowly before shifting his head to look up at the man he’s sprawled out over. How the fuck did Robert lift him onto the bed?
“Hey.” He repeats, a thumb coming up to press a spot on Chad’s upper cheek. It’s a little sore and it takes him a second to piece together that the muzzle had been pressing there, probably hard enough to leave a dent. “How are you feeling?”
“Fuckin’... great.” His face rises and falls as Robert’s chest shakes with a gentle amusement.
“Yeah? Worth the wait?” He hums an affirmative, adjusting his arms and sliding beneath so they wrap around Robert’s waist. “Good. Maybe you’ll start causing fewer arguments on calls if I keep making you come like that.”
The words are sluggish with the endorphins in his system. “You get that from… uh, SDN leadership training?”
“Nah, actually. It’s from ‘How to be a Boss: For Little Bitches’.”