Hello! Another of the 100 Prompts here; 17, 'Blood', and the request was for Talon Pile. Because they're all greedy bastards, there are actually going to be four chapters of this. I've written three of them. To clarify, this is an Earth-3 world where you've got all the Batboys as Owlboys/Talons instead, and they're all quite polyamorous. This, is lovely Damian's first time among the group (and it's from his PoV, so prepare yourself for lots of 'Drake', 'Todd', and 'Grayson'). Enjoy!
Warnings this chapter for : Slightly rough oral sex, rimming, fingering, knifeplay, sadism, light masochism, and light dom/sub.
It is always a gamble with his family.
On one hand, being taken by the arm and led off by his eldest 'sibling' — not that any of them actually see each other as brothers, precisely — could be the precursor to training, or being shown something interesting, or a dozen other things he will thoroughly enjoy. After all, Grayson may be playfully vicious even at the best of times, but that is not necessarily a negative. Even if the eldest of them has decided that he wants to 'play,' which is a misleading way to say, 'tear you apart on the training mats,' it will still be educational. One doesn't learn from Grayson without suffering a bit of blood loss, and generally a scar or two.
On the other hand, there are equally unpleasant things that could be about to happen. Grayson is very, very rarely kind, and very much enjoys catching people off guard. It's not as though Grayson is likely to hurt him that badly, not to the point of anything truly crippling, but it is not as distant a possibility as he would like that this surprise 'request' for his time could be something unpleasant.
Still, there is no denying their eldest. Even his father rarely tells Grayson no; it's the safer bet for the continued health of everyone involved.
He allows Grayson to lead him out of the living room he'd been relaxed in, fingers firm around his lower arm. It is a sign of how secure Grayson is in the belief that he, as well as his other 'brothers,' will fall in line when it's asked, that Grayson doesn't even look back to make sure he's alright with being led like this. Or perhaps Grayson simply knows that no one among his siblings would dare deny him. Either way, beyond the first smile and the wordless pull at his arm, Grayson doesn't look at him.
They head upwards instead of down, and he readjusts his theories to compensate for the fact that they are not heading down into the Roost, as he somewhat expected. Instead it's up the stairs; bedrooms, other studies, the roof...
Where are his two other 'brothers' right now? Is this a game he wasn't warned about? It would hardly be the first time that he'd been unaware of a game until the first blow was struck; none of them are big on sharing information, and there is an undeniable advantage to surprising your opponents. But he'd thought, by now, he knew most of the games that they play amongst themselves. He hasn't seen any recent warning signs, and this is not how any of the ones he knows about start.
Grayson leads him to a door he doesn't immediately recognize, and opens it without even a moment of pause. He's tugged in behind, and for a moment all he can see is Grayson's shoulders and back, obscuring the rest of the room, before their eldest steps aside.
Motion is the first thing his eye catches on. Drake and Todd, the latter pushed back against the curve of one of the four-poster bed's ornate posts, the former with one hand pushed up beneath Todd's simple black tank top. Close, too close for this to be anything but the one game he's never been allowed to be part of. Not that he's allowed himself to feel any sort of intense desire to be part of it, but then again, it has always been tempting to be a part of leaving marks on Todd's skin, the way he knows that Grayson and Drake do. He's seen enough of those that he can distinguish between the ones left by his two brothers.
Grayson's are possessive; hard bites, ragged scratches, and the sweeping darkness of deliberate bruises. Drake's are more precise; slices made by knives, and careful bruises that sink deep into the muscles beneath them. He's not as big a fan of getting his own hands dirty as Grayson is.
His arm is released, and the door is shut behind him. Todd's gaze is already fixed on him, eyes dark and slightly lidded, and the next moment Drake turns, hand still lingering on Todd's stomach but narrowed blue eyes focusing on him as well. He stands still beneath their scrutiny, until Grayson slides fingers down his arm and takes his wrist, pulling him forward and towards them. He almost expects to just be shoved into the center of them, but instead Grayson draws to a stop a few feet away and swings him around until he's facing their eldest, Drake and Todd at his back. Dangerous, but no more dangerous than it would be to have Grayson at his back instead.
He tilts his head up the half an inch necessary to look Grayson in the eye, now that they're almost the same height. (He'll grow taller before long; he's sure of it.) He's not fooling any of their family, but it just won't do to show wariness in front of Grayson; things like that just invite more of whatever behavior the wariness was caused by. Grayson, like all predators, has an unerring eye for weakness.
"You know what we do, Damian." It's not a question, but he nods regardless. Grayson's hand slides up his arm, light enough to raise goosebumps in the wake of his fingertips. "Would you like to join us?"
He instantly knows the answer, but he makes a show of pausing anyway, considering. Best not to show eagerness either. "Yes," he allows, after that moment. He very purposefully doesn't let himself react when Todd snickers, and keeps his attention focused on Grayson instead.
The smile he gets for his answer is not one of Grayson's more dangerous ones, but he doesn't let that relax him. The hand traveling up his arm reaches his shoulder, slides up his neck, and then cups his jaw and angles it up. Grayson leans in, and he stays very still as their eldest brushes lips over his own, tilting his head to a better angle and then deepening it a touch. A small gasp — he is not entirely inexperienced but he has hardly gone farther than a few awkward gropes with others of his age — allows Grayson access to his mouth, and the tongue that slides in between his teeth is wicked. It's far above every other kiss he's ever had.
Grayson shifts back, giving him a fraction of space as he hums, low and pleased. He almost shifts forward again, almost gives in to the silent desire for more, another. But then there's a sharp sting against his right cheek, and he hisses and jerks back a step, automatically raising a hand to touch the source of injury.
There's blood on his fingertips when he looks at them, and he catalogs the small blade in Grayson's hand, the predatory smile, before he hisses, "Grayson…"
He is not Todd; he does not enjoy being hurt without purpose.
Grayson's smile curls a little more, blade being flicked shut before the hand still on the other side of his jaw sweeps a thumb across his undamaged skin. "It's tradition, little prince. First blood wins the right to top."
He realizes what that means a fraction too slow. He takes in a sharp breath, whips around to face Drake and Todd, and meets a small knife that slices open the outside of his shoulder. Drake. He brushes past the loss — too late to reverse it now — and manages to face Todd before he's fully finished sliding out from behind Drake. Todd has a wicked grin curling his mouth, looks bluntly vicious in a way that the rest of them never do, and he bares his teeth in response. He will not lose to all three of them, not even in an ambush.
The sudden blow to the side of his head comes out of nowhere, and the force knocks him to his knees, his world tilting dizzyingly to one side as he registers that the blow must have come from Grayson. A hand grabs his hair, wrenches him up and around and slams his ribs into the side of the bed. It knocks the air from his lungs, and before he can recover, before he can do more than throw one wild leg out in defense, a large hand — Todd's — is pushing his turtleneck up his back. He twists, throws an elbow back that hits nothing but air, and then hisses when nails dig into his side and rake down almost all the way to his hip.
He's let go and he immediately flips over, pressing his back to the bed and an elbow down against his side to protect it. Not that it's going to help now. Todd is standing just out of range of his legs, fingertips bloody and looking all too pleased with himself. Grayson slides over, taking Todd's wrist in one long-fingered grip and raising it. Todd has no chance when Grayson licks at his bloody fingertips, then slowly sucks each finger into his mouth individually. Todd shivers, stares, and very carefully doesn't move.
They all have the same instincts when it comes to playing with Grayson.
Grayson spares a smile for Todd, a satisfied one that says he's done well, before letting go of his wrist. Then Grayson is stepping forward to him, paying no attention to how he's coiled to fight and merely reaching down to curl fingers — he debates pulling away for just a second — around his throat and pull him to his feet. He obeys for the sake of his own survival, and Grayson pushes him back against the same wood post that Todd was against, lightly pinning him in place.
"Maybe next time," Grayson soothes, the fingers of his other hand brushing over his cheek. "You're still going to play with us, aren't you, Dami?"
As if he truly has the choice of backing out at this point.
"I am not afraid of any of you," he answers, mostly truthfully. He is not concerned they will kill him, and he is not afraid that Grayson will push further than he is capable of taking. Grayson only truly breaks what he doesn't consider to be his. That will have to be enough.
Another smile, and then there's a thigh pushing between his and Grayson's lightly squeezing his throat, taking his mouth in another one of those all too perfect kisses. He reaches out, curling his fingers into the fabric of Grayson's shirt at either side of his waist, and suddenly Grayson is shifting back, free hand circling his waist. The kiss doesn't break, but Grayson pulls him forward, sliding him up the hard muscle of the thigh between his own. Then there's a body behind his own, pushing into the new space between him and the post. Big enough to make even him and Grayson look a bit small; Todd. He stiffens a little bit, and Todd chuckles and promptly bites at his neck, at the fraction of skin exposed between his hair and his turtleneck.
He grunts, scowling, before Grayson's hand squeezes his throat again.
Todd's hands are direct, gripping his hips for just a moment and then sliding around to flick the button through on the pair of loose jeans he's wearing. He'd protest, snap at Todd, except that his mouth is still taken up by Grayson and really, protesting isn't going to do anything. Unfair as it was, Todd's won a certain right to do what he wants. To a point. Besides, he is not fully willing to blow what may end up being his only chance to protest — he firmly believes that Grayson will gag him if he complains — on the simple act of having his jeans taken off. Todd is not that repulsive.
Grayson finally pulls away from his mouth at the same time as Todd pushes his jeans down. He pants, trying to catch his breath in the brief reprieve, though the hand on his throat makes that a little difficult. Especially when it squeezes tight, and his breath catches anew at the pressure. Grayson has the predatory look back in his eyes, and he does his best to meet it and give any impression but that he is weak enough to be prey.
They must have discussed this beforehand, because the moment that Grayson lets go of him Todd is lifting him with a hand under one of his thighs and the other looping hard around his chest, swinging him around the pole as he gasps and then all but tossing him onto the bed. There's a moment, before Todd lets go, that he realizes what Todd's mass and strength means in a setting like this. The next moment, as he hits the bed and rolls to his back, he thinks — briefly, vividly — of what it must look like when Todd simply lifts Drake. Manhandles him. The difference in size is…
Grayson slips onto the bed, following him and shoving him flat again when he tries to rise with a hand on the center of his chest. Todd is at the foot of the bed, but leans in to pull his jeans off of his feet, giving him a sharp grin when he's caught looking. The next moment Grayson's fingers are sliding beneath the edge of his briefs, sliding them down his legs, where Todd pulls them off too. He flushes despite his best efforts not too, and Grayson croons something that would be soothing if it didn't come through a smirk.
The hand on his chest eases, before Grayson murmurs, "On your knees, little prince."
It's soft but still undoubtedly a command, and he holds Grayson's gaze for a moment before he obeys. He rolls over, rising to his knees and bracing his elbows against the bed, twisting his head to look up at Grayson. Gentle fingers card through his hair, with only the faintest scrape of nails, and then Grayson is reaching down, pulling his turtleneck up his back. He starts when there are suddenly hands on the inside of his thighs, shoving them apart a few more inches. Too small to be Todd, so—
"Not bad," Drake mocks, fingers sliding up, hands going in different directions. One grazes nails along the base of his cock — his breath catches hard in his throat at the almost-threat — and the other circles his hole, teasing at the sensitive skin until he clenches down, twisting his hips forward and away from Drake's fingertips.
He almost turns his head to make some kind of scathing comment, before Grayson is dragging the turtleneck over his head. He squeezes his eyes shut as the fabric pulls and then slides off, Drake momentarily pushed to a place of secondary importance. Then there's odd pressure against his arms, the fabric pulling in an unfamiliar way, and he opens his eyes again to see what's happening.
Grayson is twisting the turtleneck, wrapping it tight where it's still on his lower arms, but before he can do anything with that information he's getting yanked forward by it. He grunts, loses his balance for a moment and crashes down flat, before he manages to recover and push himself back up to his knees, to pull against the turtleneck and get it off him. All of which is foiled when he looks up and Grayson is settling into a comfortable kneel on top of it, knees brushing against his arms and thoroughly pinning all of the excess of the turtleneck so his arms are pinned within it and down against the bed.
It is not surprising, exactly, but it is not precisely welcome either. Being vulnerable before his family is a dangerous thing.
Grayson reaches forward, tracing fingers along his cheek and the line of the cut he left behind. "It's alright, little prince, I'm just making sure you don't writhe too much."
The hand slips back, tangles in his hair and then drags him forward until his head is pulled up, his arms pulling against the trapped turtleneck. He sucks in a breath when Grayson's other hand slips down, pushing the casual sweatpants far enough off those hips that his cock springs free. Semi-hard, nothing he hasn't glimpsed before but it's barely a foot in front of him, so different from such close proximity. Grayson shifts up to a higher kneel, which puts him at just the right height for that cock to be even with his face, and tightens the fingers in his hair.
"I'm going to teach you how to use your mouth," Grayson promises, with a smile and a light tug to his hair. "Spread your legs, Damian. Jason's going to open you right up for us; he's got talented fingers."
A hand — smaller — slides up his spine and then to the side, to trace the length of the scratches Todd left on his side. "He's got an even better tongue," Drake says, smearing blood down across his hip.
"Damn right I do," Todd chimes in, and from behind him there's a sound he can't place for a moment, a sound like flesh on flesh but with a wet tinge to it. It isn't until Todd gives a muffled groan, laughs, and then more clearly comments, "Save the biting for the brat, Timmy," that he matches the sound up to what must have been a kiss. And a bite, apparently.
Hands push his thighs apart, spreading his knees out until what's clearly Todd's body can fit between them. The hands slide up, parting his cheeks, and he fights the urge to close his legs again. He can take anything that his 'siblings' can dish out, no matter how painful or borderline humiliating. He swallows, looks up to meet the intense focus of Grayson's gaze, and then feels something bizarrely wet and distinctly flexible in a way fingers usually aren't swipe up and over his hole.
He inhales sharply and jerks, the question of what it is sticking in his throat. It returns, tracing the edge of his rim which he finds is surprisingly and intensely sensitive, and it occurs to him in a sudden flash that the feeling is Todd's tongue. He can't help the small moan that fights its way from his throat, and he feels the hot rush of air as Todd chuckles, fingers squeezing his cheeks and parting them a little more. He feels open, exposed, and he wants to lower his head and hide it against an arm but Grayson's grip won't let him. The sensation is like nothing he has ever even imagined before; he's slipped his own fingers down there a few times, but the slick feeling of lube doesn't even start to compare. Todd seems to know exactly what the most sensitive bits of him are too, and precisely how to make them scream pleasure at him.
"Told you," Drake says, smug now instead of mocking, fingers sliding up his back again.
He shakes a bit, arches his back partially to push back against Todd and partially to pull away from Drake's hand. "What part — ah! — do you intend on playing, Drake?"
Fabric presses against his side, the shape of Drake leaning over him, before there's the heat of breath between his shoulder blades and a deceptively strong hand stroking around his back and to the other side of his waist. "I'm going to wait my turn," Drake tells him, hair brushing his skin, "and play with what I get in the meantime. Your shoulders…" He feels the metal of a blade press flat against his side, and gasps in a shallow breath. "To your waist."
He fights to stay still as that blade turns, scraping the sharp edge against his skin before returning to safer angles. He succeeds well enough that he isn't cut. Yet.
Grayson pulls at his hair, capturing his attention again, and he looks back up. "Shhh…" Grayson soothes as if his wariness is plain to see, free hand tracing fingertips against his lips. "You'll enjoy it, little prince."
Two fingers slip past his lips, hooking against his bottom row of teeth and pulling his mouth open. When they slip back out, he leaves his mouth open. The smile he gets is pleased. Grayson wraps that hand around his own cock — fuller now, closer towards truly hard — and guides it forward, resting it on his bottom lip. He swallows, waits for the push inside his mouth, down his throat, but it doesn't immediately come. Not until Todd's tongue pulls another moan from him, and Drake eases off of his back, keeping only fingertips and the blade against him.
Then Grayson shifts forward and he opens his mouth wider to take it, feeling the slide of it along his tongue and then against the roof of his mouth. Slow, pushing until it brushes the back of his throat and the muscles there automatically convulse in a faint gag. He's closed his eyes, so he can't see Grayson's expression, but he does hear the pleased little hum of sound, and feel the fingers that brush his cheek and then comb back across his scalp.
"It's alright," Grayson murmurs, "we'll train that out of you." Another stroke across his scalp, then the fingers of that second hand tighten to grip his hair just like the other one, and Grayson commands, "Breathe through your nose, watch your teeth, and remember that you have a tongue, little prince."
Grayson holds him still by his hair, pulls mostly out of his mouth, and then slides smoothly back in. There's that same brush against the back of his throat, and his throat clenches again, but he ignores it as best he can. He's suffered much worse feelings, and Grayson is— Grayson is in his mouth and that is a forbidden fantasy come true. There's a faint saltiness on his tongue, but it is not nearly as bad as he feared it might be, and nothing altogether unpleasant.
Todd is working more deliberately at his hole now, pressing slightly inwards every couple of seconds as if that tongue is actually going to push inside of him, and though he doesn't believe it the idea is tantalizing. He settles into the feeling of it, letting Grayson use his mouth as is desired and letting his hips rock slightly back against Todd's tongue, all other input deemed secondary relative to those two. Until, suddenly, there's a sharp slice of pain just above his hip.
He chokes, jerking away from it, but both Grayson and Todd are unrelenting. In fact, one of Todd's hands releases his cheek and loops, heavy and inescapable, around his thighs to hold him in place. He slowly gets control of his throat again, manages to fight back the urge to choke until he can breathe normally, can relax as best he can with the reinforced knowledge that Drake is still at his side. That Drake has a knife and a sadistically manipulative streak a mile wide. He is not normally at its mercy like this.
Pressure at his hole, and then Todd's tongue is actually inside him and he gives a startled moan around Grayson at the sensation of it, the—
Slice of another cut, higher on his ribs this time.
He flinches at the cut but pushes back against Todd, curling his fingers into the sheets of the bed and trying to sort out the two conflicting sensations. Pleasure, from Todd, with the slide of that tongue inside him against sensitive nerves, and pain from Drake, at the end of whatever blade he's holding. He can feel the metal sliding across his back, the fingers of Drake's other hand tracing the length of the cuts already laying his skin open. He shivers, grounding himself in the steady slide of Grayson over his tongue, that now-predictable clench of his throat as the head brushes farther than is comfortable. Deliberate; Grayson wants to remove his gag reflex through practice.
This is Grayson at his safest, strangely enough. Teaching, coaxing him through the beginnings of learning how to do something, when he can only take small amounts of it at a time. Grayson never pushes past what he can take; this is apparently no exception. There will be no allowance for his own failures, like how Drake made him choke, but there won't be any punishment for it either, not as long as he proves willing to learn. To devote himself as Grayson deserves.
It only takes him three more cuts — all shallow; tolerable — to realize that Drake is timing them to go along with the moments that Todd pries some muffled noise out of him. Drake is training him to expect pain with his pleasure, and that realization makes him want to turn on his predecessor, to snarl and demand that it end. He is not some civilian, or some toy that can be conditioned without realizing what is happening. Unfortunately, with his mouth occupied and arms pinned down, he has very little ability to protest. He manages to make a muffled, displeased sound around Grayson, but it doesn't slow the eldest of them down at all.
Drake laughs, fingernails digging a little more cruelly into one of his cuts, until he releases a low groan. "Figured it out, Damian? Little slow tonight, hm?"
Todd pulls back, and he shivers at the unfamiliar feeling of being wet, and open. "What are you up to now, baby bird?" Todd asks, voice low and hungry. The arm around his thigh slips away, and he hears a snap that sounds like plastic, though he can't identify precisely what it is.
"Just a little bit of conditioning," Drake answers easily. "We could use another masochist, don't you think? I don't think even you have the stamina to satisfy the sadism of three different people, Jason. Not regularly, anyway."
"Pretty sure you can't make a masochist, Timmy," Todd comments, and then there are slick fingers teasing the outside of his hole. One pushes in, and he hates that he expects the sharp flare of pain beneath his shoulder blade that accompanies it. Hates even more that he doesn't pull away from the knife, only pushes back to get more of the fingers.
"Probably not," Drake agrees. "He'd have to already have one hiding in there under all that pride. But I can train his body to accept and expect pain whenever he's given pleasure. With some time, he should feel pleasure when he's hurt, regardless of whether he's actually being given any." The blade traces its way down his spine, and he shivers at the light scratch and sting of it. "The mind is a deliciously easy thing to manipulate."
Todd groans as if he's taking pleasure directly from the words, and then there's a shift of weight on the bed behind him, and a murmured, "God, I fucking adore how your head works, baby bird."
Drake's clothing brushes his hip, and then there's an equally murmured, "Then get back to your work so I can get back to mine."
Todd laughs, but the finger inside of him does push a little more steadily, and he feels Todd's weight settle between his legs again. The finger rocks, and then there is a tongue sliding in above it and he jerks, moaning as they move in sync. Drake's knife slices a curved line at one side of the small of his back, in time with the new shock of pleasure. He makes another displeased sound at that, but there's nothing he can do about it and he grudgingly accepts that. Better to enjoy what pleasure he can, rather than fight what he can't change. He will just have to hope that Drake's conditioning does not take any hold in a single night.
If it does, he will simply have to avoid Drake until he figures out how to remove it from his system. Simple enough, if aggravating. It is not as if Drake would actually try to force him. There are lines in their family, however blurry.
He eases as best he can, trying not to flinch at the sharp little bursts of pain, or how they twist together so well with the pleasure of Todd's tongue and fingers. He is only moderately successful, but he allows himself to stop thinking about Drake's blade as conditioning so he can view it as simple sadism instead, and that helps. Drake enjoys causing pain; he is vulnerable. There's no need for a reason beyond that, not as far as he is concerned. (Drake would need a reason, but Drake never does anything without a 'reason.')
"That's good," Grayson praises, one hand loosening to stroke over his scalp, then down to lightly squeeze the back of his neck. "You're doing very well, Dami. Relax; we'll take care of you."
He'd point out that Grayson's definition of 'taking care' of people usually involves slit throats or extended torture, but that would be rather against the spirit of things. Also, it's pleasant to hear Grayson praise him. While the same words from Todd or Drake would feel mocking, Grayson's praise is worth paying attention to. Not that he's foolish enough to believe that it isn't being given solely because he's done what the eldest of them wanted. He is intelligent enough to know that while Grayson's conditioning may be more subtle than Drake's, it is still undoubtedly there.
As far as he knows, Todd is the only one out of all of them that doesn't condition the people around him to some extent.
Todd's tongue withdraws from him, and he gives a muffled noise of protestation before it's replaced with the press of a second finger instead. He feels only the tiniest hints of a stretch, and even as Drake draws another line of blood at the top of his spine, he wonders if it's deliberate that there is barely even a trace of discomfort; Todd would have to be very slow and thorough to achieve that. His own explorations have always come accompanied with the feeling of being stretched, though granted that is a feeling that is not altogether unpleasant. Is Todd always this thorough, or is he being given special treatment?
Difficult to say; he doesn't know enough about the three of them in this sense. He's never cared enough to see if he could find precisely what sort of power dynamics existed between his brothers when it came to their sexual encounters. Perhaps that was a miscalculation.
A flash of pain along the center of his back, but no pleasure to soften it, and he jerks and chokes for another moment in surprise.
"Get out of your head, Damian," Drake demands, blade leaving a stinging line along his skin as it's traced in seemingly random, weaving patterns across his back. "You've got a real world to focus on, remember?"
"You like people when they're drifting," Grayson says above him, voice just slightly breathless and his skin goes tight at the proof that he's actually affected.
Drake hums something like agreement, letting the blade turn so it's just the flat trailing over his skin instead of the tip. "When he's high I'll appreciate it; when he's lost in his own thoughts, I'll bring him back. You taught me how, remember, Dick?"
"I remember," Jason says, voice gone hungry again. "Pretty sure the last time I bled so much in one night was when I died." The knife leaves his skin, and then Jason is hissing, giving a strangled, almost intelligible swear. There's a moment, and then Jason all but growls, "Don't tease, baby bird. You've already got a canvas tonight; you work me up I'm either demanding that knife or fucking you hard enough to make you scream."
"Not tonight," Grayson intercedes, tone almost like a laugh. "Don't distract him, Tim; Jason has work to do."
Another hum from Drake. "He could work faster," is the drawled comment.
"Hey, brat's a virgin, alright? You want him to take all three of us, he's gotta be pretty open to start with. Takes time." Drake makes an unconvinced sound, and Todd gives a warning snarl that makes him shiver a bit. "I'm not rushing this; he's gonna be sore enough tomorrow even with the prep. You want him in that kinda pain, you leave me out of it."
"That's enough, boys," Grayson says, sharper this time. "Behave."
Todd snorts, but neither of them say anything more.
Grayson's fingers pet through his hair, soothing more than demanding his attention, and he allows himself to sink somewhat into that, to ignore all hints of danger from the two siblings at his back. Grayson would not allow Todd or Drake to harm him seriously, at least not while he is pinned like this. He does not have to worry about the possibility of getting caught in the middle of a potential battle between them.
Todd's tongue reintroduces itself, sliding wet and slick between the two fingers, and not even the accompaniment of Drake's knife can stop him from moaning. Grayson laughs above him, sounding just slightly delighted, and tugs a little bit at his hair with the hand not holding him in place. Then Grayson pushes a little farther into his mouth, brushes more noticeably against the back of his throat, and he finds himself swallowing on automatic simply so he doesn't choke.
It's easier to manage now that he understands the sensation. It's not yet familiar, and it's certainly not entirely comfortable, but he is pleasing Grayson and that is enough to make up for the slowly growing ache in his jaw and neck. It's nothing he can't handle, and he can prove that. He's had to prove himself every step of his life, so he's hardly going to fail now. He refuses to.
If Drake and Todd were pleasing enough to be kept when Grayson took them the first time, then he should be able to impress as well. He has not considered himself better than either of them for some time, at least not in terms of pure skill, but he is close enough to equal for the difference not to matter. He will not fail; he will take anything Grayson demands. Even if that places him at their mercy.
Todd adds a third finger, and he rocks back against it, anticipates the sting across his back and shifts slightly away from it, arching his back down. A mistake, in hindsight, because it makes the rest of his cuts pull and sting anew, and he has to curl his fingers into the sheets not to jerk too badly at the pain. Drake's hand slips underneath his chest, pressing upwards to force him to straighten his back again. He resists for a moment, to attempt to reinforce that he is not just Drake's plaything, and then allows himself to be moved. It is hardly any more painful than arching was, and all of it is offset by Todd's fingers.
He finds himself agreeing with Grayson's assessment. Todd, despite his tendency to be a blunt instrument instead of actually using his skill, does have very talented fingers.
Todd finally grips his thigh for a moment, fingers slowing to a gentle rock of motion, and says, "Alright, he's ready."
Drake's knife slips away from him, metal leaving one last stinging cut along his ribs as it goes. He can feel the bed shift beneath him as Drake moves, and is fairly certain that Drake shifts down to sit or kneel near Todd, if he's reading the distribution of weight correctly. Todd doesn't move, apart from that slow roll of fingers inside of him, but Grayson slows as well. The fingers in his hair loosen, before Grayson is tugging him back and pulling away in the same moment.
He works his jaw as Grayson slips from his mouth, leaving his eyes closed for a few moments as he tries to steady his breathing. The taste lingers on his tongue, but it is still not as unpleasant as he'd considered it might be. In fact, apart from the ache of his jaw being stretched wide and held apart, and the slight soreness in his throat from his repeated, restrained gags, it was an altogether pleasant experience.
Although…
He opens his eyes, and is confronted with the fact that Grayson, while now undeniably hard, does not look as though he was actually close to any sort of release. Surely, Grayson found some pleasure in him, right?
Grayson strokes his scalp, letting go of his hair but only to slide that hand down and grip his jaw instead. Grayson is smiling, focus centered purely on him, and he can't help but relax beneath it. A thumb swipes over his bottom lip, and then Grayson comments, "You should see the way your mouth looks, little prince. We'll have to do this in front of a mirror next time."
"I think that's a lovely idea," Drake comments, with a wicked edge to his voice. "We could have one as a full wall. Maximum efficiency, you know."
"Voyeur," Todd mocks, and then there's another sharp hiss, and the fingers within him slip out faster than is particularly comfortable. He inhales sharply, as Todd snaps, "Little fucking bastard."
He jerks when there's the clear sound of bodies colliding, tries to turn and look, but Grayson's fingers tighten and keep him looking up. "Easy," Grayson murmurs, underneath the sound of Todd's grunts and Drake's hisses, and the unmistakable sound of fabric ripping. "This is your first time, isn't it, Dami?" He can't speak with the way Grayson's fingers are holding him, so he does his best to nod instead. Grayson's smile widens.
He's let go, and then Grayson is easing off of the turtleneck pinning his arms, slipping around him with fluid grace and trailing a hand along his side as he goes, as if making sure he can track the moment. He swallows, and it takes a moment for him to gather enough to push his hands together and get the binding fabric off of him. It feels almost strange to be free and able to move again.
Todd yelps, and now that he is free to look he does so, down at where Todd has Drake on his back, a hand around his throat. Yet it is Drake that is smirking, and Todd's arms that are bleeding from several clearly fresh cuts, blood vivid against his paler skin. As he watches, Todd releases his grip, pulling back despite the wild tinge to his expression. It's only then that he can see the way that Drake's blade is pressed to Todd's navel, at the gap between the bottom of the tank top and the top of the equally black sweatpants.
Then Grayson's hands are on his hips, pulling him up higher on his knees and drawing his attention again. Thumbs rub firm circles in against the bone, and Grayson asks, "Ready for the main event, little prince?"
He shivers.
