Work Text:
The first thing MacTavish sees when entering his office is the gift box left blatantly on his desk. He lets the door close and ensures the blinds are drawn to be certain he is enclosed in the safety of his office, before closing his eyes and letting out the careful, measured breath that has been building up since he woke to an overly excited phone call.
There are a few options for how this got here, and he isn’t a particular fan of any. One: some arse-licking private has somehow found him out and is trying to weasel their way into his good graces. Two: his own team has remembered the date, and then conveniently forgotten when MacTavish told them not to fucking do anything for it. Three: a few specific someones from his own team have remembered, and are far more experienced in disregarding his orders.
There are no other signs of breaking and entering besides the gift, wrapped in golden shiny wrapping paper that speaks suspiciously of Roach, and signed only with a lipstick mark that speaks suspiciously of Ghost.
The thought to just throw it aside – because he explicitly did not want anything for his birthday – lingers for only a moment. Curiosity wins out. By a large margin, when he feels how heavy it weighs in his hands.
They’ve nicked some fancy ribbon to tie it off with and MacTavish doesn’t have the bloody patience to untangle the knot Riley has made. He takes a knife to the whole thing. The wrapping paper tears and falls in tatters on his desk. At least it crumbles into satisfying balls before he throws them into the bin.
He opens the box inside and the building exasperation leaves with a much easier, lighter breath.
Two dog collars look back at him. Strong leather, heavy metal buckles, the types meant to hold back hounds or attack dogs. The heart-shaped charms dangling from the front are incongruous, yet entirely fitting, because MacTavish wouldn’t be able to place which one of them came up with the idea. But the thought to get his name engraved on it was definitely from both of them. Apparently, MacTavish has left them unmarked for too long.
The gift is better than what he feared, and one he will keep in the top drawer until the day is over – and one he will quite happily take with him once the day is done, despite his initial reservations. A birthday on an inconsequential Friday doesn’t mean there’s not work to be done. It means everyone is trying to get him to respond to meaningless emails so they can go trouble-free into the weekend. With the perpetual reminder of the collars lurking at the back of his mind, MacTavish imagines his weekend will be filled with trouble.
The first meeting of the day is bright and early – and held in a windowless, stuffy, soundproofed room, with chairs that can barely hold his weight because state secrets, apparently, are not worth proper furniture.
He rolls the chair into a box. A small box that should not be here – in a secured room that was locked before he entered. He shouldn’t even be fucking surprised to find wrapping paper glinting back at him, the box knocked over between his feet. The pretty, picturesque bow tied on top makes him roll his eyes.
He can’t fucking roll his eyes hard enough when Captain Reeves notices it and insists they start the meeting by singing him happy birthday. Somewhere, his fucking dogs are laughing themselves to death. MacTavish isn’t bloody laughing when he has to carry the present the whole way back to his office with no way to hide it from the eyes of passers-by.
It must be some kind of inappropriate offence to have given him on work grounds – albeit indirectly – several bottles of lube.
Strawberry flavoured, pink coloured, with pieces of glitter inside. A whole menagerie. Shit MacTavish would believe exists in the first place only because there are customers as insane as Riley to buy it.
“Sir?” Worm peeks his head in. MacTavish slams the top drawer shut to force the bottles to fit. They don’t fit. The drawer doesn’t close, not entirely. So the metallic glint of a collar glares at him from the corner of his eye as he waves Worm inside.
“Finished these. And I brought Roach’s too, since he said he’s busy with…” Worm waves his hand vaguely. And notably does not say what Roach is apparently busy with. Nothing good, certainly.
He deposits several folders’ worth of papers on MacTavish’s desk, and lingers. “I know you said not to say it, but it wouldn’t feel right, so,” Worm goes for a bright smile that is entirely out of place, that wilts under MacTavish’s look, yet still he says it, “happy birthday.”
“Thanks,” MacTavish grunts. “Dismissed.”
Worm skips out to leave him with a new pile of work. Two piles, when he separates it. And with Roach’s significantly heavier. Because he’s stuffed a card between the pages, crammed into an envelope that’s bursting at the edges from whatever he’s fucking shoved in there.
MacTavish makes himself ignore it. Makes himself ignore the almost-closed drawer as well. Makes himself ignore the bin that’s too full of wrapping paper. Makes himself ignore the clock ticking faster than he can work through all of this, and slower than certain someones can hatch up new ideas.
Worm’s pile of reports barely takes up any of his time. And by the time he makes it to Roach’s, he only skims the pages to get to the indent in the middle where the envelope is. There’s no ribbon or wrapping paper, but the seal is marked with several kiss marks, and a notable wet spot where someone drooled too much after sealing it with their tongue.
MacTavish tears it open. A card slips out first. The most generic shit that’s sold at the checkout in grocery stores, a birthday wish written in bubbly letters and sparkling colours. MacTavish almost fears it’s going to start singing at him when he opens it. At least it stays fortunately quiet, although the pre-printed birthday wish is garish enough on its own.
The thicker booklet inside struggles against the confines of the envelope, so MacTavish tears the whole thing apart and lobs that in the bin too. The janitor’s going to have a bloody field day.
It’s a voucher book. Pastel pink and decorated with hearts like it’s supposed to be some romantic Valentine’s gift idea. There are dozens of pages inside for custom vouchers, ready to be torn out and presented to be redeemed. Every single one is filled out.
From: Lt and Sgt
To: Cpt
For value of: one orgasm
Valid thru: E.O.D.
The handwriting is Roach’s, though the lipstick marks on the envelope were undoubtedly Riley. The consistent letting through the whole fucking booklet corroborates it. Half way through Riley must’ve got jealous and started drawing bloody hearts on the margins.
How much sex do they want him to have? Enough to use up all the lube they got him, apparently. And by the end of that, the collars will be worn in. Especially when he buckles them tight enough to have them digging red marks into their throats, so the afterimage lingers even after they take the collars off. Not that they’ll be taking them off any time soon, when there’s a whole weekend of trouble ahead.
The prospect is fucking distracting him from his actual job. His job that still has several working hours left in the day, and which is being purposefully and insidiously side-tracked even when he hasn’t caught a single glimpse of either Ghost nor Roach today.
He needs a fucking smoke. A quick one. One of those cheap, bitter cigarettes from the pack Ghost always forgets in MacTavish’s pockets, as if they both don’t know it’s only so Ghost can ask him for them and then preen when MacTavish places the cigarette between Ghost’s lips.
The usual smoking corner just outside is suspiciously void of them. But MacTavish will do them the mercy of not wasting his time to track them down. And because that might mean the speck of excitement that currently resides as only vague, anticipatory tension in his groin might grow to become a bigger problem.
It grows into a bigger problem when he gets back to his office. The hook where he would hang his jacket is already filled. The wrapping is a shoddy job, more tape than paper. The string attached to it to hang it from the hook is precarious.
It rattles when MacTavish picks it up. The chain inside must have been difficult to wrap – and now it’s difficult to unwrap because of all the bloody tape. MacTavish cuts it open to unfold two leashes. A thin metal chain but a comfortable leather grip, clasps that will attach to the collars. It fits comfortably in his hand. The length is enough to easily pull taut if one were to, say, kneel at his feet.
Of course his boys would be clever enough to figure out the appropriate length. Clever, clearly, but picky about their motivations. If only MacTavish could get them to focus on work with this same level of enthusiasm.
The desk drawer is overflowing. One of the bottles of lube lodged itself on the inside so he has to rattle the whole thing to even pull it out again. The leashes go one level below. God knows how he’ll get all this to his room at the end of the day.
He needs a fucking coffee. It’s barely past noon and he already feels at the end of his rope. And tugged inexplicably towards another rope, if his gaze straying to the drawers is any fucking indication. His inbox is almost as crammed with unread emails as his desk is.
The kitchen nook is blessedly empty.
The corner where the coffee machine awaits is horrifically not.
The fucking bastards have left a whole gift bag sitting there, waiting for him, with his name written on the edge. Simply the neat letters declaring Cpt. John MacTavish on the top would scare anyone else off from poking at it. They’re enough to have him rolling his eyes in exasperation. And have him mildly fearing a repercussion that’s a lot less fun and significantly more official than anything MacTavish has in mind for the brats that set this out here.
The top edge is stapled shut so he can’t peek inside. It’s stapled shut with the whole pack of staples so it’s a fucking fight to tear the bag open. The paper rips down the side, and the strings get tangled, and the whole thing threatens to upend itself onto the floor when MacTavish pulls too hard. The coffee machine whirs loud enough to cover the sound of his struggle.
A few of the staples break open and clatter over the floor when he finally breaks it open. MacTavish lets out a sigh. The smell of bitter coffee is sweet on his tongue. The sight inside is even sweeter.
Nothing that could get him in trouble. And something that, maybe, might even get his brats out of trouble, too.
A small collection of Cuban cigars greets him. The glint of a dark bottle of whisky winks at him. High-end stuff. The kind that will burn on a swallow, and the kind that will smoulder on an exhale.
MacTavish returns to his office with the gift bag swinging from one hand and his coffee held in the other. He makes sure to glare at anyone he passes on the way into silence before they can even think of congratulating him.
Yet, this gift doesn’t leave the drawers any emptier. At least the coffee will help him empty out the inbox, for once. And he’ll need it to be empty. His weekend is full of trouble, after all.
***
The solution to his jammed desk is to stuff everything into the gift bag to bring it back in relative secrecy. He times it so it’s late enough in the day that most have already taken the opportunity to go off base. There’s nothing suspicious in the lead-up to the evening, or when cleaning his office of coffee mugs, or on the walk to the barracks – which is all in itself inherently suspicious.
He opens the door to his room to the sight of Ghost and Roach tussling on the floor. They freeze at the sight of him. Then jolt into action to cover their bare selves with their arms when the door falls shut behind him.
“You weren’t supposed to come back so early,” Roach says, a little whiny in the voice.
“Close your eyes,” Ghost snaps. MacTavish does. He lets the gift bag drop by the door by his feet, and listens to the shuffling and knocking of knees against the ground as they start scrambling again.
“Like this,” Ghost hisses, a sharp whisper that is undoubtedly accompanied by a harshly pointed finger. And a shove, judging by the oomph Roach lets out.
“But we were supposed to be—” Roach cuts himself off, lest he give their secret away. A secret MacTavish will let them keep for a minute longer.
“No, we weren’t.”
“But we said—“
“That was just brainstorming!”
“You agreed to kneel!”
“Good to know,” MacTavish muses, “that you can’t get along even for this.”
“Shush,” Ghost says, brat that he is. Based on the footsteps, it’s him that clambers across the room.
“Are your eyes still closed?” Roach asks. MacTavish raises a brow. “I mean, you’re not peeking?”
“I’m not peeking.”
“You’ll ruin it if you peek,” Ghost whinges. MacTavish turns his head towards him, entirely unimpressed – but eyes still held shut, just to humour them.
“Okay. Okay,” Roach repeats. His knees knock against the floor as he must get himself into position. Or rocks himself in place, stepping back and forth on his knees to ensure he’s positioned correctly, as he’s wont to do in any situation he’s in. “Okay. You can open your eyes now.”
MacTavish stalls for a moment – because Roach gets all jittery with anticipation, and Ghost likes the thrill of it, so MacTavish will give them the second before opening his eyes properly, blinking against the light.
They’ve both wrapped themselves up in a long stretch of red ribbon, wide and silky and shiny, coiled around their arms, hips, chests, ending with a bow tied at their throats. Roach kneels in front of him, back straight and hands behind him as if he’s standing at attention, eyes wide and sincere gawking up at him. Ghost lies on the bed, on his back, splayed out as if on a platter to show off how he’s bound himself. His knees are still red and sore from wriggling himself over, because the ribbon binds his legs together – and his arms, probably, stuck underneath himself.
Roach’s eyes widen again to glimmer when MacTavish steps up to him. He tugs at the bow at his neck, and feels Roach swallow.
“This is definitely the best present of today.”
Roach’s mouth wobbles to smother the grin trying to surface. MacTavish cups his face and presses his thumb into his cheek – a tacit permission to let Roach simper up at him.
“You can unwrap us, sir.”
Roach tilts his head back to reveal his pretty neck. MacTavish pulls the ribbon. It comes apart smoothly, silken ribbon sliding over pale skin to fall apart, spiralling downwards over his throat to reveal the black ink on Roach’s collarbone.
MacTavish lets the ribbon go. The loose end dangles at Roach’s stomach, but it’s inconsequential compared to what MacTavish brushes his fingers over. His palm wraps around Roach’s throat. It leaves his thumb pressed into the artery, pressed into the tattoo of his name.
Roach’s throat works under his hold. “It’s temporary,” he says, a little choked, yet listing into his grip nonetheless. “I couldn’t get an appointment in time.”
MacTavish can’t help but scoff. He looks over at Ghost, lounging on the bed, eyes half-lidded following the blush rising on Roach’s face.
“You two spent your time on that stupid voucher book and not an actual appointment?”
“Yeah,” Ghost says, easily. Roach swallows underneath his palm. MacTavish’s name looks fucking good on him. If they’re not going to get it tattooed properly, then MacTavish will fucking book an appointment for them, drag Roach there by the collar, and hold him in fucking place until the ink is written there permanently.
Though he could drag Roach there by something better than just the collar of his shirt.
“Stay.” He points at the ground where Roach is kneeling before turning back. Roach lets out a small sound – one MacTavish can’t scold since he never ordered him to be silent. Usually orders the opposite, wrenching Roach’s mouth open until his throat is raw from moaning, and his face red from self-consciousness.
It’s allowed this time. He can’t deny that he’s excited himself as he picks out the collar from the pile of presents he’s collected over the day. The leather and metal are heavy in his palms, yet Roach tilts his head back to expose his neck. MacTavish closes it tight – tight enough it chokes Roach when he tests it by shoving a finger between the collar and his throat. Roach swallowing makes the fit even more snug. The chain leash completes the image. He slumps like his strings have been cut when MacTavish steps back. And then perks up again when MacTavish says, “This was a good pick.”
“I knew it would be,” Ghost says, all proud and smug.
“I helped,” Roach quickly chimes in. He leans into MacTavish’s hand petting his cheek like a dog asking for scritches.
MacTavish takes the second collar and brings it to Ghost, wrapped up in red ribbon and laying on the bed. Tied up tightly in a tricky predicament of his own making, legs stuck together and arms bound behind his back. The pretty bow on his neck flutters invitingly when Ghost tilts his head back.
“Pull hard,” Roach says. Ghost’s wide-eyed, eager stare turns into a narrowed glare and a hiss.
“Don’t tell him.”
“But you wrapped it like that so he’d pull hard.”
“Shush,” MacTavish cuts them off. “Dogs don’t talk without an order.”
He can watch in real time as a flush takes over Roach’s face, spreading all the way down to his neck, over the collarbones, darkening around the temporary tattoo. Ghost, on the other hand, has returned to gawking up at him, biting his lips to suppress a grin at having MacTavish’s attention on himself.
Despite their squabbling, he does pull the ribbon hard. It slides around his throat, gets stuck around the shoulders before Ghost lifts himself up to let it free. There’s no effect as it unravels from around his arms, except for the faint red lines they’ve left on his pale skin. So he pulls on it again, yanks where it sticks to him around the hips – when Ghost suddenly gasps, eyes squeezed shut. He breathes harshly through his nose when MacTavish pauses. Then bites his teeth into his lip when he pulls again.
The ribbon is wrapped tightly around Ghost’s cock, tied underneath his balls, so each pull squeezes it. The material is smooth, but nowhere near smooth enough for such a firm, intricate knot to be gentle, dragging against the sensitive skin of his shaft, pulled tauter and firmer than any cock ring MacTavish could have him wear.
“I think I’ll leave this as is, actually,” MacTavish muses to himself, just loud enough for Ghost to hear, so MacTavish can see the glint of a thrill in his eyes – the exhilaration of leaving himself entirely in MacTavish’s hands, even if it hurts. They all know it’s going to hurt.
“Up.” MacTavish crooks his fingers as he holds the collar out. It forces Ghost to lift himself by his abdominals, legs still tightly bound together, to present his bare neck for the collar to close around. “I think I’ll just use this instead.”
Innocent words, but Ghost groans when he threads the free end of the ribbon through the buckle on the collar instead, then wraps it around his fist to test the hold. It jerks Ghost towards him, squeezes his cock simultaneously, and gets a choked grunt out of him too.
“Down here,” he orders both of them. It’s a rattle of knees on the hard flooring as they rush to follow, faces tilted up – like eager fucking dogs. Drooling dogs, when MacTavish pushes his trousers down to fist his cock, one slow slide of his hand like he isn’t already hard and his boys aren’t already salivating.
Might as well put their presents to use then. The pink-coloured bottle is the top one in the bag that he happens to grab – strawberry flavoured, sticky and glistening as he lets it drip over his length.
“C’mon,” he drags them forwards by the leashes, wrapped together around his palm, “get to work. This is the prep you’re getting.”
“I don’t think that’s how lube works, sir,” Roach says, though he’s listing forwards all by himself anyway. Ghost already has his tongue out.
“But you got strawberry so you could lick it off, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Ghost murmurs, words muffled where he tilts forwards to catch a drip on his tongue before it falls. He follows it to the base of MacTavish’s cock, tongue pressed flat and mouth hot sliding over his length, enthusiastic as he’s slobbering, practically making out with his cock.
This one might have been Ghost’s choice, but Roach is no less enthusiastic about it – the yank on his leash is mostly performative. Roach licks up the other side, timid kitten licks to Ghost’s broad swipes of the tongue.
Trapped between their two mouths, it’s almost as hot as sheathing himself in one of their holes or grinding between their thighs. Though considerably wetter, even as they lick the strawberry lube off like it’s a dessert, so it’s only their shared saliva dripping down the length.
MacTavish rewards them with a low, pleased hum. It reinvigorates them, has them both suddenly sucking firmer, eyes half-lidded and barely balanced on their spread knees – because his boys are trained well enough to know not to use their hands when MacTavish asked for their mouths.
Their tongues meet at the top of his cock to lick up the last of the strawberry, both cleaning the same place until they end up licking over each other, the taste of the lube and MacTavish shared between them in a kiss that’s less kiss and more trading saliva.
MacTavish readjusts them with a yank on the leashes. Ghost grunts, body shuddering. Roach whines, listing forwards. Both their mouths end up at the head of his cock. Both tongues curl under to taste the heft of it. The tip is surrounded in wet heat, and the little grumbles they both make to get closer.
Ghost’s breath fans over his length, “Let me.”
“But I—”
Ghost rubs his cock along his cheek, yet narrows his eyes at Roach over it. “I want to.”
“You already get to so often— mph—!”
MacTavish fists his hand in Roach’s hair to pull him down on his cock. His throat bulges with it, jaw struggling, eyes wet already. It shuts him up – and shuts Ghost up, who knows better than to argue with MacTavish and presses his mouth to the base of his cock instead. Roach won’t reach there anyway, gagging at barely half the length. His lips will be bruised and his cheeks shiny from tears, because no matter how much MacTavish drags him down the length of his cock, he can’t open his throat up like Ghost. It’s a different type of tightness, how he struggles, in comparison to the eager swipes of Ghost’s tongue.
Between the two of them, there cannot be any trace of a taste left besides his natural musk. Between the two of them, his cock is dripping with spit. And Roach gets wonderfully tight when he’s struggling to catch his breath.
MacTavish drags him off by his hair. Ghost gets one last sly lick in before sitting back on his heels.
“On the bed.”
Roach scrambles to obey, the chain of his leash rattling as he practically throws himself onto his knees, face pressed into the sheets, and arse lifted up to present for him.
“What the fuck is this?” MacTavish spreads him open, thumbing at the colourful lube dripping from Roach’s hole where he’s stretched himself in preparation. It’s got pieces of glitter inside, glittering against the light, more trickling out of him as his hole clenches in anticipation.
“It’s pretty,” Roach argues. “And it won’t leave a mess.”
“And what about the whole pile you left me?” MacTavish nods at the heap of gifts, at least half of which are different variations on lube flavours.
“That’s for next time,” Ghost says, shuffling closer on his knees to heel beside him, forearms supporting him on the bed like he’s considering climbing up there too. “You still need to use all the vouchers.”
MacTavish rolls his eyes. “You and your fucking vouchers.”
“The vouchers would be for fucking me, yeah.”
Ghost grins blatantly in the face of MacTavish’s look. He’s grinning a little less when MacTavish’s palm strikes him across the cheek.
A firm, clean hit that makes his head snap to the side. Roach winces in sympathy. Ghost merely groans. He works his jaw, prods at his reddening cheek where a handprint starts blooming.
“Stay,” MacTavish orders him. “And you.” He knocks Roach’s knees wider apart, pulling at his rim where that glittering fucking lube shines back at him. He’d tell him off, except that his cock is achingly hard, and he’s been waiting for this moment for the entire bloody day. “Fucking hell.”
He wraps both leashes securely around his palm, spreads Roach’s arse open, and pushes into him.
Sometimes it feels as if his hole struggles more than his throat to accept him, walls clenching and pulsing around his length as if MacTavish has left him woefully unattended. Roach groans, digs his hands into the bedcovers, hole tight and sucking him in.
MacTavish gives him a scant moment to get used to it – especially after he already stretched himself. Probably edged each other with Ghost to get ready, after snickering over MacTavish and the gifts they’ve been hiding. He fucks balls deep into his arse, then grips Roach’s hip tight to pull him into the next thrust.
His hole is tight, a firm grip surrounding him even with the copious lube making the slide slick. Slick enough it’s easy to slide back in, tight enough he still has to put power behind his hips to carve a place for himself in Roach’s hole, clenching around him like his body can’t decide what to do about being gaped so wide.
The leashes wrapped around his palm pull taut, fall under slight slack, then jostle them both by the throat again. It leaves Ghost breathless and gasping beside MacTavish, knelt by the bed with his forehead pressed into the mattress, body jerking and twitching every time MacTavish’s hand shifts on Roach’s hip. He’s drooling a wet spot into the bedcovers. Writhes in pain and then fucking drools more about it, tongue fallen from his mouth like he’s a panting dog before he bites down on the sheets like MacTavish won’t pull tighter to make up for it.
Ghost whines. Roach whimpers. The wet sound of his hole being stretched open on MacTavish’s cock is louder than both – which merely makes both whine and whimper louder.
MacTavish twists his hand to wrap both leashes one more time around his palm. Roach’s next moan gets cut off. Ghost’s entire body lists until he’s half leant against MacTavish’s leg, throat exposed as if that will give him any relief on his poor flushed cock.
“Captain—” Roach gasps. His expression is twisted up in barely restrained pleasure, hands balled into the sheets to plead, “Sir, please, can I—?”
Roach whines at the stretch, flinches like his arse still isn’t used to taking him, acts like it’s always the first time he’s being fucked. But he pleads so pretty every time, breathless and desperate. Begging like he can’t keep himself under control anymore, yet looking back at MacTavish with such ending loyalty like he’d fucking die before he came without permission.
“Please, please, please—” His hole pulses with each beg. His body would be shaking if he weren’t holding himself so tense – which undoubtedly makes the harshness MacTavish fucks into him with all the more sensitive. The leash can’t be helping, the way it cuts off his breath, the way it makes Ghost groan and grunt and choke.
“Go ahead,” MacTavish says, and forces himself deep into him the moment Roach’s eyes roll back. Like the last thread snapping, his cock pulses over the bedding, insides clenching to squeeze around MacTavish, which just makes him mewl again.
“Captain—” Ghost’s voice is terribly breathless. On the ground, he curls into himself, hips twitching as he comes from nothing but his cock being squeezed by the ribbon. “I’m— ‘M sorry—”
The ribbon tightening around his cock again cuts him off. He cries out, tears welling on his eyeline, darkening his lashes.
“Fucking dog,” MacTavish scoffs under his breath, as if it doesn’t have his cock twitching in Roach’s arse and hands gripping his hips tight to pull him back again.
Roach squeezes his eyes shut, but he knows better than to complain about more attention – even if it does leave him struggling to catch his breath and violently shuddering at any touch to his skin. Which means he shudders doubly as violent at any touch in his hole. MacTavish doesn’t make it easy for him. No reason to, when this is his birthday present after all – a hot, wet hole to bury himself in, clenching around him to make it extra nice. And with additional entertainment, getting to pull Ghost’s leash almost as if accidentally, every pained whimper of his simply collateral damage.
MacTavish groans deep in his chest as he buries himself to the hilt, filling Roach up with the thick ropes of cum that’s been practically begging for release for the entire day. Roach’s whines turn into a strangled moan, even as the flush spreads lower across his chest.
“Thank you, sir,” he slurs into the sheets. Fucked out and dazed, though they’ve barely just started. So MacTavish extends the moment, allows himself a few more grinds to feel Roach’s overstimulated shivers coaxing the last drops of cum from him.
He draws back, and stops short at the mess of fucking glitter stuck to his cock.
“Is this shit even body safe?”
Roach hums a vague confirmation where he’s collapsed on the bed. “Body safe and edible and ethical and all that.”
“I’m not sure it’s ethical,” Ghost chimes in, breathless, head fallen on his forearms and a sizeable puddle between his knees. Hairs stick to the back of his neck with sweat. The collar has dug a faint red mark into the side of his throat.
“Christ,” MacTavish mutters at the state of him. He picks out the red ribbon coiled around his hand specifically to tug at Ghost. He winces like it’s an electrical shock. “Clean your mess up.” He pushes Ghost down by his head until he bows low as if in supplication to start licking his own cum up.
“And if this is edible, then you clean up yours.” He pulls Roach down from the bed and onto his knees, slapping his softening cock onto Roach’s face. The sticky glitter smears over the bridge of his nose, which looks fucking ridiculous but rightly deserved.
Roach readjusts, yet stops with his tongue out, when he notices Ghost.
“Woah,” his eyes suddenly clear up, “just from that?”
“Yeah, try it yourself. Get your cock choked out,” Riley bites back with a narrowed glare, the sharpness of which is barely diminished by his position.
MacTavish cuts it short before it can get any further; pushes Ghost’s head down into the pool of his cum by his boot on the back of his head, and fists Roach’s hair to pull him onto his cock.
They lap in near synchrony, even though they know where to keep their eyes – on MacTavish, to ensure they’re following orders correctly, to wait for the next one, to catch his eye for a lick of attention.
Roach closes his lips tightly around his length and slowly pulls off, swallowing heavily as his lips purse around the tip. He ducks his head to catch MacTavish’s length on his cheek – has picked something up from Ghost’s obscenities, the way he nearly nuzzles against his balls.
“Should I get you ready for Ghost?”
“Depends on how generous you’re feeling.”
Roach lets saliva drip from his mouth. He follows the path it draws with his tongue.
“He’s been good,” he excuses for Ghost, who is cheek down and trying to lap up his own cum. He’s made good headway, except for the part that is smeared across his face. “He organised most of this. If it was up to me, I’d have just got you, like, flowers.”
The soft slide of Roach’s lips has him firming up again. The steady, languorous way he takes the easier half into his mouth has that coil of pleasure twisting in his gut.
“I didn’t need anything.”
“But it’s nice, isn’t it?” Roach slows to stare up at MacTavish with those big innocent eyes of his. He waits for an answer because he needs the praise – even a lick of it. MacTavish grunts in agreement and Roach grins before taking him down his throat until he chokes.
And MacTavish can’t deny that it is nice. If they hadn’t done any of this, he’d have still called them here to fuck them anyway. But this is certainly more fun. An exciting prelude to the gift he was planning to make for himself. Maybe his boys wouldn’t call it as exciting this whole show they’ve set up – but it doesn’t matter what they think when they’ve passed out from coming too much.
“Ghost,” MacTavish orders, and cups Roach’s cheek to draw him off his cock. “Up.” He nods him on the bed. “Did you use the same lube?”
Ghost hesitates, halfway. “Maybe?”
He lifts himself up onto his stomach, then rolls onto his back, one cheek smeared with cum and the rest just flushed red. His legs are still bound tightly with the ribbon, so he can’t do much to hide himself when MacTavish grabs his ankles and lifts them up.
His hole is tight despite the lube, and there’s no way to spread him open with his legs bound – a predicament MacTavish isn’t going to free him from. But Ghost groans loud enough to hear through the bloody door when MacTavish sheathes himself inside – one slow roll of his hips to make room for himself, followed by a rougher thrust to force the rest of him open.
The specks of glitter have already stuck to his cock, but for the moment it’s inconsequential, when Ghost’s arse grips him so well, when he makes such pretty noises from being fucked open, his inner walls struggling around the girth.
Roach kneels by his side, cheek pressed MacTavish’s leg like a sated dog. He watches MacTavish’s cock sawing in and out of Ghost’s hole and shudders like he’s getting off himself, listing forwards as if to add his mouth to the mix, lick his cum from Ghost’s hole before he’s even spilled.
Ghost’s legs tense and flex in MacTavish’s grip, twitching and kicking as if he wants to move. He flails with his hands to make up for it, creasing the entire fucking bed with how he pulls on the sheets. His cock keeps drooling in its ribbon prison, the ribbon entirely soaked and ruined.
But he makes such pretty noises – prettier the more ruined he becomes. He whimpers and whines like a kicked dog, grits his teeth and tenses his jaw but it doesn’t help him any.
Doesn’t help but to make him tighter, which makes MacTavish fuck into him harder to carve a place out for himself between his tensing muscles, shape his body to be his personal cocksleeve – as if they both aren’t already, but it’s good to keep up the routine, frequent maintenance, not to let them forget it.
Ghost tilts his head back, so the tears slipping from his eyes roll down into his hairline. He arches himself upwards as if that will save him, offers himself up so well for the taking. Against his side, Roach sucks sharp breaths in like it hurts him too much to even watch the shade of red Riley’s arse is turning from the harsh thrusts MacTavish fucks into him with.
He makes it hard enough to ring out loud in the room, loud they’ll be able to hear it through the fucking walls. Buries himself to the hilt and then deeper yet, bends Riley’s legs forwards to ensure he’s as far as he can be as he comes with a grunt. Riley whimpers like it’s still too much, as if there isn’t enough space left inside him to take all of his cum. But he’ll make space. And he’ll make it gladly.
Riley is panting, lips bitten red and wet, cheeks flushed, by the time MacTavish finally pulls out. His hole is left gaping. Roach makes a strangled noise as if his own still aches too.
MacTavish gives Ghost a breath before he steps back and drops his legs. “Come here and clean this shit up.”
It seems like an effort for Ghost to inhale a full breath, and even more an effort to lift himself up. He rolls off the bed onto the floor, mouth open and panting like a proper hound. With his legs bound tight, he has to crawl on just his arms – MacTavish takes a step or two back farther, just to watch his arms tremble and legs drag along behind him.
He knows the rules, doesn’t even try to use his hands, but adjusts his head to catch his cock onto his cheek, then his lips, licking with the flat of his tongue up the length until he gets to the tip where he takes it into his mouth. Roach presses against his side, shoulders against Riley to make room for himself to mouth at his balls, licking up the sweat and remnants of glitter and Ghost’s saliva dripping down his length.
Ghost’s breathing isn’t entirely stable still, yet he’s no qualms with choking himself on his cock, lips a firm suction, tongue working overtime as if it’s another little gift to give to MacTavish – or to make up for the fucking glitter. Not that there’s much left of it, with how diligent of a job both his dogs are doing. But he’s not going to push them off prematurely, when they’re half-lidded and blushing pretty in the face.
Their drool drips from him, mats down the hair at his crotch, and their mouths move to encroach on each other. Still, despite the flushed, wretched state of his crotch and Roach’s obvious shiver at the slightest hint of a touch, Ghost tilts his head back to ask, “One more?”
“Still haven’t had enough?”
“Nuh-uh.” Ghost covers his greedy simper behind MacTavish’s cock. Roach mirrors the sentiment with big begging eyes.
“Fucking sluts.” MacTavish scoffs to cover the fondness.
“I think it’s fair, considering all the effort we put in,” Ghost argues.
“Aye? And made a mess of my bed while you’re at it.”
“That was collateral damage.”
“Collateral?”
“Mhm, it was a necessary casualty—”
MacTavish cuts him off by shoving him down onto his cock. Keeps his grip on Ghost’s hair firm before Ghost even shakes his head to get him to tug harder, acting like he’d want to be anywhere else.
“Only one way to shut you off isn’t there?”
Ghost whines something. Probably an argument that he’d spout only for the sake of arguing. Way he acts, there’s no place he’d rather be but with a cock down his throat. So MacTavish will keep him there – and won’t fucking care for the way he struggles for breath, lips stretched thin and throat working to gasp in scant air.
“Roach,” MacTavish says, and he perks up at being addressed, “there’re two boxes in the bottom drawer. Get them for me, will you?”
He makes his tone almost kindly, just to hear the affronted grunt Ghost makes in indignance. Then tugs harder, to make sure that tear slips from his waterline and slides down his cheek.
“Yes, sir.” Roach quickly crawls over to the desk, careful with everything he touches since he usually isn’t allowed there – but MacTavish is busy with a brat here.
He didn’t think his two boys would do anything for the occasion. Nothing this grand, at least. And he didn’t want anything either but a calm, relaxing evening, for everything to fall in line, and no messes to ruin his plan for an equally calm weekend.
But this is as good a reason as any to bring out his little gift – for himself, for them, who knows.
Roach shuffles back on his knees to hold the boxes out for MacTavish, presenting them on his flat palms. Dark and discreet and removed from their shipping package, but unassuming in Roach’s hands.
MacTavish pushes Ghost off. He stumbles onto his heels gasping and spluttering, spit trickling over his chin and chest heaving. He takes the boxes from Roach and guides him beside Ghost with a gentler hand, fingers carding through his hair and stopping only to press down on the tattoo on his throat before pushing him forwards.
“Turn around.”
They both do. Then realise to bend further at a kick to Roach’s back.
“Properly.”
He pushes Ghost’s head to the ground with his boot, cheek pressed hard to the floor. Roach rushes to mimic his posture, face turned towards Ghost so they can lament in their situation together. Trained for the pose, their backs fall into an arch that leaves their arses up in the air, coloured a fucked red, still faintly indented by the firm knots of the ribbon. It’s twisted all around Ghost’s legs – but it’s no matter, he won’t need his legs anyway.
MacTavish keeps just out of their line of sight as he gets the first vibrator from the box. He drags it through the cum and lube dripping from Ghost’s hole. The silicone must be cool against his heated skin since he gives a flinch that turns to a shudder. The position opens him up, if MacTavish’s cock hadn’t done that already.
He pushes it in. Angles it until Ghost winces, stifles a gasp – but his own cock can’t hide the twitch it gives. MacTavish keeps it pressed against his prostate as he turns it on. Steals but a moment to watch as Ghost’s lashes flutter, eyes rolling back, whole body jolting.
Roach’s eyes are wide watching him. He gives a surprised jolt at the first touch where MacTavish spreads him open. His cum slowly oozes out of him, lube tacky and sticky on the rim. The sound Roach makes is between a squeal and a groan as it settles inside him, pressed against his prostate as firmly as it can – and then firmer when Roach clenches down despite himself at the first sensation of the vibration.
It’s a changing pattern, comes in waves – fast and then faster before suddenly dropping away to a steadier rhythm, until it surprises them with a sharp jolt again. Their hips already sway as if trying to ride something.
“Come here.” MacTavish tugs them by their leashes to lead them back. He lets himself drop onto the desk chair, lounging back, legs spread wide with enough room for both of them. “Get to work.”
It’s a pretty sight, at the end of a long day – his two boys, two dogs, tripping over themselves to fit between his legs and lick off the sweat and musk of the day. Mostly their own spit, at this point, but that doesn’t discourage either of them, tongues flat to drag across his length, except they’re considerably more teary this time around.
Ghost’s breathing turns heavy and laboured though he’s suckling on only the head of his cock, entire body twitching and jolting as the buzzing sound suddenly peaks. Roach buries his face in the crease of MacTavish’s thigh, faintly mouthing at the root of his cock as if he could hide there. His eyes are shut tightly, brows drawn together like it hurts. It doesn’t hurt, not really, not like when MacTavish purposefully makes it hurt, but sometimes too much of a good thing is indistinguishable, especially when both will leave Roach walking lopsided come tomorrow.
“Captain, sir—” Roach gasps, struggling to get the words out. “May I—?”
“Go ahead.”
Like that’s all he needs, Roach comes pathetically over the floor, whimpering and mewling where he presses his face against MacTavish’s stomach, back arching in a way that means he’s clenching around the vibrator.
Ghost’s cock keeps weeping, body convulsing so it’s impossible to tell what’s going on with him except for the sticky puddle he’s leaking in front of him.
“Sir—” Roach pleads wetly, but MacTavish doesn’t reach for the remote. Sits back and watches as the buzzing suddenly peaks and they both jolt in sync, tears squeezed from their waterline.
It’s unrelenting, and Ghost groans like he’s coming dry, which is a feat for how needy he usually is. He blinks his big, wet eyes at MacTavish, silently begging for a break he knows won’t be bestowed, so he takes MacTavish’s steadily hardening cock back into his throat. He gets nowhere near the base, sucking at the tip like trying to distract himself from the vibrations. Beside him, Roach ducks his head to rest his cheek on MacTavish’s thigh – he’ll allow it – and to gasp wetly against his balls.
This pretty little display is the cherry on top of the night. His two boys obedient and teary at his feet, covered in cum, sweat, saliva, and dressed up in their fancy ribbons and collars. Getting his hands on a good dog has that coil of pleasure tightening in his gut almost faster than he means – nearly as intensely as getting his hands on a bad dog who he needs to put into place.
Ghost chokes at a mere drop of precum. Roach tilts his pleading eyes up at him like he’s high off only the scent of his musk.
MacTavish fists Ghost’s hair to pull him down, pushes past the tightness of his choked throat and lets the tight fit of his lips send him over. He finishes into Ghost’s mouth with a low groan, and with his other hand combing through Roach’s hair before he gets too teary-eyed about being left out. They grunt in harmony, muffled groans and whimpers to drag it out, loud enough it covers the sound of the buzzing – almost like it isn’t accidental, how their uncoordinated mouths work to make him empty his balls in Ghost’s mouth.
MacTavish drags Ghost off. “It’s polite to share.”
Ghost’s mouth drops open to show off the cum pooled on his tongue before Roach crashes into him to share the taste between them. They know better than to swallow so quickly, rather trading saliva between their tongues until it’s overflowing, Roach licking the vestiges of the taste from Ghost’s teeth before Ghost steals it from the back of his mouth. They muffle the sound of one another’s whimpering. The vibrators are still buzzing, and they both flinch into each other at what has to be painful stimulation by now.
“Sir,” Roach tries again, said half against Ghost’s mouth, eyes half lidded as if he’s blinded by the sensations.
“We’ll keep them for a bit longer.” MacTavish lounges back, casual and unaffected. Both his boys nod obediently, slumped against each other. Roach’s fingers dig into Ghost’s sides as if to hold on, but the marks it’ll leave is only fair with how Ghost is smearing stickiness over Roach’s thighs, his cock drooling clear fluid.
MacTavish will keep the vibrators going until he bothers to get up and change the sheets. There are spares in the closet for situations exactly like this. And after that, he might just keep them in their arses throughout the whole night too. Turned off, so it’ll be a nice, sharp awakening in the morning when he suddenly switches them on again.
Until then, he’ll make use of the whisky his boys gifted him, pour himself a glass and enjoy the entertainment.