theoldguardkinkmeme | Fills Post #2

Fills Post #2

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This is beautiful and I now have no words. <3

For this prompt: https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/6403.html?thread=2278147#cmt2278147

_________________________________________

Nicky’s hand catches Joe’s eye.

They’re doing the washing and desperately trying to scrub the gore off of several favorite garments. Dabbing gently at the sleeve of a woman’s sweatshirt, Nicky’s hand looks especially broad.

He catches Joe staring.

“What, do I still have blood on my neck?”

Joe swallows. “No. Just, ah…your hands.”

Nicky glances down, then back up at Joe. Joe can tell Nicky knows what he’s thinking by the way his jaw clenches. He flexes his fingers and Joe bites his lip.

Nicky smirks. “This is the part of me you lust for?”

“It is a part of you I haven’t had in some time.” 
Nicky’s pupils dilate when he grasps Joe’s meaning. He lets the sweatshirt drop to the floor and closes the space between them.

“You want me to split you open on my hand?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” Joe hisses.

“Hmm.” Nicky bites his earlobe. “Then you’ll have to earn it.” He pulls away and resumes wiping the viscera from Nile’s hoodie.

“Nicky, how?”

Nicky doesn’t so much as look up. “Patience, my heart,” is all he tells Joe.

———

Nicky avoids him the rest of the afternoon. Joe isn’t even sure where he’s gone off to when he wanders into the kitchen, where Nile is stirring some pasta.

“Not mac and cheese again?” he groans.

“Not for you,” Nile tells him, defensively. “Nicky said you two were going out?”

Joe frowns. “Have you by chance seen Nicky?”

“Last I saw, looked like he was heading for your room.”

Joe thanks her and scurries off.

Their room is unfortunately Nicky-less, but Joe spots a note on the bed.

My love, it reads. Put on your best clothes and meet me at our favorite restaurant. Do not bother with underwear.

Joe’s “best clothes” at this particular safe house are tailored grey trousers and a navy blazer over a button-up. (He takes care to leave the top two buttons undone.)

Nile looks him up and down and whistles when he comes back down the stairs.

“Enjoy your macaroni,” he calls on his way out.

———

He’s already feeling a little worked up at the maître d’ him to their table. Nicky’s fondness for playing games of passion often gets neglected due to limitations on their time and energy, but when given the opportunity, he devises some truly tormenting scenarios.

Speaking of torment: Nicky looks devastating in a fitted shirt and jacket. He’s even wearing a tie.

“You look particularly ravishing this evening,” Joe says as he sits down.

Nicky smiles over his glass. “As do you, my heart.” The wine has stained his lips red, adding greatly to the overall effect.

“But,” Nicky continues, “I’d rather see you on your knees.” 
“That can certainly be arranged.”

“I meant now.”

Joe feels his eyebrows shoot up. “Now?”

“Yes. Under the table.”

The restaurant is fancy enough to have relatively long tablecloths, and it doesn’t hurtled that their table is tucked into a corner, but—

“Now,” Nicky tells him calmly. “Hurry, while no one’s looking.”

Joe ducks under the table. He only needs to shuffle forward once before he’s between Nicky’s knees.

With one hand, Nicky undoes his pants, and with the other, he guides Joe’s head to his crotch.

Joe takes him in his mouth. Nicky pushes both of his hands behind his back. Joe takes the hint and clasps his wrist, already frustratingly hard.

He takes direction from the tugs of Nicky’s hand, now tangled in his hair. He can feel his face getting messy from his own drool and Nicky’s leaking.

Joe starts a little when the server comes to take their order, but Nicky keeps him from moving away. He orders for both of them, somehow managing to sound completely calm even though he’s virtually fucking Joe’s throat.

Order placed, Nicky pulls him off. He nudges Joe’s knees with his foot and Joe takes that as his cue.

He resurfaces on the other side of the table. Nicky is a little flushed, and his pupils are blown wide, but he still looks impressively composed.

Joe doubts the same can be said for him, something Nicky confirms with a satisfied little smirk.

“Wipe your chin,” he says casually. “You look a mess.”

Op here.

Yeeessss this is everything I wanted and more. It’s fun and hot and their familiarity comes through so well. I’m excited to see where you take this.

❤️❤️❤️

yessssss, bless u author

*fans self* oh well Dang!!!!

Me: please let Joe have his reward, he was a good boy
Also me: make him WORK for it!

Oh wow. This is...... hnggggggg

Whoa. I do love dom!Nicky

I'm guessing Nicky did more than just sleep to Joe's videos wink, wink

And any particular reason why Joe shouldn't touch Nicky's hair?

After the longest dinner of Joe’s very long life, Nicky drags him to a nightclub.

“And how will you be tormenting me at this venue?” he asks as they sidle up to the bar.

Nicky laughs and kisses him, then leans back and sips his gin. He’s surveying the dance floor like he’s lining up a shot, which Joe thinks is unfairly sexy of him.

“There,” he says suddenly, and Joe follows his gaze. Nicky’s looking at a man who, at least from a distance, looks a bit like himself—brown hair, pale white skin, broad shoulders.

He looks over to Joe. “I want you to go dance with him.”

“Okay,” Joe says slowly, unsure of where this is going. Historically, they’ve not had great luck with bringing in a third party.

“Make it good,” Nicky tells him.

“The dance.”

“Yes.” He kisses Joe’s jaw. “I’ll be watching.”

Joe swallows and pushes his way through the crowd.

The music is pulsing loudly enough that he doesn’t try to talk to the man—he just makes eye contact and telegraphs his movements as he comes to dance against him.

The man wraps his arm around Joe, one hand almost on his ass. Up close, there’s not actually much resemblance to Nicky, but then, really, who could ever compare? It’s strange, being touched like this by someone who isn’t Nicky, but it’s no hardship. The man smells good—expensive—and he’s a good dancer.

He glances back to the bar, and even from all these feet away, the intensity of Nicky’s stare changes the tenor of this little exercise, whatever it may be. Joe doesn’t look away as he places one of the man’s hands in his curls and grinds their hips together. He feels the man gasp in his ear, but he’s mostly focused on how Nicky looks like he wants to eat him alive.

Nicky wants a show? That’s what he’ll get.

Joe snakes a hand under the man’s t-shirt, then dips it just under the band of his jeans. He undoes two more buttons of his own shirt and watches Nicky’s face as the man gropes his pecs.

Nicky gives a sudden jerk of his chin, the movement exaggerated so Joe will catch it even at a distance. Joe looks to the man and makes a face of regret, then hurries away, back to Nicky. Luckily, Joe is too turned on to feel guilty about using the guy.

———

Outside, Nicky shoves him up against an alley wall.

“Do you know how you looked in there?” he hisses in Joe’s ear.

“Uh. Hopefully good,” Joe manages to gasp while Nicky sucks on his neck.

“So good. So shameless.” He grinds against Joe, then takes two deliberate steps back.

Joe whines. All he gets for sympathy is another smirk. “You still want to take my hand, hmm?”

Not so much out in a public street, but Joe knows what they say about beggars. “Yes. Please, Nicky.”

“Then I want you to save me some effort. Turn around and pull down your pants.”

And he’s just going to have to trust that Nicky will prevent them from getting a public indecency charge.

When he’s done as asked, Nicky steps to stand beside him. “Hold out your hand.”

Joe does, and Nicky produces a small tube of lube from his trouser pocket. He squeezes some into Joe’s palm.

“Get yourself wet and open for me. Three fingers.”

The position is awkward—he’s got one hand braced against the wall and his trousers are trapping his ankles, limiting the spread of his legs—but Joe manages. He goes as fast as he can manage, knowing that the sooner he’s done, the sooner he’ll get what he’s been working toward all night.

He’s careful not to brush his prostate—he’s hard enough as it is. By the time he pushes the third finger in, they’re both panting.

“Have I earned it?” Joe asks, desperate.

Nicky bares his teeth. “Almost, my love.”

Wow... That was HOT! 🔥🔥🔥

FUCK this is so damn good. That dance!! That idea is amazing

I love everything about this story and I am not even a fan of those videos 🤣

Fuuuuuck fuck fuck
🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥❤❤

OP

Yes!

Making Joe prep himself is 🔥🔥🔥

ALSDJGhjsa;jsAKHGLDFJHKGJjfghkfgkdlh;kflgjhl;fgkl;khlfgkjhs;jl!!!!!!!!!

Author anon, what's it LIKE to have such a GALAXY BRAIN!?!?!?

prompt: https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/5880.html?thread=2091512#cmt2091512

When travelling, Yusuf stops the daughter of the royal family from being killed or kidnapped. In thanks, the royal family take Yusuf and Nicolo in and offer Yusuf whatever he wants.

The Queen has seen how Yusuf looks at Nicolo (they aren't together yet), and that night when they are shown to their rooms, the guards grab Nicolo and take him to the Queen. She orders him to be prepared for Yusuf. This involves him being washed and oiled, with the hair removed from his body. They give him an enema to wash him out, and put kohl under his eyes and colour on his lips. They also pierce his nipples, and put a plug in him to open him for Yusuf. They put Nicolo in a collar and some cuffs.

They drug Nicolo with aphrodisiacs that make him desperate to get fucked.

The Queen then delivers him to Yusuf's room.

Yusuf doesn't want to take advantage of Nicolo, but Nicolo is saying that it hurts and please, Yusuf, fuck him...

When they fuck, top!Yusuf only, please.

originally i posted this here (https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/694.html?thread=2241206#cmt2241206) but i ended up rewriting and expanding part 1 in the process of writing part 2. so i'm posting the new part 1 here as well as part 2. whoops.

cw: kidnapping, dubcon due to magical aphrodisiacs

+++++

“Is something wrong?”

“Hm?”

“You look like you’re thinking about painting,” Nicolò says, gesturing to Yusuf and his untouched handful of seeds. In contrast, Nicolò’s almost finished eating his half of the pomegranate. His fingers are stained pink now; he must have liked it.

“I was thinking,” Yusuf says, “that I would like to take the place of one of those seeds.”

Nicolò glances down at his palm, halfway to his lips. Yusuf waits to speak, hoping that Nicolò will look at him, but he does not.

“I heard once that a pomegranate becomes blood,” he went on. “I would like to become the blood in your heart—be with you every heartbeat—be spilled the moment you die.”

Nicolò tips the last of the seeds into his mouth. Yusuf hears him swallow.

“Do you want the rest of them?”

“You were the one who wanted to eat them,” Nicolò says.

“I want you to eat them, my heart,” Yusuf says. He holds out the handful of seeds. “Then I want to kiss you and see how they taste.”

+++

The bandits are barely a threat; he kills the three of them without being wounded once, and helps their captive—a young woman with a long dark veil over her face—out of her bonds. The woman does not speak as Yusuf lifts her off the bandit’s horse and unties her. Once her hands are free, she reaches up and throws back the veil.

The sight of her face makes Yusuf’s stomach turn.

She is beautiful, yes, but it is an unsettlingly perfect beauty. She has not one stray hair, not one imperfection in her ashen skin, not one point of asymmetry in her features. She is wearing a dress made of a fabric that Yusuf, once a textile merchant, has never seen. It has a sheen like an insect’s, reflecting the moon’s light in red. Worst of all are her eyes: yellow-green, like withered leaves.

It hurts to look at her.

“Good evening,” she says.

“Good evening,” he replies. What are you? He bows his head respectfully. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she says, and she laughs. “Thank you for your help, traveler. I am the princess.”

The princess of what, she does not say, and Yusuf does not dare ask. His headache, unlike every other he’s suffered since becoming immortal, has not faded. He has forgotten what pain is like; he can feel the hair on his arms stand up in fear.

“It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” She leans forward, so close he can feel her breath against his face. It is cold. “Tell me, what is you desire most?”

(The bandits did not catch him unaware; Yusuf was dreaming of Nicolò, of lying between him and the fire, close enough to hear Nicolò whisper his name. The sound of hoofbeats in the distance woke him up before he could hear it.)

“Nothing,” Yusuf says. He would never give this dangerous, inhuman creature Nicolò’s name.

“Very well.” She smiles at him, as if he has just made a joke. “I must return to my party, but follow the road and you will find our palace. My mother and I will receive you for the night. Consider it my thanks for your assistance.”

Yusuf is glad that Nicolò is not with him tonight, for he knows he cannot refuse her, and Nicolò—foolhardily stubborn, eager to protect Yusuf—would have tried. “Of course,” he says, keeping his eyes fixed on the sand. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

“Do not thank me until you have received it,” she replies. “Very well. We will be expecting you, Yusuf.” Then she takes hold of the bandit’s horse by the bridle and swings herself onto it somehow. With a whistle the horse takes off, and once Yusuf can no longer hear its hooves, he dares to raise his eyes.

His meager camp, with the remains of his fire and his pack, is still there. But now there is nothing but endless sand as far as the eye can see in every direction. And when Yusuf looks up, he discovered that he no longer recognizes the stars.

He swallows. At least his headache has faded. Sword sheathed, he packs his few belongings, and sets off down the road. As he walks, he prays.

+++

Nicolò is dizzy. He thrashes against the guards holding him in vain. Their helmets and breastplates have spikes that cut into him, but he barely feels the pain; he only knows he’s been wounded because he can see the spatters of blood.

His thoughts run wild with panic. Where is he? Why is he here? Why isn’t he healing away whatever poison clouds his mind?

“Hold him down,” someone is saying, in a language he does not recognize yet does understand.

They pour warm water over him as his hands are chained.

+++

The princess’s words are true; the road leads Yusuf to a palace that might have been plucked from a dream.

it is made of white marble, topped with a dome so black it makes the sky above look blue. There are no windows. It reminds Yusuf of a tomb. A stone wall encircles it, with gates of silver that open soundlessly at Yusuf’s touch. The path between the gate and the palace doors is lined on both sides by gardens.

The fountains are carved from crystal into human heads; their open mouths endlessly vomit water. The flowers are a riot of color, every single one in full bloom, every stem covered in thorns. Oranges, figs, grapes, dates, they all grow on the same trees; the branches have bowed from the weight of all the fruit.

A pomegranate dangles at eye level, so that Yusuf nearly steps off the path to avoid it. The smell of the fruit makes his mouth water. (He thinks about the color of Nicolò’s mouth.) Against his will his hand twitches towards the knife in his pocket.

The palace doors are already open when Yusuf reaches them. So far he has yet to see a single guard or servant or courtier. He has yet to see a single insect, or reptile, or bird. The hall he enters is the same white marble, polished so well that it hurts to look at. All the doors before him but one are closed.

Yusuf goes through the open door and finds himself before the Queen.

“Good evening,” she says; she is seated on a throne cobbled together from what looks like human bone. Unlike the surrounding marble, it has not been polished, or even cleaned. She throws back her veil; her face is identical to her daughter’s, with the same eyes. “Welcome to our humble home.”

“Thank you for inviting me.” Yusuf bows his head.

“For your service to my daughter, who is dearer to me than my own life,” she says, “I thank you. Rest assured that you will be repaid as you deserve.”

Yusuf does not reach for his sword, but it is a near thing. “No repayment is required.”

“Nevertheless, debts must be paid.” The Queen gestures to a door on her right which was not there before. “You will wait in the room at the end of the hall. When your gift has been prepared, I will send for you.”

The gift is likely to be his own death. Yusuf can only hope that his ability to heal will be a match for whatever sorcery this woman, whatever she is, wields.

+++

Nicolò’s skin burns to be touched, and yet he struggles against his captors’ hands.

They wash him. Nicolò remembers Yusuf’s long-running complaints about his hygiene, then Yusuf’s skin wet from the river. The thought of Yusuf makes his chest hurt.

They rinse his hair as Nicolò remembers Yusuf helping him wash away the blood from the places Nicolò couldn’t reach. They smear scented oil on every inch of his skin; he remembers Yusuf helping him shave after Nicolò decided to cut off two of his own fingers. Yusuf scolded him for it, running the edge of a blade that had once cut Nicolò’s throat down his jaw.

They hold him down, pouring oil between his legs. They penetrate him—he remembers Yusuf lying against his back at night, both of them making excuses about the cold—with something long and slick and unforgiving.

She grabs his face as they collar him. Her skin on his skin stings. “You’ll do,” she says, smearing something red and sweet and familiar across his lips. Her eyes are wrong; they mock him as he tries to bite her fingers.

He’s tired from fighting. He still struggles as they drag him away.

The room Yusuf waits in is as luxurious and unnatural as the rest of the palace. He’s died in worse places. Golden script in a language Yusuf does not know has been painted on the walls, and looking at it makes his ears ring. A tray with steaming tea and dates has been left for him, but Yusuf has no desire to die a messy death from poison. He has no choice but to sit on the cushion—upholstered in black silk—and wait.

At least he does not have to miss Nicolò anymore. Nicolò’s presence is the only thing that could make this experience worse. If it is the hour of Yusuf’s death, it will be his death alone.

It is one thing to hear stories of djinn and demons and another to see a monster with his own eyes. It would be worse for him, Yusuf thinks. Nicolò’s faith is already fraught enough. If Yusuf cannot help but wonder if the immortality he has always assumed was God-given is in fact the work of magic, Nicolò would sharpen that thought against the whetstone of his guilt and then gut himself with it.

+++

They told him Yusuf would come.

Chained to a bed, burning with terrible anticipation, Nicolò holds fast to that thought. Yusuf wants him, doesn’t he? (The thing inside him makes him ache.) Even if he doesn’t, he’ll take pity on Nicolò. (He doesn’t know whether it’s too much or not enough.) Even if he’s changed his mind, he’ll have mercy if Nicolò tells him he’s suffering. (The longing for Yusuf’s hands and mouth and cock might kill him. Might keep killing him.)

He is suffering. Is this his fault? Does he deserve this?

“I’m sorry,” he says to no one.

+++

The Queen comes for him. She’s shed the veil, revealing a mass of braids on her head which squirm like snakes.

“Was the tea not to your liking?”

“It was delicious,” he says, sure that if he tasted it, it would be. “Thank you.”

She laughs, a sound like a sword being sharpened. “Well, perhaps our next gift will be more to your taste.” She gestures, and from nothing her daughter appears, clothed in nothing and smiling with bloody teeth.

“Forgive me, but I am not inclined to the company of women,” Yusuf says. It’s not fully a lie, he convinces himself. Of late Nicolò’s company has been the only kind he craves.

“No matter.” She turns away from him. Mercifully, her daughter vanishes, sparing Yusuf the need to stare at nothing to avoid having to look at her. “Come. This palace has many wonders.”

The palace has rearranged itself once more to the Queen’s whims, and each room contains treasures more fantastic than the last. One room has a fountain from which liquid gold spouts instead of water. Another is an orchard whose trees bear jewels instead of fruit. There is a room with a single sword, gleaming so brightly that Yusuf is seized by a terrible bloodlust when he looks at it; he has to bite his tongue before he can turn away.

With every subsequent refusal, the Queen’s smile widens.

“Ah,” she says, when they have reached the last room. Unlike the others, the door is closed. Painted on it is a bloody heart. “Here, perhaps, is something that will please you.”

The longer Yusuf stares at the heart, the more it looks as if it is beating.

“What is this?”

“Did you not want to be the blood in his heart?” She holds out her hand to him; in it is a handful of pomegranate seeds. “Do you want to know how he tastes?”

He opens the door.

There, lying on the carpet, is Nicolò’s sword.

“Will you accept the contents of this room, Yusuf?” the Queen asks.

“Yes,” Yusuf says. He can hear Nicolò breathing. “Yes.”

“Then I give them to you,” she says, and spills the seeds onto the floor. “Our debt is paid.”

“Thank you.”

She must hear the insincerity of his words, for she throws back her head and laughs, her braids writhing. “I like a man who says beautiful things,” she says, and then she is gone, turned to smoke and shadow.

Yusuf crushes the seeds underfoot before he goes.

+++

yes, i did in fact rewrite this entire fic bc of pomegranates, why do you ask
i will try to update soon

Ooh this is still so eerie and fascinating.

His love is a cruel, cruel master, Joe thinks as he follows Nicky to the next destination, feeling the wetness between his cheeks with every step.

When they arrive at a (very nice) hotel, where Nicky kisses him breathless in the elevator, he revises that opinion—only to reconsider when he sees what’s on the hotel bed.

Nicky helps him undress. “On your back,” he says, giving Joe’s ass a squeeze.

It feels a bit like walking the plank. Once he’s down, Nicky begins tying his wrists to the headboard. Did he pick rope just to draw out the entire process and test the limits of Joe’s depleted patience? Most likely.

Nicky catches sight of the look on his face and laughs a little. “Oh, you look so despondent.”

“I am,” Joe says. “I have given my heart to a wicked, merciless man.”

“That’s me.” Nicky kisses him sweetly on the lips and checks the ropes for give.

As he sits back to admire his work, there’s a knock on the door. Joe expects him to tell whoever it is to fuck off, but instead he goes to answer it.

Nicky opens the door all the way. The room isn’t large, and Joe can see the hotel staffer from his bound position on the bed. Which means the poor staffer can also probably see him, or at least his naked legs.

She hands Nicky something thanks her and closes the door before sauntering back to Joe.

“Fucking hell, Nicky—”

“What?” Nicky says innocently. He’s holding a bottle of champagne. Joe fixates on Nicky’s hands as he pops the cork.

He takes a sip directly from the bottle. “Mm. Very nice. Care for some?”

“Depends. What year is it?”

Nicky pinches his thigh.

“All right, go on then,” Joe says, and Nicky tips some champagne into his mouth. It is, in fact, very nice.

Then he drizzles it in Joe’s clavicle, pours it over his chest, spills it over his cock. Nicky follows the trail of liquid with his mouth, slurping it off and licking Joe clean.

“Fuck, Nicky, your tongue—”

“Mm, Joe, it tastes even better like this.” Nicky licks a long stripe up his cock.

“Nico, please, please—”

Nicky looks up at him, amused. “Do you even know what you’re begging for, anymore?”

“Your hand,” Joe says quickly. “Please.”

Nicky cuts off his pleading with a kiss full of tongue. He tastes like champagne.

Then he lifts one of Joe’s legs over his shoulder and pushes the other to sprawl open. There’s another (larger) tube of lubricant on the nightstand. Nicky pours a generous amount over his hand and presses a single finger in.

“Ah, fuck, Nicky, come on, I’m already open enough for more—”

Nicky stills the movement his finger. “I am deciding what you are ready for. And if you keep insisting you know what is best, I will decide that you are not ready for my hand tonight, after all.”

That shuts Joe up, mostly because Nicky’s commanding tone and harsh words have aroused p to a point beyond speech. He lets his head flop down to the pillows and screws his eyes shut while Nicky works.

When he finally gets around to adding a fourth finger, Joe’s writhed so much his wrists have rope burn.

“I won’t even need to touch your cock, will I?” Nicky muses.

“No, Nico, fuck, I’m going to—I’m going to come on your hand, fuck—”

Nicky pulls out to squeeze another gush of lube over Joe’s stretched hole and his own hand, all five fingertips joined together at a point.

He works his hand in steadily, the pressure going from barely noticeable—Nicky’s preparation, as always, had been very thorough—to intense as Nicky’s knuckles nudge against his rim.

Joe puts all his effort into relaxing his muscles, even as his arms are straining so hard against his bonds he thinks they may snap off. Finally, Nicky’s knuckles push through, and from there it’s easy—his entire hand is in Joe.

Nicky flexes a finger and a knuckle rubs at Joe’s prostate. He sobs.

“Nico, fuck, I feel all of you, everything—”

Nicky mouths at his chest. “You’re so hot around me, so tight.” Another minute twist of his hand. Joe howls.

“So close, aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” he pants.

“Come for me,” Nicky says, and the brush of a single knuckle is Joe’s undoing. He comes all over his chest, and Nicky chases the the trail of it with his tongue.

“Ah, shit,” he hisses, tying to squirm away from Nicky’s tongue. “Sensitive.”

Taking pity on him,Nicky moves off the bed and heads into the ensuite, returning with a glass of water.

“Here.” Joe drinks obediently.

“I notice you’re not untying me.”

“Very astute.” Nicky’s eyes glint dangerously. “I am going to keep you here until you are ready again, then I am going to ride you until you pop like the champagne cork,” he purrs.

Joe’s spent cock twitches and his mouth is dry. “Fuck.”

Nicky brings the glass back to this lips. “Drink up.”

woaah this is so good!

This is truly well done. I'm so looking forward to see them together *__*

I have read every piece of this fic over and over again! Love it and so excited the baby is finally there.

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Page 2 of 53

Fills Post #2

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, ASMRtist Joe (4/?)

FILL: Joe/Nicky, the sub earns a reward, 1/?

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, the sub earns a reward, 1/?

Re: Joe/Nicky - House mates AU

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, the sub earns a reward, 1/?

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, the sub earns a reward, 1/?

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, the sub earns a reward, 1/?

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, ASMRtist Joe (4/?)

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, the sub earns a reward, 1/?

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, ASMRtist Joe (4/?)

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, the sub earns a reward, 2/3

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, the sub earns a reward, 2/3

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, the sub earns a reward, 2/3

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, ASMRtist Joe (4/?)

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, the sub earns a reward, 2/3

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, the sub earns a reward, 2/3

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, the sub earns a reward, 1/?

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, the sub earns a reward, 2/3

[fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [1/3]

Re: [fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [2/3]

Re: [fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [2/3]

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, the sub earns a reward, 3/3

Re: FILL: Joe/Nicky, ASMRtist Joe (4/?)

Re: [fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [2/3]

Re: Booker/Nile, A/B/O, exile pregnancy (6/?) Cont.