Nile is the first to try it, the braver of the two.
She pulls at a single curl when Joe ignores her, too absorbed in his painting to notice her talking.
He yelps, then shivers when she doesn’t let go immediately.
“Damn,” she says when she lets go. “You really do like that. And it’s not…weird, to intrude on you and Nicky?”
“Alas,” Joe says. “I was like this before I even met Nicky. He just reaps the benefits.”
“Huh,” she says, and he’s sure she’s about to leave, but then she grasps his scalp a little tighter, pulls a little harder, and he groans in unmistakable arousal.
“Damn,” she says again, with a very different intonation.
-
Booker doesn’t dare try it without explicit invitation. He’s still skirting the edges of the group, skittish and unsure of his welcome, and Joe – Joe has complicated feelings about that. In part, he wants Booker unsure of his welcome, because he shouldn’t be welcome, it’s too soon. At the same time, he blames himself for Booker doing what he did in the first place.
The thing is, downtime agrees with Joe. He and Nicky have a half-dozen houses spread out over the world meant for just this, for vacations, for settling down, and it never fails to arouse in them both an urge to build a home and an urge to fuck all the time. Their jobs being what they are, they’re used to going without for long stretches; Joe can’t help it that downtime is hardwired into his body as sex time. Fucking Pavlov.
It’s especially bad this time around, though, with four people who might at any point in time stick their hands in his hair and electrocute his brain.
Joe loves it.
He spends most of his time warm and hazily aroused, with the love of his life in arm’s reach, just waiting to fuck him or be fucked by him until they’re both breathless and satisfied. This is what Joe lives for.
If only the situation with Booker weren’t in the way.
He says as much to Nicky, unable to fully articulate that he won’t feel properly restful until Booker just mans up and pulls his hair and turns him on like the rest of their family already does without it sounding strange and perverted.
Nicky understands.
Nicky always understands.
Nicky waits until the middle of a football game to come up behind Joe’s comfy chair and start gently carding his fingers through Joe’s hair. It’s not enough to truly arouse him, just enough to get the thought of arousal tingling under his skin, and Joe squirms in appreciation, eyes still following the game.
It takes him a good five minutes to realize that Booker has utterly stopped watching the game and is watching them, instead, watching the way Joe tilts his head back into Nicky’s caresses, the way that Nicky slowly upgrades to light tugs that have Joe digging his fingers into the arms of his chair.
“Don’t you want to try?” Nicky asks, and Joe knows he’s not talking to him.
“Are you sure you want me to?” Booker asks. “I don’t deserve your trust.”
Joe peers over at him. “Last I checked, it was my choice who I give it to, deserving or not.”
It takes a few more moments, but Booker’s hand joins Nicky’s in his hair as they enter overtime.
In little more than moments, Joe is melted into his chair. Booker’s hand is big and warm, and his grip is solid, and Nicky hasn’t said much about it, but he can hold a grudge, and before too long, he and Booker have a little competition going as to who can make Joe moan the loudest.
Joe wonders if anyone else on the planet has ever been in this situation before. He doubts it.
Then Booker tightens his grip and he has to grit his teeth so as not to scream. His blood is pounding in his veins and he’s absolutely dizzy and he’s abruptly about two solid tugs from coming in his pants.
“Nicky,” he begs. “Nicky, please—”
The referee whistles.
“For fuck’s sake!” Booker yells, hands slipping from Joe’s hair.
“Pay up,” Nicky gloats, holding out a hand. “Told you Italy would win.”
Joe, abandoned in his chair, achingly hard, whimpers.
Joe/Nicky and sort of Joe/Poly - major hair pulling kink 3/4
She pulls at a single curl when Joe ignores her, too absorbed in his painting to notice her talking.
He yelps, then shivers when she doesn’t let go immediately.
“Damn,” she says when she lets go. “You really do like that. And it’s not…weird, to intrude on you and Nicky?”
“Alas,” Joe says. “I was like this before I even met Nicky. He just reaps the benefits.”
“Huh,” she says, and he’s sure she’s about to leave, but then she grasps his scalp a little tighter, pulls a little harder, and he groans in unmistakable arousal.
“Damn,” she says again, with a very different intonation.
-
Booker doesn’t dare try it without explicit invitation. He’s still skirting the edges of the group, skittish and unsure of his welcome, and Joe – Joe has complicated feelings about that. In part, he wants Booker unsure of his welcome, because he shouldn’t be welcome, it’s too soon. At the same time, he blames himself for Booker doing what he did in the first place.
The thing is, downtime agrees with Joe. He and Nicky have a half-dozen houses spread out over the world meant for just this, for vacations, for settling down, and it never fails to arouse in them both an urge to build a home and an urge to fuck all the time. Their jobs being what they are, they’re used to going without for long stretches; Joe can’t help it that downtime is hardwired into his body as sex time. Fucking Pavlov.
It’s especially bad this time around, though, with four people who might at any point in time stick their hands in his hair and electrocute his brain.
Joe loves it.
He spends most of his time warm and hazily aroused, with the love of his life in arm’s reach, just waiting to fuck him or be fucked by him until they’re both breathless and satisfied. This is what Joe lives for.
If only the situation with Booker weren’t in the way.
He says as much to Nicky, unable to fully articulate that he won’t feel properly restful until Booker just mans up and pulls his hair and turns him on like the rest of their family already does without it sounding strange and perverted.
Nicky understands.
Nicky always understands.
Nicky waits until the middle of a football game to come up behind Joe’s comfy chair and start gently carding his fingers through Joe’s hair. It’s not enough to truly arouse him, just enough to get the thought of arousal tingling under his skin, and Joe squirms in appreciation, eyes still following the game.
It takes him a good five minutes to realize that Booker has utterly stopped watching the game and is watching them, instead, watching the way Joe tilts his head back into Nicky’s caresses, the way that Nicky slowly upgrades to light tugs that have Joe digging his fingers into the arms of his chair.
“Don’t you want to try?” Nicky asks, and Joe knows he’s not talking to him.
“Are you sure you want me to?” Booker asks. “I don’t deserve your trust.”
Joe peers over at him. “Last I checked, it was my choice who I give it to, deserving or not.”
It takes a few more moments, but Booker’s hand joins Nicky’s in his hair as they enter overtime.
In little more than moments, Joe is melted into his chair. Booker’s hand is big and warm, and his grip is solid, and Nicky hasn’t said much about it, but he can hold a grudge, and before too long, he and Booker have a little competition going as to who can make Joe moan the loudest.
Joe wonders if anyone else on the planet has ever been in this situation before. He doubts it.
Then Booker tightens his grip and he has to grit his teeth so as not to scream. His blood is pounding in his veins and he’s absolutely dizzy and he’s abruptly about two solid tugs from coming in his pants.
“Nicky,” he begs. “Nicky, please—”
The referee whistles.
“For fuck’s sake!” Booker yells, hands slipping from Joe’s hair.
“Pay up,” Nicky gloats, holding out a hand. “Told you Italy would win.”
Joe, abandoned in his chair, achingly hard, whimpers.
-