Joe knows there’s a movie on that he picked, but he could not for the life of him tell you what the title is or what has happened in the last half hour.
He should have known better than to pick a spot on the floor between Nicky’s legs, but it’s comfy and Nicky hates sitting on the floor. He just unknowingly put himself right in the middle, within everyone’s reach.
Quynh was the first to start, rubbing gently at his scalp, making his eyes shut in pleasure.
“Not like that,” Nicky admonishes a few minutes in, even though Joe has absolutely no complaints, but then his fingers are sliding through Joe’s hair on the other side of his head and there are two of them, rubbing gently at his scalp, petting him, and if he were a cat, he would be purring.
He tilts his head back, silently begging for more, and they deliver.
He loses track quickly.
At first it’s Nicky’s clever fingers, pulling just a little bit, Quynh’s stroking gently, but then there are more hands, and Joe’s not sure whose are where, but he knows it must be all of them, tugging from behind to tilt his head back further, dragging fingernails against his scalp, pulling from all directions.
Nicky’s hands he knows, Nicky’s hands he will always know, when they pull at his hair harshly, and Joe writhes in their combined grip.
“Nicky,” he gasps out, while he still has the presence of mind, “Nicky, it’s so much, I’m—”
Nicky presses a dry kiss against the side of his neck. “I know, love,” he says. “It’s fine. Whatever you need.”
Joe sobs. A hand that might be Nile’s and might be Quynh’s pulls a little harder. Booker takes a solid handful and tugs. Nicky keeps one warm hand on his shoulder and the other at the nape of his neck, tracing tiny lines of fire.
There’s no way to stop it. Joe’s hips cant upwards, rubbing his erection against the fabric of his pants and he moans.
“Fuck,” he gasps out, “fuck, please.”
Five hands clench suddenly tighter in his hair and Joe comes in his pants, biting his lip to stay somewhat silent, working his hips in tight circles as his balls pulse over and over, sweetness clenching hard through his gut. He has to let go of his lip to drag in air, and he can’t help the noises that escape him.
It’s warm in the living room when he’s done, warm and silent except for the background music of whatever the fuck this movie is, and Joe wants very much to be ashamed, but he’s so high on endorphins he can’t even feel how numb his ass is from sitting on the floor, he can’t feel how his fingernails have dug marks into his palms from clenching his fists, he can’t feel anything at all except how good he feels and how their hands are still in his hair.
It’s Nicky who starts tugging again, because Nicky is a bastard, a bastard who loves Joe more than life itself and apparently that includes making him come in full sight of their family just from getting his hair pulled.
“Still okay, love?” He asks, a low murmur.
Joe groans. “If you’re all still okay,” he says.
There’s rustling above him, disbelieving laughter from Booker.
“I think we can count this as a public service for the rest of us,” Andy says. Her voice is warm and familiar, and for all Joe knows full well that they’ve never been interested in each other like that, he gets what she’s saying. It’s a question of aesthetics, of familiarity, of belonging, and if it’s a bit weird, who cares, he can trust these five people.
He can trust them not to divulge this to strangers, at least. He can’t trust them not to use it against them, apparently, because Andy’s hand joins Nicky in starting up the pulling again.
Joe gives up. He didn’t go soft after coming, and his cock is throbbing in time to his pulse with every new tug at his scalp pulsing down his spine. His legs splay wide, his shoulders unclench, and he lets them play with him, lets them bring him back to that shivery place where every tug at his scalp is a starburst in his nervous system, every pull is a fresh wave of goosebumps and sensation, riding the edge of too much.
“I need,” he gasps into Nicky’s knee, which he’s clinging to to stay upright. “Nicky, I need to touch myself, please let me, please.”
There’s a pause in which Joe’s sure he’s looking to the others, gauging their consent, before Nicky’s hand clenches on his shoulder. “You can, sweetheart,” he tells Joe, and Joe scrambles for his fly.
His pants and boxers have gone from strangling his dick to being cold and wet and strangling his dick, and he sighs in relief when they’re out of the way.
Actually touching his dick is neither as good nor as bad as he thought it would be, it turns out that 90% of the sensation he’d capable of processing is currently coming through his scalp, and it also turns out he’s ridiculously sensitive, which is no surprise after grinding himself to orgasm against the roughness of the zipper on his fly.
His hand gives him something to thrust up into, though, something to channel everything he’s feeling when Booker switches from pulling at his hair to threading his fingers through Joe’s curls and pulling his whole hand upwards, magnifying the stretch against Joe’s scalp. Nile’s hand teases its way across his head, pulling at individual curls one at a time until Joe thinks he’ll go insane, it should be impossible to tease somebody’s hair, it should be, but it’s not.
Each hand is its own brand of torture and Joe’s trapped into feeling like he’ll never come, too sensitive to orgasm and too turned on to ever stop, caught in this feedback loop of too much sensation to ever leave it.
He’s distantly aware that he’s sobbing, that there are tears leaking out his eyes, that he’s begging them for more even though he doesn’t know more what, until Nicky shoos all the other hands away, until Nicky grasps his head firmly, pulls it back to tilt Joe’s head away just like he did that first time, and presses an upside-down kiss to Joe’s lips.
Joe curls in on himself when he comes the second time, shooting in stringy, translucent pulses out the top of his fist. His stomach is heaving when it’s over, abs sore from writhing, from shifting his hips, from everything.
He’s panting like he just ran a marathon.
“That was beautiful,” Nicky tells him, warm and intimate by his ear, just for him.
“Thank you for letting us be a part of that,” Booker says, and kisses his cheek.
“What he said,” Nile agrees, and presses a kiss to his other cheek.
Quynh kisses the top of his head and Andy his nose before Andy gets up to get his sweatpants from the other room and Quynh moves to make space for him on the couch.
Nicky helps him into the sweatpants, and then pulls Joe into him so Joe’s resting with his head cuddled into Nicky’s chest. He knows Nicky’s still hard – can feel it on his hip – but Nicky just shushes him when he tries to ask, lets him drift off into sleep as the others settle around them.
Joe/Nicky and sort of Joe/Poly - major hair pulling kink 4/4
Joe knows there’s a movie on that he picked, but he could not for the life of him tell you what the title is or what has happened in the last half hour.
He should have known better than to pick a spot on the floor between Nicky’s legs, but it’s comfy and Nicky hates sitting on the floor. He just unknowingly put himself right in the middle, within everyone’s reach.
Quynh was the first to start, rubbing gently at his scalp, making his eyes shut in pleasure.
“Not like that,” Nicky admonishes a few minutes in, even though Joe has absolutely no complaints, but then his fingers are sliding through Joe’s hair on the other side of his head and there are two of them, rubbing gently at his scalp, petting him, and if he were a cat, he would be purring.
He tilts his head back, silently begging for more, and they deliver.
He loses track quickly.
At first it’s Nicky’s clever fingers, pulling just a little bit, Quynh’s stroking gently, but then there are more hands, and Joe’s not sure whose are where, but he knows it must be all of them, tugging from behind to tilt his head back further, dragging fingernails against his scalp, pulling from all directions.
Nicky’s hands he knows, Nicky’s hands he will always know, when they pull at his hair harshly, and Joe writhes in their combined grip.
“Nicky,” he gasps out, while he still has the presence of mind, “Nicky, it’s so much, I’m—”
Nicky presses a dry kiss against the side of his neck. “I know, love,” he says. “It’s fine. Whatever you need.”
Joe sobs. A hand that might be Nile’s and might be Quynh’s pulls a little harder. Booker takes a solid handful and tugs. Nicky keeps one warm hand on his shoulder and the other at the nape of his neck, tracing tiny lines of fire.
There’s no way to stop it. Joe’s hips cant upwards, rubbing his erection against the fabric of his pants and he moans.
“Fuck,” he gasps out, “fuck, please.”
Five hands clench suddenly tighter in his hair and Joe comes in his pants, biting his lip to stay somewhat silent, working his hips in tight circles as his balls pulse over and over, sweetness clenching hard through his gut. He has to let go of his lip to drag in air, and he can’t help the noises that escape him.
It’s warm in the living room when he’s done, warm and silent except for the background music of whatever the fuck this movie is, and Joe wants very much to be ashamed, but he’s so high on endorphins he can’t even feel how numb his ass is from sitting on the floor, he can’t feel how his fingernails have dug marks into his palms from clenching his fists, he can’t feel anything at all except how good he feels and how their hands are still in his hair.
It’s Nicky who starts tugging again, because Nicky is a bastard, a bastard who loves Joe more than life itself and apparently that includes making him come in full sight of their family just from getting his hair pulled.
“Still okay, love?” He asks, a low murmur.
Joe groans. “If you’re all still okay,” he says.
There’s rustling above him, disbelieving laughter from Booker.
“I think we can count this as a public service for the rest of us,” Andy says. Her voice is warm and familiar, and for all Joe knows full well that they’ve never been interested in each other like that, he gets what she’s saying. It’s a question of aesthetics, of familiarity, of belonging, and if it’s a bit weird, who cares, he can trust these five people.
He can trust them not to divulge this to strangers, at least. He can’t trust them not to use it against them, apparently, because Andy’s hand joins Nicky in starting up the pulling again.
Joe gives up. He didn’t go soft after coming, and his cock is throbbing in time to his pulse with every new tug at his scalp pulsing down his spine. His legs splay wide, his shoulders unclench, and he lets them play with him, lets them bring him back to that shivery place where every tug at his scalp is a starburst in his nervous system, every pull is a fresh wave of goosebumps and sensation, riding the edge of too much.
“I need,” he gasps into Nicky’s knee, which he’s clinging to to stay upright. “Nicky, I need to touch myself, please let me, please.”
There’s a pause in which Joe’s sure he’s looking to the others, gauging their consent, before Nicky’s hand clenches on his shoulder. “You can, sweetheart,” he tells Joe, and Joe scrambles for his fly.
His pants and boxers have gone from strangling his dick to being cold and wet and strangling his dick, and he sighs in relief when they’re out of the way.
Actually touching his dick is neither as good nor as bad as he thought it would be, it turns out that 90% of the sensation he’d capable of processing is currently coming through his scalp, and it also turns out he’s ridiculously sensitive, which is no surprise after grinding himself to orgasm against the roughness of the zipper on his fly.
His hand gives him something to thrust up into, though, something to channel everything he’s feeling when Booker switches from pulling at his hair to threading his fingers through Joe’s curls and pulling his whole hand upwards, magnifying the stretch against Joe’s scalp. Nile’s hand teases its way across his head, pulling at individual curls one at a time until Joe thinks he’ll go insane, it should be impossible to tease somebody’s hair, it should be, but it’s not.
Each hand is its own brand of torture and Joe’s trapped into feeling like he’ll never come, too sensitive to orgasm and too turned on to ever stop, caught in this feedback loop of too much sensation to ever leave it.
He’s distantly aware that he’s sobbing, that there are tears leaking out his eyes, that he’s begging them for more even though he doesn’t know more what, until Nicky shoos all the other hands away, until Nicky grasps his head firmly, pulls it back to tilt Joe’s head away just like he did that first time, and presses an upside-down kiss to Joe’s lips.
Joe curls in on himself when he comes the second time, shooting in stringy, translucent pulses out the top of his fist. His stomach is heaving when it’s over, abs sore from writhing, from shifting his hips, from everything.
He’s panting like he just ran a marathon.
“That was beautiful,” Nicky tells him, warm and intimate by his ear, just for him.
“Thank you for letting us be a part of that,” Booker says, and kisses his cheek.
“What he said,” Nile agrees, and presses a kiss to his other cheek.
Quynh kisses the top of his head and Andy his nose before Andy gets up to get his sweatpants from the other room and Quynh moves to make space for him on the couch.
Nicky helps him into the sweatpants, and then pulls Joe into him so Joe’s resting with his head cuddled into Nicky’s chest. He knows Nicky’s still hard – can feel it on his hip – but Nicky just shushes him when he tries to ask, lets him drift off into sleep as the others settle around them.