[FoF] Seven Days 05
Oct. 18th, 2018 06:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Seven Days
Characters: Bluestreak/Jazz
Universe: Flights of Fancy ‘verse, Harpyformers
Rating: M
Warnings: BDSM themes, Sexual Punishment, Orgasm Denial
Description: Perfectly behaved pets are boring pets, but Jazz might have bitten off more than he can chew when he disobeys Bluestreak.
Day Four
The plug was torture of the most erotic kind. It shifted with every move Jazz made, nudging over every sensitive spot within him. It stole his breath, made him gasp mid-stride, and it kept him on the simmering edge of need with every passing moment.
He stayed seated if he could, to avoid the stirring sensations, and didn’t let anyone get too close so they couldn’t see the flush in his cheeks, or smell the arousal on him. Most didn’t notice. A few weren’t fooled.
He could have lived without knowingly Whirl cackling at him.
His day dragged on and on, and Jazz would have cheered when it was time for dinner and to go back to his nest and his lover, if he’d had the energy. But the plug kept him on edge, he was jittery and hungry for something more than food, and as much as he wanted to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness, his pride won out.
Sooner or later, he intended to dropkick his damned pride into the nearest ocean.
Ratchet caught him squirming and gave him the longest, most despairing look Jazz had ever seen from a healer. “Do I even want to know?” he asked.
“Probably not,” Jazz said with his best, most sparkling grin. Ratchet, unlike his two mates, wasn’t particularly interested in the sexual exploits of his children. He had a bit more shame than his mates.
Ratchet made a face that nearly crossed the line into disgust. “Are you injured?” he asked, tone flat. In the question was the implication “do I need to have another conversation with my child about understanding the limits of his sub?”
Jazz shook his head and backed away slowly, hoping Ratchet wouldn’t look down his body, because unlike everyone else, Ratchet knew a plug when he saw one.
“Not in a manner that needs a healer,” Jazz chirped.
Ratchet hid his face behind his palm. “Please. Just go,” he said.
Jazz went.
He kept to the shadows and the ceilings, skittering in amongst the woven branches as best he could. There were times he’d despaired of his size, which was tiny even for a smol, and with the most unhelpful, long tail. Add to that his visual sensitivity to light, and Jazz wondered what use he could ever be for his flock.
That was when Nightshade discovered him, playing hide and seek with other fledges his age. He’d been the one to suggest Jazz use his size to his advantage, and he’d invited Jazz to the subvertive agent program.
Life changed for Jazz after that. Arguably better, occasionally worse, depending on one’s point of view.
He’d sworn off romance while he worked for Nightshade. He was rarely home, he was always in danger, and he didn’t want to worry about attachment. He had friends, playthings, other baras and smols who were happy to have him for a night. He thought that was enough.
Until Bluestreak swept into his life.
Nothing had been the same since.
Jazz wouldn’t change a thing either. He was living his best life with Bluestreak. He couldn’t be happier.
Well.
Maybe a little bit.
Because that night, Bluestreak spilled into Jazz’s mouth, licked him clean, then pulled him close to sleep. He wrapped his arms around Jazz, thick feathers a warm cocoon, and tucked Jazz under his chin.
“Good night, flitterling,” he murmured.
There was no sign of forgiveness. No sigh of him reaching for Jazz’s plug and granting him relief.
Jazz squirmed. He was hard and aching, his clava tip rubbing against Bluestreak’s thigh. His antrum seeped, muscles fluttering around the plug while his slick stained his featherdown. He could smell his own arousal and taste Bluestreak on his tongue.
He loved Bluestreak, but this was a special kind of torture.
“... Blue?” he ventured, on the cusp of begging, but not quite there. He had his pride, damn it. He was a warrior, a fighter, a fearsome spy. He would not be defeated by a little piece of polished wood.
“Hmm?”
“Am I forgiven?” At least for the plug. Dear Adaptus, at least could he be free of the taunt of the plug.
Bluestreak shifted and his thigh rubbed Jazz’s clava, sending a buzz of pleasure down his spine. He gasped, clutching at his younger mate, his hips rocking against Blue’s thigh. The plug shifted and nudged, sending another wave of want through Jazz’s groin.
“No,” Bluestreak said, his tone firm and unyielding. “You still lack self-control.”
Jazz whimpered. He ached. He wanted to beg. Just one release?
He gnawed on his bottom lip.
“Yes, sir.” His voice came out too small. Defeated. It simultaneously exhausted him and made him salivate.
By Adaptus, but Bluestreak’s mastery of him was so total, so enveloping, it was intoxicating. How did he do it?
“You can wait, can’t you?” Bluestreak rubbed him again, the tease. “It’s only a couple more days. Surely a grown bird like you can control himself. Yes?”
Damn him.
“Yes, sir. I can.” Jazz forced himself to be still, though all he wanted to do was rock against his bara mate and seek completion.
“Or do you need a drink?”
Another out was offered. Another opportunity to cease his punishment, if it was too much for him to handle. A chance to call an end to their little game if Jazz was no longer having any fun. Unfortunately, that was the problem.
This didn’t hurt. It was merely infuriatingly frustrating, and he wanted to find release, but he also wanted to prove he didn’t need one.
“I’m fine,” Jazz lied instead.
“I’m proud of you.” Bluestreak kissed the top of his head, nuzzling against his crest. Joy bloomed within Jazz’s core at the compliment, only to shrink when Bluestreak followed it up with a warning, “I’d better not catch you pillow-riding again though.”
“Yes, sir,” Jazz sighed the sigh of the defeated. He had no doubt Bluestreak would be watching him too closely from now on.
“Good night, Master.”
“Rest well, my flitterling,” Bluestreak replied, his tone warm and affectionate and dripping with ownership.
Jazz purred.
He tried not to squirm. He wanted to come so badly he could taste that sweet release.
But denial was his punishment and by Adaptus was it effective. It was only a couple more days. He could do this.
Jazz was having too much fun to ruin it now.
~
Characters: Bluestreak/Jazz
Universe: Flights of Fancy ‘verse, Harpyformers
Rating: M
Warnings: BDSM themes, Sexual Punishment, Orgasm Denial
Description: Perfectly behaved pets are boring pets, but Jazz might have bitten off more than he can chew when he disobeys Bluestreak.
The plug was torture of the most erotic kind. It shifted with every move Jazz made, nudging over every sensitive spot within him. It stole his breath, made him gasp mid-stride, and it kept him on the simmering edge of need with every passing moment.
He stayed seated if he could, to avoid the stirring sensations, and didn’t let anyone get too close so they couldn’t see the flush in his cheeks, or smell the arousal on him. Most didn’t notice. A few weren’t fooled.
He could have lived without knowingly Whirl cackling at him.
His day dragged on and on, and Jazz would have cheered when it was time for dinner and to go back to his nest and his lover, if he’d had the energy. But the plug kept him on edge, he was jittery and hungry for something more than food, and as much as he wanted to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness, his pride won out.
Sooner or later, he intended to dropkick his damned pride into the nearest ocean.
Ratchet caught him squirming and gave him the longest, most despairing look Jazz had ever seen from a healer. “Do I even want to know?” he asked.
“Probably not,” Jazz said with his best, most sparkling grin. Ratchet, unlike his two mates, wasn’t particularly interested in the sexual exploits of his children. He had a bit more shame than his mates.
Ratchet made a face that nearly crossed the line into disgust. “Are you injured?” he asked, tone flat. In the question was the implication “do I need to have another conversation with my child about understanding the limits of his sub?”
Jazz shook his head and backed away slowly, hoping Ratchet wouldn’t look down his body, because unlike everyone else, Ratchet knew a plug when he saw one.
“Not in a manner that needs a healer,” Jazz chirped.
Ratchet hid his face behind his palm. “Please. Just go,” he said.
Jazz went.
He kept to the shadows and the ceilings, skittering in amongst the woven branches as best he could. There were times he’d despaired of his size, which was tiny even for a smol, and with the most unhelpful, long tail. Add to that his visual sensitivity to light, and Jazz wondered what use he could ever be for his flock.
That was when Nightshade discovered him, playing hide and seek with other fledges his age. He’d been the one to suggest Jazz use his size to his advantage, and he’d invited Jazz to the subvertive agent program.
Life changed for Jazz after that. Arguably better, occasionally worse, depending on one’s point of view.
He’d sworn off romance while he worked for Nightshade. He was rarely home, he was always in danger, and he didn’t want to worry about attachment. He had friends, playthings, other baras and smols who were happy to have him for a night. He thought that was enough.
Until Bluestreak swept into his life.
Nothing had been the same since.
Jazz wouldn’t change a thing either. He was living his best life with Bluestreak. He couldn’t be happier.
Well.
Maybe a little bit.
Because that night, Bluestreak spilled into Jazz’s mouth, licked him clean, then pulled him close to sleep. He wrapped his arms around Jazz, thick feathers a warm cocoon, and tucked Jazz under his chin.
“Good night, flitterling,” he murmured.
There was no sign of forgiveness. No sigh of him reaching for Jazz’s plug and granting him relief.
Jazz squirmed. He was hard and aching, his clava tip rubbing against Bluestreak’s thigh. His antrum seeped, muscles fluttering around the plug while his slick stained his featherdown. He could smell his own arousal and taste Bluestreak on his tongue.
He loved Bluestreak, but this was a special kind of torture.
“... Blue?” he ventured, on the cusp of begging, but not quite there. He had his pride, damn it. He was a warrior, a fighter, a fearsome spy. He would not be defeated by a little piece of polished wood.
“Hmm?”
“Am I forgiven?” At least for the plug. Dear Adaptus, at least could he be free of the taunt of the plug.
Bluestreak shifted and his thigh rubbed Jazz’s clava, sending a buzz of pleasure down his spine. He gasped, clutching at his younger mate, his hips rocking against Blue’s thigh. The plug shifted and nudged, sending another wave of want through Jazz’s groin.
“No,” Bluestreak said, his tone firm and unyielding. “You still lack self-control.”
Jazz whimpered. He ached. He wanted to beg. Just one release?
He gnawed on his bottom lip.
“Yes, sir.” His voice came out too small. Defeated. It simultaneously exhausted him and made him salivate.
By Adaptus, but Bluestreak’s mastery of him was so total, so enveloping, it was intoxicating. How did he do it?
“You can wait, can’t you?” Bluestreak rubbed him again, the tease. “It’s only a couple more days. Surely a grown bird like you can control himself. Yes?”
Damn him.
“Yes, sir. I can.” Jazz forced himself to be still, though all he wanted to do was rock against his bara mate and seek completion.
“Or do you need a drink?”
Another out was offered. Another opportunity to cease his punishment, if it was too much for him to handle. A chance to call an end to their little game if Jazz was no longer having any fun. Unfortunately, that was the problem.
This didn’t hurt. It was merely infuriatingly frustrating, and he wanted to find release, but he also wanted to prove he didn’t need one.
“I’m fine,” Jazz lied instead.
“I’m proud of you.” Bluestreak kissed the top of his head, nuzzling against his crest. Joy bloomed within Jazz’s core at the compliment, only to shrink when Bluestreak followed it up with a warning, “I’d better not catch you pillow-riding again though.”
“Yes, sir,” Jazz sighed the sigh of the defeated. He had no doubt Bluestreak would be watching him too closely from now on.
“Good night, Master.”
“Rest well, my flitterling,” Bluestreak replied, his tone warm and affectionate and dripping with ownership.
Jazz purred.
He tried not to squirm. He wanted to come so badly he could taste that sweet release.
But denial was his punishment and by Adaptus was it effective. It was only a couple more days. He could do this.
Jazz was having too much fun to ruin it now.
