Chapter Text
“Shut up,” Misha whispered harshly. He sneered down at the boy beneath him, watched the boy’s eyes go hazy and unfocused.
The boy whimpered and nodded best he could with Misha’s cunt planted firmly on his face. Not like he could talk anyway.
“Don’t you dare stop,” Misha hissed, even though the boy couldn’t really do that either, grinding against him harder. “If you do, I’ll —”
“You’ll what, Misha?” cut in a stern voice.
Misha’s eyes snapped to the sound and he found himself making eye contact with Mr. Velasquez, the headmaster. Fuck.
The boy froze beneath him, snapped his mouth shut, nearly bit Misha.
Mr. Velasquez stared down at the pair impassively. He stood in the doorway of the locker room, the light from the hallway spilling in from behind him. His stern face was cast almost entirely in shadow.
Misha cleared his throat. “Um —”
“Rhetorical question. Get dressed. I will wait for you outside. You —” Mr. Velasquez motioned to the boy beneath Misha, “— will see me in my office tomorrow. Understand?” His tone left no room for even the thought of disagreement. He shut the door before either of the boys could respond.
Mr. Velasquez dropped Misha’s sizable file on the desk. “Fighting, substance abuse on school property, underage drinking on school property, sex on school property — but we haven’t been able to really prove it until now, have we?” His office was dark, lit mostly hy his desk lamp.
“Shouldn’t you have those digitized or something? Wastes a lot of paper,” Misha mumbled, flushed and staring at the floor. He’d thrown a jacket and sweatpants on over his leotard and he was still sweaty beneath them.
Mr. Velasquez’s steely demeanor cracked for a moment. If Misha didn’t know any better, he’d think he was holding back a smile.
“Besides,” Misha pressed onward, “all the fighting was in self-defense.”
“I will admit, that much is likely true. You are subject to…significant harassment.” said Mr. Velasquez, levity gone.
“Yeah, and you’re a real help with that,” Misha glared at Mr. Velasquez, sarcastic and bitter.
For a moment, Mr. Velasquez was very quiet. Then he sat down at his desk, no longer towering above Misha.
“You’re right. This school has failed you.”
Shocked, Misha nearly dropped the empty wrapper he’d pulled from his pocket and had been fidgeting with.
“Your residence hall director, your RA, your teachers, they have not done enough to protect and help you. As your headmaster, I should have stepped in and done something. Fighting, drugs, drinking, sex — you could make a solid argument that it is my negligence which drove you to such things.”
Misha wouldn’t go that far. He’d been sent to this boarding school because he was already getting up to this shit at home.
“Misha, I want you to be honest with me.” Mr. Velasquez leaned forward. “Do you want to be here? Not in my office, but here, at this school.”
The lamp on the desk hummed quietly as Misha seriously considered the question. It wasn’t all bad. He had friends, a few of the teachers liked him, and he did really enjoy the gymnastics. And as Misha’s reputation as someone who would fight back spread, people were less likely to try and harass him, though the ones that still did were more determined. Most importantly, being here meant he wasn’t at home.
“Yeah,” Misha admitted quietly.
“If that’s the case, I want to help you stay. But I can’t overlook this. Protocol dictates that I invite your parents for a conversation.”
Misha squeezed his eyes shut. Not surprising, but exactly what he was afraid of.
“Is that all right?”
“What does it matter? You’re gonna do it anyway.”
Mr. Velasquez tilted his head and looked at Misha with shockingly gentle eyes. “I am,” he said slowly. He was so much softer like this, in light of his office, when it was just the two of them. “I apologize.”
“It’s good to see you, Mr. and Mrs. Marovitch,” said Mr. Velasquez. “I’ll get right to the point — we need to discuss your son’s behaviour.”
Misha shrunk down in his chair and stared resolutely at Mr. Velasquez’s desk.
“Her grades are good, are they not?” said Misha’s mom.
Mr. Velasquez looked questioningly at Misha. Misha pretended not to notice.
“Yes, Misha’s grades are exemplary,” Mr. Velasquez said carefully, “but —”
“She is doing well in gymnastics, yes?”
“Yes, in fact, Misha scored extremely high last season, but —”
“Then why are you wasting my time?” Misha’s mom snapped. “She is smart, she is fit, what is the problem? I pay good money for my daughter to attend your academy and this is how you repay me? By dragging me away from my work to tell me she is doing well? I know she is doing well. She is my daughter.”
Misha bit his lip. The desk began to blur as tears formed in his eyes. Mr. Velasquez continued to attempt to talk to his parents, but he tuned it out, letting himself float away. He ran through his floor routine in his mind, just in case his coach was onto something with that “visualization” bullshit. He thought about the reading for English class and what he would write about it. He retreated further into himself when his mom’s voice raised and his dad joined in. He thought about his project in history and how to present it well enough that the teacher saw he understood but not well enough that everyone thought he was a tryhard. He thought about curling up into a little ball on the floor and crying until he fell asleep. He thought about what was for lunch tomorrow.
He abruptly returned to the present when Mr. Velasquez put a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t touch me,” Misha snapped. He glanced around — his parents were nowhere to be seen.
“Apologies.” Mr. Velasquez immediately retracted his hand. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.”
Mr. Velasquez clearly did not believe him, but he didn’t press it. He turned and dug through the cabinets behind his desk for a moment before pulling out a juice box and a little packet of cookies. He sat down across from Misha and slid him the snacks.
“I’m not fucking five years old.”
“Language. I keep these around because they’re good for students with blood sugar issues, not because I think you’re childish.”
“Whatever,” Misha muttered, but he did grab the juice box and stab the straw through it.
After giving Misha a moment, Mr. Velasquez said, “Your parents did not believe me. They threatened legal action if I attempted to suspend or expel you.”
Misha sipped angrily at the juice box.
“Also,” Mr. Velasquez continued, softer, “I was under the impression that you were out to your parents. I apologize if I overstepped in that regard.”
“I am out to them,” Misha said. He set down the empty juice box and picked up the bag of cookies. He fidgeted with it but did not open it.
“Ah. I see.” Mr. Velasquez paused for a long moment. “You have my sympathy, Misha. Please, let me know if there’s anything you need from me.”
“Whatever. Can I go now?”
“Not yet. Regardless of your family situation, engaging in sexual acts on school property is still inexcusable behavior. If I can’t work with your parents to find a solution, I will have to work with you.” He smiled. Misha had never seen him smile before.
And so Misha found himself forced into weekly meetings with Mr. Velasquez. Every Friday afternoon he dragged himself to Mr. Velasquez’s office. He really didn’t see the point — after a couple weeks of asking Misha questions about his life and classes and whatever, Mr. Velasquez started putting on weird music and just letting Misha nap in the big armchair in the corner. Still, it was hard to be annoyed. Misha knew he was getting off extremely easy, and he slept better in that stupid armchair than he ever did anywhere else.
Besides, it was kind of nice to see Mr. Velasquez more relaxed. He was really quite handsome when he wasn’t so stern, what with his sharp eyes and the shocks of grey in his sleek black hair. He wasn’t tall, but he didn’t have to be to tower over Misha. He was fit, but with a softness typical to men his age. If Misha wasn’t keenly aware that Mr. Velasquez was almost thirty years older than him, he might’ve been in serious danger of developing a crush.
That afternoon, Misha seriously considered skipping their meeting. He’d had an awful day. His roommate yelled at him for waking him up by screaming in his sleep, as if Misha could control that. There’d been a pop quiz in math that he was sure he’d failed. One of his classmates had tried to grope him in the locker room, and his coach hadn’t listened when he told her that he’d punched the kid in self-defense. Word about that had certainly made its way to Mr. Velasquez already, and Misha was not excited to be lectured about it.
But whatever trouble he was in, it would only be worse if he skipped. So he dragged himself to Mr. Velasquez’s office.
“Good afternoon, Misha.” Mr. Velasquez smiled warmly.
“Afternoon,” Misha mumbled, dropping his bag next to the armchair. There wasn’t any weird music today.
“We have something to discuss, but you know that.”
“Do we have to?” Misha kicked at the carpet, eyes downcast.
Mr. Velasquez chuckled. “Yes, Misha, we have to.”
Reluctantly, Misha sat down across from Mr. Velasquez. He took the juice box offered to him, doing his best to look mad about it, even though the taste had grown quite comforting.
“Don’t worry about the locker room incident. I’ve talked to your coach and everything is forgiven.”
“Just like that? You didn’t even ask me what happened.”
Mr. Velasquez shuffled some papers around. “I feel that I’ve come to understand you better over the last few weeks, Misha. I can guess what happened, and I am truly sorry that you keep experiencing such things. I’m taking measures to prevent future incidents.”
Sure, whatever that meant.
“What I’d like to talk about today is your recurring conflict with your roommate.”
Misha huffed and scrunched up his nose. He supposed his roommate situation could be much worse — at least he got to live in the boy’s dorms — but he was tired of being yelled at for things he did in his sleep. As if he could fucking help it.
“My understanding is that you suffer from both night terrors and nightmares, and these frequently disturb your roommate’s sleep.”
“I’m not fucking trying to —”
“I know.” Mr. Velasquez reached across the desk and took Misha’s hand.
Misha did not pull away.
“It’s not your fault. You shouldn’t be punished for your troubles.”
Misha opened his mouth to snap something about how Mr. Velasquez didn’t know shit about his “troubles,” but stopped himself, suddenly afraid he might begin to cry if he spoke. Feelings that had been buried deep within Misha for years were forced to the surface by Mr. Velasquez’s enduring patience.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have any free rooms to offer you. But I may have another solution.”
Misha swallowed his emotions. “What is it?”
“Well…it’s rather unorthodox.”
“Just tell me.”
“You could stay at my house. I live close to campus and I have a spare room.”
Misha stared in disbelief. “Surely that’s against some kind of law.”
“As if you care much about that.” Mr. Velasquez smiled. “I think you have enormous potential, Misha. But you need things that the dorms can’t offer you — a private room, a private bathroom, the assurance that no one will be upset with you for things you can’t control.”
“You don’t know jack shit about what I need,” Misha sneered, this time confident he wouldn’t cry, even though that did sound really, really nice.
Mr. Velasquez’s smile did not waver. “Why don’t I give you a tour? You can decide after you’ve seen my house.”
Misha thought this sounded exactly like the kind of setup that would end with him getting raped in Mr. Velasquez’s house. But as soon as the thought had crossed his mind, he felt rather guilty for thinking it. Mr. Velasquez had been nothing but kind and patient with him. He had no reason not to trust him. He even had a small handful of reasons to trust him.
Besides, getting raped by Mr. Velasquez would probably beat getting molested in the showers.
And it turned out, Mr. Velasquez’s house was pretty great. He had a big TV, a couple gaming consoles he said Misha could use whenever, a nice kitchen, and the guest room upstairs was awesome. The bed was large and plush, the desk nice and spacious, and it even had its own bathroom. Bits of everyday clutter and disarray were spotted around the house, giving it a comforting lived-in feel. Misha could imagine himself living here. Misha could imagine it quite easily.
“So, what do you think?” Mr. Velasquez asked when the tour was over. “You can have some time to think about it, of course.”
“Nah, I don’t need any. This’ll work.”
Mr. Velasquez stepped closer and took Misha’s wrist. “Are you sure?” he asked. He brushed his thumb against the soft skin on the inside of Misha’s wrist.
“Um —” As if a switch had been flipped, Misha’s mind suddenly clouded over, went soft, pliable. The sensation was extremely odd, but not unpleasant. “I don’t…know…”
Again Mr. Velasquez rubbed his thumb against that spot. The haze in Misha’s mind compounded.
“I think…so?”
“Say it. Say you want to live here, with me.”
“I…I wanna…live here…with…you…” Misha said slowly, his brow furrowing. He felt so strange, like his mind was turning liquid, all his thoughts running together, and if he tilted his head, they might all pour out of his ear.
“Good,” Mr. Velasquez purred. “You can sleep here tonight. I’ll arrange for your things to be brought.”
“Okay…” Misha swayed a little where he stood. Wow, this felt nice… “Thanks, Mr. Velasquez.”
“No need to be so formal. You can call me Theodore.”
Theodore…that was a nice name.
On Monday Misha got his quiz results back, the ones for the math one he thought he’d bombed. He’d aced it.
When he got back to Theodore’s house, buoyed by his decent day, he was greeted by the familiar sound of the weird music Theodore used to play in their weekly meetings. Weird…Theodore wasn’t usually home by now. Maybe he’d accidentally left it playing? Whatever. Misha dropped his bag in the entryway and went to get a snack.
But…the music was really soothing. It made him kind of sleepy. Surely it would be okay if he just laid down on the couch for a bit…
Misha awoke some time later, surprisingly refreshed considering he’d been on the couch. The music had stopped playing and he heard Theodore humming in the kitchen. Whatever was for dinner smelled incredible. With an impressive yawn, Misha stood up and went to the kitchen.
“There you are. How’d you sleep?” Theodore looked up from the stove and smiled at him.
“Hey, d — dad…?” No, that wasn’t right. Why did he say that? Why had it come so naturally? Theodore wasn’t his father. Was he? No, that didn’t make sense, they didn’t even look remotely alike…but they did live together…and Theodore kept him clothed and fed…and…but…
“Come here for a second.” Theodore beckoned him closer.
Confused, thoughts muddled, Misha obeyed.
Once Misha was close enough, Theodore reached out and took his wrist. He rubbed his thumb gently against the soft skin of the inside.
Just like last time, Misha’s mind fuzzed over, went soft. What had he been so concerned about…? There wasn’t anything wrong…everything felt nice and good and correct…
“Can you repeat what you said?” Theodore asked quietly, a strange intensity to his voice.
What? Oh… “Hey, dad.” Misha smiled. This time it felt perfect coming out of his mouth.
“Hello, sweetheart.” Theodore smiled back wide, warm, affectionate, paternal, everything Misha had ever needed.
Later that week, Misha awoke in the middle of the night screaming. He didn’t remember what his nightmare had been about, but terror weighed heavily on him. His pyjamas were drenched in cold sweat and his throat hurt from the intensity of his screaming. Disoriented and afraid, Misha stumbled out of bed and found himself outside the door of Theodore’s room. He paused, uncertain what he was expecting when he opened it…Theodore said he wouldn’t be bothered by Misha’s nightmares, but Misha interrupting his sleep at — what was it, three in the morning? — might be a totally different matter.
Still, hands shaking, Misha opened the door.
Theodore was already sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “Misha, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he asked, voice husky with sleep.
Misha wiped his nose with the sleeve of his pyjamas. “Nothing. I just…um…” he trailed off, certain that if he kept talking, he’d be unable to hold back his sobs.
“Did you have a nightmare?”
Humiliated, Misha nodded.
Theodore made a sympathetic noise. “Come here. You can sleep with me for the rest of the night.” He pulled back the duvet on his bed.
Misha hesitated. Theodore’s bed did look soft and inviting…and Theodore did always help…but…he was too old to need to sleep in his dad’s bed…wasn’t he?
Theodore snapped his fingers. Misha’s mind blanked. “What do we say about comfort?”
“There’s no shame in needing comfort,” Misha mumbled automatically. The words came from somewhere deep inside him, as if he’d known them all along. Soothing warmth washed over him as he spoke. His legs began to take him to the bed.
“Good, there’s a good boy.” Theodore smiled, warm with a sharp edge that Misha couldn’t place.
Exhausted from terror and hazy with…something…Misha climbed into Theodore’s big, luxurious bed. He collapsed against Theodore’s chest and began to sob, restrained at first, but soon loud and snotty and ugly.
Theodore wrapped his arms tightly around Misha and cooed at him, a soft and comforting sound that Misha barely heard over the cacophony of his crying. He ran a soothing hand up and down Misha’s back and rocked him gently back and forth. No matter how much snot and tears Misha got on his shirt, he did not stop comforting him.
Finally, when Misha was no longer bursting with the pressure of the tears inside him, he pulled away from Theodore and looked around for tissues.
“Better?”
Misha sniffled. “Thirsty.”
Theodore chuckled. “I’ll be right back with some water and some tissues, alright? You just make yourself comfortable.”
“Don’t go!” Misha grabbed the hem of Theodore’s shirt as he stood. Something in his brain lit up, telling him to be ashamed of his desperation, but it sparked, stuttered, and fizzled out.
“Come with me, then.”
So Misha did. He clung to Theodore’s side as they walked downstairs to the kitchen. He nuzzled into Theodore’s back as Theodore poured him water. His body felt light, hollow without the tears weighing him down, fragile and floaty. Only Theodore’s body against him kept him grounded. Tired contentment began to trickle into the cavity inside him.
Theodore handed him the glass of water and he chugged it greedily, droplets spilling from the corners of his mouth and rolling down his neck. When he was done, Theodore handed him a box of tissues. He let Misha lean against him as he blew his nose and scrubbed away his dried tears.
Together they climbed the stairs and went back to the master bedroom. Misha began to yawn, the aggressive kind of yawn that leaves tears in one’s eyes. By the time Theodore coaxed him beneath the covers, he was already half asleep.
He was brought briefly back to attention when Theodore slid in behind him and threw an arm over him, spooning him.
Were father and son supposed to cuddle like this…?
Theodore snapped, taking care to keep the sound quiet. “What do we say about me touching you?” he asked softly, breath ghosting across Misha’s neck.
“Dad’s touch comforts me…no matter how he’s tou —” Misha yawned, “— touching me or where.” His eyes fluttered closed and he went boneless against the mattress. The solid presence of Theodore against his back soothed him. Theodore’s cock, hot and hard, pressed against his ass. Wait, Theodore’s —
Something in Misha’s brain slipped, wavered, then slid neatly back into place. Dad’s touch comforted him, no matter how he touched him or where.
Misha fell asleep only minutes later, lulled by the rhythm of Theodore grinding against him.
The next time he had a nightmare, he ran to Theodore’s room and climbed into his bed without a second thought.
Another terrible fucking day. There weren’t even any good reasons this time. Misha just woke up miserable and stayed that way. He wasn’t sure what had changed, but people harassed him less now, which was great, but gave him no outlet for his temper. He got home later than usual, having insisted on walking home instead of letting Theodore drive him.
Theodore was already home when he finally got there. As soon as Misha entered the door, he frowned from his spot at the kitchen table.
“Misha, baby, what’s wrong?”
“Don’t wanna talk about it.” Misha dropped his backpack next to the door and kicked off his shoes.
“You sure?”
“Fuck off.” Misha winced at the venom in his own voice. “Sorry,” he added, barely a whisper.
Theodore got up from the table and joined Misha in the foyer. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s alright. I know you’re just stressed. Why don’t we relax and watch a movie tonight? I can order some pizza, grab some ice cream from the freezer downstairs.” He held his arms out.
Misha tipped forward and buried his face in Theodore’s chest. “Coach will be mad,” he mumbled.
“Coach doesn’t have to know.” Theodore held Misha tight. “Nobody has to know.”
An hour later, Misha sat on the couch, watching some dumb comedy with Theodore while they ate pizza. Theodore didn’t like Hawai’ian, but he got a full large one for Misha so he could have the leftovers over the next couple days. He got a small meat lovers’ for himself.
Misha’s foul mood slowly dissolved with each joke from the movie, with each bite of pizza, with each of Theodore’s brief touches against his arm, his leg, his shoulder.
About halfway through the movie, Theodore left to retrieve the ice cream from the basement. Misha stared at where he’d been sitting, then, slowly, involuntarily, tipped over and rested in the warm spot his body had left. It was very comforting…
When Theodore returned, he hastily sat up.
As they ate the ice cream, their bodies slowly drifted closer and closer together as if drawn by magnetic force until they leaned against each other. Misha tried very hard not to blush.
Once the movie was almost done, Theodore got up again. This time he returned with a glass of something fizzy and handed it to Misha.
Misha sniffed the drink. “Is this…alcoholic?”
“Yes. You want to relax, don’t you?” Theodore smiled placidly.
Misha blinked in disbelief. “Not super responsible of you.” He took a sip of the drink. It tasted like juice, mostly, the alcohol cloaked and subtle. He had no idea how strong it was.
“It’s just me and you. I’ll keep you safe. Go on, drink up.” His smile gained an odd edge.
Misha drank. And when Theodore handed him another drink, he drank that too. He learned quickly that the drinks were, in fact, very strong. When he got up to recycle one of the pizza boxes, he stumbled and almost fell, dizzy and giggly.
Upon returning from the kitchen, Misha threw himself back on the couch and against Theodore. He nuzzled into Theodore’s side, head full of cotton.
“Feeling better?” Theodore asked fondly.
“Mmmmmhmmmm.” Misha smiled, big and wide. He pulled away and grabbed a slice of lukewarm pizza from the table and stuffed it into his mouth.
“Want another?”
Misha shook his head. “Don’t wanna be hungover,” he said between bites of pizza.
“There’s no school tomorrow, remember? It’s a holiday.” Theodore wiped a glob of pizza sauce from Misha’s shirt.
Chewing thoughtfully, Misha looked at Theodore. Theodore was so handsome…and he was being so good to Misha…and Misha did feel reallyyyyyy nice…
“M’kay,” Misha mumbled around the pizza crust.
Theodore brought him another drink. By now, the movie had finished and the streaming service had automatically begun playing another one.
This drink was noticeably stronger. Misha wrinkled his nose, but didn’t stop drinking it.
Theodore watched with dark eyes as Misha sipped away at it and eventually chugged the last half. When it was gone, he handed Misha a glass of water.
“You — you’re not drunk at aaaaall,” Misha complained, slumping against Theodore and trying to drink the water. He got most of it into his mouth.
“No. I have to stay sober so I can take good care of you.” Theodore flicked Misha’s nose. Misha went cross-eyed to watch the movement.
“You should…you should relax too.” Misha slid down until his head was in Theodore’s lap. He nuzzled against the soft fabric of Theodore’s sweatpants and made a contented little sound.
“This relaxes me.” Theodore combed his fingers through Misha’s hair for a moment. “C’mon. Up you go.” He maneuvered Misha up and coaxed him into his lap, side-saddle.
Beginning to feel his third drink, Misha let himself be moved. His head spun pleasurably and Theodore's body against him felt sooooo nice…He barely even noticed when Theodore slipped his hand under the waistband of his leggings.
“You look warm,” Theodore whispered into Misha’s ear. “Let’s get these off you, okay?”
“M’kay,” Misha murmured, smiling vacantly into Theodore’s chest. He obediently lifted his hips and let Theodore toss his leggings over the back of the couch.
Once they were gone, Theodore rested a hand on Misha’s thigh and rubbed gently at his bare skin.
Misha made a pleased little sound and squirmed. “Daaaad,” he whined.
“What is it, you sweet little thing?”
“Want more ice cream.”
Theodore chuckled. “It’s all liquid now, baby.” His hand trailed further up Misha’s thigh.
“Don’t care.” Misha breathed heavily, thoughts disjoined and slippery. He hadn’t been this drunk in a long time. The last time was really scary…but this was okay, this was good…Theodore was here.
“Alright.” Theodore leaned toward the table, holding Misha to his chest with one arm. He leaned back with one of the bowls in his hand.
Misha held his hands out for it.
Theodore ignored his hands. “Tilt your head back and open your mouth,” he said. His hand slid even higher up Misha’s thigh, fingers so close to Misha’s cunt that Misha swore he could feel their heat against it.
Misha obeyed.
Theodore held the bowl above Misha and tipped it so the sweet remains of the ice cream poured into Misha’s mouth.
Misha made a panicked, gurgling noise before getting the hang of swallowing with his mouth open. He squirmed in Theodore’s lap, something deep within him hot, excited, and confused by being made to drink like this.
Eventually he lost his rhythm and choked, ice cream spilling out the sides of his mouth. Theodore set the bowl aside and let Misha cough and recover.
Hazy and a little lost, white cream rolling down his neck, Misha looked to Theodore.
Theodore looked back, expression strange and unreadable.
“Da — aaaah?!” Misha was cut off as Theodore grabbed the back of his neck, pulled him in, and began licking the trails of ice cream from his neck and face. Paralyzed by confusion and blushing violently, Misha could only stare sightlessly at the ceiling and make helpless little noises.
“You’re so…fuck,” Theodore groaned into Misha’s neck. At last his hand finished its journey up Misha’s thigh and twisted to cup Misha’s cunt through his underwear.
Suddenly Misha was very aware that he was wet, fucking soaking, underwear damp against Theodore’s palm. His hips bucked automatically and he mewled, disoriented and dizzy.
“Don’t — dad —” Misha tried to push Theodore away, aware on some level that something was wrong. But his arms were weak, uncoordinated, slow, and Theodore only intensified his movements. His tongue dragged across Misha’s jaw to the corner of his mouth, dangerously close to slipping in. He began to firmly grope Misha’s cunt through the fabric, the heel of his palm grinding against Misha’s dick and fingers squeezing the folds. His free hand snapped in the air.
“You like this,” he breathed in Misha’s ear. “You want this.”
The feeling of something shifting in Misha’s mind overwhelmed him. It did feel good…really good…and he liked when Theodore touched him…so he must like this…he must want this…
“I…like this…” Misha echoed hesitantly. “I want this…”
“That’s right, baby.” Theodore took one of Misha’s now-stationary wrists and pressed against the inside like a reward, flooding Misha’s mind with glittery fog.
Floating in thoughtless pleasure, Misha didn’t protest when Theodore’s hand slid into his underwear. He didn’t protest when Theodore coaxed his hips up to slide them off his legs. He didn’t protest when Theodore rubbed his bare cunt, or when Theodore took Misha’s dick between his fingers and stroked him in steady, confident motions. In fact, Misha wasn’t sure he remembered what the word “protest” even meant anymore. There wasn’t anything going on that he could ever be opposed to. Why would he be? He was warm and full of indulgent food and cuddled up with his dad and whimpering in pleasure. Everything was perfect…
“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?” Theodore asked as if he could hear the gears struggling to turn in Misha’s head.
“Nothing,” Misha answered honestly. His thoughts slipped away from him as soon as they crystalized, leaving his mind blissfully blank.
“God,” Theodore groaned. He tightened the hand around Misha’s waist and pressed wet, greedy kisses across his neck. His fingers sped up against Misha’s dick, sending waves of electric pleasure through Misha.
“Waitwaitwaitwait, daddy, something’s — I’m —”
Theodore only cooed at Misha and sped up more.
Misha wailed as his orgasm overtook him, hot and sharp and so much, too much. His back arched and he shivered as his cunt clenched, squeezed — and squirted, drenching Theodore’s pant leg.
“Holy fuck,” Theodore moaned. “You like this that much, baby?”
“Aaa — mmmha!!” was all Misha could manage, still deep in the throes of his orgasm. He watched in disbelief as he squirted again and again, soaking into the couch cushions and dripping down the insides of his thighs. With the world spinning and his vision blurred by how his eyes kept trying to cross, it wasn’t easy to make out, but Misha could see enough. Something deep in his mind fractured at watching his body respond like that to his father.
When his orgasm finally subsided, Misha went boneless in Theodore’s arms. But Theodore did not stop. He slowed down, but he did not let go of Misha’s dick.
“Daaaaddyyyyy,” Misha moaned weakly, clawing uselessly at Theodore’s arms. “Hurts.” And it did. It still felt good, but a sharp, painful edge accompanied the pleasure.
“Just a bit more, sweetheart. Just one more. You’re doing so good. It feels good to be good for me, right?” said Theodore, his voice breathy, a desperate edge to his tone.
Misha let his head loll back and moaned. His hips jerked involuntarily, trying to get away and get closer to Theodore’s touch all at once. The slick squelch of Theodore’s fingers against him echoed through the room, barely muffled at all by the long-forgotten movie. His mind fizzled out further, the clouds and fog giving way to true, incredible emptiness, full only of the formless substance of ecstasy.
With a startled gasp, Misha came again. His orgasm dragged through him, harsh and intense. His legs shook, his eyes fluttered and rolled back, and his cunt began to squirt immediately. After a moment Misha went completely limp, twitching as the sensations overcame him. It only became more and more intense as Theodore touched him through it, taking him higher and higher until — no — !
“Shit,” Theodore mumbled in awe.
Broken by pleasure, Misha’s body completely gave in. It took him a moment to realize what was happening. He wasn’t squirting anymore — he was pissing himself, uncontrollable and so, so relieving. His mind was too addled to even conceive of shame, and it felt so satisfying to let go, especially with how full he’d been of alcohol. It was like an orgasm folded inside his already incredible orgasm.
He whimpered and bucked his hips against Theodore, dragging his mind-bending orgasm out even further. His awareness faded, washed away by every pulse of filthy pleasure until he was no longer aware of where he was or what was happening. He stayed there, drifting in a dimension of ecstasy, for quite a while…
When Misha came to, Theodore was helping him shower. His mind returned to him slowly, guided by the little phrases Theodore was saying.
“‘M sorry,” Misha mumbled as soon as he was capable of doing so. He tilted his head back and sighed as Theodore massaged shampoo into his scalp.
“Don’t be. You were perfect.” Theodore responded, quiet and sincere. “You’re perfect.”
Unsurprisingly, Misha woke up the next morning with a hangover. On his bedside table was a glass of water, painkillers, a protein bar, and a note. Apparently Theodore was out running errands and Misha should text him with any grocery requests.
Misha groaned, sat up, took the painkillers, chugged the water, and ate the protein bar. He stared vacantly at the opposite wall as he remembered the events of the previous night. Theodore, his father, treating him to an indulgent night in. Theodore, his father, getting him drunk and touching him until he squirted, until he fucking pissed himself. Theodore, his father, bathing him and carrying him to bed and tucking him in. Theodore, his father. Theodore, Theodore, Theodore.
Warm, breathing heavily, and restless, Misha fell back in bed and shoved a hand between his legs.
“Goddammit,” Misha muttered, digging through his bag.
“You forget something?” asked one of the other gymnasts, braiding her hair as they waited for practice to start.
“My fucking shorts. I don’t wanna just wear the leotard. Fuck.”
“Dude, it’s not that big a deal. Maybe someone has a pair you can borrow?”
“No, I — hold on.” Misha pulled his buzzing phone from his pocket. Theodore. He answered it. “Hi, dad.”
“Hello, sweetheart.” Theodore’s voice crackled through the poor reception of the building. “I brought your things, but I forgot my keys. Can you open the gym door for me?”
The gymnast Misha had been talking to looked at him questioningly. He waved her off and walked to the side door of the gym. People weren’t really supposed to know that Misha and Theodore were related, though Misha couldn’t quite remember why. Whatever. He pushed the door open and slipped outside, careful to wedge the doorstop in the frame.
“There you are,” said Theodore. He stood in the dark evening, wearing his casual clothes and smiling at Misha.
“Hi.” Misha blushed and looked at the ground, barely suppressing a smile.
“I brought your shorts, your charger, and a few snacks.” Theodore handed Misha a bag. “Anything else you need?”
Misha shook his head. “Thanks, dad.”
A beat of silence. “Can you look at me for a second, baby?” Theodore asked softly.
Obediently, Misha looked up.
Theodore cupped Misha’s cheek in his palm, his skin a warm reprieve from the chilly air. His dark eyes looked fondly down at Misha as he leaned toward him.
Certain he knew what was coming, Misha let his eyes flutter shut. And he was right. A moment later, Theodore’s lips pressed gently against his. Electricity sparked across Misha’s skin and he made a tiny, embarrassing noise.
Theodore hummed in response and wrapped his free arm around Misha’s waist, pulling their bodies close. He opened his mouth, taking their kiss from dry and chaste to wet and hot. Misha did his best to reciprocate, throwing the arm not holding the bag around Theodore’s neck and letting his mouth go soft and pliable. The wet slide of their lips and tongues fuzzed out everything else around them.
Misha didn’t realize he was moving until his back hit the cold concrete of the gym’s exterior wall and he was caged against it by Theodore’s body. He shivered in some sort of vulnerable delight and moaned into Theodore’s mouth. His body pulsed hot and restless and he dropped the bag to throw his other arm around Theodore.
“Shit,” Theodore groaned. He pushed Misha impossibly further against the wall and moved his hand from Misha’s cheek to the back of Misha’s neck so he could better maneuver him how he wanted.
“Dad,” Misha breathed when Theodore gave him a moment. “Practice is really soon.” He shifted his hips to better press against Theodore’s and made no move to go inside.
“Just a little more.” Again Theodore kissed him, harder, greedier. The hand on Misha’s waist slid lower to grab his ass and squeeze. He wasn’t rough with Misha, exactly, but his movements carried a certain desperation, a certain freneticism, that made Misha quite dizzy.
Only when there was a loud burst of laughter from inside did Theodore pull away, flushed and breathless. He stared down at Misha. Misha stared up at him. Slowly, he bent down and picked up the bag to give it to Misha again.
“You should go get ready now.”
“Yeah.” Misha bit his lip. “One more?”
Theodore thought so hard it was visible. “Not right now. After practice. When we get home.”
“Okay.” Misha pouted a little. “Bye, dad.”
“Goodbye, sweetheart. Be good.” Theodore hesitated, and for a moment it seemed he might go back on his word and kiss Misha again, but he didn’t.
Misha took a minute or so to gather his composure after Theodore left. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, but he also couldn’t bring himself to care.
“I didn’t know your dad lived nearby,” the gymnast said when Misha returned.
Misha ignored her implied question and wiped surreptitiously at his mouth. “You wanna granola bar? I have extras.”
Theodore picked Misha up and drove him home, playing the radio from the car’s speakers. The DJ seemed cool.
When they got home, Theodore let Misha get all of three feet inside before leaning down to kiss him.
Misha turned his head away. “I’m not in the mood anymore. I’m tired.” Which was, unfortunately, true. Practice had gone well, but he’d worked hard and worn himself out.
“That’s alright.” Theodore kissed Misha’s temple instead. “Let’s do something else instead.”
“I wanna go to bed,” Misha pouted.
“Of course. What I have in mind will help you relax.”
“...okay.”
About fifteen minutes later, Misha found himself kneeling on a pillow beneath Theodore’s desk, Theodore’ usual weirdo music playing in the background.
Theodore snapped his fingers. “What relaxes you?”
“Um…” Several different answers bubbled up from the depths of Misha’s mind. He wasn’t sure which one Theodore wanted.
“Hmm.” Theodore dipped his non-snapping hand below the desk and ran his thumb over Misha’s bottom lip. “What relaxes you?” he repeated.
“Having something…in my mouth?” Misha answered tentatively. Was that what Theodore was after?
“Good.” Theodore slid two of his fingers into Misha’s mouth.
Immediately Misha’s eyelid drooped and the tension in his shoulders unwound. Wow…it did really calm him down to have something in his mouth… He sucked gently at Theodore’s fingers and fidgeted with the hem of Theodore’s pant leg.
“Hands behind your back, sweetheart.”
Misha pulled off of Theodore’s fingers. “But I hate sitting still.”
Theodore’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm. I suppose it would make sense if you had ADHD. You do seem to have trouble with —”
“Who cares?” Misha interrupted, resting his head against Theodore’s knee.
Theodore laughed. “Alright, alright. Here.” He handed Misha a stress ball from his desk. “We can talk about setting up an appointment for you later.”
Misha wasn’t listening. He’d already latched back onto Theodore’s fingers. A contented buzz rumbled through him at the comfort of their weight in his mouth. He absentmindedly kneaded the stress ball and let his eyes slip shut.
He stayed that way for quite a while, long enough that he had to shift how he was sitting because his feet were going numb. His thoughts liquified and drooled out of him through his mouth, running down his chin and neck.
Eventually Theodore pulled his fingers away. “I need both hands for this,” he said apologetically. Oh. Misha had forgotten Theodore was doing work.
“Is there something else I can put in my mouth?” Misha asked, blinking pleadingly up at Theodore.
“Fuck,” Theodore muttered. He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. His face was flushed, though Misha didn’t know why. It wasn’t all that warm or anything. “Yeah, baby,” he continued. “I have something else for you.”
He reached down and unbuckled his belt.
Misha frowned at Theodore’s thick cock as it emerged from his fly. His mind kept hitting and stumbling over obstacles trying to figure out what was bothering him though…wasn’t Theodore just helping him relax…?
Theodore snapped his fingers. “You trust me.”
“I trust you,” Misha echoed. Why would he be concerned? Whatever was bothering him, it surely didn’t matter. Theodore would never do anything Misha didn’t want.
So Misha leaned forward and let Theodore guide his half-hard cock into his mouth. He could only get about two-thirds of the way down before it started to get uncomfortable, so he stopped and rested his head against Theodore’s inner thigh.
“Good boy,” said Theodore, voice tight. “Keep your head still, alright?”
Misha hummed in acknowledgement, drool already starting to pool in his mouth.
They stayed like that for a while. Theodore petted Misha’s hair occasionally while Misha luxuriated in the feeling of something hot and thick in his mouth, the pleasant saltiness and comforting musk. Purely wholesome comfort warmed him, even as Theodore got harder in his mouth. His eyelashes fluttered as he dozed, comfortable and content.
Eventually, Theodore finished his work and gently pushed Misha’s head back.
Misha whined, half-awake, as Theodore’s cock slid from his mouth. His mouth felt cold and empty without it.
“It’s almost time for bed,” Theodore soothed. “But just stay down there a bit longer, okay?”
Too sleepy to protest, Misha nodded. He blinked hazily up at Theodore as Theodore began to pump his spit-slick cock above Misha’s face. How nice of Theodore to help him relax like this, Misha thought as Theodore’s cum fell across his face in thick ropes. He was so lucky to have such a caring father.
At last, the day of the meet arrived. Usually Misha would hang around the gym with the other gymnasts until it was time to take the bus to the school hosting, but Theodore called him home.
“I want to help you stretch,” he said by way of explanation when Misha asked why.
And true to his word, Theodore helped him stretch. He set a few mats, which he had for some reason, on the living room floor and gently pushed Misha to deepen his stretches. Once they had run through all the usual ones, Misha lay down on the mats and stared up at the ceiling light. Nervousness pulsed in his chest.
Theodore sat down next to him. “Let’s do one more stretch,” he said.
Misha looked at him questioningly.
“A special one,” Theodore continued, “that you should only ever do with me.”
An alarm bell attempted to chime in Misha’s head, but failed. He blinked at Theodore, face open and trusting.
“You have to take off your shorts for it. And your leotard.”
Again the alarm bell attempted to ring. Again it failed. Misha peeled off his leotard, then his shorts, leaving him in only his sports bra. Theodore had convinced him not to wear a binder while doing gymnastics or sleeping anymore, but he’d also bought Misha a couple new binders to replace his old ratty one, so it all evened out.
He sat back on the mat and let Theodore guide him to lay on his back.
Theodore grabbed both of Misha’s ankles in one hand and pushed his legs back, folding Misha in half. They’d already done this stretch, so this couldn’t be it.
“So flexible,” he murmured. He pressed a kiss to the back of Misha’s thigh. “So beautiful. Can you hold your legs here for me?”
Misha whimpered and hooked an arm around his knees, keeping his thighs pressed tight to his chest. He kept his legs straight for a moment after Theodore let go, then let them relax and bend a bit. He should’ve been embarrassed about how the position exposed him. He should’ve been.
“Good boy. Now you just hold that pose and let daddy stretch you out, alright?”
“M’kay,” said Misha, biting at the knuckles of his free hand.
Theodore pushed a pillow underneath Misha’s hips, tilting his ass up further. He also grabbed a pillow to put under his own knees. He leaned back down and pressed more kisses to the back of Misha’s thigh, lower, lower, until his face was right next to Misha’s holes. He used a hand to spread Misha’s cheeks, leaned down, and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Misha’s asshole.
“Dad — daddy that’s gross —” Misha moaned, toes curling in the air.
Theodore only hummed in acknowledgment, the sound vibrating against Misha’s hole. He dragged the tip of his tongue around the rim, setting Misha’s nerves on fire, before switching to slow, broad licks.
While he was no stranger to anal, Misha hadn’t considered that something like this could feel so incredible. He muffled his moans behind his hand and tried not to squirm too much as Theodore ate him out with enthusiasm, his tongue hot and slick. Sticky pleasure pooled in his abdomen.
Tragically, Theodore pulled away and replaced his thumb with a finger, teasing Misha’s hole while he leaned over to dig for something under a couch cushion. His hand emerged triumphant with a bottle of lube.
Misha shivered in anticipation.
Theodore drizzled lube over where his fingers pressed against Misha, eyes trained on the spot. His finger slid in easy.
“Nothing hurts?” he asked.
Misha shook his head. “‘S good. Not much of a stretch yet,” he pouted. It was, however, extremely nice.
“You’ve done this before?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Theodore snapped his fingers. “No you haven’t. I’m the only one who’s ever touched you like this.”
Misha’s brows furrowed. But he had so many memories of doing this with other people…drunk or high out of his mind…riding people in the dirt of the park…snarling commands at people while they whimpered above him…making people thank him for the opportunity to finger him… But Theodore was always right. Maybe all those memories were just things he’d fantasized about before Theodore started spoiling him like this, before he realized that he was much happier letting himself be taken care of than giving orders and making demands. The crease between Misha’s brows dissolved. That must be it.
“Say it.”
“You’re, mmmhn, you’re the only one who’s ever touched me like this,” Misha echoed.
“And I’m the only one who ever will again.” A sharp edge tempered the softness Theodore usually spoke to Misha with nowadays.
Misha didn’t notice, too busy trying to keep his legs held back like Theodore had asked him to. The way pleasure zinged through his limbs made it difficult, especially when Theodore added another finger, the stretch still easy but no less delicious.
“More, more, dad, please,” Misha whined.
“No. We don’t want you sore for the meet, do we?”
“The meet? I don’t care about the meet —”
“Yes you do, sweetheart. You’ll remember that when you’re not desperate to cum.”
Misha huffed, knowing that Theodore was right. Theodore was always right. Theodore was so good to him. He let his eyes slide shut and focused on enjoying the stretch of his hole around Theodore’s fingers and the glide of Theodore’s fingers against his insides. He fumbled around with his free hand until he found Theodore’s, resting on the mat next to them.
With a wordless noise of affection, Theodore repositioned himself so he could hold Misha’s hand.
Placated, Misha let his mind drift. He had no idea how he lived before this…when he and Theodore were separated for some reason…didn’t matter why. How had he gotten by without Theodore feeding him and clothing him and comforting him and indulging him, without Theodore taking care of him? He squirmed on the mat, pleasure beginning to overwhelm him. He was so glad he and Theodore were back together now.
Theodore let go of Misha’s hand to snap his fingers. “You can cum just like this, can’t you?”
“I — aaah! — I can cum from anal…just like — just like all those other boys,” Misha managed to recite between sharp breaths, uncertain where the words came from but positive that they were true. The crackling heat inside him brightened and intensified. His lashes fluttered. His hole clenched desperately around Theodore’s fingers.
“That’s right.” Theodore took Misha’s hand again and searched for that spot on the inside of his wrist, then pressed hard against it. “Say it again.” The fingers inside Misha continued their relentless massage of his insides.
Misha’s eyes crossed as his mind fizzled and buckled. He opened his mouth to obey but all the spilled out were moans and whimpers and drool.
“Perfect little boy,” Theodore cooed, not at all bothered by Misha's inability to obey. “You must be close.”
“Da — daddy —” Misha’s eyes fluttered. He let go of Theodore’s hand and reached out, not sure what he was searching for.
Theodore shifted a bit on the couch so he could lean forward and let Misha grab his hair and pull him down. He pressed his forehead against Misha’s, the air between them quickly becoming hot and humid with their breath.
“Dad, ahh, mmmmnh,” Misha panted, mind too muddled and empty to form the words. His fingers curled in Theodore’s hair.
“I know,” whispered Theodore. “Go ahead.” Boundless affection filled his deep brown eyes.
Misha came, curling in on himself and almost kicking Theodore in the head. The orgasm burst from somewhere deep inside of him, thick and dizzyingly intense. He didn’t squirt, exactly, but his cunt gushed and dribbled all over Theodore’s hand. Not that he noticed. He was too busy clinging to Theodore with his free arm.
“Beautiful thing,” breathed Theodore. “You’re perfect.”
Misha smiled as his vision slid out of focus and the arm holding his legs back finally gave out, letting one of them fall on Theodore’s shoulder. If Theodore said it, then it must be at least a little true…
Most of the meet was, as always, deathly boring. Misha spent the majority of it lounging around with the other gymnasts from the academy, playing card games and half paying attention to the other school’s routines. They complained about the noise, lamented that they couldn’t eat until they’d done their routine, and talked about how someone had snuck booze in for an afterparty. Every once in a while there’d be a male gymnast from another school and everyone would point him out to Misha and joke about him coming for Misha’s spot as best male gymnast in the district. Misha would roll his eyes, but a little part of him would glow with the reassurance that he really was a male gymnast to them.
Finally it was Misha’s turn. The rest of the gymnasts wished him luck as he stood and approached the floor. He’d practiced hard. He could do this.
Misha ran through his routine near-flawlessly, landing his saltos perfectly and everything. His concentration didn’t waver and his body cooperated with him in a way it almost never did. Satisfaction pulsed through him, but he kept it neatly contained as not to disturb his focus.
He completed his dismount and held his final pose, chin up, expression neutral, breathing heavy. Once the applause subsided and he was dismissed, he stepped off the floor and let himself break into a grin. Fuck yes! He’d fucking nailed it! He glanced around the room until his gaze landed on Theodore, sitting among the throng of parents and smiling proudly at him. Theodore stood up and held his arms out to Misha.
Misha, overflowing with joy, ran eagerly into his daddy’s embrace.