Archive of Our Own

“Intended agenda of male bonding retreat?” PAM asks, servos whirring.

"Fishing, pissing in the woods, handies. Male bonding stuff," Deacon says airily. “Fixer’s set up supplies at the Taffington Boathouse.”

"Data is essential to ascertain quality of this homosocial bonding interaction. Detailed recollection is preferred."

“Don’t worry, I’ll write up a full report.”

“Thank god. That might take time away from his lamentable erotica,” Carrington mutters. He gives Desdemona a brisk handshake, and suffers Glory’s hearty shoulder-punch. Tinker Tom and Runner Boy have already said their goodbyes, waiting by the back exit to the catacombs with far more patience than he would have thought possible. Then again— Tom has that distant look in his eyes, humming some offbeat tune that skitters between classical and jazz. This signals either something very pleasant or rather alarming, depending on whatever schematics are taking shape.

Carrington blinks, sun-dazzled as he emerges into the Boston Commonwealth. The sky is an eye-smarting blue, the entire world a vast array of skyline, buildings, immense and open and overwhelming after time spent in the close confines of the Railroad. A sideways glance shows Tom to be equally awestruck, Drummer Boy squeezing his hand for support. Then a warm hand slips into his own, and Carrington looks down in surprise.

“You need to get out more, Doc.” Gentle, at least as far as Deacon goes. His eyes remain hidden behind those insufferable shades, reflecting Carrington’s own stupefied face. “You’ll get used to it once you get moving.”

“If you need a hat, I’ve got extra. Something to shield your eyes,” Drummer Boy offers, pulling a threadbare baseball cap out of his bag. Carrington nods, accepting the gift. It does help, somewhat.

Drummer Boy and Deacon lead the expedition, Drummer Boy occasionally stopping to update trail signs and check caches, and Deacon eyeing the periphery, his pistol slung loose at his side. Despite their caution, it proves unnecessary— the Minutemen patrols must have been through the area recently, and Carrington lets out a relieved sigh. While not precisely aligned with the Railroad, their factions dovetail enough that Carrington considers a success for the Minutemen nothing but good for the Railroad’s clandestine operations.

They reach Taffington Boathouse as the sun sinks low in the horizon, a ruddy orange that tints the air in shades of citrus. It’s a lovingly renovated two-story colonial house, surrounded by a white picket fence. The prewar aesthetic is somewhat perturbed by the machine gun turrets rattling about the perimeter, but Deacon breezily waves past them.

A small generator powers the lights and refrigerator inside the kitchen. A note is pinned to the fridge, scrawled in red crayon.

Hi everyone. Have fun. And D, eat up. You’re anemic. It’s disgusting. - F

“Ah, our patron saint of plenty has filled the fridge,” Deacon says, already sticking his head in and breathing deep with an exaggerated sigh. “Green beans, eggplant… everything we need to make sure we don’t die of scurvy.”

“And you trust the supplier?” Tom says suspiciously, fingering one of the many charms strung around his neck. A tiny eyeglass repair kit on a chain, a tarnished silver cross studded with garnets (“in case of vampires,” Tom had said with utter sincerity), half a dozen miscellaneous gears and cogs of varying sizes on a leather cord… Tom rattles with every step, a walking junkshop.

“Fixer would hardly give us tainted food,” Carrington cuts in.

Tom gesticulates wildly, eyes wide. “I’m just saying! Fixer might trust it, but the nanobots could have snuck into the soil…”

“Comes from Greygarden,” Deacon offers, rolling up his sleeves and washing his hands. He sudses yellow soap across his palms, knuckles. Rolls his shoulders back. “It’s run by robots. Like Takahashi. And you trust Takahashi, right?”

“They could be good bots, but they might not know either…”

Drummer Boy takes his elbow, gently steering him to the stairs. “Carrington can cook the food the way you like, okay? Nice and soft. Lots of boiling. It’ll kill any bots, right?” He gives Carrington a pleading look.

Carrington sighs. “I’ll boil some noodles and green beans.”

Soothed, Tom go upstairs with Drummer Boy, heavy steps muffled by the faded carpet as they drag their belongings upstairs. Carrington unpacks his personal spice kit: pepper, garlic, ginger, chili, sun-dried tomatoes, nutritional yeast, and holy of holies, sambar powder. It rarely shows up in the Bunker Hill market, but he considers it eminently worth it each time. Bland food may feed the body, but flavor feeds the soul.

“He needs another garden,” Deacon says softly, barely audible over the running water.

“I know. We just haven’t had time…” Carrington pinches the bridge of his nose. Exhales. Feels the familiar band of tension around his forehead, the dull throb of irritation and anxiety. Tom’s vegetable garden at the Switchboard had been a valuable outlet for Tom, as well as a way of guaranteeing he would eat something besides tinned meat and overboiled noodles.

Deacon turns off the faucet with his elbow, dries his hands on a towel. Squeezes Carrington’s shoulder. “Hey. Relax. That’s what we came here for, right?”

“It certainly wasn’t for the fishing,” Carrington mutters. But he relaxes his shoulders, rolls his neck back. Breathes. Decompresses his spine. He glances inside the fridge, then washes his own hands as he mentally reviews. “Deacon, can you wash the green beans while I prepare the eggplant?”

“Sure thing,” Deacon says, and then it’s a companionable silence as they rinse the produce. Carrington slices the eggplant into thick rounds, the knife hitting the wooden cutting board with a heavy thunk as Deacon snaps the ends off the green beans. Tom and Drummer Boy come back down the stairs, Drummer Boy’s footfalls in a rapid patter as he exclaims, “Found a fishing rod! Let’s see what I catch!”

“You catch it, you cook it!” Carrington calls. “You know I won’t eat it!”

“I’ll eat it!” Deacon promptly offers. “Not all of us are vegetarian!”

Tom hums to himself, off-tune and merry as he settles in the middle of the living room with a collection of tools and components.

“This was meant to be a retreat, Tom,” Carrington says. He bites his tongue on ‘we have ample supplies at HQ without needing to haul this backbreaking load across the Wasteland.’ Instead, voice even, he says, “You shouldn’t have to work while on vacation.”

“It’s not work, it’s play. Plug and play,” Tom adds with a high-pitched giggle. “Been thinking about some toys in the junk-drawer, and got some schematics…”

Carrington blinks. Stares. “...Tom, that’s a dildo.”

“It is going to be a fucking machine,” Tom says with pride.

Carrington’s horror only grows.

Oblivious, Tom continues. “I already built the frame, just need to assemble.”

“Oh?” Deacon asks, lips turning up in a feral grin.

Carrington has visions of losing his assistant before the dinner prep is finished so he snaps, “Deacon!”

“Right, right.” Deacon returns assiduously to the task at hand, making an elaborate show of offering his snipped green beans to Carrington before scuttling off to sit next to Tom. “So, what’s this?”

“That’s the flywheel!” Tom chirps, fast and excited as he points to each component, jabbing his finger hard enough to rattle the charms on his neck. “See, I already got my motor, so the it spins the wheel and puts that energy into the first drive arm here.” More pointing, more rattling. “This little doodad makes it go back and forth. Add a bearing stabilize the shaft, attach the dildo, and that’s the machine!”

“So we can just swap out the toys?”

“Uh-huh!” Tom grins, teeth white against his dark skin.

“Shit, Tom. You could make a fucking fortune with these things.”

Tom giggles. “They’re easy. Hardest part’s getting the motor.”

“No, I mean it. I’ve got friends in Goodneighbor…”

Carrington starts boiling water as he minces the onions. There’s something soothing about the litany of chopping and dicing, and it distracts from some of the more ominous mechanical sounds. He refuses to look, even when the worst comes and Deacon turns on the motor. The hideous whine and rapid-flail thokthokthok!!!! of metal on wood almost drowns out Tom’s “and that's why it needs a bearing!”

(The sound of metal on wood continues to haunt him.)

He fries the mustard seed with chili and ginger, breathing deep as the warm aromatics fill the kitchen. When the mustard starts popping, he adds the green beans. He drops the noodles into the boiling water, tuning back in to Deacon’s dubious economic advice.

“...at least think about it, Tom. Run some analytics past PAM. We’re strapped for caps and supplies as it is, and selling even a couple of ‘em could fund some of our other agents…”

“This was meant to be a retreat,” Carrington says crisply. “I left my medical journals at HQ, much against my will, and would greatly appreciate it if others would stop working while we are here.” He belatedly remembers that he still needs to bread the eggplant. Damn Tom and Deacon for being distractions.

“Sorry, sorry. Doctor’s orders, got it.” Deacon ghosts up behind him, wrapping his arms around Carrington’s waist and snuggling up close. He nuzzles the back of Carrington’s neck, flicking his tongue behind the ear. “I’ve been a real bad boy. I’m sorry.”

“Stir the beans,” Carrington orders, detaching himself so he can bread and fry the eggplant. He drains most of the noodles, but reserves a portion to continue boiling with plain green beans. He also adds a shake of sambar powder and nutritional yeast to the beans, ignoring Deacon’s mock-gag.

“Smells like feet, doc.”

“It’s full of B vitamins and zinc,” Carrington says, sauteeing the onions.

“Still smells like feet. Between the smell and the name, no wonder it hasn’t caught on. Who hears ‘nutritional yeast’ and thinks ‘yum, it’s what’s for dinner!’? Should be something more friendly. More marketable.” He drums his fingers against the stove, then snaps in epiphany. “How about nooch?”

“That name is already in use.”

“Just not by you, huh?”

Carrington sniffs.

They finish cooking, tossing the noodles with spices and onions, and Tom fetches Drummer Boy. Drummer Boy comes back grinning but empty-handed.

“I saw a three-eyed fish!” he exclaims.

“My heart leaps with joy,” Carrington says drily.

They all eat dinner together, Tom and Drummer Boy holding hands under the table as Tom carefully mashes his noodles and green beans with his fork. Drummer Boy more than makes up for Tom’s lack of enthusiasm by going back for seconds on everything, then a third on the eggplant before pushing his chair back with a satisfied sigh.

“God, I wish I could eat like this every day,” he chuckles, patting his belly.

“You wouldn’t be a runner anymore, you’d be more of a waddler,” Deacon points out.

“Unfortunately,” Drummer Boy says agreeably. He hoists himself to his feet with a groan, clearing away the plates and doing the dishes as Tom goes back to working on the fucking machine.

At a loss for what else to do, Carrington sits primly in the living room, knees together on the edge of the couch. Now that most of the inopportune flailing and assembly has been taken care of, he admits it looks less terrible than he first thought.

“So. Gonna try it out?” Deacon asks, plopping himself next to Carrington.

Carrington shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Could always strap me to it instead,” Deacon offers. The couch creaks as he wriggles closer, slipping his arm around Carrington.

Carrington snorts. “Ah, yes. Sacrificing your body to advance the cause of scientific research. How noble.” He permits Deacon to nuzzle his ear.

“I aim to please!”

It devolves to friendly bickering, then some Diamond City Radio when Drummer Boy finishes the dishes and comes into the room. His hands are scrubbed pink and raw, a near-match for the blush on his face as he tugs Tom into a slow spin around the room. Tom grins, allowing Drummer Boy to tug off his headgear, then to kiss his forehead. Tom’s thick hair is due for a trim, but Carrington squashes the thought. Part of relaxing means no nagging, after all.

(He still resolves to find a new cap for Tom.)

“They’re so cute it’s disgusting,” Deacon says fondly, draping his arm around Carrington.

Eventually, Deacon goes upstairs to “work on his novel,” but Carrington knows that means to painstakingly scrawl more of his erotica into a shredding spiral notebook. Carrington brushes his teeth in the downstairs bathroom, and emerges to find Drummer Boy and Tom making out on the couch.

Drummer Boy’s straddling Tom’s lap and kissing him full on the mouth, wet and hungry. His pants are undone, hanging off his hips with his cock out. Tom bundles their cocks together in his hand as they grind slowly, shirts rustling, breathing out in soft gasps.

Carrington chuckles, pulling a tin of lube from his bag and tossing it to them. Tom catches it with a startled yelp.

“Have fun,” Carrington says, smirking.

Drummer Boy and Tom both grin.

. . .

Drummer Boy helps cook breakfast the next day, boiling razorgrain for porridge as Carrington scrambles eggs with garlic and onion.

Carrington considers the eggs an unexpected luxury, and tries very hard not to think about the caps Fixer must have spent. “I have never seen eggs this small,” he comments, folding the mixture. “Where do you think Fixer gets them?”

“Some of the farms up north have rad chickens,” Deacon says, straddling the back of a chair with his chin propped in his arms.

“The marvels of free trade,” Carrington murmurs.

Tinker Tom continues carefully mashing his food into an indistinct mass before eating it. Carrington sprinkles nutritional yeast over his eggs, and Deacon does the same, despite more mock-gagging. Carrington punishes his insolence with kitchen duty, retreating to the battered couch with a peeling paperback novel. It’s some pulpy detective dreck, and Carrington finds his eyes fluttering shut before the end of the first chapter. Yawning, he sets the book down and decides to try for a nap instead.

He startles upright as Deacon plops his notebook on his belly. “Hey, Doc? If you need some more exciting reading material, I’ve got a story for you…”

Gingerly, he reached for the Courser's pulsating shaft. It fit into his hand as though made to do so, and he couldn't repress a shudder of appalled delight at the prospect of having that imposing rod worked into him. Delicately, he reached out with his tongue and licked the weeping cock and was rewarded with a manful groan.

"I was made to fuck," said XXX-69. "It's part of my programming, to keep me reliant on the Institute. If I don't blow my load all over a willing human, I'll die."

Agent Bishop's own truncheon throbbed in response. Pity and desire welled up in him like cum. "I think I can offer you a hand," he said huskily.

Carrington grimaces, over a dozen immediate criticisms already on his lips. Finally, he settles on just one. “‘Cock’ is a perfectly good and acceptable term. Why do you insist on these euphemisms?”

“Because I get bored, doc.”

Carrington groans, dropping the notebook to the floor. “I’m trying to nap, Deacon. Interrupt me one more time and I’ll…”

“You’ll what? Spank me? Tie me up?” Deacon waggles his eyebrows, leaning over Carrington to kiss his neck. “I’m down.”

“...better yet, leave me alone and I’ll tie you to Tom’s fucking machine.”

Deacon pecks him on the lips, then lets him sleep.

. . .

Carrington awakes three blessed hours later, languid and content. He stretches his arms overhead for the sheer pleasure of it, then rolls himself off the couch with a happy sigh.

Tom and Drummer Boy are playing checkers at the kitchen table, plastic pieces clicking against the board. Carrington waits for Tom to finish winning before asking, “Can you show me how to use your machine?”

“Sure! It’s real simple. Just be careful with the speed…” Tom says, showing Carrington the controls. It’s a clunky box unit with a simple switch and dial, which Carrington hefts appreciatively.

“Didn’t think you were a fan,” says Drummer Boy.

Carrington snorts. “I’m not. But Deacon is.”

“Someone called my name?” Deacon struts out of the upstairs bedroom wearing only his shades, cocking his hips and arching his back with one hand behind his head.

Carrington can't help laughing. “Were you just waiting for me to wake up?”

“Mhm. Honey, you know it.” Deacon slides the glasses down the bridge of his nose, winking. “How about that fucking you promised?”

Carrington chuckles. “Bring me my bag. The one on the dresser,” he orders, and Deacon hops to obey.

Deacon returns quickly, kneeling before Carrington with a grin. Deacon’s cock is already half-hard, bobbing between his legs as Carrington pulls a coil of paracord from the bag. Carrington guides Deacon’s hands together as if in prayer, then folds the cord, looping it around Deacon’s wrists and then draping the tails across the thumb and forefinger. There’s something soothing in the repetitive motion, the willing vulnerability that Deacon offers. It centers him, warm and focused; just skin, just flesh, just muscle and tendon and rope. Carrington pulls the tail between the wrists, then continues looping between each of Deacon’s fingers to lace his hands together.

“Please, sir, may I have some more?” Deacon murmurs, eyes glinting above his shades. His breathing is slow, but ragged. Raw want beneath the play.

Carrington runs the cord between his hands before tying it off, patting Deacon’s arm. “If you’re good.” He squeezes Deacon’s hand, inspects the nails and fingers for discoloration. “How does that feel? Not too tight?”

“Just right.”

Carrington eyes the fucking machine. Doesn’t want to bring it upstairs, but… He pulls Deacon to his feet, then feels under the couch. Ah. Good. It unfolds into a mattress, and he positions Deacon onto his back, then loops the paracord to the couch leg, keeping his prayer-bound hands overhead.

With Drummer Boy’s help, he positions the fucking machine on a low table. Deacon wriggles in anticipation… then frustration, whining, “Why am I not getting fucked?”

“Because you are a whiny brat,” Carrington says, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He taps Deacon’s knee, and Deacon obligingly spreads his legs, feet flat on the bed and lifting his hips. A silicone plug winks from between his cheeks. “I see you were getting ahead of yourself. A buttplug? Really?”

“I wanted to be ready, doc.”

Carrington undoes his shirt, then unbuckles his belt. Slicks lube between his hands, massaging it to skin-warmth. “And here I thought you wanted to get cum all over you.”

“The realities of Agent Bishop’s fictional life in no way reflect the fantasies of the very real me,” Deacon sniffs. Then yelps when Carrington plucks the glasses from him. “Hey!”

“I want to see your face as you get frustrated,” Carrington says. He pats Deacon’s knee again, then rubs his hand down Deacon’s calf to the ankle. Smooth; must have just shaved. “Besides, don’t you want to watch the show?”

Deacon wriggles indecisively as Drummer Boy slides his hands up Tom’s shirt, nibbling the side of his neck. Drummer Boy turns his head, giving a lazy wink and a wriggle of his hips to his audience. Tom and Drummer Boy undress each other slowly, knees and arms bumping as they shed their clothing, falling into the loveseat and grinding together. Drummer Boy’s pale skin still shines with purple love-bites from last night, and Tom diligently kisses each one. Tom sits on the bottom, leaning back in the plush chair with Drummer Boy’s thin legs wrapped around him. He traces his hand up Drummer Boy’s spine, fingers reading each bump of the vertebra like lines in a blueprint.

“Goddammit, I can’t see,” Deacon whines. He bounces in place, bedframe creaking, and yelps when Carrington pinches him.

Tom whines, low and soft. His eyes flutter shut, knuckles stark as he grips Drummer Boy’s hips.

“‘Sokay, beautiful,” Drummer Boy murmurs into Tom’s ear, licking the seam of his neck. “Just ignore ‘em if they’re putting you off stride.”

Carrington props Deacon’s neck on a pillow, studying Deacon’s face. Deacon’s starting to show his age in the fine lines around his eyes, the small flecks of silver in his ginger brows. Carrington knows his own years; wears them in his bones. Wonders if Deacon’s starting to feel the same.

He turns his attention away from that melancholy thought, instead watching Deacon watch Drummer Boy and Tom. Drummer Boy is lean, wiry rather than muscular. His bony shoulders jut like birds’ wings as he wraps his arms around Tom, kissing him with a wet, happy noise as their bodies rub together. Most of Tom’s body is hidden behind Drummer Boy, but Carrington knows the deceptive strength in those spindly arms and callused hands. They giggle softly now and then as their mouths break apart.

Carrington wraps his hand around his cock. A simple twist of the wrist, then up, thumb drawing back the foreskin. He’s already a little slippery with precum, but the lube works even better as he settles into a lazy rhythm, nothing like the hasty, private jerk-off sessions in HQ. Deacon’s pained whimpers add an extra thrill, and Carrington spares a moment to squeeze Deacon’s balls, nails pricking under the scrotum. “How are you feeling?”

“It’s hard, doc. I’m hard.” Deacon whimpers, his balls tightening as he arches his back. “Please fuck me already. I’ll suck your cock, I’ll take it up the ass, I’ll do anything. Just touch me before I combust here.”

“Anything?”

Deacon nods frantically.

“Then lie there and be still.”

Deacon groans.

Tom tugs Drummer Boy’s ear, whispering something that has them both smiling as they change positions. Drummer Boy stands up, squirting lube into his hand and slicking it over his dick as Tom flips over, kneeling on the loveseat with his knees together. Drummer Boy straddles his feet, slipping his cock between Tom’s thighs and leaning forward, kissing Tom’s shoulder as he wraps his hand around to stroke Tom’s hard-on. They move beautifully together, Tom groaning as he thrusts back, hands gripping the back of the chair and almost fisting in the fabric as Drummer Boy ruts into the join of his thighs.

“Don’t come on the seat; we’ll have to clean it up,” Carrington says. “Better yet, come on Deacon. I think he’s desperate.”

“I am!”

“Wanna come on Deacon, beautiful?” Drummer Boy asks, his hips gently slapping Tom’s thighs.

Tom moans hoarsely, low and wordless. Takes a few breathy gasps before he finally musters a response. “Only if you’re jacking me off.”

Carrington chuckles, rising to remove his pants and underwear. He steps out of them, leaving them crumpled on the floor. Has to ignore the familiar twinge of habit to do so, but this is a vacation, after all. He knee-crawls on the mattress next to Deacon, straddling his chest and pushing his cock to Deacon’s lips.

Deacon opens his mouth before Carrington even has a chance to give the order, moaning theatrically. If he finds the lube unpleasant, he shows no sign of it, swirling his tongue around Carrington’s cock and bobbing forward, trying to take as much of it as he can from this poor angle. Carrington groans as Deacon’s tongue flicks along the vein running beneath the shaft, and Deacon’s cheeks bulge, obscene and greedy. When Carrington’s cock pops out, Deacon nuzzles as if to coax it back in.

“You are absolutely disgusting,” Carrington says affectionately, patting Deacon’s cheek.

“Ooh, yeah. Say that and slap me with your dick,” Deacon groans, eyes closed. He cracks his eyes open when Carrington falters. “I mean it. I think that’d be hot.”

“Are you sure?” Carrington asks, suddenly conscious of Deacon’s vulnerability, nude and exposed, next to Carrington’s own half-clothed state. His shirt feels like a strange weight, half-sticky with sweat and tight across his back.

Deacon rolls his eyes, snorting. “Doc, I might lie, but I try not to say shit I don’t mean.”

Reassured, Carrington grips the base of his cock, then takes the back of Deacon’s head. He slaps his cock against Deacon’s cheek, first on one side, then the other. “You are absolutely disgusting,” he says, pushing his cock back into Deacon’s mouth. Deacon moans, something deep and primal that rumbles down Carrington’s shaft, but Carrington keeps going, fucking Deacon’s mouth and tongue with shallow thrusts. “Suck my cock. Do a good job of it and I’ll come on your face.”

Behind him, he can hear Tom and Drummer Boy panting, a few fumbling footsteps as they make their way to the fold-out bed. A slick, frictionless sound, wet skin on skin, and Tom groans.

Carrington doesn’t want to miss this, so he pulls out of Deacon’s mouth, and jacks off as fast as he can, palm smacking to the base of his cock. He clenches, balls lifting, tightening— comes across Deacon’s face, a spurt of cum landing squarely between his eyes and trickling down his nose, then his lip in a thin glaze.

Deacon sticks his tongue out, barely poking into the trickle of cum. He smacks his lips, wriggling.

Carrington gets off the bed, then turns around just in time to see Tom come across Deacon’s belly, thin and milky. A delayed spurt dribbles across Drummer Boy’s fingers, and he raises his hand to Tom’s mouth for Tom to gently lick and suck them, cleaning the crevices of his hand before they change positions. Soon, Drummer Boy’s cum joins Tom’s in a sticky pool.

Deacon whimpers through his teeth, hands twisting against the cords. “Please, please. Someone fuck me.”

Carrington chuckles. “You are absolutely disgusting. Covered in cum and wailing like a cheap porno. But yes, that was our deal.” He purposefully delays setting up the machine though, instead taking his time to climb back into his clothing, carefully redoing his buttons and adjusting himself back to his usual state. He pulls the plug from Deacon’s ass with a slick pop, wincing as it emerges. “This is… Deacon, how long have you been working yourself up to this?”

‘This’ is two inches in diameter, and Carrington sets it on the table with a healthy mixture of awe and dismay.

“Ever since I knew the four of us were gonna have a dirty weekend, doc.” Deacon grins, completely unashamed as he braces his knees wide. “I want to try taking two dicks in my ass.”

Carrington laughs. “Well. Big goals. And here I thought this would only be a joke…” He reaches into his bag, pulling out a heavy green dildo. “Tom, will your machine be able to take this?”

“Oooh. That’s a big’un. Uh. Probably?”

Carrington hands it to Tom, letting him replace the red one already on the machine.

“Doc? You?” Deacon laughs, his laughter turning to a wheeze as Carrington pinches his knee. “Not complaining. This is a fucking wet dream come true.”

“I originally intended it to be a gag,” Carrington admits. “Something to shock you.”

“Consider me unshockable. Holy shit this’ll be fun.”

Drummer Boy uses both hands to slick lube over the oversized toy, adding dripping layers as Carrington spreads Deacon’s cheeks apart to expose his gaping hole. It’s still wet, with Deacon’s thighs a slick mess of lube, but Tom pours more onto his fingers, working two, then three fingers in with no resistance. Tom slides in a fourth finger, almost to his knuckles, but stops as Drummer Boy finally sets the toy in place. Deacon props his feet flat on the bed as Carrington guides the oversized head to his ass. Carrington bites his lip, holding his breath to see if it will fit—

—and it does, sliding in with an obscene squelch, lube smeared everywhere and soaking into the covers.

Tom and Drummer Boy burst into applause.

Grinning, Carrington asks, “Deacon? How are you feeling?”

Deacon’s eyes flutter open. “This is the biggest thing I’ve ever had in my ass.” He shudders, eyes shut and body arching. “Holy shit. I like it.”

“Are you ready for us to start the machine?”

Deacon nods, and Carrington flips the switch.

The machine moves slowly, and Carrington sits by Deacon’s feet, facing his head. It’s almost hypnotic, watching the veiny green cock go in and out like a dirty magic trick, but he’s careful to keep an eye on Deacon’s face. Deacon’s mouth hangs open, his eyes closed and hands overhead.

“Well. You seem warmed up,” Carrington rasps, licking his lips. He’s not a teenager anymore, to get a second wind so quickly, but he thinks he might have another one in him tonight. Or at least some very, very warm thoughts. “Would you like me to speed it up?”

Deacon nods frantically, and Carrington twists the dial. Faster now, the motor whirring, and the cock pistons in and out of Deacon, rocking him on his back as it fucks him mercilessly. The angle must be doing something for Deacon, his cock bouncing against his belly as he moans high and loud.

“Would you like it faster?” Carrington asks, watching Deacon.

Deacon can’t even speak now, teeth clicking together as he nods, nods.

Carrington speeds it up, now the silicone balls slapping into Deacon’s ass as it bottoms out, the cock firmly stuffed up his ass as it goes in, out, in. Deacon’s body shines with sweat, his calves tight, toes clenched and digging into the mattress as he tries bracing himself for each oversized thrust. He yelps, moans. Whimpers, his face red and eyes scrunched shut.

Carrington taps his lip thoughtfully, then twists the dial.

Deacon screams, his startled cry shattering off the walls, but when Carrington guiltily turns the dial down Deacon shouts, “No, no! That’s good, I like it!” and Carrington turns it back up.

Deacon’s an unholy mess now, covered in sweat and cum and lube, his face thick with tears and cum that by now is dripping down and into his mouth. He groans, his cock hard and untouched, and Carrington finally takes mercy. He reaches into the bag for one last toy, a simple pocket rocket that he turns to the highest setting, hard enough to make his fingers tingle, then sets to the head of Deacon’s penis.

The vibration, combined with the fucking machine, explodes Deacon over the edge with a strangled yelp. He comes in a long, jerking spurt that reaches his chest, trickling down to mingle with Tom and Drummer Boy’s cum.

Deacon wheezes, face red and chest heaving as Carrington flicks off the vibrator. “Oh god. Stick a fork in me, I’m done.”

Carrington turns off the machine, sliding it back so the dildo slicks its way out of Deacon’s ass with an audible pop. He finds himself fascinated by how Deacon’s ass spasms, the hole twitching as it contracts. “Will you be able to sit?”

“As long as there’s no lubricated bananas,” Deacon pants, “I’ll be fine.”

Carrington undoes the cords around Deacon’s hands, massaging his wrists. “How are your fingers feeling?”

Deacon wriggles them experimentally. “Good. Trust me, everything’s good right now.” He lets out a watery laugh. “Fuck, I’m sticky. I need a shower.” His legs fall apart, limp and boneless. Lube glistens between his thighs and down his ass, a shining smear, thinner than the white pools of cum on his chest and belly and dripping down his face. A complete and utter wreck.

Drummer Boy asks, “Want company?” Carrington glances down, and… ah, a blessedly short refractory period. A privilege of youth.

Before Carrington can advocate for Deacon’s recovery, Deacon grins.

“Of course.”

. . .

(One week later…)

Carrington sips his coffee, sitting at his terminal. PAM has already sent her memo requesting mission briefings from everyone in HQ. He drums his fingers against the table and starts typing his response when he gets the bing! of an incoming message.

He ignores it and continues typing.

Bing! Bing! Bingbingbingbing…

Deacon flops his arm on Carrington’s monitor, blocking the screen. “So. We seem to have a spam problem. Uh. You might want to just delete your messages. Better yet, let me delete them…” He bares his teeth in a terrifying rictus of a smile.

Carrington freezes. Plucks Deacon’s arm from the monitor. Checks his inbox.

The first unread message is a reply from Deacon to PAM, with everyone else marked as a recipient.

Carrington clicks.

There I was, cruelly bound and completely nude, trussed up like a Sunday roast with all my orifices exposed. I bemoaned the savage mercy of the good doctor and this diabolical ‘teamwork.’ My rock-hard manhood wept for attention…

“Deacon?” he grits.

“....yes?”

“I hate you.”