Prodigal Son: My Boy! (Malcom Bright/Martin Whitly, NC-17)
Title: My Boy!
Pairing: Malcom Bright/Martin Whitly
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: The only thing I own is my filthy thoughts
Warnings/kinks: Daddy kink, daddy issues, coming untouched, father/son incest, masturbation
Summary: While at a crime scene Malcolm sees a father comforting his son, causing him to reflect on his own relationship with Martin. Evidently his daddy issues are a lot more complicated than he realised.
A/N: I've only seen 3 eps of this show, and thanks to a daddy/incest kink and with many GIFs from sockedandloaded here we are, shameless smut, ahead. It's not even underage, what's that all about?! LOL
Malcolm stands observing the crime scene in front of him, subconsciously taking in details from his peripheral vision such as the position of the body being photographed and Edrisa carrying out her preliminary forensics, but what captures his attention most is the father and son in front of him. The boy appears to be around ten or eleven, clinging to his father, sobbing into his chest… hardly surprising as the boy found his mother dead. What draws Malcolm in, though, is the way the boy leans into him, completely, taking every ounce of comfort his father is offering. It doesn’t take long before the man lifts him into his lap, wrapping one arm around the boy’s back and rubbing it, the other cupping his head and pressing shushing kisses into his son’s hair as the smaller body shakes.
It hits him, then, when was the last time he’d been able to seek comfort from his own father in that way? Surely not at that age, no, because then The Surgeon was being arrested and the details of his heinous crimes were coming out for the whole world to see, but it still gets him thinking. When he was younger he thought nothing of climbing onto his father’s lap, hugging him or showing any other signs of physical affection. Putting aside for a millisecond that his father is a serial killer - if that’s even possible - Malcolm has to admit that Martin had always been an excellent father. He’d made sure they wanted for nothing and had freely given his affection to both of his children, making them feel loved and safe. Safe, oh the irony of that, the man who had plans to murder his own son was the same one to give him comfort!
He’s drawn out of his musings by JT snapping his fingers in front of his face, “Yo, Bright, you think you could do your job instead of staring into space?”
“Uh, yeah, sorry.” Malcolm says, clearing his throat and drawing his attention to where it should be.
Gil frowns at him, but says nothing about him checking out, instead focusing on the body in front of them, “OK, walk me through it…”
§
Even after another twenty four hours working on the case, tagging along with Gil or Dani for interviews or hanging around the station drinking God awful coffee, he can’t shake the image of the father and son at the crime scene. He’s an intelligent guy, he knows he’s got epic daddy issues, but is it any fucking wonder? With a heavy sigh he says goodnight to the team and heads home, picking up takeout on the way. After two more hours of looking at the same pages over and over and no connections jumping out at him he gives up, showers and climbs into bed.
He doesn’t bother with his restraints, too on edge to even attempt sleep so there’s no point. He’s been half hard since his shower and he scoffs at how touch starved he really must be to get turned on by his own hands running over his body to clean it. Still it’s his only option right now, and it’s been a long time since he’s had any kind of release. He doesn’t go straight for his cock, instead he lies on his back and strokes one hand over his chest, abs and belly, his fingers gently tracing the dips and curves of his muscles. The touch is calming and arousing at the same time.
He spreads his legs a little and with his other hand he strokes over his thigh before dragging blunt nails across the skin. He hisses at the slight sting, the pleasure/pain awakening his cock. He pinches a nipple and traces it with the tips of two fingers, while he cups and gently squeezes his balls, his cock soon fully hard. He drags his hand in a diagonal stripe from his shoulder, across his pecs, scraping over a nipple in the process, easing the pressure over his abs but digging his nails in again when he reaches his belly, the slight give in the soft flesh allowing more of a sting and making his dick throb. He repeats the action twice more until his breaths are coming a little faster.
He lets out a soft moan as he wraps his fingers around his length and gently scrapes his nails over his balls, again relishing in the slight sting. He slowly starts stroking himself with his right hand as the fingers of his left reach behind his sac and rub at the sensitive skin underneath. He bends his knee and spreads his legs wider, fingers dipping a little lower to brush over his hole, not pushing in, just gentle touches to make his nerves tingle and add to the other stimulation. He’s not in a hurry, he wants to drag this out, tease himself until he comes hard so he stands a chance of getting at least some sleep.
He keeps up his ministrations, gathering the slick he’s leaking and smoothing it down his shaft to make the glide easier. He’s enjoying the combined sensations when his thoughts wander back to yesterday and the way the father was stroking the boy’s hair, the comfort in the gesture, the soothing feeling it must have brought the child. Before he realises what he’s doing he’s stroking his cock at the same pace, emulating the rhythm and the pictures fade away, leaving only the darkness behind his eyelids.
He gets lost in the feeling until suddenly he feels the phantom touch of a large hand stroking his head. He automatically leans into the heat of it, his breath becoming faster as he strokes a little firmer. Soon he becomes aware of the feeling of thick thighs underneath him, the heat of the broad chest propping him up, and a familiar scent of home filling his nostrils. Soon there’s another hand rubbing his back and it feels like silent encouragement, so he speeds up the hand around his cock, his left one buried into the sheets at his side, desperate little moans falling from his lips as he gets closer to tipping over the edge. He hears a deep rumbling sound and even through the fog of his lust, he knows with absolutely certainty that it’s his father’s approving hum.
His eyes snap open in shock and the hand on his cock freezes, the realisation that he was just about to come picturing being sat on his father’s lap hitting him deep in the stomach and making him feel sick. He pulls his hand away from himself like the heat of his dick in his palm is burning him, and tries to control the nausea. He gulps down breaths of air, but it’s not enough. He can feel his chest tightening, his vision blurring with the start of another panic attack. He pushes himself upright on shaky legs and forces himself into the kitchen, holding onto anything he can to steady himself on the way as he tries to tell himself to keep calm, that it will pass. He pours himself a large whisky with shaking hands, spilling some over the worktop but not giving a shit. He gulps down the sour liquid, welcoming the burn of it, and the steady swallowing motion helps to steady his breathing enough for him to then get control of it.
He doesn’t sleep and he certainly doesn’t touch himself, instead spending the night drinking, going over and over the case file and trying not to think about how twisted his mind is, how fucked up his psyche must really be to picture his father at such a private moment.
§
The next night he feels even more wired, his cock hard from the moment he got home despite his exhaustion, but he ignores it. He takes some valium with a large whisky, fastens his restraints and falls into an uneasy sleep. When he wakes, sweaty and breathless it takes him a minute to work out that it wasn’t one of his usual nightmares that had him jerking awake. He feels wet and sticky, and sure enough, when he looks down the length of his body his boxers are stuck to his crotch, the result of the dream that’s slowly coming back to him.
It was the same scenario as last night, he was sitting in Martin’s lap, jerking himself off, but this time sat with his back to his father’s chest instead of facing side on, the man’s beard tickling his temple. The hand that had previously been stroking his back this time was rubbing slow circles over his chest, and instead of just humming his approval, his father was speaking to him. Soft words of encouragement whispered against the nape of his neck and into his ear, the older man’s hot, moist breath tickling Malcolm’s sweat dampened skin.
“Mmm, that’s my good boy,” Martin coos, “you’re doing so well, daddy’s so proud of you.”
In the dream Malcolm had felt a rush of heat at that, knowing he was making his father happy as well as making himself feel good, “Thank you, daddy,” he panted, fucking up into the tight ring his fingers are making around the head of his cock. He’d heard a strangled moan leave his throat but didn’t feel it, his body only able to concentrate on the pleasure he was feeling, and where his father’s hands laid on his body, warm and comforting.
“That’s good, isn’t it, my boy?”
Malcolm nods as best he can with his head pressed back into the solid chest behind him, his sweaty hand squeezing into the meat of his father’s firm thigh. As his toes started to curl and his hips pushed up it caused him to press back against his father, and he could feel the older man’s hard cock pressing into his lower back. Malcolm was then very aware that although Martin was clearly aroused, he wasn’t doing anything about it, instead focusing solely on his son’s pleasure.
“Tell me, son, say it!” Martin said, his voice soft yet firm…commanding.
“Yes, yes, it’s good,” he pants, his breath catching in his throat when his father’s hand closes over his, though not touching his cock, “oh, fuck.”
“Now, now, young man, there’s no need for profanities!” he chides, but the smile is clear in his voice.
Malcolm groans as his father’s hand tightens over his and increases the pace, “Please,” he sobs, beginning to get close to the edge, sweat running down his temples, throat and chest. He’s not sure when he became shirtless, but it’s a dream, so who knows?
“What is it, son, what do you want? What can I teach my boy?”
“Oh, God,” Malcolm gasps, somehow the thought of letting his father teach him how to pleasure himself despite the fact he’s a grown man and has been doing this for years, makes him hotter. He wants his father to be proud of him, he wants to hear more praising words, “teach me how to come, please!”
“Nuh uh uh,” Martin hums, “how do good boys ask nicely?” he says as he plucks at his son’s nipple, at the same time he stops the movement of their hands on Malcolm’s cock.
The younger man whimpers, “Fuck, please, daddy, wanna make you proud.”
“I’m already proud of you,” he replies, “but I want you to sit still, alright?”
Malcolm nods, squirming, wanting so desperately to hold still for his daddy but not quite managing it. The grip on his cock loosens and he thinks for a minute that he’s disappointed his father enough for him to stop this, “No,” he says, “please, let me try again!”
“It’s alright,” Martin says, wrenching Malcolm’s fingers free and replacing them with his own, stroking slowly. The feel of his father’s hand directly on his aching flesh is like Heaven and he has to grab hold of both of his father’s thighs to try and hold still, “you’re close, aren’t you, my boy?” he waits for another nod before carrying on, rubbing his thumb around the head, gathering the pre-come that’s practically dripping over Malcolm’s shaft, “Just look at how wet you are, you’re such a good boy, you’re doing so well.”
Seconds later Malcolm cries out as his father’s pace increases suddenly, his thumb rubbing maddening circles under the sensitive bundle of nerves under the head of his cock, and when the whispered, “Let go, son, show me,” reaches his ears, he’s done for. His hips buck and he comes hard all over himself and the older man’s hand, wave after wave shooting out of him. He has no idea what he’s babbling but he’s pretty sure that whatever it is, it’s what Martin wants to hear because he’s humming and nuzzling the back of the younger man’s neck.
Back in the present, Malcolm quickly frees himself from his restraints and makes it to the bathroom in time to dry heave into the toilet.
§
It’s almost four days into the case when Gil suggests they ask Martin for help. Malcolm’s reaction at the best of times at the thought of having to be in that cell with his father is less than enthusiastic, but as the words leave the Lieutenant’s mouth he chokes on his coffee, making everyone in the conference room look at him.
Dani slaps his back a couple of times, while Edrisa looks on in concern, for once not running to his aid because he holds a hand up, “I’m fine,” he coughs, “just went down the wrong way. Do we really need him on this?” he asks Gil.
“It couldn’t hurt.” he shrugs.
Malcolm sighs, “Fine, but I’m going alone.” The last thing he wants to do is be alone with his father after that dream but he also doesn’t want anyone else in there while he’s off his game. Gil knows him too well, JT is permanently suspicious and Dani, well she’s too observant for her own good. He’s gotten good at hiding things from people over the years, though, and his father shouldn't be any different, he’s changed in ten years and he suspects Martin’s only real change is that he’s been unable to kill any more women.
His palms and forehead are sweating as he walks down the corridor to his father’s cell and he pulls out a handkerchief to wipe it away, taking a couple of deep breaths before the door opens. Keep your face neutral, he tells himself, state the facts, get what you can and the fuck out, that’s the plan. It all goes to shit in three words.
“Malcolm, my boy!” his father says, a beaming smile on his face, like always, genuinely pleased to see him.
The younger man falters slightly in his step, and swallows down the nervous lump in his throat even as his dick starts stirring to life in some kind of Pavlovian response learned in one night, “Dr. Whitly,” he nods, averting his eyes, resting his briefcase on the chair laid out on his side of the red line and pulling out the case file, “Gil wanted your input on this,” he says, careful to keep his tone level. When there’s silence he has to look up at his father, who has a small frown on his face.
“Gil wanted my input?” he turns his head to the side a little, “Then why is it you’re here in this place? Missed your old dad, hey?” he teases.
Malcolm’s breath comes a little faster, “I probably have the least contempt for you, but don’t let it go to your head, this is a means to an end,” he winces, inwardly, that was harsher than he intended and he can tell from the look on the older man’s face that it hurt. He softens his voice a little, “any insight you can offer would be useful, Dr. Whitly.”
His father walks over to the line and holds his hands out for the folder, “Well since you asked so nicely.” there’s a touch of sarcasm in it, but not as much as there could be, “are you alright, son, you’re looking a little…” he pauses and frowns, his eyes running over Malcolm’s face, and the younger man tries not to squirm under the scrutiny, “well, frankly, a little sweaty. Are you coming down with something? Would you like a glass of water?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine.” Malcolm replies, feeling his heartbeat racing as his father continues to look at him, sweeping his eyes over his body as if to check for any injuries, “Seriously, Dr. Whitly, if you could just look at the file…”
“Why so formal, Malcolm? I keep telling you, I’d very much like it if you call me dad.”
The younger man’s breath hitches, slightly, that’s too close to ‘daddy’ and he can’t get the sound out of his head. His cock twitches again and he’s half hard, now, “I’d rather not,” he says, holding the back of the chair to cover his crotch.
“Fine,” the older man replies, obviously trying to keep his irritation to a minimum, sitting at the desk and spreading the paperwork out in front of him to study it.
Malcolm watches as he picks up individual sheets, reads them, then reorganises them, mesmerised by the man’s broad hands, his thick fingers capable of such violence and also great tenderness. The phantom touch of that hand wrapped around his cock still at the forefront of his mind and he can’t help the small moan that slips out of his mouth at the thought of it, combined with the feeling of him leaking pre-come into his boxers. His father stills but doesn’t turn around, yet the younger man still blushes.
“So, the boy found the body, yes?” the doctor asks, tapping two fingers on the desk.
“Mmm hmm,” Malcolm hums, not wanting to picture the scene that seems to have triggered this fuck up in his mind.
“And how did he seem?” Martin asks, doing a double take as he turns around, Malcolm knows he’s still red faced and starting to sweat again.
“Distraught, how most people feel when they find a dead body,” he snaps, “his father was there for him, though.”
“You can come closer, my boy, I don’t bite,” his father says, ignoring the dig, “you can’t see the file from all the way over there,” he holds up his bound hands, “I’m at a distinct disadvantage, after all.”
Malcolm can’t go any closer, even if he wanted to. Technically he could stand at the end of the desk and still remain behind the safety of the red line, but he’s wearing a light grey suit which would afford no cover for the tent he’s currently pitching, and there’s no way to explain it, “I know the file just fine.” he states, flaty.
His father sighs and stands, walking back towards him and the cardigan he insists on wearing opens a little more at one side, drawing Malcolm’s eyes to the wide expanse of his chest, and he can barely hold back the shiver at how solid it had felt in the dream, the low rumble that vibrated through it and into his own skin as the man spoke.
“Fuck!” he whispers, closing his eyes and trying not to sway on the spot. He realises then that he can hear his name being spoken.
“Malcom, really, son, are you sure you’re alright?” he frowns. The younger man nods, trying to get his breathing under control, but says nothing, prompting his father to carry on speaking, “Tell me about the boy and this father.”
“What?” he almost squeaks, any composure he was regaining out of the window as he feels his cheeks heat again.
“The boy and his father,” he repeats, the frown turned into a mildly amused look, now, “how did they interact with each other?”
“They, uh... held each other,” he says, repeating his initial observations about the man rubbing his son’s back, kissing his head and whispering reassuring words, all the while trying to keep his voice steady and the dream from his own mind, “it was completely trusting and comforting.”
A sad look covers Martin’s face, “Did it make you think of me?”
Malcolm’s head snaps up and he feels like he must have a deer in the headlights, look, “Why would it?” he croaks.
“Well it’s only natural,” his father says, taking a few steps closer, his tether stopping him from getting as close as he seems to want to, “a child should always seek out a parent’s touch when they’re in need of comfort. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to give you that, son.”
“I did just fine, mom was more than enough,” Malcolm replies, but clearly his father isn’t finished.
“It’s alright to want comfort, to have strong arms to wrap around you when you need it… somebody to praise you when the occasion calls for it.”
Malcolm’s mouth goes dry, his heart pounds in his chest and he feels the same throb in his cock, he’s so dizzy with arousal. If he stays on edge like this much longer he’s going to have to leave without gathering any insight from the other man. He draws in a ragged breath and wipes the sweat off his upper lip with the back of his hand, “P-praise?” he asks, his mouth moving without permission from his brain.
His father looks down to where Malcolm has a death grip on the back of the chair with one hand, and when the younger man follows his gaze he sees that’s he’s unknowingly been stroking his other thumb over the smooth surface in small circles, the sweat from his hand making the glide easier the same way his own pre-come made it smoother when his father thumbed the head of his cock in the dream.
“Yes, Malcolm, praise,” he says, and there’s a glint in his eyes, now, “don’t you still want to be told that you’ve done a good job… deep down don’t you still want to be daddy’s good little boy?”
“Oh, God,” Malcolm cries, his whole body hunching over as he comes hard from the words, completely untouched, soaking his boxers and probably through his trousers, too. He trembles as he tries to pull air into his lungs, and he really doesn’t want to open his eyes, but he can hear his father’s voice over the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
“My God, son, did you just…?” his father looks stunned, then his expression morphs into the one they’re all more familiar with - smug and knowing. There doesn’t seem to be any judgement, when Malcolm slowly meets his eyes, only amusement.
Mortification creeps through Malcolm’s whole body, his cheeks flushing hot even as it feels like he’s been drenched in ice water. He’s shaking and he feels sick, again. Somehow he manages a garbled, “I have to go,” before he grabs his briefcase and pounds on the door until he’s let out. As he’s attempting to run down the corridor on shaky legs, he can hear his father shouting after him.
“Malcolm, your files!” then louder still, enough to carry all the way down to the outer door, “Come back and see me soon, son, maybe next time we can address your daddy issues in more detail.”
° ° ° THE END ° ° °
.
Pairing: Malcom Bright/Martin Whitly
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: The only thing I own is my filthy thoughts
Warnings/kinks: Daddy kink, daddy issues, coming untouched, father/son incest, masturbation
Summary: While at a crime scene Malcolm sees a father comforting his son, causing him to reflect on his own relationship with Martin. Evidently his daddy issues are a lot more complicated than he realised.
A/N: I've only seen 3 eps of this show, and thanks to a daddy/incest kink and with many GIFs from sockedandloaded here we are, shameless smut, ahead. It's not even underage, what's that all about?! LOL
Malcolm stands observing the crime scene in front of him, subconsciously taking in details from his peripheral vision such as the position of the body being photographed and Edrisa carrying out her preliminary forensics, but what captures his attention most is the father and son in front of him. The boy appears to be around ten or eleven, clinging to his father, sobbing into his chest… hardly surprising as the boy found his mother dead. What draws Malcolm in, though, is the way the boy leans into him, completely, taking every ounce of comfort his father is offering. It doesn’t take long before the man lifts him into his lap, wrapping one arm around the boy’s back and rubbing it, the other cupping his head and pressing shushing kisses into his son’s hair as the smaller body shakes.
It hits him, then, when was the last time he’d been able to seek comfort from his own father in that way? Surely not at that age, no, because then The Surgeon was being arrested and the details of his heinous crimes were coming out for the whole world to see, but it still gets him thinking. When he was younger he thought nothing of climbing onto his father’s lap, hugging him or showing any other signs of physical affection. Putting aside for a millisecond that his father is a serial killer - if that’s even possible - Malcolm has to admit that Martin had always been an excellent father. He’d made sure they wanted for nothing and had freely given his affection to both of his children, making them feel loved and safe. Safe, oh the irony of that, the man who had plans to murder his own son was the same one to give him comfort!
He’s drawn out of his musings by JT snapping his fingers in front of his face, “Yo, Bright, you think you could do your job instead of staring into space?”
“Uh, yeah, sorry.” Malcolm says, clearing his throat and drawing his attention to where it should be.
Gil frowns at him, but says nothing about him checking out, instead focusing on the body in front of them, “OK, walk me through it…”
§
Even after another twenty four hours working on the case, tagging along with Gil or Dani for interviews or hanging around the station drinking God awful coffee, he can’t shake the image of the father and son at the crime scene. He’s an intelligent guy, he knows he’s got epic daddy issues, but is it any fucking wonder? With a heavy sigh he says goodnight to the team and heads home, picking up takeout on the way. After two more hours of looking at the same pages over and over and no connections jumping out at him he gives up, showers and climbs into bed.
He doesn’t bother with his restraints, too on edge to even attempt sleep so there’s no point. He’s been half hard since his shower and he scoffs at how touch starved he really must be to get turned on by his own hands running over his body to clean it. Still it’s his only option right now, and it’s been a long time since he’s had any kind of release. He doesn’t go straight for his cock, instead he lies on his back and strokes one hand over his chest, abs and belly, his fingers gently tracing the dips and curves of his muscles. The touch is calming and arousing at the same time.
He spreads his legs a little and with his other hand he strokes over his thigh before dragging blunt nails across the skin. He hisses at the slight sting, the pleasure/pain awakening his cock. He pinches a nipple and traces it with the tips of two fingers, while he cups and gently squeezes his balls, his cock soon fully hard. He drags his hand in a diagonal stripe from his shoulder, across his pecs, scraping over a nipple in the process, easing the pressure over his abs but digging his nails in again when he reaches his belly, the slight give in the soft flesh allowing more of a sting and making his dick throb. He repeats the action twice more until his breaths are coming a little faster.
He lets out a soft moan as he wraps his fingers around his length and gently scrapes his nails over his balls, again relishing in the slight sting. He slowly starts stroking himself with his right hand as the fingers of his left reach behind his sac and rub at the sensitive skin underneath. He bends his knee and spreads his legs wider, fingers dipping a little lower to brush over his hole, not pushing in, just gentle touches to make his nerves tingle and add to the other stimulation. He’s not in a hurry, he wants to drag this out, tease himself until he comes hard so he stands a chance of getting at least some sleep.
He keeps up his ministrations, gathering the slick he’s leaking and smoothing it down his shaft to make the glide easier. He’s enjoying the combined sensations when his thoughts wander back to yesterday and the way the father was stroking the boy’s hair, the comfort in the gesture, the soothing feeling it must have brought the child. Before he realises what he’s doing he’s stroking his cock at the same pace, emulating the rhythm and the pictures fade away, leaving only the darkness behind his eyelids.
He gets lost in the feeling until suddenly he feels the phantom touch of a large hand stroking his head. He automatically leans into the heat of it, his breath becoming faster as he strokes a little firmer. Soon he becomes aware of the feeling of thick thighs underneath him, the heat of the broad chest propping him up, and a familiar scent of home filling his nostrils. Soon there’s another hand rubbing his back and it feels like silent encouragement, so he speeds up the hand around his cock, his left one buried into the sheets at his side, desperate little moans falling from his lips as he gets closer to tipping over the edge. He hears a deep rumbling sound and even through the fog of his lust, he knows with absolutely certainty that it’s his father’s approving hum.
His eyes snap open in shock and the hand on his cock freezes, the realisation that he was just about to come picturing being sat on his father’s lap hitting him deep in the stomach and making him feel sick. He pulls his hand away from himself like the heat of his dick in his palm is burning him, and tries to control the nausea. He gulps down breaths of air, but it’s not enough. He can feel his chest tightening, his vision blurring with the start of another panic attack. He pushes himself upright on shaky legs and forces himself into the kitchen, holding onto anything he can to steady himself on the way as he tries to tell himself to keep calm, that it will pass. He pours himself a large whisky with shaking hands, spilling some over the worktop but not giving a shit. He gulps down the sour liquid, welcoming the burn of it, and the steady swallowing motion helps to steady his breathing enough for him to then get control of it.
He doesn’t sleep and he certainly doesn’t touch himself, instead spending the night drinking, going over and over the case file and trying not to think about how twisted his mind is, how fucked up his psyche must really be to picture his father at such a private moment.
§
The next night he feels even more wired, his cock hard from the moment he got home despite his exhaustion, but he ignores it. He takes some valium with a large whisky, fastens his restraints and falls into an uneasy sleep. When he wakes, sweaty and breathless it takes him a minute to work out that it wasn’t one of his usual nightmares that had him jerking awake. He feels wet and sticky, and sure enough, when he looks down the length of his body his boxers are stuck to his crotch, the result of the dream that’s slowly coming back to him.
It was the same scenario as last night, he was sitting in Martin’s lap, jerking himself off, but this time sat with his back to his father’s chest instead of facing side on, the man’s beard tickling his temple. The hand that had previously been stroking his back this time was rubbing slow circles over his chest, and instead of just humming his approval, his father was speaking to him. Soft words of encouragement whispered against the nape of his neck and into his ear, the older man’s hot, moist breath tickling Malcolm’s sweat dampened skin.
“Mmm, that’s my good boy,” Martin coos, “you’re doing so well, daddy’s so proud of you.”
In the dream Malcolm had felt a rush of heat at that, knowing he was making his father happy as well as making himself feel good, “Thank you, daddy,” he panted, fucking up into the tight ring his fingers are making around the head of his cock. He’d heard a strangled moan leave his throat but didn’t feel it, his body only able to concentrate on the pleasure he was feeling, and where his father’s hands laid on his body, warm and comforting.
“That’s good, isn’t it, my boy?”
Malcolm nods as best he can with his head pressed back into the solid chest behind him, his sweaty hand squeezing into the meat of his father’s firm thigh. As his toes started to curl and his hips pushed up it caused him to press back against his father, and he could feel the older man’s hard cock pressing into his lower back. Malcolm was then very aware that although Martin was clearly aroused, he wasn’t doing anything about it, instead focusing solely on his son’s pleasure.
“Tell me, son, say it!” Martin said, his voice soft yet firm…commanding.
“Yes, yes, it’s good,” he pants, his breath catching in his throat when his father’s hand closes over his, though not touching his cock, “oh, fuck.”
“Now, now, young man, there’s no need for profanities!” he chides, but the smile is clear in his voice.
Malcolm groans as his father’s hand tightens over his and increases the pace, “Please,” he sobs, beginning to get close to the edge, sweat running down his temples, throat and chest. He’s not sure when he became shirtless, but it’s a dream, so who knows?
“What is it, son, what do you want? What can I teach my boy?”
“Oh, God,” Malcolm gasps, somehow the thought of letting his father teach him how to pleasure himself despite the fact he’s a grown man and has been doing this for years, makes him hotter. He wants his father to be proud of him, he wants to hear more praising words, “teach me how to come, please!”
“Nuh uh uh,” Martin hums, “how do good boys ask nicely?” he says as he plucks at his son’s nipple, at the same time he stops the movement of their hands on Malcolm’s cock.
The younger man whimpers, “Fuck, please, daddy, wanna make you proud.”
“I’m already proud of you,” he replies, “but I want you to sit still, alright?”
Malcolm nods, squirming, wanting so desperately to hold still for his daddy but not quite managing it. The grip on his cock loosens and he thinks for a minute that he’s disappointed his father enough for him to stop this, “No,” he says, “please, let me try again!”
“It’s alright,” Martin says, wrenching Malcolm’s fingers free and replacing them with his own, stroking slowly. The feel of his father’s hand directly on his aching flesh is like Heaven and he has to grab hold of both of his father’s thighs to try and hold still, “you’re close, aren’t you, my boy?” he waits for another nod before carrying on, rubbing his thumb around the head, gathering the pre-come that’s practically dripping over Malcolm’s shaft, “Just look at how wet you are, you’re such a good boy, you’re doing so well.”
Seconds later Malcolm cries out as his father’s pace increases suddenly, his thumb rubbing maddening circles under the sensitive bundle of nerves under the head of his cock, and when the whispered, “Let go, son, show me,” reaches his ears, he’s done for. His hips buck and he comes hard all over himself and the older man’s hand, wave after wave shooting out of him. He has no idea what he’s babbling but he’s pretty sure that whatever it is, it’s what Martin wants to hear because he’s humming and nuzzling the back of the younger man’s neck.
Back in the present, Malcolm quickly frees himself from his restraints and makes it to the bathroom in time to dry heave into the toilet.
§
It’s almost four days into the case when Gil suggests they ask Martin for help. Malcolm’s reaction at the best of times at the thought of having to be in that cell with his father is less than enthusiastic, but as the words leave the Lieutenant’s mouth he chokes on his coffee, making everyone in the conference room look at him.
Dani slaps his back a couple of times, while Edrisa looks on in concern, for once not running to his aid because he holds a hand up, “I’m fine,” he coughs, “just went down the wrong way. Do we really need him on this?” he asks Gil.
“It couldn’t hurt.” he shrugs.
Malcolm sighs, “Fine, but I’m going alone.” The last thing he wants to do is be alone with his father after that dream but he also doesn’t want anyone else in there while he’s off his game. Gil knows him too well, JT is permanently suspicious and Dani, well she’s too observant for her own good. He’s gotten good at hiding things from people over the years, though, and his father shouldn't be any different, he’s changed in ten years and he suspects Martin’s only real change is that he’s been unable to kill any more women.
His palms and forehead are sweating as he walks down the corridor to his father’s cell and he pulls out a handkerchief to wipe it away, taking a couple of deep breaths before the door opens. Keep your face neutral, he tells himself, state the facts, get what you can and the fuck out, that’s the plan. It all goes to shit in three words.
“Malcolm, my boy!” his father says, a beaming smile on his face, like always, genuinely pleased to see him.
The younger man falters slightly in his step, and swallows down the nervous lump in his throat even as his dick starts stirring to life in some kind of Pavlovian response learned in one night, “Dr. Whitly,” he nods, averting his eyes, resting his briefcase on the chair laid out on his side of the red line and pulling out the case file, “Gil wanted your input on this,” he says, careful to keep his tone level. When there’s silence he has to look up at his father, who has a small frown on his face.
“Gil wanted my input?” he turns his head to the side a little, “Then why is it you’re here in this place? Missed your old dad, hey?” he teases.
Malcolm’s breath comes a little faster, “I probably have the least contempt for you, but don’t let it go to your head, this is a means to an end,” he winces, inwardly, that was harsher than he intended and he can tell from the look on the older man’s face that it hurt. He softens his voice a little, “any insight you can offer would be useful, Dr. Whitly.”
His father walks over to the line and holds his hands out for the folder, “Well since you asked so nicely.” there’s a touch of sarcasm in it, but not as much as there could be, “are you alright, son, you’re looking a little…” he pauses and frowns, his eyes running over Malcolm’s face, and the younger man tries not to squirm under the scrutiny, “well, frankly, a little sweaty. Are you coming down with something? Would you like a glass of water?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine.” Malcolm replies, feeling his heartbeat racing as his father continues to look at him, sweeping his eyes over his body as if to check for any injuries, “Seriously, Dr. Whitly, if you could just look at the file…”
“Why so formal, Malcolm? I keep telling you, I’d very much like it if you call me dad.”
The younger man’s breath hitches, slightly, that’s too close to ‘daddy’ and he can’t get the sound out of his head. His cock twitches again and he’s half hard, now, “I’d rather not,” he says, holding the back of the chair to cover his crotch.
“Fine,” the older man replies, obviously trying to keep his irritation to a minimum, sitting at the desk and spreading the paperwork out in front of him to study it.
Malcolm watches as he picks up individual sheets, reads them, then reorganises them, mesmerised by the man’s broad hands, his thick fingers capable of such violence and also great tenderness. The phantom touch of that hand wrapped around his cock still at the forefront of his mind and he can’t help the small moan that slips out of his mouth at the thought of it, combined with the feeling of him leaking pre-come into his boxers. His father stills but doesn’t turn around, yet the younger man still blushes.
“So, the boy found the body, yes?” the doctor asks, tapping two fingers on the desk.
“Mmm hmm,” Malcolm hums, not wanting to picture the scene that seems to have triggered this fuck up in his mind.
“And how did he seem?” Martin asks, doing a double take as he turns around, Malcolm knows he’s still red faced and starting to sweat again.
“Distraught, how most people feel when they find a dead body,” he snaps, “his father was there for him, though.”
“You can come closer, my boy, I don’t bite,” his father says, ignoring the dig, “you can’t see the file from all the way over there,” he holds up his bound hands, “I’m at a distinct disadvantage, after all.”
Malcolm can’t go any closer, even if he wanted to. Technically he could stand at the end of the desk and still remain behind the safety of the red line, but he’s wearing a light grey suit which would afford no cover for the tent he’s currently pitching, and there’s no way to explain it, “I know the file just fine.” he states, flaty.
His father sighs and stands, walking back towards him and the cardigan he insists on wearing opens a little more at one side, drawing Malcolm’s eyes to the wide expanse of his chest, and he can barely hold back the shiver at how solid it had felt in the dream, the low rumble that vibrated through it and into his own skin as the man spoke.
“Fuck!” he whispers, closing his eyes and trying not to sway on the spot. He realises then that he can hear his name being spoken.
“Malcom, really, son, are you sure you’re alright?” he frowns. The younger man nods, trying to get his breathing under control, but says nothing, prompting his father to carry on speaking, “Tell me about the boy and this father.”
“What?” he almost squeaks, any composure he was regaining out of the window as he feels his cheeks heat again.
“The boy and his father,” he repeats, the frown turned into a mildly amused look, now, “how did they interact with each other?”
“They, uh... held each other,” he says, repeating his initial observations about the man rubbing his son’s back, kissing his head and whispering reassuring words, all the while trying to keep his voice steady and the dream from his own mind, “it was completely trusting and comforting.”
A sad look covers Martin’s face, “Did it make you think of me?”
Malcolm’s head snaps up and he feels like he must have a deer in the headlights, look, “Why would it?” he croaks.
“Well it’s only natural,” his father says, taking a few steps closer, his tether stopping him from getting as close as he seems to want to, “a child should always seek out a parent’s touch when they’re in need of comfort. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to give you that, son.”
“I did just fine, mom was more than enough,” Malcolm replies, but clearly his father isn’t finished.
“It’s alright to want comfort, to have strong arms to wrap around you when you need it… somebody to praise you when the occasion calls for it.”
Malcolm’s mouth goes dry, his heart pounds in his chest and he feels the same throb in his cock, he’s so dizzy with arousal. If he stays on edge like this much longer he’s going to have to leave without gathering any insight from the other man. He draws in a ragged breath and wipes the sweat off his upper lip with the back of his hand, “P-praise?” he asks, his mouth moving without permission from his brain.
His father looks down to where Malcolm has a death grip on the back of the chair with one hand, and when the younger man follows his gaze he sees that’s he’s unknowingly been stroking his other thumb over the smooth surface in small circles, the sweat from his hand making the glide easier the same way his own pre-come made it smoother when his father thumbed the head of his cock in the dream.
“Yes, Malcolm, praise,” he says, and there’s a glint in his eyes, now, “don’t you still want to be told that you’ve done a good job… deep down don’t you still want to be daddy’s good little boy?”
“Oh, God,” Malcolm cries, his whole body hunching over as he comes hard from the words, completely untouched, soaking his boxers and probably through his trousers, too. He trembles as he tries to pull air into his lungs, and he really doesn’t want to open his eyes, but he can hear his father’s voice over the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
“My God, son, did you just…?” his father looks stunned, then his expression morphs into the one they’re all more familiar with - smug and knowing. There doesn’t seem to be any judgement, when Malcolm slowly meets his eyes, only amusement.
Mortification creeps through Malcolm’s whole body, his cheeks flushing hot even as it feels like he’s been drenched in ice water. He’s shaking and he feels sick, again. Somehow he manages a garbled, “I have to go,” before he grabs his briefcase and pounds on the door until he’s let out. As he’s attempting to run down the corridor on shaky legs, he can hear his father shouting after him.
“Malcolm, your files!” then louder still, enough to carry all the way down to the outer door, “Come back and see me soon, son, maybe next time we can address your daddy issues in more detail.”
° ° ° THE END ° ° °
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