Archive of Our Own ^beta

After a year living with Wylan, Jesper liked to think he could tell when something was bothering his merchling.

He knew he had trouble reading people, not like Kaz. But Wylan hadn’t ever sat opposite him around a gambling table, cards in hand, face a façade. No, Wylan was always different, like a gilded cage with a rusted lock and key. Once unlocked, open in his bright wide-eyed gaze and burning courage.

So, it was simple to trace his eyes over the ever-present little furrowed divot between Wylan’s brows, the trembling of his soft hands, and the fall of his lips dropped into some sort of a pout. Wylan’s blue ocean eyes were almost dull, though determined, just peeking over his drawn-up legs. Jesper could practically hear his mind at work.

Jesper wished he was privy to Wylan’s twisting thoughts and the intricacies of his day, but he’d only mumbled a passing greeting before settling onto the sofa, pointedly ignoring him. Saints, when he’d called him for their evening readings, Wylan had only crossed his arms and stared at the patterned woodwork, not even pretending to pay attention to the endless papers he read to him. And, after their quiet dinner, Jesper had surprised him with waffles, and he’d complained, scrunching his nose at the strawberry syrup— his favourite.

At first, Jesper had worried he’d caused the sour mood in his merchling, but Wylan had been himself just that morning— he’d chatted animatedly to Mayra about her latest art piece, discussing things that flew over Jesper’s head, hugging her goodbye, then they’d walked down to the foyer. Wylan had blushed prettily under his touch when he fixed his satchel’s strap, somehow their daily ritual, his fingers drifting against Wylan’s neck, before he pulled Wylan closer, gently brushing their lips together. They’d parted slowly. Jesper barely glimpsed a brighter flush on Wylan’s cheeks as he turned away, the door shutting behind him.

Between now and then, he’d only been in meetings. Merchant Council meetings. A thrash of protectiveness burned in Jesper’s chest, scorching through his veins; he scowled, tempted to brush off his revolvers and find the mercher responsible. But… he wanted his merchling happy. And he supposed it was better to ascertain the culprit rather than be led by assumptions.

Jesper doused the igniting wildfire inside with a long exhale and walked over to Wylan warily, eyeing his now relaxed form. “Wy?”

Wylan’s eyes rested on him for the first time that evening, tilting his head up to meet his gaze across the room. “What?”

Jesper shifted, hand scraping over the back of his neck. “Did you want to go over the documents again?”

“No,” Wylan replied shortly, mirth twirling in his blue irises, as his lips fell back into a pout, looking down again, “it was dull.”

He agreed, of course, but Wylan was always attentive, no matter the strain of monotony or technicality.

“Fine… Did you end up cleaning your demo setup? You left it in disarray; usually, you get right to it after work,” Jesper said. “You know the staff can’t see to it.”

Wylan shrugged, shooting him an uncharacteristically annoyed look, lips flattening into a stubborn thin line. “I’ll get to it.”

Jesper raised an eyebrow. Expected of a mercher’s kid, Wylan had always been careful and orderly with his belongings, especially potentially explosive belongings. Still, maybe he was nervous to ask for assistance. Saints knew the chaos he occasionally walked in on.

“If you need help, we can sort it out together,” he offered, and perhaps he’d finally figure out the perpetrator for Wylan’s moodiness.

“Ghezen, I said I’ll get to it, Jes,” Wylan groaned out, pouting again. “I’m busy.”

The first real stab of frustration inched into Jesper’s chest. All evening, Wylan had been behaving like a…

Oh.

Jesper restrained a grin, approaching Wylan with firm, short steps, boots resounding against the wooden floors of the parlour, and grasped Wylan’s wrist firmly, pulling him to his feet, flush against him. Wylan looked up at him with startled eyes, lips parted slightly, his cheeks turning a gentle pink.

“You’ve been a brat ever since you got home, Wylan,” said Jesper, lingering on each word and tightening his grip on Wylan’s wrist, brushing his thumb over delicate, bruising skin. “Saints, I spent the whole evening trying to make you happy, and all you’ve done is act ungrateful and complain.”

“Wha—” his merchling began, but Jesper had already moved past him, settling himself on the sofa, pulling Wylan down, then dragging him across his lap, ignoring his squeak of protest.

“You know what happens to brats,” Jesper murmured, loosening his hold on Wylan’s arm to entwine their fingers, their palms meeting. He gave the hand linked with his two firm squeezes. Barely a second passed before he received two in return. His racing heart and mind eased a little, glad he didn’t completely misread the situation and caught on to what Wylan craved.

Jesper untwined their hands and lightly ran his fingers over the trembling skin. Wylan’s breath hitched when he pressed into the darkening bruises. Jesper grinned, breath ghosting over the peak of bare skin between his rumbled sweater and trousers. “I’m going to spank your arse until I’m satisfied you’ve learnt your lesson, Wylan. And then, we’ll see if you can finally be good for me.”

Easing into his role, Wylan struggled, trying to pull himself away, the nape of his neck flushing a fiery red, but Jesper pinned his wrists to the sofa, keeping him in place.

“Jes,” Wylan gasped, “you can’t be—”

Without any more preamble, Jesper bought his hand down on Wylan’s arse, the thin material of his trousers a weak barrier from the harsh blow. Wylan cried out, squirming under his grip, and Jesper struck a second time, harder, diverting the hit to his upper thigh.

“Keep struggling, and you won’t be sitting down comfortably for weeks, merchling,” warned Jesper, drifting his fingertips along Wylan’s clothed arse, pinching the no doubt already sensitive and pink skin under the material. As Wylan whined and struggled, Jesper swallowed sharply, arousal burning into a torturous harmony of desire and need, imagining the violent, brazen linger of his touch on Wylan for days to come— made better by the fact that Wylan craved it, begged for it. Striking again, hitting the curve between Wylan’s arse cheeks, his rings undoubtedly harsh against soft, delicate skin, even through trousers, Jesper murmured, “You’ve been nothing but a whining brat all evening, merchling, so I’m going to treat you as such.”

Wylan jolted at the strike, burying his face in his sweater’s sleeve, then stilled. A little whimper fell from his lips, muffled against the fabric.

“Ah, ah,” Jesper chastised, releasing Wylan’s wrists to sink his fingers into his hair, tugging slightly. “I want to hear every sound that falls from your pretty lips, Wylan.” He pulled harder on the ruddy curls dabbled with twisting golds, turning Wylan’s head out from the cloth, revealing hazy blue eyes shining with unshed tears. His lips were swollen red and bitten.

Jesper couldn’t ignore the etchings of panic eclipsing over his own arousal. He released Wylan’s hair and caught the first tear that fell on his thumb, brushing it away, then ran his fingers across Wylan’s flushed skin, retracing to the faint bruises, squeezing his hand twice. But Wylan returned both quickly. Grinning despite himself, Jesper pinned down his wrists once more, and Wylan moaned softly, his nails digging into the sofa.

“More,” Wylan whined.

“You don’t get to demand anything tonight, brat,” Jesper whispered, twisting his fingers in the hem of Wylan’s sweater and pushing it up until it bunched around his shoulders. Next, Jesper made quick work of Wylan’s trousers, brushing against his bare thighs as he pulled them down to his knees.

After a few moments of stillness and silence, only the inhales and exhales of air permeating the quiet, Wylan writhed and whimpered out a curse, ocean eyes drenched with need. Another strike, this time against soft cotton, drawing a sharp cry from Wylan’s lips, his hips rocking on Jesper’s legs.

Jesper sighed, freeing Wylan’s arms, then unlacing his belt from his waist. A sliver of fear crept onto Wylan’s features, but he was quick to reassure him of his intentions. “Since you can’t stay put,” Jesper said, looping the fine leather around Wylan’s wrists. He gently checked the tightness, slipping his finger between the belt and trembling skin, before moving his hand to the back of Wylan’s flushed neck, pressing down to steady him.

Jesper traced his eyes over the sight of Wylan bound across his lap, the leather dark against his complexion and groaned. Unable to hinder the scorching fire pooling low in his abdomen any longer, he trailed his other hand from Wylan’s arse to the waistline of his underwear, tearing it down to his knees, exposing his naked skin to the cool air of the manor. Wylan shivered under his grip, but heat radiated and violent vermillion evanesced across his form as if he’d bathed in flames, fire burning over the curves of his arse and upper-thigh where Jesper had spanked, and scattered little welts of burnt red were left from his rings force.

“Now, take your punishment like a good merchling,” murmured Jesper, bringing his hand down in a quick rhythm, never lingering on the same spot for too long. He varied the force behind them, sometimes leaving painted red across every inch of his arse, his rings only adding etched embers to the burning flames; others were gentler but teasing, never enough. Wylan gasped and cried out at each strike of his hand, and within the plethora of sounds that he pulled from Wylan’s reddened lips, Jesper caught his own name entwined in the dizzying symphony.

By the thirtieth hit, Wylan’s arse was a lovely, lingering scarlet, and tears were falling freely down his face, glistening his irises a brighter blue; his lips quivered between whines and moans as he rutted against Jesper’s legs with each strike.

“Needy little merchling,” Jesper taunted, pinching sore skin before running his fingers gently over the blooming red, pressing down when Wylan whimpered. “Laid over my lap getting spanked— getting punished— and all you can think to do is rut on me like a slutty brat.”

“Please, Jes,” whined Wylan, writhing in his bindings, no doubt yearning to reach for his weeping, neglected cock, hips still rocking against his legs.

“Spoilt,” Jesper murmured, caressing the nape of Wylan’s neck before withdrawing to trail across to his gently parted lips. He brushed a finger along the darkened, swollen skin as he laid another strike on Wylan’s arse, and Wylan moaned and trembled at the dichotomous torture and teasing. Smirking, Jesper pushed inside the waiting wet heat, the blazing inferno searing through him wilder when Wylan choked but sucked obediently, tongue flicking, then swirling around his finger. “But pleading isn’t going to work tonight, Wylan, not after how you acted. If you want to cum, do it without my help, right here on my lap, or you don’t get to cum at all.”

More tears flowed from Wylan’s glistening eyes, catching the light of a faraway flame.

So beautifully wrecked.

Jesper thrust his finger deeper, drowning as Wylan moaned around the intrusion, desperately rutting on his lap, seeking friction against his cock. After a final sweep of Wylan’s tongue, Jesper withdrew his finger and ran his hand down to Wylan’s bruised, red arse, pinching the skin harshly.

“I’m sorry,” Wylan cried.

Jesper chuckled, spreading Wylan’s cheeks apart, drenched finger teasing the fluttering entrance. He was still a little loose from the night before, effortless to sink into and claim the deepest parts of him, but Jesper held back, only tracing the rim. “Oh, now you say you’re sorry. Convenient, don’t you think so?” Jesper struck the fiery skin again, and Wylan squirmed and gasped in his binds. “I should have left you unsatisfied; instead, I’m feeling generous, letting you cum like this. Anything to say, merchling?”

“Thank you,” breathed Wylan, arching when Jesper barely slipped a fingertip into his needy hole, clenching around his fingertip.

“Finally being good for me,” Jesper said, dragging his hand over the curve of his arse. “Now, try and cum, Wylan.”

He never pressed his finger in, like he knew his merchling craved, only stroking along the twitching entrance, fingers gliding across the sensitive skin, occasionally spanking the remnants of his touch. All the while, Wylan rocked into him, his leaking erection thrusting against Jesper’s legs. Gasps and sobs echoed around the room.

Saints, watching Wylan come apart by his hand was torturous yet enthralling. His own cock ached in his trousers, eager to feel Wylan’s heat wrapped around him, sucking him in. But he had other ideas.

Eventually, Wylan’s hips faltered, and brazen moans and pleadings entwined together. “Please, Jes, can I—”

“You can cum,” Jesper whispered. He sunk his finger into Wylan’s entrance, burying it deep, curling against the sensitive nerve, and grinned when Wylan instantly released over his lap with a loud cry, cum splattering on Jesper’s trousers. “Good boy, Wy.”

Wylan’s cock twitched against him at the praise, a dazed, faraway look in his eyes, breaths shaky and trembling. Jesper gave him a moment to recover, aimlessly tracing along flushed, sore skin. Then he reached for Wylan’s bound wrists, unlacing the tight restraints, carefully loosening the leather that left bruises and red welts on both delicate wrists. Jesper trailed his hands along Wylan’s frame, drawing quiet gasps from his lips, tugging his merchling’s trousers and underwear down, throwing them aside carelessly.

Wylan shifted, eyes regaining their bright blue shine, and Jesper pulled him closer, settling him on his lap, legs straddling him. He brushed away the lingering tears and pressed a chaste kiss to Wylan’s lips, his other hand sliding up his sweater to soothe over the sore skin of his arse.

Wylan groaned and leaned into him, almost falling, hiding his blissed-out face in the crook of Jesper’s neck.

They sat still for only a short while, wrapped around each other, lost in the simplicity of it all, the feel of their breaths, then Wylan’s hand wandered down, unfastening the buttons of Jesper’s trousers and pulling out his hard cock. He swirled his finger around the tip, gathering pre-cum, and started pumping, up and down. Jesper moaned against Wylan’s curls, digging his nails into the bruises he’d left.

“Saints, Wy,” Jesper breathed, lips ghosting over his neck, teeth gently scraping across the skin, and Wylan’s hand moved faster, stroking. Jesper jerked his hips up into his loose grip, thrusting twice before he came with a low groan, muffled against his merchling.

The wildfire inside him quelled under rain.

Wylan drew back slightly, opal eyes staring into his, bringing his soiled fingers to his mouth and licking up the remnants of both their cum, tongue drifting over his bitten, bloodied lips to catch any drops that had fallen.

Jesper traced every movement, swallowing sharply, then pulling him closer, whispering softly, “You were so good for me, Wylan.”

Wylan sighed, snuggling into him, and Jesper felt warm all over, the flames dancing over their skin.

But he still needed to know the missing piece. “Want to tell me what happened? Remember, my revolvers are at your beck and call.”

Wylan laughed quietly, wrapping his arms around Jesper’s neck. “There’s no need for that, Jes.” His blush darkened, blooming a lovely rose. “Just know I needed this, thank you.”

Jesper kissed his flushed cheek, lips lingering for a breath. “Always, but if you wanted a scene, you only had to ask.”

“I didn’t want to spring it on you suddenly,” whispered Wylan. “You’re busy too.”

“Never too busy, though.”

Not for you.

Wylan smiled, then his brow furrowed, the little divot returning. He looked up at him with wide eyes, the unspoiled blue of the clearest ocean. “Do you still have those waffles?”

“Such a brat,” Jesper teased, grinning brightly. “But of course.”