Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2016717.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Once_Upon_a_Time_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Baelfire_|_Neal_Cassidy/Rumplestiltskin_|_Mr._Gold/Peter_Pan
  Character:
      Baelfire_|_Neal_Cassidy, Rumplestiltskin_|_Mr._Gold, Peter_Pan_(Once_Upon
      a_Time)
  Additional Tags:
      Father/Son_Incest, Threesome_-_M/M/M, Child_Abuse, Timey-Wimey, with_ages
      and_appearances
  Series:
      Part 3 of Consanguinity
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-25 Words: 2871
****** And Scarlet ******
by RhineGold
Summary
     Within Pandora's Box, Rumpelstiltskin finds himself entranced by all
     the things he's ever dared to dream of, only those dreams have all
     been shattered, splintered into dark and twisted versions that
     enslave rather than enchant.
Notes
     I was so very apprehensive about putting this up here, and I still
     am. Please don’t judge me too harshly - I am not even going to lie, I
     was stoned on pain meds when I wrote this oops.
     Trigger warnings that I cannot stress enough for incest, characters
     shifting or appearing to shift between adults and children while
     engaged in sexual situations, and an overwhelming amount of cruelty
     and abusive treatment.
It seems so simple in this hazy, liquid state. There are hands round his waist,
stroking in his hair, and it feels gentle, feels tender, feels nice.
He leans backwards, pressing himself against the man holding him, and for a
moment, it feels just like it used to - warm and comforting and strong. The
hands running through his hair are a new twist, but it feels soothing all the
same. He sinks further into the crook of the arm supporting him, curling until
he can lay his head against the man’s breastbone, nestling where he can listen
to his heart beat.
The man in front of him is lowering himself until he is kneeling beside them,
and he places his head gently onto Rumpelstiltskin’s lap, looking up at them
both with wide and wet eyes. “You know,” He murmurs softly, the vibration
climbing through his skin gently, “this is what I always dreamed of. Being a
family. A real family.”
"Family…?" Rumpelstiltskin echoes, sitting up against the arms holding him at
that. Something is wriggling and squirming in the back of his mind, but he
can’t quite put his finger on it.
Instead, his father puts a finger, to his lips, shushing him. “Yes, indeed,
laddie,” His voice is the light, gentle patter he knew as a boy, not the sleek,
cultured tones that sound so alien and wrong from terribly familiar lips. “This
is what we’ve been meant to have.”
It’s so reasonable, here, in this red and sleepy haze, and he curls back down
against his father’s chest as Baelfire curls around his legs like a protective
beast nuzzling its master. It’s safe here, in this small, tight bundle of lost
boys and leather, and he closes his eyes.
~*~
When he opens them again, they are no longer sitting, but lying down. The space
is different, though he cannot identify just how (the red-hazed room shifts and
changes - earlier, it had felt wide and empty, making him want to burrow closer
to the others. Now, it feels close and confined and cozy, but a bit too snug
and warm).
He feels different now, stripped of his crocodile skins and leathers, left only
in his silken, patterned shirt, and he feels small and awkward and whole, as he
had when he was a boy. Beside him, his father (wearing his newer face) is lying
in a similar, curled position, combing his fingers leisurely through his hair.
He glances over his shoulder to see Baelfire there - his Baelfire, the boy he’d
raised and lost, gazing over his shoulder in silent communication with the
father who’d abandoned him.
They have been talking while he has been sleeping. He can see the mutual
agreement, the understanding in their eyes. They have become a unit. A family?
He wants, more than anything, to be allowed to join them; no matter what it
takes.
They notice he is awake, and the boy-who-isn’t-his-father smiles. “Hello,
there, laddie. Did you have a nice nap?”
He nods because he can’t remember it, so it mustn’t have been unpleasant. The
hand pets across his hair, brushing down over his face in a fond gesture that
matches his non-father’s expression.
"Such a sweet boy…" He murmurs, pushing himself a bit closer on the bed so that
their legs are nearly touching. "…Come here, laddie." He pats his thigh
invitingly, their old, familiar indication that he should join him in the bed
for mutual warmth.
Rumpelstiltskin rolls into him, pushing his face into that smaller, thinner
chest. It’s wrong in too many ways to name, but it is still so very right and
familiar. The proportions are wrong, because he is small like a boy again and
they are, too, but the overall sensation of it, the rhythm and patter of the
heart he hears, sounds so right.
Just as their legs finally entwine, Baelfire slips closer behind him, spooning
his body around him and enveloping his small form with long arms and legs. It
feels perfect to be caged between them like this - being held and encased and
loved.
When his father lifts his chin, it feels right, doesn’t feel strange. The thumb
petting across his lips is fine and smooth one second, calloused and blunt the
next. He cannot decide which version of his father he sees - the mischievous
island puck or the cheerful, charismatic charlatan in rumpled clothes.
Instead, he closes his eyes, seeing nothing, only feeling as a pair of lips,
chapped and bitten, soft and pink, close over his.
~*~
The first time a hand strokes under his shirt, he jumps and yelps, breaking the
latest of a series of deep, drowning kisses. Behind him, Baelfire has pressed
even closer, hands petting across his stomach and lower, finding the hem of the
garment and exploring further.
A second set of hands joins the first, petting gently over his thighs and up,
up, over his flank and to his waist. He wriggles between them as those hands
creep back down, mapping a path and shape around his body. A sharp gasp breaks
free from low in his throat when fingers grip and squeeze at the small, soft
globes of his ass, parting and separating, kneading and flexing.
Teeth, lips, and tongue begin working on his throat, making his breathy sounds
give way to moans. The hands on his waist reach inward then, and his sounds
bubble up into a shriek as the tip of one finger slides deliberately and
painstakingly slowly into his entrance.
The arms encircling him from behind hold him gently, but firmly, and the legs
over his press down, pinning his. He can hear their voices murmuring indistinct
things from either side of him, a soothing ocean of sound, and he finds himself
relaxing under its weight. The finger twists, pushing deeper, and it is dry and
catching, but he does nothing but duck his head against his father’s chest,
hiding between that steady heartbeat and his own hair.
As though sensing his discomfort, suddenly there is wetness, slickness, with
the finger, and he moans at the coolness of the temperature. His father
whispers assurances and works the finger around and deeper, the warmth and
friction of his hand warming the wetness as it helps him open him further.
Rumpelstiltskin whimpers as the hands on his hips lift him up, pushing him
forward and separating his thighs. Baelfire drapes one of those thin legs over
his own hip, and Peter is shifting his hand with it, twisting his fingers until
there is another one pressing into the boy they both hold.
It feels hot in the space now, but his father’s lips sooth his fevered brow as
he lifts his head. “What a good boy,” He is whispering, and the words make him
preen with pleasure, even as his lower body protests the way it is being split
and teased. “I always knew you’d be my best boy, so nice and sweet…”
Behind him, Baelfire’s breathing hitches at the words, and he feels a bolt of
sorrow that he isn’t providing the same comfort for his own boy. Unable to
speak, he can only press his body back towards him in what he hopes is a
communication of affection. He swallows a gasp as this drives him harder onto
the fingers within him, spreading himself wider, but Baelfire is clutching him
round the waist again, tight and possessive, burrowing his face in his
shoulder, and he thinks he has understood what he wanted to say.
Peter is speaking to Baelfire then, and he lifts his head fractionally to
listen. The words slip through Rumpelstiltskin’s ears like water, and he
focuses instead on the arms curled around him, so familiar and so alien in this
context, and he nearly cries for the crystalline beauty of it - of being home
and held at last.
They move him easily, the fingers slipping free of him with a finale,
possessive petting, and he finds himself being pressed face down into
Baelfire’s lap. He curls onto his side, resting his hair on the bare, hairless
thigh, nuzzling against his hip the way Baelfire had done earlier to him. He
realizes what their embraces has given rise to just as he feels the hands on
his hip, and his mouth falls open easily when Baelfire’s fingers coax at the
corners of his lips.
"Can you give me this, Papa?" He is asking, and it is the husky voice of the
man in that moment, making him look up. The gentle-faced boy is gone again,
replaced by the man he doesn’t really know, but he can see Baelfire’s warm eyes
on that lined and weary face, and he nods emphatically, wanting more than
anything to please. To make amends.
He isn’t even really sure what he’s agreeing to in that instant, but then his
hair is being brushed back from his face, petted down behind his shoulders, and
he sees the engorged flesh being presented to him without delay, and he
realizes suddenly what is going on. Before he can think to protest (or decide
if he even wants to), his chin is being lifted, his mouth set against the soft,
warm head, and he opens his mouth without a second thought.
He’s done this before, in darker times and days he’d rather forget, but this
feels new and strange and right, unlike the other times before. The skin is
velvety and warm, and the salty flavor and musk are honey to his tongue and oh-
so-dreamy. The hands on his shoulders are strong and broad, and he enjoys the
directions they give, letting him know just what to do to please.
Just as the penis slips deeper, pressing down through his gag reflex and
further, the hands on his hips are raising and parting them once more. He can
feel a second erection there, pressing large and blunt against his tender,
barely stretched opening, and he wants to panic, wants to struggle, but there
are hands on his shoulders and flesh in his mouth, and the overarching sense of
pleasure and of rightness overwhelm and subdue him. The red light around them
darkens, the smoky air becoming denser and pressing more closely, and his panic
falls away, leaving only that pulsating, overwhelming desire to please.
He moans, high and sharp, around the flesh spearing deep into his throat as his
father enters him from behind. The hands on his hips are those of a man as
well, and he feels small and owned by these two, a child in the world of
capable adults, overwhelmed and overtaken, but in a way that feels proper and
perfect at last.
They fill him completely, owning him and opening him, and the hands move from
his shoulders to his hair, stroking and petting, pulling and pressing, and he
slides forward with their demands, spreading his knees as the base of his
father’s penis meets his hips from behind. Their rhythm is slow, painfully so,
powerful thrusts with no sense of urgency, and indeed, he loses all sense of
time and spatial recognition, lost in the red, heavy haze of being possessed
and cherished by the arms and appendages around and within him.
It feels like hours, years, days, before there is a swelling, a spurting, an
increase of pressure that alleviates with a dull violence, leaving a sea of
creamy, hot seed in his deepest places. The hands on him are heavier now, the
grips near-bruising, but it only makes him feel hotter and higher, like he is
being shaped in a fire into something far more beautiful, far more desirable.
He is drawn up to lay across the body in front of him, both of them falling
until they are lying flat. The man behind him comes too, still spearing him
open with his softening flesh, and it feels wet and warm and perfect. He curls
sleepily between them, feeling heavy and weighed down by their weight and the
heavy, red air embracing and curling around them.
His father whispers more words of praise for the both of them, and there are
fingers petting across his stretched opening, prying and spreading, making him
moan and buck his hips backwards. Beneath him, the other man moves, shifting
his hips and lifting them, until his slips down to rest on his flat stomach.
The next thing to enter him is not a finger, but something almost painfully
soft and limp, being fed alongside the penis still fitted inside. He realizes
belatedly that Baelfire is being coaxed up, that his flesh is being fed into
him, joining that of his father’s. Both are still soft, but the reprieve is
short-lived, as each of them begins to harden, slowly, but surely.
The sensation of two men rising inside of him is unlike anything he has ever
known. Both organs lengthen and thicken, pulling his inner walls into two
different directions, parting his muscles wider and wider, spreading the seed
inside him thinner and thinner. His body still feels so small between the two
men holding him, and there is a pain in him now, as he is stretched and forced
beyond the capacity he thought possible. Their flesh only continues to grow,
filling him further and further, until he can feel the rub of each organ
against one another, each minuscule movement an avalanche of sensation.
And then, breaking off his litany of murmured praises and comforts, his father
looks over his shoulder to his son, and, on some cue he cannot make sense of,
they both begin to thrust.
They do not alternate, one going in as the other withdraws. Instead, they time
themselves so they both drag backwards before slamming forward at the same
time, as though they were lashed together into one thick, obscenely large point
of flesh, cutting deep and hard into him. Each thrust feels like a sword’s
point, stretching his flesh and bruising his muscle, and he cries out with each
movement. The hands in his hair are less soothing now, gripping tight and
tugging on each hunk of it they hold. Their voices are no longer gentle,
falling to deeper, harsher pitches as they list his sins. They speak of
abandonment, of insolence, of cruelty and disobedience. Of ingratitude and of
isolating, of being impossible to love. He sobs now, not only because of the
brutal force of flesh between his legs, but because he knows every word they
spit at him is true. He is a monster, a work of flaws and inelegance. He is
unworthy of anything but contempt, of disappointment. He is fit only to be
despised.
As soon as they break him down, though, the words shift, becoming sweeter,
soothing once again. Now, they promise that which he has all but given up hope
on - redemption, repayment. Forgiveness. They paint a picture of a sweet,
obedient boy, who selflessly gives himself to right the wrongs the man he’d
been has caused. A fresh start, the kind he’d sought with his father and
offered his son. He will be a boy again, their boy, and they will keep him and
curl about him, inside him. They will make him into something obedient and
tender - something good.
Something they can love.
He wants it, in this small, cubed space, filled with red air that burns in his
lungs and weighs on him like a ton of stone, of self-loathing, of shame. He
feels regret inside himself as keenly as the heavy drag of flesh still piercing
into him, dragging across his walls with exacting and overwhelming possession.
And so he cries out, as their flesh seems to grow wider and thicker, seems to
break free of anything that can be reasoned, filling every inch of him with
heat and warmth, scraping him raw and leaving him sore and bruised and tender.
Leaving him new and raw. He cries out, a wordless, shattered scream, and there
are lips on either side of his throat now, biting and gnawing, twisting and
bruising, and he lets them mark him, tears now of gratitude, and he is
promising them everything they’ve asked for, swearing to make it true, or to
die trying to. He gives himself to them, completely and utterly, begging for
nothing than for what they’ve offered to be made real. To be a boy again, their
boy, to be kept and owned and worshiped and tortured and loved.
His body seems to melt away in the rush of heat that overtakes his senses, and
he knows a deal has been struck. It feels perfect, feels right, and he is
grateful for it. Pandora’s Box claimed to be filled with wickedness, with
torments, but there is one element within many forget and discount, the most
terrible and tormenting of all the wicked things possible within its walls.
Rumpelstiltskin is reborn in this confined, scarlet place, destroyed and
rebuilt with this sinister, pervasive force. They hold him, up, to them, down,
and he welcomes it, drinking up their flesh and lips and honeyed words, begging
for more of it, the agony and the pain and the beauty of being wanted and
forgiven and loved. Destroyed utterly by the terrible cruelty of hope.
~*~
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