#bc I mildly suck at slicked back

[mossy-covered-bones]

Ope, yet another Logan doodle created in one of my math classes

Edit: just realized I forgot the glasses :/

[piecksz]

another one. | (m)

pairings: connie springer x fem!reader x jean kirstein

warnings: nsfw, dub con, drunk sex, creampie, double penetration, public sex, possessive dominance, loss of virginity, anal sex, vaginal sex, fingering, slight humiliation, explicit language

words: 2.3k

summary: connie and jean take you out to a club as a change of scenery for you, but your careless fun quickly turns into a drunk hookup with your two best friends.

a/n: bear with me bc writing a threesome is hard as fuck but this has been sitting half-finished in my drafts for like two weeks and i needed it OUT!!

Jean’s back against the club’s door had the three of you stumbling out into the crisp air of fast approaching nightfall. The cold moved in only to meet your skin, made warm by the heat of your blood, the reaction to endless liquor you’d slugged until the bitter liquid began tasting like water.

You could feel the air moving through your lungs, squeaky and worrisome, as your jocund thoughts turned into dizzy confusion while Connie and Jean pressed you against the flat concrete of the wall. It only took one glance at Connie’s face, part desire, part mischief, to fully comprehend the situation you’d found yourself in.

Your soft cry was inundated with perverted laughter as Connie’s quick fingers hooked around the hem of your fitted dress, hoisting the fabric until it cinched around the bend of your hips. The frigid air was unforgiving as it lapped at the inside of your thighs, petting the exposed skin where Jean and Connie’s hands hadn’t touched.

“Come on, Y/N. Spread wide for us,” Connie soothed, mischievous hazel eyes polished with tangible lust, and once his silken lips attached to the hot stretch of your neck, you relinquished what little resistance you had and allowed your best friends to feel every curve and recess along your body.

Connie grinned lazily, grazing the tips of his fingers over the lace material that hugged the delicate skin between your legs. You parted them only slightly in response, the proximity of either men on your side hardly allowing you enough mobility. Connie’s movement was deliberate as he slid lithe fingers into your underwear, his touch skimming over your folds before dipping a finger between your slit to rub gently at your aching clit.

“God she’s so wet.” His voice was breathy as his trace traveled lower until his fingertip teased the outline of your cunt’s orifice.

“Yeah? You’re wet for us? What have you been thinking about, huh?” Jean questioned, his honeyed voice beckoning just below a whisper.

His mouth was warm against the taut side of your throat, drawing the tender skin between his teeth and sucking harshly, as though it was his intent to paint you with deep marks that would serve as a reminder that he’d been there. His hands moved swiftly in your periphery, sliding over the metal of his belt and unfastening it before impatiently tugging his cock out from the top of his black briefs.

Jean was already hard when he took himself in his palm, his swollen tip glossed with the glassy sheen of precum. He began working against his rigid length, slowly at first while he kneaded away the discomfort, and then his pace picked up until he was fucking the curve of his hand, lips sucking mildly at the bruised spots on your neck.

Your mind had been swimming since you three were on the dance floor, and you were moving wantonly with Connie and Jean as their tipsy hands roamed over your body, feeling you through the figure-hugging material of your dress.

You hadn’t been able to process what was happening fast enough, all you had been able to understand was that it felt nice, and your fog had caused you to forget what had happened in between.

Now your thoughts were inchoate as your brain tried to interpret what it could from your foggy vision, but seeing your friends bare and confident in their indecency didn’t help your disarray at all.

Your eyes drifted down to Jean’s hand, watching with parted lips while he flicked his wrist against his throbbing erection, and not that you’d previously given much thought to it, but he was bigger than you’d expected.

His skin was stretched tight over the expanse of his cock, thick and ribbed with veins, as he jerked himself off and moved in unrelenting strokes. Suddenly, your cheeks were aglow with embarrassment by your own drunk internal monologue.

Has he been hiding that in his pants the whole time?

“You’ve done a good job playing innocent, Y/N,” Jean teased, resting a sweaty palm at the base of your neck.

His grip was loose, but his partial strength was still enough to keep you constrained to the wall. His caress followed his stare and descended to your chest, palming over your breast before his fingers hooked around the fabric of your dress and your bra, pulling both down together to free a hardened nipple.

Your gasp bloomed as a pathetic whine that only intensified once Jean compromised his height, bending down to sweep his wet tongue over the stiff bead of your breast.

“You haven’t lost your virginity yet, have you?” Connie questioned, two fingers now perforating your tight hole.

You swallowed a desperate cry, your body writhing with the dual sensation of Connie’s fingers and Jean’s tongue. “No, not yet.”

Connie hummed. “Well, who better to lose it to than your best friends?”

Jean released your nipple from between his teeth to nod in concert. “Yeah, we’ll take care of you. Just relax.”

Your hands eased your tentative grasp on their forearms and traveled upwards so you could wrap your arms around their shoulders.

In one gentle pull you drew them in closer, sticky skin touching and sultry sighs marrying together, then you three locked eyes only for a moment, just long enough to reinforce the trust you held in them, and you nodded in submission.

“That’s it, good girl,” Connie praised, sliding his fingers into you once again, curling his digits against your tense walls. He flattened the heel of his palm against your clit, stimulating the swell of your cunt with the rhythmic twisting of his wrist.

Your skin began to tingle with a frenzy of static at the reception of your first orgasm, and the pit of your stomach gave host to the overwhelming buzz of ecstasy. Your breathing grew shallow and you shut your eyes with so much intensity that white dots flickered against the darkness of your lids.

“Please—” You begged to neither of them in particular, but your embrace on both of your friends tightened, and then your orgasm came as a technicolor blaze against your closed eyes.

Connie and Jean’s shifted to provide more support around your waist as your body went lax in their arms, and your unrestrained cry echoed slightly in the unguarded space of the alleyway.

“Fuck, you’re messy,” Connie remarked and withdrew his hand from between your thighs, an impish smile rippling across his languid expression, then he showed Jean the way your essence stretched into thin strings between his fingers whenever he spread them.

The two exchanged an unspoken counsel as though they both stumbled across the idea of how exciting it would be to watch you taste yourself off of Connie’s fingers, but then they waived their suggestion, figuring you weren’t yet ready to do something so obscene.

“Please, I need you guys so bad right now,” you pleaded once your rapture subsided, unaware of the vulgar fantasies that were brewing in your friends’ heads.

Jean’s hands toured over your partially bare chest to your sweaty thighs where Connie’s touch still lingered. “You want us to fuck you? How bad?”

“Badly, Jean. Please.” You looked at him from behind eyelashes damp with tears, and his eyebrows drew upwards in sympathy at the sight of you so tortured and desperate.

Connie quickly began unfastening the buttons of his pants, even with a slick grip. “You think you can take both of us at the same time?”

“Yes, please, just fuck me.” You exhaled heavily, quivering fingers trying to move the fabric of your underwear to the side, and once Jean detected your struggle, he dipped a careful hand between your legs to do it for you.

“Only because you asked so nicely,” he responded to your plea, then he bent down to wrap a long arm around the back of your knee.

He brought your leg up to his side, allocating your remaining weight onto your other foot, and your insobriety had you teetering for balance before Jean’s other arm enclosed around your waist and Connie’s palms rested on your backside to hold you up.

Jean’s cock entered you first, slowly stretching out your undefiled hole until your hips met his pelvis. He didn’t move while he gauged your expression, eyes wound tightly in discomfort and lips tightened to keep yourself from complaining about the soreness while you tried to adjust to the foreign experience.

“You okay?” Jean asked through a heavy grunt, and he sighed in relief when you nodded and began undulating your hips back and forth gently against the stiffness of his length.

“I’m okay,” you murmured through a subtle grimace.

“Are you sure?” Connie added over your shoulder, sensing the way your muscles tensed. “Loosen up, it’ll hurt more if you tighten up like that.”

Your ears began to smolder with heat at your lack of experience. Jean and Connie now unexpectedly treating you as if you were fragile made you lean forward until your head rested shyly against Jean’s shoulder. “I said I’m fine,” you stressed.

Connie nodded, taking your words for what they were, and his hands reassuringly stroked the skin of your ass before he sunk himself into you from behind, eliciting a quiet whimper from your trembling lips.

The duo gave you a few generous seconds for you to attune yourself to their size, and then they began to move, rocking their hips upward into you with even-paced movement until your body was oscillating with the force of each thrust.

Your lightheaded whimpers provoked Jean and Connie, and each fraught cry resulted in the quickening of their tempo.

“Look at you taking our cocks so well,” Connie praised, his heavy breath fanning over the curve of your neck. “You haven’t been whoring around without telling us, have you Y/N?”

You shook your head, inhaling deeply as you dragged the thick sex-soiled air into your overworking lungs.

“I hope not,” Jean said in response through gruff moans. “You’re our girl right?” He looked down to spectate as his cock disappeared into your cunt and receded, glazed in a gossamer layer of your arousal, over and over again. “Tell us no one got to touch you before we did.”

Your confession came as a quiet moan which made Connie dig his hot fingertips into the pert curve of your ass.

“Say it, Y/N.”

“No one’s—No one’s touched me before.” Tears brimmed your eyes, and you felt your clench low, both holes pursing around the thick girths of your friends’ cocks. “I’m yours.”

“Again,” Connie urged as he pressed chaste kisses to the curve of your ear and teased the bone of your jawline with his tongue.

“I’m yours. I promise, I’m all yours.” Your voice hit a higher register as the throaty cry left your mouth, and desire perfumed the little space between all three bodies that continued rising to a place of release.

Jean drove his cock into you, his own eyes closed as he threw his head back and savored the overwhelming sensation, penetrating deeper each time until the slick sound of slippery skin became audible.

“Such a good girl,” he coaxed, his voice deep and rich as his throat bobbed with each word. “That’s right, your pretty holes are all ours.”

“You’re lucky. Getting fucked by two cocks for your first time,” Connie hissed through gritted teeth. “You should be thanking us, don’t you think?”

You swallow thickly. “Th—Thank you.”

“For what?” Jean slurred, amber eyes holding your lethargic gaze.

“Thank you, for fucking me. It feels so fucking good.”

You held them closer around their shoulders, your leg hugging Jean’s waist while the three of you coalesced and both of them verged on their consummation.

You grew motionless between both bodies, not from unease, but from the satisfaction of being pampered by your two best friends.

Jean’s hips grew still first as pleasure flowed through his cock in a series of twitches, and then his wave peaked. He pushed up into you one last time and released, his hot cum painting your walls in sticky white as he held back a deep groan you knew he wanted to liberate.

Connie’s orgasm was a lot less contrived, failing to hamper the pitchy moans that cracked through his throat as his balls tightened. He dug his fingers into your ass as his cock jerked with each spurt, filling you up and unlading every last drop of cum until he grew soft in your used hole.

When the two withdrew from your entrances, you caught a glimpse of the way their cocks glistened with their own milky essence in the dim orange light of the alleyway.

Jean freed your leg from the hook he had around your knee, and once you returned both feet to the ground you stumbled slightly before stabilizing yourself with the hand Connie reached out to steady you with.

“How are we gonna get home?” you muttered, now realizing that none of you were coherent enough to find your way back home on the subway like you’d done in order to get to the club.

You adjusted your underwear and reshaped your dress, pouting at the damp and unpleasant feeling between your legs, and you kept your thighs together in fear that your cum-filled holes would begin to leak.

Although the night was still young, you could tell that your friends were spent just the same.

Connie squinted at the bright light of his phone in the darkness of the back-street as he tucked himself back into his pants and attempted to button them back up with one hand.

“Nearest Uber is like, seven minutes,” he informed you two, his quick tapping against the screen meaning he was likely requesting the ride without either you or Jean confirming.

You hummed, making sure you looked presentable before beginning to shuffle towards the street while your friends followed your lead in silence, and you hoped that once you were back at your dorm and sober, the night’s events would be forgotten in the midst of your drunken stupor.

[loversandantiheroes]

Okay my whiskey fantasy. It’s a holiday, anniversary, I dunno. But he comes home. You’re in lingerie, teddy, the garter belt, the thigh high tights (I am having an absolute brain fart and can not remember the name), the high heels. you’re cooking him dinner in it. Somethin real texas for dinner. He wants to immediately fuck yiu, BUT NO he has to WAIT bc its dinner time and you worked hard. He’s waiting, and he’s watching you, you’re bending over at the stove, all that. Dinner is served, you —-

You lounge on the table to eat like a decadent and gorgeous pain in the ass, so he can see you’re whole body while he eats, forced to be patient. You’re being an absolute menace. He’s running his mouth the whole time OBVIOUSLY. Then he fucking wrecks you

No Candles Necessary

As I am a bonafide yeehonk foole (and I have the t-shirt to prove it), I could hardly resist this idea. Nonny, I hope like hell I did you proud.💗

Shameless Whiskey/F!Reader smut (18+ and yes that means you), 5.3k+ words (they just wouldn’t shut up), mildly beta’d and lightly edited.

Warnings: established relationship, unsafe food preparation practices, light foodplay (it only goes in appropriate places I swear), egregious dirty talk, improper use of a dining table, Switch!Whiskey returns, Switch!Reader by extension, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), deepthroating, PIV sex, unprotected sex (do as I say, not as I fictionalize), cream pie (bc I’m lazy quite frankly), actual pie (peach!), a little soft schmoop in between the smut just because I can.

Permatag: @missredherring​ @dovesnroses​ @astroboots​ @magpierhymes​ @alienprincesspoop​ @aasimarr​ @maythxthirstbxwithyou​ @recklesswit​

Pedro Permatag: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa​ (sorry bab, more yeehonk) @corvueros​ @thirstworldproblemss​ @littleferal​ @krissology​ @frannyzooey​ @forallthstarsinthesky​ @princess76179​ @keeper0fthestars​ @venusandromedadjarin​

Cooking your boyfriend a birthday dinner in lingerie is probably not the best idea you've ever had. The man isn’t even home yet to witness the trouble you’ve gone to, still wrapping up a day’s work at HQ after closing out another mission. So you didn’t jump right into cooking in your frillies. No, you did the bulk of the work in sweats and a t-shirt, only stopping to change once you were down to the last stretch and the steaks had come off to rest. You've got sense enough at least to put on an apron, not wanting to risk getting hot grease on the delicate fabric or the vast amounts of bare skin the thing doesn't cover, and while you've already donned the garter belt and stockings you've left your heels up against the island counter so you can slip them on quickly when you hear the door. Still you can't quite help but feel less sexy and more silly as you stand there carving up a pair of garlic butter basted steaks while your forehead prickles with sweat and your ass, covered by neither the teddy or the apron, feels ice cold.

The things I do for love of a goddamn cowboy, you think with a shake of your head. Your whole plan is honestly on the high end of ridiculous. But then Jack is a ridiculous man, and he always seems to drag you headlong into absurdity with him. Some days it's his only saving grace - the boyish playfulness that tempers his arrogance into something charming rather than infuriating. It seems only right to be a little ridiculous for the occasion.

Once the carving’s done you give yourself a second to go over the spread and make sure everything's ready to go. It's early yet, but you're expecting to hear Jack's key in the front door any minute. He's made no mention of returning home early, of course, but he is every bit the sort that would try to surprise you on his birthday, and you’ve developed an uncanny ability to anticipate his moves ahead of time.

As it turns out, you have just enough time to slip on your heels before you hear the front door open and Jack calls out your name. You allow yourself a moment of satisfaction - you do love being right when it comes to this sort of thing - and slip into your heels.

“In here, baby,” you call back, stepping out to lean against the door frame.

“Somethin’ smells like heaven,” Jack says, rounding the corner into the dining room. He stops dead when he gets a look at you, mouth falling open in surprise. He’s hung his hat at the door, his hair already flopping over in a revolt against the slicked-back way he styles it in the morning, his suit jacket still on and buttoned. “Looks like it, too,” he finishes, the corner of his mouth curling into a grin. “I feel overdressed all of a sudden.”

You can’t help but answer that grin. “Happy birthday, cowboy,” you tell him, beckoning him over.

He all but rushes across the room to slide up against you, hands curling around your hips and playing with the tie to the apron. “Sure as hell is now,” he mutters. His palms slide down, cupping your ass to pull you in close. You bite back a hiss at the warmth, and he gives a low approving hum at the expanse of cool, bare skin. “Looks like I don’t even need to unwrap my present.”

“Patience,” you insist, pushing his shoulders back and grazing your lips over the tip of his nose as you evade the kiss he tries to pull you into. “No dessert until after dinner.”

“Dinner can wait-”

“No it cannot. I did not just spend the afternoon trying to keep hot butter off my tits so you could get impatient and let your supper get cold.” He traces a finger across your cleavage as you talk, tugging at the top of the apron to get a better look at the skin underneath. You feel the quip coming before he even opens his mouth, so you take the opportunity to give him a little push and show him just what he’s in for tonight. You bring up your hand, fingers curling under his wrist, turning his hand away and using it to pull him flush to you, the line of your thigh landing against the covered denim crotch of his jeans with just enough force to make him jolt.

“Be a good boy, Jack,” you say against his open, breathless mouth, “or you won’t get any dessert at all.”

Whiskey pouts, but his eyes have that dark glint that says he knows he’s in for trouble and he is just as pleased as punch about it. “You mean to torture a man on his birthday, honeybee?”

The smirk you give him makes his heartbeat kick up a little faster - you can feel the quickening of it in the pulse point against your fingertips. “Absolutely.” You stretch up enough for one brief, warm kiss and then step back, jerking your chin towards the dining table where there’s already two glasses of wine poured at the ready. “Sit. I’ll bring out dinner.”

He nods, tongue rolling slowly against his bottom lip. “Yes ma’am.”

His gaze is a heavy weight on your body as you walk away, raking down across so much exposed skin. You hear him groan at the sight, low and appreciative. He’s always been fond of seeing you wrapped up in lingerie, even more fond of tearing up the expensive scraps just to get you bare for him. You’d chided him about it the first time - the bodysuit he’d ripped clean in half from gusset to tit hadn’t been cheap, even though that little display had thrilled you far more than you’d ever want to admit - but he always replaced what he ruined without fail.

When you come back, divested of the apron with plates in hand, Whiskey is sitting just as instructed, elbow on the table, chin resting on his knuckles. He tracks every move you make, every sway of your hips, a playful smile hiding the effort of his restraint as you set his dinner in front of him. He barely spares the food a glance when you elect to forego your own chair and simply hop up onto the table, setting your plate near his and dragging over your glass of wine.

“You’ve outdone yourself, honeybee,” Whiskey rumbles, sliding a hand up your knee to your thigh, and he could not be talking less about the food.

You only smile, taking an unhurried sip. “Somehow I thought you’d prefer this to a new tie. How old are you now, anyway?” you tease.

“Sweet sixteen,” he says dryly, hiking an eyebrow while he squeezes your thigh for your cheek.

You chuckle. “Uh-huh, and I’m Mother Theresa.” You lean in, spearing a slice of steak on his plate with your fork and holding it out for him. “Now, I worked very hard on this, and I am going to be very disappointed if you try to skip dinner on me just ‘cause you can’t quit eyeballing your dessert. Open.”

He tips you a wink before dutifully opening his mouth, letting you feed him. The soft, indulgent moan that leaves him as his eyes slip closed is too subdued to be anything but real. “Honeybee that is gorgeous. My compliments to the chef.” 

“The chef is glad to hear it.” You swipe your thumb over his lip, collecting the sheen of juice and garlicky butter and bringing it to your own mouth, delicately sucking it off. “Could’ve used a bit more rosemary.”

Whiskey shakes his head. “Mm-mm. This is perfection on a plate, baby. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

The smile that earns him is genuine, and you bend to give him a quick kiss. He presses it, just a little, a swipe of his tongue that you open for just enough to nip at before pulling away. “Eat.” You gesture meaningfully at his plate.

All told, there isn’t actually much on it. Steak, roasted new potatoes, and asparagus with hollandaise sauce. You’ve only served up maybe half of what you’d usually set in front of him for dinner, opting for more reserved portions. It’s a favor to you both - his patience wouldn’t last through a full meal without the need for physical restraints. There’s more in the kitchen, of course, and an actual pie for dessert if you happen to get that far. You’re both bound to be hungry again after.

Whiskey tucks in, fork in his left hand while his right stays comfortably curled around your thigh, slowly creeping higher and higher until he’s playing with the lacy top of your stocking. You give him a warning tilt of your head, your own fork poised halfway to your mouth. All you get in return is those plaintive, innocent puppy dog eyes of his, but his hand doesn’t advance further.

All in all you’re rather proud of his restraint, at least until one spear of asparagus manages to drip hollandaise down onto your cleavage. Suddenly that quietly repressed hunger cracks and he’s surging up towards you, mouth half-open and tongue peaking out, ready to clean you up.

But that won’t do. Not yet. Your reflexes might not be as good as his, but they’re nothing to balk at, either. You brace yourself back on one hand, leaning away and planting one of your high heels against his shoulder to shove him back into his seat. The look on his face is priceless; mouth agape and pupils blown. 

Slowly you shake your head. “You know better, Jack.”

His eyes track up the inside of your thigh to the crotch of your bodysuit - or rather, the lack thereof - and the split strips of lace that don’t cover your mound, but frame it prettily for him. “Fuck, honeybee,” he mutters breathlessly. 

Dinner and a show was always the plan. So you take your time, dipping your finger and swiping up the stripe of creamy yellow and holding it out to him. Whiskey stares you down as he takes the tip of your finger into his mouth and sucks dutifully, his tongue plush and soft and working against the pad of your finger the same way he worries it over your clit. A rush of heat rockets through you, leaving your belly warm and a sweet tingle tripping down your spine in its wake.

Biting your lip hard to rein in the impulse to just slide into his lap, you drag your finger out of his mouth. It’s what he wants; to make you break first, to make you lose at your own game. And where’s the fun in that?

“It is your birthday, so I’m going to cut you a little bit of slack, but if you can’t mind your manners and do as you’re fucking told, you’re gonna get a lot worse than a birthday spanking, pretty boy. Now, I told you: no dessert until you finish your dinner.” There’s precious little left on his plate; a few scraps of steak, a couple potatoes, one lone spear of asparagus. You stab this last with your fork and hold it out to him. “Last chance, baby. You open your mouth for me and be a good boy, and you can have me any way you want.”

Whiskey looks dazed; seething and starved and love-struck all at once. You don’t even need to look down to know he’s hard. But he hesitates just for a moment, whether it’s deliberate or accidental you’re not really sure - sometimes the man just really wants to be punished - but in that space you see his body jerk, hunching slightly as his abdominal muscles contract involuntarily. You follow the movement with your eyes and sure enough, there he is. Full mast and straining hard against thick denim.

Smiling sweetly, you wave the fork at him. “Your choice, Jack.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he says, and the roughshod timbre of his voice says it’d be a fine way to go.

Whiskey opens his mouth and takes what you give him.

You’re slow about it. Careful. Admonishing him when he tries to chew a little too quickly. Whiskey stares you down with eyes like coal seconds away from ignition. He holds your gaze while you slip another bite of food into his mouth, then lets his eyes slip down until they fix firmly on your half-exposed and already glistening cunt, and you know the moment you give him an inch he’s going to wreck the hell out of you for this.

When the last bite passes his lips he curls his hand around your ankle, squeezing. Always pushing his luck, this man of yours. You set his plate aside, glancing away like it’s no effort at all as he very methodically wipes his mouth with his napkin.

“Now can I have my dessert?” Impatience roughens the low gravel of his voice into something dangerously sharp.

You smile, leaning back on one hand. “There’s peach pie in the kitchen.”

He presses forward, left hand sliding big and warm up the inside of your thigh. The motion presses the leg you’ve used to pin him to his chair back until your knee is nearly flush with your chest, opening you up wider, the rush of air between your legs now shockingly cold against the wetness that had gathered there.

“Woman, the only pie I want a piece of is the one sitting right in front of me.”

The stretch along the back of your thigh burns, so you shift, hooking your leg over his shoulder instead. “I haven’t finished my dinner yet,” you protest cooly, reaching down to snag a strip of steak off your still half-full plate and popping it into your mouth.

Whiskey’s hands slip higher, and this time you don’t stop him, too busy sucking the buttery juices off your fingers. When the very very tips of his fingers brush the spread lace at the crux of your thighs he freezes, waiting for the rebuke, for fingers around his neck or your other heel to plant square in his chest. You consider it, sure; it’s certainly not a prospect without its merits. A man that enjoys being under your thumb is satisfying in a way that few things in life ever fully measure up to.

But honestly, you’ve worked hard enough tonight. Time to let him put in a little effort.

A tilt of your head and a curl of your foot against his shoulder is permission enough; slipping off the leash by way of a gesture, and the low smolder in his eyes blooms to a full burn. Whiskey stands to his full height, looming close enough for you to feel the heat bake off him as he shrugs off his jacket and unbuttons the cuffs on his dress shirt, rolling them up with a few quick turns of his wrists.

“Can’t let my girl go hungry now,” he hums in a voice like burnt molasses. “Lemme give you a hand there, honeybee.”

Smirking, Whiskey wraps an arm around you, brushing the tip of his nose against yours as you wriggle against solid heat of his body. His left hand wanders out of sight on the table as his lips meet yours, teasing your mouth open with the barest brush of his tongue, while his right hand trails warm and slow around your side and down and down to cup your mound.

It’s hard to believe you ever felt cold. You’re burning up now, skin flushed hot as his mouth grazes yours and breathes out: “Open up for me.”

And just like magic, you do. No input needed on your behalf; your mouth simply drops open and your legs shift wider in accommodation for him. There’s a clink of silverware and then he’s waving a fork at you, a strip of steak speared on the end. Whiskey’s eyes glitter as he pushes it into your waiting mouth. Each bite he feeds you is accompanied by a teasing dip of his fingers into your core, feeding you with his left hand while he touches you with his right. Your slickened folds part smooth and easy as he pushes his fingers inside you, a welcome but all too brief intrusion, before they trail up again to stroke at your clit. Again and again you rock your hips up, trying to encourage him to slip into you deeper, to give you a taste of the fullness and pressure of his cock, but every time his touch retreats.

You whine; a strange mix of frustration and pleasure. “Tease.”

“Takes one to know one,” he coos, the hand between your legs working faster. Heat builds quickly under his fingertips, a friction far more appetizing than anything else you’ve set on the table tonight. “You made the rules, honeybee. No dessert until after you finish supper. You do want your dessert, don’t you?”

He brings the next bite up, holds it tantalizingly close. You stretch out and he draws it back, and suddenly his fingers are rubbing a firm, determined circle on your clit. Your whole body jolts, gasping air with a pitiful little whine. There’s nothing but mischief on his face as he watches you, tongue sweeping against his bottom lip. He slows his fingers, brings the fork down again, closer this time. The food brushes your bottom lip before he pulls it away, fingers quickening again.

“Jesus,” you all but squeak. “Jack, don’t be mean.”

Whiskey gives you a considering hum, leaning forward to suck the sheen of butter off your bottom lip. “Oh darlin’ I would never,” he insists, punctuating the sentiment with a kiss that’s tender enough to be very nearly sincere if it weren’t for the fact that the motion of his hand never slows. A sweet, bright heat begins to build under his fingertips. “How could I be mean to my girl when she worked so hard for me, hm? I’m just paying that back in kind is all. You wanna come on my fingers, baby, you can do that all you like. I’ll make you come ‘til those pretty little legs can’t do much more than shimmy. You know I can. But you ain’t gettin’ nothin’ else until you clean your plate like a good girl.”

“H-ha-ah, fuck-how much more?”

He grins devilishly. “Just this last bite.”

“Oh you f-fucking jackass!”

Whiskey laughs. “Guilty as charged. Open up, baby, take what I got for you.”

He pushes the last bite past your lips and immediately delves his fingers into your warm and waiting cunt. The breath shudders out of you, fingers digging into the tablecloth as you try to hang onto enough composure to remember to chew and swallow. He’s slow for a moment, pumping and curling his fingers gently while he watches you eat. There’s a clink of silverware as he discards the fork and puts his arm around you, pressing his lips against your forehead.

“Good girl,” he murmurs sweetly.

Mouth empty now, you nudge your nose against his chin, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Jack-”

And then his grip becomes determined. The fingers inside you flex, the heel of his hand pressing hard against your clit and all you can do is cry out against the soft skin of his neck and hang on for dear life while he works you up and over the edge with shocking speed.

Trembling, you lock your legs around him as you come down, dragging his collar aside to bite lazily into the place where his neck and shoulder meet.

“Fuck,” he groans, hips rutting up against the back of his hand between your legs. “How do you want me, honeybee?”

That earns him a breathless laugh, goosebumps raising along his neck. “It’s your birthday, Jack. What do you want?”

Whiskey’s eyes drop to your mouth and he makes a considering sound, pulling back to suck you delicately off his fingers. “I think I want your mouth. And then I think I want to fuck you right here on this table until that divinely sweet little pussy wrings me fucking dry. Sound good to you, honeybee?”

“That can be arranged.” His eyelids flutter as you reach down to his zipper, not even bothering with his belt before you reach inside his jeans and the button fly of his boxers to tug his cock free, cupping your fingers to draw his balls out, too.

You move to stand and he shakes his head, caging you in. “No. Not on your knees, baby. On the table. I wanna see you all spread out for me. My pretty little present.”

He helps you. Sweeps your hair back as you lie flat on the dining table, scooting back to let your head hang just a bit. It’s not exactly comfortable. The edge of the table digs into your neck a bit, and the way the blood rushes to your head is not entirely pleasant either. But you watch Whiskey pace around you to take his place in front of your waiting mouth, cock bobbing and just barely beginning to leak for you, and you feel a gorgeous rush of heat at the sight.

Whiskey slides his palm up your stomach to cup one barely-covered breast. “Gorgeous,” he mutters, squeezing. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“Jack.”

“I know, darlin’, I know. But my God you’re a picture.” He cups your cheek, absently brushes the corner of your mouth with his thumb before sliding his hand back to give your head a little support. “Open up for me, angel.”

And once again, you open up for what he gives you. The angle makes it strange, the topography of Jack’s body less familiar as he slips into your mouth, your tongue dragging wet and slow over foreign terrain. The taste of him, hot skin and the tang of bitter salt, that you know well enough. You close your eyes at it, bring your hands up to his hips to tug him slowly forward and listen to the way he moans.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, breathless and a little awe-struck. “Jesus fucking Christ. You spoil me, baby. Sweet as fucking honey, my god.”

A light touch against your breast makes you shiver, goosebumps raising as it draws lightly over your skin. A single fingertip, sliding the lace of the bodysuit aside to bare your breasts to the chill of the room and the warmth of Whiskey’s hands.

He mutters sweet things as he begins to move; sweet, tender, unconscionably filthy things. All the things you do to him. Do for him. The rocking of his hips is gentle at first, feeding you his cock inch by cautious inch. When he hits the back of your throat he pulls back on reflex, but the light scrape of your teeth and the sudden tightness of your grip on the plush meat of his ass sends him forward again. The angle eases the motion, and you relax into the pressure as he pushes in and in and...oh.

You feel the resistance at the back of your throat give gently; strange, but not uncomfortable. Above you, Whiskey lets out a pained groan.

“Shit. Oh shit yes, honeybee. Take it. Ohhh s-shit. Take all of it. Every goddamn inch. Fuck.”

And then his hips are flush with your mouth, the soft skin of his balls pressed up against your nose. Panting, he wraps a hand around the stretched column of your throat, swearing breathlessly. He moves, a small, careful thrust, and you can feel the tremor that ripples through him at the feeling.

“Just a little more baby,” he mumbles, pulling back until just the head of his cock rests within the warmth of your mouth. You suckle at it, working it eagerly with your lips and tongue while you breathe raggedly through your nose. Your hips jut up into thin air on their own accord, just as eager for him as your mouth is.

“I got you, honeybee.” The hand at your neck slips down, skimming over skin and lace until he finds your clit. The first touch jolts you, your cry stifled on his cock as you shudder up against him. “Good girl. I got you, baby. Jack’s got you. Keep going. Just a little more. Just a little more and then I’ll fill you right on up. Fuck my sweet girl’s brains right out of her head. Prettiest fuckin’ thing I ever fuckin seen, baby, holy fuck.”

You moan something against him - pleasure, acquiescence, god only knows - but the sound of it is lost as his cock slides steadily back into your mouth. The pressure in your head is distracting, tears prickling your eyes when he pushes in deep, but the stroking of his fingers and the feel of him in your mouth, sliding hard and slick and effortlessly down your throat is far more consuming than the discomfort.

He rocks into you. Fucks into you. Moans and gasping praises falling thick and fast from his lips as he moves. You don’t need to feel the way his balls draw up tight to know how close he is, how tight he’s riding the line between what he wants to do and what his body wants to do. You’re lost in it all the same; his pleasure and the fraying thread of his restraint. Your own pleasure, building quick and low and locking down the muscles in your thighs until they tremble. You float in it, overwhelmed and dizzy, until, very suddenly, you break.

Whiskey curses, pulling back to listen to you cry out, to let you curl up and clutch at him as he pants above you, muttering broken, desperate please of: “yes god yes honeybee all of it, gimme all of it, every last bit.”

You’re a wreck in the aftermath; pliant and limp, face teary and slick with spit and precome. He draws you up, wiping your face with a clean napkin before pulling you into a kiss that steals away whatever remained of your breath. He gathers you up, turns you until you can wrap your still-tingling limbs around him. Nudges his hips against yours, his wet cock dragging against slick skin and fragile lace.

“You okay, baby?” he asks, trailing soft kisses over your face.

You have to clear your throat before you can respond, the sound of it harsh and ragged like an engine turning over. “Y-yeah. Yeah I’m good. Dizzy, but good.”

“You ain’t the only one, honeybee. Almost didn’t make it in time. Wanted to fill up that pretty mouth so bad. You just about did me in.”

He laughs and you join him, breathing ragged joy into each other’s lungs.

“Still want me to fuck you?” The question should be coarse, but somehow isn’t. Not with his sweat-slick forehead pressed to yours and his lips ghosting kisses against your mouth with every breath.

“So sweet,” you mutter, combing your hands through his hair.

“LIke hell,” he scoffs, holding you tight to his chest. “I ain’t and you know it.”

“You are to me,” you insist, pressing a kiss against the tip of his nose. He smiles, softens everywhere but that place that throbs with impatient heat against you. “Now fuck me, pretty boy.”

A flash of a grin is the only warning you get before he’s hooking his arms under your knees and pulling you to the edge of the table. “Yes ma’am,” he says obligingly, planting a hand between your breasts to push you back against the table as he lines himself up, sliding into you with one smooth, achingly deep stroke. 

You moan, knees drawing up as his hips meet yours and he fills the space inside you that’s been aching for him all day. Whiskey lets out a groaning sigh, leaning into you like he wants to bury himself whole inside you. He hoists one of your legs up against his chest, nuzzles the inside of your knee while he tries to find his breath again. The length of him inside you is rigid as steel and blindingly hot, still so close to his own end that he has to wait, worrying his teeth over your skin, until the urge to just rut against you like an animal until he comes finally passes.

And when it does, when he opens his eyes at last, he looks down at you with a dazed, hungry smile. He presses a kiss to the tip of his finger and brings it down to your lips.

“Love you, honeybee.”

Heavy-lidded and so wonderfully full, you kiss his finger and arch your back. “Love you, too, cowboy.”

And that’s the last intelligent thing you manage to say. Finally - finally! - Whiskey fucks you, each pounding swing of his hips making the china rattle like nervous teeth. Your arms strike out, curling and flailing, trying to find something to grab onto as he fucks you. The heel of your hand strikes one of the wine glasses and sends it tumbling to the floor where it shatters. The breath leaves your body in tiny bursts with each impact; little monosyllabic cries punctuating each one.

“Fuck, that’s my girl,” Whiskey murmurs. He cups your breasts, thumbing the pebbled sharpness of your nipples before his hands slide lower, finding the deep notch of the bodysuit between them. “Wrapped up so pretty for me.”

The lace tears away like it’s nothing, a clean rip down the center. Oh well. He’ll buy you another.

Whiskey folds over you, pulling you down closer so he can get an arm under your back, his hand grasping the back of your neck and pulling you up to meet his mouth. He’s still wearing his tie, the drape of fabric laying cool against your chest. Blessedly he’s not wearing his usual belt buckle. Foresight or oversight you’re not quite sure, but you’re grateful all the same as he grinds into you, a press of cold metal and leather against your belly.

He’s not going to last long, but it hardly matters. You’re too worked up, two orgasms down already, cunt so swollen and sensitive it’s hardly an effort to get you there again. But the feeling of him inside you turns that bright burn into something lower, deeper. Something that makes your muscles lock and tremble, straining up against him and gasping into his mouth.

“Jaaaack,” you whine, arms locked around his neck.

“Yes, baby,” he groans, voice quivering with every thrust. “Fuck yes I’m right there too, c’mon. Come with me, honeybee, come with me.”

His rhythm falters, grinding deeper and deeper, and all that strained tension in your body snaps like a rubberband. You sob, grabbing fistfuls of his dress shirt, twisting and jerking as you come apart under him.

All Whiskey can do is growl as you bear down on him, gritting a litany of “yes, yes, fuck yes, god yes, that’s my girl that’s my girl that’s my fucking girl.” And then he’s gone, too, driving into you with a sudden jolt and crying out against the side of your neck as he comes.

You’re holding him too tight, clutching him to you as you both lie there, panting and shuddering, a spreading stain of red wine pooling next to your head.

“Jesus,” he whispers, tries to shift up to find your mouth, but even that amount of drag on his oversensitive cock is enough to make him hiss and jerk. “Fuck.”

“Mm-hm,” you agreed dumbly.

Whiskey lets out a growling hum, smoothing your hair. “You good, honeybee?”

You trail kisses up to his ear, still breathless. “What do you think?”

He wheezes a laugh. “I think I gotta replace a lot more than your frillies this time.” The laugh turns giddy, and Whiskey presses his forehead against your temple. “And I think I’m hungry.”

“Pie in the kitchen,” you mumble, too drowsy to do much more than nuzzle into the damp tangle of Whiskey’s hair.

“What kind?”

“Peach.”

He hums, smiling drowsily. “My favorite.”

You give a slow nod. “I know. Happy birthday, Jack.”

He kisses you, slow and sweet. “Best I ever had,” he murmurs.

[pseudofaux]

heyy can i ask for something rough and specific like spy lucien X spy mc fighting bc they bumped into each other but then they realize the sexual tension and just suddenly start hooking up (sorry it was actually a short fic fic idea lol)

Hi, sure! Gonna write this in the middle of some ahemhemhem since you’ve already established what’s going on in the AU. It worked out that they’re spy-assassins (!), and heavy on the sex banter. I hope you’ll enjoy!

(Requests are closed, but I have more to post in the next few weeks! Feel free to follow along or just read whatever you’d like. A masterlist will go up when all the requests are completed.)

“Don’t patronize me,” she snaps, and she manages to glare at him even when he snaps his hips up into her, so that’s two little victories to her.

“Can you even define ‘patronizing’ at the moment?” His chuckle is low and soft, like his hand on her clit between them. One little victory to him— it’s a fair joke, even if he’s a bastard for it. Maybe she could define it if he wasn’t fucking her so deeply. Higher chance of success if he wasn’t fucking her so deeply while he bent her backwards over a yacht’s bar. It just makes everything deep and sharp and good, damn him. The way he touches her is light, gentle, but it feels like he’s sending lances of pleasure through her.

“I can crush your windpipe,” she says over-sweetly. “With my legs.” When he laughs, his hips are flush with hers, so the shake of laughter travels all the way up to her navel and wrings a needy sound out of her.

Tenderly, he says, “I don’t think you will,” and moves his hands to her hips so he can angle her properly. It lets her back and shoulders rest better against the top of the ship’s bar, and there’s no way he doesn’t know it.

“Don’t—mmmn— be nice to me,” she hisses. “You’ll give a girl ideas.”

“I’m very nice to you, and I’d like to put all sorts of ideas in your head,” he says darkly as he holds her in place to sheathe his crisp, expert thrusts. “I want you to come work with me so we stop meeting like this.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” She thought she could keep her voice level, but the pressure of his thumbs on the front of her hips makes her gasp the words out.

“You’re right.” He smiles, continuing that thumb work along a sensitive spot she didn’t know existed. It reminds her of the first time he sucked the skin above and below her thigh holster so long there were hidden welts for a few days. Did he discover that possibility on another woman’s body? The thought makes her so suddenly furious that she can feel her nails making way into the soft lacquer over the wood of the bar. Oops. The boat will be torched when they’re done here, anyway.

He actually gasps, just the tiniest and quickest indrawn breath. “So tight, butterfly, maybe I should come work with you.”

“You’d never get the job,” she says. “You have to be respectful during the interview.” She manages to be smug until he grins and presses those damn thumbs right above her hip bones and she feels like the touch in that spot is going to splinter her into sparks, champagne bubbles. Something dangerous.

“Are you your own HR?” he asks mildly. He sounds so different than he looks: sweaty, a little flushed. Slick in every sense. “Captain of the ship, as it were?”

He can never resist a pun like that, and the heft of his balls were not currently slapping her ass, she swears she would use her thighs on his throat right now, just for how bad that was.

“You shot the captain of this ship twenty minutes ago,” she points out. He smiles like it’s their anniversary or something.

“He was such a bad man,” Lucien—Ares—says.

“Yeah, did you know each other from bastard boarding school?” she ask, but instead of edge her voice has that dreamy-tightness she only gets when he fucks her like this, talks to her like this. Their banter is an aphrodisiac without equal.

The way Lu— Ares— sweeps his arm over the bar and sends glasses crashing and napkins drifting comes closer to that high than she thought possible. His strength is so hidden, usually… she likes when he lets it show. It makes her feel trusted.

“I did recognize him, matter of fact. But I was much happier to see you.”

“Lucky me,” she groans as he slams home the way she can’t endure without coming, hard. His length is just too strong and thick. As soon as she feels like she’s close, he’s already fucking her into (and through) orgasm.

He leans over her, crowding her to the wood like the bar is a platform made for her to get fucked on. She can’t truthfully say she minds, so she keeps her mouth shut. “The pleasure’s all mine,” he whispers. “Cream on me again, pretty girl, and I’ll give you his associates’ locations.”

She throws her arms around him not— NOT, she insists to herself— in any kind of affection, just to squeeze him and show him she’s the boss of herself, certainly, if not both of them. Any creaming will be purely coincidental, and she already has several of the associates’ locations. She gets a fist in his hair and makes it so tight her nails dig into her palm.

Before she can tell him what’s what, he offers “All of them.”

“Don’t need your pity,” she hisses again, tugging his hair. “Just need your dick from time to time, Ares.”

Too late, she realizes the trap in her own words.

“…Need it?” He coos. “You should have said.”

He slips his tongue into her mouth very slow and sweet, and the contrast to the way he is moving his body to hers confuses her.

“Stop frowning,” he tells her. The murmur is soft against her mouth.

“Stop telling me what to do,” she says, and pulls him down for another kiss.

“Come,” he says. Smiling.

And, damn him, she does.

[mythicamagic]

19 for spots to kiss?

19: a kiss on the side of the neck.

This is a continuation of prompt 29 which you can find here: link

Rated too hawt for tumblr bc smut so again, it’s under the read more line. 

Kagome eyed him with confusion. Since when had the mighty Lord Sesshoumaru deigned to proposition her with anything? She'd had scattered conversations with him since returning from her era but they weren't exactly 'friends.'

Still, she'd be lying if she said she wasn't intrigued.

"I'm listening."

His lips twitched. "Clearly you are dissatisfied with your first sexual experience. I, therefore, extend the offer to bed you."

Kagome choked on her own spit. "E-excuse me?!"

"You are excused."

"No, I mean- why would you ever offer me that?"

He looked rather magnanimous, sipping his saké with relaxed features. "No reason. I desire company tonight. If you are not averse to it, then accept."

He said it so simply. As if he extended such offers every day. Maybe he did. He had the looks and status to do so.

Sesshoumaru's mouth turned down. "This one does not offer such things easily."

Kagome jolted, wondering if he was a mind reader. "O-of course not," she took a moment to steady herself, considering. "But don't you hate humans? I mean, I know you don't hate all of us, since you care about Rin and Kohaku. This is another thing entirely though."

Sesshoumaru inspected perfect nails boredly. "By no means will I ever revere humans as a whole. However, 'hate' is a strong word. Putting that aside, my business is not with the human race tonight, it is with you," his attention slid back to her. "And past interaction between us hints to me that we would be...compatible in the bedroom."

Kagome felt faint. Like those swooning women in period piece movies. Except she wasn't swooning from any crush, more like her corset was too tight.

"Oh really?" she said thinly. "What tipped you off? The arrow I sent to your face?"

"Partly."

"HUH?"

His brow rose as he gave an indulgent chuckle, "power calls to power. You were a brat- but so was this one, to an extent. I desire strength, beauty and will. Are these not qualities you possess?"

Heat bloomed upon her cheeks and Kagome reeled. She couldn't believe she was seriously considering it. Inuyasha would be hurt if he found out. Kagome frowned and curled her hands resting upon her knees into fists. 'It's not as though he has any say in this.'

There was one thing still bothering her though. "If I agree to this, would it happen just once?"

Golden eyes visibly darkened as a foreign expression tightened his jaw, muscles becoming tense. Kagome almost thought she'd angered him before a velvety tone revealed his true emotion; "this agreement may happen as many times as we wish. Over a period of time. Weeks, months if need be."

He was hungry. She realised. Into it. Into her? "S-slow down! We don't even know if we'll enjoy it enough to do it again yet!" she squeaked. "Besides...a secret fling, no strings attached…" Kagome had never thought she'd be the type. "Using you for pleasure, is that really fair to you?" she murmured.

Sesshoumaru let out a noise of frustration, and she found her vision swallowed by silver as her back hit plush furs, sinking into their cloud-like softness as he bent close. His body had never been so near. She could practically feel the heat radiating off him.

"Must you be so vexing?" dark tones purred, a nose grazing hers. "This arrangement is mutually beneficial. We both take. Moreover-" claws skimmed Kagome's waist- her damp sweater clinging to her frame. She shivered violently, heart stuttering. "I am a demon. There is no danger of wounding me emotionally- for I am beyond your reach. So be selfish. Greedy. Be every ugly thing you have repressed, miko- for it can exist here without repercussions. That is what it means to indulge baser urges."

Inexplicably, tears pricked Kagome's eyes again. It was the strangest thing anyone had ever said to her. But wonderfully attractive. She wanted it. She wanted to massage her wounded ego with wicked lips and all the licentious attention he could offer.

Carefully, as though raising a tentative hand to a wild animal, Kagome lifted her palm. Touching his striped cheek and feeling its warm smoothness, the contours of his handsome face- she exhaled in a rush, acknowledging the true weight of the action. "So it's...it's just casual?"

Pale, long lashes slid half shut. Sesshoumaru leaned a little closer but ultimately waited for her to make the first move. "Just casual."

Kagome nodded slowly and brought another hand to his shoulder, feeling the muscle there, before hesitantly pressing a kiss to the side of his neck.

She felt him swallow against her lips. Those claws at her waist bit in through the thick material. Lifting her head- Kagome accepted his heated kiss, falling deeper into the mass of endless furs.

They were not gentle nor sweet that first time. Rather, there had been an endless blur of fangs scraping, sinking into flesh- nails dragging and lips colliding in desperate fervour.

Kagome's legs locked around his waist, back arched and chest bared when she surfaced a moment from their lust ridden haze to note the bizarreness of watching Sesshoumaru lick and suckle at her nipple. She tangled shaking hands in sublime hair and rocked her hips needily against his.

"Do it now- don't mess around," she grit out, soaked from a few ministrations of his fingers. Kagome never thought the day would come when she'd dismiss foreplay. But the demon tortuously undid her, cruelly denying her by coaxing desire higher and higher- her thighs were hitched up over broad shoulders as a sinuous tongue lapped and roved and played inside her.

Kagome choked and sobbed her rapture, trembling beneath him as she came against his mouth.

Blue eyes flashed then and the miko yanked her legs away, squirming and righting herself. Sesshoumaru blinked- before he was shoved back. Kagome stood with him, placing a hand on his chest.

"You said I could be selfish," she grit out, red-faced. "Why didn't you just take me as I asked?"

His lips- covered in a faint sheen of her juices- curved up at the edges. He licked them slowly, slit pupils dilated. "This one also said our symbiotic relationship would benefit me as well. I am also allowed to be selfish."

Growling, Kagome grabbed his shoulders for leverage, dragging him down to her mouth and kissing him hard. She bit his bottom lip and sucked, tasting herself lewdly. Sesshoumaru shuddered and panted, cock straining against her.

The miko pushed herself up on her tiptoes and wrapped both legs around his waist, forcing him to stagger back just as the carriage lurched mid-air from a harsh gust of wind. This resulted in them careening back- Sesshoumaru landing against the shutter that burst open, letting cool night air swamp their rutting bodies. Hands scrambled and pushed clothing aside- the demon sinking inside her with some difficulty despite how slick she'd been rendered.

Twin groans were stifled in each other's necks. Kagome had never once been so overcome with lust that she disregarded everything- didn't pause to shut away the chilly draft, didn't wait to ask permission to begin- her hips greedily moved of their own accord. She sank herself down on him and let out a keening noise, mouth falling open.

"C-call my name," she blushed, gritting her teeth. "Please say my name."

His hands locked beneath her thighs to keep her in place, back against the partially open shutter. Sesshoumaru hissed and snarled, his own hips undulating with hers.

Cruel lips pressed against the hollow of her throat. "Kagome," he breathed and kept on repeating it like a mantra.

Something wounded and fragile unfurled within her heart.

It wasn't like how it had been with her ex. In fact, Kagome wagered the powerful thrusts and erotic graze of sharp teeth had ruined human men for her forever. Only demons would likely satisfy her now unless she wanted a life of paltry blunt canines and smooth nails with no dark aura to latch onto. His youki practically drowned her, seeping down her throat and causing her to choke and push out holy powers.

Hands scarred with marks from archery slid over his chest, leaving trails of steam. Sesshoumaru groaned- gaze flashing red, and their harsh, frantic movements combined with lusty cries reached a crescendo. He pushed her down to the floor and slammed inside her to the hilt. Kagome threw her head back, screaming.

The rest was mildly difficult to remember. She was fairly certain, however, that golden eyes had been surprisingly gentle when he'd caught her glazed blue gaze once more. It was only later, when he dropped her off at the edge of Inuyasha Forest, that Kagome pointed out his missing earring.

Sesshoumaru had hummed, removing his remaining pale one and handing it over to her.

Kagome understood what it meant. An agreement, a promise that this was theirs; and theirs alone.

[eeveedel]

chubby actor louis (pt 2)

What up SINNERS. So sorry I missed last week, I hope you still enjoy this lil baby that’s a coutinuation of my very questionable and self indulgent new series. I’m hoping to do at least two more installments a little later. 

please note this fic deal with weight gain kink/fetish. it is heavy on food and weight talk. if any of that content bothers or triggers you, this will not be the story for you. also contains some sexual content!

very unedited bc words are fake anyways. 

part 1 here

--

“Do I have to? This is the worst part.”

Louis was standing in the bathroom in just his briefs, Harry standing patiently next to him. And while he had taken his clothes off in front of Harry countless times, including when he started this whole thing, he somehow felt more naked now. He was acutely aware of his body, how his belly was doughy and swelled forward, how his legs had softened, and how his ass had grown, making his underwear tight. And he was just getting started.

“Come on, love, hop on,” Harry said gently, “I just wanna see where we’re starting, that’s all.”

One of the first things Harry had requested when he agreed to help Louis was that they were going to start weighing Louis every two days, rather than at the end of every week like Louis had been doing. He said it was important to keep track of this kind of thing so they could set goals for every day, and while Louis knew he had a point, he hated doing it in front of Harry. It was one thing to see the numbers rise on his own, but to do it in front of his boyfriend felt too personal and a little embarrassing. He wasn’t sure if Harry being into it made the situation better or worse.

Louis sighed and finally stepped onto the scale. He tried to relax his posture, letting his spine slouch a little and his arms swing loosely, like it would make a difference. The machine under his feet worked quickly, the display only blinking for a few seconds before it settled on one number.

“163,” Harry read out.

“Yes, I can read,” Louis said.

Harry laughed weakly, and out of the corner of his eye Louis saw him getting his phone out. He was opening his notes app, typing something in.

“So, by shooting time, you need to be at 178,” Harry said, “We can do that.”

Louis’s stomach fluttered a bit at “we,” the sign of Harry’s unquestioning presence on this weird project.

Harry had been around for plenty of Louis’s odd roles. He had helped Louis memorize a fake sci fi language for an outer space thriller, taken him to the air and space museum for hours while Louis took notes prepping to play an astronaut. and once had indulged Louis in a month of candlelit rooms and no Internet while he got ready for a drama set in Amish country. Harry had proved time and time again he was willing to help with whatever Louis’s very weird job required. But this felt different. Not least of all because Harry had never exactly been turned on by Louis’s role prep before.

“You can step off, baby,” Harry said gently.

Louis blinked, realizing he must have been there for away, and then stepped off the scale, watching it go back down to zero.

He stared at it for a long moment, and then felt Harry’s hand on his shoulder, giving him a squeeze.

“I can put lunch on,” Harry said, “Would that be okay? To eat something right now?”

Louis looked down at his stomach and put a cautious hand on it, squeezing the softness underneath his skin.

“I mean,” he said, “I guess we have to get there at some point.”

--

Louis really wished he had taken Harry up on his offer to cook for him earlier.

He was well aware Harry was an amazing cook – he made roasted vegetables and salmon three days a week taste incredible – but it was so different to see Harry cooking when he was not prohibited by a strict diet code.

New kitchen contraptions started appearing at their first door in express shipping packages – a breakfast maker, waffle makers, a panini press, an air fryer and then an actual deep fryer. Harry always told Louis to not worry about planning anything, he would take care of it, and Louis could just tell if he was craving anything. Louis was grateful for the relief – he had to memorize his lines by the end of the month and was already had enough to think about.

So he sat at the couch, or at his office upstairs, and Harry’s new creations kept arriving in front of him. Full English breakfasts with fried eggs and gravy-soaked sausages, mashed potatoes swimming in a small sea of butter, bacon and four-cheese grilled cheeses, mint chocolate chip milkshakes with chocolate and caramel syrup drizzled over a little hill of whipped cream. Harry presented each of them with a smile and a kiss to the top of Louis’s head or his cheek, and gave Louis the most brilliant grin when Louis brought down his empty dishes an hour later.

“Did you like it?” he asked, and would nod eagerly as Louis offered his thoughts.

Long lists of new recipes appeared on their fridge door, and Louis woke up a lot of days to see a slice of cheesecake wrapped in plastic in their fridge, or some waffle cut fries in tin foil, with a note on it telling him to eat it whenever he felt hungry.

And Louis did. It made him happy to eat Harry’s food, to see him smile, and also, it was just damn delicious.

By the end of his first week of Harry feeding him, he had gained another three pounds, something that made Harry grin and reward Louis with a plate of nachos, covered in melted cheddar and mozzarella, crumbled beef, and salsa.

“We still have awhile to go,” Louis said, squinting at Harry as he brought another cheese-soaked chip to his mouth, “Don’t be too proud of yourself.”

Harry sat across from him at the counter and he just smiled again, his eyes flicking between the plate in front of Louis and his mouth.

“I think we can manage,” Harry said, “I’ll provide the food, you just put in the effort.”

“I am putting in effort, you dick,” Louis huffed, picking up another chip. He took extra care to dare it through a pool of cheese at the edge of the plate, “You think I’m not?”

Harry shrugged, and Louis recognized the little glint behind his eyes. He was angling for Louis’s competitive side, and fuck if he wasn’t doing a good job of it.

Louis picked up two chips, once again trying to drag them in the toppings so he had as much as possible balanced on them before he shoved them into his mouth.

“Don’t choke,” Harry said mildly.

“Don’t be an ass and just get me some soda,” Louis huffed.

Harry smiled and went to their fridge, getting out a two-liter of Coke. Regular-ass, non-diet Coke. He didn’t even pour it into a glass. Louis just unscrewed the top and sipped.

“I’m going to finish this,” Louis said firmly, “Just so you know.”

“Okay,” Harry said, and his mouth twitched at the corner.

Louis put his head down and focused on putting chips and cheese into his mouth. It was greasy as hell, and salty, and he felt his head going a little fuzzy from the combination of all of it alongside the liquid sugar he had already sucked down.

He kept eating until his fingers were shiny and his slick felt slick with grease, and he reached down to move the elastic of his sweatpants under the curve of his belly, giving it more room.

“You okay?” Harry said, and Louis thought he detected interest in his voice.

“I’m great,” Louis answered, picking up the soda again. He hiccupped weakly as he swallowed it down.

“These are good,” Louis said as he picked up more food. The chips at the bottom were nearly soaked through in grease, and he eagerly shoved them into his mouth. “You should make these more often.”

“I will,” Harry said. Louis could hear his voice was getting a little thin at the edges.

Louis picked up two more chips, eating them at the same time.

“If you eat all of that I’ll eat you out for half an hour,” Harry blurted out.

Louis arched his brow and put another chip in his mouth.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly, “My belly’s kind of full. I probably can’t lay down flat. You’re going to have to roll me onto my side.”

He rubbed his stomach as he said it, and he felt the grease on his fingers rub off on his shirt as he did.

Harry stared down and then back up, and he folded his arms and leaned forward.

“Louis,” Harry drawled, “Honey. You better eat those fucking nachos or I will lose my mind.”

Louis just smiled in return, and scooped up a chip entirely covered in cheese, taking his time biting into it.

He finished the nachos.

--

Louis understood that eventually it was going to happen. He knew the consequences of gaining what was now officially twenty-two pounds.

Still, after two weeks of Harry’s cooking, he was not exactly happy when he was trying to put on what used to be his affectionally named “fat jeans” and they couldn’t go over his ass.

He stood in their room, jumping feebly on his toes and tugging, but they wouldn’t go up. The denim hugged too tightly against his thighs, the skin of his legs bulging out just a bit, and the edge of the waistband kept cuffing his ass. It didn’t help his underwear were also a bit tight, and they kept wanting to move inward and get trapped between his cheeks.

“Harry!” he shouted, because what the hell else was he going to do.

Harry arrived in the doorway of their room a few minutes later, and he just stared, his mouth wide.

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah, yeah, oh my god,” Louis huffed, “I swear to god these just fit. But you had to go and put heavy cream in my coffee like a psychopath.”

“You liked it. A lot,” Harry said passively, “So. You want to go to the mall, get some new clothes?”

Louis looked up at him, his eyes wide and his hands still gripped on the useless flaps of his pants.

“You want me to go out in public right now?”

“We’ll go in the back way,” Harry shrugged, “And you can wear sunglasses. And a hat.”

“Oh, brilliant disguise ideas from my fashion designer boyfriend here.”

He ducked his head again and pulled on his jeans again, but it wasn’t doing anything. If anything the edge of the denim was chafing his ass.  

“Can’t you just fix these for me? Isn’t letting things out part of your job?” Louis asked, gesturing to his jeans.

“I could,” Harry allowed, “But if you’re going to lose the weight later you’ll want your old clothes.”

“Fuck, you’re right,” Louis said. He yanked his pants off, kicking them hard to get the blasted things off his ankles. Then he huffed angrily, dragging a hand through his hair. “Shit, I just – I really don’t want to go out in public right now, that’s all.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Harry said, “No one is going to recognize you.”

“I’m insulted,” Louis said, “Do you know how famous I am? Do you know how many Teen’s Choice awards are in our spare room?”

“Yes, I know,” Harry chuckled, “But babe…you don’t exactly look like yourself right now.”

Louis frowned, and lifted his head. He shuffled forward to the big mirror on the inside of his closet door and looked up.

And fuck, Harry was right. He didn’t really look like himself. He hadn’t shaved in a while, for one, and his hair was a little longer. But his face was puffy, his cheekbones covered with round cheeks that pushed up, making his eyes look smaller. His thighs were wide and soft, only a little bit of his old muscles visible. When he turned he could see his ass had grown and widened, and while it used to be round and firm from his tireless squat routine, it was just…soft now. And he had a proper belly, not the tiny bit of bloating he used to get sometimes, but a proper one that puffed out and felt heavy on his core.  

The man everyone was expecting when Louis went out in public wasn’t here now.

“You’re right,” he sighed, and put his hands on his hips. “Let’s go shopping.”

--

They went to a mall a little outside of the city limits, which was pretty empty for the time being.

Louis hadn’t been clothes shopping in a while, but luckily Harry was always out and about, picking up new things to cut up and sew back together, so he immediately picked some stores to go to.

They went to a men’s’ clothing shop, and Harry looked through the racks with great focus, picking up some jeans and shirts and slinging them over his arm.

“I’ll get you a few sizes,” Harry said, “Remember, you don’t want them too tight. You need a little room to grow.”

The expression coming from Harry’s mouth made Louis’s face burn, and he just followed his boyfriend wordlessly as he plucked up different garments.

They spent a little too long for Louis’s liking in the dressing room, but it went okay, all things considered. He got a few new pairs of jeans, several new t-shirts, a new flannel shirt and a new sweater. Harry encouraged through all of it, giving him kisses and telling him how well the clothes showed off his curves, but after awhile, Louis grew tired of wriggling in and out of new pants and asked if they could stop. Harry just nodded. whipped out his credit card, and told Louis he would pay for both the clothes and their lunch.

Of course, it went without saying that Harry was also going to pick the location, which was how they ended up in an All-American buffet.

Louis was sitting in a darker, more secluded corner of the dining area, in a sticky fake leather booth. The walls around him were painted with scenes of the wild west, cowboys and horses. He had a huge tumbler of orange soda in front of him, which he kept picking up and sipping at as he waited for Harry to return from picking out his meal. He was admittedly a little hungry, so he was kind of looking forward for whatever Harry was getting him.

What he did expect was Harry nearly skipping back to the table, two plates in his hands and two perfectly balanced on his forearms, all of them loaded down with food.

He set them all down in front of Louis with a smile, and Louis just stared at him, his mouth gaping.

“How – “ Louis sputtered, “How did you even carry all of that?”

“I was a waiter before you met me. You know this,” Harry said, “Now dig in, I’m going to get myself.”

He turned, then, heading back to the lines of food, and Louis took in what Harry had picked for him.

On one plate there was a large cheeseburger, loaded with with several slices of bacon, and a generous serving of crinkle-cut fries. On the next there were ribs soaking in barbeque sauce and a side of mac and cheese, the cheese nearly orange and the pasta covered in golden breadcrumbs. Then there was a big plate of cheesy scrambled eggs and two sausages, and then the last was loaded with three big cinnamon rolls dripping with white icing.

Louis was still staring at it all when Harry came back to the table, carrying a bowl of salad and another bowl full of salad for himself.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, then his face fell, “Shit, I’m sorry is that too much for you? I’m sorry. I just got excited.”

“No, it’s okay,” Louis said quietly, “Um. Is it okay if I don’t finish all of it? It’s just so much.”

“That’s fine,” Harry said quickly, “I just wanted to get you plenty. Take your time.”

“Okay,” Louis nodded, then smiled, “This really does look so good, thank you.”

Harry gave him another warm look, and that was enough for Louis to get started. He picked up some ribs, holding them delicately, and took some bites. The meat was tender and came apart easily, and the sauce was delicious, sweet and thick. He nodded happily and took more bites, feeling some sauce collect on his lips.

“You’re so cute when you eat,” Harry said across the table, and Louis blushed.

He polished off his ribs, the weight of the food hot and pleasant in his belly. He wiped off his mouth and fingers as best he could, and then picked up a fork and went for the mac and cheese. It was rich, creamy and salty and tasting like sharp cheddar. He ate it embarrassingly fast, the pasta quickly disappearing into his mouth.

“That’s so good,” he said, and picked up his soda to shallow it down. He wasn’t hungry anymore, but he certainly wasn’t full. So he went for the eggs. It was a nice compliment to the mac and cheese, more cheese, more salt, a light, fluffy texture. He ate it in little bites, licking his lips at how salty it was.

“I’m gonna be so bloated after this,” Louis said as he picked up his soda and took a long drink. Harry didn’t say anything, but Louis did notice he had stopped picking up the fork for his salad, instead watching Louis.

The eggs were so good, soft on his tongue, and he felt himself going fuzzy from the salt and the weight in his stomach. Half the plate was still in front of him, and he was definitely getting full now, and he told Harry he didn’t have to finish all of it. He could throw up a white flag right now.

But the rest of the food looked so good, and Harry watching him intently. And…what was going to happen to him, really? He was going to get bigger? He needed to get bigger. It was fine.

So, with several more forkfuls lifted to his lips, he finished his eggs.

He set down the fork with a distinct little click, and Harry leaned forward.

“Hey, you did really good, thank you – “

But Louis was picking up his cheeseburger He took a big bite, keeping his eyes locked on Harry, who blinked at him.

“You – “ Harry swallowed, “I – “

Louis smirked as he as swallowed. His mouth tasted like salt and grease, and he went in for another bite. He moaned a little, and Harry didn’t move, didn’t even close his mouth.

He shouldn’t be doing this. His stomach was tight, and he could feel the elastic of his sweatpants pushing out, cutting in. Fuck, he was going to have to buy new sweatpants soon. His body wasn’t used to this, it was used to constant exercise and juice cleanses.

The mere thought of it made Louis eat another bite with more zeal, really tearing it and chewing hard. He didn’t realize how tired of that he was until now.

The burger was delicious, and he felt a wet bit of grease run down his chin. Jesus fuck, it was literally leaking with fat, and he was eating it happily.

He ate fast, so fast he couldn’t pay too much attention to his protesting stomach. He polished the burger off and didn’t even wipe his mouth as he picked at the fries, grabbing multiple at once.

“You know how in every fucking interview I do for movies, they ask me about my preparation?” Louis said to Harry, “Imagine this one. ‘Louis, you had to gain thirty pounds for this role. And we hear you didn’t even have that much time to do it. How did that happen?’ And I’ll get to say, ‘well, my boyfriend stuffed me every day for weeks at a time and got a boner doing it, so it was easy.’”

He shoved the fries in his mouth and was already picking up another handful and dunking it in ketchup as he chewed. He barely swallowed before he was eating more.

His stomach was aching now, and he groaned, pushing down the painful elastic on his pants, but it still felt tight around his hips.

“We – oof, we should go back for some new sweatpants, babe. Gonna fuckin’ bust these soon.”

He picked up more fries, and he was acutely aware of how Harry was staring him down, his food abandoned, his eyes dark.

Louis’s body was hot from head to toe, and he was sweating a little, but he couldn’t tell if that was from the effort his meal was taking out of him or from how Harry was looking at him.

But he felt something else shift as he polished off his fries and shoved the plate away, seeking out more of his soda.

He thought he was imagining it, but as he dragged the plate of cinnamon rolls closer to himself, the plate scraping loudly on the table, he knew he was right.

He was hard.

He was in a mall buffet and he was getting a hard on from stuffing his face.

He didn’t know how to handle that. So he picked up a cinnamon roll instead.

It was pure carbs, heavy, the icing sticky and all sugar, and it made his brain buzz and his eyes flutter closed. He shoved the pastry into his mouth hard, forcing himself to chew. His belly gave an unhappy little gurgle, but his cock was happy, and his boyfriend looked ready to pounce, so he kept chewing.

He finished one of the rolls with a pant, setting both hands on his stomach. He smeared grease and icing on the fabric of his hoodie, and he sighed. He rubbed his hands over his belly, round and hard, the fabric of his sweatshirt pulled tight over it. He pulled it up, over the hill of his stomach. His shirt had already ridden up, and there he was, his stomach hanging out in public, as he grabbed for another roll.

Harry was nearly foaming at the mouth, and Louis ate the cinnamon roll in small but eager bites. He felt icing smear on his mouth and he didn’t bother to fix it. He was sweating and blushing and his dick was hard in public and none of it mattered.

The roll was gone soon, and he stuck his fingers in his mouth, sucking off the icing. He slumped in the booth and then picked up the last roll, his white fucking whale. He tipped back his head and opened his mouth and shoved nearly half of it in. He focused hard on the taste of it. Fluffy bread, cinnamon, honey, pure sugar. His mouth was lazy as it chewed, as if even his tongue was sick of his ordeal, but he swallowed it down none the less. He had to keep shifting his hips, trying to keep his belly happy, but it was no use. It was pissed at him. But Louis had half a cinnamon roll left.

He shoved it in his mouth in one bite, his cheeks bulging as he chewed and chewed, squeezing his eyes tightly as his throat worked, trying to swallow it down.

Soon, it was done, and for his last stupid act, Louis reached for his soda, tipped the glass, and chugged until it was empty.

When it was done he slammed it on the table and panted, clutching his stomach and staring at Harry, who was already standing.

“Get me home right now and fuck me,” Louis said, his voice weak.

Harry nodded and reached down, guiding Louis up to his feet. He pulled his sweatshirt down and then stared at the obvious bulge in Louis’s pants, and then looked up with even wider eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, looks like you’re not the only one who’s into this,” Louis snapped, then wheezed again, setting a hand on his stomach, “Fuck, help me waddle the hell out of here, you bastard.”

Harry surged forward, kissing Louis hard, and then pulled back, wrapping a protective arm around him and helped Louis walk, slowly but surely, to the exit.

Somehow, as they got to the door, Louis found the energy to lean in and kiss under Harry’s ear, then whisper to him.

“Eight more pounds, baby.”

[arundolyn]

Hello! This might be a weird request, but could I get some Blazblue hug-canons? Like, which BB characters do you think would be the best at giving hugs?

i’m just gonna do everyone i guess

Amane: gives big hugs. will probably pick someone up if they’re shorter than him + heels

Azrael: DON’T

Arakune: I hope you like smelling like trash and feeling like you’ve gotten into an oil slick

Bang: he gives very good hugs and is very enthusiastic about it. a blessing

Bullet: she’s sorta awkward about it but she tries her best. think her stiffly patting someone’s back until they let go

Carl: doesn’t really do hugs tbh

Celica: loves hugs and gives very good hugs. will hug anyone

Es: mildly confused by the gesture but Tries

Hakumen: uh don’t

Hazama: he wouldn’t but he looks like he’d suck at hugs anyway

Hibiki: doesn’t do hugs unless you’re very close which nobody is

Izanami: have fun dying lol

Jin: will literally freeze you if you hug him

Jubei: gives good hugs because cat but you have to earn them

Kagura: can and will hug, not always desired cause he can REEK of alcohol but still good hugs

Kokonoe: see Bullet tbh

Lambda: see Es

Litchi: will gladly hug if asked + gives warm hugs

Mai: hugs her friends all the time bc she Loves Them

Makoto: see Mai

Naoto: hesitant to hug but will if asked

Nine: sets anyone on fire that isn’t Celica

Noel/Mu: see Mai + hugs Makoto’s tail all the time

Platinum: adamantly refuses hugs from anyone that’s not Jubei

Rachel: would rather electrocute someone

Ragna: very hesitant but gives good hugs, though rare

Relius: Don’t

Tager: the BIGGEST hug possible

Tao: loves hugs!!!!!!!! so much. very excited. will hug all her friends. will hug good guy

Terumi/Susan: see Haz

Tsubaki/Izayoi: gives very good hugs but they are reserved for makoto and noel

Valk: SEE HAZ

[dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt]

this was the winner of a poll I made a few days ago, writing this one first bc Augi and June don’t wanna stop bantering for a while so they can bone X’D

thank you to all the people who voted on the poll!!! I love you so much and I really owe you all!! <3

Jesse and Vrox smut under the cut~

There were very few times Vrox could get revenge on his boyfriend for the many hours Jesse spent teasing and edging him to within an inch of his sanity. In a car with Jesse behind the wheel seemed like as good a time as ever. And it was directly Jesse’s fault - if he hadn’t been winding Vrox up all night at the pack’s bonfire - before Dante sent them home to “get a room” - Vrox wouldn’t have such a raging hard-on that needed attention now.

Vrox leaned his head against the window, closed his eyes, and shoved his hand into his pants. And in case that wasn’t obvious enough, he allowed himself a soft moan as the first touch of his fingers sent a pang of relief and arousal through him.

“Vrox.” Jesse’s voice was soft, beautiful. Dangerous.

Vrox smirked. “Mmhm?”

“What are you doing?” 

“What does it look like?” He ran his fingers down his shaft through his underwear, barely brushing, rubbed his thumb over his head and bit down on his lip. Hell, he was hard. Jesse had gotten him so damn hard ten fucking minutes ago and he still hadn’t softened, even with no extra stimulation. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was a demon or if Jesse was just that good. He couldn’t care about that right now.

“It looks like you’re touching yourself without my permission,” Jesse said steadily.

Vrox turned his head to look at him. Jesse hadn’t taken his eyes off the road yet, but the scent of Vrox’s lust was hard to miss in the small space.

“What if I don’t care about your permission?” Vrox drew out each word, knowing exactly what his defiance would do to Jesse and what Jesse would do to him in turn. He couldn’t wait.

“Do you want me to fuck you till you scream and beg me to forgive you?”

“Fuck yeah.”

Jesse’s lips quirked up and Vrox felt a satisfaction of a different kind. “Well, you’re honest.”

“Does that mean I’m still your good boy?”

“No. You’re not.” Jesse glanced at him, at the hand still working in his pants. “Last chance to stop, baby.”

Vrox settled down in his seat and slipped his hand into his underwear, contentedly rebelling. He knew Jesse did two things when he first touched him bare; gripped him so suddenly he cried out, or left feather-light touches on him till he begged. He went with the former, grabbing his cock without any more build than indirect touching. He gasped from the feeling, bucking his hips up into his own hand. “Shit! Jesse, this feels so fucking good.”

Jesse’s knuckles paled on the wheel. “Tell me.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to.”

“Talk to me,” Jesse growled.

There it was, the guttural shift to his voice that hit Vrox like a punch in the stomach: the difference between Vrox’s gentle boyfriend and the dominant demon who made him scream and writhe underneath him.

Vrox squirmed in his seat, his hand moving more easily now as pre-cum slicked the tip of his cock. “I want your hands all over me, want your mouth, want to taste you, want you to use me. Need you inside me. Fuck, I need you in me so bad.”

“What if I told you I was gonna make you fall asleep like this?” Jesse said, still with that burr of a growl in his voice. “What if I made you eat me out till I came on your pretty face but made sure you didn’t get to cum all night? You’d try to touch yourself, I know you would, but I’d stop you right before you made a mess in the sheets. You’d whine, and cry, and beg, maybe you’d even try to grind on my leg like you do sometimes, but I wouldn’t let you. What’d you think about that plan?”

Vrox’s mouth had gone dry and his cock throbbed almost painfully with every heartbeat. He whined wordlessly.

“Or,” Jesse said, softer now, “I could pull this car over. You could eat me out right now because this is your fault, and maybe, if you’re really good, I’ll let you cum. How about that?”

Vrox nodded quickly.

“Use your words.”

“Yeah. Yes, please.”

“That’s my good boy,” Jesse shot him a grin and flicked on the indicator, pulling into a truck stop. He knew it was there, that’s why he’d asked Vrox when he did. Vrox was mildly annoyed, was he really that predictable? But that annoyance vanished as Jesse said “get in the back” in that tone of voice that set Vrox aching in the best ways and scrambling to obey.

He pulled his shirt off the second he got out of the car, leaving it on his seat and climbing into the back. Jesse was already waiting for him, yanking off his pants; Vrox felt his heart drumming in his chest to see him looking equal parts amused and pissed off. He grabbed Vrox by the nape of his neck, drawing him into a kiss that was more teeth and tongue than lips and Vrox loved every second of it.

“Make it up to me,” Jesse muttered, inches from Vrox’s mouth. His hand groped heavy and possessive down Vrox’s chest, smoothing over the scars, the muscle, before he pulled back and laid down, half propped up against the door. It was awkward but they were too far gone to care.

Vrox settled between his legs, his height meaning he had to leave his legs on the floor, pulled Jesse’s briefs down and threw them in a puddle with his pants. Jesse folded his lanky legs over Vrox’s shoulders, his breathing quickening as Vrox pressed his lips to the inside of Jesse’s thigh. He could smell his arousal, feel the heat pulsing off his core, setting a fire in his veins.

He bit Jesse’s thigh none too gently and heard the other boy curse above him, but before Jesse could reprimand him, he shoved his face between his legs.

Jesse stuttered on the words in his mouth, losing them in a gasp. Vrox was absolutely shameless; his tongue dragged through Jesse’s folds like he was starving and all that could sate him was Jesse’s taste. He grabbed his hips, pulled him closer, and shoved his tongue inside him.

“Vrox! Oh my fucking god, Vrox!”

Vrox grinned into him and slid his tongue out just long enough to gently part his folds with his fingers and push his tongue back inside. Jesse’s legs were trembling against his back, heels digging in below his shoulder blades. He was soaked, so much better than hiding it than Vrox was, but just as turned on. Vrox flicked his tongue in and out of him just shallowly, feeling Jesse try to tighten around him to keep it inside him. He ignored that, grazing his tongue up to Jesse’s dick, red and hard and dripping wet. He let his tongue play with it lightly, twirling circles around it.

“Vrox,” Jesse panted. “Come on.”

Vrox nuzzled his lips against him, looking up at him with his biggest and most innocent eyes.

Jesse laughed even as his legs tensed around Vrox’s shoulders. “Come on, you asshole. You wanna cum? Make me c- Vrox!”

Vrox closed his lips around him and sucked, almost hard enough to hurt. Jesse ground his hips into his face to return the favour, his hand holding Vrox against him, not that Vrox was planning on moving. He was comfortable - more than comfortable as he laved Jesse’s cock with his tongue and felt him twitch.

He let Jesse move, let him fuck his face as much as he wanted. He could tell Jesse wanted to be on top of him right now, thighs caging his head, free to ride his mouth until he came, but the car wasn’t exactly conjunctive to that. So instead Vrox let Jesse grind Vrox’s chin against his entrance and his dick deeper past Vrox’s lips as Vrox suckled diligently. He couldn’t help but move, couldn’t help but thrust up against the seat; even through the layers of his pants and underwear it felt so fucking good, the pleasure only increased by the taste of Jesse’s slick filling his mouth.

“Vrox, so close,” Jesse breathed. His eyes squeezed shut. “God, you’re so good for me, baby. I’m so fucking close.”

Vrox whimpered against him, curling his tongue around him, bobbing his head as best he could. Jesse shuddered and let go, cumming hard and fast as Vrox sucked on him, moaning uncontrollably, himself.

Jesse groaned at the aftershocks and sat up slow and with a wince. “I think I almost broke my neck.”

“I think I just ruined these jeans,” Vrox said.

Jesse frowned. “What? You didn’t...”

“Yeah, I did.” Vrox straightened up smugly so he could see the wet patch showing through his pants.

“Oh, fuck you,” Jesse growled, smacking at him harmlessly. “You smug son of a-”

“Are you still going to fuck me till I beg?”

“You couldn’t get out of it now if you tried.”