#dick: *takes long sips from his glass of whiskey as he slowly rotates and then exits the room*

[themanwiththecrown]

carriageofaerietails: Mireya has college assignments he can do if he wants. :P

He suddenly can’t hear you.

[poisxnyouth]

bad influence dave part 6 (d.d)

A/N: hey whores!!! enjoy this. it’s a good one! i’m very proud of it. as always, let me know what you think of it. spark up a conversation about something in it with u and i’ll give u a big ol smooch. i love you and thank you for reading <33 -hailey

WC: 3.35K

David is sitting in the pews with you during Mass, arm draped around the back of your seat as one of your brothers, next to you, discreetly slips a wad of cash into David’s dangling hand. He removes his arm from around you, fingers quickly counting the amount – seventy dollars for seven grams, split between Mark and Matthew – and reaches into his breast pocket. David passes you the two miniature pill bags, each containing an eighth of an ounce, and watches as you quietly place them in Mark’s hand. 

 David casually rests his arm on the back of the pew again, eyes scanning the cathedral warily for any witnesses. He does more business at church than he’d like to admit – which is of your doing, not his. The list no longer begins with Michael and ends with Mark; his clientele has amassed, and a good chunk of his dealings are done after church. You and David meet people as they are heading to post-Mass breakfast in places throughout the city, forcing him to leave large amounts of weed in his car unattended. He doesn't like it, and fears getting searched by dogs, causing David to quadruple seal the amount of weed he intends to sell.

 The night before, Saturday evening, he weighs everything out, separates it for each person, puts it all in one colossal Ziploc, and puts the Ziploc inside of another one. Four times. These bags have earned the chief title of his weed Russian dolls, and David seals up the final plastic bag by wrapping it tightly in duct tape. It’s a grueling process, and he hates that he has to do it.

 You and David deal afterwards, mint toothpicks in rotation as he makes his pit stops, replacing the ideal cigarette his fingers are desperately itching for. Part of him has a desire to quit his horrible habit; maybe get prescribed Chantix, switch to Nicorette, anything else he could possibly do — but every time he thinks too deeply about it, he instantly changes his mind.

 David likes the routine of it all; he likes the purchase of the Camels, heartily tapping the bottom of the plastic wrapped pack against the dirty gas station counter as he glances down at the scratch offs and slides his debit card through the reader. He likes hopping in the car and rolling his window down, unwrapping the new pack and opening the top. He can smell the crisp scent of the tobacco at the mere thought of a new box, and he likes the tight wiggle of the first cigarette as he tugs it out. He likes tearing out the little foil at the top for easier access later down the line, and he likes flipping his lighter open loudly, thumb rolling the spark wheel and bringing the tip of his cigarette to the flame. He likes the smell of the smoke, and he likes the feeling of his lungs filling up as he takes the first drag. He likes how the scent infiltrates his clothing, his hair, his skin – many people despise it, but it's his favorite. It’s a distinct red flag of the addiction he has a soft spot for, the one he wouldn’t want to give up, for others to see and judge him upon. He doesn’t mind it and doesn't care for their opinion; it is something many people hate themselves for, but he takes pride in it. He loves that he smokes. 

 You don't know the extent of it, but he feels this way about sex, too.

 David takes you on expensive dates at opulent restaurants, and he swears he feels his eyes zero in every time you take a sip of the dry merlot he ordered for you, your suggestive gaze peeking at him over the rim of the glass. He attempts to not pay attention to the way your lipstick has tainted the edge of it, momentarily considering the image of what those specific lipstick prints would look like at the base of his dick. He tilts his head to the side as he watches you wipe politely at your lips after taking a sip, blush coming to your cheeks at whatever provocative joke he had just made. He hates lipstick, but adores the mess it leaves behind, depending on the night, the dress, and the purse. Sometimes he has trouble getting a deep plum out of the collar of his dress shirt; a delicate and innocuous pale pink blended into the skin on his chest; or — his favorite — a deep scarlet smeared down his first two, maybe three, fingers as he slides them slowly into your mouth, last knuckle tucked in as you give him doe eyes. 

 He even likes when he wakes up the next morning hungover, bowtie still hanging around his neck and dress shirt unbuttoned as he looks in the mirror, a ruby red smeared across his mouth and cheeks from the night prior. He likes peeking over at you out of the bathroom door, knocked out in his bed and still in your dress, with the same red smear evident across your face. 

 David has no desire at all, but also every desire on the planet, to have sex with you. You’re too clean — it makes him nervous.

 He hints at this fact over dinner one week when the subject of sex comes up as he nurses a whiskey sour in a stout glass, waiting for your food, “I roughen you up…”

 “And I let you roll around in the dirt for a while,” David continues, eyes glued to yours as he takes a sip and smacks his lips, “But you go home and you rinse it all off, and I start all over the next day, and the next day after that.” 

 You stare at him with big eyes, not saying anything. He opens his mouth to speak again, placing his cup down on the cocktail napkin and sliding it around in a fidgety manner, “I want you to let it sink in, and let it stain.”

 You nod at his command, reaching for his glass and taking a liberal sip. Your lipstick stains it. “What if sex is the way to make it all stay?”

 David pauses, scoffing slightly, “It could be. Honey, you go to church twice a week. You bless yourself at every turn.” 

 “How do you even picture it?” He asks curiously, leaning forward, “Like every teenage girl? Candles around the bed? Romantic sex with your beau?”

 You don’t answer him, taking a long swallow of your wine, and he continues, shaking his head, “I can promise you right now, sweetheart – if that's what you’re hoping for, you won’t be getting it.” 

 “Does it matter how I want it?” you reply, playing his game, “What do you want?”

 “I want to chew you up and spit you out,” David replies easily, signaling for your waiter, “Do this again.”

 “But I’m not going to,” he rejects, fiddling with his gold cufflinks, “Just know that I want to.”

 “What does that mean?” you ask him, “Give me details.” 

 “I see you right here and right now, dressed in my money and my hustle. That dress is so tight that you wiggle side to side when you walk, and you could barely sit down in the booth earlier. I think about taking you to the Waldorf – up a few streets, and over a few streets, by Lake Shore – getting us a room, and having my way with you all night.” 

 “Why a hotel?” 

 His second drink comes, cutting him off before he begins. David takes a long sip, eyes not tearing away from you, “Because you walk out with the same things you walked in with. We get to do that little messy walk of shame all the way back home to Wilmette on the train, and you finally feel like the whore you’ve always been. You will find something out, my love — your God,” he pauses slightly, “can do anything and everything but pull the slut out of you, sweetheart.” 

 “You’ve thought about this a lot,” you respond, finishing your glass of wine, “Why don't you?”

 “Don’t tempt me.”

 “I know there must be more,” you state, watching as David fills your glass again with the bottle on the table, a silent beckoning to continue drinking with him. “Go on.”

 “Why ruin the surprise?” He asks, speaking too duplicitous for him to not have something hidden under his sleeve, tainted by his guise of promiscuity. “I know you think about it too.”

 “Yours are better,” you tell him, urging him to continue, “Hearing you talk about it means seeing how you look at me when you speak.” 

 David pauses, taking another swig and meeting your eyes, “I want to unzip that dress as slowly as I can; so slowly that you just beg me to get it off you. Self-control is the one thing I have that you never will. I can’t share that with you.” 

 “And I see that little crucifix of yours always staring right at me, meaning more to you than me, and for a split second, I feel a little guilty. You do your time and your due diligence; you go to church every Sunday, pray every day and night, all of that. But then…,” he trails as he looks away, shaking his glass and listening to the ice slide around.

 “I think about you afterwards,” he meets your eyes again, “Messy. You asked for it but didn't know what it would entail, or when you feel bad that you enjoyed how I made you feel. Better yet, when you’re kneeling at the side of the bed on your bruised knees — evidence from me — praying for absolution and salvation.”

 “...But?” you ask quietly, clinging to his every word.

 “But…” David continues, taking another casual sip and speaking slowly, “It’s too late. The damage is done. I get to see you do that, and I get the satisfaction of knowing that I just ruined your life.” 

 “I’ve always said that I want you to, though,” you quip, “And you’ve always said that you want to. If that's the answer to keeping me…” you roll your eyes at the word you’re about to say, blush coming to your cheeks, “dirty, then do it. I’m a big girl; I can handle it. I dare you.”

 “I would jump your bones right now if I could,” David swears shamelessly, “Think about all of the hoops we’ll have to jump through. The food, the check, getting to the hotel, booking the room…”

 “We don't need to eat,” you offer, “Let’s finish our drinks, pay, and leave.” 

 “I should've known that you’d be impatient,” he says, “You’re going to be drunk off your ass if you keep going, sweetheart. I don't like the ethics of where this is going. I’m still fine.”

 “Then you have another drink,” you give him a solution, “Or however many it’ll take for you to get like me and keep talking to me. I’ll cut you off when your words are slurring.”

 “Your words are slurring, baby,” he shakes his head, sliding the orange slice off the cocktail pick and dropping it into the liquor. David removes the Maraschino cherry and passes it to you, staring as your teeth tug it from the stem.

 He makes a soft noise at the sight, and bites at his lips when you slip the stem past your lips, speaking, “Don’t tell me you know how to do that shit.” 

 Seconds pass and David continues staring as he finishes his drink, eyes trained on your mouth before the knot emerges and you drop it on his cocktail napkin. He exhales and drops his voice, “I will bend you over this table right now.” 

 He motions for the waiter, “Change of plans – no food for us. Water and a lemon drop for her, and I’ll switch to a Manhattan.”

 “You know, every cocktail is twenty bucks,” you say, watching him play with the band of his watch, “The wine was-”

 “Don’t count the tab, sweet girl,” David shakes his head, refocusing his attention on to you, “I don't even look anymore. Neither should you. Price doesn't matter.”

 The drinks come moments later, and he continues, “I’m cutting you off after this. You’re drunk.”

 "Keep talking,” you giggle, eyes on his, “Your voice is sexy, and I like hearing what you want to do to me.” 

 "You don't know what you're in for,” David says casually, dunking the cherry into the liquor before passing the cocktail pick to you, listening to the delicate noise of your teeth scraping the metal while you take it into your mouth. “I might make you walk to the hotel just so I can see that sway of your hips. I love that dress you're wearing; the bow on the back makes you look like my little present. What else will Santa bring me this December?”

 “You’re so cocky,” you comment offhandedly, “Not everything is for you.”

 “You and I both know that’s not true. Quit lying,” he shakes his head again, laughing slightly, “Don’t tell me you don’t think about it every day.”

 You feel yourself flush as you drink more, still attempting to decide if it’s from the alcohol or his words before he speaks again, slutty drawl, “Look at you! I haven’t seen you this red since we first met. Cute ass.”

 “What can I say,” you shrug, embarrassed, “You’re sexy.”

 David leans forward interestedly, forearms resting on the table, “Am I?” 

 You nod sheepishly before he continues, eyes on yours, “Your napkin is on your lap?” 

 You nod again, now confused, but David clarifies his motive, ordering in a low voice, “Slip your hand up your dress, under your napkin, and tell me how wet you are.”

 “Make your next drink a double and it’s a deal,” you offer, thighs pressing together as you already obey him, playing off your rebellion.

 “Don’t bargain with me,” he shakes his head, eyebrows scrunching together, “Do as I say, or the only place we’ll be going tonight is back home.”

 He watches your face deliberately as you listen to his demand, eyeing the way you take your lips between your teeth, “Stop touching yourself, you whore. We’re in public.” 

 You stop, embarrassed, and he continues after finishing his third drink, “I made reservations here just for you to cancel the food, beg for sex and touch yourself under the table. Why do I try to take you anywhere nice?”

 David’s drinks are hitting him, now, and before you can reply to him, he’s motioning for the waiter again, “The check and another Manhattan for me. Can someone get us a cab? I think it’s obvious we’re in no shape to drive.” 

 “Yes, sir,” he says, looking between you, “Where are you headed?”

 “Waldorf Astoria,” David replies, “Thank you so much.”

 David finishes his drink once it's on the table, fingers reaching for the check. He doesn't flinch at the steep price and tips well, nearly fifty percent, and puts three hundred-dollar bills on the table after removing his money clip from his pocket. 

 The cab is dirty, as they all are, and David instantly tugs you into his lap, groaning softly, “You smell so good.” 

 You giggle slightly and attempt to undo the top button of his dress shirt, fiddling with it until it's undone and untying his bow tie. His palms reach around and squeeze at your ass through your dress as you plant kisses down his chest, marking your man until the lipstick prints run clear. 

 He kisses you, now, tongue sliding against yours and making a drunken noise of satisfaction, “You want this?”

 You nod against him, his hands gripping your waist and you kiss David again, “Yes. I dare you.” 

 “Be careful what you wish for, sweet girl,” he pushes your hair from out of your face as you drown in skyscrapers, tugging you closer by your chin, “We’re getting a suite, and I’m fucking you on every surface possible. Don’t say no.”

 ++

 Too much liquor in David’s system turns him into an even bolder character, and you’re both drunk as you lean against the receptionist counter at the Waldorf Astoria, attempting to book a suite. 

 The all-too-patient receptionist tells him a price — more than you would ever pay for a hotel room — and David reaches into his pocket for his money clip. He quickly counts it out and she shakes her head, but you’re already too disinterested and don’t bother paying attention. Five minutes later, he’s lacing your fingers together and tugging you through the lobby, impatiently pressing the elevator button numerous times. 

 “Jeez,” you comment, eyeing the lipstick print peeking out of his rebuttoned dress shirt, “Someone’s antsy.”

 “You’re a fucking tease,” David excuses, pulling you inside and hitting the button for your floor, “My dick’s been hard since the restaurant. It’s all I can think about.” 

 He kisses you until the elevator pings, still tasting of liquor and the cigarette he smoked in the courtyard, “I love you.”

 You repeat it as he leads you by your waist to the room, watching the sway of your hips and the little bow flounce with every step you take. David doesn't know how this took him so long.

 He quickly slides the key in and out of the reader, opening the door for you and allowing you to walk in. David instantly shuts the door and presses you up against it, wrapping your legs around his torso as he kisses at your neck sloppily. Your fingers from both hands find the length of his bow tie, tugging his head up and attaching your mouths. You move to hastily unfasten the buttons of his shirt, untucking the garment from his pants. David blindly shrugs off his jacket and his shirt, carelessly dropping the items to the floor as you kick off your heels. 

 You feel his fingers tug slightly at the zipper of your dress before stopping himself, relocating his hands to your ass and pushing you forward into him. You both make a noise at the friction into each other's mouths, giggling slightly and urging David to quickly turn you around, bending you over against the door and pressing your face against it. 

 “Should I take these off or are you matching? Don't wanna miss that,” he slides his touch upwards and hooks his fingertips into the sides of your underwear, leaning over and cross necklace dangling. 

 “I’m matching,” you reply before he murmurs an incoherent response, pushing your dress up and sliding your underwear to the side in place of tugging them off. 

 “Mmm,” David mumbles at the sight, spreading you slightly before slowly putting his mouth on you. His hands hold your thighs apart as he drunkenly works, eyes closed. 

 “Are you gonna fuck me right here?” you ask him, words slurred as he stops his movements, standing and spinning you back around.

 “D’you want me to?” David replies, hands resting delicately on your waist as he presses gentle kisses back down your neck with a different kind of sensual candor.

 “Fuck yes,” you nod, eyes closed, “But get this dress the fuck off of me.” 

 “I told you so,” David responds cockily, reaching up near the nape of your neck and slowly tugging at the zipper, “Did I not?”

 “You did,” you nod again, feeling the air slowly hit your back as he undoes it as deliberately as possible. You take it upon yourself to reach down and begin unbuckling his belt, undoing the top button and unzipping him. 

 He doesn't stop you, hitting the bottom of your zipper as you tug his dick out and spit in your hand, beginning to work him over. David makes a noise and pushes the sleeves of your dress over your shoulders, forcing you to momentarily stand. It pools at your feet before he’s propping you against the door again, arms wrapped around your torso.

“We’re drunk,” he comments, kissing you sloppily, “What’re you so tense for? Relax.”

[lanadeljones]

If your up for another one, (if not just dm me it's not a biggie)... "The only way you're getting off is on my thigh." Bughead. Anything else if your choice but i would never say no to being make-up sex.

Jughead flops down on his desk chair and runs his hands through his hands. He rotates his neck from side to side after a few loud cracks he closes his eyes and lets his head dip back. The quiet room soothes the throbbing in his temples, grateful he was able to leave Veronica’s party earlier than planned. 

 Loud clicks echoing down the hallway alerted him of Betty approaching, his lips twitch in a smile. He opened his eyes and turned his head to watch her walk in with an innocent smile and glass tumbler in her hand. She walks up and perched herself on top of his desk directly in front of him. His eyes travel up her long stocking clad legs as she crosses them.

    “I’m sorry about tonight” she sets her hand holding the whiskey down beside her, her fingers tracing patterns along the condensation.

Jughead arches an eyebrow and crosses his arms in response.

    “It was all in good fun, Juggie. Just a little light teasing”

    “Oh, really? You were torturing me, Betts” 

    “It’s not my fault you took everything I did sexually” 

    “Oh. so it’s my fault then? Did I just imagine you stuffing your panties into my pocket?”

Betty shrugged her shoulders as a response, the action causing the thin straps of her dress to fall off her shoulders. Her wide doe eyes twinkling in the dim light.

    “You’re a little shit”

He uncrosses his arms and leans forward, he slowly traces his hand up her inner thigh. He watches her suck in a breath and bit her bottom lip as his hands play with the hem of her dress, raising it up. His pointer finger ghosts over the sheer black nylon that covered her core before reaching for the glass. The annoyed sigh coming from her as he took a sip of whiskey made him smile.

     “Well, that was just plain rude”

    “What’s the matter baby? It’s just a little teasing” 

Drinking the last of his whiskey he leans forward again and sets the empty glass down. He places his hands on her hips, grabbing fistfulls of fabric. He raises her off the desk and positions her in his lap in one fell swoop. Her hands find their place on his shoulders as she widens her legs for him. He raises the last bit of fabric covering her up to her waist, his hands traveling down to knead her ass. Betty grinds down against him, her moan filling the quiet room.

    “You seem a little needy tonight” he presses her ass towards him to add pressure to her movement.

    “What does my baby need” he whispered hotly into her ear.

    “You. I need you and your hard cock. Please”

    “I’m not sure if you deserve it” he nibbles on her earlobe, releasing it with an audible pop.

He grabs at her hips again and lifts her up, a noise of protest greets him as she tried to thrust her hips forward against his lower belly. He places her to straddle his thigh, his hands guiding her to continue her movements. He watches as the black nylon gets wetter with each thrust she makes. 

    “Please, Juggie. Fuck me” he soft plea causes his dick to twitch in response.

    “Oh pretty baby” he moves a few blonde strands away from her face.

    “The only way you’re getting off tonight is on my thigh”

Betty groaned loudly at his words, her thrust growing deeper and harder. Annoyed with the obstructed view he moves his hands to her core, and begins to rip open the nylon.The loud ripping fills his ears as her wet pink pussy is on display for him. The view of her lips spread open against the fabric of his pants caused his lower belly to tighten in need. He fumbles with his belt as he frantically moves to release himself.

A hiss moves from his lips as the cool air hits his overheated skin as she springs free from his boxers. He wraps his hand around himself at the base and starts to stroke himself, swiping his thumb over the tip to collect his precum and help make his movements slicker. His wrist snap to the same rhythm as Betty’s, their movement growing quicker with each passing second. The tension building in his lower stomach is becoming too much, as he feels the fabric of his trousers dampening as Betty reaches closer and closer to her release.

    “That’s it baby” he encourages her as she pounds herself against him.

    “Take what you need from me”

Betty throws her head back as her legs begin to shake, her chorus’ of yeses growing louder and louder with each snap of her hips. One last yes gets strangled in her throat as her legs clamp tightly against his thigh, a wave of liquid seeps into the fabric of his pants, completely ruining them. 

The waves of arousal he could feel from Betty as she wantonly rubs herself against him while she came down from her orgasm pushed Jughead over the edge. He imagined his cock buried deep in her slick core as she fluttered around him as he releases thick ropes of cum over his hands and stomach. Betty loosens her hold against him and reaches for his sticky hand, bringing it up to her mouth. A loud moan forms in her throat as she begins to lick him clean. After every last drop was lapped up by her she begins to remove herself from the chair. 

Jughead tsks as he reaches for her hand before she was fully standing up, dragging her to drape herself against his chest. He moves the curtain of blonde curls to reveal her ear, leaning in he kisses the sensitive skin behind her ear.

“Oh baby, I’m not done with you yet”