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For the water ghouls, I like to call their babies pups! I think it's cute. You can look at them, but be careful of those fire ghoul protective instincts from Dew
He doesn't particularly need to, not while laying on his back like this, but it's still a thought that drifts through his head. Lazy as the elegant hand that brings the joint to his lips, fingertips cool against chapped skin. Swiss should say no, he's way too stoned already, but even so -
"C'mon, open up. For me?"
Rain coos it with a playful pout, rocking his hips and earning a pleasure-filled eyeroll for it. Swiss groans through his teeth at the soft heat of Rain's cunt, the way it glides along the unbearably stiff length of his cock. It's made so much worse by the way Rain's wrapped his ever-so-lovely tentacle around his shaft - the suction, the pressure, the way Rain uses it to grind? It's not unfair to say the only thing keeping Swiss' load in his balls is knowing how disappointed Rain will be if it doesn't end up inside him.
Turns out he's got all the willpower in the world when the need arises.
He flicks his tongue out when Rain caresses his lower lip, and the fuzzy feeling living in his chest amplifies a thousand times when he sees the casual smile on Rain's face.
"Fuck, you're so pretty."
It's thick, slurred, but he means it with all his heart. The summertime sunlight coats him in gold, blue-black waves sitting perfectly disheveled atop his tilted head and the hair between his thighs glistening with their combined excitement. There's a particularly playful glimmer in his eye, one he's had since Swiss woke up and found him casually humping a pillow with a pair of fat joints and a lighter in hand. He certainly wasn't complaining.
He just hadn't expected Rain to feed him both of them.
"Sure y'wont share, angelfish?"
Every one of his nerves lights up when Rain gives a soft chuckle, pulling the smokable away in favor of cupping Swiss' cheek. He leans into it with a happy sigh, nuzzling, scratching at Rain's palm with his stubble.
"Not today," Rain replies, easy as anything. Like he hasn't been straddling Swiss for the better part of an hour, in various stages of dress but never with pants on. "I just felt like helping you indulge."
"Awful kind of you."
It comes out as one mushed up word, and this time Swiss accepts when Rain offers him the joint. Takes a deep pull that makes Rain's mouth curl at the corners, makes his eyes flash and his cunt pulse. Swiss lets his eyes fall shut as his lungs fill, the world tilts, and his exhale comes with a deeply content groan.
"You're too good t'me baby," he purrs around the last wisps of smoke, watching them swirl on the warm breeze flowing past the curtains. Rain smiles, sparkling eyes going crinkled.
"Only because I'm selfish," he says, and another rock of those perfect hips send sparks cascading down Swiss' spine. "You get so hard when you're high."
His empty hand, the one that's been busy touching Swiss everywhere it can reach, slithers down his chest, his stomach, until -
"Oh shit."
He spits it when Rain's callused fingertips find the slippery head of his cock, only the tip of it exposed where it's nestled between Rain's lips. The wriggling tip of his tentacle joins Rain's thumb, and the sound Swiss makes when both appendages start rubbing at the tender underside could only be described as baleful.
Swiss feels his balls draw up, and this time the only thing that keeps him from spilling onto his belly is a sudden rush of unnatural, cool pressure in his groin. Swiss' eyes fly open, and Rain's smile shows his fangs.
"Uh-uh," he scolds, saccharine, thumb and tentacle not ceasing their pointed assault. "I'm not nearly done enjoying myself, so neither are you."
The sing-song tone belies the predator truly above him.
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It happens when Rain is still fresh; when he's still wrapping his mind around what bodies can do and when the stretch of Mountain's cock is tinted with something a bit more than just pleasure.
It's not the first time they've been together. Not the second, or even the third, but it is the first time that Mountain laid the long line of his body against Rain's back when his thrusts became staggered, the first time he tried to get closer when he finished instead of pulling away to make some part of Rain's skin a canvas to splatter. When Mountain moans long and low into Rain's ear, the warmth of his body spreading into his spine, he stays exactly where he is. And Rain feels it in his cunt, the way Mountain's heat spills into him there, too, filling him up more than he thought he could carry.
He doesn't know how much there is, whether it's normal or a little or too much. It feels like too much; it spills out around Mountain's cock, leaking out of his hole and dripping drown. Rain knows because he can feel it sliding down his thigh.
But it feels good, to be used that way, to be stuffed beyond what he can hold. When Mountain finally pulls out, panting on his knees behind Rain to admire his work, Rain's fingers beat his to the drop spilling down. He catches it and flops onto his back, admiring the way the light casts through it and the way it coats his skin. It's thick. A bit sticky. Nothing Rain hasn't seen before.
The air feels heavy between them. A thought forms in Rain's sex-addled mind, and Mountain must feel it, because his gaze meets Rain's just in time to watch him bring those coated fingers to his mouth.
He licks them first, curious, letting the taste make its way to his tongue and settle. It's salty, musky, with maybe a ghost of sweet. Somehow, he thinks it tastes like Mountain. So he goes back.
Rain crooks his fingers to scoop up the line of cum running down his thigh and tastes that too— this time, he sucks it off his fingers. It's quicker that way.
He gasps when he touches himself, his fingers brushing his sensitive, still-stretched walls to reach the rest of the gift Mountain's given him. He licks it all, every last drop, cleaning himself until he realizes all at once that he misses the feeling of fullness he had only moments ago.
Mountain's eyes haven't left his fingers. Rain's not even sure he's blinked.
When Rain finally speaks, it's to state the very simple conclusion he's reached, and his voice comes out hoarse but steady:
"their fingers tipping ur chin up, caressing your jaw and their thumb slowly parts your lips, dipping it into your mouth" for Copia, GN reader!
this has been in my inbox for a long time. please forgive me!
“Do not be nervous,” the Cardinal purrs, his finger already traveling up your neck from the collar of your shirt. It’s gloved, the sensation smooth with pressure that assures you he is in control.
That doesn’t make you any less nervous.
A shattered breath leaves your lips, and he has the audacity to chuckle. “You aren’t listening to me, are you? Too lost in the way my hand feels, hmm?” This time, he drags his forefinger to your jaw, pressing in hard, and you struggle to contain yourself. He grabs your chin hard and forces you to look up at him, to see him in his unholy greatness.
“Say something.” He nearly laughs, amused by your reaction. But, how can you react any other way? A call to the Cardinal’s office was never anything to celebrate unless it came with a certificate of completion for his Ghoulish Glimpses course, which was so very popular. You hadn’t taken the course.
“I don’t know why I’ve been called here,” you muster, hands hanging limply by your sides despite how tight the rest of your body is. “Usually… usually it means—“
“You are in trouble, yes.”
You want to throw yourself on the ground at his feet and beg his forgiveness. Instead, your mouth pops open in a silent “oh.” He takes the opportunity to throw you off with sudden tenderness in his touch. Thumb going back to caressing your jaw, tipping your head back only slightly, but enough that it’s uncomfortable.
Your throat bobs.
“If you continue to daydream during my sermons, I will have no choice but to punish you.” His voice is silk, weaving inside your ears with ease as if he wasn’t threatening you. Brows knit together, and your lip trembles. “Now, none of that,” he husks.
The Cardinal’s thumb finds your lips, just the gentle brush of it sending chills down your spine. Then, he dips it inside your wet, warm mouth. Eyes widen in shock, and you make a choked noise that is muffled by his digit. This time, he outright laughs, and you’re so close that you can see his crow's feet wrinkle with delight. Then, he presses down on your tongue. Hard.
“Mmmfff.”
Your mouth closes around his thumb, and you moan, delicious and flustered.
“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you might like my kind of punishment, mm?” He removed his thumb from your mouth and brought it to his own lips, his tongue flicking out to lick the leather. Your stomach churns with heat and fear as something starts to unravel inside you.
Maybe he’s right.
“Run along, now.” He dismisses you without a wave of his hand. “Before I change my mind.”
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Saint. My dear pookle that provides me with all I could ever read. Please, if you will, write me some swissdew. With a side of overwhelmed dew and dominant Swiss. Thank you.
He makes him count. Always. Each hit of his hand against Dew's ass is counted aloud, so Swiss can hear how his tone goes from breathy to strained, while he clutches at the bedsheets and feels his brain slide offline. Dew presses his hips against the mattress, something sweet to ease the sting of Swiss's hand on his bare skin. It's a risk to take, as he hasn't been told he's allowed, but Dew has never been able to resist the allure of pushing the envelope. Testing. It's almost a shame he enjoys this so much, hoping he gets a bit bruised and even if it's uncomfortable to sit on the hard wooden pews for midnight mass, is it really so bad to get an extra reminder of what they've done?
"Sixteen," Dew huffs, startling with the next spanking. He feels somewhere else entirely, almost floaty. Waiting for the next one, and when all he gets is a sound from Swiss instead, he looks back and knows immediately he's messed up; Swiss is wearing a smile that cannot be mistaken for kindness.
"Wrong," Swiss says. "That was fifteen."
"Shit," Dew says, and shoves his face back against the bed, bracing himself for whatever ends up coming next. No point in apologizing, he thinks, but he does anyway. Futile. It won't get him anywhere, and if he's being entirely honest, he wouldn't want it to.
"Sorry?" Swiss parrots, and trails a gentle hand over a reddened cheek, almost lovingly. It inspires nothing more than a twist of dread, darkly exciting low in his stomach. "Not yet, but you will be. No blood left in your brain to remember your numbers?" Swiss continues to feel him, adding the barest hint of blunt nails on the next drag upwards. "Maybe we should restart."
"If that's what you want," Dew says, and- listen, he's well aware he's goading him. He is very cognizant of how Swiss will react to that phrasing, but when you've got fire running through your veins, playing with other fires is a difficult habit to break.
"Wasn't really asking for approval," Swiss says, and traces a finger between the cleft, suggestive and pleasant enough that Dew cannot help himself from grinding against the bed again. It's so gentle, so tender. Poisoned honey, as Swiss is so good at offering him. "Thanks anyway." The hit is expected, but it's hard. The smack cuts through the stillness of the room, matched by Dew's yelp.
"One," he says, and barely has enough time to draw another full breath before the second and third come in quick succession, every bit as painful and thrilling and awful. It's going to get him sweating he realizes as Swiss continues. His skin feels hot from the hits, prickly, matching the burning of his cheeks against the cool sheets, hands twisting in the fabric by the time he reaches the count of ten.
Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.
His eyes are damp at fifteen, cursing a blue streak with number sixteen after he manages to speak it, his shoulders and back tense. It's rougher than Swiss has been with him in quite some time, and with each hit to one cheek and then the other, the way the sensation compounds has his breath hitching. Number twenty is the worst, the hardest yet, forcing a small whimper that he can't keep in.
"Wrong," Swiss says, sing-song and so goddamn pleased with himself. The tone and correction drip ice down his spine, and shocked, Dew shoves himself up to glare at him.
"It was not," he grits out, but the thread of nervousness takes the edge off his tone, exposes him. Swiss continues to look amused.
"I'm telling you it was wrong," he says, scratching over the reddened skin painfully, before he grabs a handful and squeezes, digging his fingers in further, wrenching a sad sound out of him. He's going to be bruised for sure, and if past experience has taught him anything, Swiss will grab him and dig into the marks to make it hurt all over again.
"I know I got it right," Dew argues, "I didn't fuck up."
Swiss sighs, and brings his free hand to his groin, palming himself through his trousers, and Dew zeroes in on the motion, mouth going dry when he sees just how hard he's gotten from hitting him. He's in the same boat, cock red between his legs, and from how he's leaning on his arms, it would be easy to balance on one and reach to jerk himself off. The look on Swiss's face tells him that he won't be getting away with that like he did the little humps he'd done earlier.
"If I tell you it's wrong, it's wrong," Swiss says. "And we'll restart as many times as it takes."
It clicks into place then, as Swiss lands another hard hit and Dew collapses back down, screwing his eyes shut as he gives up one. Dew will never get it right, even if he does.
The next twenty have him out of his mind. Skin electrified, mind blank, sheets dotted with a few tears he can't blink back. It hurts, it hurts so fucking much and he can't decide if he wants to do another round or if he wants Swiss to say he counted correctly this time. Swiss offers no feedback at all when twenty is spoken, just goes back to scratching, as if that somehow counts as giving him a break.
"Looks painful," Swiss comments, and though Dew might be miserable, he can take some solace in the way his tormentor's voice is lower, clearly aroused and- he's probably so much harder now. Desperate to fuck him now, surely. Not continue this charade. Neither one of them are endless wells of patience, and hopefully Swiss isn't about to turn over a new leaf now. Dew takes slow, deep breaths to steady himself, in through his nose and out through his mouth. "You should see how pink you are here. You can give yourself a couple strokes, if you want."
Dew is shoving a hand between his legs without hesitation, grabbing at himself awkwardly, shifting onto his knees a fraction, just to give himself some access. It's a testament to his brand of fucked up that he's as hard as he is throughout all of the spanking, burning hot in his hand, sticky at the tip as he pulls at himself roughly. Swiss laughs at the desperation, and abandons the scratching to sneak his hand under to tickle his balls. The undignified squeak of surprise happens before Dew has time to realize he's making it, the way the fingertips touch him making him clench.
"What a pretty hole," Swiss murmurs, and Dew's face burns further as he realizes of course Swiss can see the way he's made it wink. It makes him feel so exposed-
Swiss forces his shoulders down with a heavy hand in the middle of his back, and Dew loses all room he has to stroke himself properly, and caught underneath.
"Ass up," Swiss orders, and Dew can't help himself:
"I don't think I can take more," he admits, even as he does so, putting up no fight at all. "Hurts, it- fuck, I'm really fuckin' sore." To his dismay, Swiss is back to grabbing at his cheeks, rough and cruel, and he really isn't sure how he can take another round of spankings if Swiss is going to be just as heavy handed. But he will, if that's what he wants. His brain is so fuzzy. It's out of his hands, as it were, if Swiss continues to decide that he can't count, but this is so much rougher than they've played in so long, and maybe this will be the last round? Maybe, he thinks, as Swiss spreads him and leans in to spit on his hole, maybe he looks to enticing now for him to resist moving on to fucking him proper.
"How much does it hurt?"
"S'bad," Dew slurs, steeling himself for more. He's earned something nicer by now, right? Or maybe his reward will be limited only to having made Swiss happy by his suffering. He could be okay with that, probably. If Swiss tells him he's impressed or proud with how he did afterwards, that would probably be enough. His head is swimming, nervous for the next hard hit. He'll have to bury his face to muffle the sounds he'll make next, because he knows he's moments away from yelling with it.
"More specific."
"I can feel your handprints," Dew says, with difficulty. "I'm gonna be feeling them for a while."
"And whose fault is that?" He pinches, and Dew whimpers.
"Mine." The pinch repeats and he very nearly bites through his tongue.
"You need me to kiss it and make it better?"
Something sweet and tender. Thank fucking god. Yes, he'd like something gentle, some kind of reward for the pain, for his ability to keep still and let Swiss treat him like this. He's so fucking hard, if Swiss could wrap a big hand around him and make him cum, he'd be okay suffering through Swiss fucking him while it was all too sensitive and too much. Without another thought, without considering the words, he agrees, with a yes please.
Swiss has dipped down, spread him further, and is dragging a tongue over Dew's hole, and the regret blooms. He does cry out, tries to shuffle away, but Swiss holds him fast.
"Fuck, Swiss, you can't-"
"Pretty sure I can," he says, repeating the wide lick, and Dew feels so small. So fucking useless, desperate to crawl away against the shame of having a tongue right there, desperate for Swiss to continue because despite the embarrassment, the feeling of violation to be pleasured like that, it feels so fucking good and he can't stand it. He could press himself back against Swiss's mouth. He won't, but privately he longs to.
Swiss continues to lap at him, and Dew's legs begin to tremble finely, body tense, holding his breath randomly as the sensation of being rimmed has him forgetting how to draw proper breath. Maybe he had fucked his counting up after all? It was his fault and not a game? Swiss pushes his face in closer and slithers his tongue faster and Dew cringes, cock throbbing, hole fluttering- and Swiss feels it. No way to hide.
He feels insane. Sick with shame and how much he loves it, sure that fluid is beading at the tip of his dick, mirroring the way unwilling tears start gathering on his lashes. With a lewd sucking sound, Swiss pulls his head back.
"It's this or getting spanked," Swiss says, and nips sharply at his ass. "You pick."
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