Ryan Gosling

He’s a detective so he should have put the clues together more quickly: the devious smile on your lips, the way your hand seems to always be lurking near the bottle, your constant excitement over how horny he gets when he’s drunk. And now the world is a little bit spinny and you’re not even hiding it any more, you’re just refilling his glass and putting two fingers on the bottom to help his hand lift it to his lips.

“Baby, think ‘ve had a few too many,” he manages to slur. You look delighted.

“Oh no, Holland, you have? That’s okay. Just sit back against the cushions and I’ll take care of you.”

He does and you climb into his lap. Despite the booze clouding his senses he can feel every fucking red-hot inch of you pressed against him. How did an idiot like him get so lucky? How did he land an angel like you?

“Nooo, ‘snotfair, I’m takin’ advantage…” he states as his hands start mapping out your body. He knows it by heart at this point, the places you like to be squeezed, where he needs to kiss in order to elicit a giggle. You hum as if you’re thinking the situation over and start to kiss his throat. He hasn’t shaved for a couple of days so he's let his stubble get wilder than usual, and the feeling of your tongue against it makes him instantly hard.

“I don’t mind, it’s okay, you can take advantage of me, daddy.”

He makes a choked noise. That word. He’s so weak for that word, especially when it comes from your lips. 

His clumsy hands trace their way down your front and slip under the waistband of your jeans. Your underwear is a familiar cotton against his knuckles and he finds you ready for him, as expected. Fuck, you’re always ready for him, huh? Perfect thing. He knows his technique isn’t the best when he’s too many drinks in but from the way you undulate against him he basically could be the god of sex in this moment. He strokes you with firm, sure touches, ignoring the alcohol and letting instinct take over. He knows you, he knows you so damn well he could probably make you come in his sleep.

And you do. Come, that is, not sleep; you’re not the drunk one here. You coat his fingers with a gentle, shuddered sigh breathed into his ear and he feels you turn to a pliant jelly in his arms. You kiss him properly then, not minding the overpoweringly smoky taste of the whiskey on his tongue, and slide off him until you’re on the floor between his knees. Your hands undo his belt buckle and he thinks oh, you’re not an angel. You’re a fucking devil. And that makes him even more lucky.

He can't get it all the way up when he’s had this much to drink but you work with him half-hard, mouth gentle and insistent on his cock. Your eyes never leave his, he’s spellbound and the world won’t stay still and—

It’s an embarrassingly short amount of time before he comes, not even fully erect but too swept up in the moment to care about it.

And then you fucking lick him clean and it’s the single most powerfully erotic thing he’s ever experienced. Your tongue, his flaccid dick, the warmth of your spit dripping down his balls…

“Baby, ‘stoo much, don’t deserve it…”

You blink innocently up at him as you tuck him back in his pants. 

“You do, Hol, you do. Besides, you’re gonna use your mouth on me now, right? So we’re even?”

“Oh, okey-dokey,” he mumbles, tugging down your jeans. Whatever you want him to do, so long as you keep on being you.