#souryaps

[sourbites]

Can I request a Kirk smut!! Friends to lovers kinda thing. For instance yall are smoking weed at your place and feeling a bit insecure about still being single and he makes a move on you???

Can't Tell You Why

thank you for the request! this was a lot of fun to write. i chose to write this imagining early 80s kirk, just to really amp up that clumsy love that friends share. hope you enjoy :)

The tip of the joint crackles, embers glowing as you coax smoke down into your lungs. The atmosphere in your bedroom is thick, smogged with smoke and giggles. There's soft rock playing in the background — some band Kirk chose.

"You're avoiding the question," He laughs, all love-me-tender brown eyes and crooked white teeth. You're both having fun, he's teasing you, you're teasing him. But still, you hesitate, exhaling smoke from your nose thoughtfully.

"I don't know," You wipe one hand on the front of your jeans. "I've only done it, like, once. Wasn't that fun, either— we were in this tiny car, and there was so much bumping around."

You twist on your bed, leaning up against the wall. Kirk moves, too, leaning his weight on a hand. "Once?" He repeats, surprised.

"What's that supposed to mean? You think I've been around?" You laugh, although there's some discomfort at his reaction lurking around in your mind. His mortification catches up with him two beats later. Eyes wide, laughing nervously along with you.

"I didn't mean it like that," Kirk exhales, smoke floating and swirling around the both of you. It hazes everything up: the light from your lamps scatter differently. Shadows look hesitant. He mulls over how to explain himself, self-conscious as he adjusts his position again. "I— I just meant, that you," He swipes a hand over his face, groaning in embarrassment through those hesitant chuckles. "You're smart, and— and real pretty. And charming enough to get anyone you'd want, so— I dunno, I mean, I'd..." He trails off. He speaks unintelligible nonsense for a few moments, before trying again. "You get what I mean." He concludes.

"Do I?" You take the joint from him. Something within you makes you feel sick with a feeling you wouldn't like to meet.

Kirk, ever the conversationalist, gives you an eye-roll. "So who was he, anyway?" He gestures to you, his index and middle finger steadying the shrinking joint.

You shrug. "Just a friend of a friend. I already told you."

He didn't say anything after that. Just hid behind his curly bangs, working his fingers into your bedsheets. Honestly, you're unsure why you even entertained this conversation. It's not like you'd find camaraderie within Kirk, not these days— tons of women want his attention. They want to taste his plump lips, hold his baby face, and kiss the crease between his brows when he frowns. You want to claw this bitter taste from your mouth. Gut the barbed vines in your stomach. As cool as you want to present, it isn't the most brag-worthy thing. Your first and only time being a half-baked hookup in some cramped-ass Ford Pinto? Get out the confetti. Your train of thought became an internal train wreck.

"Well," Kirk begins to roll another. "Where would you rather it happened?" Just briefly, his brown eyes glance up at your face to read your expression.

"Where else could it happen?" You ask no one in particular, voice hushed and ironically smoky in your fogged-up bedroom. You hum thoughtfully, picking at the thin rolling papers sprawled out on your bed. "Is it boring if I say a bed? Nothing else I can think of sounds appealing."

For some reason, you're allowed first drags. Pouring over you, Kirk lights the fresh joint between your lips. "Not boring at all. It's a classic for a reason, real nice when it's done right." He speaks easily, shrugging slightly. He's trying to soothe you. His smile makes your insides twist— and you enjoy it, in some macabre way. Teeth vibrantly white against warm lamplight and fuzzy shadows and black curls. You want to eat his mouth.

"Right." You sigh. Smoke billows from your parted lips. "I suppose you have? Done it right?" You're not sure why you ask that. You just want something to say. Preferably not about your (totally lacking) sex life.

Finally, it's Kirk's turn to bristle hesitantly. Easing his nerves, you pass him the joint.

"I've had some good nights, yeah." His answer is guarded. Your eyes glitter. What's he hiding? You nudge his side with your knuckles.

"But...?" You invite.

Kirk watches you for a moment or two, concluding you won't let this go. "But," He echoes, nudging you back. "I wouldn't say I've done it right."

"Why not?" You lean in. Drinking up the smoke that rolls off of him. You can smell him in the air, too, smoke-smouldering something spicy and musky.

He tilts his head to see you better. "Can't tell you," He whispers, grinning, wholly contradicting the inviting way his body slants to indulge you.

"Kiiiiirk."

Sigh. He's giving you the eyes. The eyes. Round and big, brown eyes so sparkly that they disarm anyone he's gazing at. You lean to him, attentive as a statue. You could soak him up if you wanted to; you're that close. Discarded smoke, already exhaled with all that high-inducing goodness soaked up, swirls around the both of you, murky white tendrils making you want to sway with them, beckoning you to move. Speak. Breathe. Live.

"Ideally," He shifts again, wanting to reshuffle his atoms. "Ideally, it'd be a bed..." A warm palm brushes your wrist and sneaks the joint from your fingers. "With you..." Your heart pauses. You stare at him, bewildered. "And me..."

What. The. Fuck.

Kirk takes your silence as a sign you want him to keep going. One hand cups your cheek, so tenderly you're tricked into thinking you're made from glass. "C'mon. How many more hints do I need to drop?" He coos at you before taking a much-needed drag of the joint to ease his own racing heart.

The funny thing is, you've hoarded his name in your throat for months. You didn't realise he had been holding his own breath for you.

Why? Out of everyone— you?

Kirk runs his tongue over his teeth, getting antsy. Softly urging you, he brushes the pad of his thumb along your lower lip while you just stare at him, amazed. You watch him from beneath your eyelashes as if he hung the stars in the sky. It comes again: the longing. The desire with no name, because no one has yet given you the language to speak it in.

Wordlessly, you draw his hand into yours. "That, um. Sounds nice." You reply, with what limited cohesive brain cells you have left.

Testing the waters, Kirk brushes his lips against yours, his breath mingling with your own. And it's hands down the most intoxicating thing you've ever had— you want to swallow it down in handfuls. Your eyelashes flutter again, and you almost feel drunk. He holds your cheek with clumsy, gentle fingers. He puts a heat in you that you didn't think was possible. And it feels so unfathomably perfect to feel wanted.

It's slow. Gently, you gravitate towards Kirk as if you're floating. Your mouths connect with a little more certainty this time. He laughs softly against your mouth. There is no better taste than that, you decide. Someone's honeyed laugh on your tongue. You're dizzy— should you feel dizzy? You want this feeling to stay.

Restless, he abandons the joint in the ashtray. With both hands in use, they swipe over your back, worship your thighs by the handfuls, winding and sewing roots in your hair.

"Can I take care of you?" Kirk whispers into the edge of your face, right underneath your chin. His mouth- wet and wanting, marks the uncharted territory of the soft underside of your face with a slow, hot kiss that ripples through you, reshaping you into something with an emptiness that's hurting to be filled. His tongue is laving wet and dripping with eagerness, building a taste for your skin as it glosses his spit down your throat. He tilts in to suck below your ear.

"Fuck, Kirk. Yeah— yes." You stumble out, nodding, your hips squirming in their cage of your jeans. You sweep your aching palms along his back, mussing his curls. He tucks your earlobe between his teeth, grazing the bluntness of his front teeth slowly along your skin. His breath sends chills down your spine. He grinds both hands beneath the waistband of your jeans, reading your mind.

He's aching to get a taste of you. The softness of your inner thighs swath around his head, dark curls rasping against your skin. His hot mouth is drinking you up through your panties, nosing into your pelvis. He wants to breathe as many 'I love you's' as he can into your skin, he wants to rake his tongue against your slit, lick your cunt open. Kirk can tell you're soaked— arousal drooling through the fabric that covers you, teasing him with the cock-hardening punch of girl flavour that he loves so much, seeping along the edge of his mouth.

Your underwear is thumbed off, his face shoved right into your cunt, and yet you still want to steer him by the shoulders and pull him closer. He takes slow, indulgent sucks on your quickly throbbing clit, that snowball into big, broad licks, tongue flat and mopping up your slick from bottom to top. He sinks two fingers into you, each pump straight down to the knuckle, creating crude squelching noises with the purest, stickiest arousal simmering within you. It's all burning hot, hot, hot.

Kirk swoops down again, filling his starving mouth with what he thirsts for: your leaking pussy. His cute nose is smooshed against your pelvic bone, and every dirty lap of his searing tongue forces your hips to scatter restlessly and yanks a whine from your throat. He's wild and heartache and sin, and it leaves you reeling from his every touch, every curl of his fingers and every relentless, starved suck of your clit, until his cheeks hollow.

"Can't believe I went so long without this," He groans with lusty delight, releasing your aching clit with a pornographic, wet pop. He kisses your parted entrance, tips his head down and spits on your slit. Whatever honey-soft brown was left lingering in his baby-love eyes has been devoured by total blackness, glimmering in delight as he watches his work of art, your soaked, spit-slick sex. He goes back in, shoving his parched mouth onto you, sucking in a fold, nipping the other, thumbing at your throbbing, swollen clit. He wants to eat you whole. Every salacious lick of his neverending tongue thunders within you— your cunt, tight and hot and so adored by Kirk's divine mouth, squeezes of arousal building within you until they morph into full-body trembles, your abdomen clenching and un-clenching, taut.

He glances up at you, dark eyes glittering behind his curly bangs, eyeing the heave of your tits with each tremoring breath. He touches you where hands simply cannot. His thick tongue eagerly tastes your heat: flesh, sweetness, salt. His cock is bursting against his too-tight boxers. You roll your hips against his mouth, chasing every lap of his tongue, every brush of his calloused hands. Softly, he becomes endless in you, and the searing pleasure he paints for you becomes explosive. Your volatile hands fist into his hair and yank, grinding down against his pretty face as gasps block your airways. He's drinking your soul - stuffing his mouth with every morsel of your worship-worthy pleasure.

You wail through the orgasm, something deep within you awakened and booming; how you survived him, you don't know. Your cum, sticky and warm, ebbs down Kirk's plump lips, smearing on his chin as he laps you up, thumbs spreading your cunt open to ensure he's licked every part of you clean. Even then, the impish flicks of his tongue do not go unappreciated.

To get him to stop his (wonderfully feeling) assault on your cunt, you peel Kirk away from you, a hand in his hair and your other palming at his shoulder. "How'd," You breathe, stupefied, "How'd you learn to do that?"

Kirk hides behind his curly bangs as if he has the right to get coy after gorging on your pussy so filthily. His teeth, white and charmingly crooked, glitter as he grins flusteredly. He wipes his mouth of spit and slick with the back of his hand. You feel a pang of emptiness without both his hands somewhere on your overheating body. "I, uh, I have a thing for it, I guess."

Great. You sigh, lost for words.

"Can we keep going?" You murmur out, gingerly pressing a warm palm to his worn-soft denim jeans, which are all warped and taut from his hard bulge.

Kirk's hands, all slow tenderness to soothe you, cup your cheeks, fingers sweeping into your hair. He lays a kiss on your lips with his own hungry mouth, kissing away at your senses. "Of course, beautiful."

His bulge swells right beneath your pussy, your orgasm simmering away and dirtying his denim jeans. Handsy with it, he palms off his belt and throws his jeans and boxers somewhere in your room. You let one of your legs fall open while he scoops up the other, forcing your thigh high up his waist, his palm sliding down to grab a handful of your ass. He sinks inside the molten ache of your eaten-raw cunt. He kisses you into oblivion at the sight of his thick cock disappearing within you.

The odd thing is, it all feels so easy. You're choked with the sincerity of the moment. Kirk's hands are devoted worshippers, thumbs stroking along your skin where you tremble, holding you where your thigh and hip meet, cradling you. Weightlessly, and yet with heavy limbs, you lay into the bed. You're full of paradoxes tonight. Light, heavy, friend, lover. They're all the same.

Your hands glide up his taut biceps, sliding down the slope of his back, tracing along muscles and bone. You hook him in, keep him close. Kirk's biting down on his lower lip, his eyes lidded, fluttering at the dreamy feeling of your dripping cunt clenching down on him in searing hot pulses. You shift your hips a little— you can feel his cock smushed into your cervix. Kirk groans low near your ear.

This hot, fulfilling fullness seems to seep deeper and deeper within you, endless. With a hitching breath, Kirk's hips withdraw, taking his body-hot heat with him. Until it pours all over you again in waves, easing your abuse-swollen sex, his thumb dipping down to gather the sopping wetness of your slick, cum, and his drool, and stir it around your puffy clit in full circles. All while he takes you in long, eager strokes, delicious friction causing your hands to skirt around his shoulders, putting a cramping, throbbing, ache in your hips.

You shudder, going tight around him. Kirk presses his face where your shoulder meets your neck. You can feel his baby face, sweet cheeks and plump mouth, those fawn brown eyes of his squeezed shut. Those charming features on a man who is fucking you with so much impeccable spirit that you're surely driven crazy with every rock of his hips, snapping up to wallop into the tenderly sensitive skin of your inner thighs. Every wet sound of his mean cock scraping the velvet insides of your aching cunt draws sobs out from deep within your stuffed-full belly. Your heart feels like a bass pounding in your ears, surrounding you with so much noise, every throbbing thump causing your breaths to shake.

Tangled bodies feel like they're cooking with all the hot friction between them. It smoulders, threatening to ignite— as if the hazy smoke of your social chainsmoking wasn't enough to put you in an awestruck daze. You clench your teeth, scraping your nails up the hollow of Kirk's shoulder blades, your own back arching off the bed, (which he uses as an excuse to get another gropeful of your ass) while he works your throbbing clit even harder. You want to squirm and writhe, but that'd disrupt the gorgeous rhythm of his cock. He drags himself through your wound-tight pussy, sloppy, indescribably thorough whacks of his pelvic bone right on the beginning of your slit.

You forget who's air you're breathing. Or if you're breathing at all.

In carnal screams that scratch up your sore throat, you murmur something akin to more more more don't stop, Kirk. Please. Kirk. His pace stumbles, landing right on his high while you're already curling around him, nails anchored in his skin, cries spilling from your lips. You squeeze around him with so much zeal that Kirk quite literally cannot move for fear of splitting you in two. All epic highs have lows, however: you scrape your hands down, tracing where your cunt oozes out your climaxes, feeling the boiling heat settle down, watching Kirk's glistening cock withdraw from you.

Everything feels suspended. Mid-air, hanging on the edge of something. Maybe it's longing. By some phenomenal stroke of luck (maybe it's your lucky day), the joint you were sharing is still lit. Kirk takes a long drag, exhaling against your clammy, bare skin. His mouth reaches your shoulder, and he kisses it with that pretty, insatiable mouth until you feel faint.

"Fuck," You take the joint he offered to you. Although you're not sure that this moment can get softer and warmer. "That was definitely better than my first time."

Kirk grins at your words, grunting quietly as he lays beside you, guiding your splayed-out hair away from your neck. "Just you wait. That was just a warm-up."

[sourgummiis]

Nightmare, he's trying to revert killer with his negativity tentacles but color isn't letting it slide! 1! This is this killer story summed up

All the medieval talk made my think about Killer be strapped to one of these knife throwing wheels 💀

[sourgummiis]

SOURGUMMIIS!1

Last updates 9/6/24

Undertale alot! Skeletons, monsters (sometimes, humans/humanoids, animals, etc! I might draw/work for people, but its if i know them well and trust them! :D, i will draw for characters i think look cool! most times if i show up in ask's or draw someones characters, ive been wanting to and just got the courage to 😭

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[sourbites]

If ur okay with doing headcanons do you have any honeymoon ones for james please and thank you

HIIII ANON! thank you so much for my first headcannon request. also, thank you for asking for something sweet which cheered me up. been brushed with the kiss of plague since last week (i have a cold), so i haven't been up to writing much. with that being said, if this is sucky, i am lowkey whiskey-drunk, so please blame it on that. i didn't know if you wanted anything smutty, so i left it at the end— feel free to skip it if you didn't want it. enjoy! <3

Honeymoon James HCS:

Big ole sweetie pie. From the second you guys hop on the plane to the second you get home after the festivities, he's doting on you. He's probably still suuuper loved up from the nuptial thrill of getting married, and we all know he's real sentimental, so he really, really wants you to have a phenomenal time. In his eyes, the honeymoon sets the tone for the marriage, so a good honeymoon is essential to a thriving relationshsip. Every second he's like, "Can I get you a drink?" "Are your bags too heavy?" "Too cold? Want my jacket?" He lives and breathes to see you happy right now.

He's content to go anywhere for a honeymoon trip, so long as there's things for him to do. If you want a beach resort, he'll pack his fishing rod. If you want to cosy up in a winter cabin somewhere, he'll bring his ski boots. He just wants you happy. You get first pick of everything.

James is a very tactile guy, especially with someone he's so smitten with. He's touchy all the time. But with the person he loves, on their honeymoon, with that belly-fluttering dreaminess of having the new weight of wedding rings on fingers? Yeah, he's a goner.

Will find any excuse to touch you. If you wear makeup, he's watching you in the mirror, sweeping his hands all over your sides. If you got some food on your lip, he's brushing his thumb against your skin so sweetly that he just ends up letting his wandering hand trace over your jaw, your throat, until he kind of just... forgets there's something on your face.

His wedding vows to you were wholly original, and very genuine. Every night, he scoops you into his arms in bed, and through warm kisses to your temple, he whispers them to you. James brushes his lips against your slow, easy pulse, and presses kiss after kiss after kiss, so lazily that he's just mouthing your skin at this point. With every pause of the beat of your heart, he kisses your skin. "You are safe with me," Kiss, "You are loved by me," Kiss, "You are welcome to me." It's his new routine.

He's a pretty private person, so he probably would only share one or two, but he'd take so many photos. Mostly of you. Some of the landscape, of activities you do together. He just wants to document everything. He's never been so at peace, so he doesn't want to forget a single second of the honeymoon. If you printed out his photos and put them in a cute photo book or even framed a few of them, he'd probably want to marry you all over again.

James wakes up each morning wanting you. When you first started dating, it was your voice. Then your opinions on matters. Your skin, your scent. Now it is your heart, your hands, the peace your presence brings him. Would definitely be the type of guy to want to start his days of being your husband by having your naked body on his. Sure, sometimes he's just incredibly horny— but a lot of the time, sex also brings this intimacy that he's never felt in his life before you. Your bodies just blur together and he's obsessed with it. His libido is all-consuming, especially now he's married. He'd wake you with the usual hungry kisses, and if you ran your hands along his scalding muscle, threaded them through his dirty blond hair, he'd take the hint. And it'd make him so giddy the rest of the day. Even though you're married, he still lights up at your touch, he swoons at any morsel of flirting you feed him. His whole expression is just puppy-dog awe, practically saying: 'Oh, you want this! You want me!'

Even after the honeymoon, James is still amazed that he's your husband. If you end up taking his surname, and he'd see letters addressed to your new name, he'd just trace over the printed out letters. He might have the urge to kiss the paper, just to get a slight taste of his love. It looks so right on you, his surname— your surname. Sometimes he'd just think to himself, what did his name mean before you? What did his fingers do before they held you? How was he even alive before he got a taste of this love?

When he gets a teensy bit more secure that yes, you have accepted him, and that you two are forever, he's fully comfortable with everything. He never really shook off that schoolboy shyness until he married you. But the guy definitely has a breeding kink. He cums a lot anyway, but especially when he can fill you up with it. Something about seeing your skin, your spent cunt all leaky with his opaque, milk-tinted cum is so satisfying to him. Feeling raw flesh, all hot and wet and aching, being able to empty everything within you, see your tummy bulge with him, it drives him crazy.

Following that note, he'd have this weirdo fetish (that isn't actually weird at all) of cumming on your wedding ring. He'd lay his hard cock on your slit, gathering your slick and his precum until he hits that sweet spot of delicious friction. He'd interlace his hand with yours, because he can't breathe without you. He'd paint your abdomen and wedding ring in those hot ropes of cum, saturating the sparkling stones in the wedding band until it doesn't shimmer with those glittery rainbows anymore. But don't worry, he'll clean it for you afterwards. And then do it again.

[sourbites]

do u write for jason? if so could you do a story where reader is a roadie on the damaged justice tour and she and jason get super close and eventually they both go to a party together and hook up ??? thank u :)

Whiskey and Coke

thanks for the request anon! this went a little off the rails (i got too excited by their dynamic, whoops), but i hope i did your vision justice! i hope you enjoy :)

The party wasn't as fun as promised.

Maybe that's because you're one of the few people here who aren't doped up on stuff. Honestly, even the beer is kind of awful. An after-party in the San Francisco area comes with a little prestige these days, but so far, it's been a drag. You weave through crowds of people, trying to get to the bathroom. You catch snippets of people's inebriated conversations. Some of the sentences you catch are quite amusing. You recognise a few half-lidded faces, too, some of your fellow crew members. Looks like you'll have to do most of the heavy lifting tomorrow, considering these princesses would rather spend tomorrow morning hurling up their three, four, or five shots of whiskey.

"Here to keep me company?" Jason dimples at the sight of you, his blue eyes catching on the warm lamplights throughout the main floor.

"Here to get away from you, actually," You joke, stepping towards him. Some band is in the corner attempting to play good music, and God, do you wish someone would turn their amps down. You lean closer into his bubble of space, trying to hear him better. Being around heavy metal concerts all the time hasn't been easy on your hearing. You know Jason's probably having a worse time of it than you, considering he's actually up there onstage.

"Told'ya you couldn't handle partying with the big kids, didn't I?" He riffs off of you, grinning. Jason's really good at bantering, and you know he likes it. He doesn't get many opportunities to do it with the other guys.

His body heat rolls onto you, also carrying over his scent. Clean, a little boozy and earthy. "So," You scooted closer, shuffling, dipping your voice into the warmth between the both of you. "What're you doing wandering around? Your prom date ditched you again?"

He laughs. Or chuckles, low and genuine. You catch a peek at his teeth, splitting his lips on a smile. "Just trying to find a drink."

You roll your eyes, amused. "They didn't set out any wine for his grace?"

"Doesn't seem like it," He frowns, his brows knitting together. God, he looks like a kicked puppy.

"How evil." You shake your head, sighing heavily with disappointment. Your breath ghosted down his clavicle, standing the hair on his neck up from the sensation.

Transfixed, Jason turns his shoulders sideways, leaning closer to you, arms brushing ever so slightly. Just giving you a taste. A mouth-watering taste. "I know." He agrees, wetting his lips. He watches you. Adjusts his pockets. "How'd you feel about cheering me up?"

⸻

Your hiding place is a loveseat in one of the powder rooms. Extravagant, yes. You wanted to go to the balcony, but the lingering thought of alcohol and heights not mixing well steered you otherwise.

Jason's knuckles brush your palm as he passes you the bottle of whiskey-coke you're sharing. The syrupy foam fizzes down your throat like butterflies in your stomach. Eat me, drink me, love me, it seems to say. Or maybe that's what you want to hear. The ceiling lights are warm and dimmed low, caressing the highlights of his nose and cheekbones. The bustle of the party seems to disappear behind the impenetrable, locked-from-the-inside door.

With the exchange of your drink, Jason leans closer into you. He tries to be subtle about it, hiding under the excuse that he doesn't feel like stretching every three seconds. But the way the drink sloshes in the glass tells you he uses a little more momentum than he needed.

"Y'know," He begins, propping up an ankle to rest on his knee. He turns to face you. You mirror his actions, falling into the plush cushion. "I'm really glad you decided to tag along tonight. It'd be an awful night without you."

Your heart stutters in your chest. Suddenly, looking into his pretty blue eyes all sincerely, is too overwhelming. You drum your fingertips on the cool glass neck of the bottle. "Is that why we're hiding in the ladies' powder room right now?"

He chuckles, interlacing his fingers that rest on his lap. His head tips back just a little. The warmth of the light catches on his brown hair, scattering through the strands like copper. "Exactly, honey. You're the only person worth being 'round right now."

You gulp, nervous. You mask it as thirst and take a sip of coke. Because you're nice, you give Jason the bottle. One hand curls around it. He places his mouth where yours was. His throat bobs as he gulps it down indulgently, his eyes forward, lashes fluttering. Fucking hell. He's got that cherub-sweetness like he can do no wrong, and yet, he indulges in every morsel of bought-in-bulk coke like it's not the ultra-processed, caffeinated caramel syrup he's savouring.

You could sit like this for hours. You just might.

Trying not to be weird, you try to think pure thoughts. "So why don't you just go to your hotel? Call it a night, you know?" You suggest.

Jason licks his lips. They shine in the light. Practically underlined. Looking so sweet, so delicious, peachy pink...

"Don't feel like it. I actually kind of like it here with you. It's really serene, don't you think?" He gives you a smile. Pushes the base of the bottle into your palm.

"Guess it's not about where you are, but the company you're with." You speak into the rim, barely sipping it. Just holding it makes you want to drink.

"Yeah." He agrees, speaking so softly that it unwinds that iron ball of anxiety within your guts. Spurred on by your silence, Jason talks again: "But seriously. I'm really glad you're here. You're a cool roadie."

You set the bottle down on the cold tile. You sit back up laughing. "Weirdo... Trust you to get all mushy at some random's party." You weave your words through giggles that bubble up your throat.

"Ow, watch it!" Jason places one hand over his heart. The other holds onto your knee. The heat from his palm sinks into you, tingling up your thigh. You hope your shudder was subtle. You suppose not, based on the way he tightens his (still gentle) hold on you.

Chasing the feeling that doesn't leave you feeling quite human, you lean into him. When your chest expands with an inhale, you brush against the side of his arm. He doesn't want barriers either it seems, because he moves that arm to drape over the edge of the loveseat, opening the metaphorical floodgates for you to pour into him.

"Cheer up, you big baby," You murmur, too aware of the suddenly tender atmosphere that you have no intention of shattering.

Jason gives you another gentle grin, reaching up to swipe your hair away from your face. No more hiding. You keen your cheek into his warm, sinking into his flesh. In the strangest way, Jason is familiar enough that you confuse him with the security that comes with being home. He is the threshold you cross where your shoulders finally relax and you lay on the warm frame of his chest.

Your fingertips are like an ocean against him, the shore. Constantly reaching and running away. You find purchase into his shirt and stare up at him, fascinated. You're stuck treading a thin line between wanting more and knowing that this should be more than enough. The question that seems to echo through your skull is, Should this feel so nice?

His fingertips brush against the edge of your jawline. "Can I kiss you?" His breath ghosts across your face, sweetening the air around you into something so hot you physically feel yourself melt.

With a brave inhale, you tip your weight forward. Both Jason's hands hook around the small of your back; your hands slide up, rounding out around his shoulders. It feels a little clumsy with the alcohol, a little intimate with nothing but the sounds of soft, hitching breaths in anticipation. The first thing you notice is that he's tense. And so warm that it feels as if he envelops you.

Mouths meet. In a slow, deliberate connection, all balmy and soft. Jason pours out a sigh, holding you by the hips, your breath shortening and closer to getting a taste of what heaven is painted of. It is between his lips, tucked under his tongue, and it glows and reaches down within you, tugging out all that bad and leaving you weightless, breathless, speechless. But not loveless. Your bones feel warm. Eyes closed to see that haze of colour behind your mind, your eyelashes flutter dreamily against the swells of your cheeks. Jason is just as hungry. Your hearts pound the same song. Beating that old hymn: I want, I want, I want. He breathes it into your lungs. A want that is sweet. It goes down your throat in a fiery burn.

Quite easily, Jason's lips slip down to kiss your chin. You giggle.

More than once, you'd imagined this. How Jason would cup your sides so cautiously as if he fears you'll spill out of the gaps of his hands. You've always wanted to unfold him from his seams; read the roadmaps of his skin. The idea is always the same: he'd scoop you into his chest and kiss you where it hurts — until it hurts. That part is very important in the scenario.

His kisses pool in your collar. His soft, wavy hair ghosts across your skin. "Is this okay?"

All the strength you had is turned into a weak, pleading nod. "More than okay." You confirm with enough clarity to surprise even yourself. He hums a bluesy purr, your personal siren song. That feeling— of bewitchment, fascination, so much want that you struggle to choke it all down, it soaks into you, beginning to take root.

You're rucked into his lap, your legs folded on themselves, kneeling around him. Something within you gives.

Jason's hair is in your hands, cupping the sides of his face, where you kiss him. On his cheek. Nose, lips, chin, throat. Jaw. Lips again. You don't know for how many nights you will be allowed to feel him like this. Maybe this is the only time. Anything could happen. You know that. The air around you is so intense that he quivers. Cock twitches in his jeans.

He makes a really hot noise: a rumbling, low groan of satisfaction. Still trying to be gentlemanly, he keeps his hands on your waist, though his fingertips itch to venture lower. Something within you squirms. You want more, more, more, always more, always hungry — starving for him. Jason excites you with his whole being. There's something wild beneath him that he's reluctant to peel away for you to gorge on.

You figure he'd stop you if he didn't enjoy this. And maybe that whiskey had more of an effect on you than you had originally suspected. Eager hands fumble beneath his shirt. Spurred on by you, Jason twists his fingers into the hem of your shirt. He glances up towards you, reading your expression.

Despite all the heat climbing in the locked room (and the fact that you can barely think through the smog of overflowing need in your brain), goosebumps prickle down your spine once you're shirtless. You kiss him again, grazing your teeth over his lower lip. Your hunger is entirely for him. Worn palms smooth up your spine, dutifully tracing along the methodical dips in your vertebrae. Jason rests a hand at the base of your neck, his fingers breaching into your hair from the back. With an open mouth, he glides his breath and the flat of his tongue over the swell of your tits still in your bra. You suck in a breath.

"Is this okay?" Jason immediately asks, again, caressing you as if you're something fragile. Something to be worshipped. You squirm against him, cagey, wanting the gritted sugar-sweetness of teeth and lips and tongue against you again.

"Jason," You begin, shifting restlessly, sat rigidly on the muscled curve of his thigh, "I appreciate it's the respectful thing to do — to keep asking — but come on." You urge, wanting to drag him down into the hazy smog with you. "Do whatever you want to me. I want it."

He wets his lips, no thoughts behind those swoon-worthy eyes. Then he grins. Pollutes any semblance of critical thinking left between you.

Clothes are palmed off. Gathered down or to the side. Pried from bodies as if it's suffocating.

Jason's hands guide your thighs closer, his jeans undone. The cold metal of his fly bites into you. You grasp at the carved-out shape of his bare shoulders, then tip your head back to take in a good breath. He slowly peels your panties away and off to the side, sticky with your ever-flowing arousal. A soft sigh escapes you. Jason leans to your neck. He presses his lips to your throat — wet and tingly with insistence. Those kisses snowball into something greater, climbing up to your jaw, glistening white teeth trapping your earlobe between his teeth. You tremble, pelvis pressing into his. Rough denim licks at the insides of your thighs, too close to your aching cunt for you to resist a shudder.

You coyly bump your hips forward, wanting to rock on him. You can feel the heat of his cock through his strained boxers. Your brows knit together.

"You wannit, don't you, gorgeous?" Jason hums. One hand scoops yours up from his shoulder, guiding it down to rest on the curve of his bulge. Overzealous, emboldened by the last dregs of liquor swirling around within you, you palm him. He grunts, which melds into a smoky chuckle that gets you giddy.

"Go on," He urges, "Take it out, baby."

You have to pause, because what the fuck? That is easily one of the hottest things you've ever heard. And the worst (or best) part is, you know in a few weeks from now, Jason will say those exact same words to you again. You'll be in front of the instruments, probably around a fellow roadie or worse: one of the members, and Jason will enquire about his bass. You'll point it out to him. You know, down to your very atoms, he'll give you this pant-dropping, sweetheart smile, and nod his head towards it, and utter the exact same words. Take it out.

Regardless, after you come back to planet Earth, you comply. You need both hands to gingerly unwrap him from his boxers. Hot and cock-heavy, he bites down on his bottom lip to keep from squirming. For a few moments, you just sit on his thigh, your legs bracketing his sides. His blushed tip leaks pearlescent precum, smearing onto your abdomen as it stands proudly tall. You have to swallow the drool in your mouth because he's handsome and funny and talented and honourable, and as if that wasn't enough, he has to have a pretty dick that's so deliciously girthy it has you wanting to squeeze your legs together.

Jason's palms scrape up your back, bathing you in heat, soaking up every naked inch of your skin that he's allowed. You fist his cock, the side of your hand connecting against his base. You inch down onto him, enveloping him in tingling, syrupy heat. He sinks into your cunt, you roll your hips experimentally across his lap, which is slick with you at this point. The moan at the top of your throat stutters out. Jason watches your pussy slowly take him in, swallow him whole, coaxing him with squeezes and velvet heat. The only word on his mind is pretty.

With his cock putting tender stars in your eyes, you let Jason guide your head to the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. Your cheek smooshes into his trapezius muscle. He kisses your hairline, and you think you hear him cooing at you, but you barely hear anything over your own squeaks and the squelches of eager cunt falling into a rhythm that echoes off the tiles, no matter how hard you try to ignore said obscene sound. Your heart is thumping in your ears — it physically aches, sitting heavy against your ribcage.

Each time you press into him until his hilt is snug between your puffy sex, the air is rolled out of you, leaving you with nothing but breathy, high-pitched uh uh uh's as praise to feed him with. He makes do just fine, palming the soft globes of your ass, bracing his boots on the floor. Both strong arms curl around you, squeezing you into him.

The more you exchange inhales and exhales, moans and grunts, praises and compliments, the more something washes over you. A realisation. You'd been dying to feel this for weeks— months, even. You wanted his hands on you, you wanted to knit your bones over his, you wanted him to come teach you a gentler way to say your own name.

"Jason," You plead into the warm curve of his throat, muscles in your thighs burning, your hips wobbling against him. Your voice ripples through him, rides him hard.

He gathers all the breath in his lungs. "I gotcha, honey," He rumbles out. He locks you to him, lazily drawing the molten ache of your cunt flush against his base, stuffing you full of him. So full there's no room for slick, which bubbles out through the paper-thin seams of your tight-as-a-fist, pulsing sex in pornographically gushing dribbles, which seep and gather at the beginning of your ass, and his aching balls.

Your head is spinning. Moans leak out of your mouth. Jason half guides you and half bucks his hips up into you. Your chest bounces with each motion. Your eyes flutter closed, not unlike the way your heart trembles. Jason scoops you into his arms, and rocks you against his lap with so much velocity and viciousness that the tempo pounds within you, skin rippling on impact, and it's so powerful that you're genuinely stunned. As if he's been taking you apart brick by brick, and only now are you realising you are nothing but a wooden foundation of where everything once was.

With clammy skin, you bleed into him, breathless and crying praises around a frenzy of filthy moans. Your eyes roll around in their sockets, brainless with every bit of bliss that's bestowed unto you by each bite of Jason's cock bumping into your cervix. Your back arches, the soft shape of your tits pressing into his chest. Only skin separates your breaths. He could've gotten off on the sounds of your noises alone. But then he'd miss out on the tremble of your eyelashes, the wispy hairs that stick to your sweat-beaded temple.

You blur into him, the long muscles of his arms pin you by the hips into his own, taut with effort, just like his thighs. The sloppy, indulgently messy thrusts are fizzling into something breathtakingly good. It feels natural. Like home. Jason whispers how beautiful you are, how well you're taking him, how you're so sweet and so soft, and just like that, you're under his spell. Your orgasm bubbles up until it tips over.

You've got the moon in your eyes— just a bright flash of firey white that drives you mad with the craze of your tight heat squeezing and gushing and, and...

Jason's thrusts stop, his cock stilling inside you, yet he still persists. Pushing into you like there's any more unclaimed territory. You writhe. He cups the back of your head, stroking his fingertips into your hair. You can hear his heart pounding in your own ear that rests on his chest. His skin is as sweaty as yours with the effort, he smells so natural and salty. Your mouth fills with drool. In a long, unintelligible groan, Jason hits his high: filling what's left of your fucked-raw cunt with wave after wave of hot cum that you're half-sure leaks between the both of you. Probably got on the seats, too.

Those stars swirling in your head dissolve into tingles down your spine. You feel comfortably numb, proud of that satisfied ache deep within your belly. Jason, eager to continue his gentlemanly streak, rubs an open palm up and down your back to soothe you. His mind is put to ease as he feels your upper body expand with breath, shrinking with an exhale.

"Should've done that a long time ago," He murmurs, just wanting to speak to you. Although you have miles to go before you can crash at your hotel bed and dream. Probably about this exact moment.

You hum lazily in agreement, the low sound rolling and vibrating around in your throat. "If you want..." He shifts around, speaking up again. "We can, uh, make a habit of this...?"

Your chin rests on his collarbone as you look up at him through your lashes. Light bounces and reflects off of your eyes. You look almost impish. "Sure, farm boy." You grin.

[sourbites]

Okay this might be a bit of a reach. But maybe a smut with Kirk. Like enemies to lovers kinda thing. Kinda catches you outside a party smoking a joint crying over some average asshole. Maybe a little argument. Sorta kinda like I hate you so much I wanna shut you up in a sensual kinda way. 🥲

Licking Wounds

sorry it took so long to get to this request! also if this piece lowkey sucks, i am sorry in advance. still kind of sick..... BUT ANYWAY! i pictured kirk somewhere around load era where he (arguably) acted the meanest because he's such a sweetheart i can't imagine him ever beefing enough with someone to be actual enemies. so he's just a bit of a dick. enjoy!

The flux of song lyrics and honey-whispered words swim in your head until it feels like you're being held underwater, Poseidon's hostage. Your ears even do that prickly thing like there's fluid trying to creep inside your eardrums. The fire and rage that fuelled you to storm outside has quickly tanked into nothingness. You're just an empty engine rattling around on fumes of what was. Fuck him.

Seriously. Fuck him. Who invites someone for a date and then acts like — like that with the nearest girl?

You find solitude in the quiet amber night, hidden and tucked into shadows outside the side alley of the bar. The brick wall is cool and unyielding against your skull, your head seeking the stability it brings. The picture of him is burned into your memory like you left your TV on pause for too long. His hip bumping hers, her nails dragging down his neck as he leans in to hear her better. You can still hear the speakers playing songs from inside— a song they're probably dancing to, no doubt.

"Party's inside," You turn your head. Kirk's leaning against the brick wall, grinning at you all smugly. Little fucker. The white scleras of his eyes are blindingly bright against the inky blackness of the night. It's a stark contrast to the lightless browns of his irises. You feel like his gaze is tunnelling holes through you. It's lukewarm out — everything simmers with heat from the September day's sweltering sun.

"Exactly why I'm outside." You sass him back. With shaky hands, you fish out a half-crumpled cigarette. It'll have to do. Patting your pockets again, you find nothing but the cherry on top of a foul night. No lighter. Perfect. Sighing, trying not to cry like a baby outside a bar, you swipe a hand over your face. Hopefully, your mascara isn't too smudged. Whatever.

Kirk throws his hands up out of his pockets in mock surrender. You can tell he's mocking you because of that stupid fucking smile on his full lips. Jerk. The streetlights stream down onto him more than you (because you're tucked snugly into the side alley), his skin glistening gold at the edges in the warm light.

Before you can suck in another breath to verbally take out your awful day on to him, he slinks over to you with this casual slyness. He tucks the end of a joint between your lips and lights it for you. "Loosen up, would'ya?"

"Fucking don't," You tell him, leaning against the wall does nothing to stop you from tilting inwards in red-hot embarrassment and shame. You should've known not to go on a date with that jerk. You always told yourself you'd never be the type of broad to weep over some limp-dicked man. God, you wish you could go back in time and handcuff yourself to your radiator before you stepped outside to meet him. Your reason should've butted in sooner— no one likes captain hindsight.

Kirk just laughs off your nasty drunkenness. He tucks his lighter back in his pocket after lighting his own joint (he got the lighter to burn on the first try— twice. Show off). The lonely flame lapped at the shadows of his face, glinted off of his labret piercing. He looks stupid with that fucking spike. Well, he looks ridiculous anyway.

Still smiling like he's some cherub, he glances at you, "Christ, you're good company. No wonder your date's chatting up some other girl."

Usually, you'd be biting his head off for even daring to speak to you like that. But this is the seventh time this has happened. Or maybe eighth? You don't understand what's wrong with him. Or is it you? This was the hundredth time he's glanced away from you. You've tried everything: mimicking the girls that strike him, icing him out, doing everything he likes, anything you can think of to salvage your relationship. But the truth is, he takes his eyes off you so damn easily. And you're done pretending to be blind.

You laugh humourlessly, exhaling smoke into the stagnant night. It lurks and lingers around you for a few moments longer than usual before it just dissipates into nothingness. The joint does little to soothe you. It only seeps into your blood, your flesh. You need this smoke to cradle your bones, to kiss away the neurons that won't stop making you think.

It seems Kirk doesn't like you silent; because he looks down to scuff the soles of his shoes on the rain-saturated asphalt, kicking around discarded cigarette butts and the glass of long-ago smashed beer bottles. "Listen, about Mi—"

"I don't want to talk about him." You grumble.

Honestly, you don't even want to talk to Kirk. You haven't got the foggiest clue as to why he's even here, bothering you like some fly in your ear. He seems more than eager to go back in and enjoy the party.

"Well, what if I do? What're you going to do, go back inside? Be my guest, you'll see him with his tongue down some other skank's throat." He's way too happy to tell you that. Fucking hell, that's a bit harsh. You swallow the ugly dirtiness you feel and push down that despair that sticks to the insides of your mouth like paper. Why is being loved so hard?

"Why are you even here?" You give him the meanest glare you can muster right now. With sticky eyelashes and a queasy stomach, it's probably more similar to a blank stare.

Kirk shrugs, looking down at his shoes. His voice is uncharacteristically soft, maybe raspy from the smoke, as he rumbles out a gently dismissive, "Don't worry about it."

"Oh, so you can get in my business, but I can't get in yours?" You raise an inquisitive brow.

"Uh, yeah, considering I'm not the one blubbering over the same asshole every time I go out. You make your business everyone else's problem, so don't get so surprised when everyone knows that he fucks other girls." Wow. You work your mouth, blinking, stupefied. You see the blurry outlines of your silhouette staring back at you in a dim puddle in the ground.

You push yourself off the wall and turn your back on Kirk. You hear him scoff in disbelief from behind you as you re-enter the bar. The atmosphere inside is thick, suffocating you straight down to hell with sweat, booze, and cheap jasmine perfume. You don't know why you're back inside. It just seemed - at the time - a better alternative than getting an earful from Kirk. Maybe you can convince the bartender to call you a taxi, considering your phone's dead.

You pull yourself up to the polished wooden bar and quickly recoil your hands once you feel how disgustingly sticky it is. You scan for the guy working behind the bar, but all you see is your idiot fucking date doing his usual tricks to get a girl to go home with him. Maybe it's the weed, maybe you're seeing in better picture, but as you watch him smoothing his warm hands down her arms, brushing his lips against the shell of her ear, you don't feel the usual agony. Okay, sure, it's a little embarrassing considering the patrons saw you with him dancing only a mere twenty minutes ago, but they're drunk, and you bet their picture of you is already beginning to fade.

Huh.

The cool outside air takes that weight clean off your shoulders. "Oh, got bored already?" Kirk calls to you once he sees your figure nearing him.

"Something like that." You take a big inhale of your joint (for luck, not courage) and step real close to him. His scent hits you like a brick wall, all boozy and that rigid tobacoo scent. You hear him murmur out a smooth whoa under his breath.

"Why are you still here? Really." You inquire. Without a hint of shyness, you sauntered into his bubble of space like you owned the place. But now you're here, you don't want to be so commanding and kill the intimacy of proximity.

Kirk lays a hand on your side. His body heat seeps through your shirt. "Would you believe me if I said I didn't like the song they're playing?"

"No song runs for, like, twelve minutes." You point out through hushed giggles. You don't feel loopy from the weed. Is Kirk genuinely amusing?

"Dogs," He hums automatically, brushing away the hair from your forehead with the back of his hand. There are a few rings decorating his fingers that bite your skin upon contact.

"...What?"

"Pink Floyd— the song Dogs," Kirk expands, wetting his lower lip with his tongue. His huge, dark eyes drop to your mouth. "That song runs for, I think... fifteen minutes?"

You can't help but genuinely laugh at him. "Fuck, you're a nerd." You sigh, still grinning. "But seriously, why did you follow me out here?"

Kirk's eyes narrow— just a smidge. "What do you want to hear me say? I saw you run out like a fuckin' kid, and I felt it was my duty to comfort you. Don't be such a goddamn princess, alright? Just drop it."

You don't wriggle out from his touch. Nothing seems that serious anymore. You hum thoughtfully, brushing the pad of your thumb against his chin. You wonder if that piercing hurt. If it was planned. If he cried. "You're a dick." You say it so casually - so easily - that it doesn't even hit like an insult.

You're both just standing there, orbiting each other. It's cooler than anticipated outside; the lightbulbs in the streetlamps are long overdue for a change. They buzz overhead. The scenery lacks the colour of daylight or artificial light like the ones inside the bar. Maybe this near-monochromatic world brings more clarity than the exciting hubbub of passionate reds and the flair of a coddling yellow.

"You don't actually like him, do you?" Kirk's voice is ghostly quiet; you barely hear it. You wish it would haunt you. Through the virile streams of muggy grey smoke, you watch Kirk's facial expression. Mostly, you just watch the smoke in front of you, trying to see words or images within the steady flow of dead, grey air.

Albeit petulantly, you shrug your shoulders. "I dunno. Not recently." Your voice is awkward, mumbling around the edges of the joint Kirk gave you.

It's so difficult to get the cage of your mouth open sometimes. You don't want to talk about how bad you feel, how lonely, how upset you get at night. Your tongue sits in your jaw like a rock, like a dying star weighing you down on the gritty floor. Is it a crime to simply want to be adored?

"I watched you," Kirk clears his throat, avoiding your sad eyes. "On the dance floor. You looked good. Happy. You didn't like him then?"

You shake your head, flicking the smouldering end of the joint into a stagnant puddle of rainwater. "I liked dancing. I like being with someone, just not him anymore. I..." You roll the words around in your mouth. You haven't even been brave enough to write this in your diary, and here you are, about to confide in Kirk— the asshole of the century.

"To be honest with you, Kirk, I'm not really surprised anymore. I know he doesn't actually like me. I just... it beats being alone."

"So you'd hang out with any fucker so long as it's company?" He raises his brows at you. One hand is in his pocket.

Without waiting for you to respond, Kirk scoops your hips into his hands and steers you against the chilly brick wall. You should resist. You honestly should. But you're drunk (tipsy, you'd insist to anyone who dared to point out your warm face and slanted gait) and high and hollow and so loudly lonely. He gives you his shoulder to lay your head on; your hands slide under his leather jacket, enveloping them in heat. Not radiator heat or hot bath heat— human heat. The real deal.

His mouth tastes like warm tequila. Toasty, smooth tequila that sinks down your throat almost. Such a peaceful mouth, free of the brambled insults it hurls at you. You're led closer to him, tethered to this rope that is his full pink lips. Kirk's fingertips sink into your ass; it sets your wayward heart roiling with newfound contempt for him, and yet you sigh into his kiss, wanting to consume his every earthy-tequila breath and bandage it around your shuddering skin.

Your whole body rattles with tiny electric pulses that rise like steam to fog up your brain that's too thick to see through. Everything is Kirk. You barely register that a song is flowing out of the bar and into your swirling head. I Wanna Be Adored, but it's being covered by some cool, angsty chick.

Both your faces pull away from the kiss. The spell's not broken, though. The moment, the heat, it all lingers... neither of you want to give it up for a memory just yet. Your mouth tingles with the phantom heat of Kirk's lips against you. With jellified muscles, the back of your skull slowly sinks into the brick wall as best as it can. Kirk's mouth is on you again, on your pulse, trailing quick, flighty kisses around the collar of your shirt.

"You done whining about your boyfriend now?" Kirk mutters, in between pressing his teeth into your shoulder, capturing your skin and tugging down your shirt until the fabric warps. Greedy. Saying anything smart will ruin the magic, so you just dig your nails into the nape of his neck, relishing in the way he pours a groan onto you.

Goosebump-inducingly hot hands slide up your side, planting you in place. You wonder if Kirk can read your thoughts— if he's purposefully coaxing you away from nurturing any rational thought that would butt in with a: 'Whoa there, girlfriend!'

The spiked jewellery of his labret piercing digs into your skin. You hiss. The little fucker laughs at you. How Kirk makes you feel - like you're in some artsy film, where everyone else fizzes into the background, and all your lines are witty - it doesn't mesh well with his blunt personality. You feel like you shouldn't ever pull yourself away from him. He slyly bumps his hips into yours; his hand travels south to your thigh, coaxing it up to hook around his waist.

"I wanna be adooored..."

The singer's distant voice haunts you through layers of brick and mortar. Kirk's tongue laps over a teeth-shaped ring on your neck. You keen into him, your flesh is irritated by him, and yet the only medicine for you is him. He's pressing against you like you press your hands into your eyes to stop yourself from crying. Your palms burn, his mouth feels like the start of forever and simultaneously feels like the final nail in your coffin. Would he listen if you whispered your sorrows to him?

In the corner of your eye, before everything that isn't your spotlight on Kirk fades away, the cheap neon sign lights bleed into the puddles on the pavement.

"You want to make him jealous?" Kirk noses into your ear, skirting his fingertips around your hips restlessly. You know what he's alluding to. Does it always have to be about him? Why can't this just be for you?

Cementing yourself to the moment, you rest your arms on Kirk's shoulders and lock them together, letting his worn-smooth leather jacket meld into your skin. "No. I just want to feel good."

Satisfied, Kirk purrs, "I can do that," into the shell of your ear— before kissing the cartilage and grabbing an eager fistful of your ass.

He looks up at you from his resting place on your shoulder. Enormous brown eyes framed by thick, long eyelashes. Desire rolls around in your belly. You feel tethered to him. Fucking him would be like fucking a concept, a piece of art— though you do want him. Terribly so.

Kirk's stronger than he looks when he gets your legs fully around him, your panties to the side. His hard, aching cock is propped up on the waistband of his jeans that he's had to inch down his hips. The unattractive buzz of neon lights and old streetlamps still lingers around, like a wasteland where made-of-flesh cicadas have been replaced by synthetically monotonous, perverse humming. He uses two of his fingers to coax you open, slicked up with his spit and your own wetness. The heel of his palm pushes into your throbbing clit. You shudder around him.

Once your common sense washes over you, and the smell of Kirk no longer blinds you, you're sure to feel shame that you've taken the world's most annoying man's dick right outside a bar. But right now, all you know is Kirk's thick fingers curling within you so deep, your knees locked around him, and his mouth sucking bruises into your ribs.

The song hits the instrumental bridge. It just rattles in your head. Then Kirk fills out the rest. Between the beats, there's him.

You use all the breath in your chest to power out a muffled moan into his collarbone. Kirk replaced his fingers with his cock— and fuck, is it an upgrade. You didn't realise your eyes were closed in cock-drunkenness until you felt your lashes against your warm cheeks. Kirk presses into you; all the way to the base of his cock, where his happy trail is dirtied by your overeager cunt, smearing the arousal that leaks out of you onto him.

Kirk was never on your lists of goals or dreams or lovers, and here he is, giving you the best fuck of your life. He's got a palm on the wall, cushioning your head, the other securing you around him with his hand cupping your thigh. You know next time you're in the shower, you'll find his fingertipped bruises on the backs of your thighs with your own fingers, and you know all the sweltering heat from tonight will come shooting back to you. All it will take is a touch, a memory. In the words of Virgil: smooth the descent, and easy is the way.

It's a lot of bumping, it's a lot of filthy mouths saying filthy things. Your skin is burning— you cling to him desperately, shoving your nose into his neck until you can almost smell the iron in his blood. His golden skin makes your mouth water— just a hard-edged jawline and glittering jewellery that commands attention like the sun at noon. Other men (like the one in the bar, oblivious to the fantastic night you've having) before Kirk have bumbled and fumbled around your body and searched within you blindfolded, wholly missing the mark when it comes to pleasing you. But Kirk? He's a fucking mind reader. If you think deeper, he's lewdly swinging his hips until they piston into your cervix with so much zeal that you think you're going to faint and tear his skin open with how evilly you're clawing at his arms. If you think slower, you can hear the pornographic squelches of your sopping wet cunt; can feel every single atom of his wonderfully skilled cock reaming you open.

The song's outro swirls in your head. Like a siren's spell, working hand-in-hand with Kirk to keep you hypnotised.

"You adore me... (I wanna).... You adore me.... (I wanna....)"

You don't care. You don't care about anything. When he's inside you, it feels so good it hurts. It chases away any cold-lipped loneliness. It's all just Kirk, Kirk, Kirk. He crushes his mouth onto yours. His spiked labret jewellery rests against your skin, vaguely threatening. No matter those Bambi eyes, he'll never be soft. Never be yours. He's practically lunging his hungry cock within you. There's no doubt in your mind that your tailbone is going to be sore tomorrow— you can already feel the pattern of bruises lined up your skin where Kirk grasped and clutched at you and dug in his blunt nails.

Even though you still feel hollowed out, you feel your organs rattling within you, your eyes unfocused yet still trained on him, stupefied by how impressive his performance is. You arch against him, crying out against his palm. He shushes you, grinning. He's grinding his hips into yours as if he's trying to fucking pave his way within you for his return, so he knows his way around.

"Fuckin' gorgeous," Kirk hisses, groping more bruises into your thigh, sucking at the base of your neck. "Gorgeous girl. Gorgeous pussy." He exhales, his breath fanning across the circles of his spit on your neck.

You take a hand and curl your fingers into his palm, the one plastered on your mouth to silence you. You're not sure why you do it. Maybe you just want to hold a part of him.

"S' funny," Kirk laughs, all velvety-smooth in a way that has your insides fluttering around him. "That fuckin' idiot in there... missing out on you," He groans.

"It's me who makes you moan like this - gets you so wet - me who gets to ruin your pussy for anyone else. You're mine, baby—"

"Kirk," You warn noisily into his hand. Then a moan quickly stumbles out around his palm. He grins smugly against your neck.

You grab onto him for dear life. He's a sight: deliriously hot and cocky as he splits you in two against a brick wall (that's probably scraping up his hand that's acting as your cushion). His ploughing slows into a sloppy glide, subjecting your ears to the embarrassing squelch of your bodies joining together. The stars in your eyes are lit. Kirk needed to see it, even if he's never been one for stargazing. The back of your neck is boiling hot; your hair is sticking to your forehead— most of your skin is dampened by sweat or slick. He's panting into your skin, hips finally stuttering against your pelvis. Brittle cries live and die in the back of your throat. His cock swells and fills you to the brim as you soak him to the bone. Your eyes roll so far back in your head that you almost catch a glimpse of your brain. Frenzied, your cunt pulses around him, your abdomen pulled taut.

You almost slide down the entire length of the wall once Kirk gingerly untangles your limbs. Your muscles ache, jellified, so dazed with that love potion he had you gulping down. You gasp big mouthfuls of air. You can taste the salt of sweaty skin and the muggy city on your tongue. The insides of your thighs are uncomfortably sticky.

Kirk cups your cheeks in his hands and kisses your brow. You've tasted the good and the bad in him— and you want them both.

"You're done griping now, I hope." He murmurs into your temple. What a fucking jerk.

[sourbites]

went on a dress to impress bender the past few weeks, sorry guys. a banger request has pulled me from my moment of madness though. i will not let dti distract me from what matters (writing smut)

[sourbites]

hiii everyone just to keep those who gaf in the loop— posts are at a record low because of upcoming exams. plus i can feel the hyperfixation pendulum swinging towards dc comics. i'll mop up the rest of my tallica fics and see where we're at. i have NOT forgotten about u guys. ly all 🩷

[sourbites]

Didn't know you were sick ♡ hope you feel better soon!

thank you so much! that’s so kind of you! i am feeling a loooot better but still not completely healthy, (so i’m relying on cough drops, orange juice, my beloved soup, and whiskey to heal me 🙏 ) take care of yourself anon i don’t want you coming down with anything remotely similar to this foul cold 🩷

[sourbites]

OH MY GOD IM sCREAMING AT THAT NEW KIRK FIC AHHHHHHH

i am extremely normal about him….

also getting back on my soapbox to say that your writing is incredible… your vocabulary choice is extremely pleasing and your syntax reflects the kinda erratic thought process when you’re stoned, all those little things that very few people would pick up on… the level of intent and consideration you put into writing is phenomenal

-🍺

BEER ANON YOU LEGEND! THANK YOU SOO MUCH! it's so validating to hear that fic was enjoyed because i was so paranoid i butchered the request 😣 i feel like i'm going to get egotistical if you hype me up any more! (a fire sign curse, i fear) i do NOT deserve your gorgeous praises <3 i can only hope i am half as proficient in writing as you describe

[sourbites]

How does it feel to write the best Jason fic ❤️

(i need more pleaseee)

anon you're sooo sweet thank you so much <3 i will do my best to cook up a tastier jason fic to feed the masses!!

[sourbites]

If its not too much to ask/it's possible, can we see ur wip list?? 👀

sure! it's currently all metallica smut right now (i'm in deep).

one kirk request (friends to lovers, smoking weed together)

one kirk fic that's entirely self indulgent (steamy shower sex. idk whats in my brain but i looove suds and soap)

one james fic centered around him when he's in his cowboy era

one lars fic that i haven't quite worked out just yet, but late-night car sex will be an occurence because that concept sparkles and pleases me quite well

[sourbites]

you write the fucking best jason todd ive ever read i need more

thank you so much! i’d love to write more for him but i srsly can’t think of anything off the dome. if you have a request or an idea feel free to send it in 🙈

[sourbites]

Hi who all do you prefer to write for in the dc stuff??? Because would you write for Batman?? 👀🫣

i would write for Bruce! (i’m going to assume you mean Bruce because he’s the most notorious Batman, but if you mean someone else who’s been Batman let me know!) and i don’t really have a preference, i just write whatever is requested / whoever i saw a sexy edit of 🙈

[sourbites]

Phewwwww that Jason smut was good. Can we expect any more? Even maybe with other dc guys? 🤭

anon! thank you sm 🙏 atm i’m working on another Jason fic, should be out sometime soon 🙈

DC characters i write are (subject to change): All the Robins (Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian), plus Roy and Conner/Kon 💖

[sourbites]

We desperately need a Jason Todd smut. He’s angry and I just wanna kiss him til he shuts up

i have 2 separate jason requests i'm working on 🫡 you will be fed soon anon, i promise. just turned in a college essay, so i'm free to go beast mode on tumblr. i like to think jason intentionally plays up his anger so he gets extra smooches. bro's too coy to ask