#i love one yeehonk cowboy

[wardenparker]

Y’all LOOK what @absurdthirst sent me! I'm screeching and cackling with glee over here, guys. The maker included a "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" sticker in the box and that sucker went RIGHT on my laptop. The vibes are immaculate today.

[devildomwriter]

Obey Me As Tumblr #17

Diavolo: Do you know how many bones the human body has? It’s 206. We start with 369 when we’re babies but they fuse. Wouldn’t you want to go back? Have as many bones as a baby? What if I could help you

Mammon: Hey OP what the actual literal fuck does that mean

•

Mammon: I’m sure this has been asked before but would vampires drink period blood, and more importantly would the clumps just be a bonus for them?

Barbatos: Ever had bubble tea?

Satan: I’m going to hurt all of you I’m going to hit both of you with a heavy rock

•

Mammon: *takes off my leather jacket to reveal a second, secret leather jacket underneath*

Raphael: You mean skin?

Mammon: What an absolutely terrifying addition to my post, thank you

•

Leviathan: Every time I sneeze my ribs start aching

Solomon: And every time we kiss I swear I could fly

•

Solomon: Double bubble disco queen headed to the guillotine

Skin as cold as rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine

Leviathan: Boys you think you know what’s happening in this one and then it just knocks you flat, doesn’t it

•

Asmodeus: *sticks my bare ass in sewer opening* oh no I sure hope no demon clown tries to eat my a

Simeon: I’m on hold with Warner cable getting my WiFi shut off because this post was the last straw for me

•

Beelzebub: Just bought this tapeworm from Etsy

Diavolo: Where are you gonna keep it

Beelzebub: :)

Diavolo: I don’t like this post very much

•

Leviathan: Plankton built his computer wife so he’s also the one who programmed her personality. Plankton made a wife who would belittle and mock him. Plankton has a humiliation fetish.

Solomon: Sometimes we have thoughts but we don’t have to share them with everyone and put them out into the world. Just a suggestion.

•

Leviathan: A clownboy (half clown, half cowboy) says yeehonk

Raphael: This is it. The worst post I’ve seen, my own two eyes are cursed.

•

Solomon: When an earthquake happens coffins become underground maracas

Mammon: Thanks for that not at all terrifying image

•

Satan: Hey

Satan: Everyone’s bones are wet

Solomon: Why would you say that

Satan: No one said hi back

•

Simeon: TIL – You can skip piracy warnings and trailers on a DVD by pressing STOP -> STOP -> PLAY

Leviathan: I can’t wait to do this 10 years ago

•

Satan: If the toys in toy story died the kids would keep playing with them like normal, but the other toys would be playing with their dead friend

Mammon: What the hell

•

Diavolo: Why don’t murderers just hide the bodies in cemeteries

Belphegor: Thanks for the tip

Diavolo: No this is not a tip it’s a joke

•

Leviathan: Things I used to laugh at

• real jokes

Things I laugh at now

• yard sard

•

Asmodeus: Imagine having sex with a ghost and then someone walks into your room and they see your asshole widening and narrowing for no reason

Simeon: Imagine praying to God and going to church

•

Asmodeus: I think I’ve made like 5 jokes about edging on this blog already

Satan: I’ve yet to make one but I have come pretty close

•

Satan: Enough about sex positions has anyone discovered a reading position which doesn’t get uncomfortable after 5 minutes

Last • Next

[loversandantiheroes]

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

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

No Candles Necessary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dinner can wait-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whiskey opens his mouth and takes what you give him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“H-ha-ah, fuck-how much more?”

He grins devilishly. “Just this last bite.”

“Oh you f-fucking jackass!”

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

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

“Good girl,” he murmurs sweetly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jack.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Love you, honeybee.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm-hm,” you agreed dumbly.

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

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

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

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

“What kind?”

“Peach.”

He hums, smiling drowsily. “My favorite.”

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

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

[lowlights]

Lauuurraaaaaa my queen 👑 let's talk love languages and one Mr Jack Daniels - how does he give love and how does he get it? Apart from getting so so lovingly pegged over a washing machine

Hello Flora dear! I love this question. Hmmm....

It's not words of affirmation. Jack uses a lot of flowery words all the time, sometimes when he's undercover and always when he's with you. It doesn't mean that he isn't sincere in his words to you- but that's not truly his love language, and he doesn't require it back. I think Jack shows his love through quality time and physical touch.

Quality time is important to him because he knows how it feels to lose out on time with his loved ones, as he lost his wife and unborn child long ago. Time is precious: time together when he gets home from work or back from a mission. Time without danger or distraction. It can be a deep conversation or just watching a movie or reading together in silence. He just wants to be near you whenever possible.

Going along with that, Jack loves physical touch. It keeps him grounded and sane when it feels like his world might be spinning out of control. He likes the domesticity of holding your hand as you walk through a farmers' market together, or crowding up behind you while you do the dishes. He also craves intimacy, be it holding hands or burying himself inside of you. He is very sensory, loving the way you feel and how soft and warm you are. He likes to leave little marks on you as he sucks your skin.

I have a few more niche HCs that I would call love languages for him, or expressions of love. Food is one of his love languages, both cooking and eating. Care is a really big thing for him. He also shows his love by making your home comfortable. I wouldn't go so far as to call it gift-giving, but he is focused on making sure you have the exact comfy couch you want or the highest quality pajamas, cost is no object.

Clearly, I could talk about him forever.....thank you for asking about my yeehonk cowboy. <3

[leslie-lyman]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💖

<3 <3 <3

Adira my love! I’ve technically only written four fics, but for you I will rec them all here. ❤️

1. A Bit of a Fright (Whiskey x f!reader, rated T)

My first ever posted fic and I’m still so proud of it. Do you hate horror movies but love one soft gentlemanly yeehonk cowboy? Then this is the fic for you!

2. Rights and Wrongs (Whiskey x f!reader, rated M for now, mind the tags)

I channeled so much of my frustration and rage and fear into this fic, and I hope those who read it find some of the same catharsis in reading it that I did in writing it. But more than anything, this fic is about love, and about two people who realize how much they mean to each other. Listen, sometimes it takes an abortion to realize you’re in love with your best friend, okay?

3. Waterproof (Dieter Bravo x f!reader, rated E)

I have, just barely, one dominant bone in my body. And I used it to write a fic where reader edges Dieter until he cries. This was new territory for me and I really love how it turned out!

4. Stranger At My Gate (Pero Tovar x OFC Tessa Walsh, rated E)

What can I say about SAMG? This fic is my baby and I love it so, so much. Come for the magical time-traveling romance, stay for Aunt Moira. Just trust me on this.

5. Whatever comes next. Max Lord? Ezra? Marcus Pike? Who knows! But I’ve got so many new things in the works and I’m so excited about all of them.

[astroboots]

You know what’s on my mind today?

Old Jack.

The old cowboy, weary in his bones, rode hard and put up wet by the hand life dealt him.

Saddle sore and sweet as can be underneath it all. Warm, crinkling eyes and a few more wrinkles than he remembers having yesterday.

Now imagine that man loving you.

Jack is doting in a way that isn’t quite so obvious at first. He owns expensive things, sure, but he doesn’t buy much, because he doesn’t need much — he might be a businessman, but he’s still very much a dust-covered gaucho at heart.

So when Jack loves you, he finds small things that he knows makes you smile. He brings you a single flower — simple, unadorned, and beautiful — because you don’t need frills and bows, bells and whistles, to be beautiful to him.

He trains a horse for you, a quiet mare with a gentle manner, soft and sweet and mild. He does it himself, spends hours bonding with her to make sure she’s the right one, gentle murmurs against her velveteen cheek and soothing strokes of his big, warm, calloused hand on her strong neck.

And when he calls you those charming pet names in that black molasses drawl, sugar and sweet pea and darlin’ and sunflower, he does it with such raw hope and vulnerability shining in those big brown eyes, you never question whether he’s sincere or just laying it on thick.

When he’s yours, the man is sweet as sorghum and equally as sticky. And once he’s in the door he’s pressed up against your back with his arms around you and his nose in your hairline and there’s no getting rid of him now because god if it’s not his favorite place on the whole world, that space where your scent bubbles up like a mountain spring.

And when he feels you sag back against him, safe to lean into him, to use him to prop you up against the troubles of life, he whispers behind your ear. “Tell old Jack what you need.” And he doesn’t have to say anything more than that — you both know he’ll give you anything you need, anything you ask for. He’d break his own heart and give you the pieces if you only asked him to.

Because that’s old Jack.

—🥸

The menace that is 🥸 anon is back here to wreck all of our hearts with intolerable yearning. HOW DARE— why am I soft for cowboy yeehonk?!?! HUUUH!!? You are not allowed to do this

[multifandomfanfiction]

National Cowboy Day

TITLE: National Cowboy Day PAIRING: Jack/Elizabeth (OC) RATING: T CHAPTER: One-shot SUMMARY: Elizabeth and Jessie have a surprise for Jack.

[A/N - It was National Cowboy Day yesterday, so of course I had to write for our favorite yeehonk idiot.]

Jack pulled up to the ranch and got out of his truck. It’d been a long hard day of work and he just wanted to collapse in Elizabeth’s arms. He entered the house and instead of being nearly bowled over by his young daughter, he was met with an entirely different sight.

“Oh!” Elizabeth gasped, realizing her husband was now home. She cleared her throat and put a hand on the white Stetson on her head. “Howdy partner.” Her attempt at a Southern accent was adorable. It was extremely exaggerated and stereotypical, but he could hear her normal accent peeking through.

Along with the cowboy hat, she was dressed in a red, plaid, button-down shirt tied off at the waist, tight blue jeans, and white cowboy boots.

Jack leaned up against the doorway of the kitchen, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “That’s a cute giddup ya have there, darlin’.”

Elizabeth blushed and bit her bottom lip.

He walked over to her and pulled the hat off her head, setting it on the counter next to them. He undid the knot of the t-shirt and the hem fell to her mid-thigh. “You know what it does to me when you wear my clothes.”

Elizabeth simply smirked and Jack leaned down to kiss her.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Jessie squealed.

Jack and Elizabeth laughed as the five-year-old ran towards them.

Jack looked down to find his daughter dressed in a sunshine yellow sundress with brown cowboy boots, and pigtails in her dirty blonde hair. “Ain’t you the cutest little cowgirl there ever was?” Jack scooped her up in his arms.

“Mumma and I got dressed up for you! She said it was your holiday!”

Jack frowned. “My holiday?”

“National Cowboy Day! So mumma and I went shopping and she did my hair!”

True to Eggsy’s word, Jessie had a weird accent. Certain words came out with a Southern twang, while others made her sound like a posh Brit. It was part of the reason Elizabeth and Jack had decided to home-school her. Less opportunity to be bullied at school because of her parent’s backgrounds or age-gap. Plus, between Elizabeth, Jack, Harry, and Eggsy, she’d get the best education possible.

Jack set Jessie down and wrapped his arms around Elizabeth’s waist. “Happy National Cowboy Day, Jack.”

Before the two could kiss again, Jessie was pulling on her mother’s hand. “Mumma, can we watch Home on the Range after dinner?”

Elizabeth stroked the back of her daughter’s head. “Of course we can, love.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jessie fell asleep halfway through the movie and Elizabeth carried her to bed. Jack had offered to do it, but she insisted. Jack turned the movie off and leaned his head back. He was exhausted.

When Elizabeth came back out, she was dressed in a tan bra and panties, a vest jacket with fringe, a belt with a fake pistol attached and tan suede boots. “Hey cowboy.”

Jack turned his head and his eyes darkened immediately upon seeing her. “C’mere, sugar. Mount your trusty steed.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes at his lame joke and sauntered over to him.

Jack put his hands on her thighs as she straddled his lap. “Goddamn, Tinkerbelle.”

Elizabeth smiled. “You like it?”

“Like it? Darlin’, I’m havin’ a hard time not rippin’ it off ya.”

Elizabeth blushed. Maybe it was her British upbringing, but she still had a hard time when Jack was forward.

Jack leaned forward and kissed her. Elizabeth threaded her fingers in his dark hair.

“I still can’t believe it’s been six years,” Jack said once they pulled away from each other. Jack still struggled with the guilt over what he’d done, despite Elizabeth reassuring him that she forgave him.

“Six amazing years,” Elizabeth told him, “I wouldn’t change anything.”

“Nothing?”

Elizabeth kissed him gently. “Not one bit.” Elizabeth knew Jack worried about her coming her to senses and leaving him.

He worried about the fact that he was nearly 20 years her senior. Would she still want him when his hair was gray and he couldn’t keep up with her anymore?

“I love you, Jack,” Elizabeth told him, once again soothing all his fears.

Jack playfully smacked her thigh and said, “C’mon Mrs. Daniels. Ride your cowboy.”

Elizabeth giggled and pressed her lips to his again.

Taglist: @pedrostories

[lusus]

finally made one of these for efraim + got a handful of NEW TROLLS............. i don’t have their pages yet but they’re a fun crew.

efraim (he/they)--the nasty plague man we know and love

dottie (they/he/she)--clown cowboy who likes fun (and deadly) pranks. yeehonk.

jingle (they/them)--clown paladin, judge, lover of extreme violence & unicorns

“vander” (”he”/they/it)--formerly a law professor, now host to a body-snatching alien invader trying to adapt to and blend in with alternian life.

(also here’s a reminder u can buy a drawing like these for $20, hmu perhaps)

[shotfreed]

What do you hate about your muse? (If you think I am not going to jump at the opportunity to open this can of worms you are absolutely incorrect. Drag him.)

a (late as hell) munday meme // @strike-at-the-heart (accepting)

hahaHHAHAAAA THANKS FAM OKAY HERE WE GO JESSE MCCREE HATE UNDER THE CUT BY A FUCKING JESSE MCCREE RPER

disclaimer i don’t hate hate jesse like an actual anti but like man do i hate my jesse. 

just some general things. 

Don’t get me wrong canon mccree, but also a fucking. honest to god. cowboy.

jesse i swear to god that italian accent is enough reason for execution christ

you’re fucking belt says BAMF. how much of a fucking loser

I love Matthew Mercer but Jesses fucking voice gives me a headache like when i think in my muses voice i get a migraine dont get me started on his accent

y’all think that y'all’d’ve'f'i’d’ve shit aint real youre wrong

what is it with you and “darlin’” like my jesse in particular thats how i get into his voice

on that note more specific shit on my take on this clownboy

clownboy n. half clown, half cowboy. says “yeehonk” source. 

bisexual polyamorous disaster. 

and i mean disaster 

can you like have a normal healthy relationship of like any kind

clingy motherfucker holy hell

hot and cold

will literally cling to a lover in they sleep but when they wake up cold son of a bitch like some tragic hero bc he “can’t really be with anyone” get over yourself you fucking piece of SHIt

im sorry but he’s a FUCKING COWBOY. 

switchiest switch to ever switch 

“hey there ;)” 

literally anyone “well hey ;)” 

jes: “.//////////////.” like the fucking dweeb he is.

reciprocated attraction?? lol who?

purposely attention seeking. will totally get in the way of a serious muses work and should definitely be killed on spot hes annoying asf

okay back to the bad relationships toxic relationships tw

he had at least two major partners and they both sucked ASS like BAD ok

do not wanna get into it. jesse you should have been gone gone gone lonnnnggg time before this

in BW .092239487348 seconds already gay for Reyes 

in OW for 1 minute and he’s attracted to like everyone.

give me the fucking list dudes

at least he had the decency to back off Lena when he found out she was lesbian. so there is that i guess. 

fucking christ slow as motherfucker how the hell do you get ANYWHERE

idiot romantic

like an idiot like a real fucking dumbass

"is this a romantic a ttraction?” 

the butterfly is literally anyone who might be vaguely interested in him esp if the relationship will hurt him somehow

also my jesse accidentally befriended a snake how the fuck do you ACCIDENTALLY

also its babies all know him hes secretly a disney fucking princess

theres a vulture too and honest to god vulture

he leaves a lot of dead in his wake ok

also hey cna you maybe not fuck everything up by just being there

ramen shop. train. fucking moron

that wasn’t his fault tbh but it also was shyut ip

HIS WHISTLING. THE OBNLY THING THAR STOPS ME FROM PUNCHINGG MY HEADPHONES ACROSS THE COUNTRY IS MAT NOT JESSE

orisa pls kill him

jesse you literally never have the right to talk shit back at literally anyone except maybe reaper bc that is also one big loser

im sorry but like listen its all well and dandy to cling to something and like have it become really important to your development thats totally valid

but jesse. you literally talk like a fucking clown

DONT CLOWN A CLOWN YOULL END UP WITH A FROWN WELL GUESS WHAT JESSE YOU CLOWNED YOURSELF AND NOW LOOK WHAT HAPPENED THATS WHY OVERWATCH DISBANDED

that makes no sense i just hate him a lot

fucking christ done ever speak spanish

your italian accent was one thing

i do not EVER want to hear him say literally anything ever 

in any language

but ESPECIALLY NOT SPANISH

OR ANY NOT AMERICAN ENGLISH

C HR I S T I HATE HIM SO MUCH

WHAT the FUCK is that BEARD SHIT YOU MONEY LOOKIN ASS

RATTY LITTLE EYES 

LOOK AT HIM I DONT CARE IF HES FULLY CLOTHES HE LOOKS LIKE A WHORE

YOUR PONCHO IS FUCKING BURNT WHAT DID YOU DO YOU IDIOT

ALSO UNLESS IM BLIND IS THAT ASECOND GUN U GOT HOLSTERED THERE BOY

SHABBY RATTY LOOKIN ASS FUCKING GODS I HATE HIM

ALSO WE JOKE ABOUT GENJI NOT WEARING CLOTHES BUT JESSE DONT HAVE A SHIRT ON

idk if thats armor or cybernetics but like 

wide ass fucking mouth froggy lookin ass some people make it work and you my good fuckboy, do not

he is also a complete fuck boy prove me wrong

his cigar too fucking literally how do u pay for all of those you son of a binch

a l s o. bitch looks like he’d try to mansplain how to yeehaw mother fucker i HATE HIM

literally how has anyone ever taken you seriously

to quote, “mccrees instincts are, as ever, unimpeachable.” read as: no shit, dumbass. 

dont know when youve lost just die

also, to quote a real smart dumbass from Blue Exorcist, “he’s so stupid he’d forget to die even if he got killed.” 

and that my friends is the only reason and i mean ONLY  REASON jesse mccree is still alive today

oh and one last thing

he’s a little bitch.

[wardenparker]

His photo made me miss Agent Whiskey soulmate Sunday!

8 more hours until chapter 10!!!

[wardenparker]

Who's your favourite Pedro Pascal character number one?

I have a pretty solid top 5, but no matter my mood and no matter what I want to write, I will always love character just a tiny bit more than some others...

[wardenparker]

Hi love! I wanted to tell you I love love love your soulmate au’s!! Soulmates is one of my favorite things ever and every single au you write, you knock it out of the park. Idk if you were planning on doing one for Jack but if you are may I ask what the premise is for him? If you have one! Plz no pressure! I’m just curious and Jack is my fave lol okay sorry for bothering you, I hope you had a great day and a great week!!🖤🖤

So, we're planning on doing a soulmate story for all the Pedro characters eventually. And lovely asks are never, never a bother!

Jack's story will most likely involve his second soulmate.  As of right now, reader is a Statesman employee and Jack’s involvement in his second soulmate’s life not totally honest at first. I don’t want to give away too much plot in case things change between now and when it gets written, but just know that Jack is one of my absolute favourite Pedro characters and he will *not* get left out of the soulmate series. 

Sorry this got buried in my asks, but I’m glad to be able to answer it!

[wardenparker]

I ship you with that yee-haw bastard, Jack Daniels. A Second Chance at Love was the first fic of yours that I read and it’s left a lasting impression. ❤️❤️❤️

My sweet cowboy!

I do love that Yeehonk man.

Who Do You Ship Me With?

[loversandantiheroes]

Hotel Hobbies - Prelude

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x Reader Author’s Note: I have nothing to say for myself other than the most shameful of yee-honks.  This was largely just an attempt to break through some writer’s block, but also a little bit of a fuck you to Whiskey’s godawful characterization (get thee hence, canon, thou art dead to me).  In either case I 110% blame @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa for dragging me into the Pedro pit and for making the “yeehonk loser” tag funny enough for me to go see what the fuss was about.  Either way, this is unbeta’d and barely edited and is probably just a big goddamn mess.  Which fits, quite frankly. Apologies in advance if it sucks. Summary:  He’s an insufferable, obnoxious blowhard.  Which would be fine if he wasn’t also - some-fucking-how - hotter than a fucking wildfire. Warnings: Drinking, flirting, swearing, Whiskey being the obnoxious prick that we know and mostly tolerate. Rating: Mature (for the moment) Word Count: 1510

You’d met him, of all places, in the hotel bar, shored up over a drawn-out business conference.  He’d turned up three nights running, a brash braggart in a stetson and too-tight jeans that seemed to stroll dick-first around the room, tossing pickup lines at anything that moved.  By sheer luck he’d missed you, leaving the first night with a leggy blonde and the second night with a considerably curvier brunette.

Both times you counted your blessings as you watched him walk out with his arm around the unlucky lady.  You didn’t know the man but you knew the type: the costume cowboys that laid on the charm as thick as their cologne to mask the smell of their shitty personalities.

But now on Sunday, night number three, your luck seems to have finally run out.  Just as you finish your drink the bartender sets down another – whiskey, neat – and gestures at the end of the bar.  “From the gentleman.”

You hardly need to look up to know what you’ll see.  Smug, half-cocked grin.  A gentle tip of the hat.  

Fuck.  Jesus, why.

You grimace out a polite smile out of sheer habit, and before you can even begin to slide the drink back towards the bartender the man has appeared at your elbow like a country-fried jack-in-the-box.

His cologne, at the very least, is not as heavy as you’d expected.  Small mercies.

“Thanks, but-” you begin, already bracing yourself against the bar to stand.

“Oh no need for thanks.”  He rolls right over you with all the practiced ease of a well-oiled steamroller.  His voice is low, with a thick, heavy drawl that feels just a bit too put-upon to be completely real.  “You’ll have to forgive me for being so forward, but I simply couldn’t stand to see a lady as lovely as yourself drinking alone three nights in a row.  Thought I might offer the benefit of some company.”

He extends a broad brown hand.  A tiny blurred bullseye marks the skin between the thumb and forefinger.  “Name’s Jack.  Most folks just call me Whiskey.”

“Whiskey,” you repeat, trying not to roll your eyes at the rather awful joke.

“Yes ma’am.”

You purse your lips, considering, as his hand hangs between you.  You know more than a few ways to cut this little introduction short, though several of them – while wholly effective – might just see you banned from the hotel bar.  And with easily another three days of bureaucratic bullshit on the horizon, you’re really not keen on that happening. Present company aside, the bar’s pretty nice.

 Maybe if you're lucky you can bore him to death.

Begrudgingly you take his hand.  The skin of his palms is thick with calluses.  A surprising thing.  His clothing is more designer than LL Bean, which made you think he was a business man or entertainer – the sort of rich asshole that owned a prized stallion at a private stable somewhere that he rode once or twice a month when he wanted to feel a little authentic.  

But those callouses are hard and smooth.  Not quite a workman's hands, but certainly the result of something a good deal more tactile and involved than pencil pushing.  And that’s enough to make you wonder a little.  Now that he's up close and personal, his face makes you wonder a lot. This is no Kentucky white boy.  Not with eyes that dark, or that curving nose.  And honestly, if it wasn’t for that insufferably cocky look on his face, he’d be a hell of a looker.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he says, thumb grazing your knuckles before releasing your hand.

"No, you didn't," you say lightly.  "And I'm afraid I don't have much of a taste for whiskey."

He grins, leaning heavily against the bar and motioning for the bartender. "Well now, if my namesake isn't up to your liking, what would be to your taste?"  He hooks the tumbler of whiskey towards himself with a finger – a rather thick finger, and that's one detail you're a little dismayed to find yourself lingering on – and takes a slow sip.

You tap your glass with three fingers as the bartender approaches.  "Tequila."

The man who calls himself Whiskey gives an appreciative whistle as three shots line up in front of you. "Well now ain't that a plot twist.  You must have a hell of a constitution.  Tequila always leaves me flat on my back."  He eyes you up and down, grinning, and the hot flush that brings on isn't half as uncomfortable as you'd like it to be.  "Reckon I can see a similarity or two."

"I just get the feeling I'm going to need something a little stronger than a Cosmo to get me through this conversation," you reply coolly, ignoring the innuendo.  "You have until I finish these shots, by the way."

Whiskey purses his lips, pouting.  "I see you've already jumped to a few conclusions about me.  Hardly seems fair."

You shrug, downing the first shot with little fanfare.  "You've hardly been subtle.  What happened to Friday and Saturday's girls?"

He takes a sip of his own drink, thumb rubbing thoughtfully against the side of his jaw.  You try not to watch the way his throat works when he swallows.  "Now if I didn't know any better, I'd almost think you were a little sore it took me so long to come and see you."

He positively croons that last, and you tell yourself the warmth you feel kicking up in your belly is just the tequila.  Thank God for plausible deniability.

"Don't flatter yourself, cowboy," you say with a glare.

He chuckles. "Darlin', had I known you'd had eyes on me this whole time I would've come over a hell of a lot sooner," he teases.

You can only shake your head, half in wonder and half in contempt.  "How did you even fit that much ego through the door?"

Whiskey tips his glass to you with a smirk, unfazed.  "Patience, dedication, and a whole lotta practice."

You reach for the second shot, and Whiskey lets out a little sigh.  He puts his hand over your wrist, fingers flat.

"Hey c'mon now.  Slow down, sugar.  As much as I like to tease, I ain't about to put sensibilities or your liver out of sorts for the sake of poking fun."

When he pulls his hand back, reaching for his own glass, it's everything you can do to mask the little shiver that ripples up your back.  He is quite warm.

"I figured you for the sort that'd prefer a girl to be out of her sensibilities," you say quietly, fingers tapping against the rim of your glass.  The skin on the back of your wrist hums where he touched you, and you do your damnedest to ignore it.

The corner of his mouth hitches up in a half-grin.  "Oh, afterward, surely.  But never before."

You roll your eyes.  "An asshole with a sense of propriety.  Now that's novel."

"Part of my charm," he says.  “Bastard by profession and gentleman by nature.  But I mean it.  You are well within every right to walk away.  Ain't gonna harm nothin' but my ego, and Lord knows there’s enough of that to go around.“

You roll the shot glass between your palms.  "And if I walk away?"

Whiskey shrugs.  “Well, then I get to cherish the view as you leave."

"God, shut up."

His grin widens and he leans in, teasing.  "A bittersweet thought to keep me warm, alone in that big empty hotel bed tonight."

The glass almost rolls straight out of your hands.  "I am not fucking you," you sputter, and your cheeks burn as you realize you practically pole vaulted directly to that conclusion with barely any preamble.

The silence hangs after that, heavy and charged.  Somehow you think Whiskey's eyes have gone even darker.  

“I said nothin’ of the sort,” Whiskey says delicately, hands raised in supplication.

There's a cold-burning fire in the pit of your stomach.Some of it's the alcohol.  But most of it is a shameful delight at the way he's looking at you, and the mounting surety that you are probably certainly definitely going to fuck him if you don't walk away and call it a night now. You're not sure whether you hate him more for the assumption, or for almost certainly being right.

He says nothing, just looks you over expectantly.  Waiting to see what you’ll do.

Slowly, you down your second shot.  Fuck it.  If this asshole is going to be your next mistake, you might as well make it on your own goddamned terms.

"So," you say, resting your elbows on the bar.  “Whiskey.  What is it that you do?"

He laughs, full-throated, and the corners of his eyes crinkle up in what you suspect might be a genuine smile.  It's lovely, and that might just be the most infuriating thing of all.  

"Oh darlin'.  You wouldn't believe me if I told you."