otherbitches | IC Inbox [ RUBI ]

Oh, I wanna.

Billy, sweetie, I'd treat you so good, you know I would. Don't I always?

[He wants to please so very, very badly.]

It's very sensitive. You know that, right? Lots of nerve endings. Having a tongue on them... well. It feels electric.

I know you're touching yourself right now. I can feel it.

[ It's funny, because Iggy does treat him well always, which is infinitely more than Billy actually deserves. ]

Cheater.

[ Billy wonders if he can. If he can actually feel him twisting his handaround his dick, how he sticks two fingers in his mouth, tongue lapping at them before his hand draws down, fingers brushing over his hole. Back home, when he'd do this, he'd do it quickly, marveling at the pressure, the way it felt, how quickly it'd make him come. Now he focuses on how the wet digits feel brushing over his hole. ] Fuck.

[ He's not stingy, in the privacy of their room, with the company of Iggy in his mind, he shoots over some of the mental images, some of mental motion. He breathes through his nose. ] You vanna eat me out while he vites me?

[ Shitty, shitty vampire talk. ]

I don't cheat.

[Iggy can't feel every touch, no, but the nature of this communication means every word is coloured by emotion. He knows Billy well enough by now to sense when he's aroused.

The images are a pleasant surprise. Iggy chews his lower lip again, then with a sigh loosens his robe so he can slip a hand inside to run his fingers lightly over his cock.]

Oh, yes. [A purr more than an actual word.

Iggy is an artist and so his mind's eye is very clear. Billy says it, and so he pictures it in exquisite detail: his face buried in Billy's cheeks, tongue lapping over his taint and asshole. Eddie he renders with a loving eye, fangs sinking into Billy's neck. Blood running in sticky rivulets over Billy's golden chest.

In his mind, both men are the most beautiful creatures to ever exist.

He sends this little mental movie over as he strokes himself.]

[ The little mental movie does it, partially because it's so unexpected, all that mental stimulus. What it would feel like to have Iggy's tongue on him there, the bite from Eddie that'll seep deep within him, make everything more, and then the way they're... beautiful. More real than real, brighter colors, brighter something, rendered in something intangible.

Maybe that's just how Iggy sees the world.

He mumbles bullshit back, is fully into it, imagining the drag against his hole, feeling his own hand striping his dick. He imagines that's Eddie's hand, and his teeth, and— ]

Fuck, Iggy, yes— [ He comes in his hand, in their bed, gasping out loud and into that little mental space made for the two of them. ] Eddie, Jesus Christ.

[ Weird two-person threesome, but Billy's lax and freshly come when he runs a hand through the cum on his stomach. ] Come on, baby, you need to come too. You wanna do it inside me or on me?

[Iggy is at heart a people-pleasing hedonist, and he feels a savage sort of triumph when he knows he's made Billy come, even from far away. Sexual power is what he's most comfortable with.

And now he can focus on himself, which Billy seems more than happy to help with. It warms his heart.]

Inside. Show me how you'd want that.

[ Inside. Inside. That thrums in Billy, makes his guts tremble, make his spent dick kick almost painfully. He's laid out in the bed, eyes blown and cast on the ceiling when he thinks about it, about how it would have felt if he'd been facing the other way on the X cross, Iggy nudging between his cheeks.

Here though, he's already on his back, and he hitches his thigh up, hand trailing down to rub over his hole again. He hasn't bottomed much. Not really. But he thinks he'd let Iggy. ]

Come on, Melville. Want you to fuck me. Think you can handle it?

Oh, I can.

[Perfect confidence. A few months ago he'd have hesitated a little more, but he's been absolutely destroying Jesse Pinkman among others on the regular, so he's sure of his topping abilities now.

He thinks, focusing on crafting the most detailed image he can:

Billy, open and wanting. Entering him slow, torturously slow, getting every hot inch of his dick sink in.

He can see every bead of sweat on Billy's back. Can feel Billy's hair knotted in his fist.

He sends these images, and then on the heels of that: him fucking Billy hard and fast.]

Jesus Christ. [ It's more than he expects, and the mental images feel real. Feels more real when his finger dips into his hole. It's not the heavy press of a cock, but it is stimulus as Iggy mentally mimes fucking him.

He slides another finger in. Groaning even with his spent dick heavy on his thigh. ] Iggy, yes, fucking— fuck, pull my hair.

Happily.

[He's so fucking hard, and he's barely touched himself. Iggy sighs and grips his cock firmly, stroking it as he imagines Billy below him. He thinks about his pretty curls, thinks about exactly how hard he should yank on them to cause just the right amount of pain.

Like filthy Polaroids, these images are passed from his mind directly to Billy's, along with the phantom sense of touch.]

Fuck. Billy. God, you're beautiful.

[ He is, isn't he? Billy thinks so, though he never thought 'beautiful' while staring at himself in his own mirror. He thought hot and sexy. His dad knew what it was, staring at himself like some faggot. He's heard that in a million variations over the years. Over and over.

He likes being rendered by Iggy. Maybe it's his artist eye, the polaroids equally filthy and chic.

He feels the phantom touch, more importantly feels the— warmth of Iggy's attention, his pure affection. It junks up in Billy's chest, makes him moan and crook his fingers, feels the phantom touch of his scalp tingling. ]

You look like a fucking angel. Come on, baby. Come in me.

[As if there was ever a chance of disobeying that particular instruction. But he pictures it first, vividly: the tight heat of Billy's body and how it would feel to pump him full--]

Oh fuck.

[He comes hard, the feeling transmitted a moment after the visual.]

[ Billy's fingers crook when Iggy comes, pressing deeper to mime the feeling, aided by Iggy's sizable imagination of his body, his cock, the sensation of spilling cum up inside Billy, painting up his insides, filling him up. That's all a newer fantasy (reality), not quite the gay shit Billy had pictured furtively at home. Or at least, not in that detail.

Iggy comes and Billy's fingers slip away, he lays on their bed, staring up with glassy eyes at the ceiling for a beat, then two. Says lazily: ] You're good at that.

[Iggy has to take a moment to collect himself before moving to clean up.]

I've got a very active imagination. And lots of practice.

So! I get to eat your ass, snowball your blood, and braid your mullet?

[ Billy laughs, a little rough before it smooths, then loud and clear as a bell. ]

Yeah, I'll fuck you and Munson. You can do whatever you want [ probably ] because I like you so much.

You already know I love you to bits, you awful creature.

Never mind. You're just alright. [ A terribly warm 'alright.' ]

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