[newtypeshadow] Double-Dealing (another Bubble Wrap Romance)
Title: Double-Dealing (Bubble Wrap 'verse)
Author: newtypeshadow
Rating: R to NC-17
Fandom: Original. Follows The Church of Bubble Wrap and Packington Meets his Match.
Pairing: m/m
Wordcount: 2675
Warnings: Spawned from an alice_montrose plotbunny. Contains puntastic names, bad words, magic, and threats of bodily harm.
Mage Packington was on top of the world. His world, not the stupid parallel world the mage council had banished him to. And they'd learned their lesson, hadn't they, he thought gleefully, propping up his foot on the skull of former Head-Mage Thorinder. Oh, they'd all learned their lesson. And then they'd all learned that even repentance wouldn't save them from Packington's enormous wrath and power.
Speaking of power, where was Staples? Packington glared around the empty throne room (when had the mage council headquarters been moved to the High King's palace?), wondering why his cowering servants weren't cowering where he could see them, and feeling Head-Mage Thorinder's skull jolt as another tooth cracked and skittered away under the pressure of his foot (but surely Packington would have magically preserved the skull before using it as a foot stool?).
Then Packington heard a familiar, sensual chuckle from somewhere beyond the curtain behind the dais. What the hell was Staples doing in their bedroom-without Packington?
Then he heard a woman's tinkly laugh. He knew immediately it was Her (who was her?), and that Staples was cheating on him, had been for some time, and that this mysterious floozy was going to steal his lover-no, his battery-even though Staples had made the deal with him, not her, and he'd made that deal with Packington first.
Any and all magic he found was supposed to be Packington's! They'd fucked on it! And Packington had given Staples the world-his world-and everything the asshole ever wanted, and now Staples was cheating on Packtington with some-some-
"Bitch!" Packington shouted, swiping at the curtain behind the throne, fingers curling in anticipation of wringing her stupid floozy neck.
Or perhaps he'd just mumbled that, he hoped, realizing the curtain was in fact a blanket, and that he was about to fall off the couch.
The coffee table broke his fall just enough to spill him on the floor on the opposite side, and bang his elbow in the process. Packington snarled a curse and kicked his way out of the sweaty tangle of blanket that he certainly hadn't put on himself when he'd closed his eyes on the couch.
Staples must have done it. It was the kind of thing he'd do-put one of his fancy, prissy blankets over Packington while he slept instead of waking him up before he left for another stupid dinner party. Packington didn't care that Staples left without saying goodbye-that had nothing to do with it. Rather, Staples could only lock two locks from the outside, and what if someone had come in before Packington could lock the deadbolts?
He shoved off the blanket and stepped on it as he headed toward the small apartment kitchen, swearing at the thing when its plush fibers slid beneath him and almost landed him back on the floor. Stupid Staples. The ratty blanket wouldn't have tripped him-its thread count wasn't high enough anymore to qualify as actual cloth, unless spiderweb-sheer counted as decent these days.
Not that it was a problem, not really. It had been just fine until Staples accidentally-on-purpose spilled wine on it and threw it out as ruined. And then replaced it the same night, as if he'd planned the whole thing. Jerk. Not that Packington didn't deserve the best of everything. He just didn't need it from Staples, that's all.
With a final wary glare, Packington stomped his way into the kitchen and squinted at the microwave clock. Barely ten o'clock. Outside it was dark, and the street lights those idiot teenagers hadn't managed to smash made piss-yellow smudges of light on the sidewalk and walls of the dingy corner store windows. Staples was supposed to be here-it was one of the nights he was always here, infuriatingly close-hovering, really-while Packington tried to make calculations, and messing him up until Packington shut him up with an elbow to the gut and then an equally vicious kiss that inevitably landed them having sex on the desk or the floor or the couch or the bed, wherever Staples managed to get them by the time Packington decided the inevitable wasn't so bad after all, what the hell, they should just fuck. Where was that stupid two-timing (but it was only a dream) man, anyway? Packington scratched the stubble on his jaw with absent fingers, then noticed the note on the counter next to the sink, where their empty wine-glasses sat with hardening purple rings forming inside.
Sender T Packington:
Something came up. Filling in at the benefit. See you next week.
S
Packington's lip curled. The asshole had the nerve to go to that thing on their night-well, okay, Packington's night, really-and then use his first name in the stupid note he left instead of waking Packington up so he could lock his door properly?
Bitch!
A tinkling laugh skirted the edge of his memory. Abruptly, Packington remembered why he'd fallen off the couch and banged his elbow and then tripped on that stupid blanket and woken up in the first place to an empty apartment and a stupid, impersonal note that used his fucking first name. "Staples is cheating on me," he hissed.
No, that was a dream. He shook his head, trying to clear the thought.
But once there, it niggled. Why would he go fill in for that idiot business partner of his at the benefit he had already said he wasn't going to? And if he was so worried about being bored, why hadn't he woken Packington to take with him? Was Packington not good enough to take to a charity benefit? Not entertaining enough to do anything but fuck? Was Staples-was Staples ashamed of him?
The note crumpled in Packington's fist. He contemplated popping a bubble and setting the thing on fire. Or using it to connect a voodoo doll to Staples and making sure the asshole was really entertained at his stupid benefit. Which he'd gone to alone.
Or had he gone alone? What if he was there with some floozy bimbo, having a grand time and planning to fuck her afterwards, on Packington's night, on the night of the week they'd made their deal? Had he no honor?
Packington snorted. Pot, kettle. But this wasn't something so sensible as double-crossing the Mage Council. No, this was Staples double-crossing Packington.
Bad idea.
Packington barely spared a thought to the precious magic he spent popping the bubble wrap containing it. Instead he concentrated on making his wide curls look angelic instead of like bedhead from hell; conjuring a suit tailored so beautifully to his lanky frame it rivaled one of Staples's designer outfits; checking that the red in his shirt brought out the natural highlights in his hair; and ensuring his expensive-looking black loafers would be comfortable even if he had to run from the city police for kicking his stupid not-boyfriend in the balls for cheating on him with some bimbo secretary trying to sleep her way to the top.
Not that she'd be going anywhere but the burn unit, Packington thought with a predatory smirk.
Squeezing Staples's note in a white-knuckled grip, Packington popped one last bubble and vanished from his apartment.
He reappeared in a snazzy bathroom covered in gold and ivory, dropped the note in the trash, and strode out of the bathroom, down a short hall, and into an even snazzier ballroom that positively dripped with money and the kind of power Packington wasn't interested in, not in this world, anyway. Crystal chandeliers twinkled against the high ceiling. Women in gaudy dresses with oversized jewelry, and men with puffed out chests and carefully bored expressions, sipped flutes of champagne and pretended to be more interested in the people they talked to than themselves.
For once, though, Packington didn't spend much time feeling superior. He instead cast his gaze about the room. There-Staples was in on the far side of the ballroom, carrying two champagne flutes in his olive hands, an expression as carefully bored on his face as that of everyone else.
Packington's eyes narrowed. Who was the second glass for?
He strode across the room and people got out of his way-not the way frightened people do, but the way people used to when Packington was among them: they recognized the threat inherent in a man more powerful than themselves.
Staples was about to hand the glass to a charming-looking woman who wouldn't look so charming once Packington cursed her with warts and then set them all on fire, when Packington slipped the glass from Staples's hand and took a sip. "This...this is good." He frowned at the glass, then at Staples. "What kind is this?"
Staples froze when he saw Packington.
"Who's this?" the woman asked, glancing between them.
"No one," Staples said. "A friend." He glared at Packington, "What the hell are you doing here, you idiot?" communicated perfectly in his narrowed dark brows, pursed lips, the jut of his chin.
"Oh?" Packington grinned. "And who's that?" He motioned to the dark-haired beauty on Staples's arm with his glass, then took a sip to hide his snort when Staples's expression went from murderous to wary.
The woman held out a delicately gloved hand. "Maria Staples-Carrera. I handle the office's day-to-day affairs, no matter what my husband might tell you."
"Husband?" Packington raised an eyebrow at Staples. He was going to roast the man alive. Slowly. From the inside. He grinned darkly at Staples, who, for his part, wasn't as pale as he was soon going to be. "You have until I finish this glass to save yourself," he said, lifting it for another sip. "Not that running will save you."
"We're not married," Staples snapped.
"No," Packington agreed, snatching Staples's glass before the idiot squeezed it to breaking and got perfectly good champagne on Packington's new suit. "But since you're being honest, I'll give you a few extra seconds." He poured the rest of his drink into Staples's untouched glass and frowned at the empty before shrugging and tossing it to the side. It shattered on the floor, and suddenly the crowd around them got quiet. "Cheers."
The woman's eyes widened in comprehension. "Oh! Oh, no no no no, Thom's my cousin." She grinned widely. "You must be his-oh, Thom, you're such an idiot!" She swatted him and released his arm to step closer to Packington, looking him up and down with a leisurely gaze.
Packington froze. He suddenly felt like prey. He frowned at Staples. "Your cousin." He paused. Opened his mouth to speak. Closed it firmly and cocked his head. "What the hell is your problem?" he said at last. "You couldn't just say that? I was seriously going to roast you alive, and you couldn't just say she's your cousin?"
Staples paled.
Maria Staples-Carrera only-his-stupid-cousin tittered. "Oh, someone's not getting any tonight," she said, grinning at Staples.
"Roast me alive?" Staples looked distinctly uncomfortable.
Packington grinned humorlessly. "After I kicked you in the balls, yes."
Staples sighed and grabbed Packington's overfull glass and drained half of it in one gulp. "You're an idiot," he said, handing it back to Packington with a glare. "Maria, this my idiot business associate, Packington. Packington, this is my nosy cousin Maria, who will doubtlessly go tell everyone we're together, after which they'll all ask me asinine questions when I'm trying to do work." He clapped a heavy hand on Packington's shoulder and squeezed. His grip was as hard as his smile. "Congratulations."
Packington's smile twisted to match Staples's as he rested a proprietary hand at the small of Staples's back. "Ah, but that's your problem."
Maria's throat-clearing cut between their glaring match. "Thom, next time you're on a date when you need to fill in, just bring him with you. He's hot. You don't mind sharing, do you?"
Both men turned to glared at her. She raised an eyebrow. Packington was impressed she hadn't flinched yet.
"What? He looks delicious, and I know my husband and I aren't the only ones who like to add a little spice now and then. It would be weird if you came along, though, Thom-like letting my brother watch or something."
Staples's hand clenched around Packington's shoulder. "No way in hell," he growled. "Excuse us-we have to go."
Packington looked sideways at Staples, who sneered at his cousin and then moved his hand to link with Packington's arm and turned them toward the exit. Once again, people parted for them without seeming to notice they did so, subconsciously reacting to the power the two men held.
"She wasn't serious, was she?" Packington asked as Staples got his coat and had his car brought around. Tonight's car had a chauffeur, apparently. Good-he could smack Staples if he wanted and not worry about killing himself if the car swerved off the road as a result.
They were in the car before Staples said anything. He was practically vibrating with anger and heat, and Packington wondered if it was wrong to be this turned on because his lover in a rage was insanely, unfairly sexy. "Would you fuck her if she was?" Staples asked, voice dangerously quiet.
Packington frowned. Staples couldn't be jealous-he was just testing Packington, or something equally pointless, because Packington, at least, didn't break deals that could end in world domination and were sealed with amazing sex. "Depends," he said after a few moments' thought.
Staples whipped around to face him.
Packington smirked, challenge in the jut of his chin. "You gonna fuck the thought out of me if I say yes?"
Staples growled and shoved Packington against the door, mashing their lips together and manhandling Packington onto the seat under him, fucking his mouth with an angry tongue and nearly ripping Packington's shirt as he yanked it from his pants to get at skin. Packington shivered and gripped a fistful of Staples's ass, other hand too busy trying to keep him upright to tangle in Staples's hair, muss it up the way he liked best.
Too soon, Packington shoved Staples away to keep from rutting at him like some teenager. But Staples didn't play fair-he yanked at Packington's slacks and Packington slid all the way down onto the seat before the button broke, and then Staples's hand wrapped around Packington's bared cock, at which point he decided wrapping a leg and both arms around Staples and continuing to rut might be for the best, and anyway, he'd never had sex in the back seat of a car, much less one with leather seats.
"We had a deal," Staples hissed against Packington's bruised lips.
"Oh yeah," Packington breathed, hips jerking into Staples's too-firm grip, yeah, fuck, that was good. He pulled Staples down by the hair for a messy kiss and bit the jerk's lower lip when his hand stopped jacking. Staples's fingers squeezed-too hard, what the fuck? "What's your problem?" Packington snarled. He had been close, then Staples had to get all bitchy for no reason.
"You're mine," Staples said, hand dangerously tight around Packington's dick.
That shouldn't have made Packington's hips jerk the way it did.
If the predatory grin flashing in the streetlights was any indication, Staples had noticed. "You like being mine, don't you?"
Packington groaned and ground his head against the seat. "If that hand doesn't move right fucking now I will make you suffer."
Staples chuckled, but loosened his grip and jacked again before pressing his hand further back to the ring of muscle Packington sincerely hoped he'd press inside soon, fuck, barely a touch down there and he was already squirming with want. "Say it," Staples said. "Say it and I'll fuck you."
Packington growled and dragged Staples's mouth down hard against this own. "You're mine," he snarled, "Now act like it and fuck me."
Author: newtypeshadow
Rating: R to NC-17
Fandom: Original. Follows The Church of Bubble Wrap and Packington Meets his Match.
Pairing: m/m
Wordcount: 2675
Warnings: Spawned from an alice_montrose plotbunny. Contains puntastic names, bad words, magic, and threats of bodily harm.
Mage Packington was on top of the world. His world, not the stupid parallel world the mage council had banished him to. And they'd learned their lesson, hadn't they, he thought gleefully, propping up his foot on the skull of former Head-Mage Thorinder. Oh, they'd all learned their lesson. And then they'd all learned that even repentance wouldn't save them from Packington's enormous wrath and power.
Speaking of power, where was Staples? Packington glared around the empty throne room (when had the mage council headquarters been moved to the High King's palace?), wondering why his cowering servants weren't cowering where he could see them, and feeling Head-Mage Thorinder's skull jolt as another tooth cracked and skittered away under the pressure of his foot (but surely Packington would have magically preserved the skull before using it as a foot stool?).
Then Packington heard a familiar, sensual chuckle from somewhere beyond the curtain behind the dais. What the hell was Staples doing in their bedroom-without Packington?
Then he heard a woman's tinkly laugh. He knew immediately it was Her (who was her?), and that Staples was cheating on him, had been for some time, and that this mysterious floozy was going to steal his lover-no, his battery-even though Staples had made the deal with him, not her, and he'd made that deal with Packington first.
Any and all magic he found was supposed to be Packington's! They'd fucked on it! And Packington had given Staples the world-his world-and everything the asshole ever wanted, and now Staples was cheating on Packtington with some-some-
"Bitch!" Packington shouted, swiping at the curtain behind the throne, fingers curling in anticipation of wringing her stupid floozy neck.
Or perhaps he'd just mumbled that, he hoped, realizing the curtain was in fact a blanket, and that he was about to fall off the couch.
The coffee table broke his fall just enough to spill him on the floor on the opposite side, and bang his elbow in the process. Packington snarled a curse and kicked his way out of the sweaty tangle of blanket that he certainly hadn't put on himself when he'd closed his eyes on the couch.
Staples must have done it. It was the kind of thing he'd do-put one of his fancy, prissy blankets over Packington while he slept instead of waking him up before he left for another stupid dinner party. Packington didn't care that Staples left without saying goodbye-that had nothing to do with it. Rather, Staples could only lock two locks from the outside, and what if someone had come in before Packington could lock the deadbolts?
He shoved off the blanket and stepped on it as he headed toward the small apartment kitchen, swearing at the thing when its plush fibers slid beneath him and almost landed him back on the floor. Stupid Staples. The ratty blanket wouldn't have tripped him-its thread count wasn't high enough anymore to qualify as actual cloth, unless spiderweb-sheer counted as decent these days.
Not that it was a problem, not really. It had been just fine until Staples accidentally-on-purpose spilled wine on it and threw it out as ruined. And then replaced it the same night, as if he'd planned the whole thing. Jerk. Not that Packington didn't deserve the best of everything. He just didn't need it from Staples, that's all.
With a final wary glare, Packington stomped his way into the kitchen and squinted at the microwave clock. Barely ten o'clock. Outside it was dark, and the street lights those idiot teenagers hadn't managed to smash made piss-yellow smudges of light on the sidewalk and walls of the dingy corner store windows. Staples was supposed to be here-it was one of the nights he was always here, infuriatingly close-hovering, really-while Packington tried to make calculations, and messing him up until Packington shut him up with an elbow to the gut and then an equally vicious kiss that inevitably landed them having sex on the desk or the floor or the couch or the bed, wherever Staples managed to get them by the time Packington decided the inevitable wasn't so bad after all, what the hell, they should just fuck. Where was that stupid two-timing (but it was only a dream) man, anyway? Packington scratched the stubble on his jaw with absent fingers, then noticed the note on the counter next to the sink, where their empty wine-glasses sat with hardening purple rings forming inside.
Sender T Packington:
Something came up. Filling in at the benefit. See you next week.
S
Packington's lip curled. The asshole had the nerve to go to that thing on their night-well, okay, Packington's night, really-and then use his first name in the stupid note he left instead of waking Packington up so he could lock his door properly?
Bitch!
A tinkling laugh skirted the edge of his memory. Abruptly, Packington remembered why he'd fallen off the couch and banged his elbow and then tripped on that stupid blanket and woken up in the first place to an empty apartment and a stupid, impersonal note that used his fucking first name. "Staples is cheating on me," he hissed.
No, that was a dream. He shook his head, trying to clear the thought.
But once there, it niggled. Why would he go fill in for that idiot business partner of his at the benefit he had already said he wasn't going to? And if he was so worried about being bored, why hadn't he woken Packington to take with him? Was Packington not good enough to take to a charity benefit? Not entertaining enough to do anything but fuck? Was Staples-was Staples ashamed of him?
The note crumpled in Packington's fist. He contemplated popping a bubble and setting the thing on fire. Or using it to connect a voodoo doll to Staples and making sure the asshole was really entertained at his stupid benefit. Which he'd gone to alone.
Or had he gone alone? What if he was there with some floozy bimbo, having a grand time and planning to fuck her afterwards, on Packington's night, on the night of the week they'd made their deal? Had he no honor?
Packington snorted. Pot, kettle. But this wasn't something so sensible as double-crossing the Mage Council. No, this was Staples double-crossing Packington.
Bad idea.
Packington barely spared a thought to the precious magic he spent popping the bubble wrap containing it. Instead he concentrated on making his wide curls look angelic instead of like bedhead from hell; conjuring a suit tailored so beautifully to his lanky frame it rivaled one of Staples's designer outfits; checking that the red in his shirt brought out the natural highlights in his hair; and ensuring his expensive-looking black loafers would be comfortable even if he had to run from the city police for kicking his stupid not-boyfriend in the balls for cheating on him with some bimbo secretary trying to sleep her way to the top.
Not that she'd be going anywhere but the burn unit, Packington thought with a predatory smirk.
Squeezing Staples's note in a white-knuckled grip, Packington popped one last bubble and vanished from his apartment.
He reappeared in a snazzy bathroom covered in gold and ivory, dropped the note in the trash, and strode out of the bathroom, down a short hall, and into an even snazzier ballroom that positively dripped with money and the kind of power Packington wasn't interested in, not in this world, anyway. Crystal chandeliers twinkled against the high ceiling. Women in gaudy dresses with oversized jewelry, and men with puffed out chests and carefully bored expressions, sipped flutes of champagne and pretended to be more interested in the people they talked to than themselves.
For once, though, Packington didn't spend much time feeling superior. He instead cast his gaze about the room. There-Staples was in on the far side of the ballroom, carrying two champagne flutes in his olive hands, an expression as carefully bored on his face as that of everyone else.
Packington's eyes narrowed. Who was the second glass for?
He strode across the room and people got out of his way-not the way frightened people do, but the way people used to when Packington was among them: they recognized the threat inherent in a man more powerful than themselves.
Staples was about to hand the glass to a charming-looking woman who wouldn't look so charming once Packington cursed her with warts and then set them all on fire, when Packington slipped the glass from Staples's hand and took a sip. "This...this is good." He frowned at the glass, then at Staples. "What kind is this?"
Staples froze when he saw Packington.
"Who's this?" the woman asked, glancing between them.
"No one," Staples said. "A friend." He glared at Packington, "What the hell are you doing here, you idiot?" communicated perfectly in his narrowed dark brows, pursed lips, the jut of his chin.
"Oh?" Packington grinned. "And who's that?" He motioned to the dark-haired beauty on Staples's arm with his glass, then took a sip to hide his snort when Staples's expression went from murderous to wary.
The woman held out a delicately gloved hand. "Maria Staples-Carrera. I handle the office's day-to-day affairs, no matter what my husband might tell you."
"Husband?" Packington raised an eyebrow at Staples. He was going to roast the man alive. Slowly. From the inside. He grinned darkly at Staples, who, for his part, wasn't as pale as he was soon going to be. "You have until I finish this glass to save yourself," he said, lifting it for another sip. "Not that running will save you."
"We're not married," Staples snapped.
"No," Packington agreed, snatching Staples's glass before the idiot squeezed it to breaking and got perfectly good champagne on Packington's new suit. "But since you're being honest, I'll give you a few extra seconds." He poured the rest of his drink into Staples's untouched glass and frowned at the empty before shrugging and tossing it to the side. It shattered on the floor, and suddenly the crowd around them got quiet. "Cheers."
The woman's eyes widened in comprehension. "Oh! Oh, no no no no, Thom's my cousin." She grinned widely. "You must be his-oh, Thom, you're such an idiot!" She swatted him and released his arm to step closer to Packington, looking him up and down with a leisurely gaze.
Packington froze. He suddenly felt like prey. He frowned at Staples. "Your cousin." He paused. Opened his mouth to speak. Closed it firmly and cocked his head. "What the hell is your problem?" he said at last. "You couldn't just say that? I was seriously going to roast you alive, and you couldn't just say she's your cousin?"
Staples paled.
Maria Staples-Carrera only-his-stupid-cousin tittered. "Oh, someone's not getting any tonight," she said, grinning at Staples.
"Roast me alive?" Staples looked distinctly uncomfortable.
Packington grinned humorlessly. "After I kicked you in the balls, yes."
Staples sighed and grabbed Packington's overfull glass and drained half of it in one gulp. "You're an idiot," he said, handing it back to Packington with a glare. "Maria, this my idiot business associate, Packington. Packington, this is my nosy cousin Maria, who will doubtlessly go tell everyone we're together, after which they'll all ask me asinine questions when I'm trying to do work." He clapped a heavy hand on Packington's shoulder and squeezed. His grip was as hard as his smile. "Congratulations."
Packington's smile twisted to match Staples's as he rested a proprietary hand at the small of Staples's back. "Ah, but that's your problem."
Maria's throat-clearing cut between their glaring match. "Thom, next time you're on a date when you need to fill in, just bring him with you. He's hot. You don't mind sharing, do you?"
Both men turned to glared at her. She raised an eyebrow. Packington was impressed she hadn't flinched yet.
"What? He looks delicious, and I know my husband and I aren't the only ones who like to add a little spice now and then. It would be weird if you came along, though, Thom-like letting my brother watch or something."
Staples's hand clenched around Packington's shoulder. "No way in hell," he growled. "Excuse us-we have to go."
Packington looked sideways at Staples, who sneered at his cousin and then moved his hand to link with Packington's arm and turned them toward the exit. Once again, people parted for them without seeming to notice they did so, subconsciously reacting to the power the two men held.
"She wasn't serious, was she?" Packington asked as Staples got his coat and had his car brought around. Tonight's car had a chauffeur, apparently. Good-he could smack Staples if he wanted and not worry about killing himself if the car swerved off the road as a result.
They were in the car before Staples said anything. He was practically vibrating with anger and heat, and Packington wondered if it was wrong to be this turned on because his lover in a rage was insanely, unfairly sexy. "Would you fuck her if she was?" Staples asked, voice dangerously quiet.
Packington frowned. Staples couldn't be jealous-he was just testing Packington, or something equally pointless, because Packington, at least, didn't break deals that could end in world domination and were sealed with amazing sex. "Depends," he said after a few moments' thought.
Staples whipped around to face him.
Packington smirked, challenge in the jut of his chin. "You gonna fuck the thought out of me if I say yes?"
Staples growled and shoved Packington against the door, mashing their lips together and manhandling Packington onto the seat under him, fucking his mouth with an angry tongue and nearly ripping Packington's shirt as he yanked it from his pants to get at skin. Packington shivered and gripped a fistful of Staples's ass, other hand too busy trying to keep him upright to tangle in Staples's hair, muss it up the way he liked best.
Too soon, Packington shoved Staples away to keep from rutting at him like some teenager. But Staples didn't play fair-he yanked at Packington's slacks and Packington slid all the way down onto the seat before the button broke, and then Staples's hand wrapped around Packington's bared cock, at which point he decided wrapping a leg and both arms around Staples and continuing to rut might be for the best, and anyway, he'd never had sex in the back seat of a car, much less one with leather seats.
"We had a deal," Staples hissed against Packington's bruised lips.
"Oh yeah," Packington breathed, hips jerking into Staples's too-firm grip, yeah, fuck, that was good. He pulled Staples down by the hair for a messy kiss and bit the jerk's lower lip when his hand stopped jacking. Staples's fingers squeezed-too hard, what the fuck? "What's your problem?" Packington snarled. He had been close, then Staples had to get all bitchy for no reason.
"You're mine," Staples said, hand dangerously tight around Packington's dick.
That shouldn't have made Packington's hips jerk the way it did.
If the predatory grin flashing in the streetlights was any indication, Staples had noticed. "You like being mine, don't you?"
Packington groaned and ground his head against the seat. "If that hand doesn't move right fucking now I will make you suffer."
Staples chuckled, but loosened his grip and jacked again before pressing his hand further back to the ring of muscle Packington sincerely hoped he'd press inside soon, fuck, barely a touch down there and he was already squirming with want. "Say it," Staples said. "Say it and I'll fuck you."
Packington growled and dragged Staples's mouth down hard against this own. "You're mine," he snarled, "Now act like it and fuck me."