Bubble Wrap 4: On Fire
These stories were written for the holidaysmut prompt "bubble wrap", and further sparked by alice_montrose, the queen of vicious, vicious plotbunnies. ^_^ This is my Day of Porn contribution for 2011.
Previously, in the Bubble Wrap 'verse...
1 - The Church of Bubble Wrap
2 - Packington Meets His Match
3 - Double-Dealing
Bubble Wrap 4: On Fire
Word Count: ≈2,250
Warnings: bad language, bad attitudes, magic, and sex.
If these fuckwads were what passed for upper crust society, Packington thought he'd be doing Staples's world a favor if he systematically slaughtered them all. Their dinner hostess was precariously close to not-so-spontaneously combusting, and Packington planned to start with her overdone, spray-canned hair, and work his way down her river of collagen injections and other "enhancements." She thought she was so clever, with her shitty jokes about Packington's "bubble wrap fetish," and barbed comments about Staples knowing better than to bring his "toys" around "polite company." Packington tried to ignore the way Staples's jaw clenched; tried to make his own brittle smile less of a snarl. If Staples could sit through this bullshit, so could Packington.
At least, he could until their host patted his wife's hand reassuringly and said, "Oh, don't worry, dear, he never keeps them long," and Staples's knife skidded across his plate so loudly Packington winced, as did everyone else at the long dining table.
"I think that's quite enough," Staples snapped, standing and thrusting the prissy lavender napkin on top of his steak like he was telling their hosts to go fuck themselves.
Packington agreed entirely. As if their stupid invitation to a stupid dinner party on what should have been his night alone with Staples wasn't enough, they'd successfully ruined his dinner by acting like Packington was some cheap throwaway fuck, when even a disease-riddled, two-dollar whore wouldn't mistake either host for polite company or a good lay. He was reaching for magic through the long-range spell tying him to his bubble belt before he consciously realized he planned to set their hosts' bed on fire. A small blaze, he thought; shouldn't waste too much magic when a less noticeable flame might burn long enough to destroy much of their bedroom.
But then Staples put his hand on the back of Packington's neck, warm fingers slipping through Packington's loose curls and electrifying his skin, and Packington suddenly felt power explode into him from close by, and a fireball thundered out of the master bedroom and down the stairwell beyond the kitchen.
"Does anyone smell smoke?" one guest asked. Then the fire alarms blared, and Packington's confusion eased into a smug, lazy smile. Staples looked perplexedly at Packington as the mage stood, wrapped an arm around his waist, and lead him to the car park after the panicking guests.
"What just happened?" Staples asked, a tremor in his voice as he studied the hand that had touched Packington's neck.
Packington guided Staples to his chosen car for the evening, shoved him against the passenger door, and kissed him with glee, possessiveness, hunger. Staples kissed back, but he was off somehow, his tongue not so pillaging as it burned through Packington's mouth. So Packington bit Staples's lower lip and wrapped a hand around the back of Staples's neck. "See that?" Packington asked, chin jutting briefly toward the house with fire-shattered windows. His eyes lit briefly on their screaming hosts, flopping about on the perfectly landscaped front lawn like freshly-caught fish, and he smirked.
Staples glanced at the house with nervous eyes. "What about it? What-"
Packington nipped his lip and pressed closer. "We did that," he said.
Staples's wide eyes were visible in the lights over the circular drive, as was the way his tongue darted out to lick his lips before his gaze settled back on the house, awestruck. "We did that?"
Packington grinned. "Yeah, we did."
Staples made a noise in his throat, a sound between a growl and a satisfied hum, and abruptly bunched his hands in Packington's snazzy dinner jacket to sweep him into a kiss that pillaged and burned and fucked its way through Packington's mouth and nerve endings like a conquering army of sex. Packington felt his cock swell in his dress slacks and pressed against Staples, hips jerking of their own accord when Staples's hard length made itself clearly felt against his hip.
Only when approaching sirens interrupted their make-out session did the men climb into the car and begin the long drive to the main road. Packington entertained himself by watching Staples try to keep his eyes on the road instead of the the burning house in the rearview mirror. Pulling out of the neighborhood, Packington's thoughts turned to the merits of torching the passing fire truck so neither it nor the two police cars behind it could get through their hosts' gate.
"How?" Staples asked softly on the highway. "How did…we…do that?"
Packington didn't hear him at first. He was busy anticipating a good, long fuck, and possibly an amended deal that involved a lot more setting fire to their enemies, followed by victory sex in semi-public places. Packington was wondering whether their shit-talking hosts would kill themselves before or after they learned to set up roach motels in the condemned building they'd be squatting in by the time he was done with them, when Staples's voice finally reached him.
"Well," Packington said, daydream exchanged for the memory of Staples's hand on his neck, "You know how you always know where to find magic? You're apparently also a good conduit for it."
Staples frowned. "Conduit how?"
Packington smirked and lazily dragged his fingers up and down Staples's inner thigh.
"Don't," Staples said sharply.
Packington dug his fingers in hard, and Staples hissed. Mollified, Packington let go.
"If I crash this car and we die because of you, I'll be pissed," Staples said.
"Fuck you," Packington snapped.
"That can't happen if I hit a truck going ninety before we get home."
Packington huffed. Sometimes Staples had no sense of adventure.
"Conduit?" Staples prompted.
"You conduct magic. Like a plug in an outlet. Magic travels through you easily, and it's way more powerful when I tap into it. Less diluted, like organic food or something-more flavor and nutrients, less processed shit."
Staples pursed his lips. "Okay," he said, "I conduct magic. I can find it and tap into it. But I still can't use it?"
"Most people can't-especially in your world." Packington grinned. "The point is that I can use it."
"To burn down houses."
"Don't act like they didn't piss you off too," Packington snapped. "I'm not some throwaway fuck, or crazy cult leader, or a charity case who doesn't know his place."
"No," Staples said, hand tightening on the gear shift, "you're not."
"Then what's your fucking problem?"
Staples snorted. After a few moments of Packington glaring at him, he admitted, "I'm getting sentimental or something."
Packington's eyes narrowed, but he couldn't hide his curiosity. Staples grinned, dark eyes and glinting teeth as they pulled off the highway at an unfamiliar exist. "Sentimental?"
Staples's voice was soft, wondering: "We made something today," he said.
"Unmade," Packington corrected.
"No, made. Created. I feel like I did when I yanked my father's company right out from under him. Or…like we had a baby. Made something."
Packington mulled this over as they pulled into a private parking garage and drove up a few levels into a marked spot. "You want to have my babies?" Packington asked, not sure why he felt even the tiniest bit gleeful despite his trepidation.
Staples glared at him and unlocked the doors. "Don't be obtuse," he snapped.
Packington got out and followed him to the elevator (key card necessary) with relief.
"I want to make things with you," Staples said. "And unmake." The elevator lurched to a stop and they stepped across a small hallway to the only door in that wall. "Empires," he said, unlocking the door and ushering Packington into a penthouse as nice as the house they'd just burned down, but much more tasteful, understated; Staples. "Governments. Corporations." The door closed and locked as Packington dug the toes of his loafers into the thick rug beyond the foyer. "Assholes who should know better than to insult what's mine."
His hands slipped down Packington's arms and tugged him back until their bodies met, and Packington's skin ached to be still closer. Staples's breath was hot against Packington's neck, and when he scraped his teeth under Packington's collar, Packington hissed and ground back, gripped Staples's fingers and the bottom of his dinner jacket and tilted his head in invitation.
It was only after the bite there, the mark, that Packington realized he should have contradicted Staples, reminded him that Packington belonged only to himself, just as Staples belonged only to Packington, and that no amount of really hot sex would get Packington to admit otherwise, no matter what Packington said while begging for Staples's cock.
Not that it counted as begging, he told himself afterward, as Staples pulled out and licked Packington's sensitive cock and stomach clean. Sex talk was different and Staples knew it.
"So," Packington slurred, dragging Staples up by his glossy black hair for a syrupy kiss, "you want to have my babies." He snickered at Staples's dark look. "It's okay," he said. "I'm pretty hot."
Staples pinched him.
It hurt enough that Packington swatted Staples's arm so hard the slap stung his fingers. "Ow," he muttered.
Staples snorted at him, ruining his glare, and flipped onto his back beside Packington on the king-sized, ridiculously soft bed.
Packington let his hand fall back onto the bed. It landed on the dip of Staples's lower belly, and Packington let it play with with Staples's widening happy trail while he thought. "Okay," he said at last.
"Hmm?"
Packington met Staple's eyes and held them. "We can make things. And unmake them. Together." He paused. "Not babies, though. They're obnoxious and throw up on everything, and you are not fucking some bimbo whore-beast just to make a brat who can't even wipe its own ass."
Staples blinked entirely too long before shaking his head. "Okay," he said, amusement evident by the tilt of his eyebrows.
"Okay?"
"No babies-I'd just fuck 'em up anyway. As would you." He grinned. "We're not exactly father material."
Packington's jaw dropped. "That's not-"
"We're much better world domination material."
Satisfied once again, Packington grinned back. "Yeah." He was almost asleep when Staples pulled him into a tight embrace and tucked the covers around them both. Packington rolled his eyes, but let it be. It was a small thing to keep Staples happy when, through him, Packington could tap into deeper wells of power than he'd suspected this planet even had. Speaking of which, "Staples?"
He felt a questioning hum against his shoulder.
"Cheat on me and I will unmake you."
Staples had the nerve to laugh.
"I'm serious," Packington said, pulling the blankets under his chin. He knew he was too sated and sleepy to sound fierce, but this was nothing to laugh about.
"I know," Staples said, stroking his chest. "You don't cheat either," he said. "I don't share."
"Oh, really?" Packington snorted.
Staples bit his shoulder, and his hand drifted down to Packington's abused, spent, trying-valiantly-to-rise-to-the-occasion cock. Staples's chuckle at Packington's ground out "Oh!" reverberated down Packington's spine.
"I'm the only one who gets to touch you like this," Staples said, voice commanding and also matter-of-fact, and Packington rutted against him shamelessly because who the fuck cared, it was true, so why was Staples pushing the issue and not his cock into Packington where it belonged? "I'm the only one who gets to see you like this." Staples turned Packington's chin and kissed his mouth like he owned Packington and every sound he ripped out of him with his teasing hands and ruthless tongue. He pushed into Packington then, bare, in one long, torturous burn, and Packington's hands scrambled to grab onto something, anything, as the stretch from his sex-sore passage became a different, gut-deep, delicious ache. Staples pushed waves of pleasure through Packington with each stroke, and Packington wrenched off the blankets and lifted his leg so Staples's thrusts went deeper, filled him to breaking. "You're mine," Staples snarled into Packington's neck, "and I'll unmake anyone who tries to change that." His thrusts were brutal right up until he came, cock pulsing inside Packington, marking him from the inside.
"Okay," Packington panted. "Deal. Just make me-make me come."
Staples stayed inside Packington as he brought him off with hard, fast strokes and a possessive mouth. Packington was pretty sure he'd look like he got mauled by a bear in the morning, or hit by a train and then tossed into a ravine, but he couldn't bring himself to care. They'd made a new deal, a better one, and they'd fucked on it. Packington wouldn't need to have babies; Staples wouldn't cheat on him with anyone, much less a bimbo secretary trying to sleep her way to the top; and the two of them would unmake and remake the world in their own image.
"We should celebrate our new deal," Packington mumbled, half asleep. "Make another baby." He yawned and nosed deeper into the pillow. It smelled like Staples and expensive cologne and musky, filthy sex with Packington.
"What do you suggest?" Staples asked, hand skating up and down Packington's hip.
Packington thought, tried to remember. "Don't our shitty dinner hosts have a summer house somewhere?"
Staples kissed his neck and pulled the blankets up again. "Not for long," he promised.
Previously, in the Bubble Wrap 'verse...
1 - The Church of Bubble Wrap
2 - Packington Meets His Match
3 - Double-Dealing
Bubble Wrap 4: On Fire
Word Count: ≈2,250
Warnings: bad language, bad attitudes, magic, and sex.
If these fuckwads were what passed for upper crust society, Packington thought he'd be doing Staples's world a favor if he systematically slaughtered them all. Their dinner hostess was precariously close to not-so-spontaneously combusting, and Packington planned to start with her overdone, spray-canned hair, and work his way down her river of collagen injections and other "enhancements." She thought she was so clever, with her shitty jokes about Packington's "bubble wrap fetish," and barbed comments about Staples knowing better than to bring his "toys" around "polite company." Packington tried to ignore the way Staples's jaw clenched; tried to make his own brittle smile less of a snarl. If Staples could sit through this bullshit, so could Packington.
At least, he could until their host patted his wife's hand reassuringly and said, "Oh, don't worry, dear, he never keeps them long," and Staples's knife skidded across his plate so loudly Packington winced, as did everyone else at the long dining table.
"I think that's quite enough," Staples snapped, standing and thrusting the prissy lavender napkin on top of his steak like he was telling their hosts to go fuck themselves.
Packington agreed entirely. As if their stupid invitation to a stupid dinner party on what should have been his night alone with Staples wasn't enough, they'd successfully ruined his dinner by acting like Packington was some cheap throwaway fuck, when even a disease-riddled, two-dollar whore wouldn't mistake either host for polite company or a good lay. He was reaching for magic through the long-range spell tying him to his bubble belt before he consciously realized he planned to set their hosts' bed on fire. A small blaze, he thought; shouldn't waste too much magic when a less noticeable flame might burn long enough to destroy much of their bedroom.
But then Staples put his hand on the back of Packington's neck, warm fingers slipping through Packington's loose curls and electrifying his skin, and Packington suddenly felt power explode into him from close by, and a fireball thundered out of the master bedroom and down the stairwell beyond the kitchen.
"Does anyone smell smoke?" one guest asked. Then the fire alarms blared, and Packington's confusion eased into a smug, lazy smile. Staples looked perplexedly at Packington as the mage stood, wrapped an arm around his waist, and lead him to the car park after the panicking guests.
"What just happened?" Staples asked, a tremor in his voice as he studied the hand that had touched Packington's neck.
Packington guided Staples to his chosen car for the evening, shoved him against the passenger door, and kissed him with glee, possessiveness, hunger. Staples kissed back, but he was off somehow, his tongue not so pillaging as it burned through Packington's mouth. So Packington bit Staples's lower lip and wrapped a hand around the back of Staples's neck. "See that?" Packington asked, chin jutting briefly toward the house with fire-shattered windows. His eyes lit briefly on their screaming hosts, flopping about on the perfectly landscaped front lawn like freshly-caught fish, and he smirked.
Staples glanced at the house with nervous eyes. "What about it? What-"
Packington nipped his lip and pressed closer. "We did that," he said.
Staples's wide eyes were visible in the lights over the circular drive, as was the way his tongue darted out to lick his lips before his gaze settled back on the house, awestruck. "We did that?"
Packington grinned. "Yeah, we did."
Staples made a noise in his throat, a sound between a growl and a satisfied hum, and abruptly bunched his hands in Packington's snazzy dinner jacket to sweep him into a kiss that pillaged and burned and fucked its way through Packington's mouth and nerve endings like a conquering army of sex. Packington felt his cock swell in his dress slacks and pressed against Staples, hips jerking of their own accord when Staples's hard length made itself clearly felt against his hip.
Only when approaching sirens interrupted their make-out session did the men climb into the car and begin the long drive to the main road. Packington entertained himself by watching Staples try to keep his eyes on the road instead of the the burning house in the rearview mirror. Pulling out of the neighborhood, Packington's thoughts turned to the merits of torching the passing fire truck so neither it nor the two police cars behind it could get through their hosts' gate.
"How?" Staples asked softly on the highway. "How did…we…do that?"
Packington didn't hear him at first. He was busy anticipating a good, long fuck, and possibly an amended deal that involved a lot more setting fire to their enemies, followed by victory sex in semi-public places. Packington was wondering whether their shit-talking hosts would kill themselves before or after they learned to set up roach motels in the condemned building they'd be squatting in by the time he was done with them, when Staples's voice finally reached him.
"Well," Packington said, daydream exchanged for the memory of Staples's hand on his neck, "You know how you always know where to find magic? You're apparently also a good conduit for it."
Staples frowned. "Conduit how?"
Packington smirked and lazily dragged his fingers up and down Staples's inner thigh.
"Don't," Staples said sharply.
Packington dug his fingers in hard, and Staples hissed. Mollified, Packington let go.
"If I crash this car and we die because of you, I'll be pissed," Staples said.
"Fuck you," Packington snapped.
"That can't happen if I hit a truck going ninety before we get home."
Packington huffed. Sometimes Staples had no sense of adventure.
"Conduit?" Staples prompted.
"You conduct magic. Like a plug in an outlet. Magic travels through you easily, and it's way more powerful when I tap into it. Less diluted, like organic food or something-more flavor and nutrients, less processed shit."
Staples pursed his lips. "Okay," he said, "I conduct magic. I can find it and tap into it. But I still can't use it?"
"Most people can't-especially in your world." Packington grinned. "The point is that I can use it."
"To burn down houses."
"Don't act like they didn't piss you off too," Packington snapped. "I'm not some throwaway fuck, or crazy cult leader, or a charity case who doesn't know his place."
"No," Staples said, hand tightening on the gear shift, "you're not."
"Then what's your fucking problem?"
Staples snorted. After a few moments of Packington glaring at him, he admitted, "I'm getting sentimental or something."
Packington's eyes narrowed, but he couldn't hide his curiosity. Staples grinned, dark eyes and glinting teeth as they pulled off the highway at an unfamiliar exist. "Sentimental?"
Staples's voice was soft, wondering: "We made something today," he said.
"Unmade," Packington corrected.
"No, made. Created. I feel like I did when I yanked my father's company right out from under him. Or…like we had a baby. Made something."
Packington mulled this over as they pulled into a private parking garage and drove up a few levels into a marked spot. "You want to have my babies?" Packington asked, not sure why he felt even the tiniest bit gleeful despite his trepidation.
Staples glared at him and unlocked the doors. "Don't be obtuse," he snapped.
Packington got out and followed him to the elevator (key card necessary) with relief.
"I want to make things with you," Staples said. "And unmake." The elevator lurched to a stop and they stepped across a small hallway to the only door in that wall. "Empires," he said, unlocking the door and ushering Packington into a penthouse as nice as the house they'd just burned down, but much more tasteful, understated; Staples. "Governments. Corporations." The door closed and locked as Packington dug the toes of his loafers into the thick rug beyond the foyer. "Assholes who should know better than to insult what's mine."
His hands slipped down Packington's arms and tugged him back until their bodies met, and Packington's skin ached to be still closer. Staples's breath was hot against Packington's neck, and when he scraped his teeth under Packington's collar, Packington hissed and ground back, gripped Staples's fingers and the bottom of his dinner jacket and tilted his head in invitation.
It was only after the bite there, the mark, that Packington realized he should have contradicted Staples, reminded him that Packington belonged only to himself, just as Staples belonged only to Packington, and that no amount of really hot sex would get Packington to admit otherwise, no matter what Packington said while begging for Staples's cock.
Not that it counted as begging, he told himself afterward, as Staples pulled out and licked Packington's sensitive cock and stomach clean. Sex talk was different and Staples knew it.
"So," Packington slurred, dragging Staples up by his glossy black hair for a syrupy kiss, "you want to have my babies." He snickered at Staples's dark look. "It's okay," he said. "I'm pretty hot."
Staples pinched him.
It hurt enough that Packington swatted Staples's arm so hard the slap stung his fingers. "Ow," he muttered.
Staples snorted at him, ruining his glare, and flipped onto his back beside Packington on the king-sized, ridiculously soft bed.
Packington let his hand fall back onto the bed. It landed on the dip of Staples's lower belly, and Packington let it play with with Staples's widening happy trail while he thought. "Okay," he said at last.
"Hmm?"
Packington met Staple's eyes and held them. "We can make things. And unmake them. Together." He paused. "Not babies, though. They're obnoxious and throw up on everything, and you are not fucking some bimbo whore-beast just to make a brat who can't even wipe its own ass."
Staples blinked entirely too long before shaking his head. "Okay," he said, amusement evident by the tilt of his eyebrows.
"Okay?"
"No babies-I'd just fuck 'em up anyway. As would you." He grinned. "We're not exactly father material."
Packington's jaw dropped. "That's not-"
"We're much better world domination material."
Satisfied once again, Packington grinned back. "Yeah." He was almost asleep when Staples pulled him into a tight embrace and tucked the covers around them both. Packington rolled his eyes, but let it be. It was a small thing to keep Staples happy when, through him, Packington could tap into deeper wells of power than he'd suspected this planet even had. Speaking of which, "Staples?"
He felt a questioning hum against his shoulder.
"Cheat on me and I will unmake you."
Staples had the nerve to laugh.
"I'm serious," Packington said, pulling the blankets under his chin. He knew he was too sated and sleepy to sound fierce, but this was nothing to laugh about.
"I know," Staples said, stroking his chest. "You don't cheat either," he said. "I don't share."
"Oh, really?" Packington snorted.
Staples bit his shoulder, and his hand drifted down to Packington's abused, spent, trying-valiantly-to-rise-to-the-occasion cock. Staples's chuckle at Packington's ground out "Oh!" reverberated down Packington's spine.
"I'm the only one who gets to touch you like this," Staples said, voice commanding and also matter-of-fact, and Packington rutted against him shamelessly because who the fuck cared, it was true, so why was Staples pushing the issue and not his cock into Packington where it belonged? "I'm the only one who gets to see you like this." Staples turned Packington's chin and kissed his mouth like he owned Packington and every sound he ripped out of him with his teasing hands and ruthless tongue. He pushed into Packington then, bare, in one long, torturous burn, and Packington's hands scrambled to grab onto something, anything, as the stretch from his sex-sore passage became a different, gut-deep, delicious ache. Staples pushed waves of pleasure through Packington with each stroke, and Packington wrenched off the blankets and lifted his leg so Staples's thrusts went deeper, filled him to breaking. "You're mine," Staples snarled into Packington's neck, "and I'll unmake anyone who tries to change that." His thrusts were brutal right up until he came, cock pulsing inside Packington, marking him from the inside.
"Okay," Packington panted. "Deal. Just make me-make me come."
Staples stayed inside Packington as he brought him off with hard, fast strokes and a possessive mouth. Packington was pretty sure he'd look like he got mauled by a bear in the morning, or hit by a train and then tossed into a ravine, but he couldn't bring himself to care. They'd made a new deal, a better one, and they'd fucked on it. Packington wouldn't need to have babies; Staples wouldn't cheat on him with anyone, much less a bimbo secretary trying to sleep her way to the top; and the two of them would unmake and remake the world in their own image.
"We should celebrate our new deal," Packington mumbled, half asleep. "Make another baby." He yawned and nosed deeper into the pillow. It smelled like Staples and expensive cologne and musky, filthy sex with Packington.
"What do you suggest?" Staples asked, hand skating up and down Packington's hip.
Packington thought, tried to remember. "Don't our shitty dinner hosts have a summer house somewhere?"
Staples kissed his neck and pulled the blankets up again. "Not for long," he promised.