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He really should have seen this coming.
His unexpected weight feels both comforting and nerve-wracking, the conflicting emotions making his head spin more than usual.
He isn't sure how he even got here.
Looey's mind raced, trying to piece together the events that led him to this point.
Did he say something?
Did Shrimpo say something?
His thoughts scramble like startled mice when he nips at his lower lip, startling a muffled squeak out of him—the noise earns him a low, amused huff as he pulls back just enough to glare at him—though the usual venom in it is oddly dulled.
"What's your problem?" he taunts, but his voice is quieter than usual.
He doesn't know how to respond.
He should know how to respond, but his thoughts are a mess—and every time he tries to speak, his voice catches in his throat like a knot he can't undo.
His breath stutters when he shifts, the movement jostling him enough to make his tail curl tightly around the edge of the bed.
He doesn't know what to do.
He doesn't know what he wants him to do.
His hands slip beneath the fabric of his oversized shirt, the material swallowing his hands whole as they brush against him.
His breath hitches—both at the unexpected softness he finds and at his reaction, the way his smaller frame tenses before subtly leaning into the touch.
It's nice.
—better than nice, if Looey's being honest with himself.
He'd never dared admit it, but he's thought about this—more than he probably should have.
Shrimpo is all sharp edges and sharper words—but like this, under his touch, he's different.
His second kiss is less hesitant.
He doesn't wait for permission—his mouth slants over his with quiet insistence, swallowing the half-hearted grumble of protest before it can fully form. He deepens the kiss before he can think to push him away, one hand splaying against the dip of his waist while the other skates higher, fingertips brushing the sensitive curve of a rib.
He had half a mind to tease him—to pull away just enough to watch his face twist into that familiar scowl—but he didn't.
His hands slide further up, thumbs tracing idle circles just beneath his chest.
His grip tightens when he shivers.
He definitely likes this.
His fingers pause as he pulls back just enough to speak—his voice a quiet, breathless murmur against his lips.
"Would you... mind undressing for me?"
—the request is hesitant, but unbearably hopeful.
His cheeks burn hotter when he realizes how desperate the 'for me' sounds, tacked on like a plea.
He wants to see him.
He wants to feel him properly—not just through the thin fabric of whatever stolen shirt he's drowning in today.
His fingers curl ever so slightly against his ribs—giving him every chance to shove him away if he changes his mind.
He knows this is nice for him too—from the way his chest still presses into his palms, to the quiet, irritable mutterings that aren't quite irritated anymore.
His breath catches in his throat as he sits up, grumbling under his breath—yet he still complies.
There's something mesmerizing about how he moves—how the irritation in his expression never quite reaches his actions.
He huffs as he yanks the oversized shirt over his head, the fabric tangling for a second before he tosses it aside with more force than strictly necessary. His fingers hesitate at the waistband of his underwear before he shoves them down, kicking them off impatiently.
Looey can't stop staring.
Shrimpo is cute—undeniably.
He's small, compact, with soft curves and sharp edges all at once.
He's faintly flushed from all the attention, and Looey wants nothing more than to run his hands down every inch of him, to feel the way his body would react beneath his touch.
He shifts slightly under his gaze, scowling as he fidgets—his usual defensive prickliness given away by the subtle twitch of his fingers against his thighs.
He's not used to being looked at like this.
He's not used to being wanted.
"Happy?" he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest—though the gesture doesn't hide anything, and he knows it.
He doesn't answer—not with words.
He reaches for him, pulling him closer—gently, reverently—his palm flattening against the small of his back as he kisses him again.
He doesn't need to tell him how happy he is.
His hands slide around his waist with ease—his grip firm as he lifts him effortlessly, settling him back onto his lap with a quiet grunt. He notices the way his body tenses—not in protest, but in anticipation—before he finally exhales, allowing himself to be maneuvered.
His own balance shifts as he guides him, squeezing just above his hips before coaxing him forward with an insistent roll of his body—the movement drags his bare cunt against his thigh with soft, damp friction.
He isn't given much time to second-guess anything—not when Looey's lips press against the curve of his neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses downward as his body rocks into another slow grind.
He hums against him—approving, encouraging—one hand sliding down to cup him between the thighs. His fingers don't intrude, not yet—but they press firmly against his folds, enough to make him squirm, pulling another sharp inhale from him.
Each slow roll of his hips drags his clit against the rough fabric of his pants.
Each touch between his thighs presses just enough to remind him how exposed he is.
Looey's breath stutters as he registers the warmth of his hands gliding under his shirt, his small fingers pressing against the soft plane of his stomach with uncharacteristic gentleness.
The contrast between his usual rough demeanor and the hesitant tenderness of his touch sends an unexpected shiver down his spine.
His palm stills between his thighs, momentarily distracted by the feeling of his face nuzzling into the crook of his shoulder—the quiet, embarrassed huff of breath against him betraying how much he was enjoying this despite himself.
His hand tightens slightly where it grips his hip, guiding his movements into slower rolls—the heat of his cunt against his thigh leaves a sticky sheen on the smooth material, the friction dragging a quiet whine from him—one he immediately tries to suppress by biting the fabric of his shirt.
He isn't having it.
"Don't hide.." his fingers slide further, thumb dragging a teasing line along his slit—just enough pressure to make his hips jerk forward in search of more. "I like hearing you.."
Between the relentless roll of his thigh under him and the maddening way his thumb skirts just above his clit, pressing without quite giving him what he wants—he can't stop the ragged little sounds slipping from his lips.
His fingers flex against his stomach, blunt nails pressing faintly as his hips stutter between the slow grind and the instinctive urge to chase that teasing touch.
Even now, there's hesitation—like some part of him expects to be mocked, expects this to be taken away—but when Looey's other hand comes up to cradle the back of his head, holding him close as his pace falters, he can feel the way his breath stutters too—how his own stomach tenses under his palms.
It feels good.
—not just physically, though that alone is overwhelming—but the lack of cruelty in his touch, the way he seems to savor every noise.
He wasn't built for softness like this—wasn't made to be held so carefully—yet here he is, trembling apart under hands far gentler than he'd ever admit he deserved.
His fingers twitch where they're gripping the fabric of his shirt, his breath coming out in shallow little huffs as he continues to kiss along his throat with unbearable patience.
The warmth of his mouth trails lower, down the curve of his neck, teeth grazing just enough to make his stomach tighten—but even that small hint of roughness doesn't last. His touch remains frustratingly, agonizingly soft—his lips smoothing over the faint mark before sliding back up to press another chaste, maddeningly gentle kiss to his jawline.
"Just—fucking do it already!!" his thighs press together around his hand, a weak attempt at creating more friction.
He merely hums—undeterred.
"Do what?" he murmurs, feigning obliviousness.
Shrimpo scowls, huffing sharply.
"You know wh-what—stop acting like—like I'm some fucking—"
"Like you're what?" he prompts, voice low and infuriatingly steady.
"Like I'm—like I'm fuckin fragile or some shit!!" he finally grinds out, voice far weaker than he intended.
His hips shift, chasing the fleeting sensation, but Looey doesn't relent—just keeps tracing that same maddening path, barely there yet impossible to ignore.
"You're not fragile.." he murmurs—but the gentleness in his tone, the way his fingers still refuse to press harder or move faster—proves the opposite.
He growls—or at least tries to—though the sound cracks halfway when his thumb flicks over his clit.
"You're pathetic.." he spits, though the usual venom doesn't quite land with the way his voice shakes. "Treating me like—like I'm—"
"Nice?" he offers, mouth quirking upward.
"I am NOT nice!!" he snaps instantly, but the protest is weak—undermined entirely by the way his hips twitch forward into his hand, seeking more.
He just exhales a quiet, fond laugh.
"Could've fooled me." he leans in to press another soft kiss against his temple, fingers curling just slightly to coax out a moan—one that Shrimpo fails to smother against his shoulder.
His patience was fraying.
"Stop. Fucking. Teasing." he hissed, voice cracking at the edges.
He needed more.
Looey—that bastard—just laughed softly against his throat, the vibration sending another shudder through him.
"You like it.." he murmured—knowing.
"Quiet!!" he snarled—but his hips rolled forward anyway, chasing the heat of his palm where it still hovered just out of reach.
"Then?"
"I hate you."
"That's a lie.." he hummed, unimpressed.
His free hand slid up his spine, pressing him closer until he was flush against him—every tremble, every shaky exhale impossible to hide. "You want me to put it in you that bad?"
"..yes.."
He exhaled—as if savoring the moment, the victory—before caving.
"Alright."
His fingers slid lower, pressing firmly into him.
—the stretch burned just slightly—not painful, but present, intrusive in a way that made his claws flex reflexively against the fabric of his shirt.
It pissed him off how careful he was being.
It was unbearable.
He hated it—the way his body betrayed him, his slick gathering embarrassingly fast around his fingers.
He hated that Looey was still fully dressed.
It wasn't fair—being the only one exposed.
His claws hooking into the collar of his stupid shirt with a growl.
"Off." he demanded, yanking at the fabric like he could shred it through sheer irritation alone. "Now."
Looey had the audacity to chuckle—infuriatingly unfazed even as Shrimpo tugged hard enough to make the seams creak. He didn't stop—his fingers slid deeper, curling just right, and Shrimpo's next demand evaporated into a choked gasp.
"Bossy.." he was clearly enjoying himself far too much.
He relented—leaning back just enough to shrug the shirt off one arm, then the other, letting Shrimpo paw at his exposed torso with impatient, trembling hands.
He latched on—digging his fingers into the curve of his ribs, as if he could punish him for the unbearable gentleness of his touch by leaving bruises.
"You're gonna have to get off my lap." his voice was smooth, far too entertained by the way Shrimpo's expression twisted.
"Unless you'd rather I leave these on?"
Shrimpo's scowl could have peeled paint from the walls.
For a moment, it looked like he might refuse—like he'd rather strangle Looey than concede.
He huffed sharply, shifting his weight off his lap with an irritated grumble, arms crossing over his chest as if to shield himself from the humiliation of obeying.
He smirked, unfazed by the glower leveled at him as he pushed the remainder of his clothes down, kicking them aside with far less resistance than before.
He reached for Shrimpo's hips again, dragging him back onto his lap—this time with nothing between them—and any protest died in his throat the moment he felt him.
"Is that better?" he murmured against his temple, fingers gripping his waist firmly, pressing him down just enough to feel the slick drag of his cock against him.
His fingers trembled slightly as he reached between them, his grip tightening around the base of his cock with an irritated little huff. His cheeks burned even hotter when he felt him twitch against his palm, the weight of him far more substantial than he wanted to think about.
Stupid.
He was too big—yet, despite himself, he wanted it.
The thought alone made his scowl deepen.
"This isn't better.." he muttered—only for the words to crack halfway when he guided the tip of him against his cunt, pressing down before his body had fully relaxed around him.
—a sharp inhale punched out of him at the intrusion, his thighs tensing against his hips as the stretch burned—dry, tight, barely eased by what little slick he had.
His grip tightened on his shoulders, claws digging in as he tried shifting impatiently, ignoring how his muscles fluttered in protest.
"Shrimpo, you're not—"
"I know that!!" his voice came out far more strained than he wanted it to.
He didn't care.
It hurt—but in the best way, the kind that made the tension in his stomach coil tighter with every tiny roll of his hips, forcing himself to take more.
"Y-You're gonna—"
"Do I look fucking worried?!" he snapped, breath hitching as he sank lower, the stretch turning sharper, more consuming.
His thighs shook—whether from pain or pleasure, he wasn't sure—but he didn't stop.
"You're so stubborn!!"
"SHUT UP!!"
His hips jerked downward—finally seating himself fully, panting as his body clenched around him in immediate protest, trembling from the overwhelming fullness settling deep inside him.
Looey exhaled shakily beneath him, holding himself perfectly still as if any movement might hurt him. His voice came out lower than usual, rough with the effort of keeping himself in check.
"..you okay?"
His sneer wobbled just slightly before he shoved himself forward, pressing his nose into the crook of his neck to muffle the breathless, shuddering noise that threatened to escape.
"..sh-shut up—shut up, shut up—"
His words lacked all bite.
—the heat of him was overwhelming, clenching tight around his cock in little flutters, as if his body couldn't decide whether to welcome him or push him out.
"Easy.." he murmured, voice strained—every syllable laced with restraint.
He snarled into the crook of his neck, the sound fraying at the edges. "Don't tell me easy!!"
Despite his complaints, or how aggressively he was grinding his teeth—Looey could feel the way each shallow hitch of his hips forward sent a tremor through his lithe frame.
He wasn't pulling away.
He wasn't letting him pull away.
He arched up just enough to press deeper, a low groan rumbling in his chest at the slick drag of him.
"There—fuck—you bastard—"
Every tiny roll forward had his body locking down on him, squeezing tighter as if he were trying to force him out even as his hips stuttered backward—only to chase him again, seeking another punishing press inside.
It was perfect.
"Does it—feel good?" he dared to ask, barely audible over the sticky sounds of their hips rocking together.
He could barely bring himself to respond beyond a sharp, jerky nod—his face burning hotter when he realized how flushed and desperate he must look.
His hips rolled downward in uncoordinated little thrusts, meeting each subtle grind upward from him with a shudder.
Every drag of his cock inside him sent sparks of heat coiling in his gut—an almost dizzying contrast to the earlier stubborn resistance of his body.
He hated how good it felt.
He hated how full he was.
He hated how Looey's stupidly careful hands still cradled his hips, gripping just tight enough to steady him while letting him dictate the pace—letting him control it like he was afraid to push too hard.
Like he was giving him even this small concession.
His knees dug harder into the mattress as he forced himself down again, chasing the sensation—his cunt clenching greedily, his thighs trembling with the effort of keeping himself upright.
His breath hitched when he shifted, just barely lifting his hips—testing—before rocking up into him again, just enough to make his vision waver.
He could feel the tension coiled tight in every frantic little roll of his hips—the way his thighs quivered with each shallow thrust, the needy clench of his cunt around him betraying just how much he wanted this. His hands flexed against the curve of his waist, thumbs pressing into the dip of his hips with just enough pressure to steady him—just to support, even as his own restraint frayed under the slick heat wrapped around him.
"You're—" he started, voice hitching when the smaller toon abruptly twisted in his grip, his glare flashing hot despite the way his lips parted on a shaky exhale.
"Don't talk to me!!" the command lacked its usual bite, cracking under the weight of his own desperation.
He swallowed hard, nodding despite the protest—but the second Shrimpo tried to sink down again on his own, his body locking up with an aborted gasp, he couldn't stop himself.
His grip tightened, lifting him just an inch—just enough to ease the angle—before guiding him back down in a smooth, measured stroke.
He felt his claws dig into his shoulders in retaliation—not pushing him away, but holding on, as if he'd fall apart if he let go.
His hips stuttered when he repeated the motion—lifting him again, just enough to feel the slick drag of his cock sliding nearly free before pressing him back down, deeper this time.
He wondered if Shrimpo even realized how loud he was being—or how pretty he sounded when he finally stopped thinking.
He adjusted his grip, pressing him backward until his shoulders met the mattress—the new position left his thighs splayed awkwardly, knees pressed close to his chest from how Looey leaned over him, arms bracketing his smaller frame.
—the faint, unsettling outline of his own cock pressing up against the smooth curve of his stomach made his ears burn—his grip tightening just a fraction before he forced himself to move again, careful to keep his thrusts measured.
He wasn't entirely sure why it affected him so much—why the sight of it made something hot and heavy coil tight in his gut.
But it did.
Shrimpo, for his part, seemed just as—if not more—uncomfortable with the development.
His head tilted just slightly to the side, gaze deliberately avoiding looking down at himself, his usual sharp-edged glare replaced with something far less defensive—almost shy, if he didn't know any better.
He tried to focus—tried to keep his rhythm steady—but his earlier confidence had evaporated.
Now, with him laid bare beneath him, he couldn't seem to shake the creeping awkwardness of it all.
He wasn't used to this.
He wasn't used to him letting him see him like this—vulnerable, flustered, gripping the sheets instead of digging claws into him like he wanted to rip him apart.
He must have sensed the shift in him—must have felt the way his thrusts faltered—because he finally looked up, glare flickering back into place as he huffed sharply.
"Wh—What're you—" he started, only for his voice to crack as Looey bottomed out inside him again, the sudden pressure forcing a ragged gasp from his throat.
He opened his mouth—to apologize, to say something—only to shut it just as quickly when his knees pressed tighter against his ribs, legs trembling slightly with the effort of keeping them there.
He wasn't making this any easier.
It should have been nice.
It was nice, but there was something unbearably intimate about it—about seeing his body react like this, about the way his sharp little teeth worried at his lower lip like he couldn't figure out how to stop the helpless noises threatening to spill out.
He exhaled sharply, shifting just enough to hook an arm under one of Shrimpo's knees, tugging it higher—spreading him wider—before pressing back in.
The reaction was instant—
His back arched slightly off the bed, his claws finally tearing into the sheets like he'd been waiting for permission to lose control—a choked whine slipped free, high and desperate—before he bit down hard on his own wrist to muffle the sound.
Looey's breath stuttered.
He'd never heard him sound like that before.
His thrusts lost any semblance of rhythm after that—jerky, uneven, his own composure fraying at the edges at each muffled sound he made.
He wasn't normally like this.
He wasn't usually this—
—a sharp kick to his ribs snapped him out of it.
"Don't just—j-just—"
He blinked—then realized he'd stopped moving entirely.
Right.
Fuck.
His grip tightened on his thigh, dragging him impossibly closer as he started up again.
He couldn't tear his gaze away.
Every thrust forward made the outline of himself more pronounced beneath—shifting with each movement, pressing outward in the most vulgar way possible before sinking back again as he withdrew.
It was—
He swallowed, throat tight.
Fascinating wasn't the right word, but his brain was rapidly failing in its attempts to catalog what he was seeing into anything remotely coherent—the visual alone squashed any semblance of rational thought—the way his body yielded under the relentless intrusion, how his small frame tensed and shuddered with every snap of his hips.
There was something suspiciously magnetic about it, staring as if hypnotized by the slow undulation beneath his skin.
Shrimpo noticed.
—of course he fucking noticed.
His claws dug deeper into the sheets, fingers twisting the fabric into desperate knots as if he could physically strangle the embarrassment simmering in his chest. His breath came in short, uneven gasps, each one hitching when his movements slowed—without meaning to—just to watch the way his stomach stretched taut with each fully sheathed thrust.
"Don't—" his voice cracked, cutting off halfway when he instinctively tried to squirm away—only for his grip to tighten around his thigh, forcing him still.
It took an embarrassingly long second for Looey to realize he should probably respond.
He didn't.
Deliberately wrenching his gaze upward, he swallowed thickly, forcing his hips to resume their rhythm despite the sudden, prickling awareness of just how exposed they both were in this position—how much he could see.
Shrimpo's glare was wavering, undermined entirely by the way his hips twitched up to meet him, his body clinging greedily to each movement despite his white-knuckled grip on the bedding.
His gaze flickered downward for a second—before darting away again, his lips pressing into a thin, trembling line.
Neither of them spoke.
If anything, the awkwardness dissolved into something infinitely worse—something more hungry—as his pace picked up again, his grip bruising where it dug into his thigh to keep him spread wide, keep him open.
He couldn't tear his eyes away, transfixed by the way every forward snap of his hips made the outline of himself press deeper, harder against the delicate swell of his stomach before receding again.
He seemed too overwhelmed to even comment, his usual sharp-tongued insults replaced by small, ragged gasps—every muffled sound punched out of him in time with the relentless drag of his cock inside him.
He stubbornly avoided looking down, his gaze fixed on the ceiling—but there was no ignoring the way his stomach trembled with each deep press inside him, or how his cunt clenched instinctively around the thick length filling him.
Looey, for his part, wasn't faring much better—his rhythm stuttering awkwardly whenever he made a particularly sharp noise, his own face coloring as his grip tightened around his thigh. He swallowed hard, trying to focus—trying not to get distracted by the way his body clenched around him in tight, fluttering pulses—but the way he writhed beneath him, the subtle arch of his back every time he hit that spot—it was impossible.
He wasn't used to this.
He wasn't used to him like this—so reactive, so pliant, shivering with every drag of friction inside him instead of snarling and shoving him away.
The difference was dizzying—seeing him unravel like this, watching the way his breath stuttered and his claws flexed like he was restraining himself from clinging to him—it made his chest ache in a way he couldn't quite place.
His thumb shifted against the inside of his thigh, rubbing absent circles, and the reaction was immediate—his legs twitched, body jerking with a choked-off sound before his hips rolled down instinctively, seeking more of that delicious friction.
The line between annoyance and surrender grew thinner with every second—his usual defensive growls dissolving into whines, his body moving against him almost eagerly, despite the way his face still twisted in what was either frustration or overwhelming sensation—he couldn't tell.
His own rhythm wavered slightly, his usual evenness fractured by the sheer need burning through him—the way his walls fluttered around him, the way his small frame shuddered beneath him—it made it harder to focus.
His body practically folded over him as the weight of his own desperation pressed him deeper into the mattress.
His thrusts had lost all finesse—far past his careful rhythm from earlier—now just frantic, shallow snaps of his hips chasing the suffocating tightness wrapped around him.
His fingers flexed where they dug into the softness of his thigh, gripping hard enough to leave faint imprints—as if he could fuse their bodies together just by sheer force of will.
He wasn't usually like this—this uncoordinated, this shamelessly greedy—but the way Shrimpo writhed beneath him, the way his cunt sucked him back in with every retreat, made his restraint crumble faster than he wanted to admit.
It took far too long for him to gather a coherent thought—longer still to actually voice it, his usual smoothness abandoned somewhere between the slick drag of their bodies and the way Shrimpo's voice cracked around a particularly high-pitched whine.
"Can I—" his voice wavered, forcing the question past the tightness in his throat. "Inside? Can I?"
—the second the words left him, he regretted it—not because he didn't mean it, but because his entire body tensed beneath him, his expression flickering between outrage and something far more vulnerable.
"Hurry up already—" his words dissolved into a shuddering gasp as his hips jerked forward, nearly folding him in half with the force of it—a wordless, breathless affirmation that sent his pulse hammering harder.
His entire body thrummed with the need to follow that ragged command—to bury himself so deep he'd never be able to extract himself fully.
He didn't even realize how much harder he was pressing down, his weight pinning his thighs flush against his chest, until he felt the slight tremor in his muscles—the way his breath hitched with every brutal snap forward.
He should ease up—give him room—but the way he clawed at him, the way his body arched into each punishing thrust—like he wanted it like this—
His breath hitched, his entire body seizing up as the coiled tension in his stomach finally snapped—his orgasm ripping through him with startling force.
—the second his body tightened, his cunt fluttered violently—not just clenching around him like usual, but squeezing in erratic pulses—soaking him, coating his cock in newfound wetness as he clenched down desperately.
His thighs trembled against Looey's sides, his toes curling, body jolting with each aftershock—muscles still twitching as if trying to wring every last ounce of sensation out of him.
A choked, hiccuping noise escaped his throat—something between a gasp and a whine—his usual sharp-edged growl replaced by ragged, uneven breaths. His fingers spasmed where they clung to him—holding on for dear life as his release left him shuddering beneath him.
His hips jerked downward unthinkingly, his body automatically rocking up to meet each twitch—still desperate, still seeking, like he couldn't get enough even as the pleasure crested and crested again.
Every movement drew another shaky sound from him—his walls fluttering around his cock, making the drag even slicker than before, even hotter.
His pupils were blown wide, his face flushed—watching with rapt fascination as Shrimpo squirmed beneath him, still clenching around him, still impossibly tight—his body refusing to settle even as his orgasm slowly ebbed away.
He didn't slow.
He pressed deeper—each thrust fiercer than the last, chasing the way his body clenched around him in tight, fluttering spasms, dragging whimpers out of him that should've been beneath his pride.
—the slide was obscene now—sloppier, hotter, the wet drag of his cunt milking him with every rock of his hips.
His body was still strung tight, still shaking under his pace—but he didn't stop.
His hands slid up his thighs, gripping just beneath his knees—lifting him slightly, tilting him into an even deeper angle—and the way Shrimpo's legs jerked, the way his breath skipped—
"F-Fuck—"
His breath shuddered out of him in ragged bursts, hips locking suddenly as he bottomed out inside him—a low, punched-out groan tore itself from his throat, the sound thick with something between relief and disbelief—as his cock twitched inside him.
His fingers tightened where they gripped beneath his knees as heat pulsed from him in thick, insistent spurts.
It wasn't just the physical sensation—though that was overwhelming enough—feeling the way Shrimpo's walls fluttered in exhausted little spasms around him, the way his body clung so tight it nearly hurt—but the sheer realization of where he was, what he was doing, that suddenly made his head spin.
His stomach knotted as his hips stuttered forward reflexively, chasing every last ripple of his cunt as it milked him greedily—as if his body was determined to pull everything from him, drag every drop of spend deep inside.
The thought alone sent another wave of heat through him, his next exhale breaking halfway—his orgasm cresting again in slow, lingering pulses before finally ebbing into aftershocks.
The tension in his limbs didn't ease—his grip on him stayed firm, as if he was afraid he'd vanish the second he let go.
His chest heaved, heart hammering hard enough to feel it in his throat—but worse was the way he could see it—the unmistakable swell of his release dripping from him with each shallow thrust forward.
Shrimpo wasn't reacting—not beyond the faint twitch of his fingers where they still clutched the sheets, his breath coming in uneven little gulps—as if he was fighting to keep air in his lungs.
He looked—
Tired.
His usual venomous glare had dissolved into something dazed—lips parted around silent, unspoken words—his expression caught somewhere between overwhelmed and mortified at the realization of what they'd done.
His stomach flipped.
He didn't pull out.
Not when the aftershocks still rocked gently through him.
Not when his softening cock still throbbed weakly inside him, still pressing forward as if his body refused to accept it was over.
—the heat between them was nearly suffocating—his own mess almost unbearably warm as it seeped deep into the clenching muscles beneath him.
His next breath shuddered in his chest, the sound perilously close to a whine.
He should move.
He knew he should move.
—but the way his legs shook where they pressed against his ribs, the way his cunt fluttered weakly around him—it was enough to make him shudder, hips jerking forward of their own volition in another aborted thrust.
He—reluctantly—dragged his hips back.
His softening cock slid free with a slick, obscene sound—the thick mess he'd spilled inside him immediately welling up in the space left behind.
He couldn't look away.
His cum seeped out in slow, sticky rivulets, dripping down the soft curve of his cunt, clinging to his trembling thighs before pooling beneath him on the sheets.
Shrimpo didn't even have the energy to snarl—just a faint, hitching gasp as his body twitched at the sensation, legs still splayed where Looey had held him open.
His breath shuddered in his chest.
He looked smaller, somehow..
His cunt was still fluttering faintly, the stretched-out walls twitching, his slit slick and glistening with a mix of his own arousal and the unmistakable evidence of his release.
His stomach clenched with something almost painfully possessive at the sight.
—before he could stop himself—before he could even think—he pressed two fingers against his puffy, oversensitive entrance, gathering up the mess before sliding them back inside, feeling how warm and indulgent he still was.
He jolted beneath him—a sharp, punched-out whine catching in his throat—but he didn't pull away.
His thighs tensed, toes curling as he pumped his fingers lazily, coating his walls with what had already been spilled deep inside him.
He wasn't even sure why he was doing it—just that the thought of it marking him further, of it staying inside him longer, sent heat coiling low in his belly again.
"Looey.." his voice cracked—not angry, not even protesting—just weak, breathless.
His hips twitched—but whether he was trying to push into the touch or escape it was unclear.
He didn't stop.
Not until he was satisfied with how thoroughly he'd smeared it back inside, ensuring he wouldn't be rid of the feeling—the weight—of him anytime soon.
Only then did he withdraw, fingers slick as they trailed down his inner thigh, leaving a glistening streak in their wake.
He exhaled shakily, his body going boneless beneath him, his glare lacking any real heat.
His chest still rose in uneven hitches, his cunt still clenching around nothing—overstimulated but not protesting, not beyond the occasional tremble of his thighs when the aftershocks rippled through him.
He looked—good.
And—selfishly—Looey wanted him to stay that way.