The Onychinus leader. The individual who governs the lawless place—the N109 zone. A no-hunt zone that’s notorious for the abundant crime and with no rules or legal system. Once revered as a bustling technological metropolis, it has fallen like an angel losing their wings.
Yet, is it possible for an angel to regain their wings? No, it’s not. The only outcome is to become the fallen. The wasteland takes all fallen angels.
That same fallen angel is regarded as the only leader who brought prosperity to the N109 zone. Not one person can rival Sylus.
A man so depraved, cunning, and relentless can hold so much kindness and yearning. For one person.
You.
So, how does he show his love? Morse code. He’s taught himself this secret language that many can’t understand. He’s always dealing with dealers or crime lords who are ready to decapitate him at any second. Any chance to make him disappear, all his power is what keeps him safe. But his main priority is teaching his kitten the ways of the underworld.
Morse code is strategic and a must for you. Now, how does the student learn from the teacher? Easy, his tongue.
@/fictionfuel 2025. Don’t repost, steal, claim as your own, or use to train AI. Dividers: @/saradika-graphics
See i am feeling better and the evidence is that u am back with a smutty question..you know me😉
How would Jensen’s characters (Dean Ben Beau Russell, maybe Priestly) react when their girl says
“Don’t go down on me tonight…I haven’t shaved”
Xoxo
I'm glad you're back and feel better, my friend.<3 Let's see...
Dean Winchester doesn't care one bit. He's going to pet the bear and enjoy the ride. "Sweetheart, hold tight. This is going to be a wild ride." He immediately buries his face between your thighs and goes to work.
Ben grins. He sits down on the bed, patting his thigh.
"Come here, babe. I want to feel the fluff before I bury my face between those thighs."
You eagerly straddle his thigh and let him slip his hand into your panties.
"Did you think a bit of hair would stop me from getting what I want?"
Beau chuckles as his hand creeps between your legs to toy with you.
"Baby, I love every hair on you. Let me get a taste."
Russel just enjoyed the food you made for him and wants his dessert.
"Nah, baby. I want to have my dessert, and I want it now!"
Priestley snorts. He points at the shirt he's wearing, saying orgasm donor.
"Darling, read what's on my shirt. I bought you tampons, and you had my cock down your throat. Do you honestly believe a bit of hair will stop me from eating this cunt until you cum all over my face?"
Let's embrace the fact that prompt #13 gives the strongest Jordeclan vibes ever created. Pretty please???
Sex Trope Prompts | still accepting
[As you wish! #13 - anything involving the secretive brushing of fingertips against inner thighs in public spaces. It is indeed perfect for them. Enjoy!]
Declan had gone into this expecting catastrophe. Planning for the worst case scenario was hardwired in him.
But goddamn Jordan looked stunning.
The office hosted its annual internship dinner, and Declan had been the one to prepare the invitations and leave them on desks. Each of the interns and their supervisors. There was an open call for anyone to bring a ‘plus one.’ They’d hold it in the simple conference room, catered, no alcohol. He’d had no intention of going, but then Jordan asked him how his day was. And since he’d become accustomed to actually talking about his day, rather than let it slip into the void of obscurity, Jordan had leverage to tell him he should go.
“Don’t you think it makes you look stranger not to go out with your coworkers?”
“Is introverted synonymous with strange?”
“I think Lynch is synonymous with strange.”
Declan opened his mouth to argue but couldn’t really find a way to dispute the statement. Jordan, with her hands loosening his tie, decided that lapse in conversation was the perfect time to cheat.
She put her mouth on his and said, “I’ll find a nice dress.”
That nice dress made Declan’s knees weak.
Oh, it was incredibly appropriate for a political intern gathering, just above the knees, a modest neckline that offered him an enticing view of her collarbones and left the rest to his imagination. He’d gotten so used to seeing her in jeans or leggings and boots that the sight of her in heels took his breath away, and he wasn’t even upset that she was just a little taller than he was. The staff would be talking about this for weeks. Declan was about to go from ‘the guy who made coffee runs but never went out for beers’ to ‘they guy who probably didn’t go out for beers with someone like her waiting for him.’ Much to his relief, more people were interested in what she had to say than the way she dressed. They adored her. It did something to his insides to be so openly hers.
-
For being one of Hennessy’s girls, for being the oldest of Hennessy’s girls, Jordan presented her best behavior at this dinner. Not only because it was important to Declan, but because she thought about unloading all her colorful commentary to him on the drive home and listening to him laugh over the Irish pipes. She knew he’d had reservations, and she knew why he would have them in the first place. But as she sat next to him, her leg pressed right up against his, she bore his bland demeanor with grace and a respectable amount of her own opinions on the working poor and immigration reform. It was hard to tell what Declan felt about any of them, but she found the rest of his fellow interns charming in their activism. Declan seemed to fit in, while seeming too dull to care, while caring quite a bit. Jordan wished he would relax.
The lights dimmed for a rousing projection of their first quarter goals on the ten-year-old screen at the front of the room. Jordan put her hand on Declan’s leg. He tensed, then relaxed, his hand resting lightly on top of hers. She felt him twitch when her nails dragged over the inside seam of his fancy slacks. Declan turned his head to her, slowly so he wouldn’t catch anyone’s attention. His eyes were brighter than the projector, and about a hundred times more worth her interest. She played along the inseam unrepentantly, her knuckles grazing between his thighs. Jordan relished the way he shifted slightly, not pushing her away, but doing his model best to look like nothing was happening at all.
That just made it more fun.
Jordan stroked insistently over the fabric, pressing, teasing. She heard his breath catch, but no one else did. Without turning away from whatever was happening on the screen — it was something that could only be portrayed through graphs and pie charts with primary colors and good intentions —she took Declan’s hand and put it at the hem of her dress. His fingertips were warm against her skin, and already her pulse had jumped. Once more, he looked at her, and this time his eyes were dangerous in the darkened room. Jordan innocently dabbed at the corner of her mouth, even though she didn’t need to, white cloth against her dark plum lipstick. Declan took in another unsteady breath as she dropped the napkin back into her lap, over his hand. He nudged the hem up with his knuckles, and his touch ghosted higher up her leg. The thrill was less about him touching her, though that was quite good, and more about the mere idea he’d do this in a room full of his peers when he hadn’t even wanted to come out in the first place. Jordan considered that a job well done, on both counts.
The evening wound down after the presentation. After all, this wasn’t an open bar affair, and it was probably for the better. Declan played the part well enough as the interns thinned out. Like an absolute kiss-ass, he volunteered to lock up, and that fire was still in his eyes as he saw the last one out and turned on Jordan.
“I’m going to show you where we work.” His voice was bland, emotionless. The way he looked at her was anything but.
He took her hand, pulling her insistently away from the door and to the back where their busy little office smelled of coffee and an overworked copy machine. Where Declan sat was somewhere in a cluster of cubicles, difficult to tell what color the walls were since he hadn’t turned out any lights. He led her into one that was decorated with too many American flags to actually be his. She raised a brow at him, but before she could question it, he picked her up by the ass and put her on the desk.
“Is this where you sit, bruv?”
“No, this is Hunter’s desk,” Declan growled, grasping at the sides of her dress and tugging up while she squirmed to assist. When her backs of her thighs were flush with the laminate desktop, he added, “I dislike him greatly.”
Jordan threw her head back in delight, letting out a cackle that filled the empty space around them. He grinned, showing his teeth, then pushed her thighs apart. She loved this, absolutely adored this side of him, the one that she thought was more Lynch than any way he acted when this was a normal workday. As he crouched down before her, kissing her inner thighs softly, she swept her hands into his hair, tangling up in curls while he slipped her panties down to her ankles.
“You’re on lookout,” he told her, nipping at her skin playfully.
She shivered, glancing over the top of the cubicle but not really seeing anything, because he’d been too eager to hold back from flicking his tongue over her.
“All clear, Declan.” Jordan draped one leg over her shoulder.
“There will be more where this came from,” he promised.
