Khaos & Moxie

Moxie is an 18 year old boy who lives with 5 different men, each of which he hooks up with everyday.

For the record, moxie gets passed around by 5 men everyday - this story focuses on Moxie and Khaos!
Khaos stood over him for a long beat, belt undone, jeans shoved down just enough, cock heavy and flushed in front of Moxie’s face.
Moxie didn’t move.
He stayed perfectly still on his knees—hands resting lightly on his thighs, mouth open, tongue peeking out, eyes locked upward in that wide, glassy way that always made Khaos’s control fray at the edges.
The silence stretched.
Then Moxie leaned forward—just a fraction—and pressed the softest, wettest kiss to the leaking tip.
Khaos’s stomach clenched.
“Fuck,” he hissed, hand shooting out to fist in Moxie’s hair. Not pulling. Not yet. Just holding.
Moxie hummed—low, pleased—and dragged his tongue in one slow, flat stripe from base to slit. The taste of precome bloomed across his tongue; he chased it, swirling around the head like he was savoring something rare and sweet.
Khaos’s grip tightened.
“You’re such a fucking tease,” he growled.
Moxie blinked up at him—slow, innocent, lips shiny.
“Am I?” he asked softly. “I’m just… saying hi.”
Then he opened wider and took Khaos in—slow, deliberate, inch by inch—until the head bumped the back of his throat.
Khaos’s head tipped back on a rough groan.
Moxie didn’t gag. Didn’t pull back.
He just stayed there—nose brushing the coarse hair at Khaos’s base, throat working around him in tiny swallows, eyes watering but never closing.
Khaos looked down—saw the tears clinging to Moxie’s lashes, the way his cheeks hollowed, the faint bulge in his throat—and something primal snapped.
He tightened his grip in Moxie’s hair.
“Hands behind your back.”
Moxie obeyed instantly—wrists crossing at the small of his back, chest arching forward, offering himself completely.
Khaos started moving—slow at first, shallow rolls of his hips—then deeper, harder, fucking Moxie’s throat with controlled, punishing strokes.
Moxie moaned around him—vibrating, needy—tears streaming freely now, mascara starting to smudge in dark streaks down his cheeks.
Khaos watched it happen—watched the glitter mix with tears, watched Moxie’s lips stretch wide, watched the way his body trembled with every thrust.
“Such a perfect little cocksleeve,” Khaos rasped. “Look at you—drooling, crying, taking it like you were made for this. You love it, don’t you? Love choking on me while the others are right outside.”
Moxie couldn’t answer.
Just nodded—frantic, desperate—eyes pleading up at Khaos like he was the only thing in the universe.
Khaos’s rhythm faltered—hips stuttering—then he pulled out suddenly, leaving Moxie gasping, coughing, strings of spit connecting his lips to the tip.
“Open wider,” Khaos ordered.
Moxie did—mouth falling open, tongue out, tears streaming.
Khaos stroked himself once, twice—fast, rough—then came with a low, guttural groan.
Thick ropes painted Moxie’s tongue, his lips, his cheeks—some dripping down his chin, some catching on his lashes.
Moxie didn’t flinch.
He just stayed there—mouth open, tongue still out—letting Khaos mark him.
When the last pulse faded, Khaos reached down—thumb swiping through the mess on Moxie’s cheek—then pushed it into his mouth.
“Swallow,” he said.
Moxie did—slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving Khaos’s.
Khaos’s hand slid to the back of Moxie’s neck—gentle now—pulling him up until Moxie was standing on shaky legs, pressed chest-to-chest.
Khaos kissed him—slow, deep, tasting himself on Moxie’s tongue.
Then he rested their foreheads together.
“You’re a fucking menace,” he muttered, voice wrecked.
Moxie smiled—small, sated, lips swollen and shiny.
“Your menace,” he whispered.
Khaos huffed a laugh—soft, helpless.
“Yeah,” he said. “Mine.”
He scooped Moxie up—arms under his thighs—and carried him toward the bed.
“Gonna clean you up,” he murmured against Moxie’s temple. “Then I’m gonna hold you until you fall asleep.”
Moxie sighed—long, content—and tucked his face into Khaos’s neck.
“Love you,” he mumbled.
Khaos pressed a kiss to his hair.
“Love you too, gremlin.”
And in the quiet bedroom, with the rest of the house still humming softly around them, Moxie finally let himself drift—safe, marked, utterly adored.
Exactly where he belonged.