Fics like force-fed power grind

Rex blinks up at him, eyes wide, startled; shellshocked, maybe. Mouth held open ‘round a couple of Phil’s fingers, tongue pink and soft and spit-slicked, whiskey foaming in there mixed with Rex’s own saliva. It shouldn't make for an appealing sight; Rex's bottom lip all chapped and his teeth half-crooked and nicotine-stained, a stray patch of missed stubble in the crease of his chin; mouth too rough-edged, too mannish, to be sexy, the way it is when Phil's poured a shot into a chick's mouth. (Phil’s still hard in his shorts about it, though; pulsing, insistent, against the taut muscle of Rex’s thigh.)

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