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tadpolesonalgae · 7 months

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Dark!Feysand x human!reader: Tag, you’re it - Part 2[***]

A/N: Do you like my cookies? They’re made just for you. A little bit of sugar, but lots of poison, too.

Warnings: noncon, smut, mention of whips, kind of sex-slave things?, mentions of rape, impact play, face-sitting, suffocation, fingering

Word Count: 5,444

Your eyes snap open, instantly scrambling back at the sound of the key in the lock.

The gate swings open, allowing your self-appointed mistress to step inside, her feet silent on the wooden floor, bathed in a thick, dark red rug. Like blood-soaked moss.

The iron bars dig into your spine as you whimper, pushing yourself into the corner, where the metal meets the plaster of the wall. Your legs curl up to your front, arms hugging your knees tight as you try to tuck yourself into a tiny ball.

“Sweetness, stop doing that,” she tuts, standing at the entrance to your cage, situated near the end of their bed. “It’s been weeks. You know we aren’t going to hurt you,” she reasons, arms folding across her chest as she stares down at your cowering form.

Sometimes you’re lucky, and they’ll allow you to stay in your cage as they couple, forcing you to watch as they enjoy one another. Other times, you’re dragged from your confines kicking and screaming, until one of them inevitably takes your mouth for themself.

“If you mean me no harm, let me go,” you rasp, throat still raw from the night before. You’d kicked off just a little too hard, which landed you a night with the High Lord. And Rhysand, plus the chains and whips he’d subjected you to, wasn’t something you wanted to be reacquainted with anytime soon.

Her brow narrows, lips pursing.

Then she’s walking toward you, eating up the distance in a few quick strides, and you press yourself tighter into the corner. Your padded shackles clink as they drag across the rug.

She squats down just a way from you, making you squirm beneath her piercing blue-grey eyes. “What’s this about, hm? You were doing so well,” she muses, peering at you intently. “What happened?”

Fear and anger pump through your blood, hugging yourself tighter. “You murdered by husband, Feyre,” you snap, vision blurring at the memory. “You murdered, and raped, and stole,” you snarl, tears brimming at your lashes as you glare at her.

Her own brows narrow, a mix of pain and fury in her eyes as she stares at you, hard. Then, “your husband, as you call him,” she says icily, “was a rapist. A rapist, and a coward. We saved you from him.”

“But I didn’t need saving! I didn’t want saving!” You cry, nails digging into your knees as you keep yourself balled tight.

“He was ruining you,” she snarls lowly. “He wasn’t good for you. Couldn’t provide for you. He only wanted you so he could have a wife.” She pushes forward then, gripping you by the jaw as your eyes lock with hers, intent and piercing. “A pretty, little trophy. The Mother knows you’re the best thing that ever happened to him. He knew that too,” she growls, lips brushing over your own. “Every damn person could see it. You were too good for him.”

You squirm in her grip, trying to jerk away, but she’s so powerful and strong you can never hope to escape. “I. Love. Him.”

“He’s dead,” she snarls back, pulling you closer. “He is dead, mutilated, and buried. Dumped in the ground for the worms to feed on him. What’s left of him.”

“And I still love him more than you,” you spit back.

You know you’ve found your mark when she goes still, features leeching of colour, turning a ghostly shade of white. Fury glitters in her blue-grey eyes, icy rage surfacing, sealing over.

“We were friends, Feyre,” you continue on. “You were the closest I have ever been with someone, and now you keep me in a cage.” Her jaw tightens, but she says nothing. Just staring at you with that fury that has nowhere to go. “You can say what you like about him. Keep telling yourself those lies,” you breathe, nails piercing your skin. “Maybe you think he was ruining me, that he was tearing me apart, but you’re the one who caused me to be like this. You. Are. My ruination.”

The smack comes out of nowhere.

One moment you’re staring into her eyes, and the next your head is snapped to the side, cheek stinging with pain. Vision blurs and tears fall, unable to stop them, no matter how hard you try.

“You will either learn to love us,” she grits out, a cold fire burning in her gaze. “Or you will continue on like this. If you’ll be so stubborn as to waste away over that miserable wretch, then so be it. Drown in your grief.” Again she grips your jaw, crescent shapes surely indented in your skin by now. “But don’t come crying to me when you become so damaged even we won’t tolerate it.”

The moment the words are out of her mouth, regret flashes in her eyes. Pain flares in her gaze, and you feel that final thread be snipped off. The final string connecting a woven tapestry, split into two.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, eyes widening. “I didn’t… You know I didn’t mean that…” She cups your cheeks, staring pleadingly. “Sweetness, forgive me.” She presses her forehead to yours, touching you so gently, reverently, as if you really will shatter.

You jerk away, landing a kick to her stomach, but it merely bumps her away a little—always so much stronger than you. “You’re just like him,” you spit, pushing every ounce of betrayal and hurt you can muster into you eyes. “No, worse. This is so much worse than anything Tamlin ever did to you.”

It’s not a physical smack to the face, but it might as well have been.

Her eyes again grow cold at the mention of her past lover, lip curling. “I am nothing like him,” she snarls, gripping your shoulders.

“Aren’t you?” You snap back, kicking off again—you might be able to get through to her. “Keeping me locked up? Trying to make me dependant on you? Taking away my autonomy?” You spit at her, each word seemingly knocking a brick from that wall. “At least he never raped you.”

The final brick falls, but it doesn’t bring the aid you had hoped for. Instead fury crushes down on you, ire blazing in her eyes, hot like steel fresh from a forge.

You’re thrown to the floor, breath knocking from your lungs, air wheezing from your lips as your head hits the rug with too much force. Your eyes fly wide, paralysed as your stomach spasms with the strength of the shove.

“And here I thought a night with Rhys would have fixed that attitude of yours,” she says icily, walking over to your shackled body. “Where did that come from, huh? You were never so easily agitated before.” She stalks over to you, staring down at your winded body, muscles struggling to move. “Maybe we’re being too soft on you,” she muses, making your blood run cold. “Maybe we need to take a rougher, more absolute approach to breaking you in.”

Feyre’s deft fingers fly to the band of her leggings, pushing them down her thighs, over her calves and off her ankles, leaving her in her shirt and underwear. She steps over your head, looking down your body as you attempt to wriggle away. “It seems the only time you’re at all like your old self is when you’ve got something to do with that lovely mouth of yours,” she growls, squatting over you. Even with your human senses, you can scent her arousal from how close she is.

You squirm away, but she drops down, placing her cunt over your mouth, sealing it shut with her weight. “Much better,” she purrs, thighs spreading as she rolls her hips, clit rubbing over your lips. “You’re so much more enjoyable when you’re just a place for my pussy. So well behaved.”

The High Lady’s hands bury in your dress, and you shriek and squirm as she pulls the fabric away, up to your waist, baring you to her. You squeeze your thighs shut in attempts to hide yourself—they didn’t allow you to wear underwear. That would give you too much dignity. They want you ready at any time.

You twist your head to the side but she shifts her hips, squeezing you with her calves to keep you upright, so she can rub and roll over you to her pleasure. “I think you need the fight beaten out of you. Isn’t that right, sweet thing?” Her hand smacks down between your legs, and you scream—with pain and surprise.

Again, you try to squeeze your legs closed, but bands of darkness tug on the shackles attached to your ankles, wrapping up the iron and looping beneath your knees. Forcing your thighs open.

She brings her hand down again, catching your clit beneath bone, and you whimper into her heat. The wet fabric settles over your features, dampening your lips and nose as she grinds onto you, pleasuring herself to your pain. She smacks again, and tears fall.

Feyre doesn’t stop. Spank after spank is landed to your soft, tender sex, until slick is attaching to her fingertips, connecting them to your cunt by thin threads of slippery silver. She snarls with feminine satisfaction, delighting in the way your thighs tremble, how your chest is rapidly rising up and down with your muffled cries. Her middle and forth finger slide down, spreading you wide as she leans down your body, shifting her weight over your face.

The two fingers press to your sopping entrance, before pushing inside, roughly. Sliding up to her knuckles.

She’s pleased when you whimper, nosing at her sopping entrance as you try to squirm away.

“You say you hate us, yet you get this wet from a few harsh touches, sweet thing?” She croons, indulging in the obscene squishing sounds your cunt is making as she slides her fingers in and out. You only whimper, refusing to bow to her will.

Her fingers retract from your cunt, smacking down again, and you scream, jerking violently as the sting lances up your thighs. She lifts up onto her knees, gripping your jaw with the fingers that were just inside of you, arousal smearing your skin. “Come on, sweetness. Tell the truth, for once,” she snarls, lips lifting in a feral grin. “Such a pretty liar.”

Your nose scrunches in distaste, tears rolling back through your hair as she keeps you trapped beneath her cunt, pinned to the rug. “I hate you,” you spit out instead. “I will never love you,” you say, wetness blurring your vision as your chest heaves with sobs.

Her lip pulls back from her teeth as the undersides of her feet slide beneath your head, pulling you up into her cunt as she locks you in, squeezing tight. She releases you long enough for her underwear to vanish, before she’s shoving you back in, wet heat pressing onto you, slicking your mouth and nose.

Again her hand smacks down, and you can’t help the way your lips part in a muffled scream, hands grasping at her as you try to escape, but she pulls you tighter. Can’t breathe.

You sting between your legs, tears spilling as she continues abusing that tender, intimate part of you, pain searing into your tummy as he smacks down on your raw, swollen clit. The world spins a little and you need air, you need to breathe—

Warm, strong hands are pushing her off you, carefully.

You gasp for breath, falling back into the ready arms as cries continue to wrack your body, lungs spasming from the intensity.

Rhysand pulls you to his chest, your back to his front as you shiver and sob, giving you strength to fall into as your own fails you.

Feyre growls in the back of her throat, shifting slowly to face her mate. “Give her to me.”

The words alone drag whimpers from your lips, the little strength you have being used to push yourself back into the male, scrambling into his cruel arms. Arms that are currently holding you so delicately compared to the iron grip she’d just had you in.

You’d always known she was a huntress. Always’d had that slightly wild edge to her, the part that was well-acquainted with cold winters and brutal slaughters. It was different actually facing that part, though. Having it turned on you.

You scramble back further, hands pressing onto the tops of his thighs as you leverage yourself. He’s crouching down, hunching over you possessively. Not quite protective, but not offering you up, either. A strange combination indeed.

Soft, hot lips press to your temple, and you whimper, not having the energy to shift away from him. “I thought she was ours, Feyre, darling,” he purrs, holding you a little tighter to his body. “I’m getting a little jealous over all your time together.”

“Rhys,” she snarls, moving closer.

You snatch your legs in, flinching away from her, curling into the High Lord.

Both of them mark the movement, noting the significance.

You just chose him over her.

Tears spill down your cheeks as you shuffle away from her, burying into Rhysand, burrowing into his warmth and strength. Violet eyes gleam with interest at the pressure you’re creating, as if you want to crawl inside of him, nestle beneath his skin.

“I think you need to calm down,” he says softly but firmly, watching his mate. “You’re scaring her.”

Her brow narrows, but she pauses. “You’re being too soft on her,” she accuses lowly, letters dragging from her tongue. “She’ll never come around if you keep allowing her to sway you like that.” Rhys doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash, hand moving to stroke your hair, as if calming a pet. Strangely, it works.

“You think I’m being soft on her?” He repeats, attention dropping to you, between his thighs. His hand lightly grips your throat, spanning your neck and jaw, allowing him to tip your head back. “Do you think I’m being too soft on you, little lynx?” He asks, violet eyes piercing into your tear-filled ones hungrily.

You shake your head. “No, Rhys,” you whimper, lower lip wobbling, and he feels your heartbeat spike beneath his fingers. He makes a low sound of approval in his throat, eyes flicking back to Feyre’s. “See? So polite,” he drawls, squeezing a little tighter. “So well trained.”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Feyre snarls, glowering at the two of you. “If you don’t punish her when she misbehaves, she’ll know she can use that in the future. Are you listening to me?”

His violet eyes have latched onto yours, brows curved upward, expression tired and pleading. He groans in the back of his throat, tightening his hold on you, fingers pressing against your pulse point, pushing tears from the edges of your lashes. “What about you, Feyre, darling?” He asks, gripping your chin so you’re forced to face her. “How would you fair if she gave you those pretty bedroom eyes?”

Blue-grey locks onto your bright, tear-filled gaze and she stiffens.

Rhysand hums. “Thought so.”

Feyre narrows her eyes at her mate. “I don’t like it when she mouths off like that.”

“Well, how about fixing those misconceptions instead of punishing her for them, hm?” He counters, returning to stroking your hair, liking how your sobs subside beneath his touch. “You want to encourage her behaviour?” She snaps irritably, prowling forward a little, making you tense up in his hold.

A low laugh rumbles from his chest at that, but he continues petting you, allowing you to start softening beneath him. “I think our previous method clearly isn’t working. Or rather, it’s worked enough so that now we’re going softer on it, she’ll know the difference. Isn’t that right, little lynx?” You blink bright, gleaming eyes at him, and he smiles.

“If we’re both more gentle with you…would you like that?” He asks, softly stroking your skin. You manage to blink away your tears, getting a hold on your wobbly lower lip. Then you give a near imperceptible dip of your head.

Violet flicks smugly to blue-grey, and you shiver in his arms, wondering what you just signed up for.

“So, we compromise?” She says, drawing your attention to her. “Is that what you want, sweetness? We’ll be more careful with your frail self, and…what? You’ll stop being so difficult?”

“You killed my husband,” you hiss out, weakly. “And you’re upset about me being—”

Faster than you can register, Rhys’ hand has slipped between your thighs. You tense, bracing for another smack that will have a fresh wave of tears surfacing, but instead he softly touches the pad of his finger to your sopping entrance, dragging back up your centre to gently roll over your puffy clit, gliding across the taut bud with ease.

A quiet moan spills from your mouth as you squeeze your eyes shut, toes curling as he plays with you. Heat washes over your body, and you hate how you’re reacting to him. How you’re stumbling straight into his lap.

“We’ll be more careful, and she’ll fall open for us,” Rhysand murmurs, smug grin on his curved lips, enjoying how you’re melting at his fingertips. “Isn’t that right, sweet thing?”

You try to think it over. Them being more gentle with you means no more nights with the High Lord and his whips. No more biting and unending pleasure torment. Your eyes flick away, dropping to the rug. What if this is the best deal they’ll offer you? What if this is the best it gets? It seems like a way to escape their torture. At least, in a way.

Rhysand hums with satisfaction as your head dips, shame warming your cheeks—because you’re considering it. Considering bargaining with them.

“Either way,” he drawls, hands sliding beneath your arms, pulling you up with him as he stands. You whimper, the intimate area between your legs aching, vision blurring at the edges. “I think you two should do some making up. Isn’t that right, sweetness?” He grips you tightly as he guides you from the cage, toward their large bed. Fear spikes in your blood, and you try to dig your feet into the ground, attempting to push away from the haunting structure.

“Uh, uh, uh,” the High Lord tuts, stopping behind you. “I thought you were going to be good for us.” Darkness swirls at your feet, humming and lulling, imploring you to follow his movements. Your toes curl, pressing back into him. “This is wrong…” you whimper, trembling beneath his hands.

You try to turn, and he lets you, keeping a light grip on your hips. “This isn’t right, Rhys,” you say softly, peering up at him pleadingly. He takes a step forward, and you obediently yield. Take a subconscious step back. “What isn’t? What are right and wrong, really?” He counters, taking another sweeping step forward, and you’re aware of the bed closing in on you.

“This,” you say, emphasising as you flick your gaze over him. “I don’t—… How else can I make it clear?” You cry. “I don’t want this. Either of you. I never have. Not like this.” The mattress presses against the back of your thighs, and you stiffen. Your time is up.

He takes a final step forward, so you’re tight against him, hips digging into you, chest to chest, craning your neck upward. “I think you’re lying, again.” And with that, he’s grabbing you by the waist, lifting you up and tossing you onto the mattress with terrifying ease. You squirm and scramble but darkness has already constrained you, tying you to their bed as hunger darkens his violet eyes.

“Like I said, I think you two need a little make up session. Get nice and messy,” he purrs, prowling round the bed, only to settle behind you. His arms wrap over your tummy, pulling you back into him, so you can feel the firm hardness of his length. You writhe, attempting to contort away from his dominating hold.

A secret conversation passes between the High Lord and Lady, then she’s slinking forward, pushing your legs open. You whimper, squirming away in fear of what she’s going to do to you. You’re so sore and sensitive…

“Behave,” she snaps, brow narrowing at you in silent reprimand. Rhys snarls in warning, but she snarls back. Blue-grey eyes flick from his in favour of yours, and you shrink away, a whine building in your throat as they pierce into you. “Feyre…” you plead softly. You need her to be gentle, or…

Something in her features softens, and she uses a slight bit less force as she spreads your legs, baring your gleaming heat to her. “Want me to be careful, sweet thing?” She asks lowly, the pads of her fingers pressing into your thighs. Your lower lip wobbles, but you nod, slowly. “Not going to get in my way? Not going to try and stop me?” She drawls, settling comfortably on the bed, mouth prone to attack your clit. You shake your head, muscles tensing the closer she draws.

“No? You’re going to let yourself enjoy it, this time?” She purrs, hot breath brushing over your heat. It’s her own sort of test—to see if you’re really willing to compromise. So you nod, dutifully, praying for forgiveness.

Her eyes spark, locking on yours as she delivers a small lick to your inner thigh, nipping at the skin. Rhys hardens further at your back. “Say it. Tell me you’ll enjoy it. Say how you like it when we do this to you.” Again, there’s a warning growl from Rhys, and your heart drops.

Feyre’s lips quirk, and she moves a little closer to your heat, a wolf circling in on her prey. “Go on,” she goads, “tell me how much you want me.”

“Feyre…” the High Lord warns, her name ripping from the back of his throat. “I thought you wanted us to make up, Rhys,” she snaps, “these are my terms. Either she can accept them, or…” She leans forward, lips latching over your heat so he’s unable to see as her teeth tug on your clit.

You flinch, whimpering, but push your legs wider. “I…” you stammer, softly, hands fisting over your stomach, still slumped against Rhys. “I’ll enjoy it,” you whimper, thighs shaking with the effort of not trying to close them. “I won’t— I won’t try to stop you. And I…” you swallow, arriving upon the hardest part. Tears blur your vision, but you blink them away. “And I like it when you do this to me. I want it.”

Rhys’ hips roll into you, grinding the hardness of his cock into your backside, groaning softly. Feyre’s eyes gleam with delicious satisfaction, removing her teeth from your sensitive skin, licking gently over your slick heat. “That’s better,” she says, kissing your clit softly.

You whimper, trying to ignore your words as they replay in your head, bringing one hand to your mouth, knuckles pressing over your lips. It’s an effort to keep your thighs spread with how sensitive you are, but you don’t have a choice in the matter. She’s lapping and licking, gentle flicks of her tongue sending warm zaps of arousal to your centre.

The High Lord noses your neck, hot lips brushing the sensitive skin as he moans quietly, a lustful exhale of breath. “What lovely things would you say for us, hm?” He asks, canines scraping the shell of your ear. “What sweet sounds could you make?”

You shiver in his arms, sorrowfully tipping your head to the side, giving him unrestricted access to your throat. He takes the offer eagerly, mouth attaching to your smooth skin, already sucking bruises into you, teeth scraping as he searches for a spot he wants to bite. Where he wants to stamp his mark into you, to be seen later. Serving as a reminder.

Feyre shifts, tucking her knees beneath her as she slides her fingers into you, the warm, wet muscle in her mouth swiping over your clit, making you bite back a moan. She suckles the taut bud, soothing the stinging from earlier and you push your teeth into your knuckles.

The High Lord sees, and doesn’t approve.

His hand grips your wrist, pulling it from your mouth as she curls her fingers against a certain spot. A high-pitched whine spills from your lips, and he finally bites down, canines pressing into the soft skin of your throat, printing his mark on you. “Don’t hide those sounds from us,” he scolds, roughly yanking your hand from your mouth.

You attempt to seal your lips, clenching your jaw shut, but they have other plans.

Rhys tugs your dress higher, darkness swirling around your bodice, then it vanishes. You squeal, attempting to cover yourself with your arms. Even now, even after all these times, you hate it. He shoves your hands away, tutting softly, “now, now. You said you’d be good. Or shall I let Feyre have free reign for the night?”

You sob weakly, coil tightening in your belly, resisting the urge to cover yourself, spreading yourself wider in attempts to make up for it. Feyre nips at your clit, and you hiss. The taut bud is sore and swollen, puffy from attention, every flick of her tongue sending sparks burning between your legs.

“Mm sorry…” you manage, opening yourself up to the senses, the pleasure she’s putting into you. “Yeah? You’re sorry for disobeying? For hiding yourself from us?” He purrs beside your ear, hands cupping your breasts as you squirm against him. He groans as your rear presses against his cock, the seam rubbing against him almost painfully. Deliciously so.

You nod, palms settling over his thighs, needing something to hold on to. “Say it,” he groans roughly. “Say how much you like it. How badly you want us to touch you.” Tears spill, rolling down your cheeks from the torrent of emotions they’re subjecting you to.

“Rhys…” you beg desperately. “Rhys, please…” You don’t want to say it. Don’t want to give them another word. Even if they were once your everything. He raises his fingers to your mouth, pushing them onto your tongue firmly, coating them in saliva. “Say it,” he commands softly, stroking the wet muscle. “Say it, or we’ll have to go back to our old methods.”

His wet digits retract from your lips, brushing over your nipples, making them peak, becoming sensitive to the air. You attempt to crane your head back, but are unable to with him so close behind. “Rhys…” you whimper, tears dripping onto your chest, Feyre eagerly suckling your clit, pumping and curling her fingers against spots she shouldn’t know about.

The High Lord tugs on your nipples, making your eyes squeeze shut, spine arching as your rear presses harder onto his cock, straining against the seam of his trousers. “Say it,” he growls, low in his throat, “say you like it. Tell us you want more.” His teeth scrape over the shell of your ear, and you flinch. “And make it believable.”

Feyre’s tongue swipes over your clit, making you squirm against the pleasure, deft fingers dragging in and out, rubbing against your inner walls.

“I…”

The High Lady adds more pressure between your legs, and your muscles go weak, melting into Rhys’ chest as your eyes roll back. Dizzy with warmth. In the back of your mind, you think you can feel his lips lift into a hellish grin, watching from a far corner in your head as one of his hands leaves you, trailing down over your tummy.

Feyre pulls away, a mix of slick and saliva connecting her mouth to your heat as Rhys’ hand takes her place. Her fingers are still pumping and curling, and that heat is still building, and you’re almost entirely relaxed against him.

That is, until he presses the pad of his middle finger hard over the tip of your clit, soreness blaring through your mind.

You squeal, panting and writhing, pushing her fingers deeper into your cunt, letting them touch sensitive, more intimate spots that have small moans spilling breathlessly from you. “Rhys…” you beg, eyes squeezed shut as your nails dig into the muscle of his thighs.

“I’m not stopping until you say it,” he says roughly, slowly oscillating his finger over your clit, the soreness sending blinding white flashing behind your eyelids and your hips buck. Feyre’s free forearm slides over your abdomen, pinning you to the mattress as you try to roll down onto her fingers.

“Come on,” he goads, amusement lilting his honeyed voice. “Just a few words, and I’ll stop.” The circles tighten, Feyre’s fingers brushing against spots you feel she’s intentionally targeting. “Say it, or I’ll make it worse,” he laughs darkly.

You whimper, mind spinning as you attempt to remember the words he’d ordered you to speak. Struggling to form them on your tongue. Heat builds; the coil tightens. “Rhys…” you moan, hips trying to buck up but she’s keeping you down. All you can do is take them. Every thing they force onto you.

Your lips part, head tipping back as you slide lower down the mattress. “I…I want more,” you whisper, heart splitting as tears drip down your cheeks, wetting your skin. “I—” You cut yourself off with a moan, nails biting harder into Rhys’s thighs and you wonder if he can even feel it. Maybe he enjoys it.

“Come on,” he urges, “just a bit more, then this can all stop.” You don’t want it to stop.

Fuck, you don’t want it to stop.

The realisation slams into you right as Rhys pinches your clit, and the loudest moan yet bursts from your lips. Your hands scramble about, searching for purchase frantically, trying to grip onto something as you feel the wave crest.

“F…Feyre…” you whimper, squirming and writhing. They hold you tighter, restricting your movements and louder sobs spill from your lips. “Please…please, please more.” Rhys’ breath catches and Feyre’s eyes flick to you, each of them memorising the way you move, the desperate jerks as you try to shift how you want.

“That’s it,” the High Lord breathes, letting up on your sensitive clit, only for Feyre to latch on in his stead. “So good. That’s our girl. So well—”

They let you go long enough to move.

You push up and flip over before his hands have your hips in a bruising grip. You cry out from pain but crawl further up his body, arms shooting over his shoulders as you press into him. His violet eyes widen marginally before your mouth opens over his, the echo of pain still reverberating around your thighs.

Feyre reattaches her mouth to your cunt, switching her fingers and her teeth as her tongue pushes against your entrance, thumb pressing into your clit, her nail scraping over the swollen bud. Your nipples graze his chest, and you shatter right then and there—with his fingertips still digging into the softness of your hips.

Your hips wind against her, hands threading in Rhys’ blue-black hair, the thick, silky locks feeling good between your fingers. Your hands fist as you pull him closer, and he groans—a sound deep within his chest. You feel it resonate into your own as his tongue flicks out, stroking over yours as he pushes after you. His canines catch on your lower lip and you moan, sweetly.

You don’t have the time to face what you’ve done as the aftershocks fade, taking the remnants of your strength with them, leaving you with mere scraps of energy.

Arms give out, and you collapse onto him, Rhys lying back on the pillows as he basks in the reassuring weight of your body against his. Quiet pants whisper from your lips as you remain stretched out over the High Lord, void of any clothing, mind still blank from the orgasm.

Feyre presses a kiss to your entrance, before dragging herself away from your heat, trailing a pathway up your spine until she’s draped over you. You feel the full press of her breasts against your back, and subconsciously arch your spine, curving into her shape so you can mould together.

Her lips press to your neck, and a soft sound of pleasure hums from your mouth, a quiet breath of ecstasy.

Rhys’s arms wrap around the both of you, making sure you remain tucked between them.

Right where you belong.

General Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022

Feysand Taglist: @girlmadeofavocados @zara-aliza

#Feysand #Feysand x reader #Feysand smut #Feysand x reader smut #dark!feysand #Dark!feysand x reader #dark!Feysand smut #dark!feysand x reader smut #x f!reader #x f!reader smut #[***]#dark fic #Tag You’re It #Tag Your’re It Part 2 #October

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imhenritz · 7 months

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Giving him the love he deserves (Sanji x Reader) Part 2

Phew, wipes brows, I think it’ll be a good idea to continue until it comes to a conclusion.

Reader is still Mc (Main Character), but I made it sound like it's a name! I'm still too lazy to think of a real name. Forgive me!

The prompt for the story is: "The reader gets sucked into One Piece after wishing that someone would love Sanji like he is supposed to be loved, as nobody has given him a chance. She would love to give him that chance if only she could. One time, she was in her room, falling asleep while recording her voice for a cover request sent to her. When she woke up, she found herself in a boat floating, wearing pieces of jewelry fit for nobility. Her neck, ears, and bracelets were all glittering in the darkness."

Part 2 under the cut. Part 1 here

Under the soft, flickering glow of the ship's lanterns, Sanji found himself engulfed in a sea of emotions, his heart tumultuous and restless. Mc's melodic soft singing floated into the room, a gentle lullaby to his troubled thoughts. His worry for her, his anticipation for their future together, all clashed within him, a storm threatening to overwhelm his senses. Her decision to join the crew, made without their usual shared deliberation, left him touched by her independence yet troubled by the absence of their partnership in this significant choice.

As Mc entered the room, she seemed to sense his unease, her steps light and graceful. Her touch, like a caress of understanding, brushed against his cheek, her eyes filled with tenderness and compassion.

"What's wrong?" she inquired, her voice a soothing melody that wrapped around him like a comforting embrace.

"Darling, my love, I..." Sanji's voice wavered, his emotions a tangled mess. "I was worried. Worried that you made this decision without me."

"I'm here in your room, aren't I? I'm just about to talk to you..."

"But you already said yes."

Her eyes narrowed playfully at him and tapped his nose. "Unless you got ears around me, you wouldn't have heard the condition I placed before saying yes."

His heart sank. He doubted her, but she shook her head, her eyes softening with understanding. "I told him the condition I gave Luffy was that he takes you as our chef or I would have had to decline. He already asked for you, Ji."

Sanji's eyes widened in surprise, a mix of relief and gratitude flooding his senses. He cupped her face gently, his touch tender yet desperate to convey his emotions. "I... I'm sorry for doubting you, Darling. I love you. You know I do, so much-I was just-"

Her fingers traced a reassuring pattern on his cheek. "-I understand," she said, her voice filled with unwavering determination. "Zeff had already agreed to it a long time ago, and I would never leave you behind. I'll fight tooth and nail, even kill if I have to, to stay by your side."

Sanji felt a surge of emotion, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Her words, saturated with love and determination, washed over him, cleansing his worried soul. He realized he had been anxious for nothing; her commitment to their love was unyielding, dispelling his fears like dawn breaking through the night.

In that moment, Sanji's heart swelled with profound gratitude for the woman before him. His eyes, usually sharp and confident, softened with the intensity of his affection.

"I swear. From now on, I'll always believe in you, Darling," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "I adore you"

Mc smiled, her eyes shimmering with unwavering resolve. She placed her hand over his, pressing her lips against his palm. "And I, you, Ji," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "Just ask me, and I'll always be honest with you."

In that moment, the storm within Sanji's heart calmed, replaced by a profound sense of peace.

---

Under the twinkling night sky, the Baratie resonated with the lively sounds of a party in full swing. Sanji, momentarily taking a break from his culinary duties, made his way to the fish head, where an open space and a bustling bar awaited him. His keen eyes scanned the room, but they always found their way back to his darling. She glided about the ship with a purposeful grace that mesmerized him. The tray she carried was a culinary masterpiece, a feast fit for kings that elicited appreciative sighs from those lucky enough to catch a whiff of its fragrant aroma.

Whispers of gratitude followed Mc like a sweet melody, a chorus of appreciation that echoed her every step. Usopp and Zoro, their steadfast resolves easily swayed by the promise of a good meal, succumbed to Mc's delectable offerings. Sanji's brow furrowed, an unsettling pang of jealousy pricking at his normally composed demeanor. He scoffed disdainfully, dismissing their newfound friendship as mere bribery, drawn in by the irresistible allure of her food and drinks he made.

Nami, the ship's sharp-witted navigator, kept a watchful eye on Mc from a distance, her gaze as sharp as the swords Zoro carried at his side. Suspicion etched lines on her face as she observed Mc's interactions. Unperturbed by Nami's icy demeanor, Mc extended a warm invitation, her voice carrying a friendly undertone. "Why not join them, Nami? Our sous chef whipped up a delightful dessert tonight."

Nami’s response was a simple shake of her head, a refusal that hung in the air like an unspoken challenge. Sanji, known for his admiration of women, felt an unexpected surge of protectiveness for Mc. His irritation with Nami deepened, a storm swirling beneath his calm exterior. He was hot-headed when it came to someone being relatively mean and cold to his loving girlfriend.

"More for us, then!" Usopp chimed in, oblivious to the tension. His grin toward Mc was genuine, a testament to his genuine appreciation for her culinary talents. Zoro nodded in agreement, mischief glinting in his eyes.

With a final glance at Nami, Mc continued on her path, her spirit seemed undeterred by the navigator's indifference. Sanji watched her graceful retreat, his heart swelling with admiration for her unwavering kindness.

But he couldn't contain his frustration any longer. He walked to Nami, his voice tinged with annoyance yet laced with politeness. "Was the dessert not to your liking, madame?"

Nami met his gaze, her expression unwavering. "Your little girlfriend shouldn't keep bringing us food. She's drowning us in debt," she replied, her words sharp and precise.

Sanji's protective instincts flared, but he held back, maintaining the gentlemanly qualities instilled in him by Zeff. "That food is deducted from her pay. She's merely extending kindness to the crew, especially since you're the chore boy's friend.” He paused, letting that sink in. With a gallant bow, he added, “If something is not to your satisfaction, Madame, feel free to let us know.”

He turned away, but the unspoken tension still hung heavily in the air. Meanwhile, Luffy, blissfully ignorant of the brewing storm, bounded over, his usual enthusiasm cutting through the discomfort like a beacon of light.

"Hey, what's going on?" Luffy asked, his eyes darting between Sanji and Nami.

Sanji clenched his fists, his frustration evident. "Nothing, chore boy." He frowned. “How did you escape the dishes?”

“Escape? Mc sent me here to get you," Luffy scratched his head, confusion etched on his face. “She said I can just come back tomorrow?”

Sanji's gaze softened at Luffy's words. He took a deep breath, his anger dissipating like smoke in the wind. "No need, I'll be there."

Nami, too, seemed to relent, her shoulders relaxing slightly. With a nod, she acknowledged his politeness.

---

After the tense encounter with Nami, Sanji made his way to Mc's chambers. His knuckles rapped gently on the door, and it swung open to reveal her, bathed in the soft glow of the room's lanterns. She was halfway dressed in her night clothes, an enchanting sight that would have distracted any man, but he managed to keep his focus.

"You know, you can just come in, silly," she teased, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

Sanji smirked, refusing to let her playful remark derail his manners. "A gentleman never forgets his courtesy, my love," he retorted, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

The frustration from his encounter with Nami still lingered in his chest. Mc, ever perceptive, sensed his mood. She moved closer, her hand finding his, her touch like a calming breeze. "What happened, Ji?" she asked, concern etched in her eyes.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "It's Nami," he confessed, his voice tinged with annoyance. "She's been unnecessarily cold towards you. I can't stand it when someone treats you that way."

Mc's gentle fingers traced soothing circles on his palm. "My love, you know Nami has her own struggles. We all do. Maybe something's bothering her."

He grunted in frustration, feeling a mix of anger and helplessness. "I forgot for a moment how well you know all of us," he admitted, his voice heavy with exasperation. "But what will happen now? Will she continue to treat you like this?"

"Of course not," Mc's touch was grounding, her presence a balm for his frayed nerves. She guided him toward the bed, and he sat down heavily, his frustration dissipating slowly under her comforting touch. "Come here," she said softly, pulling him closer.

He allowed himself to be pulled into her embrace, his head resting against her chest. She hummed gently, the soothing sound reverberating through him. The scent of her hair, the warmth of her body against his, all of it calmed the storm inside him.

"Let's not worry about tomorrow, Ji," she murmured, her voice a melodic whisper. "Right now, in this moment, it's just us. You and me. That's all that matters."

He closed his eyes, allowing her presence to wash over him, grounding him in the here and now. His frustration melted away, replaced by a deep sense of contentment. In that moment, he realized that no matter what challenges they faced, as long as he had her by his side, he could weather any storm.

And so, in the quiet of her chambers, under the soft glow of the lanterns, he let go of his worries. He let himself be enveloped by her love, finding solace in the knowledge that they were in this together, bound by love as unyielding as the ocean that stretched out before them. With her singing softly, he drifted into a peaceful sleep, secure in the arms of the woman he loved.

======== In the midst of the soft, flickering glow of the ship's lanterns, the once tranquil atmosphere shattered with the arrival of Mihawk, the formidable warlord whose mere presence sent shivers down the spines of even the bravest souls. Zoro, their steadfast swordsman, never one to back down from a challenge, boldly stepped forward to confront Mihawk. The crew stood in stunned silence, their wide eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before them, panic rippling through them like wildfire.

======== Already drafting part 3! I have fluffs between Mc and Sanji though lined up though that could be a filler. I spent writing those more than preparing for Part 3. Part 3 here

P.S. I didn't know anyone would read it so thank you so much for reading!!

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mechformers · 1 year

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Could i request reader with daddy issues calling tonowari daddy by accident during sexy time?

I have no idea if this is anything close to what you were thinking of when you asked, and if it's not, I'm so sorry. You never specified a human/avatar/na'vi reader, so this just kind of landed on human lol Hope that's alright!

1008 words Tonowari x Human!Reader Content warning: Daddy kink (daddy issues? this gave me daddy issues XD), size difference, Na'vi x human, p in v, belly bulge, steamy nonsense with absolutely no plot whatsoever, fucked dumb (- both of them lol) not spell checked - we die like mansk here...

The lewd sounds coming from your cunt as he buried himself deeper still, would cling to his memories in the quietest of moments for years to come. Your slick, your evident excitement just from being with him, makes the slide irresistibly smooth as he bottoms out once more. Your tight insides quiver around his size, the hot walls all but strangling him as he holds still. Releasing a hot breath over the top of your head, he’s helpless to keep his massive body from pressing deeper into you.

“P-please…” You beg of him, your lips, red and swollen where he’s kissed you to within an inch of your life.

Pulling ever so slowly out of you allows for a ragged breath to be drawn before he sheaths himself within your scorching heat once more. His arms are trembling from keeping the full mass of his weight off of you, his ribcage feeling two sizes too small as he clenches every muscle in his body to hold himself back. Looking down between his elbows, your pink, sweaty face stares up at him, head bent backward on the woven mats. It shouldn’t be pretty the way you’re sweaty and blotched, but the sight sends a current through his body which results in an aborted thrust that still moves the entirety of your body up with the force behind it.

“Ph-pl-se,” Your lips part once more, clumsily begging him for something he has yet to understand.

Tears are falling from your beautiful eyes, the clear drops glittering in the low light of the setting sun. Not even the prettiest of pearls could compare to the sight, as it burns itself to his memories, joining a series of other wonders. Pulling out again, Tonowari watches intently as your small eyebrows knit together in displeasure. At what, he does not know, but until you tell him to stop, he will take what you freely give and he will give what you will willingly accept from him.

“D-daddy, please,” You gasp, your voice raw, as just the tip remains inside of your burning cunt.

Sheathing himself fully inside of you, Tonowari is unable to hold back the powerful thrust that reaches the end of your tight heat, only to push you further up between his elbows. Small arms cling desperately to his chest as your legs spread impossibly wide to accommodate the sudden width of him as he collapses on top of your small form. His head is spinning, his lungs refusing to pull much-needed air into his lungs as he holds as still as he can. From below, your small nails claw at his chest, while you mewl.

“M-more daddy,” You somehow manage to push out and despite himself, he’s once more unable to stop his hips from thrusting into you, as if there’s still a chance he’s missing a tiny crook inside of you to bury himself in.

“Little one,” Tonowari manages, his voice strained as his head swims, making him unfocused.

“N-no,” Your desperation reaches a level that concerns him while he tries to move off of you.

Instead, you cling to him tighter than before. Your weak arms wrap around his neck while your legs desperately cling to his waist, somehow managing to lock behind him. It’s an awkwardly stretched position you’re in, but you get your point across clear as day. Hushing you, Tonowari holds a hand to your bottom as he sits back up, taking you with him to sit in his lap. Looking down at you, you’re nothing but a toy as your arms loosen from around his neck. Gravity makes you sink further down on his cock, the obscene bulge pressing on your stomach as your tired body leans back.

“Mh good, Daddy,” You mumble as your small body reaches for him, falling against his chest all boneless and fucked out.

“Y/n?” Tonowari tries and to his utter surprise, your head actually turns to him as a soft smile crosses your lips. “Still good?”

Inside of your cunt, he can feel his cock twitching at his seemingly new title. There’s definitely something loaded behind it, but as of right now, sheath deep within your welcoming, tight heat, he couldn’t care less. You begged for him with everything that you were... How irresponsible would he be to deny you any longer?

Thrusting up into the tight heat, the squelching sound of your slick making room for his cock, filled your kelku. There was no doubt in his mind, while he repeated the motion as you mewled babbles of “daddy" and "more”, that the people outside could hear your slick walls while he rearranged them. Tonowari would make sure that there was a permanent shape of his cock inside of you, one that you would never be able to erase.

“Harder, Daddy,” Your small hands reach for his face and right then, right there, with your face looking so beautifully debauched - he lost all composure.

Holding you up by your middle, he moves you along his cock, watching as it bulges your stomach each time he bottoms out. He’s hitting something tight and spongy, bruising past it to reach the end of your passage, and with each passing, your cunt tightens deliciously until suddenly, your soft body grows taught in his hold.

“I-I’m gonna - D-daddy!” And with your eyes wide open, staring into his, your cunt spasms hard around his cock, milking him with such force he’s helpless to resist your siren's call.

With one final press, he buries himself sheath deep within your wet heat as he floods you with his blessings. There’s so much to unpack after this, but for the moment, all he can do is cling to your small body as he breathes heavily. His mind is still swimming deliciously, blank as a clear drop of water where only the reflection of you shines back at him. Kissing your forehead softly, he cups the back of your head as he holds you against his wildly beating heart.

“Daddy… huh?” He hums, feeling your huffed chuckle against his sweaty skin.

Masterpost - (under construction)

#tonowari x reader #tonowari x y/n #tonowari x you #tonowari x human!reader #tonowari #na'vi x human #avatar the way of water #avatar smut #atwow #atwow smut #Mech writes

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wroteclassicaly · 2 years

Text

Let’s Be Closer

(Eddie Munson x Female Reader)

Warnings: Depression, anxiety, panic attacks, slightly NSFW, but not much, & language.

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Female Reader

A/N: Back with another one! I’ve been working on this for a few days, and I’m really nervous, as I’ve channeled a lot of my energy into this fic, because I’ve not been in a good mindset—at all—so I added a little Eddie to help, and I hope it makes anyone who is going through something similar, to feel better, even if it’s just a morsel? My ask box is ALWAYS open if you ever need someone to talk to—that goes for anyone that reads this, and is feeling badly or lost, or even in general—I’m here! I understand and I hear you, and I’m not going anywhere!! Hope this is okay?

Enjoy! - Kristen <3

~*~

He’d tried calling you, fingers raw from the damned dial button, eyes blurry without sleep for what is the sixth night in a row. You never ignored his calls, you never missed a club meeting—despite never playing the game, but bringing snacks and your branding charm, instead. You never explicitly dodged him in the hallways of Hawkins High, you never missed a chance to wave his Zippo lighter at his band’s shows—their number one fan since founding, and you sure as shit never went a day—hell, even an hour without seeking him out. He misses your hands pressing over his eyes, decorative bangles caressing his cheeks, how he’ll never know what shampoo you’ve decided to use this time brimming his senses. Eddie Munson needs you.

And you’re just… gone. He’s seen you at school, sure, but that’s not what he’s currently worrying a bitten down thumb nail over. He’d bugged every friend he could talk to, running over all scenarios where he might’ve upset you somehow—no results produced. Your last night together was a movie and some burgers. He’d treated you to a shared chocolate shake after, topped with whipped cream and a cherry.

You swore you would master the art of tying the stem one day, and damn it if Eddie didn’t get his kicks from seeing you try to work that cute tongue to accomplish it. You’d both sat on his favorite quilt your mom helped you sow him for Christmas a few years back, van doors open, drinking in the soft serenity of nightfall, overlooking Lover’s Lake. Perfection, peace, that’s what the day’s events contained. Eddie never noticed anything unusual about you, just extraordinary—as always.

His very own confidant. Ride or die, as you’d promised him.

Except… apparently, not anymore.

Eddie is caught between anger at your automatic dismissal, treating him as most of your shared peers, to gnawing nausea that something is seriously wrong. And as his uncle asks him where you are, obviously confused at your lack of presence in the Munson household—being angry wins out.

~*~

Rainstorms are always a bitch in any context, but Indiana seems to pack a solid punch when unpredictable Mother Nature is visiting. Eddie can barely see through his crappy wipers, windshield rain soaked and battered in pounding thumps. Your house glitters above the surface of heavy drops, visible by its glowing inhabitation. Eddie cuts his engine, fingers idle across the monogrammed skull charm keychain you’d gotten him, dangling from his key ring.

Fuck it.

Clambering from his rust bucket ride, he jogs his way up your empty drive, seeking solace on your small porch. Your parent’s cars are gone, yet the normal lamps cast their buttery glow through your windows. He isn’t a man that prays, but he’ll do anything if he can ask you what the fuck your problem is lately, and, you know—check on your well—being, or however the fuck it’s supposed to sound. Heaving in an exerted breath, Eddie presses a finger over your doorbell, legs bouncing back and forth in an anxious jolt as he waits.

And waits.

And waits some-fucking-more.

Anger vs. Anxiety: the Sequel

“Hey, knock knock, Little Hellion. It’s me, you know, the dude that’s your right hand man, the one that lets you eat his pretzels at lunch, touch all his band equipment, entertains your enthusiasm towards the ear splitting garbage that is considered ‘hit music’. Think you owe it to the friendship masters that brought us together, to at least tell me what’s goin’ on?”

Silence.

In a typical Eddie fashion, he begins to obnoxiously teeter the doorbell, each time birthing the same end scene. Humiliated, drenched, and tired, Eddie’s resolve has him pressing his hair-caked forehead to your front door.

Screw this.

You’d told him many times where your spare house key was, so he could avoid having to climb in your window, because really? Though, you adored watching him struggle into an endearing shuffle through your window frame, and Eddie found it fun—he wasn’t about to mud his way around your yard and bust his ass on a whim. Well… unless the key wasn’t here, he can admit to that.

Luckily for him—the first hope of the night—it’s under your mom’s decorative address painted rock. He gains swift access, securing himself in your home. It’s not been but a week, but it feels eternities longer. As he figured, your parents aren’t in their usual living room spots, the television off. The kitchen light above the sink is on, the hall light above your stairs, and he knows you’re bound to be awake. Ever his favorite night owl.

Yanking his shoes off, he carries them in one hand, ascending your stairwell and venturing to your bedroom.

~*~

There’s a soft blue hue merging with your hot pink lava lamp, bleeding underneath your door’s gap. You’re watching some B rated horror film, no reaction, no movement from the other side. And that’s when Eddie starts to panic. Dropping his Reeboks on your mom’s hallway rug outside your door, he doesn’t knock, doesn’t delay, pushing your door open so hard it smacks into your wicker dresser, knocking some trinkets over. He doesn’t know what he expected, maybe you having another guy here—a disgustingly bitter bite brims his esophagus at that notion—or new friends, maybe. He isn’t ready for the gut twisting sight of you, back to him, curled in a fetal position, pink cotton throw around your midriff, tear soaked eyes staring at your baby pink wallpaper, unmoved.

Eddie Munson is speechless.

He takes hesitant footsteps into your sanctuary, easing the door latched behind, as to not startle you. However, you beat him to it.

“What are you doing here, Eddie?” There’s a raw rasp to your tone, a clogged damage.

You remind Eddie of a wounded animal, a lost soldier in his dungeon. He’s never heard you sound so fucking lost. All his hostility dissipates, leaving him with a protective possessiveness. He pulls off his vest and leather coat, laying them over your desk chair, forgoing sitting to your backside and pathing his destination to your front. Your murky vision forces his form out of view, body automatically flinching to move away.

Eddie catches your wrist with a cool hand, thumb tapping the bone, pinching a small portion of your skin in reassurance. “Y/N… baby.”

He doesn’t call you pet names that intimate very often, not unless he’s voicing a concern or a sleepily muttered softness. You’ve always wondered if he called every fangirl that. The burning in your throat threatens to expose you, your limb shaking in Eddie’s vice.

“Please… Eddie, can you just leave? Be mad at me all you want, but I can’t fight with you right now.”

You’re spent, worried he’ll actually go, and not really wanting him to. But that’s how your mind works, isn’t it? Depression’s tricks of the trade; mindfucks, self-doubt, confusion, isolation, emotionless, feeling too much, not enough. His rings are chilled in their brisk brush, sliding along your pulse point, tracing all the way up you arm until they reach your jaw, where he presses a swipe, ever-so-gently. The dam is cracking, about to burst, explode.

“And go where, Y/N? Can’t exactly perform up to my full potential without the Cher to my Sonny, the Eowyn to my Faramir, that nice bit of leather that holds my sweetheart across my chest—“

“Eddie, stop.” You’re head is swimming in static, body moving upright—a position you haven’t assumed in days, with the exception of taking a shower.

Still, you don’t toss his hand off you. He’s beckoned into hope. His middle finger caresses your jawline’s expanse, pushing a bop at your nose, breathing winded, posture patient.

Yeah, that does it.

The levee gapes, flooding itself wide open. Eddie is bringing you into his chest, your fingers fisting into his Hellfire shirt, temple resting against his exposed collar bone, his pick chain tickling your cheek, and you sob. Harder than you’ve remembered doing this week, guilt wracking you at your ignorance towards how your bestfriend might be effected by your distance, that hopeless abyss caverning your chest from the inside out.

“Eddie-Bear,” You breathe out wetly, languidly. The silly nickname you’d taken to calling Eddie since childhood, all because his curly hair, and he never stopped you from saying it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

You hear him whisper a meek ‘fuck’, before he’s closing his arms around your blanket covered waist, squeezing you in so tightly to him that your air supply thrums against your ribcage. He’s more comforting than your favorite summer thunderstorm. Cigarette smoke lathers him in wafts, rainwater soaked skin, lavishly showered by his spicy cologne. You’re okay. It’s fine.

“What’s happening, baby? Stay with me, yeah?” He’s peppering your forehead with the softest kisses you’ve ever felt, each one conveying his care towards you—fragile, beautiful. It causes you to reign enough strength back in to meet his gaze, under eyes burning and sore, puffy from your tears.

That undertow overwhelms you, cutting off your momentary serenity, making you begin to tug on Eddie’s shirt in desperation, needing it off. You’re whispering and he’s in a state of confusion, arms having no choice but to untuck from you, spreading out. “Y/N…” It’s a questionable warning, a caution against what this action implies.

Something hums, throbs deep inside you—a beast needing satiated—one that Eddie doesn’t know you keep caged. You’ve always wanted your bestfriend (a rather cliche thing to you, but alas), and it seems your avoidance did nothing to improve it, signifying a tenfold magnitude of want and craving, a desperate having to have. Staying away from Eddie is catching up to you, a new anxiety settling in, a warped panic. Eddie’s eyes are closed in contemplation when you face him, mapping out the expanse of his chin, across his jawline, right over that jugular. Your brain is such a jumbled heap, wanting him to be away from you, everyone to leave you by yourself to drown like you think you deserve, to collapsing if Eddie isn’t on you. But Eddie Munson isn’t everyone, and even your fucked up, depression filled brain can admit to that.

He has some otherworldly effect…

“Y/N?” He’s begging a question. And he wants to sob in relief when your beautiful y/e/c irises meet his own.

Your answer isn’t within words, it’s a slip of your hands off his body, pushing up your own baggy white band t-shirt—a comfort shirt you reserve to usually wear. Eddie’s eyes widen when you’re not even clad in a bra, bare breasts a perfect (to him) swell. The softest of actions, yet Eddie is swallowing, confused. He can’t not be so transparent in front of you, he never has. That’s not your dynamic and won’t ever be. “So, you don’t want to see me and now you’re… what, flashing me? Y/N what is this? You’re scarin’ me here.”

“I can’t tell you if I don’t even know, Eddie.” You mumble, knees knocking into his own, his ripped jeans causing a radiating warmth from bared skin through your blanket piled lap.

Eddie is silent, mulling over your words. He isn’t wanting to allow himself to realize that he recognizes your entire mood, as he’s felt it all too much many times before. That hopeless, wayward, black hole of gloom and goddamned doom. It makes too much sense, and Eddie practically tastes that anxiousness coming off you in tower-high waves. But what you’re asking, here, your body exposed to him, another vulnerability he wasn’t prepared for—he finds he can’t deny you.

Whether it’s that cosmic connective bullshit, or his own self-afflicting mindset to be in constant companionship with you, he nods. “Only if you try and talk to me about all this. You gotta promise.” His chocolate brow raises, expectant.

“I’ll… try, as best as I can, okay? Is that good enough?” You’re weak, tears drying, new ones forming.

Eddie nods, starting to reach to brush his hand across you, hold you, not stare at this intimate part of your flesh. He hears a little hushing embarkment, another request. He grants it, finally watching you under an intensity so precious your lower lip wobbles. He tucks his fingers underneath his shirt, pulling and shimmying his upper torso from the damp fabric, letting it drop behind him on your hardwood. It’s a small echo, but something else completely significant.

He’s inhaling sharply, his creamy inked skin this burning layout you seek to travel. He’s Eddie. He’s beautiful. The neon setting of your lava lamp, the reflection of your television still going as a backtrack—it highlights both your forms. Settled and paused on your bed, Eddie looking everywhere but your breasts. This gives you your first smile in over a week. “Eddie. S’ okay to look at me if you want to.”

His reaction will forever be burned into your retinas. It’s a heated swirl, dark eyes creating a crest across your chest, almost as if he’s strumming you the way his fingers pluck at his guitar’s strings. His tongue sucks against teeth, perks, focused. He looks. You can tell he’s fighting every forsaken and forbidden urge that you are… to touch. To feel.

To know…

“Baby…” A whimpering confusion disorients your bestfriend into that pet name. That secretive thing you both have pictured, hands on yourselves at night right after you hang out, scents clinging to one another, names tipping off each other’s lips.

There’s more here…

“I just need to fucking feel you, Eddie. I can’t… I…” That embarrassingly swift panic stampedes your windpipes.

Your palms splay across his tattooed skin, fingertips tracing its unique outline. He finally reaches out when you can barely stand the anticipation any longer, his finger hooking underneath your armpit, thumb-pad brushing the underside of your breast—his first touch. You finally escape your throw, your black panties the only thing that remain. Eddie has to fight every fantasy he’s ever pictured, his own guilty conscience staring him down. You shake your head, reading him.

He’s actually looking at you in the ways you’ve dreamt of. It gives you a bravery to start a revealing, fingers sliding up and down his ribcage. “It’s been so fucked in my head lately. I just want to disappear, so I tried to… as much as possible.” You hope it makes a little sense, because it’s enough to scare the shit out of you, expecting this scrutiny.

Eddie’s throat is on fire with a settled worry, a dawning thought, a knowing sigh. His thumb caresses your breast, an ache unable to stop its responding throb between your legs. He traces your ribcage, pressing, dancing shapes along, rubbing, his voice light when he speaks. “Why didn’t you tell me? You know how my mind works, Y/N. This is the resident freak you’re talking to here. Not exactly a stranger to the dark side of the human mental state.”

“I know, Eddie. I should’ve, but I didn’t want anyone around. Fuck, I didn’t realize how much I needed you until you forced your way into my house—“

“Uh, I rang the bell, Y/N. And technically, I didn’t force my way. I used your spare key.”

“Oh, Eddie,” You sing-sigh, tears docked. “Crazy boy.”

“Y/N…” He’s closer now, bolder to grip your naked waist, your muscles moving beneath his touch. “I’ve been there. You’ve been right fucking beside me. Did you really think I wouldn’t come over here and ask you what’s going on? That’s a coward’s retreat. I can’t let you feel like shit alone, not gonna happen.”

You reach for his belt, an agreeing nod of your head. He starts to move and grab your hands. “It’s not right, not like this.”

Not like this? So… then, when? He really does want it too.

“I know,” You whisper. “Just want to feel your skin on mine.”

You rest your forehead to Eddie’s, letting your fingers trace that demon head tattoo above his pectoral, scraping the barest brushes. He shivers, pulling away, holding in. Finding the curvature of your spine, Eddie taps an invisible beat, making you croon. Your left hand winds around his neck, draping across his lower back, threading through his curls, calming him. “Please, please.” You aren’t sure you can look at him again if he rejects your last advance, your letter to a lifeline.

In a revamped silence, Eddie slides off your bed, wood floors creaking underneath his feet. Your eyes widen, posture frozen.

Is he leaving?

But he gives you that smitten Eddie Munson smile and he sheds his socks, unbuckling his belt and jeans, shoving them down to his ankles and kicking them away, his decorative buckle clattering across the flooring. He lowers his brows at you, shy, pursing his lips as he knees his way into a crawl across your bed, meeting you—blue checkered boxers all that separate him from you. His chain sways in his movement, his hand cupping your cheek and bringing you up and into him, mouth hovering, lips ghosting, so close you’re drunk on the caress. It’s so fucking intimate, so open and vulnerable. It’s as if you’ve torn open your chest and handed your bestfriend your modesty and your heart.

They’re already his…

Eddie breathes you in, your shampoo— strawberries and cream this time, your skin silky beneath his touch. He’s got you and you’re still here with him, trying.

“Promise me you’ll try and tell me someway, somehow, even if you can’t say it—that something is wrong, Y/N. From here on out, you gotta promise me.” Fuck, he really wants to kiss every bit of that panic from you, lay you down, take you in your bed, and hold you until the moon vanishes underneath the horizon, and the sun sprays its peachy hues all around your bedroom walls. He is startled to revel in the fact that you want it just as much.

“I wish we could…” You trail off, mouth puffing a breath. So close.

Eddie’s honey coated voice is rasped. “We can. All you’ve ever had to do was ask me to go to bed with you, and I’d give you whatever you fucking wanted, Y/N,” He breaks, nose nudging yours, slowly edging back enough to comb your hair behind your ear. “But right now, I won’t.”

It’s so strange, how Eddie was worried about you, angry with you, thinking you hated him, and now he knows you want him inside you just as much as he wants to be there. And you, your brain is a scrambled mess, still swimming in the darkness, yet revealing your secrets to your bestfriend, and hearing his shared truths. It’s all… too much. You don’t have to say anything else—he already knows. His tone is light, airy, as he sings along to the lyrics of your favorite drunken karaoke song. “They say we’re young and we don’t know… We won’t find out until we grow…”

He bumps your shoulder, making your eyes glisten, heart lurch, your own voice joining in. “Well I don’t know if all that’s true… Cause you got me, and baby, I got you…”

You both share a nostalgic smile, a melancholy settling into your chest, joining in together.

“Babe… I got you babe, I got you babe…”

“There’s my girl,” Eddie squeezes your shoulder, his other hand on the back of your neck. “Can’t do this shit without you.”

“My favorite dungeon master.” You quip.

Eddie feigns a dramatic look. “Better be the only one.”

“You are. Always.” There’s a new sensitivity forming—banter aside—a place you and Eddie have just discovered.

He senses those gears shifting inside you, that mood threatening to flood you. Eddie lays a kiss to your cheek, lingering, his hands sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him, breasts smashing into his chest. You both let out a ravished whimper, body heat shared, radiating. Your nipples harden, soaking in the affectionate stick of Eddie. He’s starting to move backwards, taking you with him on your bed.

You let him guide you, unable to let go if hurricane winds threatened you both. He brings a hand underneath your ass in a slide, sheets rustling, gripping where your thigh meets a cheek, lifting, sloping your limb over his lower waist. Your panties, drenched through—a response beyond your control—skim over his happy trail, where all those freckles are resting, waiting for your mouth to trace. He shushes your apology, tilting his body to lay an arm underneath your head, his pick necklace dangling across your bosom, and he lets you rest on his forearm, his other outstretching to wrap around your waist, that thick arm hair stimulating your broke out goosebumps. He rests his chin overtop your head, content, swollen between his legs, but managing to control it to a minimum.

You fall asleep in his arms— quiet, warm, safe, sleeping through the night for the first time in a month.

~*~

It hadn’t been but a few days since you and Eddie were together, and the next morning when he snuck out, he was terrified you’d bolt on him again. He treaded lightly when he showed up at school, trying to focus on getting his final set list together, and interviews for new members of Hellfire Club, pushing distractions. The day crept on and on, but he hadn’t seen you thus far, and the day’s end meeting was approaching.

~*~

He can hardly stomach being still on his throne, knee bouncing. Everyone’s voices sound staged, louder than usual. Eddie is barely aware until Gareth shakes his shoulder—hard. He nearly snaps, a stressed groan leaving his mouth, flat. “What?”

“Dude,” Gareth exclaims, waving the folded piece of notebook paper in his face. “I said, Y/N left a note for you earlier. Said she was doing something for her mom, to call her later.”

Eddie snatches it from his friend, ignoring whatever else he says, nearly tearing the paper to get to its contents. He can’t help but to grin like a fool, teeth bared, almost a proud pose, your scribbled handwriting clear.

Let’s Be Closer

~*~

Tagging: @littledemondani @prettyboyeddiemunson

#kristenwrites #my work #my writing #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson smut #stranger things fic #stranger things smut #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things 4 #stranger things

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f1crecs · 2 months

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Fic Rec List - Charles/Pierre AUs

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I'm a waking hell and the gods grow tired by @wolfiemcwolferson | M | 4k A Hunger Games AU wherein Charles and Pierre are both victors, doing their best to survive the glittering death trap of the Capitol and taking solace in each other for one singular night a year. Until everything changes one fatal Games. This fic truly captured the essence of the Hunger Games world, and tugged on every heartstring I have as a longtime fan of the series. The writing is so poignant, and I was moved almost to tears a couple of times, while also being kept on the edge of my seat. This was truly a stunning portrayal of love and the revolution it brings.

'“Charles,” he whispers, his voice raw from talking all night. “I love you.” Charles stumbles backwards. It’s the worst thing he’s ever said. It’s an admittance. It’s a confession to what Charles was worried about.'

tell me, baby by @ilspredestinato | M | 4.1k This is a softer sort of AU than some of the others on this list - Pierre and Charles are simply two normal people, not drivers, who meet by chance at a New Year's party and are instantly drawn to each other. Everything about this AU makes me feel warm and hopeful inside: Pierre and Charles' meeting is described with such loving detail, and just enough slight awkwardness to make it believable but still achingly sweet and heartwarming. The fic as a whole is exactly that: heartwarming and hopeful, and exactly the sort of thing with which to wrap up an old year and start the new.

“Stop,” Charles did his best to roll his eyes, even if the dimples next to the corners of his lips betrayed him. He let Pierre’s laugh die down before speaking, nudging at his legs back. “Say my name.” He didn’t have to ask twice, Pierre’s fingers reaching out to tug at the neckline of his jumper the same way Charles had done himself when they were standing against the railing, smile firmly in place. “Charles.” “See?” He raised one hand, wrapping it around Pierre’s wrist softly, keeping the touch there even when he felt like shaking. It wasn’t like he couldn’t blame it on the cold. “You have an accent, too. Way prettier.” Pierre was already shaking his head before he finished speaking, making a small noise of disagreement. “No,” he said, tugging at Charles’ jumper again. They were too close, Charles realised, speaking right up into the other’s space. “Say my name.” He didn’t really mind. “Pierre.” The way Pierre looked at him made Charles want to squirm, even if they weren’t doing anything more than talking. He went all in, was the thing, thoughts so clearly stroked in every inch of his face Charles found it hard not to believe them. “Beautiful.”

firebug by @grandprix-ao3 | T | 5.9k Charles is a popular Twitch streamer. His boyfriend Pierre exists to his audience mostly off screen or at least, his face is never in frame. One day Pierre presents Charles with a pair of pink cat ear headphones. Charles's audience becomes fascinated by the mysterious boyfriend. This is just a cute, sweet, angst-free, low stakes established relationship fic that is having a lot of fun with the adorableness factor of Charles in cat ears and a boyfriend who adores him.

'“Jeez, Charlito,” Pierre says, hyperbolic in exasperation. He raises his eyebrows in a jitter, flicking the corner of the box with enough edge to his nails to make it pop. “I just think you are cute when you purr during your streams.” It’s awful how deftly Charles feels the heat rise in his cheeks. He almost wants to flatten his palms against them to hide the awful shade of pink he knows must be there, perhaps as red as the oversized headphones he already owns and wears for his streams, definitely not courtesy of Pierre, or anyone but himself, for that matter. “I am not—” he starts, cutting himself off with teeth in the back of his bottom lip. ‘I am not purring, I am making engine sounds,’ is probably not going to do anything but make Pierre laugh at him more, so he quits while he’s ahead. “You are so annoying,” he says, instead, like that’s somehow a defense. “I hate you. I am not wearing these stupid headphones.”'

an autumnal affair by @hourcat | T | 11.4k Pierre Gasly is to wed Charles' cousin to save the Leclerc name from disrespute. They fall in love. Pierre in this fic is perfect as a pride and prejudice-ish gentleman, rakish and lovely, and the chemistry between him and Charles is instant and undeniable - when reading it feels inevitable that these two belong together. Of course everything it is not so easy, the author puts you through many twists and although this has a happy ending the heartache a long the way is exquisite.

Once upon a time—a lifetime ago, practically—Pierre had told him that he was a good man. But that cannot be true, because the idea of having to watch his love and his cousin have a life together makes him both angry and horribly, terribly, unforgivably jealous. Charles should not have done this in the first place. Pierre had come to marry Giada, had come to pledge his life to her, and Charles had intervened. He knows he has no right to be upset. But he is. He is, and Pierre will never love him the way he wants to again, and he will never recover from this hole that’s ripped right through his heart. It’s all very simple, really. Charles curls up tighter in his sheets. Pierre will never love him again. A fresh round of tears swallows him entirely. It will be a long rest of his life if he has to watch them together on the estate.

jump then fall into me by @your-littlesecret | M | 13.6k Charles finds a lost puppy, and takes it to a local animal shelter, where he meets a very qualified (and very handsome) man. This story is adorable! I was literally giggling, kicking my feet and rolling around while I read it. I love how clueless Charles is, and how Pierre is immediately so very fond of him. And the puppy is adorable - I love her name!

He brings everything upstairs and once he’s put everything on a place he thinks will be okay, he lays on the floor with his stomach down and stares at his new family member. “What should I call you, huh?” There’s no answer, of course, only a lick to his nose before she goes back to the very important task of chewing on a toy Charles just bought.

nsfw: Imzadi by @effervescentdragon | E | 31k Star Trek AU. Pierre and Charles meet as children, when Charles is among the few survivors of a genocide. Pierre's mother serves in Starfleet, which is dispatched for the rescue effort. It's the beginning of a love that lasts a lifetime. It's not necessary to be familiar with Star Trek to enjoy this but if you are, this fic hews closely and lovingly to not only Star Trek canon, but the entire philosophy of the franchise. It was like a long catch up with an old friend. If you don't know Trek, or don't know it well, the Piarles-ness of the Piarles is note perfect. They are truly soulmates in every universe and this fic not only captures that, it is soaking in it. Possible CW for dubcon (of the sex pollen variety - which only increases the Trek-ness of this fic, considering where sex pollen started. It's actually very enthusiastic on both sides). I also love how Akira manages to make Charles's part-Betazoid empathic ability absolutely no help at all when it comes to Pierre.

"Charles? You're here?" The uncertainty in his voice is the final straw that pushes Charles to move and fall onto Pierre. He is mindful of all the tubes and needles and Pierre’s broken arm, but he needs to touch Pierre, needs to feel him, to know that he’s really here, and alive. His uninjured hand comes up and he tangles it into Charles’ hair, and the gesture is so familiar, it makes Charles cry. Pierre holds onto him until Charles cries himself out. It's Pierre who is hurt, though, and Charles feels stupid and selfish for being the one falling apart when his best friend had almost died. He pushes away, wiping his face as he sits back and grabs at Pierre’s hand, needing to feel him physically, because he can’t feel Pierre’s emotions at all. It’s like there is a void where his feelings used to be, and Charles opens his mouth to ask about it when Pierre beats him to the punch.

nsfw: sometimes I feel like a hostage by @wolfiemcwolferson | E | 36.2k Charles is a prince of Monaco, feeling stifled under the weight of a duty that he never asked for. Pierre is his bodyguard. Look, I just REALLY like the bodyguard trope, ok? This is a gorgeous example. Charles is inexperienced, Pierre is kind and a great protector, the secondary pairings are great (I squealed when one appeared kind of by stealth) and this just scratched a very particular itch for me. Tiredtiredsharl writes these two so well, in any situation.

'Charles starts to feel awkward again, this is so far outside of anything he’s ever known and it’s hard not to feel self conscious as he closes the door to this too big room with the too big bed, unsure of what he’s even needing. Pierre had said intimate. They were going to be intimate. Pierre pulls his coat off, standing beside the little half dresser thing and places it neatly on top. He hadn’t pulled a hat or gloves or a scarf out to wear so he’s now in one of those much too large sweaters that swallow him whole. Oh. Charles can take it off him. “Come here, Charles.” Pierre says, leaning against the dresser. Charles takes the three steps towards him. “Should this be sexier?” He hates that he just asked that question. Pierre doesn’t laugh though. He takes one of Charles' hands and pulls the glove off starting with the fingertips and working it off gently before he says, “There are no rules here. Sex between people who care about each other should be however the two of them wish it to be and it is special because they are together." Pierre is working the other glove off Charles' hand now. It’s so tender that Charles can admit, “I feel very dumb right now.” Pierre snorts. “And I feel very scared. So, we are even.”'

nsfw: have you brought back the light? by @wolfiemcwolferson | E | 36.7k Pierre is a superhero and Charles is his non-superpower boyfriend. A villain targets Charles and he gets sucked in to the multiverse where he gets stuck with a Pierre that isn't his. This fic might be a superhero fic at first glance but what I love most about it is the exploration of grief and trauma and the ways they appear in both universe. The storytelling in this is divine - the way the details of the relationship between Charles and Pierre in both universes is slowly revealed while Charles tries not lose hope that he will get rescued makes an emotional rollercoaster of the best kind.

"You know you’re an idiot .” Charles bites. “You have everything and you -” he wraps his arms around himself. “He moved out because he has feelings for you and you just let him go.” Pierre’s face goes carefully blank. Like that blankness that he leans on when he’s trying not to react to Charles specifically . “No.” “Yes,” Charles bites, and because he suddenly feels like a little soft animal with his belly exposed so he hits back. “You have Esteban and Anthoine and Charles wants you and you could have everything - ” “Charles -” he steps towards him, hand outstretched, “what do you mean?” “That you have everything and you’re wasting it.” Charles says again, even though it’s not an explanation. He doesn’t care that he isn’t offering him an explanation. He’s just angry that Pierre is giving it all away without trying. He’s on the verge of tears again, yanked back to two hours earlier as he gazed at the steeple of the auction house and imagined what it must be like to live in a world like this - with that awful little voice in the back of his head that was saying it doesn’t matter how much you hate it, that’s your home and those are your people and you don’t actually hate it at all. Charles would give anything to go home. He would give anything to stand in this apartment and fight with his Pierre. He would give anything to go and sit on the memorial bench. He would give anything to go home'

nsfw: you are perfection, my only direction (it's fire on fire) by @singsweetmelodies | E | 40k Charles and Pierre are dragonriders, each aligned with a different house. They are required to marry one another to prevent a war. This story is a perfect storm of arranged marriage, marriage of convenience and idiots in love. With DRAGONS. I'm not sure I need to say much else, but if you like high fantasy, handsome men, slow burn and some hot sex well this might just be the fic for you.

'“Don’t give me that look,” Charles groans, and he manages to roll his eyes, knocking his fist against Pierre’s chest. “You’re you! Anyone would want to have sex with you, don’t be stupid. Besides, maybe now I can finally see if you’re actually telling the truth in all your smug little stories about your bedroom escapades.” For a single moment, Pierre’s expression looks frozen, like that breathless instant right before a glass tips over and smashes. Then, Pierre smiles, and when he speaks again, his voice sounds almost cracked. “Right,” he says quietly. “Of course.” Before Charles can ask him what’s wrong, his smile changes. Brightens, and smooths into something real, something a lot more like Pierre’s usual smirk. “Oh, Charlito,” he purrs, and Charles blanches. He knows that tone of voice. It’s Pierre’s flirting tone of voice, which he doesn’t save for Charles, very often, but when he does, it’s always to make Charles blush. Sure enough, Pierre says now, in a voice so layered with suggestiveness that it should be illegal, or a new form of magic all on its own – “You haven’t even heard the half of it. You will be a happy man, married to me.”'

A Nymph's Heart by @espithewarlock | T | 46k In a world where magic and fey creatures are real, Charles is a violinist and Pierre is a water nymph, but they still manage to find each other and fall in love. The worldbuilding in this fic is just brilliant: rich and vivid and so immersive, it's like you're living every step of the journey with Charles. I adored the development of the relationship between Charles and Pierre: how they go from cautious acquaintances to a special friendship to lovers in the first part, and how they prove their love and trust for each other in the second, and get to enjoy a well-deserved happy ending in the third. Music also plays an integral role in this fic, and as a musician myself, that touched my heart and moved me in such a way that I will always have a soft spot for this fic.

'Pierre stepped directly in front of Charles and raised one of the flowers, tucking it behind his ear. “A gift for a gift,” he murmured, “for playing a song at my request I gift you a flower grown from my magic.” “Thank you,” Charles said automatically. The nymph’s fingers were cool and gentle as they brushed the top of his ear and secured the stem of the flower in place. A part of him wanted to close his eyes at the sensation, but he also wanted to hold onto every moment he had to study the nymph up close.'

nsfw: chassis by @hourcat | E | 50k Charles, an art teacher, has a one night stand with Pierre, a mechanic he meets in a nightclub. And that would have been that, had not Charles's car died soon after. In desperation, he contacts Pierre. Pierre is devastatingly attractive in this, all confidence and winking flirtatiousness. Charles never stood a chance. This fic has a perfect rom com vibe, with angst, miscommunication, sassy comic relief Yuki, mutual pining, a happy ending, and some hot car sex.

Charles huffs. “Stop calling me that,” he grits, and Pierre laughs again—louder, which clearly is just pushing his passenger’s buttons even more. “Why do you call my car a girl?” Oh, this is going to make him squirm. Pierre shrugs, pointedly not looking at Charles as he pretends to ponder his answer for a moment. “Well, I work with cars, yes? I fix them, I make them run, I get them purring again.” The line of traffic in front of them slows up just enough for Pierre to make a point of turning to face Charles. “And if I am going to be so hands on, I should think it’s only right to treat them like a lady.” He winks. He turns back to the road. He barely swallows the laugh as Charles makes a choked sound at his not-so-subtle implication.

of mute swans and nests by steponthegaslys | ? | 82k Set at the Royal Ballet in London, Pierre is a talented and rising ballet dancer. The new arrival of another dancer, a generational talent, in the shape of Charles Leclerc brings along additional drama, and not just because of their building attraction. (N.B. This fic contains sensitive content - readers are advised to please mind the tags for this fic before reading). This fic is a fun take on the relationship between Pierre and Charles, told between rehearsals, dances, and revelations. The supporting characters (Alex, George, Max, Daniel) create a brilliant system around Pierre, add amazing humour and really help to tell the story too. Plus, Pierre and Charles as ballet dancers? What's not to love!

“You know,” said Pierre quietly, voice barely a whisper. “My friends don’t think you’re pretending. When you look at me on stage like you love me.”

#piarles #pairing:charles/pierre #driver:charles #driver:pierre #trope:au

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rzyraffek · 8 months

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Platonic yandere yautja x human child reader

Aww dad yautja😊 I didn't write for yautjas in months!! Hopefully u enjoy it!! Also i used they/them for kid. No tw, only cuteness and wholesome dad figure yautja👹 request open

Dad yautja with human kid

Bro is confused ??? Tf??? Why is there a child here??

He either found them abandoned in middle of nowhere or accidentally killed their perents, by 'accidentaly' i mean ofc he wanted to kill them he just didn't know there was a child nearby and now he feels bad

Kinda finds human pups ugly😭 why are you so smol and loud wtf

Dad!yautja after he kinda adopts y/n he gets too overprotective! Like dude won't leave their side at all, especially when you guys are outside; dude will pick them up and just carry around.

Can't cook to save his life, he kinda set kitchen on fire. And humans cant eat raw meat, so now you are on fruit diet for now (and veggies)

Had this parental instinct to teach them everything, how to shoot, find food, basic self-defence, overall taking good care of themselfs. But he kinda likes that he has to provide for them, it gives him control yknow

When he carries them around everywhere! He acually lets them sit on his shoulders or just hang on his neck😓😍

Cant say no to those cute big eyes! Yes he will let them 'decorate' his armor (with glitter and stickers) and he will let them paint his nails and he will lisen to them gossip about their friends.

If his kid is a little artist and walks up to him and says "papa i drew you!" He does not care that he looks like a lizard nor that they didn't color it perfectly. Dude is purring, picking y/n up and he carries this drawing in pocket everywhere

Other yautjas say that he spoils them, but he disagrees! Your a HUMAN baby, i mean yeah your basically one of yautjas now but!!! Your tiny! And your skin is so squishy!!!

He had to learn how to comb their hair cuz at some point y/n simply refused to cut it (me too lil guy) and he respects them so much he won't just do something against them

Kinda wishes he could understand human body language more

Also about body language i can imagine kid just kinda mimicing yatuja body language and habits. Like dad!yatuja will say "child please go to bed its late" the kid will just angry respond with a hiss👹 "hsssss👽🦎" "?????" If yaujtas had eyebrows, he would rise them

If y/n is a girl, and she has her first period? Dude panics! HUHH WHAT BLOOD??? FROM WHERE!?? UHHHH????

Dude tries to be a perfect father figure, he tries to have similar intrests with his kid so they can connect more, but if y/n is totally not into hunting, collecting, nature themed stuff, Yautja is more than happy to catch up with whatever teens are into this days, but he will judge the hell out of tv shows (if they watch any)

I kinda forgot it suppose to be yandere so it turned out to be just wholesome im so sorry

Understands that kid needs privacy but he will just go invisible mode and lurk in shadows! Like what if somone attacks you??? Or worse! What if you meet some humans that he doenst like??? What if they will tell y/n all lies about what 'bad war crimes' he commited and what 'murderous' his kind is!! Those are lies pls dont lisen to humans

No boy/girlfriends!!! Nuh uh!! Your his little baby you cant go doing all those... things... with some human. ugh! this person probably can't even hunt for you!! Or give you nice treasures!! Or build a pretty nest!! Why would you like them my child?? Look at all those trophies i gathered for all those years! You should stay here!

He loves the fact that he lives in some wild ass jungle and y/n cant leave him due to all those dangers around, plus he loves that y/n will always stay tiny(in comparison obviously) and weak so be basically needs to provide for them! Right???

I used x reader tags ONLY to reach bigger audience

#slasher x reader #slasher headcanons #yandere yautja #yautja headcanon #yautja x reader #yautija #yautja

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adoreaxo · 2 years

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instagram: @adoreaxo

#glitter nails #acrylic nails #long nails #nail art #gel polish #simple nails #summer nails #adoreaxo #nails #nail polish #pretty nails #luxury #bomb nails #cali nails #raw glitter nails #nail inspo

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loveinhawkins · 1 year

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Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 ao3

It’s late morning when three soft raps on the door interrupt them—if it could be called interrupting when Steve has just been throwing out various songs and artists ever since Eddie finished playing My Little Town.

Privately, Eddie thinks that the requests are hardly random, and more Steve trying to distance himself from whatever thoughts the original playthrough had sparked, but he’s not exactly going to draw attention to that, not when Steve’s eyes had glittered with mirth, before saying, rather smugly, “Abba?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Shock, horror! Eddie Munson, a music snob.”

“Uh, no. Abba’s just fucking difficult, man.”

And then Eddie had launched into a clumsy instrumental of Dancing Queen, relishing the way Steve’s jaw dropped in delighted surprise.

He’s halfway through when the knocks sound, and he turns to see Nancy poking her head through the door. She gives a sigh of pure relief, breathes, “Steve,” and then seems to falter there on the threshold, as if waiting for permission.

Steve’s answering smile is soft and warm. “Hey, Nance.” He sits up, one arm outstretched in invitation, and then she’s hurrying over, melting into a hug.

Eddie doesn’t even have time to wonder about whether he should step outside or not, because Nancy suddenly releases Steve to embrace him, too.

Her grip is tight, almost enough to bruise; it makes Eddie think that perhaps she would’ve been like this with Steve if she wasn’t worried about injuring him. She holds on for a long moment like she really, really needs it.

She whispers, “Thank you,” only loud enough for Eddie to hear. He catches a quiet shakiness to her breathing, and when she pulls back, her smile is a little too wide, her eyes bright.

And he wonders if maybe all three of them are something of the same—frayed around the edges.

“I’ve got a proposition,” Nancy says, suddenly all business.

“Pray tell, Wheeler,” Eddie replies.

She smiles, then nods to Steve. “Dustin’s waiting in the car. He’s got his walkie and he thought, if you wanted,” she says, with pointed emphasis, “you could talk with all of the kids that way, without them...”

She trails off with a vague hand gesture which Eddie immediately gets: so far the staff have sort of turned a blind eye to Steve’s constant visitors, but he figures if a whole troop of them try to barge into the room at once, they might be pushing their luck.

Steve seems to share the same thought, because he chuckles and says, “Sure, good idea. Wait, are they still at mine?”

“Yeah, they’re coming and going. Joyce and Hopper are there, too. Oh, there was—one of your windows broke, but we've got it all—”

“Oh, shit. There’s, um, there's cash up in the—”

“Steve,” Nancy says firmly, “it’s fine.”

They hold each other’s gaze until Steve relents with a muttered, “Okay,” but he doesn’t look all that happy about it.

“Your snack cupboard’s also been destroyed.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, kinda expected that.”

Eddie stays quiet, because while they’ve been talking, Nancy’s hand has subtly reached out and clutched onto his wrist, and—

Her nails piercing his skin in a desperate grip. His throat scraped raw—the distant realisation that it’s because he’s been screaming.

“Wheeler,” he's whispering. His voice comes out like jagged glass. “Wheeler, fucking tell me what to do.”

She’s silent, just sways against him, and he grips her hand in return, shakes her urgently. Tries to pretend like he isn’t struggling to breathe, like he isn’t crying when he pleads, “N-Nancy. Say you’ve got a plan, come on, you’ve always got something—”

“Eddie,” Nancy says, “Eddie, he’s dead.”

—he tilts his hand, taps hers a couple of times, and hopes she hears the unspoken, “You good?”

And then Nancy pulls away, already reaching for the door when she says, over her shoulder, “I’ll get Dustin.”

“Hey, wait,” Steve says. “Nance. Can I talk to you? Just for a minute.”

There’s a pause. Nancy turns back and nods.

Eddie has the feeling that they’re not going to talk about the price of fixing a broken window.

“Where’d you park?” he asks. “I’ll fetch Henderson.”

“Hmm... five. Over,” Dustin is saying into the walkie, halfway out the car when he spots Eddie heading his way.

Eddie gets closer, hears the walkie click, hears the background buzz and chatter that can only come from a full house.

There’s a rustle of paper, then Lucas and Erica cheering, and Max groaning, “The Sound of Music.”

“What’re you doing?” Eddie asks, smiling when he hears what sounds like El excitedly announcing that she hasn’t seen it.

“Making our way through Steve’s musicals,” Dustin says.

He’s brought his crutches this time, thank God, so by the time they're on Steve’s floor, Eddie catches when Nancy is walking down the corridor, slipping away to the restroom. Her hand reaches up, wipes underneath her eyes once.

Eddie steers Dustin onwards.

It’s clear that between them, both Dustin and Steve are trying to act like everything’s normal—and they mostly succeed, until Steve spots Dustin’s crutches and insists Dustin take the couch to stretch out on.

“I'm fine,” Dustin says, “you’re the one who—”

He abruptly falls silent.

And Steve doesn’t miss a beat; he just smiles and nods to the walkie like nothing’s been said. “Go on.”

Dustin instructs both Steve and Eddie to be quiet before he speaks into the walkie and says, “Mission update? Over.”

“The nuns keep singing,” Max says with biting judgement; How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria? is playing on full blast. Steve muffles a laugh behind his palm, and gestures for Dustin to hand the walkie over.

“Wow, Mayfield, thought you had taste,” he says dryly.

The walkie practically explodes.

And Eddie watches as Steve seems to take strength from each and every voice clamouring for his attention; his eyes are shining, and it’s like he just can’t stop grinning.

“All right, all right, simmer down,” he says, “one at a time.”

Eddie feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns. Nancy.

“Do you want to go for a drive?” she says in an undertone.

Eddie pauses. Dustin is chattering away on the walkie, and Steve must feel Eddie looking, because he catches Eddie’s eye, and quirks an eyebrow with a smile, as if to say, Go ahead. He’s got me.

Eddie supposes that’s what it like, with Steve and the kids: a bit of I’ll take care of you; you’ll take care of me.

Nancy doesn’t talk during the drive, but for some reason it isn’t off-putting, more peaceful. Eddie cranks down the passenger window and sticks his arm out, enjoying the feeling of the wind running through his fingers.

It’s overcast, but the sun still occasionally breaks through the clouds—a gentle warmth. And though he knows Nancy must be thoughtfully selective with her route, Eddie still finds it strangely hopeful, to see the sight of damage now healing. They drive past tarmac that must have once been tremendous, gaping cracks: fault lines that have been knitted back together.

Nancy soon takes her car off the road and parks it near the woods; she gets out and starts walking, Eddie following without question. He knows where they’re going without having to be told.

Lover’s Lake.

They don’t speak until they reach the shoreline, and Nancy brings out Dustin’s compass.

“See?” she says. The compass is perfectly still, points to exactly where North should be.

Eddie exhales. “Jesus Christ.” He picks up a stone and throws it as far as he can. There’s a distant splash, then nothing.

“They're all like that,” Nancy says, and she suddenly sounds exhausted. “I checked. Your trailer, the road where Fred... It's all gone.”

She sits down right in the dirt, hugs her own knees. Eddie mirrors her. She looks out at the lake then turns, and Christ, sometimes she has old, old eyes, Eddie thinks.

“I was talking with Mike,” Nancy says. “About how...” She sighs. “We’ll never know everything. I'm not going to...” She sighs again. “And I thought I’d never be okay with that, you know?” She makes a noise that’s probably meant to be a laugh, but it just makes Eddie’s heart squeeze a little.

He puts a hand on her shoulder, and then she falls against him—or maybe it’s more that they’re both holding each other up.

“There was a moment,” Nancy says, “after Robin threw the first bottle. When the fire… I swear I saw him flinch, and then all the vines, everything, it just wasn’t there, and he was staring right at me, and he looked—he was… just a man.”

“Was it hard to…?” Eddie says, but he doesn’t finish. It feels like a stupid question, all of a sudden.

But Nancy finishes it for him. “To shoot? No.” She doesn’t so much as pause. “After everything else, it was easy.”

Eddie doesn’t actually ask why out loud, but Nancy must hear him somehow, because he feels her shrug against him, before she’s saying, “He’d taken too much already.”

There’s an edge to her voice, and Eddie suddenly knows, with the utmost certainty, that she would’ve dove into the lake for any one of them. Wouldn’t waste a second.

Nancy drives him back to the hospital. Her jaw works a couple of times as they sit in the parking lot, so Eddie waits, doesn’t move for the door.

“Remember that Christmas Steve had at mine?” Nancy eventually says.

“Well, not personally,” Eddie says, which makes her laugh.

“He…” She exhales in a rush, looking up at the hospital windows. “He—he just thanked me for it. What…” She swallows. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“I—Nancy, I don’t—”

“It was a terrible Christmas, Eddie,” she laughs through tears. “I burnt the potatoes, and my parents bickered, and Holly put gravy in Steve’s hair.”

Eddie laughs, too. Nancy reaches for his hand. Clings on.

Eddie thinks of Steve in the RV, his face pale, still managing to smile.

“Know what you’re thinking about then?”

“Yeah. Got a few things in mind.”

Eddie doesn’t need to say anything; from the way Nancy is crying, he suspects she already knows.

He thinks of two young teenagers who have grown up together, seen the same terrible things; who maybe just needed one mundane Christmas to make everything feel normal again. To feel safe.

When he leaves the car, Nancy’s face is dry, and he kisses her forehead on impulse.

“Thank God for you, Nancy Wheeler.”

“So, how was it?” Steve says. He’s doing a pretty good job at sounding upbeat, at sustaining it right through Dustin leaving.

But Eddie sees something dark flicker in his eyes.

Tonight, he’s going to ask me to play his song again, Eddie thinks. He doesn’t quite know why he feels something like dread settle in his stomach.

“How was what?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “The drive. C’mon, man, I’ve been staring at the same four walls, paint me a pretty picture like you do with your games.”

“A pretty picture, he says,” Eddie huffs dramatically.

But he obliges, of course. He keeps it light, doesn’t mention the compass or anything like that. Describes the weather, the calmness at Lover’s Lake, how Nancy had started skipping stones and made it into a contest.

He’s just getting into their playful argument over who had won when he spots Steve smiling at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Steve says. He readjusts himself on the pillow, still smiling like Eddie has done something endearing. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“You.” Steve’s smile grows. “Got you all figured out, Eddie Munson.”

“That’s quite a claim, Harrington,” Eddie says.

“Yup. I have, though. You said your eyes were cynical. Wanna know what I think?”

“Hmm. You’re gonna tell me anyway, huh?”

“I think,” Steve says, sounding very pleased with himself, “that you’re full of shit.”

Eddie scoffs as if he’s been prompted to, but his mind is on Steve’s smile, on the lingering sadness in his eyes that he’s trying to hide; and fuck, Eddie thinks, let him have this. He’d give him anything.

“If any of us was going to be a romantic,” Steve says, “it’d be you.”

#the self sacrificial steve agenda #steddie fic #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #nancy wheeler #steve and nancy #eddie and nancy

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liketwoswansinbalance · 30 days

Text

Updates and Round V of Excerpts from The One True School Master of Vault 41

Draft 0 of TOTSMOV41 is at 171 pages or 54,527 words! (A lot of it is just notes, not actual story, so my bet is that it will turn out shorter than I may've led you to believe (still could be wrong though) but it's getting somewhere since I've last done some transferring of my notes into one, cohesive document.)

Not-so-fun fact about it: Rafal temporarily goes blind and deaf.

These contextless excerpts are shorter than usual, but I just realized I had written a trope I like in which couples indirectly, unintentionally clash, which I find funny and ironic.

Another fun fact: The song on my TOTSMOV41 playlist that vaguely fits the vibes around the time of these moments would be "All That Glitters" by Earl. I just discovered the song today! (Eventually, probably after I publish the fic, I'll post the fic's playlist.)

⸻

Should she have gone for something even harsher than what she'd written in a flourished, calligraphic hand?

I would snub my date if he ever dared have rotten breath. It would be pure humiliation. In fact, I'd address it directly, as an announcement to all, so I could gain in my social standing while I simultaneously lower his. No man with poor hygiene deserves me.

No, not Evil enough of a response, Sophie scrutinized. Just petty. Back to square one. She sighed.

⸻

Rafal thought he should change his shirt before their tower meeting tonight, but he was out of clean laundry and the spell to steam the blood out of his clothes would be too taxing on him in this state. Agatha wouldn't care and besides, they had work to do. But Sophie...

He took his black shirt to the sink and tried to scrub out as much of the blood as he could with a stiff brush. By the time he was done, there was one, even darker, rusted patch of blood blooming on his shirt and some flecks on the sleeves.

More mess—if only he weren't useless without his sorcery!

He clenched his fists in frustration, suddenly aware of his raw, cramped fingers and ragged, poorly groomed nails, ready to lob the bloody shirt out the tower window entirely, but no shirt with "Aggie darling" and her heightened suspicions around would be worse by about a thousandfold. He'd be a dead man walking as if he weren't one already.

Thus, he picked up the balled-up cloth from the sink in defeat. Wet shirt it was then. What other options did he have?

⸻

Incidentally, Agatha turned up with a waterlogged crystal ball that overshadowed the sorry sight of his stained and torn shirt.

⸻

If anyone wants to know the symbolism behind this, I'll gladly explain it! Also, if anyone wants to, I invite you to guess at it.

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inkykeiji · 5 months

Text

character: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, overstimulation, blood, toxic relationship words: 747

as much as sukuna would love to deny it, he has a habit.

it’s unintentional, it’s instinctual, and it’s almost always entirely your fault.

it appears when he teases you—a simple quirk up of the left side of his mouth, something that grows from a toothless smirk to a gleaming grin at your inevitable whine of his name, all scrunched up and filtered through your petulant little pout. oh, how precious.

it’s accompanied by a sharp glint of amusement in his eye; something that flickers, that flares, the more upset you get, the more you grumble and scowl and sulk. because it’s so cute, baby, he’s murmuring through the steadily spreading lopsided smile slapped across his face, cooed out words oozing condescension, just how easily he can work you into a frenzy.

it appears when you’re riding him—a soft tugging at the left corner of his lips as he watches you bounce and rock and gyrate on his cock, using it as if it’s your favourite toy, just like he told you to. his usually keen stare is lidded, having turned melty and thick while observing you above him, because god, you’re so gorgeous; rolling whites of your eyes framed by fluttering lashes, dainty hands splayed wide on his chest and nails digging into plush muscle for leverage, fragments of his name and his title leaving your tongue in the sweetest little huffs, each one shoved from your chest with every graze of his cockhead over that engorged patch of flesh, puffy and swollen and buried deep inside of you.

it appears when he’s eating you out—vicious and vigorous and downright voracious—after you’ve lost count of how many times he’s forced you to cream on his tongue, immense pleasure having mollified your brain to a sticky goo, steady streams of glittering salt cascading down your cheeks, face twisted up somewhere between pleasure and pain.

you can feel his lips spreading against your licked-raw cunt, crooked simper reflected in his rust irises, curved mouth slippery as it glides over your slit, screwing up a little further on the left side just like it always does, the bottom half of his face soaked with his spit and your slick.

that skewed smile stretches unnaturally wider as you squirm beneath his grasp, nails scrabbling at whatever they can find—the cotton sheets and his scalp and those hulking shoulders—spine contorting off the bed and chest heaving with the cries that keep ripping up your throat, ragged and hoarse.

the strong arms wrapped around your thighs tighten, forearms weighing on the joints, effectively trapping you in his grip, tangled up in his limbs. two pairs of hands stay curled around your hips, pinning them to the mattress, twenty fingers flexing, leaving fresh steaks of blood across your pelvis, sticky and steadily oozing from the piercing claws gorging on your flesh.

it appears when he hurts you, hands too rough, grip too tight, tone too harsh—a worming sort of leer slanted to the left, something smug and arrogant smeared across his face when he soils your skin with him, a collar of twenty fingers etched into your neck in grotesque shades of plum, or twin sets of handprints stamped into your ass, swollen and stinging. it’s something that takes shape when your fragile veins snap beneath his touch, flooding your flesh with irregular blotches of purples and blues and speckled crimson; something that surfaces when yelps fracture in your throat and sobs hitch in your chest, so heavy your ribs shudder with them.

it appears when you do something so unbearably adorable, something so endearingly stupid, that he just can’t help but snort or snicker, the left side of his mouth twitching with mirth, something he desperately tries to smother, something he devastatingly discovers he can’t.

because maybe he doesn’t even want to anymore, tired of fighting, tired of feigning. maybe it makes him feel something irritatingly unfamiliar, something much too human, something that binds itself to the void buried beneath his ribcage.

maybe it fills that void with something irrevocable, irreversible, unpreventable. maybe it fills that void with something bright and airy and warm, when you tell him you like his crooked smile, when you tell him it has got to be one of your favourite things about him, your favourite feature of his, happy to see it even as he drags you through hell with it carved into his face.

#sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna smut #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x you #jujustu kaisen smut #jjk smut #sukuna headcanons #sukuna imagine #sukuna hc #inky.sukuna #oooooh can u tell i am going through some major brain rot for him rn???? bECAUSE I AM

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inkyajax · 1 year

Text

feels like forever, even if forever’s tonight

characters: thoma, kamisato ayato

genre: smut

notes: aaaaah my first (finished) genshin piece!!! i had such a blast writing this hehehe i just love this dynamic so! much! reader is female, and this is mostly written from thoma’s point of view. in my mind, this is absolutely a crime family AU, but you’re welcome to think of it in terms of canon if you’d like! please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title cred: mine by bazzi | this piece was originally posted on my main blog.

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, dubcon, manipulation/coercion, daddy kink, toxic relationships, size kink/size difference, belly bulge, cuckolding kinda (ayato watches thoma fuck his girlfriend), praise, reader is quite flexible, a hint of dumbification/degradation, rough sex, overstimulation + mentioned orgasm denial as punishment, dacryphilia, power play/power dynamics, thoma is a sub-leaning switch in this, interchangeable use of the words my lord/master

words: 5.7k

synopsis:

Everything feels raw, exposed, Thoma’s nails scraping against the thin material of his pants, fingers scrabbling for something to do under such an intense stare. That glitter in Ayato’s eyes seems to shine bright and burning as Thoma squirms beneath it, the ghost of a smirk brushing against his lips.

It’s as though his master’s gaze is stripping him bare—stripping the clothes from his skin and the flesh from his bones, prying open his rib cage and peering into his very soul itself. It’s all so invasive, yet Thoma bares it all to him anyway, almost voluntarily, begging his lord for some instruction, some guidance, some rules to follow and obey and be praised for, eliminating any room for error or overstepping of boundaries, desperate to be told what to do and how to do it so he can satisfy everyone and do it well, do it right, do it the very best.

The walls of the Kamisato Estate are intentionally thick, tasked with concealing centuries of secrets within their wooden embrace. Many important words—deals, negotiations, threats—are spoken throughout these halls, many promises made within these rooms, and such precious, confidential sentiments must be protected at all costs.

So, of course, when Thoma hears the distinct murmuring of that low baritone vibrating through the hardwood floor from below Ayato’s home office, he thinks nothing of it. This isn’t out of the ordinary—Ayato often works late, after all, and it isn’t uncommon for him to be busy sifting through documents and conducting phone calls long after Thoma has turned in for the night.

It’s common courtesy for Thoma to let his superiors know when he’s done for the day, and common respect to bid them a good night before he finally retreats back to his own quarters, the action so ingrained in his daily routine it’s become almost instinctual at this point.

Those dense manilla walls keep Ayato’s words muffled and unintelligible, even as Thoma nears the room they’re being spoken from, and he thinks nothing of sliding that heavy wooden door open just enough for his slim body to slip through the crack, as he’s done a million times before.

But the scene he’s met tonight with is unlike anything he’s ever stumbled upon, tongue gone heavy and sluggish in his mouth, saliva gathering in suffocating pools at the back of his throat, so much so that it gurgles with his sharp gasp of surprise and he chokes, coughing around the stinging breath tangled in threads of spit.

Various documents and expensive paperweights litter the floor, evidently knocked to the ground by your writhing limbs, naked body sprawled across the surface of Ayato’s long, low desk, one hand curled around the sharp edge of the dark mahogany wood, the other fisted in Ayato’s expensive dress shirt.

Kneeling between your spread legs, a fully clothed Ayato leans over your body, murmuring out a condescending croon as one strong hand catches the trembling ankle hitched on his shoulder, mindlessly readjusting it.

“Poor thing,” he sighs out with a touch of indifference embedded in his tone. “You’ve completely lost control of your body, haven’t you?”

You’re babbling out a string of unintelligible words, letters welded together with spit on your tongue, head nodding in slow, sluggish, stupid movements.

“Well, that’s okay,” Ayato coos, voice silk and syrup. “You don’t need to do anything when Daddy’s here do to it for you, do you?”

You aren’t afforded a moment to answer, though, the hand buried between your thighs twisting, pumping, curling, two—or three, Thoma can’t really tell from this angle—fingers deep in your glistening cunt, motions yanking a cracked whine from your throat.

“You don’t need to talk,” he grunts in time with the thrusting of his hand. “You don’t need to move,” another grunt, another thrust. “You don’t even need to think at all, isn’t that right, princess?”

You don’t answer, and Thoma isn’t sure if it’s because you’re not supposed to, or if it’s because you can’t, fragmented mewls being torn to shreds by hitched little gasps.

“Thus,” Ayato continues, calmly, coldly, serenely, as if he is completely unfazed by the current situation. “Next time, when Daddy tells you to not talk to a client and to stay put during his meeting, you will obey, correct?”

A moan vaguely reminiscent of an affirmation falls from your lips, head nodding in quicker motions now, short and sharp.

Thoma should leave. This isn’t right, staying to watch something so intimate, hiding in the shadows like a fucking pervert; this is—this is morally reprehensible, this is disgusting, this is a very private matter he should’ve never been privy to.

Yes, Thoma should most definitely leave. Anyone with common sense, with half a mind, with any sort of respect for their superiors at all, would’ve already left.

And yet, his heavy legs won’t fucking move, feet filled with concrete and weighted to the floor, hard cock throbbing, begging, him to stay just a little longer.

But then your misty eyes, half-lidded and unfocused and lolling around in your head like a pair of loosely secured marbles, graze over Thoma’s shrouded figure, and your gaze snaps to his face, shock and terror eradicating that drowsy, dopey haze in an instant.

“Daddy—”

“Hmm?” Ayato hums, the curling of his fingers turned vicious. “Didn’t Daddy just tell you that you don’t need to speak?”

“No—” you gasp, the word trembling, wide eyes stuck to Thoma’s face.

“No?” he seems surprised, a touch of amusement in his tone, and Thoma can practically hear him raising an eyebrow—a question, a challenge. “You’re telling Daddy no, after all of that punishment you just endured?”

“Wa-Wait, Da—”

“Oh,” he clicks his tongue, as if it’s such a pity, and Thoma doesn’t need to see his expression to know his forehead’s crinkling and mouth’s tugging downward, features saturated with mocking disappointment. “And you were doing so well.”

“I just—”

“I was going to allow you to cum, too,” he continues in that solemn tone, mourning your lost orgasm that Thoma’s sure you worked so hard to achieve. “Shame.”

“Daddy!” you squeal, the honorific practically fucked out of you by Ayato’s fingers, face contorting as you force the second name from your mouth. “Thoma!”

And, for a moment, everything stops, your whines gone silent, Ayato’s voracious fingers halting their ministrations. Thoma’s blood turns to sharp ice in his veins, his heart freezing in his chest, his breath gone frigid in his lungs.

“Oh,” Ayato says after a moment of realization, following your watery gaze over his shoulder and staring up at his subordinate. “Thoma, hello.”

Shuffling a little on his knees, Ayato turns to face Thoma fully, a pleasant little smile plastered across his face.

“I—I—” Thoma begins, head shaking in jerky, rigid movements, body thawing enough for him to start backing up, spine whacking painfully against the corner of the wall. “I shouldn’t have—I’m so sorry, my lord—This was—I really just—” his lungs shrivel in his chest as he runs out of air, inhaling harshly to revive them only to choke on his own breath as his eyes involuntarily scan his master’s body, focusing on the shimmering patch of slick staining his trousers, massive cock outlined by the wet fabric clinging to it as it strains against the material.

You’ve soaked him all the way through.

The whimper that sounds at the back of Thoma’s throat as he arrives at such a realization is downright mortifying—automatic, animalistic, pathetic—and he presses his lips together firmly in a futile attempt to silence it.

“Please, relax,” Ayato instructs, calm voice drawing Thoma’s attention back to his face. “You are not in trouble, Thoma,”

And although his voice is ridden with concern, Thoma can see it, that special little twinkle glittering in those periwinkle eyes, the one Thoma’s witnessed a million times before during deals and threats and negotiations, the one Ayato gets just before he strikes.

“I’m so sorry,” Thoma says again, the apology nothing more than a rush of breath from his mouth, elbows bumping against the wall as he raises his hands in surrender. “I was only—”

“Would you like to stay a while?”

Thoma stops.

Stay?

His cock twitches eagerly in his trousers at the prospect, his throat going dry, gummy walls sticking together as he attempts to swallow.

“Uh—Wh-What?”

“You’re welcome to continue watching, if you’d like to,” Ayato continues without a hitch, pleasant and cordial.

“I—” Yes. Yes, he would very much like to. “No, I really should be going. I’m sorry, my lord, I really shouldn’t have stayed—that was so gross of me—please forgive me for such disrespect, I’ll take my leave now—”

“Nonsense,” Ayato dismisses, eyes traveling down Thoma’s quivering body, halting their trajectory at his erection and pausing for a moment before trailing back up. “You are more than welcome to stay if you’d like to. And,” violet eyes flick down to his crotch again, a smug smirk molding to Ayato’s lips. “It seems like you’d like to.”

Of course he’d like to, Thoma’s features crinkle a little in self-deprecating confusion. Who wouldn’t like to?

From behind Ayato’s broad shoulder, you peak out, arms wrapped loosely around your torso, shoulders curved inward in a poor imitation of a shield. You look unsure—unsettled, almost—and Thoma feels that thick, tarry guilt unfurl in the pit of his stomach, spreading to engulf his surrounding organs in its sticky, suffocating embrace, snuffing out his spark of hope in an instant.

What a fucking sicko he is for even considering it, for even deriving the smallest amount of perverse pleasure from such voyeuristic endeavours, for memorizing your expressions and sounds, burning them into the tissues of his brain for later use.

He should’ve never invaded on something so personal, so precious, in the first place.

“I’m not sure she’d like me to.”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out as utterly disappointed as it does, whole face crumpling with bitter embarrassment. Eyes scrunched shut tightly, he attempts to clarify himself.

“I just mean—I don’t want to upset—offend—her any further,”

“There are no such worries to be had,” Ayato reassures lightly as he turns back to look at you, a hand reaching out to cup your jaw, long fingers tracing the curve of your cheek, the bow of your lips. “Right, sweetheart? You don’t mind if Thoma stays to watch, do you? Wouldn’t you like to show him how pretty you look when you cum on Daddy’s cock?”

Another one of those sinful whimpers claws at the back of Thoma’s tongue, but your eyes have gone glassy, glittery, glazed over with sheer want, lips parting a little as you nod.

“See?” Ayato says, but his eyes do not stray from yours, his head quirking slightly, voice gone soft. “She doesn’t mind one bit.”

Microscopic shards of ice prick through his skin, and Thoma shivers.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, wincing with the words.

“Absolutely positive,” Ayato responds with an amicable smile, finally moving to face him again. “But the choice is yours, Thoma.”

Swallowing thickly, Thoma’s eyes shift from Ayato’s face to yours, and then back again, tongue running along this top teeth and sucking as he contemplates. He wants to, of course he wants to, god does he ever want to, but—

“Stay,” you offer quietly, chin tucked cutely to your chest, gazing at him through your lashes. “Please, stay.”

And so, he does.

There’s something so taboo about it all, something so wrong, so bad about watching his boss fuck his most precious treasure, cinders of desire flickering in Thoma’s tummy as he settles down on the floor only a few feet away from your tangled bodies, legs tucked beneath him.

The hunger in Ayato’s eyes is fierce enough to swallow you whole, pupils blown and insatiable as they glide over your body, soaking up every expression, sucking down every sound, his face a heady blend of admiration and ardor.

But Thoma can’t blame him; you look breathtakingly beautiful. Skin sweat-drenched and sparkling, lips bitten raw and puffy, tiny crystal teardrops still clinging stubbornly to your clumped lashes, the devotion in your stare so strong it’s nearly crushing. Paired with the symphony of your soft mewls and sweet whimpers, you’re a living, breathing masterpiece all on your own.

He isn’t sure what, exactly, he was expecting Ayato’s style of fucking to consist of, but the healthy mix of slow, hard, sensual thrusts—filled with murmured out teases and lots of biting, licking, kissing—followed by bouts of fast, rough pistons of his hips—filled with sharp, mocking sentiments and cruel little laughs, all still managing to sound elegant in Ayato’s dignified lilt despite their callous nature—is really fucking hot.

Blunt nails carve crescents into his flesh as his fists clench tighter, thin skin stretched taut over his knuckles.

His cock is aching, but he’s unsure if he’s allowed to touch it. Would rubbing the heal of his palm against it be considered rude, or would Ayato see it as silly constraint? What if he took it out? Does he even want to take it out? Is it weird if he does? Is it weird if he doesn’t?

“Thoma,” his lord calls out in a singsong scold, stilling his hips and snapping Thoma from his thread of thoughts. “I can hear you thinking.”

“Sorry, my lord,” he responds immediately, hands uncurling and palms laid flat against his tensed thighs. “I just, uh, I...I don’t really know what to do.”

Heat scalds his cheeks at the mumbled confession, and he resists the urge to shut his eyes against the mirth his humiliation has painted across his boss’s face.

“You can do whatever you’d like,” Ayato responds, as if it’s that easy, that obvious. Amethyst eyes seach his face, and Thoma forces his spine to straighten, avoiding the temptation to hunch in on himself in a futile attempt to protect himself from his lord’s vying, prying gaze.

“My,” Ayato finally says. “I’ve hardly begun, yet you’re so hard you’re leaking through your pants. It’s...incredible.”

Thoma’s eyebrows knit in confusion, head shaking a little to indicate that he doesn’t understand. Incredible? It’s ignominious, is what it is.

But Ayato’s still observing him with that inquisitive gaze, eyes darting to your heaving body for a moment, still impaled by his cock and trying your best to keep from wiggling impatiently, before returning to Thoma’s face.

“Thoma,” he begins conversationally, and Thoma’s heart begins to pound, ribs rattling with the force. “Would you like a turn? I think it’s awfully selfish of me to keep her all to myself tonight, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m sorry?” Thoma sputters as the question tangles on his tongue, eyes blinking rapidly with incredulity, head nudged forward as if he’s sure he’s just misheard his lord.

“I’m asking if you’d like to fuck her,” Ayato chuckles—a patronizing little sound that plays at the back of his throat, as if Thoma’s uncertainty is so cute—and Thoma flinches. It’s always so jarring to hear such a vile curse fall from the lips of such an elegant man.

“I—No, no, my lord, I could never, she—she’s yours, and—”

“You are, by all accounts, our guest this evening. I have invited you to stay, and I think it’d be rude of me not to offer you a turn,” he explains. “You don’t have to if you aren’t comfortable with it,” Ayato adds at Thoma’s hesitance. “I am merely extending the invitation, should you wish to take it. But if you are content with just watching, that is perfectly fine, too.”

“I...Want to,” he slowly exhales the confession from his mouth after a stretch of ringing silence, eyes finding yours. “But...I—Is it alright?”

Mutely, you look towards your Daddy, something akin to distress saturating your features. Ayato frowns, shaking his head a little, and your lips mimic his own, eyebrows raising with incentive.

“Show her your cock,” Ayato demands after a moment of unspoken conversation.

The order startles Thoma, and he coughs around his response. “I, um—”

“Go on,” Ayato urges gently, violet eyes kind and trusting, disarming, that terrifying twinkle Ayato had never dared to turn on Thoma before tonight now replaced with that comforting familiarity his direct commands bring. “Show her your cock, and I promise you, she’ll say yes.”

It’s an odd request, and Thoma doesn’t fully understand it’s implications, but he obeys anyway.

Nodding to himself, Thoma shuffles closer to you, trembling hands fumbling with the waistband of his pants, gracelessly shoving at it until it yields, allowing his cock to spring free.

It glistens in the dim glow of the lamplight, head smeared with precum and steadily drooling out pearlets, shaft pretty and pink and oh-so-perfect. You murmur something, soft and awe-stricken, and Thoma’s gaze snaps to your face.

“Hmm?”

“I said it’s really pretty,” you repeat, seemingly captivated, fingers flexing, as if you wish to touch. “It’s almost as pretty as Daddy’s.”

“Oh! Uh,” heat crawls up the back of his neck and he resists the urge to scratch at it, forcing his eyes to stay trained on your profile. “Thanks,”

“You like it, baby?” Ayato coos, brushing back a few strands of sweat-soaked hair from your temple. “You want it?”

“Yes,” you breathe, gazing up at Ayato before shifting your stare to Thoma, head nodding in dreamy little movements. “Yes, please.”

“Are you sure?” Thoma asks for what seems like the umpteenth time tonight, powerless to keep the question from leaving his mouth, urgently requiring that explicit confirmation that this is real, that this is happening.

“Yeah,” you stare up at him with shimmering eyes, tongue sucking your bottom lip between your teeth and speaking around it. “Please, can I have it?”

Thoma’s body is moving the moment the bashful request tumbles from your lips, body gracefully replacing Ayato’s—who resigns himself to sitting near your head—and hips finding a snug place between your spread thighs, his cock bobbing with enthusiasm.

“So polite, my darling,” Ayato murmurs, and while the timbre in his voice is mocking, his eyes are soft, the pads of his fingertips trailing along your jaw, down the curve of your neck.

A quiet noise of contentment vibrates at the back of your throat, and you lean into your Daddy’s touch, gaze filled to the brim with adoration, begging for more of his sugary approval.

The moment feels too intimate, and Thoma averts his eyes. The head of his cock bumps against your cute little hole a second later, selfishly drawing your attention back to him, and you whine a little, hips twitching downward in desperation.

“She hasn’t been allowed to cum on a cock in a while,” Ayato explains, still gazing at you with melted affection in his eyes, palm stroking your damp forehead. “I’m quite sure she’s exceptionally excited to have you inside her,”

For a moment, such a thought instils in Thoma a bold confidence, sparks of it zipping up his spine, straightening each vertebra as they pass.

But they fizzle just as fast as they ignited, leaving behind a special type of terror, an icy dread that seeps into his bones and submerges his brain.

What if he isn’t good enough?

While his cock is considerably thick—possibly slightly thicker than what you’re used to—he definitely isn’t as big as Ayato. Will he even be able to satisfy you at all, or will he only leave you with the sourness of disappointment and regret? Is he merely here to make an utter fool of himself by cumming so hard, so fast it’s piteous? It’s been an embarrassingly long time since the last time he’s had sex, what if—

“Thoma? What are you waiting for?”

Ayato’s voice yanks him from the snare of his own thoughts once again, his eyes flashing to his superior, worry written into the creases of his forehead. Frowning, Ayato blinks twice, imploring him to speak what’s currently infecting his mind.

“What’s wrong?”

And, oh, it’s so fucking embarrassing to have to say it aloud, to admit to all of his timorous thoughts of being wholly inadequate, eyes downcast as he mumbles out his concerns.

Unsurprisingly, Ayato laughs—something that isn’t quite nice, but isn’t quite mean, either, like candied condescension—and leans forward to clap a reassuring hand on Thoma’s shoulder.

“That is entirely okay,” he says, and Thoma’s brow furrows. “She doesn’t have to cum. You can just use her, if you’d like; she’d be happy with that, too,” he pauses, violet eyes flitting to your own and eliciting an obedient nod, as if to prove his point. “And then I’ll take care of the rest. Just enjoy yourself, Thoma.”

”But...But I—” Thoma’s nose wrinkles in distaste, and Ayato’s frown deepens. Reaching out, he takes the younger man’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting it up to face him and holding it firmly in place.

Outwardly, Ayato appears as calm as the smooth, cool surface of an ice-glazed lake, but Thoma knows better. Thoma can see the impatience, the irritation, beginning to simmer just beneath that layer of polished frost; the blazing periwinkle that demands Thoma spit it out already, the infinitesimal flexing of his jaw, methodically pulsing in time with his even breaths; one, two, three, tense, hold, relax, one, two, three.

Clearing his throat, Thoma continues, ignoring the slight tremor sewn into his voice. “But I want to satisfy her, my lord.”

It’s hard not to grimace as the confession hangs thickly in the air between them, Ayato’s eyes clouding over with something undecipherable, something Thoma’s never experienced before. The look makes his skin crawl, little spikes of sweat erupting from his pores as he’s forced to hold his superior’s scalding gaze.

“Alright,” Ayato says after a moment of consideration, finally releasing Thoma’s chin. “I’ll show you how, briefly, and then we can get on with this. Sound reasonable?”

Thoma’s head is nodding, but Ayato doesn’t wait for an answer, moving towards the slighter man and taking Thoma’s hand between his large one, palm molding to the back as he pushes two of Thoma’s fingers down.

“It doesn’t take much,” Ayato’s saying, voice turned professional as he wraps his own fingers over Thoma’s folded ones, bringing their mess of hands to your fluttering cunt and beginning to insert them.

“Daddy!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut as your delicate flesh yields to the four fingers.

Ignoring you, Ayato continues in the same matter-of-fact lilt. “Her favourite spot is right here,” he curls his fingers, forcing Thoma’s to curl in conjunction, pressing their knuckles into a rough, swollen patch of tissue.

A loud, sharp cry rips itself from your chest, eyes springing open only to fall shut again as Ayato massages the spot, your hips instinctually grinding downward, desperate for more.

“If you can, try to rub your cock against it, like this,” Ayato folds their fingers halfway, forcing them to dig into your silky walls and move in long, slow strokes, each pass over that spot sending a borderline violent shudder rippling through your body.

“It’s very sensitive.” Ayato nudges the spot once more—a demonstration of sorts—before gently removing their fingers. “I trust that now that you know it’s location, you’ll have no trouble angling your hips to ensure your cockhead hits it, yes?”

If he doesn’t cum in the first ten seconds, maybe.

He has several additional questions—what type of thrusts do you enjoy most? Is there a particular pace you like the best?—but Ayato is done teaching.

You seem to be getting restless, too, Thoma’s name falling from your lips in the sweetest little whimpers. “Thoma, Thoma, please, give me your cock, please,”

You sound so fucking needy, almost bordering on bratty as you reach for him, hips wiggling, thighs straining as they spread wider. Cavernous pupils shine in the low light, eyes glazed over with sugared desire and half-lidded with lust.

And finally, finally, Thoma snaps.

His body’s moving before he’s even made the conscious decision to, primal instinct surging through his blood, overwhelming his body and overriding his mind, and he growls, using his sharp hips to keep your thighs spread wide.

It’s all automatic impulse now, rational thought drowned by animalistic urges and sheer desire, that burning need he had been so desperately attempting to suppress, to control, finally erupting, flames of it burning through his veins, incinerating all previous trepidation.

And then he’s shoving his cock into you, moaning at the way your flesh yields to him, submits to him, opens up for him, stretching and splitting to accommodate his girth.

Just one swift, sharp thrust is all it takes to have him buried to the hilt, cockhead pressed snugly against your sensitive cervix. His hips shove forward further, knocking a gasp from your throat, cockhead grinding in slow, hard circles against the mound of tissue.

“Th-Thoma!” you nearly wheeze, little fingers tangling in the cotton of his t-shirt, nails piercing through the thin material and leaving fine, ragged lines of red in the muscles of his back. “Hurts!”

“Oh, you can take it,” Ayato chastises lightly, speaking over the deep growl rumbling in Thoma’s chest. It’s incredible, how calm his lord sounds, how entirely unaffected he seems to be, tone kept conversational, as if none of this matters in the slightest.

But Thoma’s barely listening; Thoma barely cares at this point, ears buzzing and vision blurred by pure lust, this insatiable craving he had tried so hard to deny, to erase, to restrain, so fierce it has dulled all of his senses to anything other than you.

Leaning back slightly, he hooks a hand under each of your knees and pushes up, up, up until your knees nudge your shoulders, legs folded up on either side of your body.

“Be a—Be a good girl and hold yourself open for me, yeah?”

It’s supposed to be an instruction, a demand, but it comes out whiny and full of yearning, voice already wrecked and mangled in his throat. If he were in his right mind, he’d be horrified by how eager, how utterly desperate he sounds. Yet he doesn’t pay it any mind at all, the breathy plead that practically dribbled from his lips like dollops of thick honey, too focused on fucking you for it to be of any importance.

With a singular, shaky exhale, his hips draw back, slow and steady, the smooth sculpted muscles in his arms flexing with the strain as he hovers above you, stilling for just a moment before he’s fucking back into you, his thrust harsh enough to send your entire body skidding against the wood beneath you, setting a ruthless pace from the start.

Each pound of his hips is more brutal than the last, each ramming fractured sobs and pitched mewls of his name from your chest, each forceful enough to shove Ayato’s heavy desk a few inches forward with every plunge into you, mahogany wood scraping against the floorboards.

It must be hurtful for you, each slam of his cockhead against your cervix, each drag of his shaft against that spot, your features twisted in the perfect mix of pain and pleasure; eyebrows scrunched and eyes squeezed shut, mouth lolling open and tongue flopping about, lips slicked sheen with spit, drool oozing from the corners of your mouth to drip in viscous beads along your jaw.

It’s fucking beautiful, the most immaculate piece of art Thoma has ever witnessed, experienced, had a hand in creating.

“You like that, huh?” he’s nearly spitting at you, words sandwiched between ragged pants. “It’s good?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you’re chanting, head nodding in quick little motions as your eyes drift back, eyelashes fluttering prettily.

“Tell me,” he keens, voice shattered by his razored breaths. “Tell me how much you like my cock,”

And although his tone borders on begging, his eyes are sharp and blazing with ardor, his chest heaving with exertion, strands of golden hair saturated in sweat and clinging to his forehead, his temples, his neck.

“Your cock is so good, Thoma,” you nearly wail. “I love it—I-I love it s’much!”

A groan vibrates in his chest, his eyes shutting tightly before springing open again, shuddering out a breathy little, “Yeah?” in time with the next drive forward of his hips.

“Uh—Uh-huh, so big, fills me up so good, can feel you in my tummy, Thoma,”

The resulting whine that catches in his throat, pitched high and desperate, is absolutely pathetic—though you don’t seem to think so, cute little cunt pulsing around his cock in response.

“Lemme feel, baby—ah, fuck—lemme feel,”

A large hand splays itself on your gut, his hips never once faltering as he presses down, a loud cry falling from his lips as the tip of his cock nudges his palm through your flesh.

“God,” he breathes. “That’s so fucking hot.”

Your dainty hand lays itself atop of his, soft palm pressing down harder, forcing him to feel the bulge of his cock buried inside of you again, a choked moan strangling itself in his throat as the arm supporting his weight begins to quiver.

He can tell that you’re getting close now, whole body beginning to tremble beneath his own, little fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as you force yourself open wider for him.

Ayato can tell, too.

“Are you going to cum, sweetheart?” he asks, the pet name drenched in saccharine condescension. “Are you going to show Thoma how very pretty you look, creaming all over his cock?”

You can barely speak, too fucked out to manage anything other than the stammered stream of Yes, Daddy’s and Can I, please Daddy?’s flowing steadily from your mouth.

Ayato gives you his murmured permission—a gentle Go ahead, princess—and then you’re complying, convulsing cunt gushing all over Thoma’s cock, a tangle of his name and your Daddy’s jumbled on your tongue, a mess of letters so intertwined that they’ve become one unintelligible word.

“Good girl,” Ayato breathes, and that’s the first time Thoma has heard him sound affected by anything all night.

Thoma’s thrusts are getting sloppy now, devolved into frantic and uneven jackhammering that gains more speed with each snap forward, the aftershocks of your orgasm still coursing through your veins, vibrations spiking with each pump of his hips.

He can feel his own orgasm simmering in the pit of his stomach, rising higher and higher with every weak throb of your over-sensitive cunt, growing hotter and hotter with every noise he manages to fuck out of you until it’s finally boiling over, up his throat and out his mouth and—

“Oh, oh god, oh, Aya—my lord, I—I’m gonna—Can I—Can I—” And, truthfully, Thoma isn’t sure whether he’s asking if he can cum, or if he can cum inside his master’s favourite plaything.

But he doesn’t have to decide; Ayato does that for him.

Humming in contemplation, amethyst eyes shift from Thoma to you, Ayato’s head tilting slightly. “Would you like his cum, princess?”

Your response is immediate, bleary eyes snapping to Ayato’s face, head nodding enthusiastically. “Oh gosh, Daddy, yes, yes, I want his cum, yes!”

“F-Fuck,” Thoma whimpers, hips stuttering with the shudder of his breath.

“You can cum inside, Thoma,” Ayato grants him permission, voice soft as a silk blanket that envelopes him, caressing his cheek as it drapes itself across his shoulders—a warm, familiar embrace of encouragement, of praise, of approval.

“Th-Thank you, my lord,”

“I want it, Thoma,” you’re whimpering beneath him, blinking up at him with filmy eyes, words drowning in muddled pools of spit collecting in the dips and crevices of your mouth. “I want it, I-I want it, give it to me,”

“Greedy girl,” Ayato scolds with a disapproving click of his tongue, demeanour changed in an instant. “Ask nicely,”

Turning your glassy gaze back on Thoma, you stare up at him like he’s some sort of fucking god, eyes glistening with potent want, an indescribable craving that manifests as pleads spilling from your mouth.

“Thoma, Thoma, please give me your cum, please, fill me up with it, stuff me full of it, I want it so bad, Thoma, pretty please!” you practically cough out, the sentiment fractured by hiccups and gurgled together at the back of your throat, words flowing in one continuous sob.

It’s so fucking hot, so fucking wrong, so fucking delicious, and the whine that claws it’s way past his lips and rips through his gasping breaths is nothing short of gorgeous, pitched high and cracked with pleasure, with desire.

“Give my princess what she wants, Thoma,” Ayato says, and although it’s phrased as a statement, it’s clearly an order, and Thoma’s good at following those.

Three more pistons of his hips and he’s obeying his master. It’s vicious, the shudder that tears through Thoma’s body as his cock throbs, filling you to the brim with scalding, thick cum, so much so that it’s begun to leak out of your cunt, smeared all over Thoma’s cock and your inner thighs, pearly glops of it drooling down your ass to collect in a puddle on Ayato’s desk.

Black darkens the edges of his vision, a pair of strong hands catching him just before he collapses on top of you, Ayato leaning Thoma against his chest, his cheek snug against the crook of his lord’s neck, exhaling uneven little pants of breath against his skin.

Everything feels hazy, like time has slowed, seconds dripping by as if they were hours, the gentle, repetitive rhythm of Ayato’s fingers through Thoma’s hair keeping him grounded in this reality.

“Come here, baby,” Ayato murmurs, holding his free arm out towards you and inviting you to crawl sluggishly towards him. You allow yourself to be wrapped up in your Daddy’s embrace, head finding purchase on Thoma’s damp chest, clinging to the both of them.

“You did so well,” Ayato whispers, punctuating his praise with chaste kisses to the crown of your head. “You both did so well, I’m so proud of you. You were both so good for me.”

And, well, all either of you ever want to be is good for him.

#thoma x reader #kamisato ayato x reader #ayato x reader #thoma smut #kamisato ayato smut #ayato smut #eeeeee i hope this works!!#i figured it would be good to have it here as well #tw:daddy kink #tw:dubcon #tw:toxic relationship #tw:size kink #tw:degradation

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chainmailchalamet · 11 months

Text

sugar high 🍒

synopsis: sugar daddy hs, always black n non-binary reader, established dynamic w/ some power play, possessive language, lil degradation, spit kink, mean dom(ish) hs, yktfv

Harry is…complex, by nature. He is a well curated structure of contradictions. He is a rockstar, an animal, a glossy beastly thing on stage. He glows under the spotlight, basking in all that concentrated attention with the air of a man who deserves every last drop. He is a hip roller, a tongue wagger, a dark eyed pretty boy dream. He’s sharp cut hips, tatted all over and wrapped up in glitter.

He is also a cream puff — that’s the version of him you met first, assisting a stylist on a Gucci suiting campaign. You’d steamed his double breasted coat, matched the ties to his green-glass eyes, buttoned him up all snug in his dress-shirt. And he’d blushed and dimpled his way through all of it. Told you that you didn’t have to do all that (“I kind of do, darling, it’s my job”), said please and thank you and stood where he was supposed to stand and made everyone laugh and look at him all fond because he was a professional sweetheart, an actual dream to work with. With the way he acted, you couldn’t tell he found you attractive until after the shoot wrapped and he walked up to you all bashful to ask for your number. It was the way he stated his intentions that got you, the way he said, soft and steady “anything you want, we can do anything you want as long as I can keep you company”.

He took you for squid ink pasta for the first date, because you’d never had it. He showed you how he liked his oysters (“a little lemon, just a squeeze..”) and how to tip them back into your mouth to taste them, and he watched the way your lips wrapped round the shell with a low heat gaze, kept his desire on the simmer like he didn’t want to scare him away. You let your inhibitions sink away into a glass of champagne, flirted with him in the same breath you talked his ear off about your job, about the books you were reading, about your vision for the future. He was so like you — the same raw ambition, the same comfort in the way you wore your skin that you’d both fought tooth and nail for, the same wicked tongue. You liked to make him blush, to tease him until he was giggling in faux offense (“it is not a whore house, it’s a family show, that’s the whole point!” “sir, at last show you sang the words “if you’re getting yourself wet for me”, and then rubbed your fingers together to demonstrate said wetness, those are the actions of a whore!”), until he let some of that babygirl cupcake act drop long enough to thumb some passion fruit sorbet from the corner of your lip and take it into his mouth, closing his eyes and groaning a little under his breath like you just tasted that good.

The second date was a flea market in the south of France. He prepared you with a simple instruction to pack light, and in response to your question about the cost of the train and accommodation and time off work he responded the same — kissed you on the temple and said “I’ll take care of all of it, you don’t have to worry about a thing, you can have anything you want, sweetheart”.

And then he did, took care of every detail — told your boss he was borrowing you for a shoot (“bring them back in one piece, styles, they’re one of our best” “mm, no promises”), got the both of you a private carriage so you could watch the grey London skyline fade away into lush fields of lavender, held your hand all the way, looked at you like you were the best view in sight, whisked you away to a cute little hostel where no one but the owners recognized him (the lady of the house absolutely fawned over him, called him strawberry boy, chided him for being gone for so long).

You used maybe two braincells that weekend — he made sure of that. Every whim, he tended to. If you wanted coffee, he went to the market and fetched you something freshly ground with notes of toffee and dark chocolate. If your stomach rumbled, he sat you down on the kitchen counter and fixed you lemon pasta, fed you dates by hand while the sauce settled, stole kisses in-between bites — cupped your face in his hands and licked into your mouth and said “feel so lucky, can’t believe your here, are you happy, what do you need, whatever you want, wanna give you everything…”.

You let him fuck you during that trip. After a dreamy morning picnicking with a jar of strawberry preserves and fresh bread and heavenly salted butter, and a whole day at the markets where he bought you a whole new wardrobe, gently insisting that he wanted to do this for you. “Harry, this is vintage alaïa, I don’t need that” you’d said. “You’re a stylist, sweetheart, might come in handy — and you’ve been eyeing it up since you saw it, at least try it on, yeah? See how you feel after”.

You’d tried it on, and it fit so perfect your mouth went a little dry — and his eyes on you, the way he smoothed his hands over your hips and told you that “you look so pretty, angel, prettiest fucking thing I ever saw” made you light-headed, running your thighs together in the dressing room. He liked doing that to you, putting you in pretty things, seeing you admire yourself. He bought you the alaïa, the cavalli handbag, a silk Gucci scarf — he was still polite, still your sweet thoughtful boy, but you could see through the cracks to what lay beneath that. The power he held over you, the obvious pleasure he took in being able to take care of you, showering you in nice things, the way he made you feel you didn’t have to think about anything when you were with him because he could do the thinking for you.

That’s the man that took you to bed. The one that told you to put your pretty new things away and wait for him in the bedroom while he tucked the groceries away. The one who met you with hungry eyes when he found you stripped down to your new chocolate brown agent provocateur set and kneeling on the bed and just clicked his tongue and asked you if he told you to do that. Tutted when you looked at him all confused and tried to explain yourself, shushed you and said (with the same quiet intensity as the first day he met you), “not your fault baby, didn’t have to think at all today, you’re just my pretty little doll, huh?”

that’s the Harry that felt every bit of your mouth with his fingers, pressed down on your tongue until you drooled a little and then made fun of you for it. The one that wouldn’t let you touch his dick until he worked you up so good that you thought you would cry, ran his tongue over the lace on your body, teased over every single sensitive inch of you until you were shaking and begging (“please, Harry please, just touch me, anything, anything” “look at you — pretty fucking mess for me, huh? wanna see you cry, baby, can’t give you my dick unless you ask real nice for me”).

He fucked you slow and deep with a hand wrapped around your neck, told you that one day he’d buy you something shiny to lay where his hand had been, but until then you’d just have to wear his fingers around your throat — told you that it was his favorite thing you’d tried on all day, called you his doll, his baby, his perfect little slut. “M’gonna give you everything you fucking want,” he said, licking the salt off your skin as it trailed down your cheek, pulling your head back to spit in your mouth and rub it into your tongue (“filthy thing, you like that? nuh-uh? you got real tight on me, baby, you must really like that”), rolling his hips and driving in hard until your eyes rolled back and you couldn’t even find your voice to beg him for more. “And you’re gonna let me, aren’t you? Not gonna fight me, are you baby? Just gonna let me take care of everything, I know what you need, daddy’s gonna give you fucking everything — that’s it, angel, just shut the fuck up and take it, you’re so good at that”.

He made you come like that, and then flipped you over, lifted your hips up and licked you out from the back, slapped you across the clit if you tried to run away from it, told you to “take it, don’t fucking run, gonna make a big mess aren’t you, show me, fuckin’ show me, that’s so good, you’re so good”, and then fucked you like that — pushed your face into the mattress and laid into you until you did make a mess, till you were drooling with it.

He was back in full sweetheart mode when he was done with you — ran you a bath and toweled you dry and held you in his arms till you fell asleep, kissed your head and said “thank you, baby, did so good for me, gave me everything I’ll ever need”. He was complex like that — a menace, an angel, a demon, a fucking fairytale prince. And you were lucky enough that you got to see every inch of it, bask in the flow of it.

#harry styles blurb #harry styles x black!reader #harry styles smut #domrry #mean dom harry styles #black oc

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