#Heavy Rests The Crown

[starfall-spirit]

Heavy Rests The Crown

HRTC Masterlist

Summary: Respectively ruling land and sea, the newly appointed High Lord and young merqueen find themselves pressured to marry. Their solution-a union their advisors would never approve of. Not that they can do a thing about it now.

Word Count: 1,764

Chapter II: So, She Wants to Marry Her Mate

Rhys

She didn’t feel it. How the fuck did she not feel it? It wasn’t like she was a human. Did the merfolk and fae mate? Water wraiths, possibly, but not high fae. Not even a half-breed. But it was, quite obviously, a possibility. The second he laid eyes on her that evening he suspected the bond. The second he took her hand he knew for certain. And the young queen hadn’t felt so much as a tingle, let alone that cord of gold. Unless she was just that good at hiding her emotions.

Alone on the house’ balcony, he could help but give that cord a little tug, summoning the female from his circle of friends. She glided up to the balcony, slowly swirling the red wine left in her glass. “Is that a little High Lord trick or something else?”

He chuckled. “I do like to keep an air of mystery, Feyre darling.” Her eyebrow quirked at the endearment, but she didn’t scold him for it. She merely waited for him to explain why he requested her presence. “I apologize for dragging you away from everyone. I was just hoping to get to know you better.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve barely seen you in passing until tonight, yet you seem to spend a lot of time here. Now that I’m home, I want to know who all is involved with my family.” She nodded, biting her lip a bit awkwardly. “I’m sorry. With everyone around I didn’t know how to say it, but… I am so, so sorry to hear what happened to your family.” 

He couldn’t help but tense slightly as she rested a hand on his arm, her lilac and pear scent flooding his senses. “Thank you, Feyre. They’d mention you every time I did come home, you know. Avy saw you like the sister she never had.”

“She was easier to get along with than my own at times."

Rhys hummed. “I’m not certain we’re still talking about the same princess."

She snorted, leaning her hip against the balcony railing. “A thought for a thought, Feyre darling?”

Her soft smile fell. “I’m thinking…” Her hand fell from his arm, dipping into that pocket where her crown rested since she left the river. “I’m thinking I don’t know how to do these things they expect of me. It’s been a long time since illness killed a mer ruler and—and even Nesta is too young to deal with this. I have—” 

She stopped, straightening herself in an instant. How many people had already told her not to show vulnerability around another leader? “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” she feigned, her tone a bit too sharp.

“Don’t start locking away what matters to wear a mask of strength.”

“You don’t know what your talking about.”

“Feyre—”

“There was an envoy sent to the surface this morning to bring the shipment routes to your attention. I know how important trade is above land, but the larger ships coming in over the areas damaged by—”

“Feyre.” 

She huffed a bit. “You haven’t been at this any longer than I have, so don’t tell me you know best. I’m trying—” 

“You’re trying to drive yourself straight into the ground.” 

She sucked in a sharp breath as his fingers curled around her wrist, his thumb just brushing her pulse point. When she drew that arm to her chest the movement lacked the certainty she seemed to possess before then. Oh, she felt something alright. “With all due respect, High Lord, I don’t think you know me well enough to decide what will drive me down.”

She turned to leave. “Forgive me.” She paused. “I’m only seventy-five, but I’ve already seen too many females ruined by politics.”

Her blue eyes flared with her temper again and he realized where his phrasing had put them. “How dare—”

“I do not insinuate you are incapable of leading,” he interrupted, undeniably backpedaling. “I warn you not to let yourself be off-kilter with your rising tasks. It would be a shame to see that vulnerability abused. To see you tread over by a male and his expectations in matrimony. Do not let someone make of you what traditionalists tried to make of my cousin and every female in her line before that.”

She was slightly flushed, caught somewhere between insulted, angry, and flat out affronted I’d be so bold in speaking of the fate her advisors may come to demand. After calming, she seemed merely perplexed. “Let’s just say, as long as your waters touch my land I want to be doing business with someone who uses the brain inside her head. Not whoever’s deemed your suitable match.”

He pushed down the feelings that reared up at the thought of her selecting another consort.

She settled back into her spot beside me. “Do your governors demand the same thing, Rhys? A pretty doll of a wife rather than your mate?”

Slowly—achingly slowly, her words registered, tumbling in his head five different ways. Their little fairy tale ending hadn’t snapped on her side, but she wanted it desperately. “It’s been suggested,” he admitted. “A marriage would be uplifting in a time of mourning, for Velaris and the other cities surrounding it. Honestly, I’ve been too preoccupied working against wing-clippings and the nonsense my father encouraged in the Hewn City to humor taking a wife. I too would prefer a bond to a wedding,” he confessed.

Before she could say her piece, Cassian stepped out onto the balcony, swaying slightly. “I’m headed out. Feyre, did you want me to fly you back to the docks?”

She bit her lip, nervous at the sight of him. “Cassian, are you even in any state to fly yourself home?”

“No, he isn’t and we don’t need any unnecessary damages, to people or property,” Rhys answered for his brother. “Take your room here for the night. I’ll get Feyre home.”

“Fine. Goodnight, you  two.” He leaned down to kiss Feyre’s cheek and a possessive snarl ripped out of Rhys, making them both freeze and causing Cassian to retreat, hands raised in surrender, even as a grin spread over his face. 

“I—Fuck.” This was not how he wanted Feyre to piece everything together. He told himself he’d be better than other males he’d seen when his time with his mate came, but it seemed he was no different. One more look to his brother and the smug Illyrian excused himself, no doubt going to crow to the rest of the family what had just happened.

“Feyre—”

“I’d really rather not have this conversation around such a nosy group, Rhys.”

He nodded stiffly. He trusted his family with his life and shared next to everything with them. Even if they all knew and loved Feyre already, this was… complicated. He was mated to a female incapable of surviving longterm on land. Without some rather tricky enchantments, breathing underwater is impossible for anyone other than water wraiths and mer. But he would make it work.

As long as she agreed. 

If she wanted this, they would make it work. “I know you aren’t a fan of flying, but I need to get you out of the ward radius before we can winnow down to the street. Or the townhouse if you’d prefer a quiet place to talk.”

“I think so,” she murmured, stepping closer as he stretched his wings. "I think the townhouse would be best, I mean.”

“Okay.” She braced quivering hands on his shoulders and he took that as permission to sweep her off the ground, launching into the air. As promised, he only took as long as it took to pass the wards before sweeping them into shadows and setting down in the townhouse. “So?” he ventured, settling into a chair built to accommodate his wings.

“So, Rhysand, I need to know this will be worth it.” 

He tensed. “Worth it?”

“You and your brothers have made yourselves a reputation. Even beneath the waves we hear such things.”

He clenched his jaw. “You think I’d be unfaithful to my mate?”

“I don’t know a thing about you, beyond common facts and gossip. And no matter how much I want a mate, I first want someone I know and trust.” 

He should have expected his boyhood fun to fall back on him. Hell, he’d bet good gold at least one of his brothers was straying from his own bed tonight, half-drunk or not. Slowly, he stood again, approaching Feyre. “From this day forward I will be true to you and only you. No matter the trials and complications. I swear it on my life.”

“Before Cassian came over… Before I realized…”

“I’m not so backwards in my thinking as some. You are not a possession. If you chose to walk away even now, I wouldn’t take that choice from you. If you’d prefer a husband of your own kind, I understand.”

“I won’t reject the bond over something so discriminatory.”

Relief flooded him. Despite the casual interaction between the merfolk and fae, he knew very little about mer laws and what precisely could be demanded of her marriage. While some would undoubtedly be skeptical of their union, no faerie was stupid enough to contradict a mating bond. When they were mated—their scents bound—there would be no push back. 

He took a step closer, reaching to trail a knuckle down the side of her face, tracing what remained of her silvery scales there. “Take the time to get to know me, Feyre. Then we’ll look at marriage and mating.” Her blush told him she had yet to consider the frenzy, no matter how well known it may be. 

“I’m five months from my next birthday,” she murmured.

“You’ll fall for me in three.”

“You’re too confident for your own good.”

He chuckled. “I realize you can’t stay on land for more than a few days.”

She shook her head slightly, starting to lean into his touch, much to his delight. “Not to mention my daily duties. I am a queen, you know.”

“In the evenings you’re available, allow me the time to court you on the surface. There are guest rooms here and in the Moonstone Palace. Of course you’re always welcome to my bed—” She swatted his shoulder. “Our courtship period will protect us from other arrangements, so long as there’s proof of it.”

“Alright. Five months of nightly courtship, Rhys.”

“It’s a deal, then.” 

She cursed him soundly as dark ink scrolled over her arm. Not that much could be done about it now.

~~~~~

Tag List: Reach out to be added or removed.

@shallyne // @s-uppertime // @the-lonelybarricade // @faeriequeensuriel // @reverie-tales // @pandavelaris // @goddess-aelin // @acourtofwips // @jealousveronya

[jealousveronya]

Heavy Rests The Crown

Moodboard inspired by "Heavy Rests The Crown" from @starfall-spirit

my hand slipped and I made another one ♥

[shallyne]

So about that comment you made about Rhys eating fish in front of Feyre...

Snippet?

~~~~~

Like any other day, her scent announced her arrival before here arms wrapped over his shoulders. Rhys set down his fork, tilting his head back to kiss his mate’s cheek. “You took your time, my love."

Releasing his shoulders, Feyre turned to face him, perching on the table with an expression that told him she was not pleased. The question was if she needed him to lend an ear to her troubles or if he should be running for the hills because he was in trouble. “Rhysand.”

The full name. So he was in trouble. “Yes, darling?”

She pursed her lips. “Are you eating fish right now?”

“Of course. Many citizens find their living along the Sidra and sea. Why shouldn’t I—Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I—Wait, don’t you eat fish? I though merfolk were at least towards the top of the marine food chain.”

“Some do. I don’t care to unless there’s absolutely nothing else.” She glared as he picked up his fork again. “Rhysand!”

“I’m sorry. I was teasing that time.” Two plates of roasted chicken and rice appeared. “Better, darling?”

“Better.”

~~~~~

This may or may not end up in the fic, but here's a draft to not take seriously.

I AM FERAL FOR THIS

Their chemistry, omg. *Chefs kiss*

Please take all my love, I love your brain. Thank you

[mappingthesky]

aside from the fact that pj’s tweet is a crumb of content… is nymphia okay 😭 poor girl must be so tired :((

[daemoninwhiteround2]

yall the new Linkin Park is real fucking good

[freedomarrow]

“ Oh, there you are, Leonardo! ”  Pelleas calls out as he approaches the archer, gift parcel in hand.  “ A merry Winter Festival to you. I hope I'm not bothering you or anything, but I have a gift I wanted to give you for the day. ”

And so the wrapped box exchanges hands between the two of them. When Leonardo opens it, inside is revealed to be a collection of books.

“ I remember you said you were considering returning to your family's lands. I don't know if you've made your decision yet but I thought if you were still thinking about it, you might find some use out of these... They're tomes I've found on governing. I had to self-teach myself a lot after Izuka disappeared... ”  A veil of gloom eclipses Pelleas's face then, but he tries to speak past it nevertheless.  “ So I tried to find texts in Daein's library back then on the subject... see if the kings before me had anything they had left behind. Those were the ones I found most useful. Oh, um, excuse any notes you see in the margins though. Those might be mine. ”

And true to his word, if Leonardo thumbed through some of the pages, something resembling chicken scrawl could be found on the edges of old parchment.

“ I realized eventually to start taking my own notes elsewhere, but some of them still have my handwriting anyway... but the information in there is still good! I can promise you that. I'm, um, here to try and help you if you need. For Daein. But also for your sake too... whatever you decide, Leonardo, I'd like to be of some help if I can manage it. ”

During the days of the Dawn Brigade, opportunities to indulge in gift-giving were few and far between, and even if they did happen, said gifts were small and practical; a new shirt, a quiver of fresh arrows, an extra portion of food, the works. All across Daein, people tried their best to keep at least tiny sparks of joy alive even as they fed themselves mere scraps, and it was thoroughly bittersweet to both watch and be a part of.

But a desperate soul will find a positive twist in just about anything. He has come to understand, over time, that it served to teach him to appreciate even the smallest of things - things that, as he realized, he would be hard-pressed to so much as notice as a "proper noble". After all, the higher above the ground someone sits, the more difficult it becomes to see the details beneath, however beautiful they may be.

And he appreciates them to this day; after all, being remembered meant that someone had to put in extra effort for his sake.

So it surprises him a little when he hears Pelleas' voice calling him, and turns to see the former prince with a box in his hands meant for the archer. The initial mild confusion is steadily replaced by a light smile - he would not want the other to think him ungrateful, after all - and a quiet "thank you" as he accepts the gift. As he hears Pelleas out, he carefully unwraps it, his hand rubbing across the cover of the tome on top.

His expression widens a hint after the Sorcerer finishes talking, staying silent for a moment longer before speaking out himself.

"Thank you, Pelleas." It has taken a while, but he has finally grown to more consistently say the other's name without tripping against the honorific. "I don't mind your notes in the books at all! If anything, they'll probably come in handy..."

Looking up at him, Leonardo continues. "I haven't made the final decision yet, but... They were inviting me to attend their harvest festival recently. It ended up being, well... busy around here, so I wasn't able to go, but..." Sigh. "They've been trying to subtly let me know here and again that they want me to stay, so... I'm considering it more and more."

A huff - not long enough to qualify as a chuckle, but with amusement audible in it nonetheless - escapes him before the blond offers Pelleas a nod, his smile now much warmer than in the beginning.

"... So these will probably come in very handy. Thank you, I appreciate it a lot. I hope you have a good Winter Festival, too."

[abysshearted]

loved spending the hangout with my beloved enby prince,,, still as shady as always sweetie

[screampied]

you don’t really realize you’re growing old with satoru until you spot a grey tress inside the roots of your hair as you’re looking in the mirror. the thing about marriage and life itself was that time really doesn’t stop—for no one. as you entrap the lock between your fingers, you murmur out to satoru with a cheeky grin. “satoru baby, c’mere.”and as he’s lying in bed with a wrinkled nose, he reads some book titled ‘three men in a boat.’ as he flips a thick page, his cerulean blue reading glasses crook down the bridge of his nose before he turns his attention toward you.

“yesss, honey?” he rubs his eyes, bringing a palm up to his growing stubble. as he got older, you noticed how he moved a bit slower. satoru was still fit as he aged, but he’d have a bit of a waddle whenever he walked. it was cute—how his limbs were getting more and more fragile, but he was still labeled as the strongest despite his inevitable aging.

he makes his way behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. the two of you make eye contact through the mirror that reflects you both, a happy married couple. “look, we’re finally matching now,” and his face softens once you bring the silvery colored strand up to his view. ‘matching,’ because his hair was naturally a snowy white . . almost similar to the strand of hair you just showed him.

although as the years progressed, satoru was growing ashen grey streaks too.

“i guess we are,” he replied in a gentle tone, his hands remaining on your hips. satoru’s touch was always gentle and ginger. he presses his lips near the back of your nape before letting off a soft sigh. “you’d look pretty with white hair, actually.”

“prettier than you?” you hum, glancing at him through the mirror. satoru towers over you as he holds you, the band of his wedding ring grazing against your hip.

again, you watch as the corners of his lips crease into a smile. a toothy genuine one where his dimples show.

“haha, veeeery funny,” and as he buries his face into your neck, he deeply ponders to himself for a moment.

to think . . how much time has passed, out of all the countless tiresome battles he’s had to face—

all those years at trying to keep the world safe and now, he could finally relax. having his arms around you gave him a peace of mind, and in the end it was all worth it because at the end of the day, satoru gojo—the strongest, came back to you. you were his personal safe haven and he was yours.

“but honeyyy,” he yawns with rosy pouty lips, shifting his chin up to rest against your left shoulder. satoru starts leading you toward your side of the bed. “ ‘s pretty late, let’s getcha back to bed, hm?”

“okay,” you mumble, already feeling your eyes starting to get heavy again. satoru’s still got his burly arms wrapped around your waist as he leisurely guides you back to bed. he was clingy, and that never changed. satoru gojo’s always been clingy ever since the two of you met. as he pulls down the cover for you to enter, you crawl back in and he gets beside you.

satoru slings an arm around you, pulling you close as his hooded eyes starts a staring contest with the swaying wooden ceiling fan.

it’s moving slow. . just like time was.

whenever he was with you, it felt as if time stood still. and as the both of you cuddled against each other with your head resting against his beating heart, he sighs. it’s a content happy sigh, and satoru’s hands find their way near the top of your head. his thin fingers maze it’s way near your soft grey growing strand before he leans in, giving the crown of your head a goodnight kiss. “mwah,” and he watches as your eyes briefly widen before glancing away, growing sheepish. “get some rest, my love. i’ll be here when you wake up. promise.”

you nod, too drowsy to reply and he pulls you closer. satoru’s heartbeat was steady and slow, and each pulse that bested against your ear made you felt more and more protected. as he holds you firm and close, a hand of his softly caresses your forehead—brushing against the soft hairs that cling onto your skin.

as your breathing starts to relax and your eyelids finally close, he realizes you finally drifted off to sleep. satoru exhales lowly, almost forgetting to take off his reading glasses. as he places them near the nightstand, he lies back down, giving your sleeping state once last glance.

“i love you,” he whispers against your ear before reaching for the pearled lamp switch. “so much.”your head nuzzles against his chest and he assumes that was your non-verbal way of saying it back, even in your sleep. cute.

the only sounds that could be heard were the faint tick tocking of the grandfather clock that stood near the hallway and your soft breathing as you deeply slept. satoru feels a smile tugging against his glossed lips yet again, but this time it’s different . .

it’s not the same smile from when you showed him that you were graying, it was a more genuine smile that was satisfied at everything—primarily at life. satoru’s long crystalline lashes gradually flap shut as he smiles to himself, a thumb brushing against your forehead. all those battles was worth it in the end, because right now, he’s at the only place he wanted to be . . with you.

life wasn’t a competition, but satoru finally felt at peace, true peace—and that peace was being in your presence. he wasn’t one for believing in good endings, but maybe this particular one wasn’t so bad.

“i . . won.”

[sunni-stuff]

Everything changed when that pregnancy test read positive.

The day you fumbled into his office, bearing what you thought to be bad news, John's excited face threw you for a loop.

Wasn't he supposed to be upset? Tell you that he didn't want to have a kid with someone he didn't fully care about? Why was he crying? Why did he embrace you so tenderly?

"I'll be there for both of you, Dovie," Price reassures in the nook of your neck, arms caging you against his chest.

Take care of both of you.

Both?

"M-Mr. Price, with all due respect—"

Price cuts off your protests. He leads you out of his office. His large hand grips your waist more possessively. "Go rest your feet up in the lounge; I'll take care of everything." His lips press to the crown of your head, ushering you away gently at the reception entrance.

You were supposed to have one fun night, not to be locked in for the rest of your lives.

Your days of working at a desk were replaced with John's house. It was far from the bustling base you had grown used to. The space was warm and homey. Bits of memorabilia were scattered about. Medals adorned the walls, and old photos sat on the shelves.

John said you only have one job now: making yourself at home.

There was so much space that you didn't know where to start or even how to start! It's not like there was a plan for having your boss's child! So much was happening so fast it left you overwhelmed, sitting on his couch with nervous hands. "Mr. Price, I'm really not sure about all this; I mean... what we did was a big mistake, right?"

From upstairs, you hear John laugh. He's been up there all morning, fixing the nursery for your child. He wanted to create a special room for them, saying that his kid deserves nothing but the best. Heavy footsteps announce his presence as he closes the distance between you. Calloused fingers grip your chin, forcing you to look into his ocean eyes. "You don't want this?"

His touch has you melting, words dying on your lips as you get lost in those eyes. God, why did he look at you that way? Churning like laundry, your gut writhes. A violent spin cycle grips your innards, knotting and wrenching them mercilessly. "I never—I never said that; I just think we're taking things too fast, don't you?" The half-hearted mumble escapes your lips, unconvincing even to yourself.

John's expression shifts; his eyebrow raises in slight scrutiny. "If you believed that, you wouldn't be here."

He's right.

"I do-"

He cuts in swiftly, voice firm. "You don't."

John's grasp tightens on your chin. He leans in, eyes intense. Your heart races. His lips brush yours. The kiss—chaste yet electric. A moment suspended in time. Emotions flood through you both, unspoken but palpable. "You have me. Whatever you want is yours, all you have to do is say the word."

John waits, poised for your word. His eyes betray a craving—silent, deep, and raw.

He belongs to you. He's all yours.

Your lips purse in a line, lip caught between your teeth.

Anything you want?

"I don't like the color of the nursey..."

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

P1

❥ I wasn't originally gonna do a part 2 but... I really like this one, next fic will be longer, possibly fluff and smut maybe who knows ❥

[mystra-midnight]

The Devil and I

summary: logan might have looked like an ordinary man, but the weight of his metal-laced bones pressing against your back was intoxicating—deliciously so. and he knew this with the same certainty with which he knew the earth revolved around the sun.

warnings: 18+ only. dom!logan. rough sex. messy sex. spanking. tiny hint of anal play.

words: 1.8k.

notes: i am not even sorry. not one bit. this was inspired entirely by this post by @i-spit-on-your-garage and dedicated to her also. thank you for sharing your horny thoughts with me.

"That's it, baby, taking me so well."

Logan's voice was a gruff growl against your ear, crawling up his throat and over your skin like whiskey, full-bodied. His breath, warm and tinged with a hint of smoke, sent shivers down your spine. His large hands kneaded the flesh of your hips as he dragged you against his pelvis again, the sound of skin hitting skin loud, leaving your arse stinging from the impact.

You'd never given much thought to his body until now. What had started as harmless flirting—a dirty fantasy about fucking the mutant called Wolverine—had taken a turn. It wasn't that he wasn't attractive; in fact, Logan was the epitome of a woman's wildest dreams. He was tall and impossibly strong, his muscles rippling under your fingertips. But what surprised you most was his weight, the heaviness that came from the adamantium skeleton beneath his warm flesh.

Logan might have looked like an ordinary man, but the weight of his metal-laced bones pressing against your back was intoxicating—deliciously so. And he knew this with the same certainty with which he knew the Earth revolved around the Sun. 

That's why he kept you in this position: on your knees, face pressed into the mattress, hips raised, your slick folds stretched around his girth. Logan relished seeing his women like this—whiny and cock-drunk, the perfect plaything for his pleasure. Your voice was muffled, fingers digging into the sheets so tightly they hurt. You could barely make a sound as he thrust into you, each powerful stroke forcing gasps from your lungs. He didn't mind.

Your entire body trembled when his hand moved up your sweaty back, each fingertip tracing the delicate curve of your spine with deliberate tenderness. The sensation was electric, a shiver-inducing journey that left your skin prickling with goosebumps. He paused at each vertebra, applying just enough pressure to make you arch before continuing his path upward. When his fingers finally reached the nape of your neck, they didn't simply rest there—they curled possessively, his grip firm and unyielding, as if he was claiming ownership of your very being.

He pinned you against the mattress with effortless dominance, his weight pressing you down, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. The warmth of his breath ghosted over your ear, a tantalising promise of what was to come. His presence was overwhelming, a dark force looming over you like a stalking shadow, enveloping you in his warmth.

Somehow, you managed to suck in a shaky breath, a soft whine escaping your lips as he turned your face towards his, and then his lips crashed into yours with a fierce hunger. The kiss was made entirely of tongue, teeth, and saliva. His tongue invaded your mouth, exploring every corner with a desperation that matched your own. His teeth grazed and nipped, a blend of pleasure and pain that sent jolts of heat straight to your core. Saliva mixed and smeared, creating a mess neither of you cared to clean.

As he slowed the piston of his hips, switching to a slow deep grind that had the crown of his cock abusing that sweet spot inside your pussy, your eyes rolled so far into your skull that, for a fleeting moment, you thought you saw your own brain. It was like he was carving his way into your guts and hitting the back of your throat. "Lo-gan!" You gasped as a sob welled in your chest, your tears finally falling, leaving streaks of mascara and eyeliner down your cheeks. "M-more, faster, please," you begged.

He tutted mockingly behind you, each sound dripping with condescension and the unmistakable arrogance of pure male dominance. Before you could react, his open palm came down hard on your arse, the sudden, stinging impact tearing a surprised shriek from your lips. The sharp zing of pain cut through your already-burning skin, sending a fresh wave of moisture surging through your core. The sensation caused your inner muscles to tighten around the length of his shaft, gripping him firmly as he bottomed out inside you, his cock buried to the hilt.

He stilled for a moment, savouring the feeling of being completely enveloped by your slick heat. Without warning, he spanked you again, the loud crack of his hand against your flesh echoing through the room. You hissed at the sharp sting, your pussy clenching around him. He growled in response, the sensation of your tight walls driving him wild.

"Greedy girl," he grunted against your ear. His hand came down again, delivering another hard spank that resonated through your body, the sting of it sending a jolt of pleasurable pain straight to your clit. His hand lingered there, palming the globe of your arse as he admired the perfect handprint he'd left, the outline of his fingers vivid against your flushed skin. He could feel the slickness coating your inner thighs, the evidence of your arousal mixing with the sweat on your skin, dripping from his balls as he thrust hard into you.

The air was thick with the sounds of your shared pleasure, the wet slap of skin against skin as he thrust into you, driving deep, setting a fast pace. "Fuck," he groaned, his voice a rough, guttural sound that sent shivers down your spine. "Keep squeezing me like that, and I'm gonna blow right fucking now."

Logan's gaze remained fixed on your arse, his cock twitching inside you at the thought of what it would be like to actually fuck you there. The idea consumed him, driving him to act on his desires. With a growl, he slipped his thumb into his mouth, wetting it thoroughly before bringing it down to your tight hole. He smeared his spit around your sensitive entrance, groaning deeply as your pussy tightened around him in response.

"Logan!" you cried out, his name slipping from your lips in a breathless plea.

His grin widened at the sound, his expression smug, and he tightened his grip on the nape of your neck, pulling you up onto your hands and knees. “You gonna let me fuck you back here next, bub?” he asked, already knowing what your answer would be.

You moaned wantonly, nodding as you pushed back against him, meeting his powerful thrusts halfway and impaling yourself on his thick cock. “Gods, please, I want it so bad,” you begged, sounding like a common whore.

“Atta girl.”

This was all he said, his voice so arrogant and condescending, before grabbing both your hips tightly, steadying you, his fingers leaving bruises on your skin. The force of his thrusts was maddening, driving you to claw at the sheets, your body teetering on the brink of orgasm embarrassingly quickly. Your walls clamped tightly around him, each movement sending you closer to the edge. It felt like a thunderstorm was tearing through your head, igniting every one of your nerves.

You could hear him grunting, feel the droplets of sweat dripping from his hair onto your back and how his fingers bruised harder into your hips, holding so tightly that your bones were sure to bend and break. But none of this registered in your mind the way it should have. You were lost in the moment, drowning in the overwhelming pleasure about to ruin you.

"Gonna cum—right there, right there—please, please, Logan. I need to cum. Fuck me—ah, harder, fuck, fuck—Logan!"

He was wild and feral—an animal.

Without warning, the air was punched out of your lungs as the orgasm struck you like a bolt of lightning, turning your blood into electricity and your limbs into live wires. You came hard, crying out a pretty symphony of his name as pleasure wracked your body. At the same time, he bottomed out, burying himself balls deep and filling you completely, shooting thick, ivory ropes of cum deep inside you, coating your walls.

Fisting a hand in your hair, he wound the silken strands around his fingers, using the grip to force your face back down against the mattress. His hips ground against your arse, rocking gently back and forth, his movements sending waves of pleasure through your trembling body. And as he came with a guttural growl, his release surged into you, hot and overwhelming, flooding your still-fluttering walls.

The fullness was almost too much, his cum filling you completely until it had nowhere else to go. It began to seep out, slick and warm, trailing down the seam of your pussy where your tight grip on his cock created a barrier. Warmth spread through your body like fire racing through your veins, an intoxicating heat that intensified as he filled, fucked, and possessed you entirely.

His teeth sank into your shoulder in a savage bite as you panted his name in sweet nymphomania, wriggling beneath him, his weight comforting—like a heavy blanket. Logan's tongue followed, laving over your flushed flesh, soothing the sting left by his canines. He growled deeply, savouring the taste of you as his abdominal muscles flexed and his cock ached, twitching inside you with every pulse of your body.

When he finally began to pull out, you couldn't suppress the whine that escaped your lips, the sound filled with a sense of loss. The feeling of emptiness was stark, save for where the head of his cock remained nestled just inside your snug walls, a final intimate connection.

Logan sat back on his haunches, taking a moment to admire the view before him. Your arse was flushed the most beautiful shade of pink, marked by his handprints and the forceful impact of his hips. Thick ribbons of cum dripped from your swollen folds, which were slick with the evidence of your release. The mixture of your arousal and his seed connected you to his cock in a vivid tapestry of desire, each drop falling to the mattress below.

He watched as the thick fluid dripped from both of you, creating a small, glistening pool beneath your bodies. With a rough but affectionate touch, Logan patted your arse, the force making it jiggle and your hips twitch involuntarily. His satisfaction was evident in the low, gravelly tone of his voice. "That felt like a good one," he remarked, a hint of pride lacing his words as he continued to drink in the sight of you, thoroughly used and utterly beautiful.

He snapped his hips forward, rutting into you with surprising vigour, filling you again and relishing in the wet squelching that echoed through the room. Each thrust forced his cum to leak from your well-used pussy, the slick evidence of your coupling escaping with every movement. You gasped, the sensation almost too much to bear, your hips wriggling as though to escape the overwhelming pleasure that teetered on the edge of overstimulation. But Logan only laughed as he thoroughly enjoyed how your body remained so tightly wound, so damn sensitive and ready to take him.

His stamina, just like the weight of his skeleton, was a marvel. It shouldn't have been surprising, given his mutation. His body was in a constant state of peak performance, always regenerating and healing. Logan 'Wolverine' Howlett had never been a one-and-done type of man; he was relentless and insatiable.

"Hope you don't think we're done, bub," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly promise against your ear. "'Cause we've got all night."

[starfall-spirit]

Heavy Rests The Crown

HRTC Masterlist

Summary: Respectively ruling land and sea, the newly appointed High Lord and young merqueen find themselves pressured to marry. Their solution-a union their advisors would never approve of. Not that they can do a thing about it now.

Word Count: 1, 760

Chapter I: A Queen's Duty

Feyre

Feyre knew her tension was obvious as she stepped into the council chamber where her head advisor waited for her. “Your Majesty.” Though she no longer wanted to flinch at the title—though the crown she wore felt marginally lighter—she despised the title her oldest sister was meant to inherit.

While faerie monarchs passed their title to their most powerful heir, as long as anyone could remember the power of the merking or queen had always passed to the eldest child. And Feyre was the youngest. Untrained, compared to Nesta. Even compared to Elain.

No, Feyre hadn’t so much as thought of the queenship. Not when she was the graceless wild child. No one could tell her why she had been selected as the next monarch when Nesta was the oldest—the one prepared to do this.

So the queenly crash course began.

She met the eyes of the male who had verbally addressed her entrance. “You called for me.”

“Yes. There was a matter that we failed to address when we gathered this morning.”

This morning had covered everything from food sources, to sending a representative to the surface to discuss the route of shipments into Velaris, to rebuilding where a recent hurricane had damaged the reefs and housing. Being so inexperienced, these past few weeks had felt rather daunting. Whatever they were about to bring up, she was in no mood to hear about it. Pushing that down, she smiled.

“And what matter would that be?”

“Your marriage.”

She stiffened. “Pardon me?”

“You'll need to marry by your next birthday. You are the queen. You have no children—”

“I have no intention of marrying for some time.”

Not for decades if she could help it. Not for centuries if it took her that long to find her mate. “I realize you may have been permitted notions of mating when your sister was the presumed successor.”

Nesta never held romantic fantasies. She’d always told Feyre and Elain their fantasizing would only get them hurt in the end. She was bound for a political match and it wasn’t an unlikely outcome for the younger sisters, had their father lived long enough to push them into society for an advantageous match.

Feyre could only begin to imagine what “ideal” suitors the male before her had in mind.

“Unfortunately, that opportunity can no longer be considered. I have a few potential matches prepared, all of whom I hope you’ll agree to attempt courtship with. I—”

“If you’ll excuse me, I’d prefer we finish this discussion another day.” She was gone before he could answer. She didn’t particularly care if he knew exactly where she was headed.

Feyre knew it pissed her advisors off when she swam to the surface. It was bad enough she did so as a princess, but since her fathers power transferred to her rather than one of her elder sisters the offense became a thousand times worse. The fae of Prythian and the merfolk occupying their waters had been at peace for decades now, both parties permitted above and below the waves. But she was the queen. As long as she remained unmarried and heirless, it would a concern for them. Even one she could understand. But she wasn’t getting married.

She sighed as she emerged from the Sidra River, where her territory and the Night Lord's connected. She was hardly a rare visitor, but she had been on a tight leash since the shift of power and hadn’t set foot on land in almost three months. Her queenship was a mere rumor, just as the death of their High Lord was a rumor to the mer. The staring of those who weren’t too busy to notice her were understandable.

“Feyre!”

The stunned crowd dispersed as one of her favorite Illyrians approached where the land and water met. Cassian’s grin was infectious and had her sour mood left to the sea as he pulled her from the river, watching her silvery-blue scales and torso wrap turn to skin and a simple dress, only the more permanent scales framing her face remaining to mark her as a creature belonging below.

“We’ve only had a couple of mer surface lately. What’s been—” She watched as he noted the diadem nestled in her hair. She’d been in such a hurry to flee her council and their lineup of suitors she hadn’t thought to take the thing off. “So its true. The title didn’t go to your sister.”

She pulled the crown free and dropped it into the dress’ skirt pocket before wringing the water out of her braid and tossing it over her shoulder. “Don’t make a big deal of it. I’m still just Feyre. I needed a quick escape from my advisors, is all.”

“Alright.”

“Speaking of power shifts, what happened to the High Lord. We heard…”

His expression was pained. “As normal as everything down here seems, with the trade ships and all…” She followed his gaze to the city proper. Dark mourning banners covered the shops, housing, and what laid beyond, sobering the hustle and bustle of the docks they were leaving. “The High Lord wasn’t exactly beloved, but Victorie and Avyanna were.”

With the constant disagreements and the late High Lord’s fear of Rhysand’s rising power, the heir was more often present in the Illyrian camps than in Velaris. Feyre didn’t even know his birthday or favorite color, but the lady and princess… Feyre had known them well. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine.”

“I’m sure your father—”

“My father only thought to care for Nesta and me on his deathbed. It isn’t the same,” she all but snapped. Then practically whispered, “How did they die?”

His jaw clenched. Feyre knew Victorie had taken him and Az in as sons to her. The rage coming off of him… Whoever had hurt them deserved his wrath. And that of his brothers. The general’s voice was low as he eyed the surrounding citizens, distracted once again. “Two months ago, they were traveling to meet Rhys. They were murdered by the Spring royals. Rhys and his father returned the favor.”

Horror swept in. Not only at what brutality her mind conjured of the dead royals, but the political ramifications of it all. With the entire Spring family wiped out where did the power go? She’d educated herself on Prythian’s government as well as she could, spending so much time on the surface. But how did the power transfer? “The entire family?”

“Tamlin claimed the title of High Lord. Rhys couldn’t bring himself to kill him, but there’s no repairing their friendship. He was the only one who knew when and where they’d travel.” It was clear he was done with the topic. She reached to squeeze his hand—one last act of condolence. “Where are we headed?” she asked instead.

“With Rhys and Az home we have more family dinners now. Care to join us? You might actually get to share a conversation.”

“Dinner sounds great.”

“Alright. To the House of Wind, then.” Chuckling as Feyre grumbled about merfolk belonging on the ground or below, he swept her into his arms and shot into the sky, perhaps going slightly faster than he knew she was comfortable with.

“Ass,” she grumbled as he set her down in the foyer, instantly tugging her deeper into the house.

“Is that Feyre?” An unmistakable squeal met her ears and she held back a grunt as Mor flew into her arms. Amren didn’t move from her seat in the large living space. “Cauldron, Feyre, it’s been months! Where the hell have you been?”

She snorted, freeing herself enough to fish the diadem out of her dress’ pocket. “Dealing with years worth of training our officials assumed only Nesta would need. And overprotective advisors who won’t let me above the surface without an armada. I humored my main advisor until he started going on about marriage and heirs, told me mating was a luxury for anyone but a queen.

"I know that, of course. Nesta always accepted such things. Cauldron, she would have made a perfect queen--and convince them to push off the marriage for a few years, I'm sure."

“And what's your deadline?” Mor ventured.

“They want me married before my next birthday. I’m an immortal. Why would I need to get married at twenty-two? I’ll be utterly miserable for centuries if I pick one of their snobby lords.”

“I feel you there,” she muttered, reminding Feyre she had barely escaped such an arrangement herself, and paid a steep price for it. Feyre had yet to meet the Autumn heir and had no desire to.

“Moving on, Feyre insisted. I hear you have your own rising royal?”

“Indeed,” an unfamiliar male behind her confirmed. Rhysand, then. Turning, she met his eyes, slowly taking in the rest of him while simultaneously checking her mental shields. She had forgotten how attractive he was. She hadn’t forgotten his daemati gift and had no interest in sharing her thoughts with him. He inclined his head.

“Welcome to my home,” he said as if she hadn’t seen the place dozens of times. “Feyre, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

Tucking away her crown again, she aimed to shake his hand. The shadowsinger behind him snorted as his High Lord tilted her offered hand inwards, leaning down to brush his lips against her knuckles. The proper means of greeting a queen, and yet she hadn’t expected Rhysand to partake in such formalities, especially as he had acknowledged her by her name a moment ago.

“Cassian invited me for dinner when I surfaced,” she explained, freeing the hand he held as she mastered her slight breathlessness at the touch of the male before her. After just rambling about being unwilling to marry, she refused to fawn over a fairie royal who upheld a reputation for his arrogance and unabashed womanizing. Whatever that little tug in her chest meant, there was no sense in trying to acknowledge it.

“Of course. It seems the ladies have already broken into the good wine.” Mor swatted his shoulder before pointedly downing what was left of her glass and flouncing towards the dining room. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

The stiffness of the conversation was nearly unbearable, leading Mor to break the following silence with a loud clap, her wine presumably set over her plate in the dining room as Feyre trusted hers would be. “I’m starving. Let’s have at it.”

And as the group fell into an easy banter over their meal, Feyre couldn’t help but wonder why the High Lord’s tension remained.

Next

~~~~~

AN: This is set in a different timeline, just a few months after Rhys' family dies. We're gonna say he became High Lord at like 75.

Tagging my usual Feysand list plus the excited rebloggers on the HC post. As usual, tell me if you want to be added or removed, guys.

@shallyne // @faeriequeensuriel // @s-uppertime // @reverie-tales // @goddess-aelin // @pandavelaris //@acourtofwips //@the-lonelybarricade

[dabihaul666]

i will litearlly never escape y g h s btw

[shotmrmiller]

retired pornstar!Ghost who can't seem to ever keep his hands to himself whenever you're around, even when about to film.

f!reader, 18+ smut. unedited.

If you're standing at a table making coffee, he'll sneak up from behind and wrap his arms around you, his chin resting on the crown of your head.

Hi, Ghost.

G'mornin', love.

If you're walking out of Price's office with a script in hand, he's by your side in mere moments, throwing an arm over your shoulder.

"New script?"

"You should know, you're my co-star. Again."

"Lucky me, pet."

He's leading you toward his office, perches you on his desk and cups his hand over your core.

"Gonna let me eat this pretty pussy?"

"I dunno, Ghost. Gonna fuck me here too?" you smirk at him.

"Whatever you want from me," he breathes.

You stumble out hours later with swollen lips, love bites mottled over your neck and collarbone, and his warm spend trickling down your legs because Ghost pocketed your knickers.

The day of, he's texting you if you'd like a ride to the studio.

Sure thing. Get me in 15.

Yes ma'am.

He doesn't ask for your address, and you don't question why he knows where you live either. Ghost, forever the gentleman, opens the passenger door for you, and gently helps you get in. The entire drive over, his hand rested on your bare thigh, his small finger occasionally grazing your clothed cunt. By the time you arrive, your knickers are damp with your arousal.

"Somethin' wrong, love?"

You snort at his feigned innocence. "Cute. Is mercilessly teasing me fun to you?"

"Sorry 'bout tha.'" Ghost doesn't sound all that apologetic.

He brings you in tight, wrapping his arm around you firmly.

"Lemme make it up t'you in my dressin' room", he purrs.

You click your tongue. "Price'll have your head if he catches me in there, especially when we're about to make a vid."

"Be sure to keep quiet, then. Would absolutely hate to get caught."

With his smart fingers and expert tongue, you're brought to peak 3 times.

Price rolls his eyes when he spots you both walking in at the same time 15 minutes before the shoot.

"Always cheek by jowl, eh Simon?"

His piercing eyes cut to Price's. "Not a crime, last I checked."

Price lifts his hands up, palms outward in mock surrender. "Easy, Ghost. Only teasin'." He turns away, gesturing the crew to get in their places.

Ghost taps your chin with his pointer finger, drawing your attention. "Showtime, baby."

The wolfish grin on your face mirrors his.

"Showtime," you echo.

Ghost turns sex into art. He moves with discipline; every languid roll of his hips deliberate. Like a skilled painter, he transformed you into a living masterpiece, using each drag of his cock as a brush stroke on the canvas of your very being.

It's otherworldly.

He watches your face intently as he changes the angle, bites his bottom lip when he changes the pace, grunting into your ear as your walls begin to flutter— the telltale sign of 'his favorite part', as he loves to say.

"Gonna come f'me? Lemme hear that sweet, little voice of yours, pet." Almost as if following his command, you're digging your nails into his biceps, and closing your eyes in bliss as you climax. A loud, drawn-out moan escapes your lips as your cunt rhythmically pulses around Ghost's heavy length. Your soft thighs quiver around his broad waist as he works you through the aftershocks with slow, firm thrusts.

"Look at tha'. Came when I told ya to, like a good girl." Your mind is blank from your orgasm, tongue too heavy and thick in your mouth for you to even try to articulate a response.

"Creamed all over my cock, can ya hear it?" Hard not to when the wet sounds of your pussy squelching every time he bottoms out fills the room.

"You're so fuckin' tight. Cunt's squeezin' me like it doesn't want me to pull out."

His filthy words send a jolt straight to your throbbing core. "Felt tha'. What, you got a breedin' kink?"

Another jolt, so sharp it almost hurts.

"Want me to fill ya with my come? Is tha' it?" His husky voice dripping with desire. With want.

yes. yesyesyessss—

"Tell me you want me. Fuck, tell me you want me to come in you." The words fall from your spit-slick lips like a faucet.

"Come in me, oh my god, come in me. Fill my pussy up."

His thrusts lose some of their rhythm, but still not sloppy enough like when he's on the very brink.

Ghost's jaw in clenched, as if digging his heels in to hold off his climax. Well, that's simply unacceptable.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, giving him a slight tug to have his lips hover over yours.

"I want you come in me, Simon."

The change is instantaneous. His eyes widen a fraction before stealing your very breath with a searing kiss and fucks you. He puts his weight behind each snap of his hips. The tip of his cock pressing into the plug of your womb, making your eyes prickle with tears.

It's too much, he's too much, you think you've gone and bitten off more than you can chew with him when he mercifully stills with a groan you swallow— cock twitching as it pains your insides white.

He breaks away, gasping for air, sweat that beaded on his forehead dripping onto your heated skin.

Cut.

DaVinci and his muse.

Later, when he threads his fingers into your damp hair, you ask him why he doesn't record with others.

"'Cause I don't want to."

Oh?

"Besides, you and I have fantastic chemistry, dont'cha think?" He tugs on a lock of hair. "The fans love seeing us together, just as much as I love seeing my cock disappear into your sweet pussy."

He chuckles when he takes in your flustered expression. "Don't ask questions you aren't prepared to hear, then."

[ervotica]

hot rod — a.donaldson & p.zweig

pairings; art donaldson x fem!reader, patrick zweig x fem!reader, art donaldson x patrick zweig

summary; patrick comes to visit you and art at college. he finds college life is a lot more adventurous than once anticipated

warnings; mdni, 18+ only, SMUT, threesome, overstim, oral (m receiving), sub leaning!reader and art, more dom leaning!patrick, established throuple, polyamory

a/n; i’m not so sure how i feel about this tbh. i love the dynamic though so i pushed through even when it got away from me a little🥲 there will be another drabble for older!art and his pretty girl soon!!

you and art fuck until you’re brain dead and passed out from exhaustion. always have. neither of you possess an off switch, and when patrick’s not there to rein the pair of you in, things get a little… messy.

his cum is dried in your hair, the sticky substance smeared across your cheek, his knuckles still wet with slick.

patrick walks in, full belly laughs and peels you from art’s sweat soaked form, gives your cheek a pinch when you stir and whine.

he doesn’t clean you up because he likes to leave you naked whenever he has the opportunity — which is more often than not. seriously, you two need close supervision.

he just carries you with him to that shitty little armchair in art’s dorm, the room still stinking of sex and the humid summer air clinging to your skin; art shines with perspiration where he’s face down on the bed.

pat makes do with the lack of room, hooking a bare leg over the backs of your thighs until you’re squeezed snugly against his torso, face smushed to his chest. you’re snoring, and it makes patrick smile, slumping down in his chair to rest his lips against your cheekbone.

you wake slowly, eyes sticky and crusted over with exhaustion. your face is almost nestled beneath patrick’s armpit where you’ve been writhing in slumber and you grumble at the scent of sweat, layered with cheap aftershave. his hard-on presses to the center of your stomach and you can feel everything— the curve it makes now it’s hard and weeping, the feel of the spongy head, the vein that runs through the middle.

“you smell, pat,” you grumble, reaching up blindly to snatch the cigarette from between his teeth and take a long pull from the stick.

“yeah, well you’re not so hot yourself, babe. the whole room reeks.” he reaches down to tug on a loose strand of hair at the crown of your head. “there’s cum in your hair.”

“not my fault.” you stretch upward like a cat, curling into patrick’s chest. “where’s art gone?”

“still sleeping, baby.” he lights another cigarette, sacrificing the first one to you - still resting between your lips - and the clicking of the lighter draws your head upward to gaze through heavy lashes at him.

“come to bed,” you murmur, kissing his knuckles. your free hand coasts a long line across his jaw and you dig your thumb beneath his ear, giggling when he scrunches his features and relents, and pushes you to stand with a swat to your naked backside.

art curls into you instinctively when you roll onto the mattress, your hand threading through the curls atop his head. you scrub sweeping circles across his bare back and he hums a pleased sound, smearing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. patrick splays himself over the pair of you, all long limbs that sit askew to cover as much of your naked frames as possible.

art squints through the yellow light that illuminates the room, bright and artificial on his sensitive eyes. your movements against him don’t halt, a slow, rhythmic, loving sweep of your hands that he’s come to look forward to in moments like this. his jaw tilts upward as he mouths at your neck like a starved man, like you haven’t just gone five rounds and collapsed from overstimulation.

“you two need supervision,” patrick snorts. you quirk a bemused brow. “i’m serious, look at what you’ve done to each other! you look like you’ve been mauled.”

“jealous, much?” art mumbles sleepily, the sound muffled through your skin. you’re laughing and it splits your expression in two, eyes crinkled with amusement as the strawberry blonde boy snipes at patrick.

“should’a come to college with us, pretty boy,” you giggle. “could’a had this twenty four seven.” you dip your head until your brow presses to art’s. “poor pat, with no one to stick his dick in. how will he ever cope?”

“you could help me out, sweets,” he deadpans, the nickname saccharine and sour on his tongue all at once. art watches you through heavy lids. you huff, biting playfully at art’s lip before you tilt your head to face patrick,

“okay,” you chirrup. art’s quick to sit up, separating from your warmth in favour of nuzzling against patrick. patrick tips his chin down, slanting his lips against the blonde boy’s.

meanwhile, you’re working his cock through his shorts, palming the muscle until it chubs up beneath your hand, drooling a wet patch through the fabric. patrick groans, hips rolling up into your touch when you hook your fingers beneath his waistband and tug his cock free.

he moans into art’s mouth and your mouth goes dry at the sight. you’ve always loved to watch them like this, the way they get lost in each other, the way they start fervently pushing into one another’s space until patrick inevitably makes the first move and sticks his tongue down art’s throat.

patrick turns to putty beneath art’s roaming touch, huge paws that squeeze and grope and push at every inch of skin they come into contact with, not stopping even as you press your face to the seam of patrick’s balls, inhaling the sweat-soaked musk that creeps up your nostrils.

art’s hand snakes downward, flicking over pert nipples and ridges of muscle before he’s flicking a thumb over the weeping slit of his cock. patrick’s back bows into an arch as you lave your tongue over his sack, humming into the sensitive skin, full and heavy and begging for release. his hips rock upward into you as you seal your lips over him, eyes heavy with lust as art comes down to meet your mouth over his mushroom head.

it’s filthy and messy, downright pornographic as art licks over patrick’s cock, tongue pressing flat against the corner of your mouth and letting his spit pool there. you’re moaning - unable to help yourself - pressing your face forward to slant your lips over art’s fully. it’s all spit and drool as you lick into art’s mouth, the heady taste of the brunette boy still on your tongue, and then patrick’s bracing a hand against each of your heads and easing his cock through the seam where your spit slick mouths mesh.

you gasp and your damp lashes flutter, heavy with tears, and art’s tugging you frantically by your waist, pressing your bare chest to his own as patrick throws his head back and groans, shallow thrusts deepening. his breath stutters out in short, sharp bursts, chest heaving when your face slides down, down, down, all the way to the base of him until your pretty plump lips are wrapped around his sack.

you suck it into your mouth just as art takes patrick down his throat, the head of his cock bulging through the hollow of art’s throat as spit stretches and bows from the corners of his lips and lands in globs across your face.

you’re too drunk on the pleasure to care, the vibrations of your little sounds shooting right through patrick until you feel his balls tighten; he groans, long and loud, pushing closer to the pair of you as his cock pulses rhythmically and he releases down art’s throat.

you push your way through until your mouth is on art’s again, tongue licking into his mouth to taste patrick, wanting to be marked, claimed by both of them. his lips part, nose pressing to your cheek, and then he’s lifting you into his lap, his cock an angry red and pressed to the seam of your thigh.

patrick groans. there’s no fucking way he’s hard again.

“no more, you horndogs!”

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

LOGAN HOWLETT 18+ thoughts bc I can’t get a grip

mdni, fem!reader. 685 words

Thinking about Logan playing with you from behind:

His back to the headboard, yours to his chest – warm skin pressed to his as you lay into him. It’s lazy, it’s comfortable. Your thighs parted loosely, bent knees resting against his straightened legs either side of you. 

It’s all so casual, one of his hands teasing at the fabric of your underwear, fingers extended down as he toys with you. Pad of his middle one circling your clit, working up that growing patch of wet. His other hand wrapped around your middle, palm large and warm over your stomach – holding you to him, keeping you firm to his chest. 

Your head hangs back on his collarbone, crown of your head resting slackly against his shoulder. You feel as though you’ve been run through the wringer, the minimal, inconsistent touch of where you wanted him causing you all sorts of anguish. 

He was teasing you, every touch calculated despite its relaxed environment. Just absentmindedly playing with you through the fabric, working you up to hear those soft, breathy whines of yours he loves ever so much.

And while you thought your patience was being tested, that was not solely the case. His toying coming from a place of reluctance – like he was seeing how long he can go without sinking a couple fingers in you. It was hard, and he was growing antsy. Just like you.

So after what feels like forever of faint, featherlight pussy play, he slips his hand down the front of your underwear, his fist protruding in the thin fabric. The bow sitting on his thick wrist, the lewd view of something so dainty and pretty against something so rugged and manly was overwhelming. The feeling making you tighten on nothing. The feeling releasing an involuntary soft moan. 

“Barely touched you yet, sugar,” he whispers behind you, voice gruff and low. 

The grip he has around your stomach raises, his touch light as he finds himself cupping under your tits – arm wrapped securely, fingers clasping at the one on the opposite side. Breasts resting on his meaty forearm, holding them carefully.

The hand in your underwear is barely moving, his fingers resuming their prior pattern of fiddly touching. Though, this time it’s beneath the fabric, not over. He dips his two middle fingers between your lips, tips of each immediately being coated with the eager anticipation betwixt your thighs. The tapered width of his fingers parting your folds ever so obscenely.

He’s hesitant, not because he doesn’t know what he’s doing, rather, the opposite. He’s hesitant because he knows what he’s doing. Waiting and waiting – being a tease with his hand grazing heavy against your wet cunt, the palm of his hand feeling the clamp-like, jitter motion of you beneath. 

He reaches his middle finger downwards, the tip delving inside of you —only up to the first knuckle— the feel giving you a brief, momentary wave of relief. 

It’s not enough, so you find yourself extending a hand down to his, your fingers struggling to envelop the meat of his wrist as you push him further into your underwear. Silently, desperately asking for more.

All he can do is chuckle faintly, the deep sound amused. He’s mean, but he’s not evil. So he gives you what you want – the full length of his middle finger, those few inches sinking inside with the greatest of ease. His ring finger easing in shortly after.

“Better?” he asks, the question almost rhetorical. He knew it was better.

Your grip around his occupied hand loosens, and instead moves to hold onto the arm around your upper torso – fingers pawing at the muscles. You go limp, melting into him from behind, your soft, dulcet noises echoing everything he does. Each of you looking down between your thighs, watching his fingers disappear inside you, his head resting against yours as you both stare at the near pornographic view. 

And as he begins to pump slowly inside —hooking his fingers up into all the right spots— you twist into him, pressing kisses into his bulging, veiny bicep. Wordlessly thanking him.

just watched dp3 again, christ

[lale-txt]

❥ falling asleep besides you for the first time ↳ w/ Toji, Naoya, Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Higuruma, Sukuna & Choso

a/n: this came over me like a fever dream during another episode of insomnia. some of those drabbles are a little sad, i apologize. it's what you get with all those tragics characters. reader is gn!

word count: 1.4k

𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 doesn’t even want to fall asleep; it’s not like he had a good night of rest ever since… well. He tells himself he’s just gonna close his eyes for a bit, stretched out on the couch next to you, his weary head in your lap. There’s still blood on his hands and on the side of his face, he’s gonna get cleaned up in just a bit, he mumbles, but the words come out heavy and drowsy, and your fingers are tangled in his hair now and your voice is this sweet whisper, baby, I love you anyway, and Toji–Toji just gives in. For the first time, sleep doesn’t come over him as a heavy veil, as if he’s drowning; for once it’s something peaceful, something quiet. Something he welcomes. Next to you, you with your fingers woven between his, you who loves even the broken parts of him, you with quiet love and reassurance that you’re still gonna be there when he wakes up again.

𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐀 hasn’t had another warm body next to him under the covers in a long time. He doesn’t realize how much he missed this until your body melts into his, one leg swung over his thighs, your arm sneaking around his waist and your head finding its spot in the crook of his neck. His cheek falls softly against your forehead when he pulls you closer, breathing in the scent of you that’s the closest to home he ever felt, pressing kisses on the crown of your head. It’s not just lust–oh, he wants to devour you, but there’ll be time in the morning–it’s the absence of loneliness and unspoken confessions. Higuruma can tell when he’s falling in love and in this moment he’s wading deep, deeper through his feelings for you, biting his tongue so they don’t spill out all over the pillows and into you. You already know anyway, and when the sun comes up again, you’ll lick them from the cave of his mouth like a prayer.

𝐍𝐀𝐎𝐘𝐀 can’t fall asleep, not on his wedding night, not when your mouth is whispering all those words he’s demanding from you. His cheek is pressed against your palm while he’s pinning you down, almost nuzzling into it like a touch-starved stray, golden eyes lingering on you. Say you’re mine. Again. Say who you belong to. Mine. Mine. All mine. He isn’t aware how pleading he sounds, how raspy his voice gets the more you obey, every time you sigh his name so softly into his open mouth. Naoya doesn’t care if you’re lying, as long as you wear your wedding band on your ring finger for everyone to see. You’re his to keep now, and if he could have it his way, you would be forbidden to leave this bed forever; he wasn’t aware just how much he had craved the presence of another being by his side at night, one who doesn’t leave once he had his share of pleasure. No, you’re his now, and before sleep eventually finds him, he’ll make sure to sink his teeth into you till his name rolls off your tongue like a lullaby. 

𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 doesn’t let go of your hand; he’s afraid it’ll go cold if he allows himself to let his guard down even for one second. This isn’t how he had imagined spending the first night with you. Not under the fluorescent lights of the infirmary, not with your body wrapped in gauze and machinery monitoring your heart rate. It dawns on him as he’s sitting on your bedside–how attached he’s gotten to you, then: How he had almost lost you today. He squeezes your hand tighter and sighs, his weary head sinking down on the mattress. Your fingers twitch and find their way into his hair, combing through it weakly. As if they say, it’s okay, I’m alive, you’re not to blame. So please don’t leave and take all your love with you. And Nanami takes your hand once again and kisses your fingertips, pressing promises against your skin, promises of a future where you and him can just be, one where he can finally put all of these feelings down, down in your open and gentle palms for you to keep.

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐎 is clingy throughout the day, but even more so at night. He doesn’t like the eerie quiet that settles in once the sun has sunken, not when he can listen to your steady breathing next to him instead, so naturally he feels a rush of joy when you push your futons together for the first time. His heart is beating way too fast to find sleep now, his eyes taking in everything about your sleeping figure, from the way your chest rises and falls to how your nose scrunches slightly for a moment. Choso wants to know what you’re dreaming about, what colors your dreams are, and if he’s ever in them. He wants to engrave himself into your being, wants to keep you wrapped in his arms forever. His kisses feel light against your skin, careful not to wake you but enough to fill his desire. Choso loves you with his entire being, and sleep is merely an obstacle, cutting away from your time spent together–though he must admit, his eyes flutter shut quite easily in your embrace.

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 realizes that his idea of ‘sweets in bed’ now has a double meaning, seeing you sprawled out in his sheets with candy wrapping paper clenched between your fist and more of it lying on the floor. Cute, he can’t help but murmur as he lays down next to you on his side, mustering you with an amused smile on his lips. When he told you to knock yourself out on the sweet souvenirs he brought, he didn’t assume you would take it that literally. His thumb brushes over the corner of your mouth, collecting some of the powdered sugar that’s still stuck there, and Gojo could swear he never tasted anything sweeter than this when he brings it to his tongue. He gently replaces the trash you hold onto in your sleep with his fingers, woven between yours, and pulls you close to him, his tall figure embracing you; and for the first time in a long time, Gojo feels a wave of calm wash over him, allowing him to exhale and sink into a dream almost as sweet as you.

𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 doesn’t know why he keeps entertaining your antics. Sharing a bed, sleeping together side by side? How utterly foolish, but as to be expected from a mere human; they’ve always been like this, seeking comfort and warmth when they’re the most vulnerable. Of course a predator like Sukuna wouldn’t have to worry about sleeping safe and sound. Yet still; he can’t help but let his gaze linger on you, wrapped up in his embrace, four arms holding you in place on top of him. Everyone else would freeze in fear, but you? You snore quietly without a single worry in the world, knowing you have a king watching over you in your slumber. Sukuna huffs but still brushes a strand of hair out of your face. Maybe he’ll tell Uraume that you’re off the menu, for now. As long as you know your place–in his embrace, wearing his marks with pride, providing a sense of comfort Sukuna had never known before. Fool, he mutters and rests his chin on top of your head, not sure if those words were for him or you. 

𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 doesn’t question when you knock on the door of his dorm room, asking for shelter after a particular nightmare. He hasn’t found any sleep yet anyway. When he lifts up the covers for you to slip under, he’s surprised that you don’t even hesitate to do so, wrapping yourself around his body as if it was molded for that only. Geto can tell that you’re trying not to tremble, but the nightmare still lingers. He knows it all too well. His fingers brush through your hair when he pulls you closer to his chest, as if this could prevent you from falling apart–though deep down he’s aware that he might be the one on the verge of breaking. You know it too, don’t you? Geto is tired, oh, so tired. The kind of tired sleep can’t fix, and he can’t help but wonder if this would also be the last time that you’re in his arms, clinging onto someone who is long gone; a version of him that he shed together with his dream of letting himself love you.