#Tag You’re It

[wheneverfeasible]

🧠🪱Wriggly Wednesday🪱🧠

Thanks for the tag @stervrucht!

So I was literally just thinking about Sugar Daddy Steddie with rockstar Eddie, coincidentally enough…

🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞

Okay so get this. Eddie Munson is some fucking metal legend. Corroded Coffin made it big, right? Right out of high school some scout saw them playing and swooped them up immediately, and before you knew it they were household names. Even people who don’t listen to metal know who they are.

And look, Steve Harrington? Metal is so not his scene. That much is obvious with his striped polos and overly large noise cancelling headphones, but he’s there in the crowd, front row, with a pack of teenagers scampering about. Obviously not his own, but he’s watching them, a glorified babysitter. He looks kind of bitchy, but the occasional fond smile settles over his lips as he takes in the lot who are having the time of their lives.

They all have backstage passes and are there for Dustin’s birthday because Corroded Coffin is his all-time favorite band and he’s always wanted to meet the guy he idol worships. They go backstage, meet the band, and it’s great. Fantastic even. The band is a lot more down to earth than Steve had been expecting, and there’s no naked ladies or drugs in obvious places, so he decides maybe they aren’t too terrible.

Except the frontman keeps hitting on Steve.

At first it was startling, because Steve isn’t some cheap whore (no hate to actual cheap whores, Steve is 100% sex work positive, but he’s there as a babysitter), but Eddie doesn’t spend the whole time hitting on Steve. He actually spends the majority of it talking to Dustin and the others, and he gives way more free shit to the teens than was agreed upon with the backstage passes, and he and the rest of the band sign anything and everything the teens want.

(Eddie also offers to sign Steve’s tits, which gets him a flat glare.)

And that should be it when they leave. Except Eddie slips Steve his number. For when he’s not acting a babysitter.

And that’s the thing. When Steve isn’t in babysitter mode? Fuck. Eddie Munson could get it.

Steve might not be a whore, but he is a bit of a slut. And Eddie had been far more charming that he let it be revealed, not least of which being because of how he handled Dustin and the others, especially sweet El. He’d absolutely beamed when she called his outfit “bitchin’” and there was no artifice there.

Now, Steve wasn’t some groupie, but…he wasn’t opposed to hooking up with a hot rockstar in a band he couldn’t really care about if it got him some good dick.

And good dick he gets. But first, Eddie actually takes him out, taking him out to a really nice and fancy restaurant, despite Steve not dressing for the occasion expecting this to be a hit-it-and-quit-it situation, but Eddie pays off the staff to look the other way. After all, Eddie’s not really dressed all that appropriately either.

Then Eddie takes him for an honest-to-god moonlit carriage ride around the park, complete with flowers and cheesy romantic music. Steve would like to say he was unaffected, but it really did it for him. He was a romantic sap but he was used to being the one always having to be the giver, never the receiver. It was…nice. And sweet, because god, Eddie Munson was secretly a sweetheart when you got him alone.

And then, after the sweet and romantic date, the two of them have the most disrespectful sex of Steve’s life.

He can’t get enough of it.

He knows what this is, however. He knows someone like Eddie Munson probably does this every tour, picking up some random person and wining and dining them and then teaching them things that would make the Kama Sutra blush.

Except, when he sneaks out Eddie’s room in the hotel penthouse in the morning, bruised and rumpled in all the right ways, the rest of the band lounging in the sitting room are as surprised to see him as he is to see them. Because, it turns out, apparently Eddie doesn’t do this. At least not to the extent he showed Steve.

No one was ever asked to stay until morning, at least.

But Steve has to go home, and he thinks that’s it. But then Eddie comes out and asks for a second date when he tries to leave. Offers more backstage passes to the next show for the kids, and Steve is hesitant to say yes, and that’s when Eddie hits him with another surprise.

Eddie says that he doesn’t care that Steve is a babysitter or a nanny or whatever, he isn’t doing this out of pity over Steve’s financial issues, which he accompanies with a slight tug at the worn and slightly frayed edges of Steve’s polo. He says that he just wants to treat Steve right because Steve deserves it. That he wants to buy him pretty things and shower him with whatever he wants. Wants to keep having the sweetest dates with the most disrespectful sex with him.

And Steve…well. Steve is stumped.

Sure, he’s wearing old clothes, but he thought he was just having a dick appointment. And yeah, he was a babysitter, but the teens were actually weirdly his friends despite the age differences, not to mention many were the younger siblings of his other, more age appropriate friends. And yeah, Steve had blushed when Eddie mentioned going to a fancy restaurant and said he didn’t have the money for it, but that’s because he left his wallet behind because, as previously stated, he’d thought this was just a dick appointment.

But you see, Steve Harrington was the CEO of a major international corporation that had been in the Harrington family for generations who, once Steve took the helm from his father, had also recently begun work in far more charitable organizations and activities. His company was, in fact, one of the major donors that supported the arena in which Corroded Coffin had just played in last night. The company’s logo, a small crown with the company’s initials, was printed on all the tickets and on the backstage passes.

How else would Steve have been able to afford over half a dozen of them if he was living on just a babysitter’s salary.

Yet, here was Eddie, offering to be his…sugar daddy?

Steve would have laughed, was tempted to even, but Eddie looked so genuine and earnest and like truly all he wanted was to spend more time with Steve.

And really. Steve was so used to having to be the one to provide luxuries for his dates, to be the one in charge, to always have to give give give. Maybe, just maybe, he could play along with Eddie’s utter misunderstanding and take just a little bit. He’d pay Eddie back when the rockstar got bored of him and moved on, so really, what was the harm?

So yeah, Steve just smiles and says Okay, Daddy, and accepts the goddamn gifts Eddie had apparently already bought for him even before their date, and he lets himself have his fun.

After all, it’s not like it’s gonna turn into anything long lasting, right? Nothing serious, right? And there’s absolutely no way that they could ever fall in love…

…right?

Aaaaand yeah. Other things that I envision could pop up in the story:

Robin is his best friend and works for him with international clients due to being polylingual. She discovers what is going on and calls him a dingus. She also wants all the gossip.

Dustin finds a diamond studded collar in his bedroom that says “Babygirl” and asks if Steve is getting a dog. He was looking for something to wear to impress a date and Steve forgot Eddie’s latest gift was still on his bed.

Steve is in full sugar baby mode when they accidentally run into one of Steve’s business associates and/or they are at one of the venue locations Steve secretly owns and he’s trying desperately to hide anything that might have his name or face on it.

In the end, Steve starts buying Eddie expensive gifts too which freaks Eddie out because he doesn’t want Steve to waste what little money he has on him. Or so he thinks.

Some big angsty misunderstandings and the truth finally being revealed. It ends with them agreeing to spoil each other, but only Steve gets to be called “Babygirl” and Eddie remains “Daddy”. Everyone is sick of how in love they are.

-

Hostage tag: @derythcorvinus

No pressure tags: @scoops-aboy86 @endlessmusings1801 @viviseawrites @steddieassheg0es @stevesbipanic (if you’ve previously been tagged, just ignore me!)

[tadpolesonalgae]

Tag, You’re It — Part 3

Dark!feysand x reader

a/n: Should have never said the word love. Threw a toaster in the bathtub. I’m sick of all the games I have to play. 

warnings: noncon/dubcon; threesome fmf; facesitting; dumbification; light praise kink; minor use of shadows; spitting; light impact play

word count: 7,332

-Part 2-

The door dully swings open, but you don’t bother opening your eyes. 

It hasn’t even been a full day since they last took you from your cage. When they’d manipulated and mangled your mind, when they’d forced you to yield the few things you still had control over. The one place even they hadn’t tried to completely disrupt. 

From the pace of the footsteps, you know it’s the High Lord who’s come to visit, the memory of chains and whips rising to the surface. This will be the third day in a row you’ll be denied peace and privacy. 

You open puffy eyes wearily, noting the familiar glint of violet as he peers at you, a slight frown tucked in the edges of his mouth. Before today you might have been pleased with his displeasure. Not today. It’s just another expression to record. 

He crouches down to where you’re huddled in your corner, tucked away and wrapped beneath the one blanket you were given. His hand reaches forward, fingers dipping under your chin so he can look at you properly. Examining the goods, probably. Guessing whether you’re well enough for him to fuck. 

“Did you not sleep, little lynx?” He asks lowly, quietly. Observing you keenly. 

You give no reaction, the words passing into your mind without registering. Too tired to respond. Too empty to give.  

His brows narrow. “I thought you were going to be good?” He goads, angling your jaw to rise a little higher. “We came to an understanding, didn’t we?” 

Silence and a blank expression. 

Rhys frowns, then his hand is lightly gripping the back of your head, tangling in your hair as he leans forward, free hand bracing himself on the iron bars as he presses his mouth to your own. Tongue plying you open, he kisses you deeper, facing little resistance as your lips part beneath his own. Not so much as a whimper rising up to greet him. 

He nips at your lower lip, canines lightly dragging over the softness, but you give nothing. Something’s wrong here, he can sense it, already reaching out for his High Lady. 

Rhys? Purrs that voice that has heat warming his skin. 

Come in here, he requests lowly, pulling back to allow her the sight he’s seeing—the vacancy behind your eyes, the general lack of reaction, the absence of life. 

Is she okay? Feyre asks, all sexuality vanished, replaced by cool suspicion and slight wariness. A single note of concern. 

Rhys’ thumb strokes over your cheek, his pulse spiking as he bites back a pleased grin at your complaisance. She’s at her breaking point. 

His High Lady understands, swift on her feet as usual. They’ve discussed this moment, how it will occur and what they should do as it passes. How to push you over that breaking point without shattering you entirely, more along the lines of heating you until you’re soft and pliable—all for daemati hands to reshape and rehabilitate. You’ll be exactly as you were, only you’ll have always been theirs. No human man with his sweat and breath to contaminate your reactions to them. 

Blankly, you watch him. Even in your dazed and depressed state you recognise the glaze of his eyes, a small part of you shrivelling further knowing she’ll be along soon. Having to watch as she violates your trust again and again, never stopping and never learning. Never changing. 

“Will you stand for me, little lynx?” The High Lord asks lowly, pleasure enriching his sonorous drawl, deep and rolling, easy to listen to and adore. But you remain still, keeping to the small hollow you’ve carved for yourself in the depths of your mind, watching silently. 

Violet gleams, though he doesn’t seem to mind your disobedience, not as darkness releases the chains locking you, overwhelmingly strong arms pulling you up from the blood-red carpet of the cage, putting you effortlessly over his shoulder as he takes you to their bed, settling you down. You make no effort to move, and he gives you no instructions to follow, both listening as a set of footfalls approaches softly from the hall. 

The door swings open, clicking shut as blue-grey eyes brush over you instinctively with a flash of attentiveness you think you recognise before it’s locked beneath hard ice—the High Lady. Not your dear friend.  

“How is she?” The High Lady asks hungrily, gaze raking over your naked form in a way that almost has you tempted to shrink away. Almost. But remembering what they’ve done, the indignities they’ve forced down your throat…you don’t care. 

“She’s ready,” you hear the High Lord reply, and you move your gaze to the ceiling, studying the plain pattern—the wooden beam branching across the middle. 

Footsteps approach, but you don’t care as her fingers trace down your sternum, over your stomach. Not even as she grazes your breasts, or thumbs against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs…none of it matters anymore. You’re inside your own mind, and safe from them. Curled in a darkened corner, alone and abandoned. 

“She seems so unresponsive,” Feyre hums, amusement lacing her tone in a way that should set warning bells ringing, but you remain silent. Rhys’ arm slides around her waist, broad palm squeezing lightly as he idly examines the pliable look to your body. Relaxed and uncaring. The perfect subject for dark fantasies.

“Enjoy her,” Rhys drawls, glancing at his mate sidelong. “This is the first time she’ll let you have her without quarrel. If there’s something you’ve wanted to try…now’s the time.” Something shifts within her at those words, colour flushing her skin sinfully, teeth tugging at her lower lip. You watch as Feyre’s eyes glaze before a faint smile is appearing on Rhys’ mouth, pleased with whatever idea his mate has come up with. Something you doubt you’ll enjoy, if it’s piqued his interest so obviously. 

“As you wish,” Rhys says lowly, violet eyes flicking over you once more, before departing, leaving you alone with his High Lady. 

Blue-grey eyes turn to you, raking down over your bare form, soft and so touchable. So many things she would love to do to you, with the tip of her tongue, the ridges of her nails…the sharp sting of her teeth…

“It’s just us now, sweet girl,” Feyre murmurs, moving closer, allowing her fingers to trace the curve of your ankle at the edge of the bed, running over the bridge of your foot, watching how your toes curl away from her touch, unable to completely lock her out. “Just me and you, how it used to be. Do you remember those times as fondly as I do?” 

You refuse to reply, and she zips the ridge of her nail up the underside of your foot, making you recoil sharply from the sensation. Her lips curve at the small victory, and a seed of frustration is planted within your chest. Why can’t she just let you be? Why does she insist on bothering, and teasing, and torturing?

She hums, fine with your silence, mattress dipping as she settles, slowly making her way toward you. “I do, and we’ll have them again soon enough,” she admits, a flush on her cheeks, “you just have to go through a little more. A little more, then you can be my sweet girl again. Who I can attend and listen to, who I can laugh with like we used to. Don’t you want that?”

The High Lady pauses at your hips, thumb skimming over the top of your left thigh, eyes hungrily following, before dipping between your legs. But you keep still. Unresponsive. 

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” she muses, gently pushing your legs apart. Knowing how you detest it far more when they apply themselves to you than when they simply use you for their own ends. It’s so much worse when they touch you, putting their pleasure into your body without your permission, allowing their sickness to take root until it destroys you. 

Her tongue licks up your centre, and the pleasure sings dully in the recesses of your mind. She circles your clit with painful familiarity, before attaching her mouth to you, suckling eagerly, tongue swirling as she works pleasure into your thighs and cunt. 

Are you enjoying this, sweet girl? Feyre wonders. Come on, tell me how much you like it. How you love it when we touch, and kiss, and lick you here. As if to emphasise, she sucks on your clit harshly, teeth gently scraping before returning to soft and slow licks of her tongue. I know how good it feels, I know how to make it feel good for you, too. Just tell me. With words, or a moan, or the slightest shift of your body—tell me about your pleasure. 

You can feel your body heating in response to the stimulus. Warming around you as you tuck yourself deeper into the cool darkness, only wanting to escape. 

Feyre hums softly, pushing your legs so they’re bent at the knee, allowing her more access as she laps firmly over your sex, parting you slowly as she drags upward, tongue hardening as she flicks over your sensitive clit, feeling how muscles in your thighs react helplessly. She repeats the motion before dipping lower, nose brushing your clit as she kisses your entrance, lips gleaming as slick gathers in defence, only enticing her further. Promising the reward of your taste…your flavour…feeling your orgasm on her tongue. 

Or, you could tell me how you hate it, she goads, able to hear the wicked lilt to her honeyed voice. I know how you love to tell us you hate us. How you despise us, how we’re going to hell? Tell me now. Tell me why. Her tongue strokes over your clit, your breathing becoming shallower, but Feyre knows those are simply your body’s reactions—she wants yours.

The building heat dies away as her mouth detaches from you, slippery slick gleaming on her lips as she crawls higher, straddling your hips as she rids herself of her own clothing. “It seems a shame to waste pleasure on you if you won’t even react to it,” she muses, a flush colouring her cheeks, and you shrink away as you feel her wet sex against your bare skin as she spreads her thighs, keeping you pinned to the bed as she sits. “So I guess I’ll let you have your way, for now. I’ll use you instead.”

Feyre crawls higher, anticipating a gleam in your eyes, or at least a twitch of your hands. A shift of expression to reveal your thoughts, but nothing. Even when she prods at your mind, she gets no response. But Rhys has told her this an important part of rehabilitation, reshaping you into what they want. This numbness, it’s all part of their plan—it will work. 

It has to.

Her knees settle either side the top of your head, mattress dipping with her weight, so when she inevitably chooses to sit, she will settle atop your mouth, just as she likes. 

“Are you happy down there, sweet girl?” She asks, unable to help the way her fingers long to play with herself, sex heating now she has your eyes on her. Arousal swiftly liquefies, and she touches the pad of her finger to her clit, aching and sensitive, longing to be stimulated. “I’ll make sure to give you a good show, hm? Would you like that?” She laughs a little breathlessly—normally you’d be kicking and screaming; it’s nice in a way to have you so docile. Obedience will come soon after. 

Feyre spreads her thighs, and you still hate the way your mouth opens, tongue licking and lapping how they’ve trained you to do. Familiar with the punishment they’d inflict when you kicked off too hard. So you follow through with the motions out of habit, and you curl tighter into a ball, head ducked between your knees as you hold yourself together deep inside your mind.

Above you, Feyre moans roughly, thighs parting wider as she rubs her sex over you, liking how your lips catch on her clit, the way your nose pushes lightly at the sensitive bud. She sits fully, thighs parting as her fingers tangle in your hair, grinding closer, moving how she wants to, following every ache, chasing every spark of pleasure her body guides her with, picturing your mouth parted beneath her heat, tongue laying over your lower lip, allowing her to drag her clit across it. 

Rhys, she calls out mentally, where are you?

Already? Her mate muses, that didn’t take very long. 

I can’t wait any longer, Feyre replies breathlessly. She’s being so good Rhys. Come in here. Try her with me.

Show me, he sends back, even though she can feel his approach in her bones.

Feyre glances down, showing the way her fingers are carefully gripping your hair, almost tenderly, guiding you to where she wants, hips shifting over your mouth, liking how your tongue feels against her clit but aching for something deeper. Your scent filters through into his mind, those beginning notes of arousal starting to peek through your fear-tinted scent and his pace quickens ever so slightly before silently entering the room. Feyre doesn’t look up, keeping her eyes on yours so you won’t know about the other presence joining you. 

“You’re being so good,” Feyre murmurs, fingers pushing hair back from your face lightly, thumb stroking up between your brows as she winds her hips, feeling like if she put her mind to it she could come right then and there, watching as your lids flutter as you taste the flavour of her release. “Keep doing that,” she soothes, “keep behaving, and you’ll feel good in no time.” 

You’re so wrapped up in trying to internally shy away from her, so far from the surface of reality that you don’t notice as Rhys slinks in on cat-soft feet. It’s not even until he’s between your legs on the mattress, and his roughened hands slide over the tops of your thighs that the protection you’d been afford until now behind to slip away. Unlike Feyre, he holds no familiarity—he’s unpredictable and dangerous, prone to inflicting you with stinging pain while stuffing you to the brim with pleasure until they’re practically blending together. 

Muscles twitch in your thighs, fluttering in your lower stomach, but it’s the only reaction you give as he pushes your legs wider, bending them at the knee and gripping your hips to allow him control over your lower body. Positioning himself as he likes. 

The first noise of the night is wrung from your lips as Rhysand slides himself in, settling himself comfortably between your open legs until he’s flush with the soft skin of the backs of your thighs. Feyre’s fingers slide through your hair and you try to turn your head away from the sight, try to clamber and crawl back to the corner you had found for yourself, hidden away from their touches that sink so much deeper than bone deep. Her touch is like the raw scrape of cotton, coarse before it’s refined to softened fibres. You’re grateful you can still pick out the unpleasantness of her palms. They’re warm but calloused enough to catch, sweet abrasion lifting up from your skin into your mind as she leans back, reaching behind herself to swipe her thumb across one of your nipples. Is there a diverged universe where you would have enjoyed her heat and warmth? 

It’s been long enough, coping with their hands and warring with their tongues that it doesn’t take too much effort to switch your perspective, your mental opposition steadily eroded with every use. 

In this other world Feyre would have found you first. You would have connected, and grown together at a gentle incline. You would have lived together for a short period, while both of you were working but also husband hunting. You would spend evenings speaking about potential matches, but neither of you would ever manage to commit to someone else. 

The realisation would start slowly, on your end. Spilling a vase on your bed and so having to sleep in Feyre’s while she was away one night, smelling her in the sheets, feeling the imprint of her body dipped into the mattress and the shallowness of her pillow where she would rest her head. Borrowing a bonnet or a pair of gloves of hers when you were due for a luncheon but without anything to wear, and without any money to afford a new purchase, feeling the fit of her fingers over yours, seeing the colours she had chosen for herself. Eating together in the evenings, starting on separate armchairs then moving to sharing one sofa, until on one particularly cold evening you decide to huddle together and you’d feel the warm press of her side and maybe one of you would even lay your head on the other’s shoulder. 

Yes. It would have started slow, and you would have been given the time you needed to accept how intertwined you were with one another. 

Rhysand would have never taken her away from you, and you would have never met your husband. 

You could keep her, and you would privately share space until neither of you could remember whose comb was whose, or which bottle of perfume was yours and which was hers. There would never have been a divide, and you’d still be together. 

Something hot and wet splashes on your cheek, and she’s pulled you close enough to the surface of reality you can make out the slope of her bare shoulders and the heat behind her eyes. Her lashes blink shut but another droplet falls onto your cheek. 

She’s halted her movement, raised up on her knees as she stares down at you with gleaming blue-grey eyes. Her breathing stutters as male hands wrap around her waist, scar-flecked fingers gliding up to cup one of her breasts as he holds her by her hips, nosing up the length of her neck. Inhaling the scent of her wavering arousal through the silk of her long hair. You think you see sorrow in her glistening eyes, but you sink back below your surface, refusing to acknowledge or accept whatever she’s fleetingly considered offering. 

Feyre’s hold tightens on your hair, feeling as you slip away. Her fingers wrap themselves between the strands, nails dragging across your scalp as she tries to pry you open again in a way she hasn’t seen since she decided to take you. Possibly even longer. 

Sweetness, she tries, Sweet girl, come back to me. 

More tears drip down onto your cheek but they’re only surface level. Lacking the cruelty to sink any deeper than that. 

We can be gentle with you. I can be gentle with you again. But still she fails to reach you. Fails to breech the numbness that’s been slowly spreading through your mind since she decided against you. Decided that she couldn’t wait. Decided Rhysand would be her better option. After everything you went through together. 

Rhysand pulls away, his hand lifting from her breast to her jaw as he tilts her face toward him, frowning upon seeing her tear-stained cheeks. It won’t be long now, he whispers into her head. She’s practically there already. Just a little more and she’ll be ours. 

That word sets Feyre’s skin on fire. Does she want you to be theirs? Or does she want you to be hers? The thought seems too dangerous to consider now, especially with her mate so thoroughly wrapped around her. She tosses it away, burying it deep, deep down. Somewhere far from the light. Somewhere Rhysand won’t be able to find. Because she knows she doesn’t like how cruel they’re being. How she doesn’t yet fully trust him to handle you. He can have every part of herself, fall into his arms without any sense of his presence and trust he’ll be there, that he’ll catch her, but not this. 

Not you. 

You’re hers. 

Feyre’s hips begin to rock faintly, gliding the dripping slick of her cunt over your already sopping mouth, strands of arousal sticking the two of you together as her fingers soothe through your hair, gentling her touch to that lost intimacy. 

A small sound responds to her touch. So small she doesn’t even hear it, only feeling the faintest vibration beneath her, softer even than the beat of your heart. 

Her fingers stutter, pulse fumbling as she tries to search for the sign again, now running her thumb over the crest of your cheek. Your tongue tenses beneath her, and Feyre repeats the action, swiping slowly back and forth until a low light is reflecting in your eyes. 

Everything seems veiled in a thin blur, lights fuzzy and forms hazy. There’s a small warmth on your cheek, one that’s so achingly distant you force yourself to rise through the thick fog and into the torture of your senses, nerves feeding you the pressure of Rhys’ cock stuffed full inside you all the way to his base, able to feel the heavy weight of him even now. But the touch you’re seeking is coming from Feyre, looking at you in a way you’ve pleaded with her to give you, countless times. Screamed for that look until your voice was gone and torn. 

You can’t make out what’s happening but your body falls cold as she looks away from you, meeting the gaze of the male she bound herself to. An unknown amount of time passes like that, but then she’s carefully lifting up from your body, pulling away until she’s out of sight and the world loses its colour, returning to dull shades of grey and sepia. The only thing sharp and cruel enough to cut through your filter being the stark violet of the High Lord’s eyes and this time you react. It’s nothing significant, nothing that would have previously caught their attention, the movement so small, but your eyelids lower by a fraction of a degree, that listless numbness seeping back into your muscles. 

Rhysand’s arms band beneath the curve of your spine, palms splaying between your shoulder blades and cupping the back of your head as he pulls you upright. You shudder as he flicks the tip of his tongue over your lips, able to taste his mate there. But instead of deepening the kiss, his eyes seem to gleam with other intentions, and your pulse spikes as he pulls out of you only so he can turn you around. 

There, splayed out on the bed, reclining on her back, is Feyre. 

Not the High Lady. Not Rhysand’s mate. But Feyre. 

Her body looks soft and inviting in a way you’ve not found it since she took you, and though you know her mouth is forming to speak words, none of them reach your ears, sound dulled—one of your first senses to numb. She doesn’t need to say anything though—neither of them do. Nor do either of them even need to give the command for you to know where you’re going, with the way her legs are spread like that. 

But Rhys’ palm closes around your throat, fingers flexing menacingly as he brings his mouth to the smooth curve of your human ear. “Behave, tonight,” he whispers, in a voice like night and silk all heated by the intimate placement of a candle flame. “Then it will all be over.” 

You’re surprised when he releases you, but only because instead of being dragged back far enough that your face will slot nicely between Feyre’s open legs, her arms lift from the bed. Inviting. Rhys pushes you forward encouragingly, both of them waiting to see what you’ll do. When you remain immobile for too long the High Lord squeezes your throat roughly, making you cough before you’re lowering yourself shakily onto your hands and knees. 

Your arms tremble with more than just weakness and terror as your palms press into the mattress, lifting over her open legs instead of sliding beneath them, and part of you waits for Rhys’a bruising hands to grip you by the nape of your neck or jerk you back by your hair to return you to her cunt. But no pain is delivered, and you’re allowed to crawl further up, your body cradled between Feyre’s thighs.

Her fingertips dance over your shoulders and it’s enough force to have your arms melting, settling yourself to her chest, cheek laying between her breasts. 

Feyre’s skin is hot, body lush and perfectly curved to accommodate your own. Her arms skate across your shoulders, wrapping themselves across their width, tangling her fingers through your hair, running fingertips through the strands at the ends. 

You collapse entirely, the scrape of her nails scratching lethargically between your shoulder blades unlatching a final clasp as your mind spills throughout your skull. 

Rhysand’s palms press themselves into the back of your hips, darkness bringing your legs wider between Feyre’s. A shudder runs up your spine as Rhys kneels over you, able to feel the heavy weight of his cock between your thighs, his skin dragging against your own, pinning your legs into the mattress while Feyre remains freely beneath you. 

A whimper lifts through your throat as the High Lord spreads you apart and Feyre brushes her lips to the crown of your head. She lies to you over and over again, It’ll be okay; You’re almost there; Just let him settle in; You’ll feel good soon enough, you know you will. Awful, repulsive lies you don’t want to believe, and yet for some reason they feel closer to truth than ever.

Rhys keeps you spread apart as he presses his cock to your entrance, your hips squirming weakly but your legs are pinned, arms too heavy to argue, locked to Feyre’s chest while she pushes tenderness into your hair. More whimpers spill from your lips as he begins to inch his way in, rolling forward then back, rocking himself further and deeper until he’s once again stretching your limits. 

“Careful,” Feyre hisses when she feels you jolt against her stomach, the twitch in your fingertips. You can imagine how his violet eyes gleam with pleasure at your reaction, twinkling as he looks at his mate and bucks his hips softly, eliciting a moan from your mouth. Feyre almost coos at the noise, palms cradling your head as fingers continue to brush through your hair. “Feeling good now? Didn’t I tell you? You always end up liking it.” You try to squirm against her but they’ve sucked out all your fight, leaving you cold and dangerously empty. Space they plan on claiming. 

Once he’s all the way in Rhys slides his hands around your waist, darkness looping around your arms and beneath your shoulders to pull you upright. You whimper as cold flushes your bare font, and Feyre growls lowly, making to sit upright before her husband’s darkness ties her back down. 

“Rhys,” Feyre growls, “give her back.” 

Hot breath tickles the space behind your ear then teeth are nipping at your lobe. Hands invade across your body, breath gasping from your mouth as hot palms soothe the cold of your skin, cupping your breasts. “I’m letting her look,” Rhysand whispers, fingers moving higher to flex around your throat. “Letting her admire.” 

The aggression dulls in Feyre’s eyes, a pink colouring her cheeks as she shifts on the bed, opening her thighs a little wider—as if you’ll be awed by the offer and dive right in. 

“For someone who’s suffered so much of her life, you’ve been disgracefully ungrateful to my mate,” Rhysand murmurs beside your ear, soft enough you wonder if Feyre can hear him. You don’t like it when it’s only him touching you. Too dangerous. Too reckless. “Aren’t you thankful that she saved you?” 

Anger catches like wildfire and you twist your head to look at him but the moment his indomitable violet eyes lock with your own it’s snuffed out, ice skittering up your spine. Rhys smiles, as if he knows exactly how much terror he puts into you. “Aren’t you grateful Feyre came back for you?” 

“Rhys,” Feyre huffs, her hips circling with frustration as he keeps her hands pinned to the bed, unable to even touch herself. 

“Look at her,” Rhys whispers, close enough you think you feel the flutter of air from his lashes with each blink. Fingers squeeze your jaw but they’re without their usual bite as he directs your attention to his mate. “Isn’t she beautiful? Doesn’t she deserve to have whatever she wants?” Whoever she wants, too. 

You try to squirm away but his grip tightens in warning, his free arm banding across your hips as he presses himself deeper into your cunt. “Doesn’t she?” It’s clearly a warning—one of the gentlest you’ve ever received from him. The skin around your knuckles tightens, nails biting into your palms before turning slack, head hanging as you yield one faint dip of your head. All he wants is an answer, and you know if you keep the right one from him… The memory of pain still hasn’t faded from your skin. 

Rhysand turns you back to face him, tilting your chin so he gets to look down on you and not for the first time you wonder what he sees. Is there any way he’s oblivious to your disgust? But he lays his mouth atop your own gently this time and you force your body to remain calm, steering away the tension that seeks to thread itself through your muscles. 

You know you want us. Rhysand tells you. You know you want her. I know you’ve wanted her, too. You’re the only one refusing to acknowledge it. 

Because you’re lying. You think. 

Am I? 

Tension sears its way through your body as his hand slides down to cup your heat, fingers parting around the thick stretch of his cock. You come every time we touch you, drip down your thighs at the thought of her. You know it would be better to fall into us. 

You’re cruel, and manipulative, and barbaric, and-

Loving. 

An actual laugh croaks from your throat at that. In what kind of twisted world does anything they’ve done to you be considered loving? 

His tongue flicks across your lips then he’s plying you open, swiping along your teeth to taste the inside of your mouth. You’re disgusting, you think, but the thought only echoes through your empty mind. Instead you become aware of Feyre speaking, her voice so at odds to the cruelty of the High Lord. Your body aches to lay against her again, to rest yourself against her body, bare skin on bare skin. Even if it would change nothing, the desire is becoming too apparent to keep denying. 

You gasp when Rhys’ hot mouth opens over your throat, sucking marks into your flesh. His thumbs swipe across your nipples, grazing the sensitive peaks and you realise his darkness has retreated from Feyre. 

Stark heat flushes your cheeks as you spy the meandering path of her fingers as they trail over her stomach, slipping away between her legs as she runs her hungry eyes over you. You want to hide away from that ravenous hunger. Bury yourself in soft darkness that shields rather than contains. You squeak when her fingers instead lift to graze your cunt, their pads trailing over the bump of your clit. Rhysand groans softly beside your ear as you tighten around him. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Feyre whispers, now sitting up from the bed, her hands lifting to wrap around your waist. “So perfect. So pretty.” She presses a light kiss to above your navel, affording a small lick to the bare skin that makes you shudder. It’s too warm in here. Something bubbling beneath your flesh. Her kisses lift higher, until her pink mouth rests between your breasts, and you’re looking down into her blue-grey eyes. 

Fingers push between your legs again, sliding up and down over your centre, rubbing over your clit while Rhys keeps himself flush to your back. Feyre brings her fingers back up, a pulse of arousal passing through your body as she pushes her fingers across her tongue, tasting you. A whimper escapes your sealed lips, hips shifting faintly and you’re unsure if it’s out of protest or desire. 

“…Feyre…”

Almost as soon as her name is out she’s moaning, fingers returning to your clit to rub and circle. That warmth begins to intensify, a tingling need centring between your legs. Your own hands half-heartedly land on her shoulders, as if trying to push her away but it’s useless even pretending to try. “I’m sorry for stealing you away so suddenly,” Feyre whispers, and you freeze. Staring at her. “But you seemed so isolated. I missed you. I missed being with you. Being beside you.” She kisses your sternum. “I hated not being able to be affectionate with you.” Another kiss. “You don’t understand what it was like.” Kiss. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” she whispers, “but you were never brave enough to follow after me.” 

“You walked away first,” you whisper, before hearing how much like a confession it sounds. But Feyre shakes her head. “You denied me,” she whispers, “you denied us.” 

“I don’t want both of you,” you cry with more force than you’ve felt in a while. “If I’ve ever felt anything it was only for you.” 

Rhysand’s teeth find light placement in your shoulder. Cruel creature, he seems to be saying.

Feyre’s brows curve upward, as if disappointed you don’t like a gift she’s been preparing to share. “You don’t like the feel of his cock?” She asks softly. Again, Rhys groans as you squeeze him. “You don’t like how he fucks you?” 

“Feyre, stop.” There are tears in your eyes. 

“You don’t like the way his hands feel? What about his fingers?” She licks slowly between your breasts. “What about his tongue?” 

“Feyre stop.” 

“What about mine?” She continues. “Do you like it when I touch you? Do you like feeling my hands wrap around your skin? How do my fingers feel inside of you?”

“Feyre…” You plead. 

“What about my mouth?” She whispers, resuming the idle circles of your clit. “You love my tongue, don’t you? I know you like it when you’ve got fingers inside of you and a mouth over your clit. You like tasting me too, don’t you?” 

“Feyre!” 

“What about when you’re on your back and I’m touching you like it’s only us?” 

“Yes.” You cry, eyes squeezing shut as tears finally fall down your cheeks. 

Feyre’s face lights up, and both her hands are cupping your cheeks. Not even a single thought in your head considers resistance as Rhys’ arms release you and you fall with Feyre back into the bed, falling into her arms, falling into her embrace. “Then stay,” she murmurs, stroking your skin, petting your hair. “You’ll learn to like him,” Feyre whispers, “you’ll get used to him. Learn to love it.” You try to shake your head but at last Rhys is moving his hips, grinding up against you so his cock rubs up against those spongey, tender spots. “Sweetness,” Feyre whispers as though she’s sad. “You will,” she promises, “just open yourself up to it. Open up to me again.” 

You want to shake your head. Want to demand that they stop. But of course you can’t. 

The High Lord bucks his hips and a moan spills from your mouth onto Feyre’s skin. You hate how good he feels. How biologically pleasing he is. How satisfied you are from just having the thick weight of his cock stuffing you full, the touch they have on your skin as if they really want you. 

They really do. They wanted you enough to take you. To cling onto you even through every protest and scream. 

Maybe they’ve finally done it. 

Maybe they’ve finally made their way inside.

The last drops of energy are sapped from your bones as Rhysand begins drawing his hips back and fucking you in earnest, Feyre’s legs bending at the knee to cradle your body with her own. It feels good like this. To have her arms banding around your body while Rhys carefully drags the pleasure from your flesh to the surface. “See?” Feyre whispers. “It feels good doesn’t it?” 

You want to shake your head. Want to deny her. Deny both of them. 

But you can’t. 

You’re only falling deeper. 

Moans reach your ears and you know they’re your own. Rhys has always been an expert on pleasure. Knowing where to press and where to push to have sopping wetness greeting him whenever he pleases. 

His hips buck sharply, pressing himself deep inside your cunt and you gasp as the solid heat of his chest presses down on your back, sandwiching you so intimately between them. Feyre pushes hair from your temple but you can hardly be bothered to seek him out. Rhys’ tongue licks up your throat, lips splitting in a grin when you squeeze him, your hips swirling faintly to feel him against your inner walls. 

“Like that?” He whispers. “After all this time, all your fussing and protests, all for you to hardly be able to speak from how good I’m making you feel, huh?” A moan that sounds too close to agreement escapes your mouth, and Feyre coos as your nonsensical noises. “What a good cunt you have,” Rhys purrs, rocking his hips to yours. “At least she’s always known what she wants, even if you’ve been too pretty and dumb to make up your mind.” 

He thinks you’re pretty? A fae thinks you’re pretty? 

Rhys’ chuckle is bone deep, dripping into your marrow and filling you with heated arousal that’s too thick and sticky for you to keep yourself together. 

“So pretty,” he breathes, wicked amusement clear in his voice. “Pretty, ditzy, and dumb.” 

Pretty.

The rest of your thinking is pushed away as Rhys pulls back, the pace deepening; hardening. Your eyes squeeze shut, body limp and pliable beneath his ministrations of pleasure. He’s slamming into you, using the thick length of his cock to push and press and rub and touch every place you could want, muscles flexing weakly in your legs in attempts to push your hips the slightest bit upward from the bed so he might find it easier. 

“You’re being so good,” Feyre praises, continuing to stroke your hair, gently petting as she holds you close. “You’re taking him so well. So perfectly.” 

Perfectly, she said. Your cunt aches from the praise. A relief from their cruelty. 

Rhys touches a spot inside of you and your spine curves, toes curling as embarrassing sounds release from your chest, mewling and whining for him to push against it again. “Rhys…” you plead, fingers trembling as his name teeters off the edge of your tongue. Your hips swirl, mouth opening to ask him again but then he finds it and your eyes roll. 

The High Lord’s fingers wrap around your throat, forcing your neck to crane far enough back until you can see him looming above you, so unfairly lean and tall, even to fae standards. His mouth twists into a half-cruel, half-amused smirk, cocking a brow. “More?” 

There might be drool spilling out the corner of your lips, “More…” His smirk widens, grip leaving your throat to land a light slap to your cheek before digging his fingers in. “Want my cock? Want it harder?” 

“Uh-huh…” It sounds stupid even to your own ears, and humiliating heat warms your features. Rhysand’s laugh is edged with condescending pity, delivering another small slap that has your eyes stinging, “Tell me. Say you want it.” 

You stare at him, unable to shake your head. You’re not doing this again, but his cock feels so good coupled with Feyre’s tender touches, fingers playing with your hair while she watches her mate enjoy you. Violet eyes gleam, then a stinging pain smacks against your cheek, fingers digging in to the hinge of your jaw as he spits into your mouth. Your toes curl, cunt squeezing his cock tight as something flutters about between your legs. 

“Say it,” the High Lord demands.

“I love it,” you whisper in a rushed breath. “I-…I want it. Please.” 

“And what do you want?” He goads, not yet allowing you to swallow. 

“You-…” You cut yourself off, gagging beneath his hold, tears stinging your eyes. “You,” you pant, fumbling out words you think he might like. “Both of you. Feyre. Rhys.” Pupils expand as he hears his name in your moan, colour warming his tan skin, “Good enough.” 

He releases your throat and you swallow, hauling air down into your lungs only for it to be shoved right back out again, cheek falling to Feyre’s chest as Rhys slams his cock into you, bucking his hips to a brutal pace that might have driven you up the bed if Feyre wasn’t keeping you in place. Your moans fluctuate in volume, growing louder whenever his cock hits that special spot you hadn’t known existed before them. 

You cry as the orgasm blazes through your body, every muscle strung taut as pleasure sets you on edge, pulsing through your body with the force of feverish heat. Your hips buck against his, pressing as tight as you can against him as even your lungs seize, rendered silent from the onslaught of searing pleasure. With a final sharp buck, Rhysand finds his tipping point, hot breath panting up the nape of your neck and you yelp as his two palms roughly pin you in place as he fucks out his orgasm, feeling more like his toy beneath the dominating grip. 

Hot cum spills into your cunt, spurting out in thick waves that fill you up, feeling the muscles flexing in his thighs every time he slams himself in and your vision turns hazy. Dark spots dance through your vision until all you can sense are tipping colours and a blaze of passion up your spine, liquid heat pooling in your belly. All the while Feyre’s pressing kisses into your hair and stroking the crown of your head, helping you through. 

You have no way of knowing how long it’s been when you next open your eyes. You’re in the same position as you were before except a little further up Feyre’s body, hips no longer cradled between her legs but now with your face resting at the junction of her shoulder and neck, breath fanning ticklishly across the intimate expanse of skin. 

When your breathing pattern shifts, Feyre tilts her head and you become aware of her arms wrapped around your body. One hand splayed across your lower back, and the other- 

Heat swarms your features, squirming faintly to feel more of her, spine curving. 

“Awake now?” Feyre asks, rosey lips pulling upwards in their corners. She leans forward, pushing a kiss to your forehead. “Rhys’s gone for the moment but he’ll back soon,” she assures, watching you carefully as she gauges your reaction. Your head lolls, lids feeling heavy, body still tingling from pleasure. “We didn’t want any dripping out while he was away,” Feyre murmurs, her heart beating faster upon hearing your moan when she curls her fingers inside of you, how you circle your hips downward, trying to push them deeper. 

In reward for your lethargic adoration, Feyre pushes her two fingers deeper, slowly pumping them in and out, her cunt tingling with need when she feels you squeeze her as if you’re also trying to keep all of him tucked up inside of you. 

Just a little longer and you’ll be theirs, forever. 

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna @acoazlove

feysand taglist: @girlmadeofavocados @zara-aliza08

[zombearzilla]

Got tagged by @chubabub for a selfie. Here’s me wanting to stay with @crepuscularpete’s cutie of a dog Mia and not wanting to leave Sweden! Thanks again for a wonderful time man!

I tag @highfunctioningfuckup @make-a-fist @video-store-clerk @moss-wizard @ch0kingonaspl1nter @satansfavoritefirecrotch @westernwitchy75 @heart-in-atrophyy @lucifersmaid @cosmic-daisy @flower-bride @cryptbirth @xvampycandyx @xdismal-darling @xlittle-ghost @boringwomanwithabook @grief-goblin @animetit @daleksouffle @oceans-sand-trees @spacecadetwench @pollypocketsand @learningfromlosing @symphonic-divide @notyourdruidess @princesssassyass @inturningdivine @sarawr-saurus @sickest-saddest-worldliest @cleverbabygh0ul @ovsilenceandblack @tattooedzombigirl @cedartreestealeaves @borderlinewitchysub @borderlinebasketcase and anyone else who wants to play. No pressure.

[jrooc]

✨Weekly Tag Wednesday ✨

Hi hi! Welcome to your local Tag Game. I’m your friendly neighbourhood host, Jess, and today we’re talking fandom. Come play!

Name and A03 handle: Jess, JR_ooc

Current Location: In my kitchen, in my running gear despite having not yet gone for a run 'cause I just remembered I was doing the tag game

Favorite picrew (don't have one? you can skip this or do this one)?

I don't have a favourite but this one is new? Why do I choose questions I can't answer 😂

What's one thing you want in a picrew?

Two toned hair.

Favourite thing you’ve created (or seen created) for the fandom?

Unsurprising my sportsAU: In My Veins Like Lightning

Why is it your favourite? I just love the story and the boys I wrote and so many of their angsty and sweet moments.

Did it come easily or was it hard to create? Both? Some parts came quickly, a lot of the scenes just came to me. But there were some sticky parts I struggled hard with.

Last ao3 fic you commented on? Darkness comes before the Dawn by @ian-galagher @creepkinginc and @transmurderbug and @crossmydna's Locking Down the Locksmith -- both amazing.

Biggest WIP heartache you’ve ever experienced? Things Beyond Mistake -- I am still heartbroken over a year after reading it. What an amazing story I would give my left arm to have finished. We miss you Grayola.

Favorite trope or head cannon you like included in a fanfic? Cocky!Mickey and Tough!Ian. Love when they fall into bed right away and catch feelings after.

Least favourite? I'll read it all but don't love when Mickey after one interaction is all in. Where's the tension! Where's his tough/untrusting side? Also the slow slow slow burns make me insane... not that that stops me.

Secret or surprising kink or trope? A/B/O and really unique AU's like Maintenance or The Circus

Describe how you feel after you’ve created something new? Like I drank some warm tea. Like things have clicked into place for a moment in time.

Top hype man you have that always helps you get across the finish line: I'm lucky to have a few but @bawlbrayker always helps with a beta and a kind word or helps me choose when I'm stuck between options. Special mention to @runawaybrainsc @gallapiech and @blue-disco-lights who have been clutch and hugely supportive.

It's been a bad day, you turn to the fandom and you _____? Pour a glass of wine, play snails in the discord chat and read some angst with a happy ending or the latest fic club discussion pick.

If you were mentioned, you're tagged! Rest of the tags below the cut:

@deedala @energievie @spookygingerr @michellemisfit @celestialmickey

@mybrainismelted @tanktopgallavich @mickeysgaymom @such-a-barbarian @crestfallercanyon

@rereadanon @too-schoolforcool @roryonic @lee-ow @stocious

@transsexual-dandelions @transmickey @sgtmickeyslaughter @rayrayor @solitarycreaturesthey

@ms-moonlight-inn @whatthebodygraspsnot @suzy-queued @callivich @francesrose3

@doshiart @guinguin1984 @look-i-love-u @spoonfulstar @the-rat-wins

@thepupperino @gallavichgeek @andthatisnotfake @burninface @batty4steddie

@mmmichyyy @pookiebearmick @palepinkgoat @heymrspatel @deathclassic

@wehangout @gallawitchxx @gallavichsuperfan

Lmao I hit my tagging limit so if you see this pls know you’re tagged 😆

[kiestrokes]

Hi if you could please vote and reblog so that fellow moots of ours can see it. I would appreciate it. AND so I know who I can tag in games moving forward 🤗

[michellemisfit]

Got tagged for PICREW duty by these loves

@heymrspatel @lingy910y @creepkinginc @deedala @mybrainismelted @look-i-love-u

I’m tagging @rutherinahobbit @faejilly @too-schoolforcool @darlingian @sluttymickey @the-rat-wins @thepupperino @heymacy @gallawitchxx @mickeysgaymom @crestfallercanyon @crossmydna @sgtmickeyslaughter @gallavichonly @ian-galagher @jrooc @tanktopgallavich @mmmichyyy @deathclassic @captainjowl @mikhailoisbaby @ohkate @rereadanon @sam-loves-seb @tsuga-of-mars @lupeloto @vintagelacerosette @squidyyy23 @energievie @sleepyfacetoughguy

[sceletaflores]

username song game!

thanks for the tag @guiltyasdave <3 this was so cute!

s - so hot you're hurting my feelings by caroline polachek

c - cowboy like me by taylor swift

l - limp by fiona apple

e - end of the day by one direction

t - the love club by lorde

a - anthems by charli xcx

f - francis forever by mitski

l - loose ends by imogen heap

o - oh my love by fka twigs

r - red wine supernova by chappell roan

e - emergency contact by pierce the veil

s - sex by the 1975

no pressure tags! @ebodebo @yuenity @artemis-b-writes @superhoeva @avocado-writing @eupheme @elflutter @silverskyeline

[jennaispunk]

People I want to get to know better ✨

Thanks for the tag: @beefrobeefcal @sawymredfox and @burntheedges

last song: Someone Like You- Van Morrison (according to Spotify)

favourite colour: Purple 💜💜

currently watching: House of the Dragon

last movie: Twisters

current obsessions: trying to finish all my current WIPs before their deadlines, football (American football to my overseas friends ☺️), my MLB team’s improbable run to the playoffs, Beatstar

relationship status: single as a Pringle but also mentally married to the fictional men I write fanfic about.

last thing i googled: how long the previews are before a movie

NP tags: @fhatbhabiee @for-a-longlongtime @secretelephanttattoo @kilamonster @neverwheremoonchild and anyone else who wants to play along

[wheneverfeasible]

~Wiggly 🧠 🪱 Wednesday~

Eeee thank you for the tag @hotluncheddie, this is my first brain worm tag and that’s super exciting, buuuttttttt…

So I actually just realized that I’ve recently hit the anniversary time of when I went No Contact with my family, and I know that that I’ve began kinning Steve more since then due to his own terrible family.

So then I was thinking about Steve, who it’s been years since he walked away from his family, since he found his true family, and he’s doing okay for himself. Maybe not an amazing career or anything, but he’s found something that he’s relatively happy with and he’s got people who love him in his corner and yeah, sometimes it still hurts, but he’s moved past it all.

Until one day, completely unexpectedly, his mom comes into his place of business.

Maybe they threw him out, maybe he left of his own choice because he realized that they would never be what he wanted or needed them to be. They never truly knew him and never cared about him, at least not enough to ever choose him over anything else, so it hurt but ultimately it wasn’t hard to leave them, only hard to leave the life he used to know.

He and Robin were roommates now, because obviously, and it was a shitty little place, but it was theirs, and they’re happy, and their friends are over all the time to the point that Eddie practically lives there too, which is…nice.

Really nice.

Steve has come to accept the fact that he isn’t entirely straight, and part of that is the reason he no longer speaks to his family, and he’s even come to terms with the fact that he might have a teensy tiny itty bitty little crush on his best friend, Eddie Munson. Which is fine. He’s used to having crushes on friends and having them be unreciprocated.

Except Eddie has been sending him some signals that maybe it’s not entirely unreciprocated. And he’s starting to feel confident, starting to feel like maybe he could actually be genuinely happy with someone…

And that’s when he sees his mom. It’s been years since he last saw her, but suddenly all that pain and hurt he thought he had grown past is tearing through his chest and up his throat and he feels his heart rate accelerating and his breathing is growing choppy and he can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe—

He’s thought about, before, what he would tell his parents if he ever saw them again. About how he would call them out for being terrible people who never cared about him, only saw what he could offer them, about the image they wanted to show the world. Wanted to tell them of all the times he’s almost died and they never knew because they never cared enough to ask why he’d come home bruised and bloodied, or why he avoided the pool, or why he woke up screaming from nightmares. He thought about how good it would feel to say how he never needed them.

But he can’t say any of that now. All he can do is try not to pass out from hyperventilating because they were his family, his parents, and they should have loved him unconditionally but they never did. They never chose him over their friends, their jobs, their image. They never loved him and never would. They would never truly know him or accept him and all he wanted was for them to say that they were sorry and they never would.

Steve would like to think he could face his mother, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t he just couldn’t. So he hides, he runs, he disappears into the back and he can’t stop the tears because why was he never good enough for her or his dad? What was so wrong with him that they couldn’t love their own son?

And there’s no sort of resolution for him, no closure.

He finishes his shift, he goes home, and Robin and Eddie are there just like they were when he left that morning, and their immediate smiles at him being home slowly drops because even though he tries to hide it, they know.

He doesn’t want to talk about it, can’t talk about it, not yet. He does tell them that he saw his mom that day and he loves them because they get it, they understand, and they don’t make him talk about it. Robin makes him his favorite snack and drink, Eddie finds that movie he knows is Steve’s comfort movie and puts it on, and they don’t talk about it but they’re there.

And, curled against Eddie’s side with silent tears dripping off his nose and onto Eddie’s shirt, Eddie’s arm around him while Robin keeps him grounded with a hand caressing his leg on his other side, they let him mourn not what he lost, because he never had it to begin with, but what could have been.

And maybe, maybe one day Steve will be brave and tell Eddie what he means to him, but he’s too fragile at the moment. It will remain unspoken for now because he’s not ready. But maybe one day. And maybe that day is sooner, maybe that day is later, but there in his friends’ unconditional love, he knows that they’ll both wait for him to be ready.

Because his parents should have been his family but they’re not. They never were. And maybe he wasn’t ready yet, but one day he would be able to let them go because he knew that what he had with him right now was his real family, and that love was forever.

Yeah anyways the song Matilda by Harry Styles hits a little too close to home for me, and I think it’s fitting for Steve too.

no obligation tags since Wednesday is over but there’s always next week lololol: @derythcorvinus @stervrucht @katyawriteswhump

[tadpolesonalgae]

Tag, you’re it - Part 2[***]

Dark!feysand x reader

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

-Part 1- | -Part 3-

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

[guiltyasdave]

fic titles ask game

send me an ask with the title of one of my fics below and i’ll tell you why i chose it, the song it's from, the line in the fic that inspired it, or share a snippet.

thank you for the tags @ace-turned-confused @whocaresstillthelouvre @mermaidgirl30 @lotusbxtch @perotovar @luxurychristmaspudding @shellshocklove @noceurous @strang3lov3 <3

safe and sound

wildest dreams

when we go crashing down

a long time coming

gold rush

every breath you take

sweet nothing

like snow on the beach

peace

delicate

dancing phantoms on the terrace

help me hold onto you

of lion cubs and vipers (wip)

invisible string (wip)

epiphany (wip)

wings (wip)

npt: @sizzlingcloudmentality @ovaryacted @moonlight-prose @tonysopranosrobe @pedropeach @pedrospatch @avocado-writing @sceletaflores @dancingtotuyo @almostfoxglove @silverskyeline @ozarkthedog @eupheme

[jrooc]

✨Oh hay Tuesday piccrew hay! 🐈

Thanks for the tags you beautiful little piccrew faces @deedala @gallawitchxx @creepkinginc @thepupperino @ian-galagher @guinguin1984 @doshiart @spookygingerr @sickness-health-all-that-shit @blue-disco-lights

Eyes closed cause I was half asleep all day. We totally needed a piccrew day! Dyed my hair a dusty dark rose so this kinda worked. Also angry Lily on my should is art imitating life.

Come play!

@gallapiech @runawaybrainsc @ms-moonlight-inn @notherenewjersey @nozenfordaddy

@kiennilove @romidoes @spacerockwriting @look-i-love-u @gallavichsuperfan

@transsexual-dandelions @transmurderbug @stocious @femboymilkovich @callivich

@darlingian @michellemisfit @sillygoofygoobersstuff @annarowyn @spoonfulstar

@mmmichyyy @samantitheos @wehangout @sam-loves-seb @bawlbrayker

@deathclassic @rereadanon @burninface @roryonic @francesrose3

@too-schoolforcool @sgtmickeyslaughter @heymrspatel @mickeysgaymom @bluelightning00

[blakelysco-pilot]

thanks for the tag @john-cleven this one is fun!

rules: choose 4 of ur fav characters from 4 pieces of media as options and let your tumblr pals decide which one most suits your vibe

tagging: @winniemaywebber @fangirlwithasweettooth @manonsmanicmind @roosevelt-stalin-cocacola @rosiesriveter

[michellemisfit]

Tag Game Wednesday 🤟

Tagged by these lovely humans who have not given up on me, even though I have suuuucked at playing games with y’all. Thank you @heymacy @mybrainismelted @darlingian @creepkinginc @suzy-queued @energievie @guinguin1984

Special thanks to @deedala for enriching my little paddock 🦙

THIS OR THAT - The rules are simple: two things, you must choose one.

iced coffee or hot coffee?

I don’t drink coffee and hate the flavour so… iced, as taste buds work less well at colder temperatures 🧊

iced tea or hot tea?

Hot, please 🫖

lemonade or sweet tea?

Lemonade. Sweet tea dries my mouth out

minty gum or fruity gum?

Mint. Always freaks me out when I accidentally put fruit gum in my mouth lol

pasta or potatoes?

Pasta. There some potato things that I LOVE, but others I’m meh about. Whereas ALL PASTA IS GOOD PASTA.

olives or pickles?

Pickles 😋

rice or bread?

Bread!! I love risotto, but otherwise rice is meh.

cookies or brownies?

🤤 I want them both, but Chani was 100% correct. Homemade cookies are amazing!!! But shop bought cookies are sometimes incredibly meh, whereas even a meh brownie is pretty fucking good!! So I choose brownies!

hand written reminders or phone reminders?

Phone reminders. My phone calendar, alarms, and notes section literally runs my life. Sometimes there’s a phone reminder telling me to write hand written reminder… lol

pull-over hoodie or zippy hoodie?

Zipper Superiority 🤟

jeans or sweatpants?

Sweatpants. Not worn jeans since 2019 lol

flip-flops/thongs or slides?

Neither, as I need arch support, but… the flip flop strap between my toes makes me want to claw my eyes out so… slides?

paperback book or ebook?

Paperback book. I always read with a pen in my hand to underline things and write comments in the margins. Can’t do that in an e-reader.

enemies to lovers or fwb to lovers?

Enemies to Lovers my beloved!!

only one bed or fake dating?

Fake Dating pines so good!!! Also agreeing to be handsy and snuggly for show, while desperately trying to act unaffected? BARK BARK

hurt/comfort or whump?

Good Whump is the bee’s knees, but sadly just as hard to find. @sam-loves-seb whumped the hell out of last October, but Whump of that quality is hard to come by, so for pure availability I have to choose H/C

mutual pining or amnesia?

Amnesia, baby!

cannon compliant or alternate universe?

AU, because the sky is the limit!!

soulmate au or sports au?

Sports AU love of my life!!! ⚽️🏀🏈⚾️🥎🎾

celebrity au or coffeeshop au?

Coffee shop every single time. You know how sometimes you enter a new fandom and you go looking and there… just… aren’t any coffee shop AUs? Wtf is up with that?!? They are a staple and what fandom is built on, surely!

one-shot or longfic?

I love long fic but I also have commitment phobia and a lot of anxiety over “wasting” time reading fic when I could be being productive, so… one-shots are nice! And a good one-shot packs a punch like no other!!

AND FINALLY....😈

milkovich or gallagher?

Let’s just be honest here… the Milkoviches would scare the everliving daylights out of me in real life, and if anyone I knew dated one I would do everything in my power to break up that relationship, without getting shivved. So… Gallagher lol.

That was fun!!

I would like to tag @vintagelacerosette @too-schoolforcool @heymrspatel @gallawitchxx @mickeysgaymom @ian-galagher @lupeloto @crossmydna @rereadanon @the-rat-wins @tsuga-of-mars @crestfallercanyon @ohkate @palepinkgoat @thepupperino @captainjowl @francesrose3 @iandarling @mikhailoisbaby

[sceletaflores]

describe myself in pictures from my phone, no new downloads

thanks for the tag @guiltyasdave <3 this was so fun!

no pressure tags! @ebodebo @yuenity @artemis-b-writes @avocado-writing @superhoeva @elflutter @silverskyeline @eupheme

[blurglesmurfklaine]

I was tagged by the awesome @somanywords a few days ago and then forgot because I had doubly my dose of daily dumb bitch juice SO

Rules: 1. Do this uquiz. 2. Do this picrew. 3. Tag people.

honestly I fuck with this bc at least three students have clocked me and I have to curveball them with vague answers 😌

Tagging: @kellyscowboy @daveyfvckingjacobs @shutup-andletme-go @haliebug55555 @thelegendofjenna @esperantoauthor @justgleekout @justasmallbloginabigklainefandom and of course anyone else who wants to take a stab at it!