Hello! My name is Mathi (superfaeriebutts on AO3) and I am running from the shackles of perception on my main blog/AO3 account to post some dirty, dirty smut.
Always check the tags before reading and of my fanfictions listed on this page, thank you!
18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI
A Court of Thorns and Roses
TAMLIN
The Cosmogeny Compendium - NSFW Tamlin x Nyx (Johan) art
Shadow Blossoms (in blood) (Complete) - Tamlin x Azriel
Cosmic Bloom (Ongoing) - Tamlin x Azriel
Portrait - Tamlin x Rhysand
VANSERRA FAMILY
A Steady Hand (Complete) - Lucien x Cassian
A Soft Touch (Complete) - Eris x Azriel
A Turn of Events (Complete) - Beron x Elain x Tamlin
Sweet Silence - OC x Lucien x Jurian (+ Tamlin)
Tower of Gods - Beron Vanserra x Rhysand's Father x Tamlin's Father
Warmth - Lucien x Elain
DC Comics
CLARK KENT x BRUCE WAYNE
Regrets (Complete) - Oneshot based off of Umikochanart.
The Binder (Ongoing) - including Orm Marius.
BARRY ALLEN x HAL JORDAN
Duckies, Kittens & Space Cops (Ongoing) - including Komand'r.
You are assistant to the CEO who is a brilliant and particular inventor. He needs you and you are happy to be the most important tool in his box.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: HAPPY JOHAN WEEK 2025! @bloodyjohan This is my entry for DAY 4: JOHAN X READER! Mind the tags to see of this is for you! It's literally just smut!
Morrigan sets her eyes on the sweet, innocent Elain—one of the few women she has yet to lay claim on. The only thing is... Elain isn't as sweet or as easy as she seems.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: @witch-and-her-witcher It's finally here! Thank you so much for this request, I am truly enjoying venturing into f/f and ELAINNNNNNNNNNNNN I LOVE ELAIN 😭 I hope you like it!
READ BELOW THE CUT OR ON AO3
She’s insatiable.
From across the room, Morrigan watches her. Pretty in pink, soft airy trim on her collar and the hem of her dress, Elain keeps shifting in her chair. Her eyes are glued to the spectacle before her—Azriel spread on a torture rack, wrists and ankles bound, cock shifted into a cunt, and sobbing from the pleasure fed into all of his holes one by one by an Autumn Prince. Red doesn’t show on his ochre skin, but it would on hers. Oh, she would blush a pretty pink—she’s blushing now —if she were in his position.
That seat must be wet.
Voyeurs is alive with the scent and sounds of pleasure. Morrigan couldn’t pick her out from the crowd if she wanted to, not from here, so she skirts the outside of the audience, tables and couches set in a circle around the performance area, to get closer. Elain tries to sit on her hands, and Morrigan huffs to herself. She’s probably so wet, it’s staining her dress.
Closer now, she catches the scent of soft flowers, sweet corn and the earth Elain loves so much to toil. The little human is so grounded in her passions, it makes her even more enticing to one such as Morrigan. It would be so easy to corrupt her—to turn her into a pathetic mewling mess. If a shadowsinger can break, Morrigan can only imagine how little Elain needs to push her over the edge. She sits beside her.
“Enjoying the show?”
Elain lets out a soft gasp, caught in the act. She hadn’t meant to stare, and looks anywhere but towards the beautiful males and their play of pleasure and pain. The colour on her cheeks darken. “They’re very… good,” she manages to blurt out.
“They are. Don’t be shy,” Morrigan purrs, taking a perfect manicured nail and tipping Elain’s chin up. She is too close for comfort, but that’s the point of it, isn’t it? How quickly does her little flower princess adapt? “They want you to watch.” She adds, turning Elain’s head to watch them.
Lucien’s fingers glow like embers and trace patterns on the sensitive leather of Azriel’s wings. His cunt drips with excitement, dribbling with glistening desire despite his muffled cries. Tears line his eyes, and a rather large phallus is held in place down his throat with a gag. Lucien is a master at work, and Elain seems fascinated with what he can do.
“Would you like that?” Morrigan asks, a sly smile dancing on her face. She has had her fill of most of the women here, as individuals, couples or part of some new collective experiment in getting off. She has had most, if not all, except one. She reaches across the table, tucking a strand of curly hair behind her ear. “I’d be happy to help. Anything you like.”
Elain turns her head, doe-eyes and sparkling, in Morrigan’s direction. “Anything?”
She sounds so hopeful, and Morrigan was going to acquiesce, anyway. Morrigan didn’t think she would be this easy. “Yes, anything you want, gorgeous.”
***
Their date is set the following week. While Voyeurs lives and breathes by the spontaneity of its patrons, Morrigan is more than happy to give Elain the time to work through whatever she needs. She paces the wooden cross, positioned in the shape of an ‘X’, heels clicking on the ground. She wears white today, erring on the side of masculine with her trousers and tailored coat. Her blonde hair is twisted into a loose knot, pinned together with a needle that might very well be a blade.
“I don’t often say this,” Rhysand slides up next to her, looking around the room coolly as if uninterested with the topic at hand. “But you are biting off more than you can chew.”
“What makes you say that, dear cousin?”
“You saw something sweet, and you couldn’t help but sink your teeth in. Go easy on her. Better yet, forget her.”
Morrigan tips his head, looking down at Rhysand. “She’s a big girl. If she’s curious enough to come here, then she’s smart enough to understand what she’s getting into.”
She turns to inspect the bindings of the cross. The magic is always up to par, but she has nothing better to do and she has no interest in making useless small talk with her cousin or friends that she has had centuries to entertain. She ignores the people settling in, both those interested in tonight’s exhibition and those who have already begun to dig into one another.
“I will definitely remind you that I told you so,” Rhysand says hurriedly and Morrigan can hear the smile in his voice.
The crowd comes to a hush and Morrigan turns, brandishing her smile that is as sharp as her cousins. And then, it falters.
The crowd parts not to reveal the precious flower girl that Morrigan had set her eyes on, but a— Cauldron, she doesn’t have the words. Elain walks towards her with a confidence Morrigan had not even scented in her. Gone are the pinks and pastels, except for the small flowers weaved into her braided hair and the sheer train that acts like a skirt, framing her black leather bodice that hugs her delectable curves. A cat ‘o nine tails is folded into her palm. Morrigan’s lips part in shock. This… was not what she was expecting.
A smile blooms on Elain’s face, as if she hasn’t clued into her chosen performance. “Are you ready, Mor?” Her voice is a chirp, and she bounces on the tips of her toes, eager. Little by little, she starts to get nervous. “Does it look… bad?”
Morrigan hasn’t quite finished processing the boldness and the sheer… surprise of Elain-as-a-dominatrix. She closes his mouth, which she hadn’t realized was agape.
“Not at all,” Morrigan answers smoothly. “You are breathtaking, but there is something missing. May I?”
The young woman nods her head, tucking her chin in, shyly. Morrigan catches her before she can retreat, tipping her head up towards her and captures her lips. She kisses Elain slowly, thoroughly, making sure to taste her and offers a low hum of appreciation as if to savour her. She hears Elain’s soft whimper, and smiles into her mouth. When she pulls back, Morrigan wipes the lipstick off the corner of her lips. Yes, that was the missing touch.
“There, now you’ve completed the look.”
Elain flutters her pretty little lashes, and tucks an errant stray hair behind her ear. “Will you undress for me, Morrigan?”
“I promised anything, after all. And you,” Morrigan says, pecking her lips. “Can call me Mor.”
“Safe word,” Elain asks, dreamily chasing after the kiss. “Hard limits?”
“I have none.” The words are whispered against her lips. “We can make the safe word… ‘Rhysand’.”
“Hey!” The daemati complains from the corner of the room. Morrigan ignores him.
The faerie steps back, unbuttoning her trimmed white coat to reveal nothing more than a bright red bra underneath. A table is brought forth along with lubricant and other toys they might need. She lays her coat across it. There is no grace in bending over and removing her trousers, so she magics them away, leaving her standing in red heels, sheer red lace underwear over her pale blonde thatch and red garters wrapped around her long, slender thighs.
Elain smiles, and Morrigan realizes that Elain is hiding behind that soft, demure personality. Her pleasantness has the fine hairs in the back of Morrigan’s neck standing on edge.
“Remove the underwear, keep the garters and belt, please.” The human beams. “And your hair, untie it. Please.” Her eyes never leave more, a glint of something sharp behind the dark honey of her gaze. When Morrigan steps out of her underwear, obligingly, Elain tips her head and allows herself a moment to drink in the sight of such a beautiful faerie. Morrigan’s blonde hair falls across her shoulders, soft, shiny and with a bounce. Elain bites her lip, thinking hard, before motioning to the cross, standing there innocently and gripping the whip with both hands, almost childishly.
“Are you sure you know how to use that, my lady?”
Elain smiles prettily. “Of course, but only if you’re sure you are willing to take my punishment.”
There is nothing that Elain and her human strength can dole out that Morrigan cannot handle. Humans tire, and they are fragile. Morrigan expects her to tire sooner rather than later, so she smiles and tips her head. “Of course, there’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“If you say so.”
Elain bounces on the balls of her feet, a gentle rhythm as she waits for Mor to step up to the cross and grip the rings on each arm of the ‘X’. She watches, tilting her head with fascination, as the warrior’s strong and faintly scarred body shifts to accommodate the position. The muscles on Morrigan’s back are perfectly visible; Morrigan is so lean and picturesque, Elain cannot look away.
She is calm and patient as she moves towards the tray of tools for her perusal. Elain finds a cream and lathers her hands with it before moving towards Morrigan. She moves her hair aside with her pinky, guiding it forward over Morrigan’s shoulder. Then, Elain begins to trace her body. Her fingers trace her silhouette and commit every detail to memory. Touch slides over her hips, then to the flesh of her pert ass. Elain caresses each cheek lovingly, toying with the way it happily jiggles with the slightest tap. Her digits slide lower, making sure to moisturize her thighs, slipping towards the inner parts of her muscle, and feeling the heat radiating from Morrigan. The anticipation arouses her, Elain has no doubt about that.
Quickly, she shifts gears, wrapping her arms around Morrigan without quite hugging her. Elain makes sure to get her taut stomach and lingers at her small breasts. “This will help with the bruising,” Elain says softly, breathing right into Morrigan’s ear. It’s important to her—to care for her partners.
Morrigan isn’t listening. At all. Her breath is shaky already, and she grips the cross for dear life. She is not used to being on the receiving end of attention. Worse, she rejects tenderness so much that ‘ Rhysand’ rests at the barrier of her throat. Elain has no reason to be so careful; Elain is going too damn slow. Morrigan’s pride is a deadly thing, and it refuses to concede because a mere mortal ran their hands across her. Small, little hands that grope her with gentle possessiveness. Oh, her mind is reeling and nothing has happened yet.
“You… You think I’m worried about that?” Morrigan scoffs, but her voice betrays her, less confident than she needs it to be. “Hit me already.”
Elain’s laughter is soft, genuine amusement. She steps back and picks up her instrument, the leather unfolding onto the marble floor with a dull sound. “You may count, or if you want to be honest, you can thank me. The safe word is ‘Rhysand’,” she says, without missing a beat. These are her rules and she expects them to be abided-by.
The first strike lands on Morrigan’s upper back, a decent and safe place to start.
“One.”
Not a single moment is wasted before Elain strikes again, flicking her wrist perfectly to create a figure eight and not lose momentum in her whipping.
“Two.”
Elain keeps going, disallowing Morrigan the chance to even imagine an end in sight. She has no illusions about fucking a High Faerie. Their stamina and strength far surpasses hers, but her mental fortitude is what she is fighting with.
“Three.”
Her eyes hone in on the blushing skin of Morrigan’s back, too distracted by the fascinating thought of the way her ass jiggles. Elain shifts the course of her punishment, focusing on her own pleasure, watching those pert cheeks bounce. She tunes in faintly to the sound of Morrigan’s counting, patiently letting the numbers tick by. Perhaps corporeal punishment isn’t Morrigan’s cup of tea, but it makes Elain feel impossibly tall.
Morrigan had tried to make her feel small, whether by treating her like a notch on her collection of fuckables or by talking to her like she hadn’t a clue of what goes on in Voyeurs. Elain is selective and happy to watch. To touch and be touched is a choice; when she had heard the name of the club, it spoke to her in ways that only Helion seems to understand. What she does now is not punishment for anything other than performing the act. What she does now is indulgence, nothing more.
‘Thank you ’ never leaves Morrigan's lips, not even by the time Elain’s forearm throbs with effort and Morrigan’s body trembles with a silent battle. Is it difficult ? Elain wonders, but her thighs glisten with eagerness, pooling on the floor below her. It must be something else. The goddess of truth is lying by omission.
Her skin dances with pinpricks of ants beneath her skin. Morrigan’s knuckles have turned white from their hold on the rings of the cross. Her nipples have pebbled against the warming wood. This much, she thought she could endure. She did endure. What is nothing but a few smacks across her back and her ass ? Morrigan has trained for worse, and yet, every strike pools low. Is it because it’s Elain? Her little flower girl that should have been the one whimpering and begging Morrigan for mercy? The truth is—the surprise of it all turns her on.
Morrigan has never been dominated before; she wouldn’t dare allow it.
Morrigan has never had her trust tested like this before, carelessly tossed into Elain’s hands without knowing.
She waits. She waits for what feels like an eternity, and yet the tension within her continues to build. A small gasp escapes her when Elain’s hands wrap around her body, hands finding her small breasts and Elain’s own heavier ones pressed against her back in that tight leather outfit. The warring sensations elicit gooseflesh across her pale skin. Elain does nothing but hold her, and it makes Morrigan want to squirm.
“Are you alright? Enjoying yourself?” Elain whispers, so close that she need not speak any louder.
The answer gets caught in her throat; the begging sits on the tip of her tongue. Touch me, touch me, touch me. Morrigan nods. “Yes, of course. What’s a little whipping?”
“And you’re sure you want more?”
“I don’t break easy, Elain.”
“It’s not about breaking. It’s about enjoying yourself. Do you want to be pleasured, Mor?”
Why does she have to say it like that? Morrigan lets out a soft moan, and she does her best to bite it back. She doesn’t trust the strength of her voice, so she nods. Yes, yes, fuck, yes, isn’t that what she came for?
“Alright.”
Elain presses a kiss on Morrigan’s shoulder and begins to knead her breasts. Her deft, soft fingers dig into her skin to cup the flesh of her tits, then slide towards the tip to roll her sensitive little nubs and draw out sparks of pleasure from Morrigan. It contrasts against the crowd of sensation on her back, drawing her focus to her chest. Mother, her chest. Morrigan has always been the one to give and take pleasure through the vessel of other bodies, but to have someone’s sole focus be on her is too much.
“Oh,” she sighs, as Elain keeps fondling her.
“Just like that,” Elain encourages her voice. “You can give in, Mor.”
It’s the massage all over again, but this time, Morrigan’s senses are heightened. The first time, she had made nothing of it, but the tease compounds with the whipping, two very distinct ways to touch her. It sends her mind in a growing frenzy.
I’m being used, her reason tried to argue—a more palatable take on the situation.
I’m being taken care of, her desire counters and she grows wetter.
Elain presses a kiss against the back of her neck, tilting her head to suckle at the soft skin at the juncture of her shoulder. Her mouth speaks of more and more tenderness, of tasting Morrigan like she is the tender fruit to be plucked out of this crowd of heathens. Morrigan moans louder at the sensation, and Elain rewards her.
“Good girl.”
Elains fingers withdraw from Morrigan’s tits, slithering down her taut belly and down, down into the soft, trimmed hairs on her. She lingers there, toying while nibbling her ear like a longtime lover. Morrigan has never let anyone this close—never dared to let anyone hold her like this. She is above it. (She is afraid of it—being loved, even for a brief, fleeting, impulsive moment.)
“More?”
Morrigan’s throat prickles, dry from her heaved breathing. “More,” she croaks.
“I like my girls vocal,” Elain confesses, low and dangerous.
It’s at this moment that Morrigan realizes that she was the prey. Morrigan was never in control, only lured in by a woman who knows exactly what she wants and how to get it. There’s no anger in the face of the epiphany; they are both one and the same—beautiful creatures that like to bite into soft flesh.
The High Faerie gasps, her chest shuddering as Elain’s fingers slip between her folds, skirting around the nub of her clitoris. The avoidance is purposeful, meant to cultivate yearning within Morrigan and yearn she does. Elain’s touch ventures deeper, exploring Morrigan’s warmth and bliss blooms right from her core. Yes, yes, finally. Her fingers make a wet sound as they push in, then lazily draw out. This mortal acts like she has all the time in the world and it’s maddening.
“Fuck!” Mor cries out when her ass is gripped, right where the skin is flaming red and sore.
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Morrigan.” Elain’s voice is light, airy and yet commanding all the while—strength wrapped in the deceiving package of feminine grace. “Sing for me.”
Elain frames Morrigan’s clit between her index and middle finger as she starts to finger her in earnest. The friction is measured. Morrigan receives what Elain decides to give her. Morrigan’s breath grows heavy as her head rests against the cross. She can’t help the sounds that slip past her red lips.
“Elain, Elain,” Morrigan prays to the goddess wrapped around her. “ Ye-ah!” Her voice kicks up, higher than anyone in the room has ever heard from the Morrigan. She can’t—she can’t believe that her unmaking is happening here, in front of all these prying eyes. Her oldest friends, her cousins, her allies and even her enemies bear witness to a human pulling at her every string. Her knees are weak and the palms of her hands are sweaty around the metal rings. “Ah!”
“I’m not finished with you,” Elain whispers as she drags Morrigan to the very edge of pleasure then stops.
She pulls away and Morrigan shivers. The air is cold without Elain’s warmth pressed against her.
Distance gives Mor a chance to gather herself—to pretend that she can hide the truth of her pleasure. (She can’t. That would be a lie, wouldn’t it? After all, the reason she chases and fucks is because there is nothing more honest than watching her lovers cry out in sheer bliss.) A hum fills the room and she doesn’t dare look up. She can feel the weight of the eyes on her and the words resting heavily on the tip of her cousin’s tongue. I told you so.
Her pointed ears twitch at the sound of Elain’s return, and she feels Elain’s touch as she arranges her blonde hair over her shoulder and out of the way. She must want to see the red welts on her back, and Morrigan does not fault her for one second.
“I’m going to fuck you now. Are you ready, Mor?”
“Give it to me,” Morrigan challenges.
Soft laughter tickles her ear, and Elain gives one last huff of amusement before pressing close. The warmth, it’s back again and Morrigan is foolish enough to sink into it—to feel comforted by it. Then, she feels it. Solid, hard, and pressed up between her cheeks and then her cunt. Elain has put on the false-cock and as promised, will fuck Morrigan with it. Morrigan tenses, gripping her holds with renewed excitement.
(Her? Excited to get fucked ? What a load of firsts—)
“Elain!” She moans as the human woman pushes into her. The cock is unyielding, splitting her open from behind. She can feel every inch as it's slowly filling her up, making her spread her legs wider in a silent invitation for more. “Oh, fuck, fuck me.”
“That’s the plan,” Elain hums, almost a singsong with far too much amusement in her voice.
The way Elain touches her gives Morrigan pause; it reframes every sexual encounter before this and makes her realize she knows nothing. Morrigan takes pleasure from her partners. She rides on the wave of her natural faerie beauty and pride. Every woman she takes to bed is part of a collection—a tally in her mind. But Elain? Elain holds her like she’s something of a discovery. Her hands touch her as if to learn about her and uncover secrets. Elain fucks her like she can savour her right through that false-cock. It’s unlike anything Morrigan has ever experienced before with a woman or a man.
Elain grips her free hand on Morrigan’s breast, holding onto her for leverage as she ups her pace. Her hips drive into Morrigan’s ass, the sound of skin on skin is nearly as loud as Morrigan’s wanton moans. Elain mumbles encouragement every time her name spills from Morrigan’s lips, rewarding the faerie by getting onto her toes and hitting that right spot.
“E-Elain, I’m ready,” Morrigan tries to say as steadily as possible, but it comes out breathily.
Elain doesn’t answer, relentless in her thrusting. Pressure builds within Morrigan, more than just the steady climb of arousal.
“I-I— Elain! ” Morrigan cries out. The rings rattle beneath her grip against the wood of the cross as she fights against the inevitable. “I-I can’t!” She can’t hold it, she can’t hold it. Cauldron, she’s going to cum because of a human. Morrigan has always been in control, and she is a fool—a damn fool—for underestimating Elain. Elain feels so good inside her. She fills up all the spaces inside of her, holds her and makes her feel wanted. The feelings wear at the walls of her heart, and they come crashing down.
Warmth bursts outward, taking over her body in waves of pulsing pleasure. Slick splatters onto the floor as she squirts for the first time in her long life. She feels Elain still behind her, crying out her name, too. She can’t hold herself up any longer, releasing the holds as Elain catches her. Others come to help her, but it’s Elain that strokes her sweat-slicked blonde hair out of her forehead and whispers sweet, soothing nothings.
“You did so well, Morrigan.”
“What,” Morrigan chokes, her throat dry. “About you?”
Elain laughs softly. “The cock is double edged. I got mine.”
“Good,” Morrigan sighs.
Her experience and her instincts tell her that she needs to get up. Morrigan cannot just lay here. She cannot show weakness. She needs to be strong and unbothered, but she’s just so tired. It’s comfortable here in Elain’s arms. She’s soft. Warm. She says nice things.
“Would you…” Elain starts, and Morrigan expects her to ask her to get up. “Like to go to dinner? I think we’re a good match in bed. Why not see how we fair outside of it?”
And for the first time in her life, Morrigan blushes.
Tamlin who has a knot because he's spent too much time shapeshifted and he's shy about it. He's never told anyone about it, having been taught to be ashamed by his monstrous form.
Tamlin who wants to be completely inside you, and he asks with a pink flush on his cheeks.
Tamlin who's so nervous when you say yes—you'll take anything he gives you—that he forgets where to put his hands on you, so you guide him.
Tamlin who remembers to stretch you, and who is meticulous in the task. When you're good an ready, Cauldron, you can see on his face how good it feels for him to slide home.
maybe that fictional man is evil to you. to me he holds me and caresses me and loves me and has incredible sex with me. he’s still evil, i just wanted you to know that we fuck freaky style
Tamlin who has a knot because he's spent too much time shapeshifted and he's shy about it. He's never told anyone about it, having been taught to be ashamed by his monstrous form.
Tamlin who wants to be completely inside you, and he asks with a pink flush on his cheeks.
Tamlin who's so nervous when you say yes—you'll take anything he gives you—that he forgets where to put his hands on you, so you guide him.
Tamlin who remembers to stretch you, and who is meticulous in the task. When you're good an ready, Cauldron, you can see on his face how good it feels for him to slide home.
@c-e-d-dreamer @highlordofkrypton and the other four anons who asked me about this one LOL
Listen, this is basically a fever dream that came to me after I binge read Ari Wright for a solid week. I can't decide if I want to make this an ACOTAR poly omegaverse or a contemporary poly romance omegaverse, but there IS a plot, and I feel INSANE outlining it, but here we are.
YOU ALL GOT TO ME WITH YOUR KNOTTING AND SCENT MARKING ARE YOU HAPPY NOW
Vampire Prince Rhysand x Monster Hunter Feyre! This is part of a trilogy I meant to write for last year's KINKTOBER/MONSTOBER, but life got in the way. I plan to finish it for this year. These will all be shared on @superfaeriebutts!!
The trilogy consists of:
Vampire Prince Rhysand x Monster Hunter Feyre
Werewolf Cassian x Monster Hunter Nesta
Familiar Lucien x Witch Elain x Demon Azriel
Here's a little snippet of the Feysand fic below the cut.
“Darling, do you need a hand?”
Snarls fill the air, bouncing off the crowd of trees, and carried off with the bats. His voice floats above it all, annoying as shit. A ghoul snaps at her face, and she uses her bow to keep it at bay. It’s large enough to use as a barrier between herself and the necrotic corpses. The only difference between him and them is the state of decay. He’s just as dead, and just as irritating.
“Yeah, and,” Feyre grits her teeth, inhaling a sharp breath to summon her strength to shove the monsters off of her. “I’d,” she dips her hand in a small satchel on her belt. Salt flies in an arc; the second it touches the ghouls, their skin begins to sizzle. “Have to listen to you,” she unhooks the axe from her side and uses her full weight to embed it into the closest enemy. “Complain about being,” she continues, swinging the axe towards the other two ghouls back off. “Being hurt!”
The bat perches on his branch, legs crossed and looking at his shortened claws. “If you think I can’t even handle some ghouls, even weakened, you are sorely mistaken, my dear heroine.”
It’s between listening to him complain that she needed his help, and listening to him complain that he’s not that injured. Feyre pants, stepping back to try and add space between them. She notches her arrow, coated in one of Elain’s latest concoctions. It wasn’t meant for her, but she snatched one vial from Nesta’s stash. She won’t notice it missing—her oldest sister has been working with one less of almost every supply for years. Not stealing would be more suspicious.
The first arrow strikes her enemy in the heart, and there is only one left. The final ghoul tips its eyeless head up; it opens its rotting, bloody mouth to utter several choked, cries straight from the throat.
It’s calling for reinforcement.
Feyre’s mind runs through her father’s teachings. Ghouls travel in large packs, but they hunt in smaller ones. Easier to corner prey when they are underestimated, but the main chorus of their pack is always nearby. She moves quickly, shooting the last one, but it’s too late. She can feel the rumble of the ground beneath her, galloping hands headed straight towards her. It could be many, or it could be the one leader.
“Shit,” she hisses under her breath, digging matches out of her pocket and while soaking the corpses with melted grease. Her hands shake—she can’t, she can’t light the flame. The bodies need to be disposed of before they return the next night.
They’re getting closer, and that thought does nothing to help her mission. Feyre’s hands tremble even more. Nesta was right, I can’t—
“Breathe,” Rhysand says, his warm breath curling around her ear. It slithers down her spine, and beneath her skin; she has to fight the urge to shiver. His hands encircle hers as he helps her strike the match, and tips it into the line of corpses. “I won’t let the little ghoulies get you, darling.”
He leans closer, the line of his body against her back. “The only thing you should be afraid of in this forest is me.”
SUMMARY: Tamlin's inappropriate use of a cellphone; Lucien proves that he is a loyal and thoughtful emissary that gives his High Lord what he needs.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Everybody say thank you @asadweeghostie for the prompt: "Inappropriate use of phone as a vibrator". Special shoutout to @trash-shrike because I have honoured our trade deal, GIVE THE PEOPLE THE CRONCHY SKETCHES.
TAGS: Masturbation, Phone Sex (literally), Fem!Tamlin, fic so good it turned @geniemillies into a phone, etc.
Tamlin's female form is magical, and everyone wants a taste of her, but it's the Summer Court who truly knows how to get wet and wild.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: @taymartiart really said 'it's pussy writing summer' and I took that personally. Mind the tags before you read to make sure this fic is for you. This also includes Tamsand! I forgot to put it in the header...
If you have any pairing/kink requests for this series, feel free to send me an ask or drop a comment.
TAGS: Fem!Tamlin, Exhibitionism, Bondage, Medical Equiment, Cunnilingus, Overstimulation, Watersports, Mild Cuckholding Kink (@ Rhysand), etc.
