seaweed + writhing + tarquin/poly ship of your choosing, but maybe feysand or feylin
seaweed + writhing for day 1 of @polysjmweek: positions
feysandquin | 500 words
under the cut you will find tentacles and shibari and d/s stuff (submissive!feyre). happy easter
Feyre flexes her wrists, bound in careful knots behind her back.
The vines of seaweed do not break—but then, they're not the usual sort.
She's exposed like this: chest bared, legs spread open against the cool bedsheets, ankles tied behind her as well. Rendered helpless in a way that has become foreign to her since she shed her humanity.
Only a high lord could hope to match her strength.
A delightful shiver runs down her spine when the door opens and he returns.
"High Lady," Tarquin intones, his voice deep and dark as he inspects his handiwork, the intricate knots that drape around her artfully, holding her in position. There is something untamed behind his eyes, something lurking beneath their sea-calmed turquoise.
A tentacle slides forward, presses against her thigh. He's learned by now she likes him best this way: tentacled and finned, half-shifted into the beast that dwells within him.
She gasps at the firmly muscled appendage, senses set alight, and writhes with pleasure against her bonds as she arches toward his touch.
"Tell me," she says breathlessly, remembering what he's described of his beast's senses, "what I taste like."
Tarquin smiles his charming smile, but says nothing, only raises a brow.
"Eager, are you?" a familiar voice purrs behind her.
Feyre clamps her mouth shut.
Tarquin withdraws, though it is with some reluctance, Feyre notes with satisfaction.
Rhys's steps echo against the tiled floor, slow and deliberate. As if savoring the approach. Then he appears—her mate, prowling forward, coming closer, closer, closer.
Her heart gutters in her chest as he leans toward her, eyeing her possessively.
Rhys cups Feyre's chin, his grip firm as he lifts her face to meet his. His eyes darken as he runs his thumb across her cheek, and then his mouth parts—only just, but she hears the sharp inhale. She feels the thrum of his want down their bond.
She leans forward, trying to catch his lips in her mouth.
"You are a greedy little thing," Rhys smirks as he draws back, his sensuous voice like velvet as it caresses her. "Aren't you?"
Before she can respond, he sinks a finger into her opening—already soaked through, already aching to be filled.
She whines, but does not answer. She knows the rules. She's not supposed to talk.
Good girl, he says into her mind, and she preens. He rewards her with a sinfully slow stroke down her inner walls, then pulls his finger out.
"Don't worry, darling." He steps away, sauntering over to Tarquin. Rhys brings his finger, glistening wet, to Tarquin's mouth. He suckles greedily. Satisfied, Rhys sits down in the ornate chair that sits across the bed. "I'll ensure he takes good care of you."
Remember—you don't look away from me.
"Tarquin," Rhys bids, voice quiet but commanding authority. "Feyre is feeling a bit empty." His head tilts to the side. "Fill her up."
When Feyre feels the cool, wet slide of the High Lord of Summer inside her, a tingling pleasure shoots through her, warming her stomach and stretching to the tips of her fingers and toes. Her body shakes as he reaches deeper, stroking her inner walls in a fluid motion.
Eyes still locked with Rhys's violet gaze, Feyre screams.
