Claim (Kathy’s Song). Mike x Reader. Smut, exhibitionism, fingering, squirting, degradation, boot worship, bodily fluids. This might be the best party you’ve ever been to. The song he’s humming is this:
The thing is, when he says lemme take you to this party it’s a promise of a good time, maybe a couple cheap drinks, fucking in one of the beds upstairs. That’s how it’s been and that’s how it’s probably gonna be. Right?
Well.
When he says lemme take you to this party, the next thing he says is I wanna fuck you right there in front of everyone. The exhibitionism is nothing new; he’s a devotee to the art of almost getting caught. This is a step beyond, and if your assent catches you by surprise it’s overshadowed by how fast and how deep his tongue is in your mouth. Knew it, babe. Fuckin knew it. So dirty for me, I love it.
And this is you bent over the back of some ratty couch, gripping the cushions like you could claw right through them because Mike’s talking baseball with some buddies— he’s not even into baseball, for fuck’s sake. But he’s speaking animatedly, slapping your ass for emphasis now and again, working his cock in and out with a slowness that has you nearly howling with frustration. Mike. Fucksake. Harder.
And what does he do, your darling sweet Mike? Does he push in hard and fuck you til your eyes cross and you can’t hear a damn thing beyond skin on skin? Of course not, because Mike is an asshole. What he does is he hauls you up til he can get two thick fingers into your mouth and press down on your tongue. And while you’re trying your best to clench down around that ridiculously thick cock of his he brings his lips right to your ear and murmurs babe. Be good. I’m in the middle of a conversation. It’s just a little condescending and it’s so fucking different from his usual breathless laughs and moans. It’s him in your mind’s eye, aging ten years and growing in some stubble; this is the kind of guy who’d scoot you back on your barstool just enough to slip inside and whisper better not spill your drink, sweetheart. And you fucking love it.
What do you think? he asks when he’s stroking in and out with metronomic steadiness. You want me to let some of these guys have a turn when I’m done? Babe. I fucking felt that. You want it, huh? You wanna be so fucking filthy and used up. And yeah, he’s right; you can picture it now, Mike running his fingers along the neck of his beer, watching keenly as Brad or Phil or whoever the fuck he’s been talking to pulls his cock out and ruts right into you. You can almost hear the dirty talk, this new guy complaining.
Fuck, man, thought you said this little pussy was tight. It’s all messy and stretched out, cmon, next time let someone else use your toys before you go and ruin them.
Babe. Be good. Give his cock a nice big squeeze. Know you can.
The thing is, though, Mike’s feeling selfish today. He wants to stake his claim and not share. So when he picks up the pace til he’s scooting the couch across the floor with every thrust, his words all fall away until the only thing that makes it to your ear is mine. And when he comes he knots the condom and throws it away but he isn’t done; he isn’t done because you’re not done and he may be an asshole but he knows how to treat his partner right.
That’s it, babe. Fuck yourself back onto my fingers. So fuckin wet. Not just from my cock, though; I know you love the way these guys all look at you, like they’re an inch away from dropping trou and just using you hard. Oh babe, I can feel it building up in you. Think I can make you squirt all over this nice couch?
Turns out he can. He presses and twists hard and you can’t help but soak his hand. And the couch. And my shoes, babe. Whaddya say? Wouldn’t want to leave them all dirty. Oh, he’s just not playing fair today; he’s got a wicked twinkle in his eye and a hint of renewed arousal at the front of his jeans. And you could tell him to fuck right off; you could say let’s do something else and he’d agree easily enough; he’s an asshole but he’s respectful about it. But what you really want to do is drop down behind the couch on elbows and knees, down in the mess you made, right where you can get a proper eyeful of those heavy leather boots. And you’re gonna make them shine.
It doesn’t matter that there’s a dozen other people in this room; they’ve seen you fucked and fingered and they know exactly what you’re up to. It gets you even wetter if that were possible; you’re so soaked and fucking filthy, the smell of sex is never gonna come out. Oh babe. Don’t you love this, being down on the floor cleaning my fucking boots? That’s it. Get your tongue all over. Bet you can taste yourself real good. You can, along with leather and dust and the faintest hint of polish. It’s heady and your whine might well travel up his boot to his body to his ear. Whether he can hear it or not doesn’t matter; he sees the way you’re looking up at him and it makes his cock twitch.
Look at you. You’re getting off on this. Perfect. Babe, it’s like— it’s like— hell, it’s like you were born to be here, right in this dusty little spot at some house party in the middle of nowhere, leather warming under your tongue while there’s movement above you that means Mike is stroking himself off. Is he gonna— yeah. Yeah, he is. His come is warm and somehow so abundant; it’s in your hair, on your shoulders, and there’s a drop on the toe of his left boot that you lap up even before he can open his mouth to ask it of you.
Hell of a party, huh babe.
Hm. Yeah. You gonna offer me a drink?
Mike’s on the floor with you sticky in his arms; the party’s still ongoing but the party doesn’t matter. The thing that matters is he’s warm and solid; he’s softly watchful like he knows he needs to be. And the drink he offers is— is this orange juice?
Little bit of sugar, babe. It’ll tide you over til we get you some real food. I’m thinking waffles, sausage, the whole midnight breakfast deal. Whaddya say? It’s a good— no. It’s a great idea. At the diner Mike sits beside you in the booth and his curls are a mess; his cheeks are rosy to the point of glowing and when you press against his side he tucks your head beneath his chin and hums.
I need some more Syverson in our foursome universe. Do you think he'd ever submit to being the sub in the equation?
Well, @tuckersgirl I’d say he most definitely would. Here we have just a soft little bit of nothing much. Homecoming. Walter x Syverson x Mike x Reader. Smut. Fingering. Anal sex. Foursome. Sy comes home.
Sy comes back after a month, smelling of meadow grass and dust; it feels like it’s been forever and he’s itching, lonely, hey Sy. Heard you’re back in town. Come on over for dinner, why don’t you? And that’s Mike chirping down the line; he’s all sunshine these days but there’s that cloudy autumn chill in his bones; his scars recognize Sy’s in some unspoken way. Cmon. We’ve missed you. And how is he supposed to say no to that?
You’re not supposed to. Come on. Sit. Eat. Tell us a story. The plains in summer creep down through Sy’s words; he’s all warm sun and wind, and in his voice you hear the thunder of hooves, the soft sounds of little animals on a warm night, the way he slept outside and woke to the dew in his beard. And you’re there with your head on his thigh; he runs a hand between your shoulder blades, up and down, up and down. His hand is warm and broad and every callus rasps through your thin shirt.
And when Mike comes to stand behind the chair he rakes his hands down Sy’s chest and back up to scrape over his nipples; they pebble through the green shirt and oh that’s a moan above you, throaty and rich, I missed you and please don’t stop all wrapped up in need.
Michael. That’s Walt at the head of the table, chin resting in his hand, ever watchful.
Right, boss. There’s the tiniest shift in his voice, smoothing and steadying, as he says hey there, handsome. I wanna welcome you back. Cmon. Let’s go to bed.
And there’s Walter in the big chair; he’s thick and hard against your back as he’s working you open on his fingers, his voice soft in your ear. Sweetheart. Watch them closely. Watch what our boy can do. Mike slides slick fingers into Sy’s ass: one, two, three; Sy’s down on his elbows and if the vulnerability of the position has him worried it’s soothed by Mike’s warm weight against his back.
There you are for me, big guy. Listen. When Walt showed me how to do this— but whatever he says next is lost in the thick hot pulse of Walter at your back, as he fingers you in time to the sight of Mike and Sy writhing on the bed.
Thought I was supposed to— ah— supposed to be watching.
Shh, sweetheart. And Walter slides his fingers into your mouth, slick with need; your tongue over his fingers makes him groan and that’s it. I want to be inside you now. He stands and turns you in his arms; like this it’s nothing for him to lift you and carry you to the bed, to deposit you beside Sy, just in time to hear the punched-out groan he makes when Mike eases inside; it’s a groan you capture with your hands on his cheeks to hold him steady, with your lips slotted over his to steal every sound.
God, you’re gorgeous like this, big guy. Letting me in so easily, you’re so good. Good boy. Mike’s rolling his hips nice and easy; his brows are pulling tight and any minute now he’ll crack; he’ll move sharply and find the spot that makes Sy see stars. And maybe you’ll see it and maybe you won’t; Walter’s burrowing his way inside you and that thick cock of his is stealing the very breath from your lungs. His fingers might be thick but they’re not quite thick enough; even now he’s stretching you to your very limit.
Alright, sweetheart?
Alright.
And Walter moves filthy and formless, hauling you back up against him, his hand firm on you. Eyes open. Watch them. Aren’t they beautiful? And they are, moving like serpents, twining and writhing; when Sy’s arms give out Mike rides him right down to the mattress. Michael. That’s it. Don’t be cruel. And so he isn’t; with all their sounds and yours tangling together, Mike pulls Sy apart, rendering him thoughtless and languid.
The bed is warm and deep and Sy is at the center of a circle of limbs; you rest your head on his belly to hear the rush of blood through his veins and the steady beating of his heart. Here is softness in the midst of sweat and fluids; here is the welcome home and the won’t you stay awhile. And maybe he will and maybe he won’t; even after everything Sy is still skittish, still not quite believing that he can have all this. But Mike is laying soft kisses down Sy’s shoulder and Walter’s warmth radiates through you all. And here in this bed, for a little while at least,
Hello friend! It me again with more thoughts. I was rereading Late Night and it got me thinking about the first time Sy stayed the night with them. I know he joined the cuddles at the end of And then there were Four but I feel like he wouldn't stay the ~Night~ until someone took that choice from him. Like, I just feel like he wouldn't ask for it. So maybe it was a situation where he dropped hard and Walter isn't gonna let him drive home like that. Or maybe something happens. Maybe Walter needs to leave for work and asks Sy to stay and take care of Mike and the Reader. Maybe there's an accident that means he'll have to stay the night to help keep a watchful eye on whoever's hurt. Maybe he accidentally stays up too late chatting with Mike and they accidentally fall asleep on the sofa and in the morning Walt wakes them with a smile and fresh coffee and the thought that he could get used to the sight of them. Or maybe all of these happen before it becomes a habit and he stays more often than not.
Tl;dr: I have a lot of thoughts and a lot of feels about our boys and I love them a lot and I'm glad Sy is joining the fray.
This one took a little longer than I intended, but I’ve brought more foursome for @septicace . In the Morning. Walter x Mike x Sy x Reader. Smut, angst, discussion of nightmares, anal, oral. Finally, Sy stays.
When he stays it’s not the first, not the second, not the thirdfourthfifth time you bump shoulders in the kitchen, run your hand down his spine, feel Walter’s soft smile clear across the room; this is comfort and ease and Mike breezing in with a backpack and a plate of something from god knows where but damn if it isn’t the best cake you’ve ever had.
It’s a secret, babe. If I told you then I’d have to—
Kill me?
Nah. Maybe I’d eat you out right here on the table, cake in your hair and smearing frosting all down your belly. And he’s joking, mostly. But it’s Mike, so if he did you would hardly be surprised. What is a surprise is the way he leans over to suck two of Sy’s fingers into his mouth, laving his tongue over the webbing and isn’t that a delicious sound: almost broken, with a hint of the wild and wanton behind it.
This is my body and this is my blood, Mike says when he lets Sy’s fingers go; he slips two of his own between Sy’s lips and watches with eyes dark and deadly serious as they’re licked clean. Fuck. Let’s go to bed.
And it’s a tangle of limbs on the stairs as the four of you tumble up to bed, Walter with his hands warm on your ass and when you climb the last step he takes a moment to part your cheeks and lick a filthy wet stripe from your asshole clear to the base of your neck. Mine, he’s growling in your ear but it’s affectionate, full of pleasure and approval at the way you shiver beneath his touch.
You should stay, Mike says. You haven’t heard the latest chapter yet. I wanna read it to you while I ride you hard, big guy. And he’s working the plug from his own ass while he’s still got one arm in his shirt; he’s fumbling lube and pressing it into Sy’s hands and that’s the way the evening starts.
The evening ends in a tangle of limbs, filthy with sweat and lube and come smeared everywhere; your throat is raw and you’re idly rolling a lozenge around your mouth as you nestle in Walter’s arms, legs tangled up with Mike’s and there’s Sy making like he’s gonna leave, but
Stay.
Early day tomorrow.
Bullshit. That’s Mike, peering over your shoulder. All this time and you still think you don’t belong? You’ve been in my ass, what’s so hard about being in my bed? It’s not the wrong question, not quite, but it’s a near thing; Mike has that look, those tight brows and shiny eyes and his glance back at Walter is pleading. Tell him, boss.
It’s the dreams, of course it is: memories of fire and pain, of chaos and noise and those he’d sworn to protect reduced to slabs of flesh at his feet, all turned around and rendered strange in the way of dreams. If Sy tried to explain— if I tried to explain them it wouldn’t make any sense. Not to me, not to you. But it’s ugly and it’s loud sometimes, and I— (don’t want to drive you away, don’t want to make you regret the invitation, couldn’t bear to lose this)— I don’t think you’d want it.
And Walter is rising, easing you from his arms as he flows like a landslide over Sy, covering him in the warm weight of his flesh, mouth gentle over the shell of his ear. We want you here. Dreams and all. And when you wake up frightened, when you come up swinging, we will make whatever space you need. You’re ours now.
I have to feed the dogs—
I’ll get the dogs. Mike is firm and there’s that edge, that little nascent piece of him that commands. Just be here when I get back. And he leaves.
And when Mike returns it’s with a sea of dogs; Aika slips into the bed next to Sy and lays her head across his lap; all around is warmth and hair and in this pile of warm flesh and hair you settle; the discussion isn’t over yet but it’s enough for now. It’s enough with Mike lapping lazily at your cunt before pillowing his head on your thigh; it’s enough with Walter gently running his broad palm over Sy’s cropped hair. It’s enough with the way you’re bracketed by these wonderful ridiculous men, and by what seems to be an endless sea of dogs.
It’s enough. You’re enough. Just as you are. And when you brush your fingers against Sy’s, he turns his head to you and smiles. Just a little, small and secret. And like this, at last, he drifts into sleep.
In the morning there will be coffee at sunrise, Mike and Walter talking low and easy, Sy relaxing his head against the arm you drape across his shoulder. In the morning it will all be brighter; you’ll fall into the new ritual of waking up together, but for now sleep descends and it is warm and deep. And though Sy’s dreams are never far, neither are the rest of you, and neither are the drifts of gently snoring dogs.
Since we're talking about Mike again and I miss my boy, what about cockwarming him with a side of orgasm delay/denial? Maybe while he's writing?
@septicace I’ve missed writer Mike too. And yet I couldn’t resist. Tentacular. Mike x Reader with a side of Walter. Smut, cockwarming, monsterfucking (tentacles), threesome-ish, praise, Mike’s prose (which should get a warning on its own), come eating, fluids, oral. Mike’s been writing some niche stuff lately.
Hey, babe. What’s another word for dick? I’ve already used cock, iron rod, velvety shaft, weeping member, even flaming sword.
Turgid— ah, fuck. Damn it, Mike— staff? Turgid staff? Christ, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep doing that.
Shh. Babe. Be good and don’t distract me. The sooner you let me finish, the sooner I can fuck you how you like it. And he rolls his hips just a little, the bastard, for a moment driving himself deep, rubbing his pubic bone and thatch of hair against you, ratcheting your need even higher. Hey. Rest your head on my shoulder. Be nice and still for me. There you go. That’s good.
Mike is warm and thick and so hard inside you, and this patience is something new, something he must’ve picked up from Walter. He’s been more settled lately. Calmer. Sleeping better, even, and what a relief that is, waking to the soft brush of lips wrapped around your earlobe instead of to agonized screams.
Babe. Listen to this. ‘His wide cerulean orbs radiated all the heat of the morning glory pool, dark and deep and secretive, filled with burning acid. He gazed upon her with all the fire of the good stovetop burner’s gas flame, the color of twilight and deep rocky caves where eyeless fish live.’ It’s not quite there yet— he gives a sharp, deep thrust, arm coming up to bar across your lower back, holding you still for him— but I need to purple up this next draft. My editor says it’s getting a little too close to literary. He types one-handed for a while, holding your body flush against his, moving just often enough to drive you mad.
He’s been struggling with this one, with Simon’s return to civilian life, all the heroics and terrors of battle following in his wake. And here you are to keep Mike company, to keep him warm, to keep him centered. To sob into his shoulder as he reaches around your body to type, laptop sitting on the bed before him, keys clicking softly as you tense your legs around his waist. To shift your hips in a futile search for more, only to hear his voice in your ear, rough with barely contained need. Babe. Be good. Shh. Hold still and I’ll read to you a little.
‘When he woke, the shadows crawled like inky tentacles up the sides of the bed, wrapping his limbs in their immovable grip. He could feel his rigid maypole shivering in time to his shaky breaths, his precome raining down like silk streamers. It fell cold and wet on his thighs—‘ yeah, I know, babe. I know. I wanna fuck you so bad, wanna roll you under me and spread you wide, wanna fuck you deep til you can taste it. Thought about taking it slow but I don’t think I can. Not after this. I bet Walter could though, right boss?
Walter hmms a little, the sound rumbling up from somewhere deep in his chest as he idly palms at his fly. Michael. Would you read a little more?
‘It was a strange dream, frightening like shells screaming overhead, like the terrible silence that followed, and yet something crept and crawled after him, sand sticking to its many mucus-coated tentacles—‘ yes, babe, he’s totally gonna get fucked by a tentacle monster, I told you I was doing some niche shit lately—
‘Simon could still see them in the shadows, and as much as he wanted to hate it, the truncheon standing between his legs twitched and pulsed as he remembered the dream; as those oil-slick shadows twined around him he recalled the grit and dirt sticking to the creature, so that its tentacles felt like a rough tongue when they stroked over him and then inside him.’ I still need to get some of the descriptions fixed, try to find some more synonyms for dick, maybe some more details about Simon getting fucked by the tentacle monster.
A— Christ. A tentacle monster.
Yeah, and you like it. I felt that. Listen, babe. Think about it. Think about being pinned down, your clothes torn open, and somehow it knows exactly how you like it. And it can ripple and swell inside you. It can fill up every hole so perfectly, like it was made from the negative mold of you.
Michael. I think someone’s about at their limit.
Yeah, boss. I know. And Mike leans to set the laptop on a side table; it shifts him so deliciously inside you. Ready babe? And just as he promised he rolls you underneath him, hands coming down to part your thighs and hold them apart, to give a few testing thrusts to make sure he’s fully seated. And then he moves.
He keeps your legs pushed up and back as best he can, to make you feel the stretch and burn of it, to feel you shift against him and ripple with want when he hitches his hips to drive himself deeper. He’s positively vibrating with energy, with the concentration that comes from keeping himself together and Mike. Hey. Hey. Please. Can you—
Yeah. His hand comes up to guide you over the edge, to find that thin bright line where need burns bright inside you. Think about it, babe. How good it’d feel, how all you could think about is how completely you’re being filled. I want to see it disappearing inside you, work my fingers into the mess it leaves. See you tired and sated and filthy and—
And Mike buries his face in the crook of your neck; when he comes it’s a gasping sob, thick and wet. There’s a quiet groan from Walter in his chair, watching the two of you come undone. Good. That’s good.
And Mike descends to lick you clean; he takes all his spend back into himself and pulls you to the edge again; when he surges up to kiss you it’s with the taste of you both heavy on his tongue. Hey, he says, and it’s a gift, this little moment: the soft brush of his lips against your temple, the deep sigh as he relaxes against you.
Hey Mike. Does Simon— does he get his happy ending?
Okay. So. @october505 wanted Mike and car sex and, well, I couldn’t resist throwing in a mention of our favorite grumpy detective. Follows While He’s Away. Mike x Reader, offscreen Walter x Mike x Reader. Mantidae. Smut, car sex. Mike comes home. Just a little bit of soft.
Mike’s so damn tall that he’s folded up like a mantis in the backseat, all his limbs tangled with yours as he wriggles and curses his way out of his clothes
Mike. Cmon. You don’t have to—
I want to, babe. Need to feel your skin.
and he’s all laughter, his chuff against your neck driving out the last vestiges of the dream, leaving a hole to be filled with lust and sweat and the little pleased sounds you’re making because his hand is working its way past your waistband to where you want it most. And when he curls his fingers just so it’s electric; he swallows your sounds and feels them settle in his belly to begin healing him from the inside out.
Missed you, he’s breathing into your lungs. Missed you, missed you, let me live in you. Let me crawl inside you and when your arms move mine will move too. He’s close but he needs to be closer; skin to skin isn’t enough and it won’t be enough until he’s inside you, until you cradle him in warmth as he presses himself in as deep as he can get.
And in the car the windows begin to fog with your shared breath and the writhing of your bodies; Mike’s stripping you as best he can and it’s cramped and awkward and somehow perfect. And oh when he’s got you bare he takes your panties and puts them between your teeth; he’s wriggling his brows with that salacious grin that says well?
Mmmph. Yeah. Yeah, that’s good. It means get in me; it means Mike. I missed you too; he’s been away a week and a week is still too long; you haven’t even made it out of the parking garage at the airport and his need is burning, boiling over, leaving invisible fingerprints seared into your flesh because he needs, needs, needs. He is drowning and desperate and
I liked that video you sent. I like this more.
And with Mike, there’s no jealousy; he’s secure in his place within your little triad (because it’s not a foursome, not yet, not until—) and he’s just so damn glad to see you, to breathe you deep and whisper it was hard, sleeping alone. Too many dreams, and they were all wrong. He’s got his hand bent back so he can rub you just right, til you’re squirming and whimpering in the way that means
Now, now damn it, get inside me. Missed you too, missed your cold feet on my calves and the smell of pancakes wafting in when you’re up before the sun. And he’s listening, pulling the panties from your mouth so he can kiss you deeply, tasting all your spit and need; all your limbs are tangled and he’s sinking deep inside you. He’s all warmth and salt and the faintest hint of violets from that shampoo he favors (it was yours and now it’s his as well and when you tangle with Walter in the bed it surrounds you all with a scent that’s become as familiar as your own hand).
Pretty boy. Pretty smell.
What, did I fuck you silly already? Lost your powers of speech, babe?
Bite me.
(And he does)
And here in this little cocoon with your leg cramping and Mike doing his best to burrow right inside you, with Walter waiting at home because
I’ll get dinner started. You go get our boy
(He needs this, needs you, right now)
And I’ll see you when you get back.
(He stroked a thumb across your cheek and sucked in a breath when you took it into your mouth)
Because
Because this moment is for you and Mike. Because it felt right, feels right, that you should be the one to welcome him with all your love and all your flesh; because here as his hips jerk in their cramped little motions he’s whispering would you like it if I left a little of myself behind? I’m gonna come inside you, babe, gonna fill you up til you can’t hold any more. He says I’m gonna wear you all around me and you know exactly what he means; he means I’m safe and I’m home.
And so you consecrate the back seat; the angle is terrible and your limbs are cramping up but it’s somehow perfect in its awkward desperation. Mike is warm and heavy and curls over your body like a living blanket, like a protector (a friend and a lover), like the first snow when you’re warm indoors. He’s in you so deep and if he can barely move it’s alright; he’s here and he’s all tangled up in you and so it’s perfect.
When you bring him home there will be warmth and food and Walter’s hand tangling in Mike’s hair; they will share breath and draw you into their embrace. But in this moment it’s just you and Mike, and the way he cups your face in one broad hand; it’s the way he stills and shuts his eyes and smiles.
Hello friend!! Maybe....maybe Walter x Mike and reader on their period?
@imdoingmybestmyman period sex is always a delight. Hope this is sufficiently filthy. Red and White. Smut, oral (m receiving, f receiving), fluids, blood, period sex, breeding kink. The sheets are probably a lost cause; might as well have some fun.
Forget the towels. The sheets will wash and anyway the mattress has a cover because they love to fuck you raw, love to see the way their come drips from you. So forget the towels. When you wake it’s with a softly groaned unh, with a litany of curses calmed by Walter’s arm around you. Sweetheart. It’s alright.
Forget the smears of red, unless it’s to revel in them, in the warmth of blood across your thighs. How it cools in this fine air, how it sends shivers up your spine and gooseflesh down from neck to knee.
How the curtains rustle in the breeze from the open window. Mike stands to pull it shut and the air settles; he says do you wanna and you answer
Are you sure this is alright?
Course it is. Right boss? And Walter nods; he trails his fingers speculatively down your thigh. His curls are wild and mussed with sleep; there’s that musky sleepy scent still clinging to him, warm blankets and warmer bodies and the smallest hint of cooled sweat.
If you’re comfortable, sweetheart. Neither of us minds the mess and it’ll help the pain. Yeah, the pain. The ache that woke you, deep in your belly. And Walter sits to pull you back against his chest; he is warm and solid under the soft cotton of his tee. Michael, I’ll hold her steady for you. And by your leave, my gorgeous girl, he’ll take you apart.
And so it happens. Mike is hard and leaking almost instantly, it seems. He settles down between your legs and gets to work; he is all smiles, and by the time he lowers his mouth onto you he is already rutting against the sheets. And there’s Walter speaking warm and soft in your ear, his length beginning to twitch at your back as his big hand rubs slow and soothing circles on your belly. That’s it, sweetheart. Look at how he craves you. And Walter moves his hands on you; he lifts a thigh to spread it over his own, and then again on the other side. Like this he holds you still, holds you open; the heel of his hand plays counterpoint on your belly as his fingertips are circling on you.
This is good, isn’t it? Walter asks with his other arm across your chest; he holds you still and helpless, open, pinned against his bulk, gifting your body with a single option: take.
Y—yes. It’s good. It’s, ah. Oh, fuck— because that’s Mike with his mouth on you, working his tongue between Walter’s fingers; that’s Mike with his hands smearing up your thighs and adding to the mess. That’s Mike reaching bloody fingers up to paint your lips, to slip them inside and watch you suck the copper from his skin as he grins with bloody teeth. That’s Mike leaving wet red fingermarks across your breasts, over Walter’s forearm, blood beading in the hair.
That’s Mike rutting against your thigh, wet with precome and the copper on his fist; he would mark you red from head to toe and lick you clean; as much as this is pleasure for you, it is something more for him. It’s fierce and primal, the animal call of blood and the need to mark, to claim, to own.
Forget the mess; it doesn’t matter. This is Mike’s mouth back on you and his fingers in you, scissoring and stretching in a way you know so well. He looks up between your legs and he is bloody to the eyes; he is masked with red and rendered wild and wanton, and his voice is shredded when he husks out babe. I wanna fuck you. Can I?
Walter rumbles out his words against your back, gentle and deep with growing need. Tell me what you want, sweet girl. This is for your pleasure.
And you answer Walter with a wriggle and a whine. Sir, I want. I want him in me. Want him to fuck me hard and come inside. And when he’s done, will you have me after? Will you split me open, will you fuck his come so deep inside me I can taste it, and leave your own behind? Take the ache away and leave it with another kind. Can you? Will you? It makes Mike growl against your cunt; his mouth moves in a pattern that could be words, could be
Yeah. Yeah have him shove me deep inside you
Or it could be nothing; Mike is fast losing himself and so he grips his cock and slides inside, all slicked with blood and spit and need. He grunts and snaps his hips and Walter falls back on his elbows, bowing your back to keep you over his chest in a pose that’s awkward and open, that lets Mike fuck and fuck and take, until his words are lost, until the blood is flaking off his face and you are shivering apart beneath him, his pubic bone harsh against your mound and it is vile and wild and perfect.
And still it isn’t over.
Because this is what you wanted: Mike sliding free to shiver and hiss through the length of him sliding across your thigh. Walter, wrapping big thick arms about you and turning you beneath him in an alligator roll; he pulls you tight against his chest and slips inside, pressing your belly to the mattress. And it is still a stretch even now because he truly is a beast, huge and heavy everywhere. And as he ruts he’s talking, sweet like honey from the depths of hell, finding that voice, the one that dips below command and into ownership, the one he saves for times like these.
Oh, my sweet girl. My darling little thing. I know, I know. You crave it. You want so badly to be bred, for us to fill you up with seed. You want to be made gravid with us, to carry children not knowing if they’re his or mine. And we will give you what you want. We will fuck you in turn, sweetheart, over and over until you’re raw with it. Until come drips from you with every thrust. Until you cannot move or think. You are only a vessel. Your only purpose is to let us come inside.
Christ, you’re good like this. So wet and slick. Is it just the blood and the fuck? Or is it the way I have you pinned down to be bred, motionless, helpless? Sweetheart, don’t forget. You’re ours, for always. Walter’s losing rhythm, lost to the slick wet slide of himself in you; at your front Mike sits with legs apart, stroking himself through his sensitivity because he can’t not touch at the words, half-hard again and nudging at your lips to give you the taste of him, bitter seed and copper.
Lick him clean, sweetheart. I— fuck. I’m going to come inside. You’ll be so full, gorgeous, full of him and me. And Walter jerks and grunts, and comes in pulsing waves. His hand is on you just this side of harsh, letting you grind against the heel of it as his hips follow yours, keeping himself inside as long as he can. And between the weight of him and the sweet press of his hand against your clit, it’s hardly any time at all before you’re coming hard around him, panting and whimpering and still trying to lick at Mike, to make him clean but Christ how can you manage when you’re like this, shivering and weak, all your pain forgotten in the sweet ache of being stretched, filled, claimed.
Mike strokes your hair and smiles his sated smile; he craves this just as much and maybe more: your blood on his tongue, binding the two of you together. And Walter slides off to the side, to hold you half-beneath him in warmth and safety even as he slips free in a rush of fluid; his voice is fully his again as he asks alright?
Alright.
In a moment there’ll be washing-up. You’ll bathe and your boys will change the sheets; they’ll clean themselves and head into the kitchen to make you something rich and savory. It will be a lazy day, a comfortable day, as you focus on the sweet ache between your thighs, as Walter’s big hand rubs circles on your belly in front of some movie that you only half-watch, as Mike strokes your hair and the drizzle outside turns into a rain. There’ll be takeout boxes on the coffee table and blankets on your legs and all the while the rain is falling.
Hey friendo!!! I've barely had time to read the past week, much less to write, but that doesnt mean I haven't been thinking and so I bring you this: sub!Mike with 2 girls and maybe a side of hair pulling
Hey @septicace I didn’t make it to the hair pulling, but here’s hoping this will suit. Lament (in the deep lakes). Mike x Reader x Female Cenobite (Open Throat). Smut, threesome, blood and gore (somewhat), me fully on my bullshit (continuous), oral (f receiving), fingering (m receiving). Mike does his best to resist the call of realms beyond.
He is bowed, spine in a c-curve and all his nerves are firing out of order. This is— oh, it’s transcendent and if he had the space to think he would say something, maybe something sweet and soft like his murmured g’morning when you opened up the curtains and showed him the sun rising on a new world.
She is from somewhere far away, from the deep dark beyond the starless night, from a place that’s rocky and cold and everywhere lined with chains. I could show you, she says. Pretty Michael. Pretty boy. Mike’s not lost, not yet, not quite. But he is slipping. She says I could reach my fingers right inside you and peel you open. I could show you all your deepest secrets.
She could, and each of you knows it, except for one tiny detail: the box isn’t open. Her voice whispers hoarse and seductive from her open throat and in it you can hear the sighing of the wind; she is pale and broken and somehow beautiful, and she is here to lay you low. Wouldn’t it be nice to hang in my chains? Wouldn’t it be lovely to fall to pieces beneath my hand? I could bind you both together, make of you a many-limbed beast. Michael, sweet, I could bind your cock in her forever.
She could; her flesh is pieced together with cables and all about her dark is falling; she carries it with her like a benediction. Receive me.
Mike is transfixed; when she says to you tell him what you want, he flows like water at your word.
Your mouth on me. Prove to me those pretty lips are good for more than talking. The words are harsh and Mike, who likes to ride a gentle wave of pleasure, is wide-eyed, poleaxed; his babe? is soft and questioning. You’ll do it (won’t you?) and you’ll like it (please). And so he bends to your word and to her hand; his mouth is hot and wet and talented. After all, this is the part he likes best: his face smeared wet, your scent clinging to him.
He gives, and gives, and gives. And you could almost forget your guest, until Mike’s mouth falls open on a whine. It’s always winter there. Your flesh will freeze and crack, and your blood will run warm in patterns down your skin. Would you like to live forever, balanced on the knife’s blade between pleasure and pain? Would you like to have one foot in each, and feel your body split between them?
Mike hisses when she works him open; she is careful but not gentle, and he feels the stretch and sting. One sharp nail along his back sends blood running down his cleft; it’s warm, it’s life, and she eases it back inside him. You could learn to love this, to transcend your pain and make it something beautiful. It’s never been about suffering; that’s just one step along your path. It’s about becoming something greater.
He hums into your cunt and makes you shiver; he spreads his knees and pushes back to feel those cruel fingers deep inside him. His mouth is working out of rhythm and you tug his hair to bring him back; he is grounded by stinging pain and all around him dark is falling. Where you go, I go, he speaks into your core. It sparks a little light inside you; it’s a single candle flame in a maelstrom, but remember. The human eye can see that single tiny light from a mile away. And the heart can feel its warmth just by being close to its light. Mike hums the words and gives himself to you.
Be certain, little man. When next we meet, I will not be so kind. Mike is helpless in his need, his hand searching blindly for yours; he squeezes and the words travel down his arm and into you.
Help me. Please. I’m weak. I can’t—
Let him come. And miracle of miracles, she does. Mike gasps and shivers and drools into your cunt; he shakes and strives and when he comes it’s with the merciless curl of her fingers inside him; it rattles through his body and out his mouth until you cannot help but follow after. Look at me. The words scrape out and they are rough, honest, little stones in a deep well. He locks his gaze to yours though he is hazy; he finds the little threads of clarity and follows them to you. He gets his hand on you and even as he’s twitching weakly, hole fluttering and clenching, he redoubles his efforts.
Yours, Mike whispers as you fall. Only yours. And though there are no guarantees— not now, not ever, with the way the nightmares are etched into his bones, with the way his ears prick at the sound of rattling chains— although there are no guarantees, he means it.
Your strange companion withdraws her fingers; she is calm and settled in the way of deep lakes drained of their oxygen, where fish and swimmers sink down and are lost. And as she leaves her words fall from the hole in her throat; they fall down and down until only their echoes remain. You will always have a place with us. The shape of you is seared into our monoliths; when you make your choice and call out with Lament, we will be there to bring you home.
So @brandycranby suggested Walter and desk sex, and here we are. While He’s Away, Walter x Reader. They make a tape for Mike, to help him pass the time til he comes home. Smut, oral, fluids, comeplay.
[begin recording]
Hey Mike. How’s the conference going? Things are ok here. Walter’s here, we’re gonna— yeah, I’m recording the message. Cmon, Walt. Come say hi— We thought you might be lonely so we, uh, thought we’d send you a little present. Don’t press play til you’re alone, ok?
Hey there, Michael. Remember, don’t stay up too late. You’ll want to be very well rested when you get home.
Like this, the camera captures everything: Walter’s bulk slipping into frame, lifting you onto the desk. The curve of his spine as he arches to pull off his shirt, his skin still faintly pinked with nail marks, lifting your ass as you’re trying to shimmy out of your pants and he’s— fuck, Walter, fuck, just tear them. I’ll buy new ones.
Then I’ll tear those too. Sweetheart, how about I keep you naked in my bed for me, always? Walter’s growling into your neck as he’s trying his damnedest to strip your clothes off all at once
Hey. Hey. Make sure he can hear you
and there go the buttons; these clothes were destined for the rag pile anyhow and it’s a good thing because they’re all in tatters, dangling from every limb.
Here. Walter passes the camera to you; the picture’s gonna be shaky as fuck but like this you can get a close up view of his tongue disappearing inside you, of his teeth so gently tugging at your folds, of slick and spit coating his face and glistening in his beard.
Fuck. Look at that. He’s so— Christ, Walter, do that again, yeah, Jesus fucking fuck keep doing it, keep— Mike, listen, remember. Remember the first time you heard him fuck me? So fucking good, right? Were you picturing— were you—
And Walter picks up the thread seamlessly, taking back the camera to show you wet and shining, holding your folds apart with one hand to see the weak twitch and clench of your flesh. Look at you, sweetheart. How you fall apart for me. For us, really, because he’s watching too. Aren’t you, Michael? Are you already touching yourself? I imagine you’re close. I’d be willing to bet you had your cock out the instant you pressed play. No. Before that, even, anticipating what might await you. But don’t rush too much, sweet boy.
Yeah, I remember the first time, when I pushed inside her— just like that, open your legs, sweetheart. Shh. I know, you’re so sensitive— and heard your breath in my ear through the phone. How desperate you were, pretty boy. How eager to catch every little sound. It made me harder than I’d ever been, knowing you were listening— that’s it, beauty, feet up on the desk, hold yourself wide open for me— and now you know what it’s like to be inside that sweet cunt; you know the taste and the scent and the feel of it; you know how to draw out a hundred different kinds of whimpers and cries. Does it make you more desperate or less, knowing what it’s like, knowing—unh—
He’s snapping his hips hard now, one hand on your belly— can you feel me moving all the way up here— listen. Mike. Michael. You know how big I am. You’ve seen it, felt it. Picture me carving out a space for myself inside her, imagine how absolutely, overwhelmingly full she is. Aren’t you, sweetheart?— trying his damnedest to hold the camera steady in his other hand but the picture is juddering because
I’m so close, sweetheart. Follow me and he drops his hand from your belly down to where he can swipe it through your slickness, circling on you just right until that’s it. That’s good, that’s good, that’s— fuck, I know you want to. Legs open. Legs open. Let our boy see it all— Michael. Watch her very, very carefully. Look at that— Christ, I. And he shudders to a halt with his shoulders bowed and heaving, resting his head against your knee til he has himself composed again.
Walter pulls out slowly, making it a tease; in his wake there’s a flow of pearly white that puddles on the desktop. Taste, sweetheart. Taste what we’ve done. Someday I’ll plug it all up inside you, his and mine. We’ll make you so full. He presses two fingers to your lips and they are salty, tinged with sweat; they are bitter with seed and he twitches weakly against your thigh at the sight of it. That’s good. That’s so, so good. Look at you, licking me clean. I don’t even have to ask. Michael. Look at my come, so pretty on her tongue— here, sweetheart. Have a little more— that’s it. Show our boy how clean you can make me.
His words are so goddamn filthy but Walter’s eyes are crinkling at the corners; his kiss is soft and gentle, telling his secrets against your lips.
Do you think he’ll like it?
Sweetheart. He’s going to love it. Now, let’s get you cleaned up and into bed, and if you want I’ll tell you a story, about all the things we’re going to do for Michael when he gets home—
