A little more in the Walter-Calls-a-Phone-Sex-Line universe, which swung from soft feels to filthy in the comments. And we are filthy still. By Proxy, Walter and Mike, and the Reader. Featuring toys (plugs), anal fingering (f receiving), anal sex (f receiving), dirty talk, a sort-of threesome. Dialogue-heavy.
It’s him again, isn’t it, calling deep in the evening. Mike. Hey. And Walter’s in the doorway, coming back from some errand; he’s amused, until he isn’t: until he hears that name fall from your lips. His eyes burn suddenly dark and he rolls his shoulders; sweetness falls away.
Put him on speaker. Walter crosses to the couch and sits, tugging you down to straddle his broad thighs. Michael. Sweetheart. Good to hear you. Do you remember what we talked about?
I— yeah. Mike’s breathless, anticipatory. And you’ve guided him through an orgasm or two, but he hasn’t sounded quite like this. Not until Walter, who strokes your cheek sweetly before reaching into your shorts, tracing a fingertip lightly along the seam of you and back, til he reaches your ass and
Michael. What shall I do with her? We’re on your time now, sweet boy, let’s hear it. What do you think? Would you like me to have her ass? I haven’t yet, you know.
Ah—
And you’re imagining it now, aren’t you, Michael? That sweet little ass split open around me. But. Michael. Which of us are you picturing in her? —shh, sweetheart. Don’t worry, have a little patience, I’m talking to our friend right now— Or could you be picturing me inside you? Picturing the way you’d feel, so full.
I— fuck. Mike’s barely breathing, gasping out raggedly and Jesus, is Walter ever in his element, sending you to the bedroom; when you return, the click of the lube opening is loud like a shot. It’s all of it, alright? Everything you say, it’s just on loop inside my head, and sir—
Oh. Oh, Walter likes that, oh, that’s a good boy. Now Michael, listen. I’ve got my girl ass up over my lap. I’ve got her on a towel, Michael, because this is going to get messy. Would you like to hear me fingering her open, sweetheart?
Yeah. I uh.
She whispers, sometimes, Michael. She wonders what it’d be like to take both of us at once, when I’m in her deep. She likes it when I slide my fingers into her ass, sweet boy, and tell her all about how you’d fuck her there, how you and I would be separated by only the thinnest bit of skin. —yes, sweetheart, I know. I know. You want him to hear it, the first time you take my cock in your ass. So greedy— Michael. I don’t exaggerate when I say I’m big. It takes work just to get into her cunt. So think of how she’ll feel when I take her ass for the first time. Think of how she’ll gape open after, even with all my care.
Now, I had a feeling you might call tonight, sweet boy, so we plugged her up beforehand. But it’s not enough, is it —sweetheart, tell our friend how much more it’ll take—
Mike. Listen. Jesus, it’s. The plug’s sitting heavy in my ass, Mike, and knowing that it’s there, that he’s gonna take it out and finger me open, that he’s gonna fuck me with that thick cock— Mike. There it is, he’s got— fuck. Oh, Mike, he’s just taken it out and listen, listen, —ah, that’s fucking cold—
Language, sweetheart. Now be a good girl and spread your cheeks for me. Keep talking. Tell him all about what I’m doing to you.
Walter, come on, I— okay. Okay. Mike, that’s two, it’s two, and oh— Mike, it already feels like so much, I think I can feel all his calluses and it feels so stretched. How am I going to fit— fuck, more? Christ, I
Sweet thing. There’s always room for more lube. And god, I love to see you messy. Filthy, even, slick and shiny for me. And listen. Michael, I wish you could see this. I can see right inside her. All her secrets belong to me— don’t they, beautiful— and our poor girl is just overwhelmed, aren’t you, can’t even speak. That’s alright. I’ll tell him. Shh. Relax. Push out. I know it’s strange.
Michael, can you hear that? Those weak little moans? I’m inside her now. And Christ, she’s like a vise around me; I can’t wait to watch you in her, Michael; can’t wait to see your eyes roll back when you feel this. Wait for me, Michael. Don’t come til I do, can you do that for me? Grab your balls if you have to, I want you to come with me if you can. Want you to imagine filling up her ass, touching her so goddamn deep, Michael; we’ll paint her insides and leave a mark.
Fuck, Mike, Walter—sir— please, I can’t, It’s so much, how can I— please, your hand on me, I need, I need
Oh, that’s my good girl. It’s okay. You don’t have to hold back. I’ll lead— unh. Lead you in. Michael. It’s time. With all your strength, sweet boy. Shatter for me. My hand is on her, oh, she’s so
Sweetheart. Are you with me? I know. Shh. I’m taking it out now. How do you feel? Mmm. I’m so glad. You did so, so well for me, you took it like you were born to have my cock in your ass. Look at all that come, sweetheart, all that pearly white. Let’s put your plug back in, darling girl, so you can hold it all inside for a little while longer. Think about our friend in you, fucking through all that mess. I know, I know you want it so desperately.
Michael. Listen. Clean yourself up. Have something to eat. How do you feel? Alright? Good boy. Listen to your body. You know where to reach us if you need. I’m going to go now, Michael. I’ve got to look after our girl. She’s so worn out, so loose-limbed and lazy. She’s practically asleep already— shh. There she goes. Good girl, rest. I’ll take care of you. And Michael. Soon, if you’re amenable, we’ll meet in person.
hey, hey, you know those one-way mirrors in interrogation rooms? I don't know with who, but Walter is an obvious choice 👀
Well @brandycranby I have a little something for you. The Thrill of Being Seen. Walter x Mike x Reader. Threesome, voyeurism, questionable dirty talk, negotiated dubcon play. Mike’s turn to play out a fantasy.
Does it matter what the infraction is? Maybe, but it’s a detail, a side excursion, a distraction from the main point, which is this: Mike has one hand cuffed to the table and the other playing at his fly, and he is going to jerk himself off in front of the one way glass. He heard the cops as they were leaving, drawling good luck with this one, Walter. Turn off the lights on your way out.
Hey. Anybody there?
And there’s no answer so maybe he’s there and maybe he’s not; Mike’s seen enough cop shows to know the mirror is really a window. There could be anyone behind it, watching, and that knowledge sends a little frisson of lust through him, straight to his cock. Mike's off hand is clumsy opening his fly; he’s half-hard already and Christ it’s a rush. He could nearly get off just from the thrill of it and
What do you think you’re doing? Mike's hand stills; the voice is distorted through the speaker and maybe it’s him, maybe it isn’t.
Boss?
I didn’t say stop, pretty boy. I said, what do you think you’re doing?
(Fuck, Walter, it’s like this. Don’t laugh, but I have this fantasy of you and me, down at the precinct —)
I— I’m touching myself. Sir. The last part is hesitant like an afterthought; even through the tinny speaker you can hear the tremor in his voice. And Walter’s words resonate through that deep thick body of his, down to his cock, where you’d swear you can feel the vibrations through that fine skin.
That’s it, sweetheart. Keep me nice and warm. And louder: go on, Michael. What’s your status?
Green, sir. And I— I’m left handed, so it’s hard. Not quite like someone else’s hand, but awkward.
And how does that make you feel? Fumbling, inelegant, knowing I’m here judging you behind the glass?
Fuck. I. Fuck.
Words, pretty boy. Use them.
I’m getting off on it, alright?
So you like to put on a show, do you? Want me to judge your performance? Well. Show me. Make it good enough and I’ll think about letting you out of here.
(Tell me more.
You’re angry, you’re scary, ordering me to jerk myself off for you. And I know you’re there behind the mirror, getting off to it.
Can I— can I watch?
Babe, you know it. Or what about— hey boss, you think you could fuck her in the booth?)
Better make it good, boy. I’ve got a pretty little thing pinned on my cock right now, and once I’m done with her you better hope I’m bored of you. Or not. Maybe I’ll leave you there covered in your own spend for the morning shift to find.
You wouldn’t—
(Please, fuck, threaten me, make my heart race, I wanna show off and have you bring me down hard.
Is this gonna go in your new book?
Maybe. Fuck, it’s just. With the deadline coming I’ve been so stressed, this is all I can think about)
And Mike is licking his palm; with slow uncertain strokes he begins. But confidence grows until he’s arching into it, eyes heavy, so close—
Easy, sweetheart. There you go. Can you see him? How close he is already? You’ve been so good for me, kept me nice and warm and ready. I’m going to fuck you hard, now, sweetheart. I want him to hear it, so be as loud as you want for me, alright? And there’s Walter’s hand mashing down the speaker button; Mike looks up, startled, directly toward you; his hand clenches hard enough on his cock that he winces. That hand on the desk is holding up Walter’s entire weight; his other hand is hitching up your leg and fuck, he’s so warm and heavy on you, belly to belly, his inhuman patience bleeding away
(Like that, sweetheart. I know, you’d rather sit on it, but look. If you tip your head back you can see him perfectly)
and there’s that aching pleasure of a sweet stretch now that’ll be an ache later, always is (and Christ, how you crave it). And Walter was right; through the glass Mike’s eyes burn into you, seeing without seeing; what is he picturing in his mind’s eye? He’s twitching and jerking, his whole body curving into sensation as Walter continues to use you hard, gritting out words between the hisses and grunts of animal pleasure.
Sweet boy. Are you picturing it, what it’d be like if I were fucking you instead? Do you know how thoroughly I could ruin you? Even if I wanted to be kind, sweetheart, you’d be aching after. Every step you took would be a reminder of how far I was inside you. But I don’t need to tell you, do I? Just listen. Listen to this pretty little thing coming apart under me. Yeah, sweet boy. I’m deep inside her and I’m thinking about what it’s like inside that pretty ass of yours.
(Christ, you two. I know this is Mike’s thing but uh. It’s kind of doing a lot for me too. You remember that chase thing we did? The being used? Yeah. Um.
Sweetheart, don’t be ashamed. It’s a good thing. We’re doing this for Mike, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it as well. And if you want to be used— well, we can certainly add that in. Here’s what I’m thinking.)
Mike is lost to words; all he can do is grunt out little sharp ohs and gasp as his balls draw up tight; if he had both hands he’d take the other to press firm behind his balls, to reach for his pleasure center from the outside. But as it is, the fingers of his cuffed hand clench helplessly in a fist as he’s gasping please; he comes hard over his fist with a wounded sound. And Walter— Walter—
There you are, sweet boy. But what a mess you’ve made. Clean it up. That’s right. Every drop. And softly, softly, in your ear: good girl. I’m close, sweetheart, Christ, the sight of him. Can you help me get you off? It’s a little difficult, getting a hand in, but you manage, fingers circling your clit with the rasp of his belly hair against the back of your hand. And it’s not long before his stomach muscles tense and he’s coming in long pulsing waves, pressing himself as deep as he can get; you’d swear you can taste his come.
(But where are we gonna do this? Isn’t there always someone around at your work?
I’ve got an idea. One of the older wings is closed for renovations. And I know the foreman, he’s a good guy. A friend. Sympathetic to this sort of thing.
Is he cute?
Oh sweetheart, you’d love him. Thick beard, built like a brick shithouse. Maybe someday I’ll introduce you.)
And there’s Mike, nice and clean, trying unsuccessfully to tuck himself away one-handed, hissing a little from the sensitivity. Fuck. Fuck, that was good.
How you holding up, Michael?
All good, all— green, boss. But ah. How long are you gonna leave me in here?
And Walter huffs a little, smiling against your neck. Alright. Let’s go get our boy.
Hey @imdoingmybestmyman guess what I have. Painted Red, Mike, smut. Blood, blood kink, bodily fluids, consumption of blood. Period sex with Mike is a hell of a thing.
And yeah, when his fingers come back slick with more than need, there’s a moment where he just stares, wide-eyed, gaze describing an arc between his hand and your face, and he rubs his bloody fingers against his thumb. The moment hangs in the air, tense; surely in a moment he’ll grimace, he’ll cast about for something to wipe his hands, he’ll leave.
But come on. It’s Mike.
It’s like you don’t know me at all, babe. C’mere.
And he reaches for you, leaving smudged and bloody fingerprints on your cheek; he smears them further with a kiss, so chaste, so at odds with the way his eyes are dark and hungry, with the way his voice rasps out deep from underground. Let me.
Mike is filthy and lost with a face like a wild thing; he licks his lips and surges against you, so big and so warm; his hands cup your jaw and he could span your face with one hand but he is so careful and so gentle; when he kisses you it’s faintly coppery and strange. He breathes the words against your lips once more and his hands are already moving on you to strip you bare, to get at the bleeding, beating heart of you.
Let me. Babe. I’ve gotta be in you, fuck, I wanna see it everywhere.
And that’s the thing about Mike, isn’t it? He sees it and he likes it; he raises his middle finger to convention, to taboo, and he says more. And his voice is low and wondering as he watches two fingers disappear inside you. Does it feel different, like this? When I touch you? He runs his thumb down to where those fingers disappear inside you and brings it back red and wet; the red smears he leaves around your clit have him openmouthed and panting and god, babe, that’s a good look.
Maybe it’s like this: maybe he really, really wants to see you bloody. Maybe, babe, maybe it’s a no-consequence version of what he doesn’t know how to ask for. Babe, you look so--
Or maybe he just thinks it’s pretty. And he can't help himself, the way he withdraws his fingers just so he can paint you in your own blood; he marks you in curlicues and whorls and little oval smudges from your knees to your neck, copper tang hanging sharply in the air, concentrating hard, ignoring the twitch and pulse of his cock for the way his fingers slide through the mess. And when he finally lines himself up and presses inside, it's carefully, carefully; he draws back slowly just to see your blood on his cock.
The sheets are ruined and he doesn't care, I'll buy some new ones, fuck, I'll let the stain set on these so when I put them on the bed again I'll remember how this felt. Like he could forget, like he has room in his mind for anything but the feel and scent and taste of you. Like he hasn't already memorized the placement of every red cell on your skin.
It's warm and slick and it does feel different; sensation hits just a little bit stronger, hormones riding high and the bed looks like an abattoir, it must, for all the slippery squelching sounds of Mike moving in you, for the way he scoots back on his heels to see himself disappear inside you to come back red and wet. And when he asks will you touch yourself for me, well, of course you will; now and again your knuckles brush his belly as you're pressing and circling round your clit just the way you like. And he does look delicious in your colors when you run your fingers up and over his chest, watching the bloody streaks appear on his skin. But the kicker is the way he grabs at your hand, the way he draws your fingers into his mouth. He sucks and licks at them til they're clean, eyes closed; the feeling sends a jolt all through you and with your other hand still circling it's just a moment's work before you're falling apart around him.
And Mike, beautiful, filthy Mike, streaked red to look like an avenging angel or a lamb at slaughter-- Mike makes a sound like a punch to the gut, like a wild and wounded thing, and he follows.
could i please ask for some more Walter and Mike? something that feels like a warm cup of coffee on a cold winter's day?♥️
I've moved into vague prompt territory now because literally anything you write is gold and always makes me happy on rough days
So we’ve had soft fisting, soft pegging and now, for @emyearns we are apparently doing soft ass eating, and Mike’s first time inside Walter. You and Me, Mike x Walter. Smut, anal, rimming, come eating, softness. Even when they’ve grown familiar with one another, there’s still room for more first times.
It’s just the two of them and it’s real nice to have this time to connect, to reassert the you and me of them. And the weather’s shit but that’s okay; outside the weather’s grey and gloomy but in here
In here
Walter lifts himself on one elbow to kiss Mike deep; his voice is rough and low and sweetheart, will you fuck me? And yeah,
Yeah
Mike’s poleaxed for a minute, hadn’t even fathomed that this could be an option, but fuck is he ever interested. It’s all about connection, about finding a new way to share themselves with one another.
It’s all about the way Walter’s callused hand slides up Mike’s thigh; he strokes over a faint curved scar at the juncture of hip and thigh and
Jumped the fence at Mrs. Hanson’s place. She had strawberries in a planter on the porch. They were so sweet, warm from the sun.
that hand finds its way up the lines and curves of muscle; Mike is trying not to move but cannot help it; his hips twitch in the direction of that hand and for his troubles he gets a chuff like a fucking tiger against his neck. Almost. Almost. Give me a moment.
And when Walter says it’s alright, you can move now it’s with the tight strain of holding back, of keeping himself under control because this is Mike’s show; this is his sweet boy buried balls-deep; this is the first time Walter’s been fucked in a long, long time and he’d nearly forgotten what it’s like.
Mike’s nervous; his hands shake where he trails his fingers up Walter’s sides, and this won’t do. This won’t do at all. You’re doing so well. Oh my gorgeous boy. Here. Help me sit. We’ll hold each other close for a little while. Like this,
Yeah. It’s better
They’re pressed together belly to belly; Walter’s cock is trapped between them and he can’t help the gasp when he settles upright, thighs over Mike’s and pinned on that lovely thickness, barely able to move but it’s alright; they’re so close. Like this he can cup Mike’s face in his hands and look him in the eye; like this he can say what I need I’ll ask for. And what I need right now is this, is you, inside me. Nerves are natural, but don’t think for a moment that you aren’t doing well, because Michael. Dear one. You feel so. very. good.
Each word is punctuated by a kiss; the last is half-gasped with the way Mike tests out a roll of his hips. It’s the barest movement but it shifts him deeper into Walter;
Can— fuck. Can you feel it? This is as deep in me as you can get.
They are pressed together forehead to forehead, sharing breath, barely moving. Outside the rain begins to fall; it’s always fucking raining and today it’s perfect; the droplets on the window glass cast shards of grey light across their bodies.
Boss, I. And whatever Mike was going to say is lost in the way Walter leans backward, bowing his spine til his shoulders are flat upon the bed; he says
hold my hips and move. And Mike does. Still slow at first til he has the rhythm, then faster, harder, he thinks about a Daft Punk joke til Walter flicks his nail against a barbell and
Holy shit, do that again. I didn’t know— Jesus fuck, I didn’t know they’d feel like that. So Walter does, and Mike snaps his hips reflexively and falls into a rhythm like a race to the finish, like it’s good, so good, is this what you feel every time and it’s not like fireworks or trains in tunnels or anything like that; it’s a creeping coiling heat inside his belly that moves in a line through his cock and deep inside of Walter; Mike’s curving his body with the effort of getting a hand on Walter’s cock.
And Walter matches Mike with a hand laid over his, stripping his cock together til it’s all too much and Mike’s so fucking proud and so relieved that he didn’t come first that he nearly misses his own orgasm in the thrill and satisfaction of watching Walter come apart.
Hey boss. Breathless and sweaty. Hey boss. I wanna. I wanna try something— can I? And he pulls out slow and careful, slicked with lube and come, watching Walter start to close, pink and twitching. And there are Mike’s fingers dipping inside; he withdraws them in wonder at the evidence of what he’s done, and touches them slowly to his lips.
Michael. Fuck. Walter’s eyes are wide and dark and even though he’s come his body’s trying so damn hard to go another round at just the sight of Mike like this. It’s filthy and I love it. Go ahead. You know you can.
Mikes tongue in Walter’s ass is a revelation; he’s all musk and salt and the bitter dregs of need; he murmurs something but it’s lost in the wet slide of his tongue, in the punched-out groan that Walter makes because Mike is taking him apart with wet enthusiasm like every drop he takes back into himself is some great secret he’s unlocked.
Fucking hell. Looks like Walter’s got another in him after all; his cock is filling and he reaches to stroke himself with a spit-slick palm. I’ll either sleep for a week or die from this. But Christ, keep going. Sweetheart, please.
And Mike’s never understood how it could be said that someone’s been reduced to begging; in his open need Walter is magnified, resplendent in the slick and sweating mess of him, commanding by the very fact of the control he cedes. And Mike wants to reach for his prose, to find the words that’ll sum up everything, but all he can say is a soft wet fuck breathed into Walter’s flesh.
And somehow Walter understands the unspoken everything behind it, the you and me, the us, the all of this. It digs its way into his flesh and carves a space that is and was and will be love, that exposes all his shining pieces for Mike to see, and in this breaking-open they are bound together closer than before.
And outside the rain is falling same as always, all the light gone soft and grey as Mike flows like water up to Walter’s mouth, to kiss him wet and open and to share his taste, his need, to close the circle.
i came up with a prompt! could i pls get a walter and reader domming Mike w lots kf degradation from one of them and praising from the other? sorry if it's tok similar to what i asked the last time i just adore these two so much
Well @emyearns , I opened my head and this is what fell out. Night Music, a threesome with Mike, Walter, and the Reader. Oral (m receiving, f receiving), anal, degradation, spit kink, praise, airplay (thanks to Walter’s intimidatingly large cock), threesomes. Mike has a rough night and could use a distraction.
And so of course what you do is pry Mike’s cheeks apart and spit, right on his hole; there’s a visible twitch when it hits, and a whine high in his throat.
Bet you’d like it even better if I do that again when you’re all fucked loose, wouldn’t you, babe. Bet you wanna feel it land inside and know it’s in there all mixed up with come and lube. He’s shocked to hear it out of your mouth, but then again it’s either you or Walter, and he’s busy stroking himself back to hardness, swiping come off Mike’s face to jerk himself with, and it’s absolutely filthy beyond measure; it’ll probably dry flaky and itchy along his length but he doesn’t really give a fuck because suddenly he has a better idea.
Open up, sweetheart.
And Mike parts his lips, come stuck in his lashes, cheeks burning pink, and he lets Walter feed him his cock. It’s thick, so goddamn thick, and you’d almost feel sorry for him; you know so well what taking it is like, the feeling that you’ll never breathe again with how it’s stoppered up your throat. But this is about Mike, and the way he has to bring his hands up around the base, as Walter tangles his hands in Mike’s curls and glances your way. Get him ready, yeah? Make him sloppy. Oh Mike, good boy, there you go. Look at how you’re taking me.
(You can be a little rough with him. You know he doesn’t mind. Is it better if we switch?
It’s alright, it’s alright. Your thumbs coming back slick and wet to Mike’s hole, stroking and teasing, pressing in just the tiniest bit, working him open, getting your spit inside. I just don’t know what I’m doing, is all.
None of us do, not really. But look how much he loves it. Don’t you, sweet boy?)
And Mike loves it, he does; need rolls thick and sticky through him. It’s been on his mind since he woke with a start, since he turned to you in the bed and gasped out please. It’s a settling, a recalibration, a reminder that he can be held and bound and protected even if his limbs still tremble, even if he can’t help but drift a hand through the hair on Walter’s belly, even if—
(Walter, fuzzy through the phone. Mmm, yeah. Was sleeping. No, it’s okay. I’m coming over. Keep him warm. Mike, shivering in the bed, leaning toward the sound of Walter’s voice through the speaker. Twenty minutes.)
And god, you can see the muscles jump on Walter’s belly; you can see the flush creeping up Mike’s neck under his curls as you fuck him open on your hand, god you’re filthy, Mike. You’d let me do absolutely anything, wouldn’t you? And you bite roughly at the meat of his ass; it’ll be a bruise and he keens, the sound flattened around Walter’s cock. What do you think? Is he gonna be sweet to you? Look up, Mike. Look at his face. He just loves choking you on that thick cock, doesn’t he? Go on, take him deeper. I know you can. Wanna see your nose pressed up against his belly. Don’t work him too good, greedy thing. I wanna see him fuck you til your eyes roll back.
And Mike’s already hazing out, thank fuck, already drifting downward to that sweet space where there’s only room for sensation, no thought except to blindly follow your guiding hands. That’s four, you say after forever. You’re so greedy, look at you gaping open like you’ll never close again. Maybe you won’t, after you take him. Listen. Have I told you how it feels to take that cock of his? I know you’ve got it in your mouth this instant, I know you’ve seen me split open on it— but I’ve never taken him there, Mike. I’m really not sure what it’ll do to you. But don’t you want to find out?
Mike. Eyes up. Walter, voice thick. You’re okay. We’re okay. I’m gonna fuck you now, alright, sweetheart? Turn around, there’s a good boy. Down on knees and elbows for me, that’s good. That’s perfect. You know what to do, don’t you
(Get your mouth on my cunt, eat it like you’re starving, make me come and if I’m satisfied I’ll let him let you too)
That’s it, that’s it. Shhhh, you’re taking me so well. Look at that pretty pussy right there in front of your face, sweetheart. Go on. Have a taste.
And it’s really something, watching them; when Walter slips inside lube-slick and glistening there’s a moment when neither one can move, when Mike begins to understand the scope of what he has inside him.
Hand on your belly, Mike, can you feel him up in your guts? Think about how fucking far he is inside you; think about what you’ve seen between his legs and imagine it digging out a space inside you. Think of how he’ll mark you, think of how he’ll own you when he comes inside. You’re so greedy for it, aren’t you, for that helpless feeling, for knowing all you have to do is take it. Well, almost all.
And your hands tangle in Mike’s curls to get his mouth on you; he latches on like he’s starving and if every careful thrust from Walter shakes Mike’s mouth harder onto you, well, fuck. That thing. That thing you’re doing with your tongue. Mike. Don’t you dare fucking stop. Not for anything.
And he doesn’t, somehow, even though his jaw must already be aching, even though his entire face is soaked with spit and come and liquid need. Even though his eyes prick tears, but when you ask he gives the a-ok with his thumb in the air and so nobody stops; it’s all wet and fleshy sounds and little breathy moans until Walter comes at last with a thick soft unh.
And Walter stays there, draping himself carefully over Mike’s back so he can reach to kiss you; it’s warm and gentle and so distracting that you nearly miss Mike coming with his hand clenched around his cock, whining wetly into your cunt and don’t leave me hanging. Get me off
(You can do it. There you are. That’s it, that’s good. Such a good boy for me, aren’t you?)
Get me off and I’ll— but your promise, or threat, or whatever it would’ve been, is lost to time and to the sharp clench of an orgasm that has you bucking up into Mike’s mouth even as Walter is kissing you even deeper, filthy and open, tongue stroking over yours.
And the two of them are just so soft where they lie still locked together; you know the warm weight of Walter surrounding you on all sides, even inside; now Mike does too as he is slipping softly into sleep. And you clean them both, slithering out for warm wet cloths, gentle on Mike’s face; sooner or later you’ll all need a shower but for now you clean yourself as best you can; you slide back into bed to bracket Mike from the front. And there, protected, at last, Mike sleeps and does not dream.
(What can we do? It’s still so hard for him sometimes.
@selfindulgentarchive suggested a threesome with Walter safewording out; this...isn’t that, not really, but it did emerge from it. So have this. Pulling Strings. Walter x Mike, and an appearance by an old friend. Featuring brief impact play, knife play, blood, angst, essentially no smut. In the house by the lake, our boys brush up against several other stories but never quite cross into them.
And listen, you can almost hear the blood turning to ice in Mike’s veins, the gritted-out red between Walter’s teeth stopping everything.
(Mike, attentive, sits with his hands wrapped around his cocoa mug, looking at Walter like he hung the moon. He listens, and thank god he’s being serious about this because if nothing else there must be trust.
What does it mean?
It means, sweetheart, that it doesn’t matter who says it, or when, or why. Everything stops.)
And there’s the when but not the why; the why is the cane that falls to Walter’s side, and there’s Mike with his hands braced against the desk, stripes beading bloody on his ass and tears in his eyes and he's worried, he’s worried; Walter is home and harbor and he’s called a halt and
So why call me now?
He needs what I can’t give. I can see it in him, it’s crawling in his skin. I can’t hurt him, not like that. Not the way he needs. Not since—
(It’s raining because it’s always fucking raining; Walter is twenty-three years old and he has no idea what he’s doing. He has a young wife at home, and hardly any scuffs on his boots. Someone is bleeding out in his arms and it is all his fault).
It’s been fifteen years. You need to—
Don’t say let it go. Don’t you dare.
—You need to learn to live with it.
I thought I had. But I tried, it seemed alright, and then. I had him bleeding just a little, just a drop, and I couldn’t. I— how do I explain? I almost killed someone, it doesn’t fucking matter if no one had taught me better then. I pushed too deep and she nearly bled out, and I can’t—
Just like that, just use those words. It burns you but you’ve gotta tell him. Or didn’t I teach you anything?
(It’s raining, because it’s always fucking raining and August Walker has him strapped to the table. Walter Marshall is twenty five years old and he feels as though he’s dying. August checks the straps and lays a hand over his brow; it leaves red smears and the room is bright with copper; Walter pays his penance and feels his breath come easy for the first time in two years.)
Listen. I'll meet you there. But you'll have to tell him everything, first.
Even--
All of it. Remember what I taught you. If he’s everything you say, then he deserves to know.
It's raining on the lake; it's always fucking raining. Mike sits on the porch swing and watches all the world falling away; distantly, Walter scuffs his shoes and waits. This is a strange place; the air is thick with a sense of looping unrealities. He could be anyone. He could be no one, and he's not supposed to be here, but.
We've been invited. Wear your best. And don't ask about the scars.
Scars?
If he has them still. I don't know. It changes, sometimes. He changes. He's-- I'm not sure what he is, anymore. But he can help.
Is this about the cane?
Yeah. More or less. About the kind of hurt I can't give you, the kind of hurt you need.
Mike sits and watches water falling. He sits inside the memory of Walter wrapping him in a blanket on a foggy morning, water still dripping from the trees, but that can't be right
(It's nothing to do with you, not really. It's me, and how I hurt someone. She wanted pain so badly, craved it like your lungs crave air, but I cut too deep and almost killed her. I know you need to bleed it out; I know the dream still burns through your blood. I wish I understood it; if I did then maybe I could help you in some other way. But I don't, so I can't)
because he and Walter have never crossed the city limits together; it's seemed sometimes that there is nothing beyond unless it's endless grey fields and sky, but Walter laid his finger on the map and this house and lake appeared from nothing.
It's just down in the valley, right? Couldn't see it from the road, that's all.
Kid, you of all people ought to know. It is, and it isn't. Just like your dream. And that's--
August?
In the flesh. And that's August, alright, with his rolled sleeves and his mustache and the scars that writhe across his face; they seem almost to be shifting, moving, and none of this is right but Mike will carry on regardless, because Walter trusts this guy and so he can't be all that bad. Let us begin.
This is Walter at the head of the table and August at the foot; Walter grimaces and holds Mike's hands, whispering it’s alright but it isn’t alright and it never will be; alright ended when the hook bit deep and it has never started up again.
When I fell, August says, the tip of his wicked knife at Mike’s sternum, when I fell, I died. And then I didn’t. The world collapsed into two opposing points. Yes, and no. I tried to bring the two together, to find a middle ground. But it was not possible. And so.
The knife bites in; blood wells up and Mike is trying not to whine. Walter grips him tighter and sweet boy. I know. I know.
And so I opened myself to what hurt the most; I pulled my own strings through ichor and blood and shit, and I sewed my selves together.
He’s not ready—
I know. It’s still too fresh. But we can bleed the poison from it. You know all about that, Walt.
And Mike, voice thin and gasping: I want, I need, it hurts, but Walter— Walter— Sir— it’s. Yes. Keep going, can he please, can he please keep going, I
(This is Walter at thirty-eight; he gets a fucking grip and salves Mike’s ass; he clamps down on the shivers and shakes til Mike sidles up and lays a blanket over his shoulders. Then he buries his nose in Mike’s curls and says I’m sorry.
For what?
I couldn’t. And I don’t know how to tell you why.
Then don’t. Later, when you’re ready, if you want. But can you hold me?)
And blood drips down over Mike’s ribs to the table to the floor; it’s a barely audible pitter-pat and he descends first into pain and then beyond; his eyes roll over white and his breath slows. And August works between breaths; he cuts the pattern and watches it sink through Mike’s flesh into his heart.
(What’s this?
Fell off a bike when I was little.
And this?
Chasing someone through the park. He got a lucky shot.
And this?
Building a shelf; the hammer slipped.
And this?
Michael. Come on. We’re going to be late)
And August isn’t gentle, but he’s careful; something sparks in him when he completes the cuts, something strange like scrub willows at dusk, like northern lights, like dark seas, something old and terrible that runs down his knife and into Mike. Walter sees it; he cannot help the clench of his hands over Mike’s.
And Mike, for his part, is breathing slow and steady; he is centering and settling.
(Do you trust me?
Absolutely.)
It is raining; it is always raining here. Walter stands and watches water running from the eaves; Mike is there beside him in his bandages and tiredness. August cleans his knife and packs his things; he is always moving, never settling.
You know how to reach me. But try not to.
This is Walter at thirty-eight. He rests his chin on Mike’s shoulder and breathes, and sighs, and waits to see.
Well, I lost the ask but I’m pretty sure @septicace wanted Mike to have a go at domming Walter. And here we are. Undertow. Walter x Mike x Reader. Explicitly negotiated cnc, noncon play, threesome, smut, oral (f receiving), anal (m receiving), angst. Mike has had a rough couple of days.
When Mike tells Walter I wanna try it’s at the tail end of a bad day; it’s the product of the itch in the center of his chest, of the scars that pull at him from the inside. He’s rough with stubble and his curls are in disarray; the look gives him a little air of harshness and of cruelty, a look that might make you uneasy if you didn’t know him. As it is, it makes you think of stubble burn from both of them at once, and you can’t help but steal a hand between your legs as you watch their back-and-forth.
And Walter nods; it’s been a while, but Michael. If you think you’re up for it, you can surely try. And sweetheart? Leave the stubble. If you don’t mind.
And the plan begins to form.
(I’ll wear red.
Never seen you in red, boss.
I know. That’s why I’ll wear it)
Walter’s stronger but Mike is faster and besides, he’s been practicing
(Hey, babe. C’mere a minute)
And Walter is surprised, isn’t he, to find himself on his knees; his eyes are wide and dark and wrists against elbows, big guy, don’t make me ask you twice. And Walter’s wriggling while Mike wrestles him into the cuffs, while you’re whispering in his ear
Alright?
Alright.
(When you see that shirt you know that I’ll be prepped and ready. You can use that against me if you want. I— I want you to use it against me.
Boss?
Like I said, it’s been a while. Doesn’t mean I haven’t wanted it.)
Look at you, big guy. No, stay down. Stay fucking down. I caught you and I’m gonna do just as I please. And what I want is this— the thick swell of Walter’s ass when his sweats are yanked down to puddle around his knees, and Christ, are you hard? So fucking desperate. I bet I could let you go and you’d just stay right there, wouldn’t you, with your gorgeous ass just begging for my cock. You want it so bad, you’re gonna have to earn it though. Babe, get down where he can reach you. Alright, big guy. You see that pretty cunt right in front of your face? You’re gonna eat it til your jaw falls off.
And he does, he does; Walter’s beard is scratchy at your thighs and there’s a new kind of ferocity to the way he laps and sucks at you; not hesitant, not quite. But there’s a thrumming all through him; adrenaline rides him hard and shivers out through his tongue. His core is working overtime, stomach muscles trembling with the effort of holding himself in position without the use of his hands.
Keep your mouth there. I don’t care if you get tired,
(You okay?
Okay)
You’re gonna be good for me and make her come on your tongue until I say stop. Is that clear?
And yeah, okay, okay, that’s Walter whining low in his throat and bucking his hips, and it’s not just because Mike takes that moment to slide a finger into his ass.
(How hard can I go?
Full speed ahead, sweet boy. Make me feel it. Make me believe it. I want to sit at my desk in the morning and feel the echoes of you splitting me open.)
It’s just a moment, just a brief and teasing feel, before Mike snarls and wipes his finger off on Walter’s back.
It’s like you came looking for trouble, like you knew we would find you here. Christ, man, did you actually go looking for a back-alley fuck? Well, you’re gonna get it. Keep eating her
(I’ll keep a hand in yours once I’m inside. Three squeezes.)
And maybe, maybe I’ll let you come. Or maybe I’ll leave you here, leaking into the dirt. And Mike lines himself up and shoves inside. It’s a rough angle, with Walter nearly upright on his knees; he strains and falters with his mouth, with the punched-out oh that falls from his lips into your core, with the juddering shove of Mike inside him to the root.
(Alright?
One squeeze.
Okay.)
And when you come it’s sudden and sharp, falling back, knees buckling; Mike said keep your mouth on her but it’s impossible now and so he rides Walter to the ground, catching him with a hand beneath his cheek, the other feeling for that squeeze and oh how doggedly he sets to work.
(Babe? What about you? You’ll help me with the first part and then—
Honestly, I really want to watch. I want to fix this in my memory, the way you look when you’ve got him under you. Walter, can I?
Of course, sweetheart. We just don’t want you to feel left out.
Left out? Nah. But if you can get me off first I wouldn’t mind.)
Mike’s feral under two days’ stubble as he bites at Walter’s shoulder, as he scrapes his face across Walter’s neck and hisses take it. He’s worn down to a cruel sharp point, to a shining spear, a— hook. He writhes like living flame, like a snake, like a length of chain, and if it weren’t for his hand tight in Walter’s you could believe this was the real thing. And the things Mike says— he’s never been so cruel. It’s consuming and it’s terrible and it breaks them both apart at once; Walter comes untouched and it pulls Mike after. It pulls them both down into the dirt, in a shuddering and gasping tangle.
And it’s only the backyard again, it’s only you and them and the soft breaths of the comedown; it’s Mike’s face wet and shining as he burrows for a moment into Walter, as he looses the cuffs and pulls away so carefully. And it’s just a few steps up and into the house, to where there are warm towels and blankets and salves, to where you fall together for a while, to the inevitable conversation after. But the debrief will have to wait; when you climb into the pile there are two stubbled faces rough against your skin.
You— you saw it, didn’t you? The hook.
Yeah, babe. It kinda caught me by surprise. I thought that I could drive it out. It’s felt so far away, since all of this. It’s been so good, and I— I don’t want to lose this. To lose either of you.
And you won’t. Sweet boy, we’re here for you through all of it, as long as you will have us.
i'd love to see your take on a threesome with Mike and another guy where the reader is a switch 👀
please?
Hey @emyearns I come bearing gifts. Tangling, Mike and Walter. Smut, threesome, oral. And an appearance by Writer Mike because I can’t leave it alone.
Show him. Show him exactly how you like it. Look at how pretty he is with his head between your legs. That's it. Move him by his hair, you know he loves it.
And Walter sighs his big deep sigh, drawn from the depths of his massive chest, as your shoulders roll back against him. It's impossible to watch Mike work, much as you love it; he is angelic and ruinous where he settles, where he laps at you with eager strokes of his tongue. Watch him long enough and he will look up to you with eyes huge and dark; he will burn you to ash with his fevered gaze. He will bury you in him even as he buries himself in you.
Babe, please. Let me, let me, let me
(ruin you
give you everything, give myself to you)
Let me. Let me, as Mike's working you wet and messy and somehow perfect, pure vigor and enthusiasm. Your hand in Mike's curls makes him groan resonant against you, wrapped in wetness and he is dying, he has ascended to another plane, led by the line of your hand to your arm to Walter behind you steady and quiet, his voice a vibration along your spine.
Look at him, how he is subsumed by your taste, by how fucking wet you are for him. Don't hold back. Wrap your legs around his head and watch him struggle. Watch his eyes, watch how much he wants this. Wants you. Wants us. He can still taste me in you.
Mike hears, the words creeping through his mind, settling into whatever cracks aren't occupied with the taste of you, with the lingering salt and musk where Walter had you earlier, split apart with a cock almost too big to be real, while Mike slithered and slunk all around, waiting his turn, reaching in with curious fingers to feel where you were stretched so wide. Mike hears, and he rocks his hips down against the bed, and he eats at you with fervor, the wet sounds of his tongue bound up in his soft and needy breaths.
(Let me? Can I-- Please, please, I'll die without it
I'll keep you)
It's all too much with your blood still burning, but here you are, and here they are, big and warm and solid and
(safe, you're safe with me. With us)
Do you think he'll put us into one of his stories later, when you and I are sleeping tangled up together? Picture it, beautiful. Him slouched in his chair, face glowing in the light of the laptop screen.
(Hey babe)
He'll look up, maybe, and smile, because he almost asked you about it, didn't he? Almost woke you with the want to share, with the pure pleasure of knowing you're here with him. And he'll bite his lip; he'll change one word to make it all a little bit too much, to disguise himself in prose that's purple like a bruise.
Mike's caught out; he knows it and he doesn't mind. He smiles against your skin and you can feel it; he follows your hand and Walter's words and he lets himself be lost. And Walter, for his part, might be spent and sated but there's that twitch of interest against your skin, pressing hot at your spine. He sighs and bars an arm across your ribs; he is indulgent here, warm and solid at your back.
You’re safe here, sweetheart. Use his mouth, enjoy him. Enjoy this. Walter's arm is a cage; if he wanted he could pin you here forever. But now he has other plans: he wants to watch you shake to pieces, and he wants to have you again. So he moves his arms to lift your body; he's only half hard but filling fast, and if you're quiet-- if you're good and focused-- you can feel him growing in you, pressing up against your margins in the best way. And Mike follows; as soon as you're settled his mouth is back, hot and wet, lapping at the base of Walter's cock where it's buried in you to the hilt.
God, yes, that's it, that's perfect. Sweetheart, help me guide him and now Walter's hand covers yours, now he is reaching to stroke together at Mike's cheeks, at his lips, at anything he can reach, while his voice is low and wrecked in your ear. Someday, sweetheart, you'll take us both. I want to feel him sliding up against me while I'm inside you.
And that's it, somehow, that's all it takes: the image of them, together, stretching you open. The thought drives the breath from your lungs and shatters you to pieces, coming hard and messy on Walter's cock, heaving for breath as he continues to move in you, slower than the first time but no less overwhelming, gritting his teeth against sensation as he feels you clench around him. Up, he says, and guides Mike up by the hair-- but gently, gently-- so that together they can lick at your neck, can tip your head back to kiss you and smear your face with spit and fluids. It's tender and filthy and it's all too much.
When at last Walter comes it's with a sigh breathed into your very lungs; it's with Mike pressing himself into the crease of your hip to take his pleasure; it's with lips and tongues and hands everywhere around you, cocooning you, holding you safe.
So good, so good,
(Ours)
Rest now. Shh. I'll (We'll) take care of you. And you drift, to the feeling of a warm wet cloth between your legs, to the feeling of big warm bodies surrounding you.
And later, deep in the night, you wake to the blue glow of Mike at work, sitting cross-legged in the big chair; he looks up at you and smiles.
