#nomis smut

[hope-to-hell]

ahh i hate to double ask but walter, thigh highs, and desk sex? 😶 is that workable?

Sure @brandycranby I can do thigh highs! Walter’s gonna be the one wearing them, though. Silk Stockings. Smut, affectionate degradation, desk sex, softness, some fluids.

And there’s Walter in your good silk stockings; they’re already overstretched and torn in places, garters straining against his thick thighs, and he looks up from where he’s got his face buried in your cunt to ask, well?

Well, indeed. It’s fun, sure, and he looks better than he has any right to, even with the hair on his legs bunching up in little whorls under the silk. It’s sensitive, pulling the hair in new directions, and when you run a hand up his leg, he can’t help but groan.

Alright?

Yeah. Feels good, a little weird. Slippery. Wanna get my mouth on you now.

That’s one of his tells, isn’t it, when he’s working through something. He eats at you and it settles his mind; his tongue inside you pulls his thoughts apart so he can examine them from every angle. He knows you know that’s what he’s doing, too, but he doesn’t mind. It happened with the hook as well, more than an hour of him swallowing down moans and trembles and liquid need, til he’d decided yes, he was most definitely interested.

You know how if you’re stuck on a problem, you’re supposed to sleep through it? Well. I’m too fucking turned on to sleep, sweetheart. So lie back and let me work.

And the stockings, well, he'd run one big paw up your calf, watching the fabric catch against his calloused palm, and when you'd asked like what you see? Bet you'd look pretty in them too he had a single bright deer-in-the-headlights moment when the realization came: he could, if he wanted. And goddamn if he doesn't look good, barely contained, all silk and hair and rough edges, a beast wrapped up in a pretty bow. And he's thinking about it, really thinking about it, about sensation and the way he looks in the long mirror on your wall, pulling your thighs apart with his big hands right there on the rug in front of the desk, glancing over at his own face half-hidden, down to the sharp line where his flesh disappears under fabric.

Hm.

Well— fuck— what do you think? You like being pretty, all dolled up for me? Ah—

He pulls back, amused, indulgently harsh. Quiet, sweetheart. Do I have to tie your mouth shut? Or would you rather I stop, jerk myself off and come all over your face?

Yeah, god, you know I love it. Make me filthy, pretty boy, but right now I kinda really need you to fuck me. Can you do that?

And yeah, of course he can, but he’s gonna have you over the desk; he wants to watch all those papers stick to your sweaty skin. He wants to watch the drool roll down the side of your face til it hits the desktop, if it doesn’t land in your hair first. Love it when you’re filthy for me, sweetheart.

(Because I can’t bear to see you bruised, he doesn’t say)

And yeah, what you’d really like is to run your hands up his legs to feel that fine tremor, that ripple of skin that follows sensation. But you can’t fucking reach. Good thing you can see him in the mirror, at least, as he’s hooking your knees over his elbows so he can make your feet bounce helplessly. You can see the way his toes bend, trying to grip the rug through silk. And you watch, don’t you, that first careful thrust as he presses inside, and then the long dirty roll of his hips that buries him to the root, the beautiful thick curve of his ass clenching with the effort of holding back, of being careful.

Walter sees you looking and eyes front. I thought you’d know by now as he bends to kiss you filthy and open; he licks into your mouth, sloppy wet with saliva, running over the bow of your lips and down your cheek, just like he’d hoped. Filthy, sweetheart. It’s a good look for you.

Good like your legs stuffed into my stockings, like the way you let me— but that little bit of naughtiness is cut off by the way he points his tongue to lick under your upper lip, catching against the frenulum and goddamn if that doesn’t make you shiver and clench around him.

You were saying? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Bastard. Do that again.

He does, and it’s just as good the second time; he feels the ripple and roll of your cunt shivering around him and it makes him groan, long and low and god, sweetheart, you feel so good.

Better than sex? And that one earns you a dirty look, but he’s fighting back a smile; there’s a muscle jumping in his cheek, not quite hidden by his beard.

Yeah. Better than sex. Now hold on. And he begins to lay into you with vigor; every thrust has your back coming up off the desk, papers sticking just like he wanted; they fall to the ground in drifts and he nearly loses his footing. There’s an ominous tearing sound as he rebalances and one of the stockings gives way.

I’ll buy you new ones.

Never mind, just don’t fucking stop

He comes first but it’s alright; there’s barely a half beat before he’s dropping your leg to get his hand on you, drawing wetness up and around your clit, circling til you follow him down with a shriek and a fuck, Walter, stop, Christ, it’s too much, but you don’t tap out so he keeps going; he pulls one more out of you before he stops and drops his head to huff out a breathless laugh against your lips.

Good?

Yeah, pretty boy. It was. And so’re you. He shows his sharp teeth when he smiles at that, soft and sated as his heartbeat slows, as he slips free and draws you down to lie with him on the rug, just for a moment, til the sticky mess becomes too much and then he’ll follow you into the shower. He’ll crowd you, and you’ll hog the spray, and for a little while longer it’ll all feel soft and easy.

[hope-to-hell]

@imdoingmybestmyman asked for something absolutely filthy with Walter, so what you all are getting is our boy bleeding off some stress after a long day at work. Locker Room After Hours, smut, orgasm denial, improvised gags, spit kink, first person stream of consciousness.

It’s just you and me, Walter. It’s just you and me and the locker room after hours, when ghosts walk the precinct halls and anyone, anyone could peer into this room and see us.

It’s just you and me and your cock that still gives me pause every time with the sheer heft of it, heavy and red (and sometimes I think about it, about what would happen if you shoved it in and made me take it, but lover you’re too good to me).

This is you and me and the locker room at night, and the panties that you tore from me so you could shove them in my mouth, so you could nose along my neck and fill your senses with my need and sweat. This is you and me and the imprint of your name written backwards on my skin when you shove me up against your locker. I’ll be all diamond mesh and the rectangle of your nameplate; I will feel the bruises later and I’ll revel in them but I’ll keep them to myself. This is you and me and everything I ever wanted

(it’s you, it’s only ever and always you).

This is you around me and all your bulk blocks out the light; I am in your shadow and if I could talk I would beg you to eclipse me further, to press me harder and harder against these lockers until you make a me-shaped dent in the metal, until your sweat leaves a sheen to outline me like handprints on cave walls, until my every inhalation depends on the smallest space left inside your exhalation.

I’m all in if you’re all in; see, here’s my signal. It’s green across the board. Come on come on come on you bastard. Bet you get the meaning even if the words aren’t there, even if all you hear is sloppy wet unhs around the gag. But you’re smart and you can read me all too well and there it is, the hand on my jaw

(Please please please leave fingerprint bruises, you’re too careful all the time and now and then I just want you to break me)

and the words in my ear, what was that sweetheart? Care to try again? And work rides you hard, I know; work's had your curls in disarray well before I tried to run my fingers through them, before you grasped my wrist in your big paw and pressed it firm beside my head and

Don't move, sweetheart. You drop your hands and the game is over.

And christ, all I want is to touch, to hold, to soothe, to pull one or both of us to pieces, but rules are rules and I really, really need your hands on me. Need it like air, like water, like the sweet insistent throb of you so close to where I need you most. Walter, please, come on and you can hear it, you can parse the grunts and moans and draw a circle from what I want to what I need and back again. Walter, if I could talk I'd say please, come on, get inside me already.

Come on, let me help you bleed the stress off some. I'm not gonna break and you know you want to play a little rough. You want to translate all your stress and fear and anger into this, into the way you spin me round and press my face against the mesh, into the way you've got your hand prying me apart so you can spit right into my center, so you can lay claim.

That's what you wanted, isn't it? Being possessed, being owned, being mine.

Walter, honestly, it's a little out of character. Are you doing this for you, or just for me? Because you know I love it, the spitting and the boot prints, whenever and however I can get them, but it costs you. It costs you dearly and the price of it is this: you worry about it, somehow. You worry it's all a ruse, that I'll look up one day and say nah, it's been fun, now get the hell out. Which, I know. I know. It's human in the worst way and listen.

What I want right now is for you to press a palm over the small of my back and just fuck right into me, let everything out and push your claim in deep. Wanna feel the bruises and I’ll know. I’ll know you were here and you were real and warm; I’ll remember this ache and oh there you are inside me. There you are and Christ, I need a moment, I forget. I forget the feel of you driving into me like that, like you’re gonna split me open up to my throat. I forget, but you remind me.

You remind me of the long, dirty roll of your hips that ends with skin against skin, with your hands molding my body into position. You remind me unequivocally that I am yours with the mesh pattern that digs into the side of my face, with the hand that hauls me back onto your cock with the understanding that you will fill me up and leave me on the edge.

I’m all in if you’re all in. When we get home you can lay me down all gentle if you like; you can make it sweet and soft and kiss the bruises from my body, but for now can you please

can you please

can you please just take and take and take, trade your frustration for mine and leave me hanging, leave semen sticky on my thighs when I have to walk from here to your truck, when the engine’s vibrations make their way up through the seat and into my core where I’m still trying to clench shut around the sheer size of you. Please.

Oh you bastard, there you are with the sudden stilling of your hips and that distant pulse. There you are almost asking, almost reaching for my clit but you remember and you pull back; you’re selfish for me and you make me walk, you make me dress to feel the stickiness soaking through my clothes; you pull the panties from my mouth so you can stroke your tongue across mine openmouthed and filthy and it isn’t even a kiss, it’s another kind of claim. It’s your hand on my jaw again, tilting up, assessing the way I meet your eyes.

It’s you and me, and it is everything.

[hope-to-hell]

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.

[hope-to-hell]

So we have another bit of filth in the phone sex universe, in which they all meet in person, at last. Sea Change. Mike and Walter. Smut, threesome, anal sex, oral sex, double penetration. Walter is the glue that holds this whole thing together. @emyearns this might be the sort of thing you’re looking for. @selfindulgentarchive I didn’t quite make it to nipple play in this one; guess I’ll just have to go and do another.

It’s understandable if it’s awkward. It’s a first time, and first times are always strange (the first time Walter opened you on his hand, the first time he told you good girl to feel the clench of you around his fingers, the first time you saw beyond the sweet-and-scruffy to the weariness of work and the scars across his shoulder and the way he always seems a little lighter when he’s feeling  your mind and body fall apart around him). It’s a shift, a sea change, a feeling of lost footing. It’s the breathless moment of waking from a falling dream, safe and secure and yet your heart is pounding like it’ll leap from your chest. 

It’s Mike on your doorstep, fidgeting, shifting from foot to foot because he, too, is in the throes of change. He thought about flowers, or chocolates, all the things he might woo you with, but in the end he brought

(Just yourself, sweetheart. Yourself, and your mind, and a message to a friend to tell them where you are.)

Because Walter is safety and security and the gentle inexorability of absolute domination, and he still worries. He worries about you, and now about Mike, and he wonders, perhaps, how he’s found himself here, guiding you in a way that’s as natural to him as breathing and yet somehow came to him so unexpectedly. He wonders how it happened, and yet he slips into his role like he's putting on a favorite sweater; all the taciturn gruffness of work falls away and what might be a frown or a hm at the precinct is replaced with a there you are, sweetheart. Have you eaten? Hands on the headboard, now, and don't move.

There is never any shame or consequence in stopping, Michael. Even I sometimes have to safeword out. And that’s a surprise, isn’t it, to Mike, who wraps his mind around the concept of domination with a cost, of bearing that kind of weight. There's always a cost to everything, Michael. Even if you can't see it.

(Hey. Hey. You've had a day. Please, can I kneel at your feet? Can I lay my cheek against your fly and just feel you there for a while? Let me feel the beating heart of you through flesh and fabric)

And here are Walter and Mike at the kitchen table; Walter slides over a mug of something warm, something to keep Mike's hands busy while they talk, while Walter lays out rules and gives Mike time to think and process and bow out if he needs. But Mike is young and earnest and he leans closer, closer, soaking up Walter's calm authority. And now there are three; Walter catches you about the waist and draws you down, draped front-to-back against his chest, and 

Sweetheart, I think our friend is amenable to our arrangement here. And you? What do you think?

God, yes, I want to taste him, want to feel him in me. Sir, can I? Can I have him?

(When I was young and foolish, Michael, when I didn't know better, I hurt someone. I carry that weight now, for always.

Why are you--

I need you to understand, Michael. Sometimes you will want what I can't give. And it's not because I don't care for you, or that I think you're undeserving. There are some things I just-- can't.)

And this is Mike in the bed with his hands fisted in the sheets; this is Mike with a pink flush from neck to navel and all the long lines of his flesh on display. This is him trying so hard not to touch, to let you lead him, but his hands twitch with the want to be on you. 

It's alright. Just please don't pull. And you suck him down while Walter watches; his hand is easy on your folds, warm and reassuring; his fingers curve and hook and make you whine and 

Sweetheart. What do you think about taking us both? I want to see him fill your pretty cunt with his seed. I want to feel his cock practically touching mine when I come inside your ass. Want you to scream and cry and beg for us, sweetheart. And yes. Yes. Absolutely, unequivocally, don't-even-have-to-think-about-it

yes.

And when you draw back, Mike follows; he flows like water to Walter's hand, to where you move to settle on knees and elbows. And he worms his way under you; from below he watches Walter's shining fingers disappearing into your ass and when Mike rises up to lick your folds Walter is so very pleased; from deep in his chest comes his good boy, there you go. Good instincts. Make her wet, make her come apart. I want to feel her gripping at my fingers with that pretty ass and know it's because of how you've brought her off.

And for a time it's all wet sounds and the slickness of fingers and tongue; Mike fumbles a little but he catches on; one little to the left or suck, just there, harder, please, that's-- and he commits the move to memory; you can nearly feel his smile against your folds when he gets it right. And he pulls you apart with raw enthusiasm, with his own desperate need, and when he makes you cry out and clench there's that answering growl from Walter, resonating through him.

That's it, good boy, look how well you've pleased her. Now look at how loose and relaxed she is-- I know, sweetheart, soon. Soon you'll have us both inside you; can you imagine how full you'll be? I know, I know. We've vetted him so thoroughly, sweetheart. Don't you want to let him come inside?

And when Walter works you open it's with time and care; it seems to take forever til he's ready, til he strokes a fingertip around the rim of your ass to watch it try to close helplessly around him. He says Michael. Now. Lie back, sweet boy, feet on the floor. Sweetheart-- there you go, that's it, take him in nice and slow. Doesn't he feel good inside you? Michael. Touch her, feel yourself in her where your flesh joins up; god, you look a sight. I almost don't want to get inside her; I want to stand back and commit this to memory. 

He almost wants only to watch, but not quite. And so when Mike is fully seated Walter presses up behind you, angling your body; he is warm and firm and his cock slides slickly up the cleft of your ass; it catches at your rim and oh, he's so close, any moment now you'll feel-- 

There you are, sweetheart. So warm, so-- fuck. And Walter is so rarely at a loss for words but he is now; he breathes through it, through tightness and slick turned blood-warm on his cock; he concentrates and swears he can feel Mike where he presses deep into your cunt. Alright sweetheart?

And yeah, yeah, please. Move. Give me more, give me everything. There's not much room for movement, with the angle and the press of bodies and their care, their gentleness beyond gentleness even as they're splitting you apart. Mike is nearly out of his head; his eyes are hazed and lost, and when you plant a hand upon his chest his gaze follows it and he is helpless; he is reduced to a body and a cock and his mind is gone. But when you husk out move he does, so carefully, so slowly that it's torture. And he and Walter find their balance, somehow, metronome steady until they aren't, until Mike spills first with a grimace and a breathless

fuck

but his instincts come into play; he has his hands on you warm and broad and bringing you off; he's sensitive and hissing with it but Walter still moves slow and inexorable like the shifting plates of the world. And when at last he feels you clench, feels that sudden rippling squeeze of orgasm, he lets go and it is good; when at last he lifts you free and lays you down in bed he touches you with wondering fingers; he sees come and lube shiny everywhere, on you and in you and smeared across himself and Mike; everywhere gleaming and filthy and 

Hold her close, I'll clean you up. And so he does, and he is close now at your back; the sheets are a mess but he finds enough of them to cover all of you. And so here, in softness, you rest. You feel Walter's fingers playing with your ass, speculatively; he sees you tired and spent and he will not ask for more, but how he admires you. Darling girl, I am impressed. More than that. I am in awe of you, of the resilience of your body and the strength of character it took for you to let us in. You are a marvel. And Michael-- sweet boy, how well you've done. I gave her into your hands, and look at how you rose to me, how you surpassed my expectations. Now we rest, and then we'll eat, and then. 

(Every action, good or bad, informs the next, Michael. Nothing we do is in a vacuum; if my past rides my mind it only drives me forward, drives me to do better. To be better. And here I have been given a gift greater than I ever hoped for, probably more than I deserve. I offer you this gift to share, to join us here for as long as you are willing.)

[hope-to-hell]

A prompt from the lovely @critfailroll who asked for sub Walter being taken apart. Hook, Line, and Sinker. Features smut and predicament bondage (anal hook), dom reader. Walter, predictably, needs to get out of his own head.

The rope runs from Walter's hair to where the hook is buried in his ass. It pulls his body into a perfect taut bow; his scalp burns and he is sweating. He is at the edge of his endurance and god it’s perfect, just a little more; the day is bleeding from him in pearls of sweat that roll all down his skin. He is on fire, enormous and strong and spilling over with frustration. He aches and it is so close to too much. So close, and still he bears it.

Walter. Sweetheart. You know how this goes.

Of course he does, but that doesn't make it any less difficult. Or that it gets him any less hard, this ceding of control, this absolute openness that the position forces him into. He could struggle, but he is caught on the razor's edge between two wonderful, awful sufferings. He could relax, open his body, shake the tension from his spine-- but this would pull at his hair. And more: it would bury the hook so deep in his ass as to make it unbearable.

And like this? If he stays like this, if he holds himself in this curve, knees spread, throat exposed, face and cock pointing toward the ceiling? His muscles burn with strain and sooner or later he will have to give in; sooner or later he'll straighten his spine and he will scream with the sudden overwhelming insistence of the hook driven deeper than he could imagine

(But not beyond safety, Walter, sweetheart; I love to hurt you but I'd never damage you. Do you see the difference?)

When you'd prepared him, slow and sweet (oh Walter, you do need it, don't you? It's been too long since I had you under my hands) he'd not quite whined but it was a close thing, some kind of desperate animal sound burrowing out through his chest. And god, how he'd tried to remain stoic, to keep the moan bitten back behind his teeth when you'd first breached him with a warm slick finger. When you'd worked him to two with a press and stroke that had his eyes fluttering shut. When you'd teased him for just a moment with cold steel creeping down the cleft of his ass to rest against him where he fluttered and fought to close again.

The round ball at the end of the hook was a challenge, cool and unyielding, and to see his body swallow it up, to see his hole twitch around the long shaft, that was truly something. And more: to see him test his bonds, to learn this new angle of his body, to watch him figure out inch by inch how far he could go: this had you biting at your lip as you watched the blood pulse into his cock.

(Tell me, Walter. How does it feel?

Like-- Like I'm trapped. But I don't want to get free. I want--

What do you want?

I want— I want you to make it hard on me. Make me work. Make it more than I've ever had. Make me--)

And now.

Now he shines with sweat, with the evidence of his struggle. He shifts, straightening, just for a moment: a brief lapse that makes him gasp, makes his cock pulse under your hand.

Please

It's a small sound, so small; he is all bulk, all strength, and if he chose to he could work himself free from this, but he won't. His wrists twist in their loops of rope, loose enough that he could slip out of them if he wanted, but the ropes are an extension of your embrace and they serve to center him in the midst of overwhelming sensation. His fists clench and he could come just like this, from the strain and ache and the sudden insistent press of the hook against--

Fuck

against something that has his eyes so suddenly wide, gaze fixed on you and it could be either a plea or a curse hidden in the epithet on his lips.

Sweetheart. You know how to make it stop. Just one word and it’s over.

No. Low, strangled, wavering. Not yet. I can— fuck— oh, fuck. More. More, please, Christ, I and he is straightening, just a bit, testing, pushing, depending on you to guide him through this as sensation grabs him by the throat and shoves him under. He is transcendent, your Walter;

yours

he burns with the kind of too much that bleeds out into just right and his mind goes with it; all the stress and heartache of this last case replaced by the purely physical, by the challenge that he sets himself against— and he is winning. He is so close, nearly there. He just needs—

He just needs the heel of your hand grinding hard over his length, a tiny adjustment of the hook’s angle with your free hand, and he is gone. He is gasping, all his strength rendered kitten-weak by the force of orgasm tearing through him; he slumps and whimpers til you ease the rope from his hair, til he is unbound and empty and leaning heavily on you beneath the quilt you tuck around you both. And for a while Walter thinks of nothing; he only noses at your hair and breathes.

[hope-to-hell]

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.

We do our best. That’s all we can do.)

[hope-to-hell]

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.

[hope-to-hell]

(IMO Walter smells like woodsmoke, pine, and petrichor.) not tagging anyone because I don’t know how many times a day I can get away with before it becomes obnoxious. But have some Walter Marshall car sex, with object insertion and face riding. You know, for fun.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

He’s skeptical, of course, his you’re gonna hurt yourself reflected in the tight press of his lips, in the tension he carries in his neck and back, in the way his gaze flicks from the gearshift knob to your face back to the knob and again to where you’re struggling out of your pants in the passenger seat.

And if he swallows heavily, has to stop and gulp air for a moment midway through helping you throw a leg over onto his seat, well, it’s just concern. Definitely not anything else, definitely not a dark thrill at the pure hedonism of it. And the groan he makes? Definitely from the way your bare toes twist and dig uncomfortably into his groin as you settle into an awkward half-crouch, one knee down on the passenger seat and the toes on your opposite foot apparently trying to grip him through his jeans. It’s definitely not from the way you rock against the knob, from the way you leave a slick sheen as you move because you came prepared.

It’s definitely not from the way he watches the gearshift slip inside, from the way your thighs shake with the tension of holding yourself up because this is probably a bad idea, and those second thoughts creep in with their careful and why are we doing this again and what if you slip?

But he’s leaning over to hold your thighs up with those big hands, to lift and lower you by fractions of inches and he’s a terrible liar because all that concern has been replaced totally by panting openmouthed want at the sight of the knob disappearing inside you, at the thought that anywhere he goes, he’ll get there by touching the ghost of this moment. And he’s careful, so careful, but his fingertips are trembling against your skin and if he stretches his fingers just so he can just brush your entrance, feel how you’re caught there. It punches a low groan out of him, one that’s accompanied by a flush that runs from his collar all the way up to his hairline.

Did he?

Yeah, yeah he did, and there’s that sheepish half-grimace, like he almost can’t believe it. But in the space of half a dozen breaths he’s lifting you free, pulling you against him, fumbling for the seat back lever. Gets himself flat, and yeah you’ve got the idea. And it’s close quarters as it is, one palm pressed against the back window and legs crammed every which way as you lower yourself onto his face, as you grind hard down onto his beard, the hair rasping and tickling against you, as he pants openmouthed and licks up into your core. He might be saying something but you don’t know what, only that it must be good because every time you thrust down onto him his hands clutch at you to pull you down harder.

And when you start to tremble from more than just exertion, he wraps his arms around you as best he can, pulls down with all his might as he eats up into you, humming and maybe crying, you can’t tell because you’re shaking apart above him.

He’s trying for disapproval, but his face is open and wrecked when you slide down him, leaving a wet stain all down his chest. He’s breathing hard and you breathe with him, slowing by degrees as you laugh a little, sheepishly, I can’t believe that just happened.