for @medusas-hairband per one of her INCREDIBLE drabble prompts.
Indulge | Elrond x Celebrían x Thranduil
Celebrían enlists Thranduil’s help to give her husband what he’s been craving.
Because sometimes, Elrond just wants to get railed.
Warnings/tags: no warnings for this one. Just Elrond getting his back blown out by Thranduil for Cel’s viewing pleasure. Mild voyeurism kink, mild eldritch peredhil, praise kink, bisexual Elrond and bisexual Thranduil, sub!Elrond, dom!Cel and top!Thranduil (he’s topping, but not domming in this particular scenario). A little rough play and like one light spank to Elrond’s butt. :) mild hair kink. Includes depictions of consent and aftercare.
Spice level: ghost pepper
Minors DNI. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.
--
“Who do you want first?” Elrond pants against Celebrían’s mouth as she kisses him and Thranduil unties Elrond’s sash for him.
“Oh, you misunderstand, my love,” Celebrían says in Elrond’s ear with a wicked smile. “I’m not the one getting fucked tonight.”
She watches in delight as Elrond’s eyes widen in surprise. He stills and looks between her and Thranduil and back again. Thranduil sits cooly on the edge of the bed, unbothered, with a little smirk touching the left corner of his mouth, and tugs the rest of Elrond’s sash free with a playful yank.
“Is that agreeable to you, Half-Elven?”
Elrond licks his lips and nods. Celebrían scoots over to sit behind him on their bed, wrapping an arm around his waist, pressing him back against her chest. Then, she reaches for Thranduil.
Thranduil slides closer to them. She hooks a finger in his silver satin sash and tugs him closer still, until his knees brush Elrond’s and they’re all breathing the same air. She hears Elrond’s breath hitch and she smiles again.
They’ve played with each other many times, but never exactly like this. The three of them had discussed this particular game together, but neither she nor Thranduil had told Elrond quite when to expect it. Celebrían had wanted to give to him as a surprise.
His reaction does not disappoint.
-
Celebrían watches Elrond’s face, enraptured, holding his head in her lap as he lies on his back and Thranduil pushes into him inch by glorious inch. She’s seen Elrond’s face when she fucks him, but it’s different like this. She doesn’t have to divide her attention. Like this, she can focus on each micro-expression of pleasure that flickers across her husband’s face, watch the way lightning strikes in his eyes the second Thranduil is fully seated inside him.
She strokes Elrond’s hair back from his face for him, smooths her thumb over the crease forming on his brow. Bends to press her lips to his forehead in a soft kiss. Elrond whines and shakes, legs spreading. Thranduil tosses his head back with an appreciative moan.
“If I had known you’d be so tight, I would have fucked you sooner.”
Elrond mewls in response. He’s sinking into that space that he so loves: that space where he isn’t thinking about anything but his physical body, where he can’t think about anything else because he is so utterly stuffed. Celebrían loves watching him reach this state. He looks so focused, so clear-minded, utterly at peace, body trembling like an earthquake in her lap, eyes beginning to leak starlight.
“You look so pretty when you’re getting fucked,” she murmurs, and enjoys the way it makes him blush.
Thranduil groans again. “He clenches when you do that.”
“Oh, he’s a sweet little thing,” Celebrían tuts, still stroking through Elrond’s hair. “He loves to know how good he’s being. Fuck him.”
Thranduil snaps his hips. The force of it makes Elrond jerk and cry out. Celebrían mutters something in full approval and takes Elrond’s hand and squeezes it.
“How does he feel? Tell me,” she asks Thranduil.
Thranduil snaps his hips again and takes Elrond’s other hand, pinning it to the mattress by his wrist, and dips to nip at Elrond’s neck.
“Exquisite,” he murmurs, rocking into him. “Divine. Look at you, wrapped around my cock.”
Elrond trembles and arches up into him and Celebrían says it again, timed perfectly with one of Thranduil’s thrusts: “You’re taking it so well, my love,” and enjoys the sweet whine that her husband makes.
When his eyes start to glaze over, Celebrían slips out from under him and says, “Flip him over.”
Thranduil doesn’t waste any time, he pulls out and scoops an arm beneath Elrond’s waist and turns him, then drags him back by his hips and lands a blow across his ass that rings through the room and makes Elrond jerk and cry out.
“Ass up, pretty thing,” Thranduil commands.
Elrond moans and pushes himself to his knees, then sinks his chest down to bury his head in the duvet and cry out as Thranduil shoves back inside of him.
They make such a gorgeous pair: her husband and Thranduil, and Celebrían marvels at how Thranduil handles him in ways Celebrían herself doesn’t have the strength to do: pinning him, tossing him, rearranging his body for Thranduil’s own benefit as he stabs into him over and over and over, and Elrond relishes every single second of the treatment.
Unconsciously, Celebrían reaches down to stroke herself as she watches them. She’s grown so wet. Thranduil notices and flashes a grin, then hauls Elrond up off the bed by his hair.
“Your wife wants a show,” he hisses in Elrond’s ear. “Look at her while I fuck you.”
From this angle, the curve of Elrond’s body is so exaggerated that she can see Thranduil’s long cock pumping in and out of him. Elrond’s own cock is standing straight out from his body, painfully hard and leaking precum with every single thrust Thranduil gives him. His whole body is flushed and covered with a thin sheen of sweet until he seems to glow in the firelight of their room. Celebrían can’t help but come up to them and push a finger into Elrond’s mouth which he sucks on without a second thought. Celebrían bites her lip at the sensation and fucks herself on her own fingers in time to Thranduil’s thrusts, harder and harder until she’s coming all over her hand.
-
Elrond comes in the middle of the onslaught with a high pitched wail, bursting all over the sheets. Celebrían gasps in delight and approval, holding his face. Thranduil growls out something lewd about the way Elrond’s body is clamping around his cock and slows.
“Keep your pace,” Celebrían commands, “Fuck him harder.”
Elrond wails again. Thranduil looks uncertain. “I can finish in his mouth. I have no wish to hurt him.”
“He likes it,” Celebrían says with a grin, thumbs stroking over Elrond’s tear-streaked cheekbones. “He likes it when he’s oversensitive and it hurts.”
Thranduil lets out a string of Sindarin curses but stays slow, waiting for Elrond’s confirmation. In answer, Elrond reaches back behind him, grabbing onto Thranduil’s hip.
“More,” he says, voice hoarse. “Harder. Please, Thran--”
In answer, Thranduil latches a hand around Elrond’s shoulder to brace him, draws out, and then slams back in to the hilt.
Elrond chokes and shivers, a wrecked moan tearing out of him. He has never looked prettier, Celebrían thinks. She has never seen him like this, limp, utterly boneless, face pinched and eyes glazed with a heady cocktail of pleasure and pain as he lets Thranduil use his spent body like a toy. She’s usually too tired when they get this far to oblige him.
She reaches down and wraps her fingers around Elrond’s tortured cock and Elrond screams and comes again. Thranduil braces him, keeps fucking him, sinks his teeth into his shoulder. Celebrían pets his ears and praises him, assures him that he’s being so, so good, letting them use him like this, and Elrond soaks it in and, trembling, pushes himself back to meet Thranduil’s thrusts until Thranduil’s panting and his whole chest is flushed red.
“Where can I come?” Thranduil gasps out, half to him and half to her.
It’s the thing Celebrían has been looking forward to most of all: the one thing that’s physically impossible for her to do for her husband. She holds Elrond’s face, catching his eye, wanting to see his expression when she says:
“His hair. Come in his hair.”
Elrond melts.
Thranduil pulls out with growl and pushes on Elrond’s hip, and Elrond collapses to his side on the bed and pants, breathless with anticipation, as Thranduil strokes himself off until he explodes, splattering Elrond’s hair with white: milky constellations against a velvet-black sky.
Elrond twitches, his cock leaking out what spend he has left as Celebrían runs her hand lovingly over the curve of his side and moans with him. His tongue darts out. He licks up a spot that’s landed on his cheek, and Thranduil groans and bends to kiss him.
Celebrían traces Elrond’s spine, reaches up and strokes Thranduil’s hip, simply enjoying the two of them together a minute longer. She’s still throbbing, exhilarated, so so pleased--
“Beautiful,” she whispers.
Thranduil leans over with a wide, generous smile to kiss her. “Thank you for sharing your husband.”
“Thank you for obliging us,” she says against his mouth. Then she pulls back to wrap her arms around Elrond’s loose, shimmering form and draw him up back against her chest. He has split apart into space, eyes star-flecked and bright, form flickering between all of his multitudes: happy, sated, too exhausted to be whole. Thranduil watches him with a measure of rapt fascination.
“It’s normal,” Celebrían says fondly, carding Elrond’s hair (as best as she can when it slips like black mist through her fingers)-- back from his face. “He just needs a moment.”
“And water, I should think,” Thranduil muses, then gets up to fetch him a glass.
Elrond gulps it down and drifts off to sleep still cradled in Celebrían’s arms, and as he sleeps he slowly begins to coalesce. Thranduil steps out for a bath, then comes back in thirty minutes later to help clean Elrond off. He’s always so shockingly tender in moments like these: as he wipes him clean and wakes Elrond long enough for him to drink a little more water, murmuring something affectionate, and then lets him get back to sleep. Celebrían just smiles.
“Will you oblige us again, sometime?” she whispers to Thranduil.
Gathering FiKi spring FRE prompt 4: “You're the words when I have nothing to say.”
Fandom: Being Human (UK)/The Almighty Johnsons
Pairing: Anders Johnson/John Mitchell
Rating: Lemon?
Warnings: Self-Doubt, uncertainty, smut
Theme: Tangled Up In You by Staind
Request: N/A
Words: 841
Status: Fin
Notes: any prize would be fine. First Britchell fic. Urf.
Anders sighed, slumping back onto his bed and running a hand over his face. Everything felt different now, without Bragi in the back of his head, without the voice to twist and bend those around him, to shape his life. He'd forgotten what it was like to not have that, forgotten how a quiet mind felt. He'd never discussed it with his brothers, had hardly discussed it with Olaf, but being the vessel of the God of Poetry had always made him feel like he had someone, even when he was alone.
The feeling had been overwhelming at first, but as he'd grown used to it, he had taken comfort in it, until he'd almost lost where he ended and Bragi began. At no point had he even considered he might lose it, had even been excited at the prospect of the presence strengthening when Axl found Frigg, but that wasn't what happened.
It felt like he was going to have to relearn everything about who he was again, though he supposed he wouldn't have to do so alone. Michele had seemed supportive when they parted ways, as well as Axl and Ty. He was still uncertain about Mike but they'd never really gotten on well anyway, even as kids. More importantly, he had Mitchell.
The vampire had been an intriguing and enjoyable addition to his life from the moment they'd met, when Anders had shared an umbrella with the soaked through man, and one thing had led to another until Anders had taken him into his bed. He hadn't been lying when he'd told Michele he liked the challenge of not being able to Bragi someone into it, and the power had never worked on Mitchell - not really, anyway. He'd said he could feel the pull, but wasn't compulsed. It had made the vampire laugh.
The bed dipped, and Anders glanced over, drawing his gaze along damp skin, “How're you feeling?”
The former vessel shrugged, and Mitchell’s brow rose. He was so used to Anders talking his ear off that quiet and subdued was a cause for concern. With another sigh, Anders looked back to the ceiling, “It's quiet. For years, I've had this voice in my head that wasn't mine, talking, guiding, telling me what to say to get what I want, and now it's gone, and it's quiet. All that's left is me.”
Mitchell nodded, shifting to stretch out beside Anders, gently cupping his cheek, guiding his gaze back to his face, “Is that really such a bad thing?”
“Mitchell…”
Chuckling, Mitchell kissed him softly, drawing Anders closer, “Bragi was never important to me. I know he was to you, and I accepted that he was part and parcel if I wanted to have you, but…” He shook his head, slowly moving his hand over Anders's chest, “I can't say I'm not a little relieved to have you now. Just you.”
With a shaky breath, Anders nodded, “I know, Mitchell, I just.” He cut himself off with a frustrated huff, struggling to find the words he needed. Before he could try again, however, Mitchell was kissing him again, fingers deftly undoing the buttons of his shirt.
“I get it,” he murmured, soothing a cool hand over warm skin, “It's different, and big. But you're not alone, Anders. I'm not going anywhere, I promise.” Another kiss, as if to reassure Anders he meant what he'd said, before he slumped into the bed more, pulling Anders closer and taking his hand, “If you want, I could try and drown that quiet.”
He toyed with Anders's fingers, and the smaller man raised a brow, “And how exactly would you do that?”
The vampire smirked, pushing himself up and over Anders, a hungry look in his eyes that had him hardening quickly, squirming some and breath catching, “Oh.”
“Unless you don't want to,” he offered, sincerity in his voice even as he ran a hand down to work open his lover's belt.
“Oh, no. By all means.”
The kiss that followed was far more heated, Mitchell working him free of his clothes without so much as stopping for air, only pulling back to reach into the drawer of the bedside table and retrieve their lube.
He was right though. Once Mitchell started working him open, the silence in his head filled- white noise and thoughts of so good and more and even an unsuspected I love you filled his head, a few even managing to pass his lips, though the most dominant word was simply, “Mitchell.”
The words in his head only got louder as his lover took him, brought him to the edge and held him there until he sobbed out, “Mitchell, please,” before falling over the edge, Mitchell’s name a cry upon his lips.
He settled back into the mattress, surprised when the other pulled away slowly, smiling down at him, “Better?”
With a soft contented hum, he reached for him, nuzzling in close, “You didn't finish.”
Oh fun! I have questions is it only us inserting our true selves or does this include character/reader and where do you stand with character/botsona (is transformers persona's botsonas or is there a different term for it?) Also will you be writing self inserts or will this be a mostly reblog-blog? Will this blog be safe for minors? What does a person need to be eligible for being a mod?
This is purely for inserting your true self, if you’re looking for reader insert stuff I have plenty of that on my imagines blog @robotrashcentral. I guess that if your botsona is literally just you as a robot and not a completely different oc that’ll be fine. I’m sure I’ll be adding some of my own self inserts, but most of the blog’s traffic will be from reblogs. I’m pretty sure this will remain a sfw blog so minors are completely welcome. Honestly all you need to be a mod is the ability to reblog stuff and being willing to read through everything before reblogging.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: N/A
Rating: General
Warnings: N/A
Theme: Dyslexic Dean
Request: N/A
Words: 415
Status: Fin
Notes: This was written for @tumbler-tidbits and their 400 Follower/Birthday Challenge. Happy Birthday! This is based off of some headcanons a writing partner and I have for the boys, with Dean being at least somewhat dyslexic, and he and Sam reading The Hobbit together.
Dean wasn't built of words. He was built of numbers and spare parts - of wires and screws and the difference between wrench sizes. It had been that way for as long as he could remember. He still had vague memories of his Mom being patient with him, of working with him over and over to help give him a head start. If his Dad had noticed, he hadn't said anything. It got worse when she died, when the words all but disappeared for him, for so long. It got better, when Sammy started talking, but only a little.
Sammy was made of words. Of feelings and thoughts and could just put everything he wanted to into what he said. He didn't struggle the way Dean did, didn't take so long to do the worksheets sent home from his preschool as Dean did with his assigned readings, and when he curled up against Dean's side and asked him to read, Dean always changed books, pulled a well worn copy of The Hobbit from his bag and read to him.
It wasn't until Dean was ten that Sam figured it out. He'd always known that someday, Sam would. He was a smart kid and Dean could only do so much to hide.
“That's not what it says.”
“Hmm?”
“The book. That's not what it says.”
Dean frowned, glancing over to Sam, “Then read it to yourself.”
Sam shifted, studying his brother, "It's...what's happening, but not how the book says it." He tried to figure it out, head tilting slightly. “Did you memorize it?” He knew Dean struggled, just a little, but enough to memorize the book? To make it up for Sam?
Sighing, Dean shook his head, “Kinda? The words just jump around the page, sometimes.” He closed the book, “But you were little, and you kept asking, and I wanted to be a good brother.”
Smiling, Sam leaned his head against Dean’s shoulder, hugging him, “You are.” Gently taking the book, he settled, looking up at Dean, as he started to read. Settling, Dean listened, his own soft smile forming as Sam’s voice moved easily over the words. After a couple chapters, he stopped, looking back up at Dean again, “If you want...I can help with homework and stuff.”
Chuckling, Dean roughed Sam’s hair, “Yeah, okay, Sammy.” Stretching, he stood, moving toward the kitchen, “Spaghetti for dinner?”
“Yeah, Dean.”
Dean Winchester wasn’t made of words, but Sam? Sam had enough for both of them.
Work has been crazy, I got sick, and I'm a little stuck on part 6 of Long Road. Part 5 has been ready but i'm trying to stay ahead so I've put off posting it. May have it up sometime this week anyway, regardless.
