I need a fic where Mike writes fanfictions about their campaigns, stat.
Like, Will's digging through some of his old drawings, and there's some writings Mike has done with them– not all that strange, Mike writes from Will's drawings all the time– but one of them is... weird. In comparison, at least.
Many were battle scenes, some where conversations they'd had in real life put into the context of D&D, but one was of Will the Wise his paladin finding themselves stranded away from the rest of the party.
And while at the beginning it just had romantic undertones, as the story progresses (and wow, it is much longer than they normally are) it gets more and more overt.
TL:DR- Need a fic where Will finds out Mike wrote fanfic shipping their d&d characters.
I’m back, baby! Writer Mike makes a surprise appearance, poor guy. The hollow where his heart should be. Mike. Mike x Reader, really. Angst, some body horror and gore, gross abuse of first-person pov. He really should be working on his novel, but he keeps having this dream.
—-
The thing is, babe— it’s been so long, so fucking long I’ve almost forgotten how to do this, how to reach inside my chest and grab the words. I have this idea that’s been kicking around the back of my mind, and it’s been driving me fucking crazy because I can’t do anything about it. It’s just this image, these little moments, and this feeling. It’s like I can see the shape of the story but it’s all hollow. I just. I can’t, not like this. Not when I keep having this dream.
There’s this bay of deep black water, iron fences, rusted steps that rise up with their sharp edges and they cut, babe, they cut and catch at my feet and I’m leaving bloody trails up and down but I can’t stop. I’m shredded raw, walking on bone but I have to move, into the water and back out again and I’m all wet and shivering, the salt water’s burning my lungs and I’m drowning, babe, right there between water and sky.
I dream about it every night. Maybe I’m in hell. They say it’s all fire and brimstone and red hot pokers but babe, hell is cold. It’s cold and lonely, like that last spike of adrenaline when you know you’re gonna die and it’s gonna hurt real bad. I just know there’s chains down below and every time I go down the steps they stab their hooks in me. They, yeah. I mean those strangers in the dark with their faces like dead things; they throw their chains and they’re catching at my feet, my hands, my heart, but when I go up again it’s like some awful dream within a dream and it’s just step after step, over and over again forever. I can’t. I can’t do it but I have to anyway.
It’s like I’m a puppet, babe, and these chains pull me wherever they want because I can feel them even when they aren’t there, when they’re coiled up with them down in the dark. There’s rust in my blood like poison; it’s theirs because somehow they’re sipping pain wherever they go and every time I take a step they dig their nails into me. And my feet are gone, babe, just bones all shiny from seawater cause they’ve been worn away and I can’t look but I have to look. They keep saying bear witness and it has to be a dream but those aren’t my words and it’s not my voice. They won’t let me stop until I’m all used up, all worn away. I feel like even then it wouldn’t stop. They’d just find another way to make it hurt.
I know I’ve been a pain lately, babe, but please— please— be patient with me just a little longer. I have to beat this, but I don’t know how. I’m so tired and I wake up soaked with sweat and aching in the middle of the night. I think it’s sweat, at least. It better be, because I don’t know what I’d do if it was water, if I found myself drowning in the blankets. It’s already bad enough the way moonlight shines through the window; I remember breathing you in while you named the stars, when you pointed up and said there’s the Lovers, but I already had my hands under your shirt and I didn’t hear the words til later. But the moonlight shifts like wavelets on a quiet sea and when I wake up I’m scrambling back against the headboard and my lungs are burning.
I try to force myself to write, to catch lightning in a bottle. The publisher keeps calling, saying Mikey, baby, where’s the manuscript? Give us anything you’ve got, come on, that advance must be running out, god dammit Michael have you heard of breach-of-contract, but every time I try to write I slip away into the sea and the blinking cursor on my laptop becomes that tap-tap-tap of bones on iron. I’ve got nothing, not even outlines, not even ideas except this stuff I’m telling you, but I don’t think you can slap a half-naked hunk on the cover and call this shitshow a romance. Babe. I can’t. I don’t know what to do.
The dream is getting closer, and I know it doesn’t make any sense but I can hear the soughing of water and wind even in the daytime now, even here: I’m a thousand miles away from the sea and still I feel it. Everything I touch cuts sharp like salt and I can hear them in every step, every breath. I look in the mirror and I see iron and blood; they’re calling to me and I’m saying no for now but I’m so scared, babe. I just want this to be over, to wake and feel you with me in this bed. I want you to name the stars with me again. I want to lie down and feel the warm earth bake into my bones. I want, I want, but I’m falling apart and I don’t know where some of the pieces have gone. I think the parts of me I’ve lost are with them in the dark.
Remember when you found me all hollow in the cold? I still had soil in my hair and I swore up and down my chest was torn open but you looked— you lifted up my shirt and said your heart’s still beating. You laid your head against my chest and tapped out a rhythm on my ribs. You said either way, the scar’s the same. You said I’m with you now and you. And you— oh, babe. I want— when I told you I had another story in me, when I said I needed just a little bit of quiet— I didn’t think this would be it. My whole mind is ocean and rust and that tap tap tap; I’m drifting down and I’m so afraid of climbing up again, of bearing witness to my own dissolution, but then again I know what's waiting down below.
Since we're talking about Mike again and I miss my boy, what about cockwarming him with a side of orgasm delay/denial? Maybe while he's writing?
@septicace I’ve missed writer Mike too. And yet I couldn’t resist. Tentacular. Mike x Reader with a side of Walter. Smut, cockwarming, monsterfucking (tentacles), threesome-ish, praise, Mike’s prose (which should get a warning on its own), come eating, fluids, oral. Mike’s been writing some niche stuff lately.
Hey, babe. What’s another word for dick? I’ve already used cock, iron rod, velvety shaft, weeping member, even flaming sword.
Turgid— ah, fuck. Damn it, Mike— staff? Turgid staff? Christ, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep doing that.
Shh. Babe. Be good and don’t distract me. The sooner you let me finish, the sooner I can fuck you how you like it. And he rolls his hips just a little, the bastard, for a moment driving himself deep, rubbing his pubic bone and thatch of hair against you, ratcheting your need even higher. Hey. Rest your head on my shoulder. Be nice and still for me. There you go. That’s good.
Mike is warm and thick and so hard inside you, and this patience is something new, something he must’ve picked up from Walter. He’s been more settled lately. Calmer. Sleeping better, even, and what a relief that is, waking to the soft brush of lips wrapped around your earlobe instead of to agonized screams.
Babe. Listen to this. ‘His wide cerulean orbs radiated all the heat of the morning glory pool, dark and deep and secretive, filled with burning acid. He gazed upon her with all the fire of the good stovetop burner’s gas flame, the color of twilight and deep rocky caves where eyeless fish live.’ It’s not quite there yet— he gives a sharp, deep thrust, arm coming up to bar across your lower back, holding you still for him— but I need to purple up this next draft. My editor says it’s getting a little too close to literary. He types one-handed for a while, holding your body flush against his, moving just often enough to drive you mad.
He’s been struggling with this one, with Simon’s return to civilian life, all the heroics and terrors of battle following in his wake. And here you are to keep Mike company, to keep him warm, to keep him centered. To sob into his shoulder as he reaches around your body to type, laptop sitting on the bed before him, keys clicking softly as you tense your legs around his waist. To shift your hips in a futile search for more, only to hear his voice in your ear, rough with barely contained need. Babe. Be good. Shh. Hold still and I’ll read to you a little.
‘When he woke, the shadows crawled like inky tentacles up the sides of the bed, wrapping his limbs in their immovable grip. He could feel his rigid maypole shivering in time to his shaky breaths, his precome raining down like silk streamers. It fell cold and wet on his thighs—‘ yeah, I know, babe. I know. I wanna fuck you so bad, wanna roll you under me and spread you wide, wanna fuck you deep til you can taste it. Thought about taking it slow but I don’t think I can. Not after this. I bet Walter could though, right boss?
Walter hmms a little, the sound rumbling up from somewhere deep in his chest as he idly palms at his fly. Michael. Would you read a little more?
‘It was a strange dream, frightening like shells screaming overhead, like the terrible silence that followed, and yet something crept and crawled after him, sand sticking to its many mucus-coated tentacles—‘ yes, babe, he’s totally gonna get fucked by a tentacle monster, I told you I was doing some niche shit lately—
‘Simon could still see them in the shadows, and as much as he wanted to hate it, the truncheon standing between his legs twitched and pulsed as he remembered the dream; as those oil-slick shadows twined around him he recalled the grit and dirt sticking to the creature, so that its tentacles felt like a rough tongue when they stroked over him and then inside him.’ I still need to get some of the descriptions fixed, try to find some more synonyms for dick, maybe some more details about Simon getting fucked by the tentacle monster.
A— Christ. A tentacle monster.
Yeah, and you like it. I felt that. Listen, babe. Think about it. Think about being pinned down, your clothes torn open, and somehow it knows exactly how you like it. And it can ripple and swell inside you. It can fill up every hole so perfectly, like it was made from the negative mold of you.
Michael. I think someone’s about at their limit.
Yeah, boss. I know. And Mike leans to set the laptop on a side table; it shifts him so deliciously inside you. Ready babe? And just as he promised he rolls you underneath him, hands coming down to part your thighs and hold them apart, to give a few testing thrusts to make sure he’s fully seated. And then he moves.
He keeps your legs pushed up and back as best he can, to make you feel the stretch and burn of it, to feel you shift against him and ripple with want when he hitches his hips to drive himself deeper. He’s positively vibrating with energy, with the concentration that comes from keeping himself together and Mike. Hey. Hey. Please. Can you—
Yeah. His hand comes up to guide you over the edge, to find that thin bright line where need burns bright inside you. Think about it, babe. How good it’d feel, how all you could think about is how completely you’re being filled. I want to see it disappearing inside you, work my fingers into the mess it leaves. See you tired and sated and filthy and—
And Mike buries his face in the crook of your neck; when he comes it’s a gasping sob, thick and wet. There’s a quiet groan from Walter in his chair, watching the two of you come undone. Good. That’s good.
And Mike descends to lick you clean; he takes all his spend back into himself and pulls you to the edge again; when he surges up to kiss you it’s with the taste of you both heavy on his tongue. Hey, he says, and it’s a gift, this little moment: the soft brush of his lips against your temple, the deep sigh as he relaxes against you.
Hey Mike. Does Simon— does he get his happy ending?
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.
Ok so I need a hot Walter/Sy fic... Walter/Sy/Mike? I’m really feelin a feeling right now lol.
Hey @zealoushound there’s smut, and there’s weird. Walter x Sy and a side of Writer Mike, who’s having a bit of a tough time with this new piece. Writer’s Block. Smut, handjobs, snuggling, voyeurism (kind of). Just kind of a weird little concept I had, that doesn’t really fit in the writer Mike universe but damn if we haven’t ended up here anyway.
They’re not like oil and water, babe. They’re more like… gasoline and a lit match, like standing on the roof in a storm, arms outstretched, screaming into the night, daring god and all his angels to strike you down. They are so much, so much, and I wish you were here to see them.
Wish you could see the way they challenge one another, the way Walter’s gentleness is fraying around the edges, the way Sy looks at him like he can’t decide whether to kiss him or tear out his throat. And I watch, babe, I sit in my chair and write, but more and more my hands fall away from the keys and all I can do is look at them, at their strange dance.
I know they’re aware of me, but I don’t know how much. Sometimes Walter will look around and peer through the curtains like he’s trying to find the source of the tapping, like if he can just move fast enough he’ll see something. But other times, I don’t know. Other times he rests his chin in his hands and stares right into the corner, right at me, but it’s like he’s looking at an empty chair. I can’t— I can’t get him to react. I’ve tried yelling, waving my arms, even jerking myself off right in front of him, and still nothing.
And Sy? Babe, I wish I knew. He’s here, and he and Walter snarl and spit, but then he disappears somewhere. I hear his footsteps heavy overhead, like he’s pacing, like he’s trying to wear a hole through the boards. I try to reach for him, but he’s so far away.
I don’t know where they go when they’re not in this room, but I hear them. I hear rustling and banging, the steady tick-tock rhythm like a headboard against a wall— not like a headboard, it is one— I saw them once, when I could still move freely around the house, before I was stuck in this stupid little room and this stupid little chair. I know, I know. I’m complaining. I’m breathing, so it could be worse. But anyway. I saw them, that time, fucking like they were fighting; did I tell you about that? Time passes so strangely here. Anyway.
I saw them, babe, but they didn’t see me. Didn’t hear me. I put my hands on them and they were warm, alive, but they were lost to themselves. Walter had Sy pushed down halfway onto the bed and had their thighs slotted together like a puzzle; you could hear the rasp of hair from their thighs and their beards— fuck, it wasn’t even a kiss, it was a bite, it was them trying to consume each other. And the sounds they made. Not loud, god, they’re so much quieter than you’d think. But they made these groans, low and throaty, like they were dying. I almost died with them, babe; I watched Walter’s hand heavy on their cocks, holding them together. I watched Sy reach to grip his hand over Walter’s. I watched the way they came together, and the way they disentangled with sticky hands.
I saw Sy licking at his hand, and the way Walter’s eyes followed every move; I saw that tight focus and the way he swallowed hard, the way his cock twitched where it was still hanging out of his jeans. I saw the way he tried to speak, and stopped, and tried again. I heard the words he didn’t say. I heard them, and I saw it all, babe. I saw the heavy thud of Sy’s heart beating against his rib cage, all trepidation and god, that moment when he realized he could have this. The moment when it was just the two of them and the bed and the house, nothing to interrupt them because I—
I miss the way this used to come easy. Used to be I could follow them from room to room; I watched them figuring it out. I saw Walter in the kitchen with flour on his sweater; I watched Sy reading out loud in the evening, This Side of Paradise, I think. It’s been a while. I watched them so carefully not talking to each other, but then later, the way Sy barred his arm across Walter’s back in the shower, the way water droplets blew from their mouths with every shuddering breath. I saw Walter pressed against the frosted glass, the outline of his hand on his cock, the way the soap slid down their bodies.
I saw them, babe, Christ. I saw so much, but then one day I couldn’t leave this room. And sometimes they come here for a little while, but I miss them and I don’t know how to keep them with me. If you were here you’d tell me rest easy, they’ll be back. One day the door will open.
And I try to be patient; I try so damned hard, and I wish you were here. You could take my hand and pull me to my feet; you could stroke my hair while I pick the lock, and together we could creep down the hall and up the stairs and see what they’re up to. Fucking again, probably, in some room or another. Maybe sleeping, all tangled up and warm together. Sy’s got a leg thrown over Walter; they’re murmuring half-nonsense as they drift into sleep, and Walter says—
He says—
Oh babe, I think I. I see them. Fuck. I have to get this down. Hold on. I’ll call you back.
Writer Mike makes his triumphant return with some good old-fashioned fucking over a pool table. Baize, smut.
He’s taking notes while he fucks you over a pool table. Mike’s buried in you to the hilt and he’s taking notes. The baize is all fucked up with pen marks; he’s trying to write one-handed with the other gripping at your hip, and his little notebook keeps slipping out of his hand. So instead he says can I use you?
And isn’t he already? But he means, of course, to throw aside his notebook, to hitch his pants up high enough around his ass so that he can find a felt-tip pen in his pocket. Momentum slips for a moment but it’s worth it for the way he says let me tell you what I’m writing, for the way he holds you still with a hand at your nape and isn’t that something.
He’s breathless when he tells you about the scratchy feel of a woolen suit against your bare skin, a big hand gripping the rounded butt of a pool cue— maybe he’ll fuck her with it, I haven’t decided yet— and he’s holding himself back as best he can. If I have him slam his thick velvety shaft into her lady garden, do you think it’s too much? Or not enough? I could compare the motion of their hips to the business end of a backhoe.
Mike’s rolling his hips against you like he could do this for hours, distracted by the words he writes on your skin. I think— I think I might call him Henley. He’s an old-timey detective, just yearning to be touched. You know, the kind of pining hero people love to read about, the kind who stares off into the distance til he tears your clothes off and fucks you stupid.
A real Byronic hero, huh?
Yeah, but with, like, shredded abs. Hey babe. Lemme help you with that. And he reaches a hand down to stroke circles round your clit til you shudder and clench around him, but he isn’t done. There’s a wiggly pen line disappearing into your armpit from his hand slipping, from the moment when you squeezed him so tight.
Fuck, babe, I wish you could see this. His voice sticks in his throat til it pulls free word by word with a click and a gasp, like he’s dying of thirst and someone told him water’s just around the bend. Babe. My words on your skin. God, I wanna use this. Have to, fuck, the imagery, I—
He’s moving in you slow and careful, getting close, mindful of your sensitivity. And he drapes himself over your back, smearing ink onto himself because fuck. Fucking hell, he would. One touch and he’d rut into you like a wild animal— he’s picking up speed now, falling into rhythm, pen abandoned as he moves a hand to circle at you again, as he’s crushing the breath from your lungs.
Just like this. Think about it, god, his hand so big he could cover the entire back of your head. And he would, without meaning to; he’d press your face into the tabletop so you’d get friction burns from the baize. Oh, oh listen to this: she has to go to dinner after, all dressed in— fuck, taffeta? The hell did Victorians wear— but her face is all red from where he held it down. And she touches it a little to remember how he felt— fuck, babe. Fuck, this is good. You’re good, you’re.
And oh, he’s going all to pieces in you; he drops his head to gasp against your back, openmouthed and panting and Jesus, fuck, I— and when he pulls back it’s with a slide of sticky fluids down your thigh; it’s wirh a rueful laugh as he sees the mess he’s left, ink smeared everywhere. And when you turn to look at him you can almost make out the words, like mimeographs of mimeographs across his chest and belly. And it’s hard to tell, but perhaps the words spell out—
And lo, there was more writer!Mike, and it was good. Winter Retreat, part two of Purple as Anything. Previous part here. What better place to work on his novel than a secluded cabin? Featuring smut (oral, f receiving) and mentions of role play.
I need a break, Mike says, and sets his glasses down. The deadline’s drawing near, and he’s tired of pirates. I’ve been spending so much time on Waltham’s throbbing manhood, I feel like the poor guy’s about to have a coronary.
So whaddya want to do about it?
Let’s take the weekend, go out to Tuolomne again. I’ll write pirates during the day, and we can fuck under the stars all night.
Romantic.
Yeah. Feigning innocence. Besides. Maybe I’ll find my great American novel there. I’m thinking death and sorrow in the old west, something like Abbey, maybe, or Denis Johnson. Something that’s not more fucking pirates.
This time of year it’s cold as fuck in Tuolomne but cabins are cheap. And there’s something holy about it, about the way the wind sighs through the pines, about the way rain softly becomes snow as you watch through the window.
Mike sets aside time each day for what he needs to write, and it flows easily enough from him; bored housewives can’t seem to get enough of those limpid cerulean pools and rigid shafts.
It’s like a puzzle, you know? I’ve got all these pieces, all the stuff readers just eat up. It’s just arranging them into different patterns. Maybe someday I’ll show you the stuff I don’t send my publisher.
You mean there’s more? You got anything else about Stirling?
He laughs, low and easy, all smoke and winter chill and cheap bourbon. Nah. But I can show you. He glances up at you over the top of his reading glasses; night has fallen and it is Mike’s time to play. His hand is warm on your thigh as he marks the shift of your hips, the fractional forward tilt as you seek his hand at your center.
Why Stirling? Softly, as though he’s genuinely curious. He’s so cold.
Determined. Immovable.
Cold.
Nah. If he were cold he’d just leave after. But instead Angelica finds him sitting up in bed, watching the window. Touching his hand to his lips, what was it? “And with the tip of his sweet pink tongue, he lapped at his fingers, thinking of the way his thick wet tongue had wormed its way into her moist depths like an eel returning home to its burrow; he remembered her luscious womanly cavern opening to him by moonlight, glistening like silver with the juices of her need, juices that ran over his fingers and lips like a waterfall, soaking the collar of his suit.”
Psh. Don’t tell me you got off to that crap. He’s trying and failing to be dismissive; though he knows the bodice-ripper stuff is almost offensively purple, still his cock pulses to hear you reminisce, to know it’s his words that got you wet, his prose, however extravagant, that had you in your dorm bed late at night, three fingers deep, trying to remain unheard.
I— yeah. Yeah, I did. When he lifts her up onto the windowsill, and she’s leaning her head back, looking out at the moon. When she feels his tongue on her and can’t quite believe it—
Really? All the best parts were cut. His hand is inside your underwear now, fingers stroking softly; his breath ghosts over your thigh with each word. What I really wanted was for him to take her folds so carefully between his teeth— and he’s baring you to the waist, urging your thighs just that little bit further apart and now his voice is muffled as he nips so carefully at your folds, as he strokes his fingers over and then into you. God, you’re gorgeous. I want you to come on my tongue, can you do that for me? Lean back. Look. Look at the moon, just like she did.
Mike. It’s snowing.
Then look at the moon behind the snow. See it in your mind’s eye for me. Listen. I’d have had her thighs clenched so tight around his ears, he couldn’t hear her cries. I wanted him to feel them vibrating through his skin, to gauge how close she was by the way she shivered on his tongue. I wanted—
But he is lost to this, to the taste of you, to the saliva and liquid need that coat his chin. He tries to keep his eyes open, to pin you with his gaze as you try to look at the sky, leaning back with your hands on the sill. But his eyes keep drifting shut as he loses himself in you, in the way you can’t help but tense and rock yourself down onto his tongue. It’s so much, the way he eats at you like a starving man, his fingers playing around his tongue, spreading you open for him. It’s messy and wet with just the barest graze of teeth, and when you fall to pieces for him it’s with a soft, punched-out oh.
Mike’s smile is dopey when he pulls back to look at you; he’s a little bit in love with this, with the way you shine all over his face, with the way you tremble so delicately through the aftershocks. But he is hard still, and when he opens his mouth it’s to destroy you in an entirely new way. So. Stirling. Did you think about him? No? Really? Huh. Well. I’d like to fuck you now, and I want you to pretend it’s him.
And as you reach for Mike, he is doing his damnedest to put on a suave face but he is smiling still, open and happy and if only he could be this way forever. Cmon, he says, and if his smile slips it’s only for a moment. Let me be your secret agent man. So what else can you do but snort and punch his arm? And his smile steadies, opens up, and for a while the world is righted on its axis.
Hi! Congratulations on 500 followers! 🎉 May I please get more Writer!Mike with cockwarming and a side of vibrators and cuffs please? Thank you! 😚
Hey there @raspberrydreamclouds we might not have gotten to cockwarming (I plumb forgot until it was over, in fact), but hopefully this will satisfy anyway. Dogs and Horses, Writer Mike x Reader. Smut, toys, restraints, anal, purple prose, orgasm denial, overstimulation, discussion of dub/noncon fantasy/roleplay in a consensual situation. Mike is going Darker and Edgier with this new series.
Listen to this: ‘He laid out his tools like a butcher would; between his fingers slick ran blood-warm, slippery and clear like liquid crystal. In the deep blue pits of his eyes were reflected all her hidden sins; he would tease them out and render her empty of anything except the need of him.’ Does that sound about right, babe? It’s a new series, a little darker. A little edgier. The kind of thing bored housewives read in the bath when their husbands aren’t around.
So who is this guy? Arthur, I mean. Why’s he doing this?
Well, babe, he says it’s because he needs information. He uses his targets’ weaknesses against them. You know, torture, pain, the usual. But for this— to titillate those readers looking for just a little spice— he uses pleasure. Remember how Stirling did it? Sort of like that, but more toys.
Is that why—
Listen, babe. I’d want to do this anyway, just to see you so fucking wet for me. Besides. I want to see if you really can come enough to pass out. What do you say?
The egg inside you is a bone-deep insistence; Mike has you describe every sensation as he takes his notes, doing his best to put on an impersonal face but he glances up with such heat in his eyes. There are the seeds of Arthur buried in him, germinating into this: into his fingers reaching to catch and tug the egg’s loop, to manipulate it inside you to find that spot that has you gasping.
He would frustrate you, babe, make you beg for more, but he’d hold you on the edge. And with you in the spreader bar for him like this, you can’t even find any relief. You're completely at his mercy, helpless and open. And listen:
‘Then Arthur took up the slick on his fingers, like the mucoid coating of some terrible creature; with fingers thick like serpents he worked her open, even her tight little rosebud helpless against the onslaught of his pleasure; at first she was uneasy, but his words in her ear won her over, and gradually she opened up to let him in—‘ yeah, I know. They love that stuff— ‘and his icy cerulean orbs, dark like the circles on a peacock’s feather, cold as a disappointed schoolteacher when the last exam has been failed, burned their fiery gaze into her rear passage as his thick fingers disappeared inside.’ Babe. You’re laughing again. Ha, you feel that? That nice thick plug in your ass? Wait till you see what it does, babe.
What it does, as it turns out, is vibrate, playing counterpoint to the egg buried in your cunt; it’s so much, but it isn’t enough. Mike runs a hand over the swell of your ass, trailing his fingers over the base of the plug. God, you’re gorgeous like this. He could keep you like this for hours, never quite able to come, ass up for him, til you break. Til he could ask you anything and you would answer, just so he would get you off. Tell me, babe. Will you break for him? Will you give him everything he wants?
Fuck, he’ll have to do better than that.
Like this? And the intensity increases; liquid need is cooling on your thighs and Mike is circling like a hungry animal, trying to memorize every angle; he sees your face, mashed into the cushion; he admires your ass as you shift and twitch in the search for relief; he says listen. He would tie you to a chair, or string your arms up above your head, but he’s done his homework. He wants you absolutely exposed, open, and here he could so easily take what he wants, because your pretty cunt and your ass are right. there. for him. He knows you, knows that what really makes you weak is the thought of him overwhelming you while you’re helpless, taking out his toys while you’re shivering through the aftershocks of too many orgasms, fucking into you like a beast. He wants your face down and your ass up, so you can’t see his eyes. How am I doing so far?
I think it might be a little much for your housewives. They probably barely get out of missionary.
You’re probably right. I’ll have him tie her hands to the headboard or something. But you, babe. You want to stay like this?
Fuck. Yeah, yeah, it’s good. I just. Fuck, I need.
Babe. Once he makes you come once he’s not going to stop. He’s gonna bring you off over and over til you cry, til you can’t remember your own name but he’s gonna make you give up all your secrets anyway. And then he’s gonna fuck your pretty ass. So let me ask you: are you ready for that?
Give— fuck. Give me all you’ve got. A beat. Arthur, please. Please, I can’t take it. I need to come, I—
Oh babe, you know that’s music to his ears. Now, you feel that? That’s him turning the vibes to maximum. And that’s his hand, touching your clit. That’ll be his only point of contact until he fucks you, babe, even though he knows how much you want to feel him skin to skin. Even though it’s wrong. Even though it’s him torturing you.
‘You can hurt with pleasure just as well as pain, he says, as she’s gasping and moaning, all the air rushing out from her like she’s a deflating balloon and he’s a performer at this strange birthday party of sin; I’ve had you on the edge, you poor pathetic little thing. Now I’ll drop you off this cliff, my dear. Every stone you hit on the way down will be another orgasm for me. Every branch that tears at you will be another spike of pleasure in your gut, until at last you hit the ground moaning and weeping. And then, my dear, I will take you in the fashion of dogs and horses, until I am satisfied, or until you give me the answers I want.’
Mike’s hand on you is a blessing, at first. The first time you come is sweet relief, a clenching and uncoiling, all that tension letting go at once. But just like he promised, he doesn’t stop. He isn’t even taking notes anymore, just spitting out prose as it comes, like he isn’t even aware of what he’s saying. His hand stays on you, through two, three more times, until you’re soaked with sweat, cursing more weakly each time, until you’re begging please. Please. Anything. I’ll tell you anything. I need, I need—
Still with me, babe?
Fucking Christ, yes. But it’s so much. I can’t.
You’re gonna. I know you can. And he works the plug so gently from your ass, admiring the way the muscle contracts. But it’s not quite enough for him, and so he works you open with slick fingers, slopping lube everywhere, pushing it inside, and all the while that egg is still pulsing in your cunt, unavoidable, overwhelming with how sensitive you are.
There you are. You’re ready. Aren’t you gorgeous, so filthy and open. This is where he gives you that contact, babe. This is where he drapes himself across your back, peeling your ass apart with his hands, and he works his way inside. He’s thick and hot and thank god he gave you that extra prep. Babe. I can still feel it buzzing in you. That’s, fuck, what would it be? ‘Like a horde of angry bees’ maybe, or Christ, I don’t know. I can’t. Can’t think.
Worry about it later. And it’s not like feeling as though you’ll be split in half; he was careful, is careful, and so there’s no pain, but still it’s so much. It’s more like being full beyond full, bombarded with the slick hot sensation of him moving in you; between that and the toy and Christ, the way he stills and pulses hot inside, it all has you so close that his hand fumbling to your clit has you coming one final time before the world greys out around you.
Babe. You okay? At some point Mike’s gotten you out of the spreader bar and taken out the egg; he strokes a hand gentle down your back and grins a little, the dopey satisfied grin of a man who’s gotten off hard. It’s a beautiful sight.
You get what you need?
Did I get— babe, all that and more. I’ll have to spend some time with it, purple it up. And I think I kind of, uh, forgot to take notes after a while. But you’ll help me remember, won’t you?
Does it mean we can do this again?
Any time you want, babe. Seeing you like that, helpless, needy. I— it was so good. You were so good. Just goddamn gorgeous.
