Nenynra Writes

And

"I'm happy when people interact with my writing"

feeling called out today

Warnings: Smut involving penetrative sex, choking.

You remember how horrified John had been at the idea the first time you brought it up, so scared of hurting you. It had taken time and starting off slow by just holding your neck without applying pressure, but now here he is, cutting off the flow of blood to your brain until black dots dance through your vision without you even having to ask.

For how much the idea had initially appalled him, he sure is enjoying this a lot. His thrusts are getting sloppy already, pushed toward the edge thanks to how tightly you're clenching around him and the sight of you struggling for consciousness.

You gasp when John loosens his grip on your neck. His hand slides up to your jaw instead, angling your head for a hungry kiss. It's all teeth and tongues, unrestrained moans swallowed by each other.

"Fuck, 'm so close, John," you whine. "Please—"

John knows exactly what you're asking for. With one more nip on your lip, he wraps his hand back around your throat and squeezes, simultaneously picking up the pace of his thrusts.

You fall apart almost instantly, mouth opened in a silent scream as your head goes fuzzy.

Have a good day!:>

Sure thing!

Send me a number along with a pairing (or leave it to dealers choice) and I'll write you a snippet (500 words or less)

86) "I'm gonna come in my pants if you keep doing that."

88) "I had a dream about you last night. Want me to tell you about it?"

A/n: in memory of Archiebald… I still hear his voice sometimes 😔 gun plah wiht Phil

Warnings: smut, described drunken sex, suggested oral (f receiving), if you think I missed anything let me know otherwise enjoy!

Metallica was a favourite band of yours and one of your closest friends, there'd always been something about them you just loved. That thing being the energy they created in their audience, the speed of their instruments, most importantly, Cliff.

Rainy Days, Safe Arms 🌧️

warnings: 18+ angst, hurt/comfort, soft subby mike, emotional breakdown, aftercare, handjob, praise kink, crying, soft dom reader, safe space

wordcount: ~3,200k

a/n: mike need love. @nenynra

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The rain started while you were out. Just a light drizzle at first, but by the time you made it back home, it had deepened into something steadier—soft, rhythmic, peaceful. The kind of rain that slows everything down, tucks the world into a cocoon of quiet.

Mike was already home when you got in. He met you with a little smile, kissed your cheek, and asked how your day was. His voice was warm, his words the same. But something about him didn’t sit quite right.

He wasn’t teasing like usual. He didn’t make one of his silly jokes when you pulled off your wet socks and dramatically groaned about the weather. Just a quiet chuckle and a pat on your back. His arms wrapped around your waist for a moment longer than usual. His lips brushed your temple like always—but they lingered.

You didn’t say anything then. Just kissed him back and squeezed his hand. You could feel the way he was carrying something in his chest. Not heavy enough to show in his words. Just enough to dull the sparkle in his eyes.

And you knew Mike. You knew how hard he worked to hold himself together when he was hurting. How deeply he hated feeling like a burden.

So instead of asking what was wrong, you asked him what he felt like eating.

He said anything.

So you made comfort food.

Grilled cheese. Tomato soup. Those little pickles he liked on the side, because of course you remembered. You brought the plates into the bedroom and fluffed the pillows, clicked off the lights. The only glow came from the hallway lamp and the silver ripple of rain against the windowpane.

You didn’t even try to turn on the TV. You knew he wouldn’t want it. Not tonight.

Instead, you climbed into bed beside him, settled in with your plate, and passed him his with a soft “here you go, baby.” His fingers brushed yours when he took it, and you felt the way they trembled—barely. Almost unnoticeable.

But you noticed.

You always noticed.

He sat cross-legged on the bed, hunched a little forward, eating quietly. His hair was still damp from his shower, curling slightly at the ends. You watched him stare at the plate between bites, eyes flicking occasionally toward the window. Rain dripped slowly down the glass.

When he finished, you didn’t rush him. You took the plates and set them aside. Then you came back to bed and pulled the blanket over both of you—tugged it high around his shoulders and wrapped your arms around him from behind.

He let you. No resistance. Just leaned back into you with a soft exhale like it had been waiting in his chest all day.

You didn’t say anything yet. You just held him. Let the quiet build between you, soft and slow. The rain outside. The warmth under the covers. Your arms around Mike’s body. One hand gently combing through his damp hair.

His breathing started to slow.

And only when you felt him begin to truly relax against your chest… you whispered into his hair:

“What’s wrong, baby?”

His body went still for a moment.

Not frozen, not stiff. Just… still. Like your question had touched something quiet and sore inside him. Something that didn’t know whether to flinch or curl toward you.

Then you felt his head tilt just slightly against your chest. His voice came out low. Soft.

“What do you mean?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just kept petting his hair, slow and rhythmic, tracing along the line of his scalp with your fingertips. You weren’t going to push—not yet. But you also weren’t going to pretend you didn’t see it.

After a few quiet seconds, you murmured:

“It’s just… I noticed you seemed like you were having a hard time today.”

That was when his shoulders gave the tiniest twitch. A guilt-twinged breath passed through his nose, almost like a sigh. You felt it more than you heard it.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, like it was the first thing he owed you. “I was just… tired, that’s all.”

He tried to keep it light. But you could feel the way his chest wasn’t rising as easily. The way he was bracing himself, even now, just to stay composed.

You tightened your arms around him.

“Don’t be sorry.”

Your voice was softer now, and closer to his ear. Warm and full of that deep, aching care. Your hand moved down from his hair to gently rub along his arm, then across his chest—calming, grounding.

“You don’t have to keep it all in. Not with me. You know that, right?”

He was quiet. You felt him swallow.

“You’re always so strong,” you said gently, your fingers resting over his heartbeat, slow and steady under your palm. “You’re strong for me. For everyone.”

That’s when he went a little tense in your arms.

Not like before—this wasn’t a reflex. This was something cracking open. You felt his breath hitch, barely audible. Like he wasn’t prepared for that kind of softness, or someone seeing him like that.

“I just…” he whispered, almost to himself. “I didn’t want to… bring you down or anything.”

Your heart broke a little at that. You cupped his jaw, turned his face toward you just enough to press your lips into his temple.

“Baby, you could never bring me down.” “I love every part of you. Even the tired parts. Even the hurting ones.”

You felt his body curl a little closer.

And then—just the faintest tremble.

You pulled the blankets tighter around both of you. Let him hide. Let him fall into your arms just a little more.

Then, gently…

“You okay?”

His voice came back ragged. Barely a whisper.

“I don’t… I don’t know why I—”

He didn’t finish. Your heart dropped, as you felt him try to swipe at his face. Trying to catch the tears before they could fall.

Too late.

He was already unraveling.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just held him.

He was trying so hard not to fall apart—you could feel it in every trembling breath, every shaky exhale. He was pressing his face into your chest now, curling into you like he was trying to hide the tears he couldn’t stop. It was horrible to see him fight what he needed.

You hushed him. Softly. Gently. Your hand stroked up and down his back, slow and calming.

“Shhh... c’mon, baby... don’t fight it. It's okay. You're okay.”

His whole body was trembling now. You pulled him in tighter, curled protectively around him, like you could shield him from the weight in his chest. His breathing broke again—another gasp, another wave.

You pressed kisses into his hair, over and over, whispering between each one.

“You’re safe.” “You’re not alone.” “I got you, my sweet baby...”

He clung to you like it hurt. Like it was all finally crashing down on him at once and his body didn’t know what to do with the ache.

Then it came—words, tumbling out in gasps between sobs he couldn’t hold back anymore.

“I swear I didn’t mean to— I don’t know, it’s just—”

He shook his head hard, pressing it deeper into your chest.

“All the memories just kept coming back today... and I couldn’t stop them. I just... I couldn’t get my head clear. My chest just—”

He sucked in a harsh breath, trying not to sob again—but it tore out of him anyway. Broken. Raw. It made your heart twist in your chest.

“It hurts.”

That last part—soft, like a confession. And it shattered you.

You wrapped both arms around him as tightly as you could without hurting him, your voice nearly breaking.

“Oh, my love... I’m so sorry. I know, I know it hurts. You don’t have to carry it by yourself anymore.”

You kissed his hair, his cheek, his temple, anywhere you could reach. His tears were soaking through your shirt now, warm and desperate and so long overdue.

You held him through the waves. He was falling apart, and you held him like glass. His sobs came harder, like he couldn’t stop, like his body had been waiting years for this permission. For this safe place to break. And now that he had it—he couldn’t go back.

“I hated myself,” he choked out. “I thought... I thought I deserved all of it.”

You gasped softly, pain blooming in your chest. Your hand slid up to cup his face, gently tilting it toward you—not forcing, just holding.

“No, baby. No. You didn’t deserve any of that. You never did.”

He looked up at you through tear-soaked lashes, his eyes wide and broken. You kissed each one. Slowly. Tenderly.

“You were just a boy,” you whispered. “A beautiful, brave boy who didn’t get the love he needed. But I’m here now. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He let out a sound that broke your heart in two—a hiccupping, shaking sob as he curled even tighter into you, arms around your waist like he needed to anchor himself to something real.

And you gave it to him. All of it.

You held him through the storm. Through every tremble, every moan, every wave of emotion that crashed over him. You whispered to him in soft, loving tones—

“My sweet boy.” “You’re so strong.” “I see you. I see everything you’ve carried.”

And he sobbed harder.

But now he wasn’t hiding it.

He was letting go.

Letting himself feel it...

He stayed like that for a while, and you held him in silence. Rocking him to the rhythm of the rain.

Eventually his sobs had started to soften—still wracking his chest, but smaller now. Fragile. Like aftershocks.

You kept petting him, murmuring soft words into his hair. He was so quiet again now, just little gasps and whimpers between his breaths. One of your hands traced down his back, rubbing slow, grounding circles.

“My sweet boy,” you whispered again. “You’re safe now. You’re doing so good, baby.”

But then you felt it—a little flinch. Barely a shift of muscle. His body tensed under your touch like he didn’t mean to, but couldn’t stop it.

He buried his face deeper into your chest.

“Don’t call me that…” he mumbled, voice hoarse. “I’m supposed to be strong. I’m supposed to be a man...”

You didn’t rush to correct him. You just kept holding him. Stroking the side of his face, the curve of his jaw.

Then, softly—

“You are a man.”

He froze a little, as if unsure what to do with that.

You kept going.

“You’re the strongest man I know.” “But even the strongest people have soft parts. Wounded parts.”

Your voice dropped to a whisper, one hand moving to cradle the back of his neck, your fingers curling gently in his hair.

“There’s still a piece of you inside… a little boy who never got what he needed.”

He trembled at that. You felt his breath catch.

“And that little boy deserved love. He deserved to be held when he was scared. To be told he was good, and brave, and safe. To not be told to get over it when he was in pain. To be loved and supported. And he didn’t get that. That wasn’t your fault.”

You felt him break again—just a little.

A soft cry escaped his throat, and his arms clutched at your waist like he needed to hold onto something before he drifted away.

“I thought I was just being dramatic,” he whispered. “I thought… if I just kept going, it would stop hurting.”

You shook your head against his hair, your own voice thick with tears.

“No, baby. You were surviving. You were doing your best. And that pain? It was real. You never deserved to carry it alone. Never deserved to be told it doesn't matter, or that it's your own fault...”

He whimpered. A soft, aching sound. His tears returned, quieter now, but steady. His body curled more into yours, like he wanted to disappear in your arms completely.

You let him. You cradled him.

“You’re still that boy sometimes,” you whispered. “And he’s allowed to cry. He’s allowed to need. And so are you.”

You placed a slow, loving kiss on the crown of his head.

“You’re my good boy. My beautiful, strong man. And you deserve all the love in the world.”

That’s when you heard it—so soft you almost missed it.

A little moan.

His breath hitched, and his thighs shifted against yours.

That soft little moan melted into your chest like it had slipped out before he could stop it. His body shifted again—closer, tighter, needy. You felt his hips twitch, just slightly, as he burrowed deeper into your arms.

He was still crying, but quieter now. No longer fighting it. No longer apologizing. Just letting himself feel.

And under it… a new tension.

You could feel it pressing lightly against your thigh.

He went still the second you noticed. Froze, like he'd just realized he couldn’t hide it anymore. A small, shaky gasp left him, and he tried to curl his knees up like he could make it disappear. Like he was ashamed.

You were already there—hand gently smoothing down his back, lips brushing his temple, voice soft as a lullaby.

"Oh, baby..." You let it come out like a soft, deep moan. He flinched, as if he didn't expect it.

“Shhh… it’s okay, darling.”

He shook his head against your chest, voice cracking.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t— I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, no... you don’t have to be sorry,” you whispered, cutting him off with a kiss to his cheek. “You’ve been holding so much in, baby. It’s okay if your body needs comfort too.”

He whimpered again, and you felt the weight of his tears as he clung to you tighter. His face was still hidden in your neck, but his breathing was faster now, little hitches and broken whines. Like he wanted to crawl inside you and never be alone again.

You cradled the back of his head and whispered:

“Let me take care of you, sweet boy.”

Your hand slid slowly down his side, feather-light, until you reached the waistband of his sweats. You paused.

He didn’t speak. But the way his body trembled against yours—the way he nuzzled his tear-streaked face into your throat—was answer enough.

So you slipped your hand gently inside.

He gasped, his hips giving the tiniest jerk forward, then freezing in place. Embarrassed. Vulnerable.

You wrapped your fingers around him gently, warm and slow, like you were holding something fragile. Something precious.

He whined into your skin.

“That’s it, baby... just let go…” you whispered. “You’re doing so good. My good boy… my sweet, soft boy...”

He let out a soft, overwhelmed moan—then another, higher this time. His body was shaking in your arms again, but not from tears this time. From release. From surrender.

“I’ve got you, darling. Let me love you. Let me help you feel safe.”

You lovingly continued to caress him all over with your other hand. You stroked him slowly, steadily, your free arm wrapped tight around his waist, holding him so close he could barely breathe—but he didn’t want space. He wanted you. All of you. Your warmth. Your praise. Your hands. Your love.

Every time you called him baby, or good boy, or sweet thing, he whimpered harder, grinding helplessly into your palm. His face was still buried, still hiding, but his body was begging for more. Every little twitch, every gasp, was soaked in years of unmet need, every cry carved straight from his heart.

And you gave it to him.

All of it.

“You’re so good for me, baby.” “So beautiful. So brave.” “You deserve to be held like this. You deserve to be loved.”

He came with a choked cry, his body curling into yours like he couldn’t stand the feeling of being apart from you for even a second. And even then—even as his body trembled with the release—you held him through it. Rocked him. Kissed his temple. Rubbed his back.

“You’re okay, baby... it’s okay now… I’ve got you...”

He was still panting softly when it was over—his body curled into yours like a little boy, flushed and trembling and small in the way that only someone who’s just let go of everything can be. His sweat-slicked forehead was pressed to your throat, his arms wrapped tight around your waist.

You could feel the dampness of his tears on your skin. Still warm. Still fresh.

You stroked his back slowly, hand moving in wide, soothing arcs. The rain outside was gentler now, like even the sky was trying to be quiet for him.

“You did so good, my love,” you murmured against his hair in awe. “I’m so proud of you. You let it all out… I know how hard that was.”

A tiny whimper escaped him—just a breath, but it cracked your heart wide open all over again.

He was still shaking. Still hiding. Still not quite sure if he was allowed to exist like this.

You tilted his chin just a little, guiding his gaze to yours. He resisted for a second—still shy, still swimming in shame—but you waited patiently. Soft smile. Gentle eyes. Thumb stroking the apple of his cheek.

When his eyes finally met yours, glassy and red-rimmed and so, so vulnerable, you held him tighter.

“Look at me, baby.”

He did.

“I’m so lucky you’re mine.”

His lip trembled. You kissed it. Soft. Slow. Sweet.

“You’re not a burden.” “You’re not too much.” “You are everything.”

He let out a tiny sob, and you kissed it away. Kissed every part of him. His cheeks. His jaw. His tear-wet lashes. You took your time like you were making a vow with every press of your lips.

“You don’t ever have to be alone in this again.”

He blinked at you slowly, exhausted and dazed. Like he couldn’t believe any of it was real.

You cupped his face in both hands now. Held him like he was sacred.

“I’ll always keep you safe.” “I’ll never let you go.”

You leaned in, brushed your nose to his, and whispered:

“You’re mine, baby boy.”

That did something to him.

His whole body melted into yours, a soft cry escaping as he nuzzled back into your neck like it was the only place in the world he belonged. He wrapped his arms tighter around you and tucked his head under your chin.

“Yours,” he echoed softly. “Yours...”

You just held him. Rocked him gently. Kept petting his back, kept whispering soft praises—mi amor, my baby, my strong boy, my beautiful, sweet baby boy. Over and over, until his breathing started to slow.

Until the tension drained from his limbs. Until the last of the shivers faded.

Eventually, he yawned against your chest. Just a little one. But you felt the peace blooming in him like sunlight after a storm.

You kissed the top of his head again and tucked the blanket up around him.

“Sleep, darling.”

And he did. Still wrapped in your arms, still clinging to you in the softest way. His chest rose and fell against yours, steady now. Calm. Safe.

You held him all night long.

You would’ve held him forever.

Because you knew—he was still healing. The wounds ran deep. The journey would take time.

But he’d finally let himself start to face it, felt safe enough in your arms to let it hit him. To receive your patience and love.

if this aint too freaky can u plz write smth where like reader is begging a lot for 00s dave take her out to shopping but hes denying, she goes under his skin with begging for him to take her to the mall and he just decides punishing her putting a vibrator inside her and taking her out for the damn mall, obliging her to act normal when she just cant 🥴

btw i love ur writing 💗

Warnings: Smut, public sex, oral (m receiving), use of toys (in public), orgasm denial, if you think I missed anything let me know otherwise enjoy!

After begging for weeks on end for Dave to take you shopping he finally agreed, on the condition that he gets to pick your outfit.

imaining SFSGSW Dave with a sweet/soft gf who's sensitive (not like childish bc that's just age play) but like they've had sex a few times before but shes never ridden him (idk if thats the right tense) but like Dave is sitting up on the couch and shes in his lap maybe they're just kissing making out and its all innocent until she feels him get hard, so maybe it makes her feel more horny anyways eventually she starts riding him and since he's in her all at once all deep and shit shes like moaning rly loud and Dave is praising/degrading her calling her pretty girl... or pretty slut (they alternate) but he's just praising her and uh yeah

i have such a bad praise kink and a degradation kink help

Warnings: Smut, riding, praise and degradation, if you think I missed anything let me know otherwise enjoy!

You'd flown out to see Dave during the tour, he'd managed to get a bus to himself and some stage gear, but it was worth it to be alone with you after all this time.

Warnings: It's NSFW alphabet, you know what to expect

A = Aftercare

Always always always a sweety with it, definitely loves to run you a bath and get you a snack. He'll sit in the bath behind you and you can sleep if you want while he washes you and just massages your back, extra sweet when he gets a little rough, if you want to be left alone he's gone.

I feel like he definitely likes to be welcomed home with sex after tours and afterwards he's out like a light, but the next morning he's waking you up with all the things he got you and breakfast in bed.

⚠️ DISCLAIMER / AUTHOR'S NOTE ⚠️Please read before proceeding. This work contains non-consensual undertones, emotional and physical abuse dynamics, sadomasochism, and intense psychological manipulation. It is a piece of dark fiction that explores disturbing and taboo themes in a controlled, fictional context. It is not intended to romanticize or condone abusive behavior in real life. The dynamics depicted here are unhealthy and intentionally toxic. They are written for emotional and psychological exploration—not as a model for acceptable intimacy or relationships. If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse, please know that you are not alone. There are people and resources who can help. 💜 You deserve support, safety, and care. Please consider reaching out to trusted individuals or organizations in your country, who are readily dedicated and disposed to help. This is a “Dead Dove: Do Not Eat” fic. Please engage responsibly and skip this if the content is not for you. Your mental health matters. 🖤

wordcount: 4,777k

pt. 1

𓆨݁ᛪ༙˚₊‧⁺⋆♱

The afterparty was nothing special—some person's house, music low, drinks warm, people laughing too loudly in too-small corners.

But Reader couldn’t hear any of it.

They were watching him.

Mike.

He was across the room, drink in hand, back slouched against the wall like always. His hair was a wild mess, his shirt half-buttoned, and his eyes…

God, his eyes.

Reader couldn’t unsee what they’d seen in them earlier. Couldn’t unhear the gasping, breathless, trembling way he’d whispered Layne’s name. Couldn’t unfeel the way his body had arched and begged and broken.

He looked normal now. Confident. Calm. Joking with someone. But it was unsettling. How much was he really suffering inside? He gave off such a convincing act, that they almost thought they'd imagined it all. But they’d watched him rebuild the mask.

And somehow…

That only made them want him more...

Then—

Mike caught their eye.

Reader froze.

He tilted his head.

Curious. Amused.

And then—he walked over.

Their heart stopped.

He moved slow, lazy, like he had all the time in the world. Like he was the one in control.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and scratchy, like he hadn’t had enough water all night. “You been lookin’ at me.”

Reader’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

He grinned. One dimple. Crooked. Teasing. “What, you shy now?”

Fuck.

Reader stammered out something half-human. A laugh. A “just zoned out.” Trying to shake it off.

Mike stepped closer. “Yeah?” He looked down at them, eyes hooded. “You zoned out thinking about me?”

Their knees nearly buckled.

His tone was playful. Innocent, even. But his body—the way he leaned in, the confidence in his stare, the heat in his voice—was something else. Something dominant.

Reader was melting. They felt a strange hot sensation pervade them. Not at just the attention from their newfound obsession... but because of the act, because of the strange two-faced behavior.

They knew how he sounded when he broke.

They knew the way he moaned when slapped.

They knew he would whimper if Layne told him to.

And here he was. Smirking. Taking the lead.

And they couldn’t get the images out of their head.

They felt a certain level of alarm, like this situation was dangerous, and they should get uninvolved as soon as possible. But it was like their brain stopped functioning properly.

Mike said something else—something flirtier—but Reader barely registered it. Kept making flustered noises and responses, which only seemed to exacerbate Mike's advances.

They were dizzy. Drenched. Reeling.

And then—

They glanced over his shoulder.

And froze.

Layne.

Across the room.

Leaning against the doorframe.

Drink in hand.

Eyes locked on them.

He took a swig, tipping back the bottle with a dark look in his eyes. 

He wasn’t smiling.

Wasn’t blinking.

Just watching.

Fear spiked in Reader.

Mike was saying something again, running his hand through his hair, eyes flicking to Reader’s mouth—

But Reader couldn’t think.

Couldn’t breathe.

Layne didn’t look away.

Reader swallowed hard.

Their eyes darted from Layne—still unmoving, still watching—back to Mike.

And then… they blushed even harder. Their whole body felt like jelly. They felt like they should definitely walk away now, the dangerous glare in Layne's eyes was saying so. But they were in too deep now. They liked having Mike here, and they didn't want to hurt him by pushing him away.

God, it was too much.

Mike was right there—smirking down at them with that cocky, easy air like he had no idea how fucked up everything was.

A small part of reader wished they could somehow protect him.

“You okay?” he asked. His voice was soft now. Still teasing, but lower. A little closer.

Reader nodded too quickly.

Mike’s head tilted, studying them. His hand flexed around his cup. “You’re actin’ like you’ve never had a guy flirt with you before.”

Reader’s breath hitched.

It wasn’t that. It wasn’t even about flirting.

It was about him.

It was about the fact that less than a few hours ago, they’d watched him get wrecked—stripped bare and crying out for someone else.

It was about the fact that he was making them feel weak now.

It was about how that same person, who had brutally wrecked him, was staring them down from across the room and Mike simply had no idea... Or did he?

Reader raised their eyes back to Mike's face. Noted the easy curve of his smile, the sharp angle of his jaw. The way his hair danced in a wild halo all around him, framing the seductive look in his eyes and lean of his body.

Was he really trying to get a rise out of Layne?

Were they just a means to an end for him?

The thought sent a shiver down their spine, and they couldn't decide if it excited them or scared them. Being caught in the middle of this, in any way, was scary. But Reader's heart raced imagining Mike was doing this to Layne— to himself... on purpose...

But then... maybe he using them to bury what he'd lost? What he'd given away?

Or was he just in search for some sort of comfort, intimacy, sense of normalcy?

Mike cracked a witty remark that made Reader huff absent-mindedly. And he leaned closer and smirked, looking Reader up and down suggestively. Reader instinctively reacted bashful to such an intense look. But beneath their lashes, they studied him, trying to figure him out. He was hard to decipher.

They didn’t just want Mike to look at them.

They wanted to know—

Did Mike really want them?

Or was he using them to bury what he’d lost? What he’d given away?

Was this about attraction?

Or control?

Mike leaned a little closer, elbow brushing theirs. His voice was low, amused. “What’s with the look?”

Reader blinked up at him, startled.

He smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.

And suddenly, something cracked inside Reader.

How can he do this? they thought, throat tight. How is he not scared?

Because they were.

They were terrified.

Not just from the way Layne had looked at them—but because now, when they glanced back across the room…

Layne was gone.

That doorframe?

Empty.

That frozen gaze?

Vanished.

The air around them shifted. Heavier now. Thicker.

Reader’s chest seized with panic.

Because if Layne was gone, it meant he was somewhere.

Moving.

Thinking.

And that made him a hundred times more dangerous than when he’d just been watching.

“Hey,” Mike said suddenly, shifting his weight. “I’m gonna hit the bathroom—want me to grab you a drink on the way back?”

Reader looked up, breath catching.

He smiled again—crooked and charming. So normal. Like he hadn’t just been teasing them into a nervous wreck. Like there wasn’t a unspeakable tension hovering between them.

“Yeah,” Reader managed, throat tight. “That’d be… cool.”

Mike gave them a little nod, ruffling his hair as he pulled away. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

Reader watched him walk away. Shoulders loose. Body confident.

And for a moment, they let themselves breathe. Just a little.

It was going to be okay.

Until they turned.

And saw him.

Layne.

Right there.

Leaning in the corner just behind them.

Like he’d been there the whole time.

Reader froze.

Layne smiled.

Not kind.

Not amused.

Knowing.

He stepped forward.

Reader trembled slightly.

“See something you like, sweetheart?” he said, low and smooth, voice soaked in something dangerous.

He was already too close.

Reader stepped back without meaning to, shoulder hitting the wall behind them.

Layne followed, slow, measured, cornering them with barely any movement at all. His arm slid up beside their head, palm against the wall, caging them in.

His eyes were still smiling. But his mouth?

Tight. Amused. Cruel.

Reader’s pulse thundered.

They tried to speak. Say something. Anything.

But Layne leaned in, breath brushing their ear. “You think I didn’t notice the way you looked at him?”

Reader flinched.

His smile sharpened. “Or the way you looked at me?”

They swallowed hard.

Layne’s hand dropped to their throat—not choking, not hurting. Just… resting. Warm. Controlling. He tilted their chin up.

“I saw you earlier,” he whispered.

Reader’s whole body went cold.

“You thought you were slick, huh? Thought you were clever, hiding back there?”

His thumb stroked the side of their jaw, mock-affectionate.

“I let you watch.”

The breath left Reader’s lungs.

“I wanted you to see what he really is.”

Footsteps.

Layne turned his head, not moving away, not breaking the position. Just flicking his gaze to the side, lazy and smug.

Mike.

Frozen in the hallway. Holding two drinks. His brows furrowed. His face twisted in a strange mix of jealousy and protectiveness.

“What the hell?”

Reader tried to move. Tried to step away from Layne. But he didn’t let them.

“Relax, man,” Layne said, voice silk. “We were just getting to know each other.”

Mike’s jaw clenched.

Layne looked back at Reader, eyes gleaming. “Did you know your girl here’s got a filthy little imagination?”

“Layne—” Mike started, tone warning.

Layne grinned wider. “No, no—hear me out. She was just telling me all about this fantasy she has.” He licked his teeth. “About getting fucked by both of us.”

Reader’s eyes went wide. “I didn’t—!”

Layne cut them off. “Shh.”

He pressed a finger to their lips, soft but threatening. He gave Reader a terrifying threatening look where Mike couldn't see.

“I know you didn’t want to tell Mike yet,” he said sweetly, gaze flicking to Mike with faux sympathy. His hand moved and started to trail up Reader's jaw. “He’s so shy about this stuff. Better to just rip the bandaid off, right?”

Mike stared, shocked. A flicker of something ugly in his eyes—hurt, maybe. Or anger.

“Layne, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Doing you a favor,” Layne said, tone chipper.

Then—to Reader—“C’mon.”

He grabbed their wrist.

And started pulling.

Mike hesitated. Eyes darting between the two of them. Still holding both drinks like he didn’t know whether to throw them or slam them down.

And then—

He followed.

Because he had to.

𖤝₊ ⊹᭪

The door clicked shut behind them.

Layne let go of Reader’s wrist and tossed his jacket onto the chair like they were just settling in for a casual chat. It was a practiced move, designed to lull them into a false sense of security, before he tightened his grip and steered the conversation exactly where he wanted it to go, regardless of the wreckage it might leave behind. He was playing a game, and they were his unwitting pieces.

The room was dim. Warm. Quiet.

Mike stood just inside the doorway, staring. Unmoving.

“Why did you bring us here?” he asked Layne beneath his breath, jaw tight. Like the question held more weight than Reader could understand.

Layne didn’t answer. Not with words.

He just walked up to Mike, slow and smooth, and leaned in close. His voice was low—too low for Reader to catch all of it. Just a soft growl of sound and a hissed name: “Mikey…”

Mike twitched.

Layne smiled.

Then he turned toward Reader and said, “Go on.”

Reader blinked. “What?”

Layne gestured loosely between them. “She’s yours, isn’t she?” A taunt. A trap. “Go ahead. Show her what you do.”

Mike didn’t move.

Layne’s smile widened.

And that was what made Mike step forward.

Slowly. Hesitantly.

He walked toward Reader like someone under orders. Not like someone who wanted.

Reader’s heart thundered. Their breath caught.

Mike reached them. Stared down. His hands rose—touched their waist, their hips, their cheek.

“Hey,” he said softly, catching their gaze. “You okay?”

They nodded, breathless.

He leaned in. Kissed them. Gentle. Searching.

And Reader kissed back—desperate and aching— and he tasted perfect. Felt perfect. But they could feel it: Mike’s hesitation. The tightness in his shoulders. The wariness in his movements.

Like he knew he was being watched.

Layne was quiet. But the tension in the room was thick as blood.

Mike kissed them again. Harder this time. His hands firmer. Like he was trying to feel normal again—to force it.

Reader moaned. They couldn’t help it. It was Mike. His mouth. His hands.

But then Mike pulled back.

He was shaking.

And Layne was laughing.

“You really think she wants you like this?”

Mike turned, slowly. His face flushed. Eyes wide.

Layne stepped forward, circling.

“No,” Layne said. “She wants you like I want you.”

His hand came down, sharp and fast, and smacked Mike’s ass. Smiling crazily like he doesn't even feel the tension in the air.

Mike gasped—more from the shock than the pain—and Layne was already behind him, grabbing his wrists, spinning him around, pressing him against the wall.

“Don’t fight it,” Layne whispered.

Mike barely flinched when Layne grabbed him.

But when he was turned around—his chest pressed flat to the wall, Layne’s body close behind—something in him tightened.

It wasn’t just fear.

It was exposure.

Reader saw it instantly.

The way Mike’s fingers curled into fists.

The way his head tilted slightly down—hair shadowing his face like he was trying to hide behind it.

The way his hips twitched, tense and unsure, caught between reaction and restraint.

Layne’s voice was low, breath hot against Mike’s neck.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he murmured. “You weren’t this shy earlier.”

Mike didn’t answer.

His breath was coming faster now.

“You didn’t mind it then,” Layne continued. His voice had turned darker. Softer. More invasive. “You were loud. So fucking loud for me.”

Mike winced, curling away from Reader's eyes evermore.

Reader’s breath caught.

Layne leaned in closer, his chest flush against Mike’s back now. His lips brushed the shell of Mike’s ear.

“Maybe you would’ve shut up if you knew we had an audience.”

Mike froze.

Reader saw it. Felt it.

The shift in his body. The sudden rigidity. Like every muscle in him locked up at once.

“What?” he rasped.

Layne chuckled, cruel and quiet. “You didn’t see her, did you?”

Mike shook his head slowly. “Who—”

“I told you Mike, we had a freak on our hands."

A wave of shame hit Reader as they watched Mike's expression twist in confusion, and the way Layne licked his way up his ear before whispering. "She was in the corner."

Mike stiffened further.

“Sweet little thing,” Layne purred. “Thought she was being sneaky. She stayed quiet… real quiet…”

His hand slid around to Mike’s stomach. Held him in place.

“…but she was there the whole time.”

Mike’s breath stuttered out of him in a sharp, trembling gasp.

“She saw how you begged,” Layne whispered. “How you cried. How you came apart for me.”

Mike’s eyes screwed shut.

Reader felt like they were burning alive.

Watching him—knowing that he hadn’t known.

Watching his body react to the knowledge.

The humiliation blooming in him like a bruise.

And still—still—he didn’t pull away.

Layne pressed closer, grinding slow against him.

“She knows now,” he said, louder. His voice was sharp enough for Reader to hear every word. “What kind of filthy little thing you really are.”

Mike trembled. Face flushed. Entire body locked up in some awful combination of resistance and surrender.

And Reader couldn’t stop staring.

Couldn’t look away.

Couldn’t breathe.

Because now they weren’t just watching Mike fall apart.

They were part of it.

𖤝₊ ⊹᭪

Mike wasn’t moving.

Layne’s words echoed—she saw you—and Reader watched, helpless and throbbing, as Mike’s whole body seemed to lock up from the inside out.

Still pressed against the wall. Still under Layne’s hand.

But the shame… it hit like a sledgehammer.

Layne didn’t rush it.

He just waited.

Smiling.

Watching the storm roll in behind Mike’s eyes.

Mike’s breath stuttered. His lashes fluttered.

“…She…?”

Layne leaned in, whispering it again. “Oh yeah. She watched the whole thing. Thought she was being clever. Thought she could hide.” A grin. “She liked what she saw.”

Mike shook his head.

Just once. A tight little twitch of denial.

But his body betrayed him.

His hips shifted. His knees softened. His breath came shallower.

“Don’t—” he whispered.

“Don’t what?” Layne murmured. “Don’t tell you? Don’t show her again?”

Mike turned his face to the wall. His forehead thudding gently against it, like it was the only thing keeping him standing.

“Stop.”

But his voice cracked.

Layne’s fingers crept up to his throat. A light, possessive touch, resting just under his jaw.

“You think she didn’t feel it, Mikey? That heat. That hunger. You think it didn’t fuck her up?”

A soft, sharp laugh. “You should’ve seen her face.”

Mike shuddered.

“You showed her everything. Every sound. Every sob. Every filthy moan.”

And then—softer. Meaner.

“She knows you now. And you can’t take it back.”

Mike made a sound in his throat—small, choked, almost a whimper.

And then—finally—he cracked.

“Fuck you,” he spat, but it came out too soft. Shaky. Like it hurt to say.

Layne grinned wider.

“Still pretending, huh?” he cooed. “Still putting on the tough guy mask when you’re one thread away from crying for it?”

Mike tensed.

Layne stepped back slightly, just enough to turn Mike around by the shoulders and force him to face Reader.

Mike wouldn’t meet their gaze.

His eyes dropped to the floor. His hair fell in front of his face. His hands twitched at his sides—like he didn’t know whether to cover himself, shield himself, or reach out.

Layne stepped in behind him again, one hand resting on Mike’s bare hip. He leaned back casually against the wall and brought Mike down against him.

Reader was breathless. Flushed. Frozen.

And Layne looked so pleased.

“Say thank you for watching, Mikey.”

Reader's eyed widened, and they felt the wave of second-hand humiliation intensely.

Mike’s eyes squeezed shut.

“Go on,” Layne said, tone playful now. “She earned it, didn’t she?”

Mike shook his head.

Layne’s hand crept back around his throat. “Say it.”

“No.”

Layne tightened slightly. Not choking. Just applying pressure.

Mike whimpered. Soft. Humiliated.

“Say it,” Layne repeated. “Say thank you for watching me be a slut.”

And that was what did it.

Mike’s knees buckled slightly, and he caught himself with a hand on the Layne behind him.

Layne let go. Started to trail teasing patterns across him, almost purring.

Mike stood there, flushed and shaking.

Then—

“…Thank you,” he said, voice barely audible. “For watching.”

Layne laughed.

“Good boy.”

Reader’s lungs hurt.

They hadn’t realized they were holding their breath until it trembled out of them.

Mike stood there, shaking. Red-faced. Staring at the ground like it might swallow him if he stared hard enough.

His voice still echoed in their ears:

“Thank you. For watching.”

It was horrible. How did Layne manage to strip him bare with just his words like that, leaving him utterly exposed? Layne’s hand was caresses him rewardingly. Lazily now. Satisfied. Possessive. Like petting something he’d already broken.

And Reader just—stood there.

Frozen.

Mind screaming.

“I should stop this.”

Mike looked like he might cry. His lip trembled. His fists clenched. His whole body shook—not from rage, but from something deeper. Something like grief.

“I should help him.”

He looked so small. So exposed. Every inch of that untouchable cool he’d always worn like armor—gone.

“This isn’t right. Layne’s being so—”

And then Mike whimpered. A little, bitten sound. One that made Layne smile and pull him closer by the waist, knuckles dragging along bare skin like he was deciding where to bite next.

“…I can’t.”

Reader’s thoughts twisted.

Shame. Disgust. Need.

“I want to see more...”

Their knees wobbled.

Because Mike wasn’t just being humiliated.

He was aching for it.

And Layne? Layne knew.

He leaned in, whispering close to Mike’s ear again—his voice like poison, sweetened just enough to burn.

“You gonna cry for me again, baby?”

Mike shook his head instantly. Eyes wide, lips parted.

“N-No.”

Layne grinned.

He hooked a finger under Mike’s chin, tilted his face up—not to meet his eyes, but Reader’s.

“Don’t lie,” Layne said, louder now. “Not when she’s watching.”

Mike made a sound—fragile and hoarse.

Layne let go of his chin and ran a hand down Mike’s chest instead. Then lower. Until his palm flattened just above Mike’s waistband.

He leaned in close again, speaking low and slow, but Reader could still hear it.

“You know what I want.”

Mike froze.

Layne moved behind him again, voice soft and cruel.

“Do it.”

Mike didn’t move.

Layne’s tone sharpened.

“Take your cock out. Show her how pathetic you are.”

Reader’s heart stopped.

Mike’s fingers twitched.

Layne pressed in closer, rolling his eyes. “Come on, Mikey,” he whispered. “It’s not like she hasn’t seen you before. Might as well give her the full show.”

Mike breathed out a shudder.

“I…” he mumbled, squirming.

“Do it.”

Reader didn’t blink. Couldn’t. Their eyes stung from the heat and the horror and the spiraling obsession.

Because Mike’s hands—shaking, slow—rose to his jeans.

He didn’t look at them. Couldn’t.

He just unbuttoned them with trembling fingers.

And the whole time—Layne was smirking.

Mike’s hand trembled over the undone waistband of his jeans.

He hadn’t pulled them down yet.

His knuckles were white from the strain of holding back.

He was twitching with tension.

Chest rising and falling. Jaw clenched. His whole body resisting the humiliation.

Layne, behind him, was calm.

A slow smile curling in the corner of his mouth. Like a wolf watching a wounded thing struggle.

He leaned down again—his voice velvet soft but sharp as a blade.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he whispered. “Don’t you want to show her?”

Mike shook his head, wild, jerky. “No—fuck—this isn’t—”

Layne’s hand snapped up and grabbed his jaw, forcing his head up.

“Look at her.”

Mike resisted.

Layne growled.

“Look. At. Her.”

And finally, Mike did.

His eyes met Reader’s—and it was like his whole soul cracked.

The shame. The fear. The desire. It was all there.

And reader was sure it was also their fault— that the depraved interest in their own face was part of what broke Mike. 

His lower lip trembled. His eyes shone. His body was quaking with the effort to keep standing.

Layne’s voice slid into his ear again, quiet enough it might have passed as loving—if the words weren’t so cruel.

“You wanted to be with someone else. You wanted to be with a girl.”

He kissed the corner of Mike’s jaw. Mike jerked.

“I’m just giving you what you wanted.”

Layne’s hand slid down his stomach, back over his waistband, and then lower—slowly stroking Mike through his jeans like a mockery of gentleness.

“She’s right there, Mikey. Look at her. She’s watching. She wants this.”

Mike whimpered.

Layne licked a slow stripe along his neck.

“You need to be good,” he whispered. “Be thankful. Don’t you?”

And Mike—eyes still locked with Reader’s, flushed, shaking, utterly wrecked—finally broke.

His hand dropped down.

He pulled himself out, trembling, and started to stroke.

Layne didn’t stop him.

Just leaned in behind him, whispering slow and poisonous:

"Good boy." kissing his cheek in reward. "That's it..."

“Let her see how desperate you are.”

Mike gasped. His hips bucked. His lips parted with a soft, involuntary moan.

“Let her see what a fucking mess you are for me.”

Reader couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

They were glued to the sight of him—shaking, red-faced, working himself in front of them. It was positively sinful. His eyes fluttering, his moans stuttering out as Layne’s hand returned to his throat, light and possessive.

Layne whispered again:

“Go on, baby. Show her how you cry for me.”

Mike did.

Tears spilled down his cheeks.

And he kept stroking. Kept moaning.

Kept looking at Reader the whole time.

It was positively sinful.

His eyes fluttering, his moans stuttering out as Layne’s hand returned to his throat, light and possessive.

And Reader—ashamed, breathless, aching—felt their own thighs press together.

Because they could feel it now, in their chest, in their stomach, in the heat between their legs:

They had done this.

They had helped break him.

Layne leaned down again, nuzzling the side of Mike’s cheek almost sweetly.

“See that?” he murmured to Reader. “He’s such a good boy when someone’s watching.”

Mike whimpered.

Layne turned his mouth to Mike’s ear, breath hot and slow. “Say it again,” he whispered. “Say thank you for watching.”

Mike shook his head, gasping. His hand never stopped moving. His thighs trembled.

Layne’s hand at his throat tightened just slightly.

“Say it.”

A soft, broken sob cracked from Mike’s lips.

“…Thank you for watching,” he whispered.

Layne clicked his tongue.

“No, no. That wasn’t good enough.”

He pulled Mike’s hair back. Not hard—just commanding.

“Look her in the eyes and say it.”

Mike moaned—helpless, exposed, his hand still sliding along his length with shameful rhythm—and finally raised his gaze again.

Reader’s breath hitched.

He looked wrecked.

“Thank you…” he gasped, voice shaking. He sounded so small. “Thank you for watching me… be like this.”

Layne purred, pleased.

“Good boy.”

And then—just as Mike’s breathing hitched, as his pace stuttered like he was about to fall over the edge—

Layne grabbed his wrist and stopped him cold.

Mike let out a guttural sound—something between a gasp and a sob.

“No,” Layne said flatly.

Mike’s knees buckled.

“Not yet,” Layne added, voice colder. “Not until she says you can.”

Reader’s heart slammed in their chest.

Mike whimpered again. He was still staring at them—desperate, red-eyed, trembling all over. He was gasping for air, trying to get a hold of himself.

Layne leaned in, his mouth still ghosting Mike’s ear.

“Beg her.”

Mike shook his head.

Layne grabbed his jaw again.

“You begged me last time, Mikey. Don’t you dare stop now.”

Mike’s mouth parted, words dying before they could form. He hiccupped, shame making him falter. But Reader saw the tears build again.

“P-please…”

Layne hissed. “Please what?”

Mike blinked down at Reader like it would burn to speak the words.

“…Please let me come.”

The words dropped into the silence like blood in water.

Reader’s lips parted.

A strange feeling ran through them. Something hot and shameful and dark. A hesitation.

They didn’t answer.

They couldn’t.

...Not yet.

Mike’s eyes stayed locked on theirs—desperate, raw. But the seconds stretched. Their silence became its own weapon.

His voice cracked again.

“Please…” he said, quieter. “Please, I—I can’t—”

Layne laughed.

A low, wicked laugh.

“See?” he purred, stroking Mike’s jaw like he was proud of him. “I told you she wanted you like this.”

Mike whimpered, eyes glossing again.

Layne kept going—his voice soft, coaxing, so gentle it hurt.

“She loves watching you like this, baby. Look at her—she loves it.”

Reader’s heart thundered.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

They did.

They hated it, hated themselves for it, for what they were letting happen, for what they were enjoying... Their thighs squeezing in desire watching the scene unfold.

“You’re just so beautiful like this, Mikey…” Layne whispered, letting his fingers trace down Mike’s heaving chest. “This is the real you.”

Mike sobbed.

His knees gave out, and Layne caught him—pulled him down slowly, carefully, letting him kneel in front of Reader, trembling and exposed, his ruined cock still in his hand.

Layne crouched behind him like a serpent coiling.

“Go on,” he whispered in Mike’s ear. “Say it again. Beg her one more time.”

Mike didn’t even hesitate now.

“Please—please let me come—please—” he gasped, tears streaking down his cheeks, hand around his painfully swollen member. “I’ll do anything—please, I need it—”

And Reader—

Reader felt something twist deep inside them.

Power.

Shame.

Arousal.

They swallowed, lips trembling, and finally nodded, gazing down at Mike kneeling before them.

“…Yes,” they whispered. “Come.”

Mike shattered.

His mouth fell open with a sob, his hips jerking forward, moaning louder than he had all night as he spilled across his own stomach, his knees shaking, his body collapsing backward into Layne’s arms.

Layne held him like a ragdoll. Stroking his sweat-slick hair, whispering sweet venom against his cheek.

“Good boy.”

Mike’s body was completely limp in Layne’s arms, helpless, spent, trembling.

His breath hitched with little aftershocks and sobs, shoulders still shaking. His cheeks were wet. His mouth hung open, slack, gasping.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t even try to move.

Reader stood frozen—heart pounding, lips parted, still clutching the edge of the wall for support.

The room was silent.

Except for the soft, fractured sound of Mike trying to breathe through the aftermath.

Layne didn’t speak, either.

Not yet.

He just looked up at Reader.

And smirked.

Not cruel.

Not mocking.

Just slow. Knowing. Intimate.

Like he was saying:

“You watched him fall apart and loved every second.”

“You helped.”

You're just as bad as me.