#readerinsertsmut

It started as a drunken guild bet—some half-serious challenge scribbled between bounty postings, a dare buried beneath nonsense about drinking contests and sparring rematches. You weren’t even supposed to notice it. It was a joke, something meant to get laughs over mugs of beer and spilled stew.

But Laxus noticed.

Something in him went still. Not anger. Not quite. It was darker—possessiveness coiled with pride, tempered by the glint of something territorial in his eyes. It wasn’t about the bet. It was about you. And when he saw your name beside the dare—Let [Y/N] take on the Thunder God Tribe, bet she can’t last five minutes—he didn’t laugh.

He just smirked. And made sure the training hall was cleared.

Now you're on your knees in the middle of the floor, the stone cool beneath your bare skin, wrists bound tight behind your back with a silk sash someone “borrowed” from Erza’s closet. Your arms ache, your thighs tremble, but it’s the grip on your scalp that keeps you still. Laxus stands behind you, one thick hand buried in your hair, holding you in place like a trophy he’s showing off.

He doesn’t like to share. He’s made that very clear.

But when it’s his idea—when he’s the one in charge—everything becomes fair game.

The rest of the boys are circling now. Freed’s shirt is already gone, abs glistening with sweat. Bickslow’s tongue flicks over his lip, pupils blown wide as he eyes the way you writhe under Laxus’s grip. Even Evergreen’s watching from the shadows, arms crossed and eyes sharp—not joining, but not stopping it either. There’s something amused in her gaze, like she’s taking mental notes, enjoying the spectacle in her own quiet, dangerous way, smirking like she knows how this ends.

The bet doesn’t matter anymore. This is about Laxus proving a point.

He leans down, breath hot at your ear.

“Five minutes?” he growls. “Let’s see how many times you can come in ten.”

His hand yanks your head back as he forces your gaze up—past his smirk, past the others unbuckling their belts—to the guild crest above the door. It’s the only thing you’re allowed to focus on as Laxus shoves his fingers past your lips, curling them against your tongue until you gag.

“That’s it,” he mutters. “Let ‘em hear how pretty you sound when you choke.”

What follows is a blur of teeth and skin and sound. Hands roam your body—rough, eager. Fingers tease your nipples, twist them. A palm strikes your ass, the sting blooming instantly, making you jolt forward. Someone’s cock rubs against your cheek. Another slaps against your thigh.

And Laxus? He never lets go of your hair.

Every time you squirm too much, his fist tightens. Every moan earns a rough tug. His voice is a constant in your ear—taunting, praising, commanding.

“You wanted this.” “Don’t pretend you’re not soaked.” “Look how greedy that cunt is.”

They take turns using your mouth, your pussy, your ass—each moment blurring into the next in a dizzying flood of sensation. One thrusts deep while another strokes your cheek, another tugs at your hips with bruising force. It’s not just use—it’s rhythm, contrast, a dance of dominance that leaves your body shaking and your mind unmoored. The pressure, the fullness, the stretch—you feel everything, everywhere, all at once—each thrust more punishing than the last. They fuck you like a toy passed between brothers, laughing, growling, praising you for how well you take it. It’s filthy. Messy. Overwhelming. Lube and spit and cum slick every inch of your body.

And through it all, Laxus watches.

He only joins in once you’re wrecked—gagged, drooling, and reduced to something raw and pliant. When he finally steps in, it’s not with haste but with a slow, deliberate dominance that says you’re his to finish. His eyes flick down over your body—not with sympathy, but with the satisfaction of a predator knowing the prey is exactly where it should be. Then, and only then, does he kneel behind you, his cock already hard, the head pressed between your cheeks.

“Mine now,” he grunts, and the stretch burns.

You sob, but your hips roll back anyway.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head up again, and snarls against your ear.

“Say it. Say who you belong to.”

And you do.

Over and over, until the others are laughing, until Laxus is groaning and emptying inside you, until the air smells like sweat and sex and thunder magic crackling through the floor.

By the end, your throat’s raw. Your legs won’t hold you. You collapse in a trembling mess across his lap, his arms the only thing keeping you from sliding onto the floor.

He kisses your temple. Rough. Possessive.

And when someone dares ask if you lost the bet—

Laxus chuckles darkly. “She didn’t lose.”

He strokes your thigh, voice dropping into something low and dangerous.

The room was too quiet. Too soft. Too staged.

Golden lamplight bathed the hotel suite in a warm hush, casting shadows across cream-colored walls and the large full-length mirror that stood directly across from the edge of the bed. You didn’t remember why you were here. You didn’t remember how the night had started. But you remembered the look in Leon’s eyes when he’d told you to sit on the edge and keep your eyes forward.

He was behind you now. Fully clothed.

Your shirt had been discarded somewhere across the room. Your thighs were spread wide, bare to the cool air, cunt soaked and flushed under his stare. The mirror made everything worse — or maybe better — depending on whether you liked seeing your own face wrung tight with need and confusion while his gloved hands caressed up your sides with slow, controlling ease.

“You see yourself?” he murmured against the shell of your ear, voice low and dangerous.

“Yes,” you whispered, throat dry.

“You look nervous.”

“I—” You blinked. “I don’t know what this is.”

He chuckled. A quiet, pleased sound. His fingers slid down to your waist, holding you in place as he pressed his body flush to your back. You could see the bulge in his pants, hard against the curve of your ass. Could see your own reflection tremble.

“This is just observation,” he said. “I want you to watch.”

He guided your hand between your thighs. “Touch yourself.”

“Leon—”

“Do it.”

You obeyed, fingers sliding through the slick mess he’d teased out of you earlier, your breath hitching as you circled your clit. The mirror showed everything — the flush rising across your chest, the way your mouth fell open. His hands stayed at your waist, possessive. He didn’t even need to touch you yet. You were already unravelling for him.

And then, without warning, he shoved your hand away.

“Too slow.”

He unzipped his pants, and the sound made your thighs twitch. His cock was thick, flushed, already leaking. You didn’t look away from the mirror as he stroked it lazily behind you, lining himself up.

“I want you to see what you look like,” he said, tone flat. Dangerous. “When I fuck the sanity out of you.”

And then he slammed in.

“Ahh—fuck!”

Your cry echoed off the walls, hands scrabbling at the sheets as his cock drove into your soaked cunt, stretching you open in one brutal thrust. Your eyes snapped to the mirror, watching your own body jolt, mouth dropped open, Leon’s smirk ghosting behind you.

He gripped your hips hard, dragging you back onto him with a growl, thrusts deep and punishing, timed to your every whimper.

Schlk—schlk—slap—

The mirror didn’t miss a thing. Your tits bounced with each thrust. Your thighs trembled. Your eyes glazed.

“You watching?” he rasped. “You see how fuckin’ pretty you look when you’re used?”

You whimpered. He reached up, grabbing your chin, forcing you to keep eye contact with yourself in the mirror.

“No looking away,” he growled. “You need to see it.”

He fucked you harder now, each thrust designed to force your reflection to fall apart. His cock slammed into your g-spot over and over, the stretch perfect, overwhelming. Your moans turned broken, legs shaking, slick gushing down your thighs, your cunt soaked and messy as he used you.

“L-Leon—gonna—!”

“Look at yourself.”

He wrapped his fingers around your throat. You choked on a cry, vision dimming, and in the mirror, you saw it — saw the way your body writhed on his cock, how your mouth begged silently, how ruined you looked.

And then you came. Hard.

Your cunt spasmed, milking him, and he fucked you through it with a growl, watching your body break.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Gonna fill you—gonna make you watch yourself drip with me.”

He came with a low moan, cock pulsing deep inside as he pumped you full of cum, holding you against him, watching as it spilled out around his cock in the mirror.

Your head dropped, body trembling. But he didn’t let you look away.

It began in silence.

The kind of silence that wrapped around the soul, ancient and weighty, punctuated only by the low flicker of flame in Zhongli’s private chamber. The stone walls whispered with memory. And Lumine stood still—bare, bare-footed, bathed in soft amber lamplight, trembling with anticipation.

Zhongli approached her not like a man, but like a monument. Eternal. Patient. Dangerous.

His eyes were molten gold, unreadable. His hands—those elegant, gloved hands—rose slowly to cradle her jaw, tilting her chin up as he studied her flushed face. “You trust me?” he asked, voice low and resonant, like the toll of a ceremonial bell.

“Yes,” she breathed.

His gloves slid off finger by finger, placed deliberately beside them on the carved stone altar that served as their bed. And then he peeled away his robes—slow, reverent, like unsealing something divine. Her breath hitched when he revealed himself.

And then it stopped entirely.

His cock was thick. Monstrously thick. Heavy, flushed, and long in a way that defied logic. There was no way her body could take that. Not fully. Not without breaking.

Her cunt clenched anyway.

“Do not fear,” he murmured, stepping close enough that she could feel the heat of him against her belly. “You were meant to stretch for me.”

He guided her down onto the altar, positioning her so her hips rested on the warm, rune-carved stone. His hands smoothed over her inner thighs, spreading her wide, baring her dripping folds.

She gasped when he pressed just the head of his cock against her entrance. It already felt too big. Already stung.

“Breathe,” he commanded.

Then pushed in.

She cried out immediately—her back arched, nails raking against the edge of the altar. The stretch was agonizing, slow and deliberate, her cunt trying desperately to accommodate him, to submit to the sheer size. Inch by inch, he sank in, watching every twitch of her body, every choked sob of pleasure and pain.

“You’re doing beautifully,” he murmured, almost soothing. “So tight. So willing. I’ll train you to take every inch.”

When he bottomed out—hips pressed flush, his cock nestled impossibly deep—Lumine couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Her body trembled under him, stretched open around his massive girth, every nerve screaming.

And then he held still.

She whimpered.

“Please… please move—”

“No.” His hand moved to her throat. Not squeezing—holding. Containing. “Not until your body begs properly.”

Her walls fluttered. Her toes curled. He remained motionless inside her, heat pulsing through every vein of his cock, her cunt slicking uncontrollably around him. He’d reduced her to a hole — stretched and full and denied.

When he finally began to move, it was with painstaking control. One inch out. Half back in. Another inch. And again. Slow. Cruel.

Every thrust made her wail—not from force, but from the unrelenting tension of being on the edge, forever.

Her clit throbbed untouched. Her nipples were flushed and hard. Her mind unraveled with every breathless drag of his cock along her trembling walls.

“You feel this?” he murmured, finally leaning in, hips dragging back slow, then slamming forward just hard enough to jolt her up the altar. “This is what it means to be used by a god.”

She sobbed.

He picked up speed—barely—but his strokes grew deeper. Each thrust drove her body further into the stone, until she was convulsing, until she couldn’t stop shaking. His cock pushed against something brutal inside her, grinding against her cervix like he was trying to brand her from within.

And then—

His thumb pressed to her clit.

Lumine screamed.

Her orgasm hit like a collapse—her body seizing, cunt pulsing violently around him as she thrashed against the altar. But he didn’t let her go. He fucked her through it, watching her writhe, using her spasming body as a sheath.

And when she finally came down?

He wasn’t even close to finished.

“Again,” Zhongli said, cock twitching deep inside her.

And he began to thrust in earnest—harder now, faster. Each thrust forced a fresh gush of slick from her wrecked cunt. Her cries were hoarse. Her mind barely held on.

“I’ll fill you,” he growled, hands gripping her thighs now, fucking her so deep she swore he was in her stomach. “Until you swell with my seed. Until every breath you take tastes like me.”

She was gone—her body reduced to nothing but pleasure and pain and Zhongli.

When he came, it was a flood—thick and endless, gushing hot and heavy into her overstretched cunt, spilling back out as he continued to thrust, refusing to stop.

“You’re mine,” he said into her ear.