…NOW WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT??! 😭😭😭

olivia benson in season 1 (1999)

#needthat.

Needy

One shot

sub Art Donaldson x dom reader - smut

This was so fun to write! I hope you all enjoy and please let me know what you think it genuinely means so much just getting one comment - also if you want to be tagged in all future Art x reader fics let me know <33

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“You can’t be serious.”

It was Art…again. Ever since you’d slept together he’d been knocking on your door more and more. The confusing thing was that his visits didn’t concern sex, he’d want help with things - little things like finding his phone or keys. When that got ridiculous to redo he started faking illnesses, some more convincing than others, asking you for medicines or bandages. Now here he was again, puppy dog eyes gazing at you - desperate for some glimmer of hope or affection. How you pitied him.

“Patrick beat me again.” His eyes turned to the floor.

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

No part of you was surprised, Art had been getting beaten by everyone recently. You’d stopped coming to his games to save yourself the embarrassment. The boy needed pushing, or motivating somehow. You looked at his little head, bowed in shame like a dog. “Come in then.” He practically jumped at that.

Once Art had gotten comfy, sitting cross legged in his shorts on your bed awaiting orders, you sighed. “You can’t keep letting Pat beat you, coming here and looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

You took in his slightly flushed cheeks, his doe eyes under the pile of blonde curls and the slight craning of his neck to show he was listening.

“Like that.”

Art smiled a smile you almost returned but couldn’t quite bring yourself to. He was demanding to be lead on - begging for it. Well, you wouldn’t.

“If I’d known you were gonna be this needy I’d never have fucked you.”

His smile didn’t falter at that. He was annoyingly positive sometimes, full of complaints when he wanted attention but never cross when he was being told off. Art just wasn’t one for giving up. You shrugged off your jacket and sat next to him on the bed, ignoring the way his eyes admired every inch of you.

“I’m glad you did.” Art grinned, feeling proud as he remembered you stripping in front of him and swallowing his cum as he whimpered. He saw it as his greatest achievement, far more impressive than any dusty tennis trophy. All he wanted, more than Wimbledon - more than fame more than anyone was you. You consumed him, you had since first year. Since he first plucked up the courage to ask you to a Stanford party and your friendship with Patrick had given him a doorway. One he refused to step out of.

“You’re beautiful.” He whispered, staring at your face in awe - his hand edging towards your own on the bed. You felt something at how earnest he was, something akin to warmth but something you couldn’t deal with just yet. “Careful.” You warned. “Just think before you speak.”

Art shook his head, moving closer to you. “Mmm, can’t. Not around you.” God, he was cute when he was desperate. His little wriggly movements, his wide eyes and puffy lips. He’s probably hard already, you thought trying not to smile. Poor baby, it had been a week since you’d touched him and for Art a week of pure longing. He’d touched himself to the thought of your kisses so much he’d forgotten how to finish without you in his head. Without the flashing images of your lips round his cock or your grin at his moans he felt nothing.

Sensing a ‘no’ coming, Art did what he did best. He begged. “Please,” he moved your hair off your ear to kiss under it. “I miss you.” You asked him how that was even possible when he’d been practically living in your room but time meant nothing to this star player. A second without you was a second too long. “Need you now mommy…please.” Your stomach flipped at the honorific, how it dripped off his tongue so deliciously. It suited him. You wanted him to say it again.

Before you could say anything Art was planting eager kisses up and down your neck. You let him, told yourself you were giving him a much needed win but really you were loving it. With Art so preoccupied with your neck you could safely squeeze your thighs together. You both knew how desperate he was to fuck you again, everyone knew. Patrick knew. His trainer. Your trainer. Everyone in a 10 mile radius. What you didn’t both know was how likely it was to happen again if he’d only beg a little more.

To Art’s dismay you gently pushed him off you, looking into his pleading blue eyes trying not to break. “You realise I’m not your girlfriend right?” It was harsh but a fair question. The boy seemed unsure. When he didn’t answer you narrowed your eyes. “Because I’m not fucking you if you answer wrong.” Suddenly the tent in Art’s pants hardened and his pupils grew a few millimetres. He got all wriggly, like an animal caught in a trap. A horny, desperate one.

“You’re not my girlfriend.” Art sighed but it was clear he was still hoping for your approval. He knew it should disgust him, how much he craved and desired it, but it didn’t. Your hand on his thigh only spurred him on, reminding him that he’d follow you anywhere and that he’d be or do anything for you. Anything you asked.

“Art,” you could tell he’d retreated into his head. Nothing a hand down his shorts wouldn’t fix. “I need you to relax okay?” Art melted into your touch and at the gentleness of your voice, the care in it. You found his cock immediately, hard and desperate, and felt the weight of it in your hand for a moment. If you’d been feeling mean you’d have teased him but something told you if you didn’t touch him now he’d cry.

As your hand worked its magic Art closed his eyes, leaning his head ever so slightly back. He needed this and fuck did he look angelic taking it. His little breaths and fluttering lashes spurred you on. It didn’t take long for him to start bucking up into your touch desperate for you to go faster. You refused, ceasing your movements to pull him with both hands into a kiss. He practically gasped when your tongue entered his mouth but that was followed by a moan at the intrusion. He tasted like spearmint.

“You’re so,” you gasped in between kissing him. “Fucking cute.” Art felt charged up at your compliment. You usually avoided giving them out finding it easier to show your affection rather than state it. He treasured those moments where you let slip how much you really liked him.

“Mmmm!” He was close you could tell.

“You gonna cum for me?”

Art started nodding aggressively, eyes closed and hips bucking.

“You can’t wait till you’re inside?” You cooed in that patronising tone he found so sexy and hurtful. Art tried to think straight, though his body was betraying him as it chased the orgasm you were yet to give. You asked him again, playing nice, and it sunk in the second time. Art stopped bucking. He stopped moving at all. All he could do was watch in a mixture of sorrow and excitement as you let his cock go.

“Take your shirt off.”

Art knew an order meant sex was on the table - not even on the table it was guaranteed to happen. He didn’t let on how gleeful he felt at that fact, instead he obediently threw his t-shirt off. It landed in the pile of clothes on your floor but his eyes didn’t linger for long, they couldn’t not when you were taking your own shirt off. Art gulped at the sight of your bare chest, your tits that begged to be kissed and sucked and the line of your neck and shoulders. God he was obsessed with you, truly he felt almost in love.

Art’s mind raced with possibilities. Were you going to let him eat you out? Sit on his face? Were you simply going to straddle him without any foreplay and sink your warm, wet pussy down onto him? His cock twitched at the image. You hiked up your skirt and let him hurriedly pull down your soaked panties with wide eyed. He couldn’t believe that was for him - because of him. The most beautiful woman in the world is turned on…because of me.

“You’re so b-“

You promptly shut him up by sinking down onto him, his eyes grew even wider with shock. No warning, no words just pure lust. Art was inside you again, finally, and it felt so good he thought he could cum already. “Shit…” he moaned and you hadn’t even started to move. His size was an adjustment, especially seeing as you hadn’t let him pleasure you beforehand, but you felt deliciously full. Full and smug.

“I might just stay here,” you teased, rocking your hips painfully slowly. “Forever.” It was torture for Art, your painstakingly light movements and your gleeful smirk. You both knew what teasing him did to you - how powerful it made you feel. “Mommy…”

“I’m right here.” You cooed, gazing down at his eager face and lust filled eyes. He hadn’t bothered to take his shorts off, you’d just shoved them to the side, and somehow that turned you both on more. All that mattered to Art was you. Your bare skin so close to his own and your heavy breaths, those he could hear even over his own moans. Although you wanted nothing more than to torture Art and bring him to the very precipice of pleasure just to snatch it away you had to think about your needs. Your cunt was leaking already, your skin was hot and there was a fire inside you that needed him. So when he moaned:

“Fuckkkk…”

It seemed only right for you to say:

“Yes that’s it, fuck mommy.”

Art groaned, indulging his lust and carnal needs he’d usually feel embarrassed of. Before you Art had always hidden his desires from partners and even himself. He’d been raised conservatively, this you knew, so you found it gratifying to pull his real self out. It made you wet to see his cheeks redden when you said such things and you couldn’t help the smile that filled your face when you felt him harden even more inside you. He started to quicken his pace.

As Art closed his eyes to focus on how good you felt you stared at him, watching him. Studying him. The way he clamped his arms around your waist to easily thrust up into you, how his eyes were scrunched shut so he didn’t cum early and that one bouncy curl hiding his left eyebrow. He was beautiful, you had to admit. In your horny state it was easy to get lost studying Art and forget everything else. He felt the same about you.

Art didn’t wait too long before opening his eyes, not wanting to miss too much. Your tits were so close to his face as your chest heaved up and down up and down. It was driving him insane - you were driving the poor boy insane. How could he still need you when he was inside you?

The bed creaked under Art’s rabbiting movements, groaning under the strain of his excitement. He was groaning too, whimpering whenever you kissed or bit his neck and struggling not to cum. It was all too much, your warmth, your tits, your thighs wrapped round his own and your lips open to let out angelic moans. He wanted to give you everything, everything he had. All Art desired was to make you happy.

“Mommy!” there was a tinge of panic in his voice as he stared at you, awaiting permission but still fucking you hard and fast like you wanted. Feeling sorry for him you awed in his face, circling your hips to meet his movements and brushing the sweaty curls off his forehead. He wanted to cum. “Already?”

Art nodded frantically, feeling his release draw closer and closer. You were on the pill, he knew that, but he still needed permission. With every thrust he sheathed himself to the hilt and yet you still both needed more. “You gonna cum for me?” Art’s mouth started opening as he edged himself, not wanting this moment to end but needed release more than anything.

“Cum inside mommy, I want to feel it.”

That did it.

Before you could finish your sentence, Art was holding your waist impossibly close to him and releasing inside you. “Oh fuck…fuck mommy I’m cumming, I’m cumming!” His little whimpers and blushing skin sent you over, within seconds you were cumming too. The two of you were panting like animals, bucking into each other with all the energy you could muster. Art’s cum started to drip out of you, down his sensitive cock and onto the bedsheets but your focus was him. He was breathing heavier than last time, heavier than you’d seen him after matches.

“Are you okay?” You asked after a moment, with genuine concern. Not wanting to startle him you chose not to move, instead you held him in your arms and kissed his cheek. The softness of it made Art feel safe but more sorrowful that you wouldn’t date him. “I’m okay.” He looked out of it so you squeezed his hand. “You can sleep here.” The boy practically jumped for joy. He thought he’d won.

“No, no.” You laughed at his presumptuousness. “This doesn’t mean what you’re thinking.” But Art slept wonderfully well that night believing there was hope yet.

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Masterlist

Permanent Art taglist:

@theynothem @amorisxx

i need him in a way that is CONCERNING

this crazy, devious work. lock him up omg

amen

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling, teeth jitterbug, mind boggling, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tango ever bro could cause a nuclear bomb inside me and I'd still ride

i’m tipsy~

me too dickie…me to

“𝖨’𝗆 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝖨’𝗆 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽.”

WHAT THE FUCK?!?!? AND IM JUST SUPPOSED TO LIVE MY LIFE KNOWING THIS EXISTS??? NO FUCKING WAY.

baby, put your back into it {Farleigh Start/Reader/Oliver Quick}

1/2: i'm gonna talk you through it [SMUT]

Summary: You're the daughter of one of Henrys, and known to be a snobby, entitled Princess of a woman; neither Venetia nor Felix seems to like you. Farleigh, however, claims that you and he have an ongoing arrangement. Felix says that arrangement is that you and Farleigh bitch together, then fuck like wild animals every time you hang out. Turns out you're even bitchier in person, and after a cruel joke played on Oliver by you and Farleigh at the Henrys dinner, he decides to take a bit of power back. Not that it goes as intended... nor that it goes completely wrong.

Need to Know: She/Her. AFAB!Reader. Established FWB Brat!Reader/Brat Tamer!Farleigh

Warnings: PWP!! smut; fingering, oral (F receiving), dirty talk, lots of arguing, reader is very very bratty, demeaning talk, bondage & restraints, explicit discussions around safewords (it does happen a little bit into the action but before anything major), pet name used for the reader "princess"

A/N: 4730 words. okay turns out i can write pwp. i cut out like 1.5k of background and you get the gist of it in the summary. there will be a part 2 thats heavy on the smut, but this trio takes a while to set anything up because they can't stop arguing. hints of farleigh/oliver. this was a lot of fun but again i can't stress how long its been since ive written full, proper smut, so id really appreciate feedback. <3 unedited, i love you.

TAGLIST IN COMMENTS!! // TAGLIST ALWAYS OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)

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Fucking Farleigh Start. Oliver feels the fury as it burns and bubbles inside of him, stalking quietly through the halls of Saltburn. There, at the end of the hall, Farleigh's bedroom door, quiet and unassuming, and right next to it, Oliver's target; your door. Farleigh isn't the only one in the house who can wrap people around his little finger; he isn't the only one in the house who can get the Princess to kneel.

Trying the handle, he finds it unlocked, and eases the old, wooden door open.

"Farleigh was right," upon hearing your voice, bright, amused, and very much awake in the dark, Oliver jumps, "you're an A-plus lurker, I didn't even hear you come in."

"Was a nasty thing you did to me tonight," Oliver tries to regain some of his composure, some of the ire he'd built up on the way here.

"So you've snuck into my room, I assume you assumed I was asleep, to- what, wake me up and berate me?" There's something smug and biting in your voice, something that fuels the fury coiling deep in his gut, "that doesn't sound like enough for someone like you, tricksie, little, pauper boy." When you start to move from where you've been sitting up in bed, crawling to the end to sit on your knees as the moonlight streaks through your window and finally paints you in sharp relief, he sees you're already nude.

But even your stunning body in the moonlight cannot compare to the look on your face, the sharp, hungry, mean amusement he's never seen a person wear so well.

"Go on then, shout," your eyes shine dangerously in the moonlight; "don't you want Farleigh to hear?" They might have been right. You might be the devil. Your smile gets wider, and Oliver can only watch, rather transfixed, as you start rolling your hips with purpose, "or do you want him to hear something else?" He hears, quietly at first, a soft tap, getting louder as you keep insistently thrusting against the air, against the mattress, the sound of the bedframe hitting the wall behind it, the wall that you shared with Farleigh on the other side.

Then, all at once, you stopped. A loud, mean laugh is pulled from you as you pitch yourself back on the bed, kicking your legs out in front of you to hang off the edge, completely relaxed, completely exposed. You give a loud, amused sigh, looking up at the canopy of the four poster bed.

"God, you're such a little bitch, Oliver, Farleigh was so right," you snorted, "I was the one who actually saw you eating Venetia like your life depended on it, on the lawn of all places," you shook your head, "I don't know what you told Felix to get out of that one but I know what I saw," clicking your tongue, you raised your leg, pointing a foot at him, not even bothering to look at him, "now you won't even touch me in my own bedroom when I'm practically begging for it. I'm choosing to be offended about that; you've offended me, Oliver."

Slowly, your leg lowers, and you kick your heels idly against the end of the bed in the silence.

"Where do you get all your attitude from?" Oliver finally speaks, tone turning scornful as he approached you.

"The money," you fire back with ease, "which is why you always seem to have none." Then, in the furious silence that followed, you grinned sharply at the roof, still not bothering to look at him, "try harder."

When he touches your knee, his fingers gentle against your skin, you kick him hard in the thigh with your other foot -

"The fuck? Did you just kick me?"

"Yeah, and?" He can almost hear you rolling your eyes, "what did you think it was, the wind? Ghost of Grandma Catton?"

"Do you fuckin' want me or not?" He's still standing within kicking range, he learns too late. All the while you've never even looked at him, always looking at the ceiling, hands comfortably, casually behind your head. There's a smug grin on your lips now, something teasing and once more mean.

"Do you want me?" You respond, legs gliding open, an open invitation to your slick, moon-drenched cunt, "I thought you wanted to use me to get back at Farleigh," you said mockingly, finally looking up and meeting his deep, furious gaze. Propped up on your elbows, you give a grin that's all teeth, "wanted to show us who has the real power, that you can get us back for the stunt we pulled after dinner," you sat up further, intense, hungry amusement in your eyes that drew Oliver in to you, leaning in, his hands coming to rest on your thighs as you were almost nose to nose. Your voice lowers, gaze on his lips as your voice turns to almost a moan, "wanted to show Farleigh that you could take anything he thought was his; even me," and you start fake moaning, softly at first, but getting exponentially louder as you leaned back again, against the bed, arching and writhing from nothing, putting on a show that ended with you shouting - "Oliver's a fucking bitch!" At the top of your lungs, and cackling with glee.

Rage exploded within Oliver, and for a moment, overcome with a strange sense of betrayal at your demonstration, he smacks at your inner thigh with all the might he can muster. He can tell it stings, your laughter stops for just a moment, leg flinching up for just a second, but then you're laughing harder if possible.

"Your first mistake - of many - was letting her talk at all," Farleigh's voice from the door is frankly annoyed. You, however, gasp with delight, sitting directly up and looking at Farleigh with absolute glee.

"That's not his fault, I wasn't going to tell him," you pointed out, before looking down at your thighs, and Oliver's hands still on them, and the part of you that must have still stung from the slap, "why is your grip so soft?" You looked up at him with a derisive expression, and immediately Oliver's grip on you goes tight, nails digging into your skin; you're fucking laughing at him again, still, "awe, you're getting there -"

"Could you stop that already?" Oliver leans in, scowling at you. Eyebrows raising in mock surprise, you grinned with devilish intent.

"Stop what?"

"All that fuckin' talking you're doing."

"I don't know, can I -?" But then out of seemingly nowhere, Farleigh sits himself down at the end of the bed next to you, flush against your side. He's still in his crisp, white shirt, and black slacks, looking so put together next to your brash nudity. When his hand comes up to your jaw, barely two fingers beneath your chin to guide you, to have you looking him in the eyes, you have to bite your lip to keep yourself quiet. Both he and Oliver can see how badly you want to laugh, to make any kind of sound, but you hold yourself back.

"Okay, your fucking highness," Farleigh's voice is low and dangerous, full of warning, and Oliver sees you take a sharp breath in, gaze fixed on Farleigh's, "you don't get shit from either of us if you can't keep your dirty mouth closed." Though you nod adamantly, you puff out your cheeks, amusement in your eyes as you're clearly desperate to say something; "what?" Farleigh frowns.

"I have really bad news for you about what I have to do to suck dick," you point out, trying to keep your composure. It's not working, giggles are escaping you at a rapid rate.

"You are testing nerves I didn't even know I had," Oliver admits, desperately trying to sink his nails into you as hard as he could. If he could draw blood, perhaps that would be enough penance for having to endure your infuriating company.

However, it's Farleigh who speaks, lip curling with frustration as he smacks Oliver's hand away from the thigh closest to him. With a solid grip on that thigh, he pulls you leg close to him, forcing your legs wider, exposing you further.

"Then do something about it," he practically orders, and something about the tone sparks a kind of indignation in his chest, "you need me to talk you through it?" He snaps. This, however, quickly turns smug and mean as Farleigh leans in, nose to nose with Oliver and his building frustration with them both; "you know how to eat pussy, right?"

"You should both be very careful what you wish for," Oliver's eyes flash with a dangerous confidence as he sank down on his knees between your legs. You, thrilled and delighted by how the situation was no unfolding, lay yourself back on the bed with contented laughter, hands coming to rest confidently behind your head once more.

Farleigh watches Oliver with intense scrutiny, and for reasons he's not quite sure of, Oliver meets his gaze, refuses to break eye contact. His hand moves first, no longer holding your left thigh, he digs his elbow into your soft inner thigh, bracing his arm against you, forcing your leg further open and keeping it that way, letting him comfortably rest his hand with his thumb on your clit.

"Smart boy," you hum appreciatively, shifting your hips back and forth a little as his thumb is rubbing circles against your clit, "knows where the start button is." He takes his thumb off of you, much to your confusion. His gaze is still locked with Farleigh's. "Fucking hell, are you tired already -?" You sat up on your elbows, scowling at him, but Oliver looks sharply to you.

"Weren't you listening to Farleigh, princess?" Oliver asks, and there's something so deliciously satisfying about the look of flustered surprise on your face in this moment. Beside you, Farleigh huffs a laugh to himself and stands, pulling off his tie. Oliver's full attention, however, is still trained on your. Slowly, as he speaks, he again begins to rub circles against your clit, teasing, never enough proper pressure to be satisfying.

"I -" you started, but he immediately stopped again; out of the corner of his eyes, Oliver sees Farleigh's approving nod. Something about this all has his blood rushing in his fucking ears. You press your lips together, giving him a now expectant look, as if here, I've done what you've asked.

You're so wet, so wanting, ready and waiting, right thigh inching closer, leg curling around him, heel pressing insistently into his back. God you look so fucking good, he wants nothing more than to eat you like a man starving, tasting every inch of you -

"Give me your belt," Farleigh interrupts, and Oliver pauses, mouth literally an inch from your cunt, looking up at Farleigh like he can't quite believe him right now.

"Farleigh!" You exclaim with utter frustration, right leg lashing out to kick him, but he grabs your ankle and holds it tightly. With his free hand he makes an expectant, grabby hand at Oliver.

"Belt, now please." He practically orders.

"Use your own belt, Farleigh," Oliver nods to the belt Farleigh had just tossed to the side of the room, and Farleigh gives him a thin, unamused smile.

"Mine's nicer, and I don't want your cum on it," he explained with a mean, humourless smile. Oliver sat back for a long, furious moment, undoing his belt. The minute his hands were off of you, you tried to whine, but Farleigh, now just in his boxers, sat further up the bed beside you.

"This is overkill, I'll be good," you pouted, twisting to lay your head on his thigh, looking up at him with as pleading eyes as you could manage.

"You're not even being good right now," he pointed out; "both your thighs are over Oliver's fucking shoulders, and you haven't gone thirty seconds without saying something," but clearly you're pleased and flustered at being called out. Farleigh says your name more insistently, and you try and play innocent before he practically orders, "get your fucking legs off of him!" Like he can't quite believe you're still trying these tricks, even though you both seem comfortable in this dynamic.

"Oliver~" Farleigh then practically sings like a warning, gaze turning much colder as it falls back on Oliver himself, "where are we with that belt?"

"What's it for anyways?" Oliver finally pulls his belt free, awkwardly half throwing it to Farleigh, who does actually thank him, before his attention is back on you, bare and warm and wet and - "princess," he says suddenly before Farleigh can even answer his initial question, looking up, and you make a noise of acknowledgement, "you want me to touch you like I mean it, then keep your legs spread like you actually fucking want it," voice going low and sharp, immediately you widen your legs as best you can.

"Oh, he's good," Farleigh says, surprisingly appreciatively, watching as Oliver makes a meal of you.

Finally, finally, Oliver's mouth is on you, tongue gliding playfully along your slit, his nose continually bumping his thumb as it continues to work your clit, firmer this time. You hips wriggle and roll with him, desperate for more, growing frustrated with his teasing lightness.

"The belt can be for several things," Farleigh began, matter-of-factly as he began to loop the belt through itself, focusing on his task at hand, "if she insists on closing her legs, I'm not above using both belts to make sure she keeps them open - this bedframe's especially good for that -" a hot spike of desire passes through Oliver all at once, picturing you bound and open and begging -

"Oh, don't joke about that Farleigh, come on, you know I love that -" you actually whimpered, but Oliver, still keeping in mind the earlier warning, once more stops entirely. You gasp, as if betrayed, before remembering for yourself, actually whining, "you guys fucking suck," you whimper petulantly. For a moment, Oliver wonders if he really aught to be here, if this strange, psychosexual encounter was really worth it.

"You're fucking loving this," Farleigh countered without a moment of hesitation, saying it with such confidence that it almost surprised Oliver, "you just hate that you can't shut the fuck up for any amount of time, and that Oliver isn't actually as much of a little bitch as you thought," clearing his throat, Farleigh cast an evaluative look, before trying to shrug it off nonchalantly, "as either of us thought, I guess."

A moment of quiet stillness passes, and Oliver looks to you, face scrunched up with embarrassment, as all of Farleigh's words apparently rang true.

"Are you hourly, Oliver?" Farleigh then scowls, much to Oliver's confusion. Farleigh looks at him like he's a downright idiot, "the princess is actually being quiet, which means..." he trailed off pointedly. Oliver sat back on his heels, frowning at Farleigh for a long moment, his hands coming to rest on your knees. You, yet again growing incredibly unsatisfied, groaned into your hands.

"Not if you're gonna talk to me like that," Oliver takes a deep breath, sitting tall, gaze unflinching as he meets Farleigh's sneering gaze.

"Then fuck off, Little Orphan Ollie, we don't need you," he spits, "you should really feel lucky that you even got this far -"

"You're all talk, Farleigh," Oliver, with a newfound confidence, and his hands on you, rubbing small, gentle circles against your inner thighs with his thumbs. Farleigh's eyes narrow, but Oliver's smile turns knowing, "I know you can throw her around, and tie her up, and give her orders, clearly," he tips his head ever so slightly to the side, gaze slipping to you, to where you've still got your face covered by your hands, "but we both know no-one can speak for her, but her."

The faint, frustrated whimpering that had been escaping you this entire time goes dead silent. Oliver feels the way you go very still. Farleigh, realising what Oliver meant, also turned to look at you properly.

"'s your bedroom, princess," Oliver leans in, presses a kiss to your inner thigh, murmuring softly against your skin, "what do you think?"

"I think you're edging each other with psychosexual, power-play, bullshit-banter that's doing fucking nothing for me," you snap behind your hands, "and I'm gonna start kicking people again very soon," you warned. Farleigh rolled his eyes.

"Sit up," he sighed.

"No."

"Make a choice," Oliver told you, tone firmer this time.

"Also no." Your voice was sounding particularly petulant, and you even brought your knees together, closing yourself off in front of Oliver. After a long, vaguely irate silence, Farleigh takes a deep breath.

"Is something wrong? Are we at a yellow light? Red light?" He asks, tone far gentler, he leans over, fingers gentle against your hairline by your fingertips.

"Light... colours?" Oliver asks with genuine confusion. Farleigh is far less patient when he turns on Oliver, like he's frustrated to even be explaining this.

"Like a traffic light; instead of a safety word like pineapple, we have green - go, yellow - slow down, red - stop," said like he wanted to include duh, obviously on the end, but refrained, turning back to you.

"And... they're for her?" Intrigued and surprisingly endeared by the concept, Oliver leans forward with a little smile, resting his chin on one of your knees, looking between yourself and Farleigh. He watches you sigh, even with your hands over your face.

"How do you not know how safe words work? What kind of sex have you been having?" Farleigh's judgemental tone hits Oliver square in the chest, but before he can even answer, you finally sit up, expression wide and overwhelmed with frustration.

"Farleigh look at him; he's like if they made repression a person! He's been having the most boring, vanilla sex known to man - if any - and getting off in his spare time to things that would make God cry. Look him in the eyes and tell me I'm wrong -" Farleigh's gaze flicked to Oliver, who suddenly felt himself begin to flush scarlet, and had to sit back again, frowning at his hands. There was something about the shame at being so concisely called out that was... thrilling. Something about how clearly you could see through him, through his persona to the raw want at his very core, it was freeing. You sat up further, with purpose, grabbing Oliver's chin so roughly it shocked him, forcing him to look in your eyes for a long moment.

"You came in here with purpose thinking I was asleep; creepy, hot, deranged; I'm into it," you told him sternly, "I literally could not care less about you otherwise, you're nothing to me the rest of the time. You came here to put me in my place, I don't want you here if you can't do that." Fucking hell, Oliver can feel his heartbeat racing as you shove his face away, your expression almost bordering on disgust.

"So you're..." Farleigh, as if frustrated by this little tirade you saw fit to go on, was unimpressed as he once more checked in.

"Green light, obviously," you threw your hands into the air in exasperation, "it's like you've never met me before -" but before you can slump back against the bed like you so clearly wanted to, Farleigh catches you, shifts behind you to prop you up.

"You're a brat," Oliver says, finally finding the words for the dynamic, and rather charmed by it all. Still, Farleigh has to get a word in edgewise.

"How long 'd it take you to figure that out?" He muttered sarcastically, doing something behind your back while you made a show of struggling and wiggling, refusing to keep your left arm with whatever he was doing.

"So," Oliver clarified, testing out the code, "green light?" You grinned at him, giving a pleased nod. Farleigh, finally having caught your left hand seemingly for good, reiterates the statement distractedly. Then, with a sense of triumph and relief, he pulls the belt, and his makeshift handcuffs, tight.

"Why are you still dressed?" You ask Oliver sharply. You may have had a point, but the game was back on. With your hands secured, Farleigh sat back behind you on the bed, pulling you flush to him, arms secured and pressed between the two of you that was just edging on uncomfortable.

"Why are you still talking?" He mutters into your ear, and he rests his chin on your shoulder, one hand coming to wrap over your mouth, while his other curled around your middle, pulling your legs apart, wasting no time in dipping two long, elegant fingers into you. Your eyes light up, gasping against his hand as the two of you watch with lust in your eyes as Oliver begins to undress.

"The belt," Farleigh's voice has that lazy kind of smugness that Oliver usually hated, but now kind of makes his head fuzzy and kind of like he wants to sink his teeth into him, "is to keep the princess in her place, because someone," he says pointedly, not that you seem to notice; your eyes are closed, and Farleigh's thumb is on your clit while the fingers he has inside of you curl lovingly into your sweet spot, "manages to escape every pair of padded handcuffs either of us have ever bought," he explains, turning his attention back to Oliver, "and she complains about metal handcuffs, and zip ties, has undone every rope knot I've ever tied, and ruined every single tie I've ever tried to tie her up with."

"I bought you new ones," your voice is faint, half a moan muffled behind Farleigh's hand, and Oliver, still unsure of how to respond to any of that, finally turns back to the two of you on the bed. There's something desperate about the way you're arching against Farleigh's firm hold on you, legs having fallen open as your hips rolled in time with his fingers, lewd and needy. But Farleigh's eyes are only on Oliver, watching him with hunger in his eyes, pupils blown wide, gaze roaming over Oliver's physique.

At the sound of your voice, Farleigh's gaze meets Oliver's his smile widening just a touch before he stops entirely. A desperate keening is pulled from you, hips shifting for friction, for anything, as Farleigh rests his hand on your thigh, fingers slick, practically dripping with you.

"No, I'll be good," you whimper, eyes fluttering, half closed, "I'll be -" you were already breathing heavy, "so so good."

"Hear that?" Farleigh murmurs with a vindictive little smile, hand uncovering your mouth, moving to hold your chin, your mouth falling open in a moan as his nails scratch up your thighs. Oliver advances on you both, entranced by the sight of you both, desperate to have a taste, to play along.

"Think she even knows how to be good?" Oliver teases, once more between your thighs. Still, instead of giving you the same kind of proper relief that Farleigh had been offering, he starts out gentle once more.

"Oliver, you're so cruel," you whimper. Farleigh's hand moves from your jaw to wrap around your middle, holding you secure, while the hand that had sat on your thigh moves to your open mouth, Oliver watches, rapt, as he slides both slick digits past your lips, but it shuts you up well enough, lips closing on his fingers as you diligently lap up your own taste from him.

"See, can't trust a word she says," Farleigh purrs. You bite gently on his fingers as you moan, Oliver finally deciding to do more than just tease you. Oliver's fingers are shorter than Farleigh's, but damn if they can't still hit the same high notes. Curling and pressing in a steady rhythm, he alternates dipping his tongue in as much as he can, and circling your clit. Farleigh's hand has moved from your mouth, spit slicked fingers pinching at your nipples, lightly dragging his nails across your skin, while he's started rolling his hips against your back, cock unbearably hard and still confined to his boxers, pressed against you.

You're whimpering and moaning in his ear, straining against your handcuffs, arching, writhing, but Oliver's holding your thighs still and secure and Farleigh is captivated by how enthusiastically he's going down on you, how its shining on his cheeks, his nose - he reaches out, cards his fingers through Oliver's hair. Oliver looks up through his lashes, a fucking gorgeous sight that you're too lost to appreciate. Just for Farleigh.

God he could say something snide, something about sloppy seconds or something about this being the most expensive meal he'll ever have, but he doesn't. He gives a sly, approving smile, and his grip on Oliver's hair tightens.

"Teeth and tongue," he tells Oliver quietly. Oliver doesn't seem to get it at first, but you choke out a whine, arching further into Farleigh, tipping your head against his.

"That's cheating," you gasped, but Farleigh kept running his fingers through Oliver's hair, whose mouth had never left your cunt, nor his eyes Farleigh's face, "you're helping him cheat; you want me to cum this early?"

"You know what's cheating?" Farleigh once more grabbed your chin, angling your head so you could watch Oliver working hard to get you off, "look at him," Farleigh murmurs in your ear, "eyes open, on his," the commanding tone was hard to refuse, and your eyes fluttered open; the fucking sight of him, a mess between your legs, Farleigh's hand in his hair, was almost enough to send you over the edge, "tell him what I mean."

"Gentle- uh, gentle teeth on me- on my-" you desperately tried to string two words together as Oliver began to get more of an idea. Farleigh's hand on his head becoming more insistent, firmer, nose pressed firm against your skin when he finally took the hint, focusing on your clit, sucking and lapping at it, teeth gently teasing as you completely lost the ability to speak. The rhythm of his fingers was consistent and firm throughout it all, pressing just right -

"Keep your fucking eyes on him," Farleigh ordered, almost snarling it into your ear, "I want you to watch Oliver Quick make you cum." But Oliver had eyes only for him, feeling you clench around his fingers, thighs pressing desperately against his shoulder and the hand that had kept them apart, he could feel Farleigh's nails on his scalp and see the heady, smug pride in his eyes.

As you start to come down, breathing hard and heavy and leaning all your weight against Farleigh, you giggle with out of breath contentment.

"Princess's got not manners," Oliver shook his head with an air of disappointment, and Farleigh smirked, brushing some hair from Oliver's forehead before he reached up and tapped your cheek gently.

"Say thank you, Oliver."

"Thank you, Oliver," you grinned, tone surprisingly sincere, as Oliver crawled up onto the bed beside you both. But there's something dark and hungry in his eyes as he watched you both; reaching out, he presses the fingers against Farleigh's lips, your cum coating them like syrup. Farleigh is more than happy to lick them clean, tongue dancing lewdly around Oliver's digits, all kinds of inuendo and promise in his eyes.

Then, Oliver's attention turns on you something dark, hungry, almost deranged in his eyes. He takes your face in hand.

"And you, princess," he says derisively, not even respecting you enough to look you in the eyes in this moment, "this is not your place that I am putting you in," god it almost sounds like a threat, but you're already squirming with want and anticipation, "but we'll get there," he squeezes your cheeks and your mouth opens on command, tongue as pink and wet and desperate as your cunt had been. He spits in your mouth, sudden sneer curling his lip, blue eyes ice cold and demeaning; "and it's thank you, Oliver Quick."

You feel fucking filthy, can taste yourself in his spit.

You want him to do it again.

"Thank you, Oliver Quick."

He.

jacob elordie in saltburn.

i just wanna [redacted] his [redacted] and [redacted] all up on his [redacted]! I need him to [redacted] me soooo bad, pleaaaseee [redacted] me

was looking at this pic the entire time i was writing, he's so boyfriend. I love him.