#Take a Hit | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tadpolesonalgae · 7 months

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Feysand x reader: Take a Hit[*]

A/N: this was such a fun vibe to write, would 100% recommend listening to How Much Is Weed? and 3 Nights by Dominic Fike

Warnings: smut, mirthroot, oral, lazy stuff

Word Count: 3,413

The world slides out from beneath your feet, finally allowing you reprieve.

Stress had been gnawing on your spine for weeks, manifesting in heavy half circles beneath your eyes, in headaches that spike to the centre of your brain. No amount of sleep, or healthy eating, or whatever other nonsense you tried would work. So for this one night, you accept their offer.

Old habits really do die hard.

Seeing how casually Feyre had set her fingertips ablaze, lighting up the blunt, makes you wonder how common these night activities are for them. Makes you wonder what other things the High Lord and Lady get up to in the privacy of their own home.

Whatever. It’s not your business.

Your business is the thick joint she’s dragging on, how prettily she wraps her lips around the pale paper. Takes it in, a deep, full breath, holding for a few seconds before releasing a heavy puff of smoke. The scent clings to everything in the room, night breeze disturbing the natural flow, wind intruding from the open doors—leading out onto the balcony.

Blue-grey eyes flick lazily to you, marking how longingly you stare at the rolled wonder clasped between her fingertips. “Want a hit?” She taunts from the other end of the sofa, long legs crossed at the ankle, resting in your lap. You growl softly, extending your arm, reaching out for it. Demanding she share. Her lovely lips lift into a smirk, raising your desire to her mouth, dragging deeply again, burning through the blunt faster than you would like.

Lip curls back from your teeth, and she laughs, finally handing it over. “Greedy,” you mutter, taking it from her calloused hand. She puffs out the smoke, making it curl in the air, like some kind of magnificent, fire-breathing beast. You ignore the taunt, raising the joint to your mouth at last, inhaling slowly, deeply, drinking in that relaxing smoke, allowing it to dull the stress at your back. Allow it to circulate, seep into your bloodstream, brighten up your view. Soften the edges of your world.

Exhale like she had, a heavy puff of clouded breath, feeling strain release your body already. Smoke drifts through the room, creating large, thin ovals, showing the gentle flow of air. Already, she’s reaching out her hand to have it back.

You mirror her earlier smirk, eyes locking as you take another drag of the spliff, swallowing and revelling in the thickness—the potency. Feeling it spread throughout your body, gradually numbing. Lean toward her; blow it out in an initially opaque funnel, watching as it washes over her. She growls playfully, legs tucking under her as you raise it to your mouth again—just to piss her off. You really don’t need another, not for a good while, at least.

But she’d crawled across the sofa; swung a leg over your hips, settling her weight into your lap. Arms drape over your shoulders, waiting for the exhale. You smirk up at her, blue-grey eyes gleaming drowsily, her movements laced with lethargic grace—as though she’d just awoken. Fingers wrap around the joint, smiling as you gently close your teeth on the end. “Hand it over,” she purrs, one hand dropping to cup your jaw, titling you upright.

Yield it, fingers threading in her hair, dragging her down to your mouth, holding her a few centimetres at bay. Blow it out, fanning across her face. “Or what?”

Hips roll in your lap, and she’s putting her lips over your own. Teeth scraping and nipping. Biting. You groan with pleasure, hands settling on her waist as she lazily grinds down, one leg sliding between your own, the soft press of her heat feeling perfect over your thigh. “Feyre…” you moan between feverish kisses, arousal twining with the distinct scent of mirthroot.

A door opens somewhere, but the two of you are two preoccupied with one another, indulging in the hot, supple press of skin. By the time Rhys enters your vision, you’ve got one hand below the band of her underwear, gripping the delightful plumpness of her ass. “Feyre,” you mutter, while she’s still grinding on your lap. “Your husband’s here.”

She stops long enough to again reach for the blunt, turning in your lap to offer it. And you’re too out of it to care about what he’s seen. You’re pretty sure it’s half the reason they invited you, anyway. In need of a smoking partner, utter bull.

Both of you watch hungrily as he raises it to his mouth, briefly inspecting, before inhaling deeply. Seems like he’s had a long day. Or however long since they last did this. His muscled chest rises beneath the tunic, lungs filling with smoke, holding it, tipping his head back, blowing it up into the air. Heat pulses between your legs as you mark the strong column of his throat. No doubt he knows what he’s doing.

Feyre gives you a singular look—it’s all you need to come to an agreement. Then she’s shifting from your lap, the two of you standing. Your High Lady pushes her palms to his chest, guiding him back to an armchair, lightly shoving him so he sits. You follow lazily behind her, sliding to your knees between his legs, leaving for a little space to crawl forward. Slowly. Sultrily.

Violet eyes twinkle with interest, Feyre walking round to be behind her mate, arms sliding down his chest, running her fingertips beneath the hem of his leathers. Already you can make out the shape of his arousal, making your skin burn with heat. “Feyre finally manage to persuade you, huh?” He drawls, a slow grin spreading across his mouth as you slot yourself between his powerful thighs. Eyes lock as you lower to his crotch, teeth clasping the ties, pulling the already loosened knot out.

A laugh rumbles from his chest, large hand settling atop you head, keeping you pressed between his legs. You hum with pleasure, spine arching as you work your way down his length, pulling each string free from its hole. Until it’s down to his base. A moan hums from your tongue, teeth digging into the leather, peeling it back from his hips, Feyre pulling away the tunic. Fingers working the buttons expertly, dragging the finery up over him.

Mouth waters at the sight of his exposed chest, tan skin decorated with dark swirls of ink—want to trace them with your tongue. Taste his skin, know what it feels like beneath your teeth.

Moaning softly, you suction your mouth to the intimate skin of his abdomen, flicking against him, putting your marks into him. Rhys groans roughly, no doubt exchanging bets and other filthy words with his mate, discussing what to do with you. How to most enjoy the night.

You move to the trail of dark hair, kissing down until you again have to peel his clothes from him. Salivate at the sight of him, long, thick; appetisingly hard. Moisture beading at his tip. Eyes flutter when his grip roughens on your hair, hand fisting his cock, holding you just out of reach of him. Whimper to get his attention, but Feyre’s already leaning down over him, sliding the blunt back between your lips.

Open willingly for her, wrapping around the joint, dragging it into your lungs as you manoeuvre the rough edge of the paper to scrape up the side of him. Offer a wicked smile as she retrieves the rolled wonder, savouring the fullness before you expel. Blowing the smoke onto his cock, watching as it brushes over the carved muscle of his stomach, how he pumps himself while violet pierces into you.

“Rhys…” you groan, tongue flicking over your lip. His scent sinking into your bones, both of them making you impossibly wet.

Brow quirks, dragging on the joint before finally Feyre gets a hit. “Want something, hm?” He drawls lazily, blowing out while relaxing back into his mate’s arms, hand gripping himself tighter as he waits for you to beg. Mouth parts, pushing out your tongue, showing how ready you are, how appetising the shape of your lips are. Inherently begging for him to shove his cock into you.

He laughs lowly, groaning as Feyre drags her hands up his chest, brushing his jaw, pressing kisses to the side of his throat, slowly sucking in bruises. “Want my cock? That it?” He purrs, tugging back your head, putting you at his mercy. Body goes limp under his touch, complete submission as your mind clouds.

Rhys curses roughly beneath his breath. “Good fucking girl,” he purrs, guiding you to his cock, releasing himself as your mouth opens over him. Your cunt aches, begging to be soothed somehow, swallowing him down. Take him gradually—you’re in no rush this evening. Yet there’s an undercurrent, a frenetic energy compelling you to give your best. They deserve your best. They deserve you.

Tongue flicks over his slit, suckling beneath his tip, making him moan your name, head tipping to rest on the back of the armchair. Tangling with his wife. You could moan from the sight, how they take each other in, perfectly slotting against one another. You want to give them as much as you can, heat buzzing between your legs as you whine onto him. Twitches in your mouth, and you know Feyre’s undoubtedly playing a part in his pleasure. Filling his head with lovely memories; future promises.

Rhys bucks into your mouth, forcing his cock deeper into the hot, wetness of your throat. Groaning at the pleasure, the sound zapping your clit, serving him as best you can. Teeth ever so lightly scrape up the underside of him, enough to break through the haze the mirthroot has brought down, making him hiss onto his mate. Hips buck deeper, more frenzied, getting closer to the edge.

You hum, swallowing him into your throat, making sure he can feel the vibrations even at his base, nose brushing the coarse hairs as your tongue flexes against him. He snarls roughly, cum shooting from his tip, making you moan at his taste. His flavour spurts onto your tongue, your hips grinding onto nothing, tightening around even less. Keep working him through his high, orgasm lighting his skin, numbing his mind as Feyre creeps in, dragging out her husband’s pleasure as long as she can.

When you pull away, the mess becomes apparent. Cum and saliva mixed together in silvery, pearlescent strands. You lick your lips, lapping up his underside, cleaning him up after tipping him over the edge. Taking responsibility for your actions, clearing away the consequences.

Peer up at them from between his legs, one hand gripping him idly. “Did I do good?” You purr, squeezing your thighs together. Needing friction desperately.

The High Lord’s hand cups your cheek, down to gripping your jaw, roughly raising your head. “To think you were hiding that mouth from us for so long,” he growls lowly. “What’s your excuse?” Lean into his touch, playing by his rules. “Was saving it for you,” you mumble. His eyes gleam, blue-grey dilating as he slides two, thick fingers into your mouth, massaging your velvety tongue. Massaging his cum into the wet muscle. Enjoying the sloppy mess.

Moan onto his digits, revelling in the roughness of his calloused fingers. “Wanted you to have it,” you manage, the words garbled and muffled as spit spills down your chin. They look pleased at your mes.

Rhys pulls away, swiping at the saliva, lapping it off his fingers. Pats one thick thigh, inviting you up into his lap. Attention flicks to Feyre, and she nods, urging you forward. Hungrily, desperately, you crawl up onto him, settling one leg either side his own, bracing one knee on the cushion. Grinding down on him.

His hands brace your hips, steadying you; you growl softly. Eyes gleam, “behave.”

Melt into his lap, turning docile at the snarled command. The inherent dominance that could bring you to your knees all over again. Roll your hips, pressing your soft heat onto him, wanting him to feel you. Wanting to feel him.

“What do you want, hm?” He asks, gripping your jaw, squeezing your cheeks. Lips pouting between his fingers. “Tell us how you want it.” Releases you in favour of gripping your throat as Feyre again slides the blunt over. Rhys feeling your inhale beneath his large palm, both groaning as you tip your head back, exhaling it upward. Wet your lips. “I want that silver-tipped tongue, High Lord.”

They share a look, satisfaction glittering in their gazes. Then you’re roughly manoeuvred back to the sofa.

Rhys lays across it, head propped up on the low slant of the arm rest, practically begging you to spread your legs over him, set you cunt down against him. Feyre’s already discarded the clothes on her lower half, crawling onto her mate, straddling his hips. Gods, she looks so pretty like that: thighs parted, honey-brown curls damp with arousal, so ready to take him.

Blue-grey locks onto you, smirking like she knows exactly how hungry she makes you. “Not going to take your fill?” Bite your lip, keeping her attention as you slide the underwear from your hips, having to peel it away from how wet you are. Step out of it, moving over to her as you raise the sopping fabric to her already parted lips. Pressing the arousal onto her tongue, hearing her moan at your taste, wet muscle sucking lightly.

Your fingers slip between her thighs, growling softly at the wetness you find—practically dripping onto her husband’s cock. Eyes latched together as you lap at your glistening digits, tasting her, mixing them together on your tongue.

Rhysand snarls his hunger, pushing you into motion as you pull your dress up over your head, leaving you bare. Slowly, teasingly, you settle over him, moving so your shins are pressing down into the plushness of the arm rest, facing his mate. You want to watch as she takes him into her cunt—how perfectly she’ll ride him. Part of you wishes you got to be the one to watch her suck Rhys off—how fucking breathtaking she would have looked. Rosey lips stretched sinfully around the width of him.

Powerful arms wrap over your hips, tugging you toward his face, but you protest. Wait for Feyre to sit her weight onto him. Watch slowly as she guides his tip to her entrance, knowing she has two sets of eyes upon her. Mouth waters as she drops down a few inches, gently bobbing up and down, knowing she has both of you enthralled. Like a goddess.

When she’s fully straddled his hips, she throws you a starving glance. “Your turn,” she purrs. “Give me a show.” You whimper in response, wanting to push her onto her back, part her with your tongue, make her ride your face instead. You arch your spine, peering over your shoulder as you straighten. “Hungry down there, Rhys?” You taunt, not missing the way his eyes flash with arousal, Feyre’s scent wrapping around you, thicker than the smoke that’s steadily draining out the open window.

“Sit down,” he growls, fingers biting into your skin. Brace your hands on his stomach, levering yourself so he has to wait. “Want something, hm?” You mock him, swaying you hips a little, knowing how badly he needs to have you coming on his tongue. After all, he’s just put you through that very same torture. “Want my cunt? That it?”

Rhysand snarls, arms flexing, and you both know he could force you to sit if he really lost his patience. But they enjoy the edge as much as you do—the gradual building of tension, until it’s ready to snap in two. His mouth opens, mimicking you back, tongue pushing out over his lips.

You want my silver-tipped tongue? He asks directly into your mind. Spine shuddering at his tone. Then sit. Down.

Moans spill as you widen the stance of your thighs, allowing the gilded muscle to sweep in, lapping up the obscene wetness with more-obscene leisure. Lazy strokes of his tongue, highlighting the decadence of the scene. Two females all to himself, one on his mouth, the other riding his cock—gently swirling her hips over him, content to take things as slowly as he is.

Teeth bite into your lip, pushing back onto him, practically purring as he flicks against your clit, targeting it with perfect precision. Pushing into your entrance, fucking you with lethargic curls of his tongue.

Sway your hips over him, back curving as you lower yourself down his body, watching as Feyre rolls against him. Already strands of slick are sticking them together, skin glistening with arousal. Moan at the way she’s taking him—all at her own pace. You thumb away the damp curls, suctioning yourself to her clit, feeling how she’s swelling from the stimulation; grazing your teeth over her sensitive bud.

She releases a pleased moan, leaning back, one hand propping her upright while the other parts the honey-brown curls. Nearly climax at the sight of them pressed so intimately together, but—you’ve got a job to do. You’d never dream of letting her down. Of disappointing either.

Mouth parts, latching properly over her clit, giving it the attention she deserves.

Her back arches, dragging the pads of her fingertips up over her abdomen, higher over her diaphragm, tracing over her ribs. Cups her breast, nails scraping her peaked nipple, pinching between her fingers as you lap up her flavour, flicking down to their joining point to taste more of her. Utterly divine.

Rhysand growls roughly as your tongue laps over him, going from his base up to her clit, liquid heat pouring onto his mouth as you indulge in his mate. He groans with pleasure, fucking your entrance steadily, slow; deep pumps of the wet muscle. Occasionally suckling on your clit, drawing you closer to the edge, needing to be the one to push you over the edge.

Mind prickles as you’re joined with them, brought into the mental loop they have between one another. Pleasure spills across the bond, adding a concentration you aren’t prepared for, muscles tensing as it crests over you, causing your hips to buck, pulling away from Feyre. She whines softly as your mouth detaches from her, but she’s quickly picking up the pace to make up for her pleasure.

Begins rising and falling over him, sliding up and down his cock, rolling her hips so he touches all those wonderful spots inside her. Rhysand grips you tighter, and you again buck against him, grinding your cunt onto him, caught in the way his teeth scrape over your clit, stimulating you in such a torturous way. But it’s building, and you can feel you’re at the brink.

Whimper softly, nails biting into the muscle of his stomach in warning.

It spurs him on, suckling your clit as pleasure zaps the sensitive bud, and you’re unable to hold on any longer. Soft moans pour from your lips, whining gently as you break, coming on his tongue—just as he wants.

The sexual moans cause Feyre’s hips to stutter, grinding down onto her husband firmly, almost roughly as she tips with you, free falling through pleasure. Cum drips down from her heat, Rhys’ stomach muscles flexing, and you can bet he went with her.

It takes a while for everything to stop, too busy swaying and grinding onto one another, riding out the aftershocks to bother moving. You certainly stay sat on Rhys’ face longer than necessary—due in equal parts to you being unbothered over your position, and him keeping you pressed onto his tongue. Continuously teasing the edge of overstimulation: nipping lightly at your clit, or roughly circling the sensitive bud.

You aren’t much better. Ordering Feyre with your eyes to lean back again, allowing you to suckle on her, lap up the mess both of them have made on one another. Eyes roll to the back of your head at their mixed flavour, cum and release twining together into one divine, sloppy ambrosia.

Mirthroot still tints the room; not as strong as it once was. Dulled by the night air, and powerful arousal. They really should have mentioned the additional pleasures you’d get to participate in on smoking nights.

You would have caved much earlier.

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Feysand Taglist: @girlmadeofavocados @zara-aliza

#Feysand #Feysand smut #Feysand x reader #Feysand x reader smut #acotar #Take a Hit #October

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