#Sincerely Benson

[afrobeatsindacity]

NEW ALBUM: BNXN - SINCERELY, BENSON

Elite Lagos vocalist and one of the new gen’s most exciting breakthrough artists BNXN (fka BUJU) drops his highly anticipated 15-track debut album, ‘Sincerely, Benson.’. The formidable Afrofusion singer penned every single lyric on the project, whilst working with a collection of A-List producers, including Jae5, Sarz, ATG, Guiltybeatz, Leriq, Davinchiii, Denzl, Blaisebeatz, Tempoe, Magicsticks and Dro amongst others.

Sincerely, Benson is a masterclass in vocals and musicality as the singer opens up and lets us explore his world. BNXN set the tone early on with

‘Gwagwalada’ featuring Kizz Daniel and Seyi Vibez, which dropped in February and has been on a winning streak ever since. True to his reputation as a hitmaker, Sincerely, Benson is bursting with singles that will make it a debut that stands the test of time.

Sincerely, Benson includes a handpicked selection of features, including UK rapper Headie One, Taves, Nigerian superstar 2Baba and Jamaican singer Popcaan. Speaking on Sincerely, Benson BNXN said, “This is as sincere as it gets”.

Over the last few years, the Lagos singer has released a growing body of work that pushes back against conventional modes of African music and in doing so, he has created an instantly recognisable sound. He has completely switched up the game, becoming one of the biggest and most internationally known names in the new wave of stars. Following his recent acclaimed singles, ‘Pray’ and 'GWAGWALADA' which both feature on the album, last month BNXN collaborated with UK artist Stefflon Don on ‘Whats Poppin’ which has created an undeniable buzz in the UK and received 6M streams to date. He is showing no signs of slowing down, and to celebrate the release of his album, BNXN has announced a headline show at London's iconic venue, The Roundhouse on the 18th of November.

Download and Stream: Sincerely, Benson now.

Play, Share and Enjoy “Sincerely, Benson”

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[thebadphilosopher]

Look, I'm not a big fan of this ship...

BUT if these two do not get together in the newest season WTF. It's been how many years?????

[joeyclaire]

not to suddenly get all ranson on main but it is sincerely one of my favorite ships of all time. randy is so interesting because on one hand he’s spent his entire life being walked all over and he’s very naturally submissive but he doesn’t WANT to be. he doesn’t LIKE being walked all over he doesn’t LIKE being naturally submissive. and on the other hand randy is terrified of feeling anything other than apathy and has such tightly wound self control and repression that letting benson be in charge was such a RELIEF for him. he’s so calculated in his actions that letting someone else be completely in charge of him was exactly what he needed! it’s such an interesting contrast and i haven’t even mentioned how benson feels about all that.

[muiitoloko]

The Zumba Incident

Summary: When your retired, slightly unhinged ex-general husband crashes a community Zumba class with his equally inebriated war buddies, the result is chaos, sore hips, and one unforgettable performance.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader & Oc

Warnings: Funny

Author's Notes: A little continuation of "Operation Dog Flap". You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to, but it’s good for context. 😅 Am I making Frank too comedic?

Also read on Ao3

Three days had passed since Frank’s legendary dog-flap incident, and life had mostly returned to normal—or as normal as it could get when your husband was a retired Lieutenant General with the emotional maturity of a cranky badger and the self-preservation instincts of a lemming on a cliff.

That morning, Frank had wandered into the kitchen with his usual heavy-footed shuffle, white hair sticking up in several directions, his reading glasses perched low on his hooked nose.

“Going out,” he’d grunted around a mouthful of toast.

You glanced up from your coffee. “Oh?”

He nodded, vaguely. “Reggie, Clive, maybe Tony. Lunch. Catching up. I won’t be long.”

You arched a brow. “Lunch as in ‘lunch,’ or lunch as in you’ll be drunk before three and fall asleep on the couch covered in crisps and shame?”

Frank gave you his most affronted look—the one he always wore when you were absolutely correct. “It’s just lunch,” he said, hazel eyes blinking with poorly concealed innocence. “We’re old men. We get full after a pint and a sandwich.”

You rolled your eyes but said nothing. He had been good lately. He deserved a break. And frankly, you needed some quiet time with Thomas that didn’t involve cleaning olive oil off the floor or explaining to your son why Daddy had turned into a stuck sausage roll.

So, you kissed Frank goodbye, sent him off with his coat, wallet, and a warning—“Please, for the love of God, don’t get arrested”—and went about your day.

It was peaceful for a while.

Until your phone rang.

You glanced at the caller ID and frowned.

Frank Benson.

You answered with a smile, expecting your husband’s baritone and a half-sarcastic, half-sincere “I miss you already.”

Instead, a strange female voice greeted you.

“Hi! Uh, hello? Is this… Mrs. Benson?”

Your brow furrowed. “Yes?”

“Oh, great. Hi! I work at the community center on Rosehill Street and, um… we have your husband here. And his friends.”

You froze. “…Sorry?”

“They, uh… well, they’ve joined our Zumba class. Uninvited. And we just… thought you might want to come get them.”

You stared at your phone in silence for a beat.

“I’m sorry,” you said slowly, “did you just say Zumba?”

“Yes. Very enthusiastically.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Is he drunk?”

“I’d guess… very.”

Of course he was.

You sighed and rubbed your temple. “Right. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

Twenty minutes later, you were standing in the entryway of the Rosehill Community Center, Thomas at your side, clutching his dinosaur backpack, eyes wide with curiosity.

You could hear the music before you even entered the main hall—Latin beats thumping through the walls, something absurdly upbeat about hips and rhythm and joy.

And then, through the windowed door, you saw them.

Frank. Your husband. White hair disheveled, cheeks red, moving in a way that could only be described as possessed by a rhythm demon with no sense of timing. His shirt was half-untucked, his stomach jiggled with every movement, and he looked like a retired garden gnome on a sugar high. His hazel eyes were glazed but… weirdly focused. Determined, even.

He was trying.

Reggie was beside him, shirtless for some godforsaken reason, twirling like a drunken ballerina. Clive was flapping his arms with all the coordination of a headless chicken, and Tony—sweet, poor Tony—was doing something vaguely resembling a twerk, and you never wanted to think about that again.

Thomas gasped beside you. “Mummy. Daddy’s dancing!”

“Not… exactly, sweetheart.”

“But he’s moving like Peppa’s grandpa when he sneezed.”

“That sounds about right.”

The instructor, a tired-looking woman in her mid-thirties, spotted you through the window and gave you a desperate thumbs-up.

You took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The music blasted into your ears. The moment Frank caught sight of you, he froze mid-thrust, his arms outstretched, one knee bent in what might have once been a squat.

“…Darling,” he said, far too brightly. “You came!”

You stared at him in dead silence.

Frank blinked. Then tried to spin.

It did not go well.

He stumbled, caught Reggie’s elbow, and the two of them tumbled to the floor in a heap of laughter and flailing limbs.

Thomas clapped delightedly. “Again, Daddy! Do the spin again!”

Frank groaned from the floor, one hand reaching toward the ceiling. “I was ambushed,” he slurred. “They promised me pub lunch and a pint. And then there was music. And shouting. And a woman named Gloria said my hips were ‘full of promise.’”

You looked to the instructor. “How long has this been going on?”

She rubbed her forehead. “They got here at 2:40. It’s… 3:15.”

You stared at your husband. “You’ve been drunk dancing for thirty-five minutes?”

Frank beamed up at you from the floor. “Best workout I’ve had in years.”

You closed your eyes. “I’m going to bury you in the garden.”

“Preferably face down,” Reggie muttered, groaning as he sat up. “That way if I reanimate, I can’t climb out.”

Thomas waved his arms. “Can I do Zumba too?!”

You groaned. “Absolutely not. Everyone into the car.”

“But—”

“Now!”

Frank struggled to his feet, his arms wobbling. “Darling, I was quite good actually. You should’ve seen my hip circle.”

You took one long, slow breath. “Frank Benson. You are a decorated military officer. You commanded drone strikes. You negotiated ceasefires. You were once knighted by the Queen herself.”

He grinned, eyes drooping. “And now I Zumba.”

You turned to the instructor, digging into your bag. “Do you accept bribes to delete footage?”

That night, Frank lay spread-eagled on the couch, groaning.

“Everything hurts,” he mumbled.

“Good.”

“You’re not going to forgive me, are you?”

“Not even a little.”

“I think I may have sprained my arse.”

You didn’t answer. Just placed a glass of water on his chest and a bag of frozen peas on his thigh.

Thomas ran into the room with a piece of paper. “Look, Daddy! I drew you doing Zumba!”

Frank stared at the drawing. He was a stick figure with wild hair and a big, wobbling belly.

“…I’m magnificent,” he whispered.

You sighed, collapsing beside him, one hand brushing through his white hair.

“You are something, alright.”

And he smiled. Stupid. Pained. Drunk with life.

Yours.

[cheesechaser1]

GULPS i am still so not used to using tumblr my sincere apolocheese but there’s some benson that i already posted on insta because he rotates in my brain 24/7 :33

[naturesapphic]

Hiiii I really like your writing and I was wondering if u could do Olivia benson x reader where reader struggles with sh but only if your comfortable with it again really love your writing

“I’m here”

Olivia benson x fem!reader

WARNINGS: talks of sh, hurt/comfort, blood, razor

You were on the bathroom floor with the razor in your hand. You didn’t want to do it, you really didn’t but the thoughts wouldn’t stop. The feeling of needing to do it wouldn’t go away. It was only when you heard the front door shut and the voice of your girlfriend that snapped you out of it.

“Y/n? Princess? You here?” Olivia called out and you quickly put the razor away underneath the sink and went out the bathroom to greet her. There she was standing by the door putting up her coat and taking off her shoes. You gave her a fake smile and went up to your girlfriend to give her a hug and kiss.

You wrap your arms around her neck as you use your tippy toes to reach her. “Hey princess.” She said softly against your neck and you pull away from her embrace. “I-I’m okay…” you say a little shakily. Olivia frowns, sensing that you are lying. “Baby are you sure? I can tell that you aren’t…but I won’t push you to tell me anything if you aren’t ready yet.” She said softly as she cups your face with her hands.

You looked up at her and saw the sincerity in them and that’s when you broke. You started sobbing and Olivia quickly took you into her embrace, whispering reassurance as she holds you. “It’s okay princess…I got you…” she says softly as she continues to hold you tightly against her. After a few minutes you calmed down enough to start talking to her about your past and your urges you had with self harm.

She listened to you closely and intently to every word that came out of your mouth and you appreciated it tremendously. Olivia always listened to you and never judges, which is one of the reasons you are in love with her. “Thank you for telling me baby…I just wish I would have known sooner so I could have helped you. I’m so proud of you for not going through with it. I can’t imagine how hard it was.” She said sympathetically as she rubs your back while placing little kisses on the side of your head.

“Thank you liv…I love you…and I promise next time if I get the urge to I’ll call you.” You said and Olivia smiles big at your words. “Yes please call me. Even at work.” She reassured you and you nodded, a small grateful smile on your lips. “Thank you…” you say again and she shakes her head. “No need to thank me baby. I’m always here for you.” Olivia says softly as she helps you stand and the two of you make dinner together. After dinner, y’all spend the rest of the night in each others arms, feeling a lot better than you did hours ago.

A/n: I hope this is what you were hoping for anon and I hope you liked it! I hope everyone else did to and I just wanted to let y’all know that I see you and that I love you. If y’all ever need anything im here <3 remember to stay hydrated and to rest! I love y’all :)

[confessionconsensus]

i’ve written /reader fics of absurd characters because it’s funny. the only one i still have memory of is the barry b benson breeding kink one

[black-arcana]

BUTCHER BABIES' HEIDI SHEPHERD Shoots Down 'Misconception' That She Can't Sing: 'I Was Classically Trained'

In a new interview with The Adventures Of Pipeman, BUTCHER BABIES frontwoman Heidi Shepherd spoke about her predominantly "clean" singing approach in the band's latest single, "Sincerity", which came out last November. When the interviewer noted that some people think that because she growls, she can't sing, Heidi said (as transcribed by BLABBERMOUTH.NET): "It's a weird misconception. I was a singer before I was a screamer. I was classically trained. But that is a misconception. When people will actually hear my clean vocals, they're, like, 'Oh my gosh. What? Oh, you can sing.' I'm, like, 'Well, I am in a band.' [Laughs]"

Heidi also noted that without proper training, "growl singing" can damage your vocal cords beyond repair.

"There's a technique that we learned along the way, and, yeah, if you don't do it correctly, you could damage yourself permanently," she said. "And so I do take it very seriously. And especially being on tour, going back and forth between the cleans and the screams, but I've always done that — our whole career for 15 years, I've always gone back and forth between the cleans and the screams. I think before it hasn't been as highlighted as it was with 'Sincerity'."

Last November, BUTCHER BABIES shared a music video for "Sincerity", directed by Shepherd and guitarist Henry Flury.

"Sincerity" marked BUTCHER BABIES's first release since the departure of co-founding co-vocalist Carla Harvey.

When "Sincerity" was first released, Shepherd said in a statement: "Over the last decade and a half, BUTCHER BABIES has become known for our aggression and soaring melodies. This new release is no different. Diving into real-life experiences and expectations while exposing the rawest part of our souls, this single is bound to invoke an emotional rollercoaster between looking toward the future with hope while reminiscing of past losses."

Future BUTCHER BABIES releases will be available via Judge & Jury Records, a powerhouse record label and production company founded by multi-platinum producer Howard Benson (MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE, SEETHER, SKILLET, OF MICE & MEN) and Neil Sanderson of THREE DAYS GRACE.

The instrumentation for "Sincerity" was meticulously crafted by Benson and Sanderson at West Valley Recording Studios, Benson's studio in Woodland Hills.

BUTCHER BABIES is Heidi Shepherd on vocals, Henry Flury on guitar, Ricky Bonazza on bass and Devin Nickles on drums.

BUTCHER BABIES played their first concert since the official departure of Harvey on July 27, 2024 at the Stonehenge festival in Steenwijk, The Netherlands.

In the fall of 2023, BUTCHER BABIES completed a European tour without Carla, who sat out the trek in order to undergo emergency surgery on her left eye.

In January 2024, Harvey and ANTHRAX and PANTERA drummer Charlie Benante announced that they were officially engaged.

BUTCHER BABIES released a double album "Eye For An Eye..." and "…'Til The World's Blind", in July 2023. The double album celebrated the tenth anniversary of BUTCHER BABIES' critically acclaimed debut, "Goliath", released on July 9, 2013 via Century Media Records.

BUTCHER BABIES' previous album, 2017's "Lilith" was produced by Steve Evetts (THE DILLINGER ESCAPE PLAN, SEPULTURA, SUICIDE SILENCE) and marked the band's recording debut with drummer Chase Brickenden, who replaced Chris Warner in 2016.

[lizdonnelly]

Second Circle, Ch. 1

Pairing: Elizabeth Donnelly x f!reader, shades of Alex Cabot x Olivia Benson Warnings: Smut, violence, references to alcoholism Summary: “We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.” Based on a request for Liz/f!reader's first time, and my own desire to write a series about Liz navigating romance amidst chaos. Loosely inspired by the events of 2x21 'Scourge' and a few details from 10x8 'Persona'.

---

Although the wind rattled against the windows of the banquet hall and the pinprick lighting of the chandeliers overhead flickered, the murmur of the gala continued on.

The air vibrated, alive with the weight of the tension that had wracked the city in the past few weeks and no doubt fueled by the media machine cranking out headline after headline, each more sordid and gruesome than the last.

Melinda's grip tightened on your elbow as another group approached. Your heart quickened at the sight of short, gelled back blonde hair and the heady perfume that wafted over. Anxiety tore at your stomach with molten claws.

"Doc Warner, glad to see you've made it," a bloodhound of a man said, leading the pack. He gestured towards you with his whiskey glass. "Elliot and Olivia give you enough time to make friends outside the morgue? I must not be pushing them hard enough."

Melinda patted your back. Heavily lined brown eyes scoured you from behind the bloodhound, appraising the manner in which Melinda had touched you. A cold bead of sweat slid down the back of your neck.

"Always glad to see you on the right side of the concrete, Captain," The medical examiner teased. "Especially these days. But yes, believe it or not, I do have time to run in other circles." A man with a voice as calm as the creek that ran beside your childhood home piped up. "Pleased to finally get the chance to meet you," he said with an easy smile and a tip of the head. This man carried himself with a centeredness that was hard to come by, even across the crowd of New York City's top professionals that had congregated that evening. "I've heard about your efforts at Mercy General. I can't imagine what you've had to deal with as of late." It was a line you'd heard plenty of variations of recently, but his sincerity seemed completely genuine. Although his eyes were warm, inviting pools of black ink, you couldn't shake the feeling that somehow he knew. Melinda turned to you with a smile, oblivious. "As you can probably tell, Dr. Huang is our resident psychiatrist," she said. "And a fed, at that," came that harsh, staccato voice you had become attuned to. You bit at the inside of your cheek. The psychiatrist-fed's gentle smirk grew. Thankfully, a pasty, bird boned blonde intruded, reaching out past Huang. "Alexandra Cabot, assistant district attorney," she said, wasting no time.

You shook her hand, surprised at the strength of her grip. Studying her gaze, you got the sense that events like this were easier for her to navigate than they were for other members of the party. She sipped at her champagne lightly and looked around, her stare lingering on the elevators as if she either wanted to leave or wished for someone else to arrive.

"Can't forget her royal highness," the bloodhound Captain joked, gesturing to the woman you'd been struggling not to address.

Dr. Huang spoke again in earthen tones and an air of alacrity. "There's no need to bother, Melinda. The only reason the Bureau Chief wouldn't have led the introductions," he paused, "is if this isn't a stranger to her." Liz rolled her eyes. You subconsciously tugged at the sleeve of the sweater that hung a little past your fingertips. "If you're so perceptive, Agent, then why did a sixth girl show up gutted like a fish at Grand Central this morning?"

---

Liz Donnelly hated courtroom restrooms. She had since the 70's, in fact.

On this occasion, though, she tolerated the lavender soap and the lukewarm water as she used the mirror to study the other woman.

The younger woman next to her scrubbed underneath her nails with a precision so adroit it had to be practiced. "If you're trying to scrub away evidence," the Bureau Chief piped up, "do me a favor and be less obvious." The woman's eyes widened, eyebrows rising. Liz leaned over and tugged playfully at the name tag dangling from the pocket on the woman's scrubs. The woman paused. "If you're trying to flirt with me," she finally whispered, "do me a favor and be more obvious."

The bathroom door swung on its hinges and in strode Olivia Benson, the SVU detective clearly in a tizzy and blind to the way the Bureau Chief and her conversation partner jumped apart like two opposing magnets. The strands on the back of her glossy brown pixie cut stuck up. As the detective ran a nervous hand through them again, Liz understood why.

"Got tired of listening to Cabot try to grill a child? Don't tell me she needs me back in there." Benson shook her head, slumping against the paper towel dispenser. "He got another one."

The detective muttered a quick apology, shifting aside to let the woman in scrubs dry her hands. Liz swallowed thickly.

"Sexually assaulted as well, I take it?" Benson eyed the prosecutor. The detective nodded exasperatedly. "She was an architect. Single, wasn't a user, friends are all model citizens." Benson sucked in her bottom lip and bit at it. "No vengeful ex-boyfriend, at that. Seems she had a gambling habit, but I've know plenty of girls who play the ponies, and all of them are still very much alive."

"However disparate these murders seem, there has to be a connection. Better make good use of that overtime, or you'll have more blood on your hands," Liz jabbed, gesturing towards the sink. The detective's brow furrowed.

"So this is the support we're going to get from our new Bureau Chief? How the hell are-"

Benson paused awkwardly as the woman in scrubs shuffled out the door, paying no mind to the quick finger waggling wave she threw at the prosecutor.

Liz managed a brief smile.

Benson looked towards the door, then back at the wiry woman before her in the starched black pantsuit.

Had there been a window in this particular courtroom restroom, Liz had half a mind to climb out it herself.

---

The bloodhound, whom you now knew as Cragen, thumbed the facets of his whiskey glass at the sound of the announcement.

A gentleman in a well-pressed suit and white gloves had called out across the banquet hall. The gala wouldn't be ending at its scheduled time, due to "inclement weather conditions", meaning the whole ordeal was to proceed for who knows how long. Fortunately, the waitstaff were headed back with fresh bottles and hor d'oeuvres as an apology for the inconvenience.

"I don't mean to pry, but does this have anything to do with-"

He cut you off with a somber shake of his head. He turned to face you, the capillaries webbing along the corners of his eyes swollen.

"This is news to me."

Cragen turned and headed back to the bar with a sniffle.

"They're doing a reasonable job of keeping everyone occupied, at least," came an even voice from behind you. Huang joined your side. Jet black pools still held a mirthful twinkle.

"Tell me something. How long have you and the prosecutor been involved with each other?" "This is the first time Ms. Cabot and I have met," you stammered. "You know that's not who I meant," he countered with a soothing grin. "Forgive my intrusion. You don't have to answer, if you don't want to."

The psychiatrist's musings were an unexpected relief to you. You felt the dam within your chest begin to burst, allowing you to finally speak on something you had kept locked up to yourself these past few weeks. "I'll forgive you, but only if you tell me how you knew," you laughed, tension evaporating from the edge of your voice. Huang nodded to himself.

"That's not your sweater."

You lowered your glass. "It's too long in the arms," he said, gesturing freely. Huang was one of the few who had not been drinking.

"It's not like I have much time to see a tailor," you tried to riposte. "True, but the odds that you and Donnelly wear the same perfume are not favorable," he said with an air of one revealing a royal flush. "My guess is that either she gave the sweater to you, or you're wearing it out of convenience. Alternatively, she could've asked you to wear it, knowing you'd cross paths tonight. She appears to be rather domineering, so that would not surprise me if it were the case."

It took everything in you to fight back the heat that rose in your cheeks at the bounce of his eyebrow.

"You make a hobby out of judging women's perfume?"

"I was a profiler in another life. It was more than a hobby to judge everything about a person." Huang's gaze followed Cragen as he made his way through the crowd across the room.

"Makes for a good party trick, I'll give you that."

Huang paused before turning back to you. His expression held an odd seriousness to it now. "I get the sense that I'm not the only one playing party tricks tonight."

---

Alex Cabot hadn't known Elizabeth for long, but she already didn't care to know the woman much longer.

The younger prosecutor checked her Cartier watch once more, eager for any distraction at this point. Somehow, neither clock hand had so much as budged. She squeezed her eyes shut amidst the bubbling conversation of the crowd in the godforsaken hall and thought of wide, chocolate brown puppy dog eyes and pixie cuts, of handcuffs and coffee cups.

"Alexandra, that look is not becoming on someone like you," an airy tone wafted over.

Lena Petrovsky, New York Supreme Court judge. Fuck. At this rate, she half expected Barry Moredock to round the corner and lecture her about some constitutional disservice she also happened to be encouraging this evening.

"Running all-nighters with the SVU shouldn't be taxing on someone from Harvard Law. But really, you look like hell, try to get some rest after this circus," Petrovsky said, gesturing around them. "You won't be of any use to the city if you keep burning the candle at both ends."

Alex opened her mouth to speak, but a harsh voice speared through her.

"From what I've seen so far, Ms. Cabot is no stranger to circuses," Donnelly jeered.

Alex was certain some snide joke about her courtroom performances was incoming, but she paused, shrieks cutting through the crowd behind them.

---

"This just in: at approximately 11:07 tonight, NYPD discovered the body of a young woman in Central Park. The cause of death? A large wound along the victim's neck, a similar M.O. to the recent string homicides that have shocked the city this past month. Although signs of sexual assault were present, no information is available yet as to the identity of the perpetrator. Investigators have identified the victim as local self-portraitist..."

Liz looped her arm around your shoulders, tugging you out of the bar and onto the street.

"I am not ruining one of the rare nights we both have to ourselves with more of that fear-mongering," she said. You shifted under the weight of the fur coat she shared with you, pressing yourself against her side. Although her voice was firm, you could tell she was rattled. She led you past throngs of men and women in pressed shirts and cocktail dresses, club promoters, and a man stumbling toward you with a box of pamphlets.

"They didn't call me in," you mused. Your brows knitted in confusion. Liz grabbed hold of your chin.

"And they won't," she seemed to command into reality through sheer force of will alone. She brushed her thumb across your lips. Rain gently began to fall overhead. The lights of the cabs clogging the street blurred.

You leaned forward, slipped her thumb into your mouth, and lightly sucked on it.

The prosecutor smirked. You were pleased with the fact that she appeared slightly taken aback by your boldness.

"Come on," she said with a gaze that told you she was a thousand miles away already.

You felt her breath hot against your ear as she tugged you into the back seat of a nearby town car.

"I have something else for you to suck on."

---

"Top her off," Cragen said to the bartender, tilting his glass across the counter.

Across the room, the band still played. The peeling notes of the saxophone reverberated across the inside of his skull. A dull throb continued to pound at the back of his eyes.

Looking down into the amber liquid, Cragen studied the panes of glass that stretched across the ceiling. More rain, more wind.

He couldn't kill in this.

Cragen took a swig.

Elliot and Olivia were still at the station, sifting through tips and folders full of supposed eyewitness accounts. Munch was no doubt trying his best to hold down the fort, but even his endurance, battle-tested over years in Baltimore homicide, was waning.

The brass thought maintaining appearances would comfort the public, although the Captain wondered how all of this pomp and circumstance could reassure anyone but those New York elites with the most fragile of egos.

He took another sip, turning back to watch ADA Cabot and Dr. Huang engaged in what appeared to be a heated argument. At least, heated on the blonde's end. Nearby, Doc Warner was caught in Judge Petrovsky's line of fire. He chuckled into his glass, thankful not to be in the good doctor's shoes.

Further off, Donnelly and the woman Melinda had introduced the group to were headed towards the restrooms. Cragen squinted. The Bureau Chief, with all five foot something's worth of bluster, was leading the other woman hand in hand. Something Arthur Branch had told him once made him chuckle.

Cragen went to take the final swig of his whiskey to finish off the glass, but noticed it was still full.

---

You stumbled through the doorway of Liz's brownstone, her hands quick to pull down your skirt. The door slammed shut. Her mouth pressed hot kisses up the side of your throat. Deceptively strong hands gripped at your ass.

"Upstairs," she husked.

Something fluttered in your stomach. Although you had gotten used to the feeling of the prosecutor's clever tongue in your mouth after a couple coffee dates, the two of you had yet to cross the threshold, so to speak.

Her hands guided you around the corner and up the flight of stairs, toying at the back of your bra. The sensation of her fingers trailing down your spine broke your brain. There could be no anxieties at this point, no thoughts for that matter, only Elizabeth Donnelly and her teeth at your throat and her pillows now pressed up against the back of your head.

The prosecutor leaned over you, nudging your legs aside. She began to drag her knuckle up and down the rapidly dampening fabric that clung to your slit. Heavily lidded brown eyes met yours.

"God Liz, I need you...I need it..."

You were embarrassed at the whine, embarrassed with how wet you already were for the woman.

"Need what?" her voice came coolly. She paused her ministrations to press a finger up against your hole. "This?"

You squeezed your eyes shut. "Please..."

Liz chuckled and hiked up the sleeve of her blazer.

"Since you beg so pretty," she said, "I guess I'll have to oblige."

You felt her tug your panties to the side, the sensation of her pressing a few quick kisses all across your mound and lips sending your heart into a spiral. Shortly afterwards, she helped you kick out of them, and her hands slid up to caress the insides of your thighs. Liz dragged her tongue up through your folds, praising how good you tasted. You moaned unabashedly now, desperation rising to a fever pitch.

"So impatient," she teased from between your legs as she lapped at you. You fought back another whine, the cry dying in your throat as you felt her climb up the bed and tug your body against her. She snaked a hand between your legs and slid a finger into you.

"Fuck, you're tight," her voice strained against a few strands of hair matted against your ear.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you tried to reply. "Speak up, sweetheart," she cooed, easing another finger into you.

"I want you to stretch me," you panted, clinging to lucidity.

She bit at your earlobe with a growl, a third finger slipping inside you now. Your head spun at as you felt yourself adjust to take even more of her. The air was now thick with the wet, wanton sounds of her pumping inside you. With each thrust, she stroked at a spot inside you that brought you closer and closer to your peak.

"I-I can't last much longer," you sputtered. You pressed back against her, hips rocking up into her palm. She sucked at a patch of skin underneath your jaw.

"Then cum for me," Liz said, beginning to stroke her thumb along your clit. She curled her fingers inside you and allowed you to roll your thighs against her hand.

The tension gripping your body snapped, your mind careening into the darkness as waves of pleasure rushed over you. Liz kept up her pace, pressing light kisses across your face. She talked you through your orgasm in crisp, honeyed tones in a manner you'd spend the next few days dwelling over.

When your heart finally calmed, she withdrew her hand, savoring the taste of you as she rose up off the bed. You watched her with a confused look, eyes straining against the shadows that cloaked the bedroom.

Her hand threaded into your hair, cupping the back of your scalp. Suddenly, she met you from the side of the bed.

You felt her pull you towards her, your face soon nuzzling up against the fabric of her slacks.

She tugged her zipper open with her free hand.

You wasted no time in starting to cover her panties in kisses, rewarded with a groan as she lolled her head back.

"That's a good girl," she said, voice straining. "Keep it up."

You reached up and tugged them down, lips wrapping around her clit. She laced both hands in your hair, pulling you closer. You leaned up, catching a glimpse of her through heavy lashes.

A thumb caressed your cheek.

"I can't wait to cum all over that pretty face."

You sucked harder.

---

Liz led you towards the restrooms, which were just outside the banquet hall in a hallway not so generously lit. The darkness served the mood well, though. Her mind wandered to thoughts of herself draped over your back, your legs parted wide enough for you to try taking her strap, her hips rutting into you with a ferocity that'd leave you with bruises she was proud to give you.

She wasn't sure if it was the booze or the fatigue calling the shots at this point, but neither prevented her from noticing your hand tugging free from her grasp.

The prosecutor turned in time to catch sight of a white glove cover your mouth.

[marilynthornhilllover]

● INTRODUCING NEW CHARACTERS

{theses characters has either been requested or apart of the headlist; characters soon to be writen list}

● Olivia Benson

● Vanessa shelly

● Sam carpenter

● Tara carpenter

● Joyce byers

● Monica galler

● Jane Margolis

● Ruby Matthew's

● Siobhan corbyn

● Siobhan roy

● Shauna Sadecki

● Lorraine Broughton

● Vilanelle

● Mary Villiers

● Evelyn deavor

● Slavia ( arcane )

● Love Quinn

● Beck ( you)

● Liza drake

● The Countess ( American horror story)

● Wanda

● Jan Steven's

● Lady lesso

● Amelia shepherd

● Candy montgomery

● Olivia crain

● Alicent hightower

● Rheanyra targeyan

● Rheanys targeyan

● farah dowling

● Misty quigley

● Laura Peterson

● Deanyers targeyan

● Jackie sharp

● Claire underwood.

● Andy Andromache

● Regina George

● Rhea ripley

● Jennifer check

● Ellie Williams

● Yelena Belova

● Abby Anderson

● Hazel Callahan

● Jessica day

● Jade west

● Gloria prittchett

● Alex Dunphy

○ Theses are just some characters that I admire and would like to start writing fanfics for / some of which I already started writing fanfics for but I haven't posted them as yet or there're not finished. More characters will be added to this list as time goes on, you are all free to send requests to me with whatever other characters you would personally like me to start writing on as well as fanfic requests for current characters listed above. I'm drying to hear what ideas you all have in store👏🏾, love you all and happy easter.

- sincerely, The Mother Of Smut.

[fredbensonenthusiast]

No need for his fatherly prussic acid.....Fred on the journalist who got 'The Well of Loneliness' banned.

In 1932, Fred took a brief break from bemoaning the 'sexual perversion' of post WWI literature to fiercely defend the honour and literary credibility of his friend Radclyffe Hall, author of 'The Well of Loneliness'.

..... it formed the main motif in the wittiest and most amusing farce of the decade, Mr. Compton Mackenzie’s 'Extraordinary Women'. In the same year the topic appeared, no longer pour rire, but as the basis of a serious study, in Miss Radclyffe Hall's 'The Well of Loneliness'. The book had the respectful reception that it deserved as an able and sincere piece of work, it was spoken of with high commendation in so responsible a journal as 'The Times Literary Supplement,'

He goes on to describe the beginnings of the extraordinary campaign that was waged against the book:

..... a certain journalist (the time of the year being the "silly season of early August) started a crusading campaign against it. We must, of course, credit him with being absolutely honest and conscientious in his intentions; the subject of the book genuinely shocked him, and he assured his readers that he would prefer to put a phial of prussic acid into a girl’s hands than let her read it. It seemed to him most dangerous in tendency, and likely to corrupt the soul of a normal girl. Better the prussic acid which would only kill her body. So violent was the agitation that he raised that the Home Secretary intervened and, after a trial before a police-magistrate, in which witnesses who wished to speak on behalf of the book were not given a hearing, the order was made that it should be withdrawn from circulation, and the appeal against this decision failed.

Next he quotes 'the science' of the time which is echoed Hall's own book:

It is an admitted fact that many, if not most young girls and boys alike are first physically attracted by those of their own sex: the schwarms between girls, the school-friendships of boys are the awakenings of their uncomprehended passions, and must be regarded as normal not abnormal. Then with the maturity of their adolescence, the enormous percentage of these develop on normal, heterosexual lines, but there is a time when the emotional sex of both is in the balance: a girl may under a very strong stimulus, which puts homosexuality before her in an alluring and attractive light, be inclined over to that side, and her balance be permanently upset.

And finally he points out that given that it is "one of the saddest books in the world, painting, as it does, in the most convincing colours the misery and loneliness, the sense of being a pariah that awaits the unfortunate women of this type",

...it would be far more likely to make any girl who had wavering inclinations, to turn with a mixture of horror and, it is to be hoped, pity, from the curse of such a predisposition. The book is its own antidote against the poison it was supposed to contain: it is impossible to imagine a stronger deterrent. Indeed, if the journalist mentioned above wanted to save any girl from what he thought might be the effect of its perusal, there was no need for his fatherly prussic acid: the perusal of the book itself would produce the desired effect.

'As We Are: a modern revue,' EF Benson, 1932

[nathanparisi]

The Milano Cortina 2026 Winter Olympics are coming in 300 days.

To once again prepare for this important and anticipated sporting event, I believe, I created a new art of Olivia Flaversham from The Great Mouse Detective for Susanne Pollatschek, the head of partnership of International Olympic Committee (IOC) and the first actress for John Musker and Ron Clements.

This drawing shows Olivia skiing, one of the disciplines of the Winter Olympics.

Forty years ago, Susanne was hired by Disney Studios to play the role of Olivia in The Great Mouse Detective, the first feature-length animated adaptation of Sherlock Holmes.

Susanne Pollatschek's authentic and sincere Scottish voice made her the first official voice actress for John Musker and Ron Clements, before Jodi Benson, the voice of Ariel in The Little Mermaid.

Les Jeux Olympiques d'hiver de Milano Cortina 2026 arrivent dans 300 jours.

Pour se préparer encore une fois à cet événement sportif important et attendu, je crois, j'ai fais un nouveau dessin d'Olivia Flaversham de Basil détective privé pour Susanne Pollatschek, la directrice du parrainage de la Comité Internationale Olympiques et la première actrice de John Musker et Ron Clements.

Ce dessin montre Olivia fessant du ski, l'une des disciplines des Jeux Olympiques d'hiver.

Il y a 40 ans, Susanne à été engagée par les studios Disney pour jouer le rôle d'Olivia dans Basil, détective privé, la première adaptation de Sherlock Holmes en long métrage d'animation.

La voix écossaise authentique et sincère de Susanne Pollatschek a fait d'elle la première actrice officielle de John Musker et Ron Clements, avant Jodi Benson, la voix d'Ariel dans La Petite Sirène.

Link on / Lien sur X : x.com/NathanPari97053/status/1910939125621960877

[joeyclaire]

tradwife au:

randy has aesthetic social media accounts all about his life as a homemaker and he’s constantly alluding to “the future baby” as if he’s pregnant and all the comments are like “you’re a man??” or make jokes about him being a trans icon and people come to the conclusion that like the rest of his content it’s a fetish thing. and they would, of course, be right

randy: traditional marriage is the key to liberation

every single commenter: you are a gay man the hell do you mean traditional marriage

lot of people think it’s ragebait cause there’s no way a gay guy married to another man could sincerely believe he’s being a tradwife. but he does believe it.

every single randy video gives the impression he’s going to give birth in a week

rubbing his tummy like yeah guys we’re gonna make everything from scratch so we can be ready for when the baby comes!! but it’s every video spanning back years

the benson cameos are infrequent enough that there are people who know randy’s content and have never seen his husband but frequent enough that there are people going “okay. i would do all that for him too” cause he’s sexy

benson has an ig account where he just posts about hunting and occasionally humors randy’s audience and does qnas. he receives the following comment “i remember reading a long time ago that you and your husband were in a tradwife d/s relationship? am i remembering correctly?” he replies “no! we aren’t in some weird fetish relationship, jesus! but yes he’s actually been getting more into the housewife role lately and it's like, fucking hot to me”

“also we’re not gay stop being weird about my roommate”

yeah i live with a man who i fuck and he cooks all my meals wearing a frilly apron and it makes my dick hard but it’s not a kink thing and i’m not gay

benson posts about the newest addition to his knife collection and all the comments are going “how many of these have you used on randy” and he’s like i’m shutting this whole fucking thing down

randy’s baby fever gets so intense they have to get him a black lab puppy. benson thinks of any dog under sixty pounds as “basically a cat” but randy wants something he can carry around and benson’s like, “get stronger then damn”

[bullet-prooflove]

Past Mistakes Part Twelve: Fire - Mike Duarte x Reader (feat: Joe Velasco)

Tagging: @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @oureternalbond @nessamc @jayblackpanther @mysoulisasunflower @littleone65 @thesandbeneathmytoes @katluke25 @mydarkestsecretlol @evee87 @wooshwastaken @hearthockey @justreblogginfics @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @rosaliedepp @storiesofsvu @smellsliketeensspiryt @legit9thlunaticwarrior @xoxabs88xox @kiwiithecrazybird @spooky-pomegranate @chavez-ashley @telepathay @weiwei0210 @spaghettificationandpretzels @plaidbooks @irishavengersassemble

Past Mistakes Series:

Part One: Try - Mike turns back up in your life after three years apart.

Part Two: Hope (NSFW) - Mike and you get reaquainted.

Part Three: California - Mike and you discuss the past.

Part Four: Favours - Mike asks Liv for a favour.

Part Five: Choices - Mike comes face to face with someone from his past.

Part Six: Truth Hurts - Mike begs you to tell him the truth about what happened three years ago.

Part Seven: Sharing - Mike and Joe have a conversation.

Part Eight: Buried - Mike discovers that McGrath’s misdeeds go far futher than he thought.

Part Nine: Complicated - Mike discusses moving forward.

Part Ten: Feral - Mike returns to the apartment to find you’ve disappeared.

Part Eleven: Torture - You wake up to a very stark reality.

It’s over.

You should feel a sense of relief but instead you sit in the passenger of a black SUV wearing Detective Joe Velasco’s NYPD windbreaker, with a sense of dread in the pit of your stomach. On the back seat is your holdall, filled with the items you were supposed to take away with you when you left with Mike. Mike who you were supposed to be running away with, Mike who hadn’t shown his face since Murphy had rescued you from that hell house.

“He wanted to be here.” Joe says softly. “Benson and Murphy convinced him it was best to stay away. As soon as McGrath gets wind of what happened tonight, he’s going to be looking for you and we both know the first person he’s going to turn on is Duarte.”

You close your eyes, the back of your head coming to rest upon the seat as you exhale.

“He’s kept us apart for so long already.” You tell Joe. “I feel like it’s never going to end.”

“I’m sorry.” Joe says as he turns the key in the ignition. “The two of you don’t deserve this. What McGrath did to you…”

He trails off but you can hear the sincerity in his voice. His knuckles tighten as he grasps the steering wheel, his gaze on the road ahead.

“It happened to you, didn’t it?” You say quietly.

“He almost killed me.” Joe admits before continuing. “He almost killed you too. He’s dangerous when he’s not cornered, imagine what he’s like when he is.” He sighs before shaking his head. “You and Duarte are a threat, which is why we’re heading to the airport right now. The sooner we can get you out of the city, the safer you’ll be.”

It’s another decision that was made without you, the way everything in your life has been for the past three years. You feel that fire flare up inside of you, that familiar fierceness that comes with taking control of a situation. It’s something you’ve not felt for a very long time.

“I can’t do this.” You tell Joe. “I can’t just leave.”

“You understand what happens if you don’t right?” Joe asks you, his voice stern as he glances at you. “McGrath will do everything in his power to silence you.”

“I have to do this.” You tell him, that rage starting to claw it’s way through the numbness that’s been stifling you for as long as you can remember. “He fucking buried me for three years, I can’t run, not now. He’s taken so much from me already; I’m not letting him have anything else.”

There’s silence for a second as Joe processes your words.

“Fuck.” He says as he glances in the rearview mirror before pulling the car into a U-turn. “Duarte’s going to murder me.”

Love Mike Duarte? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Want more Mike? Check out his Masterlist here!

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[slavicviking]

Sport's Day (Steddie WIP)

Just a little snippet to entice you because I was (am?) having a writing crisis and this little thing helped me break out of it. Takes place right before summer break in 1985

“Jesus Christ, what the f-“

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” a girl yelps. “I was trying to tie my shoe but I have, like, no coordination so I kind of fell over you? I didn’t mean to do that, I’m so sorry. Balancing on one leg is so much harder than it looks. Like, honestly, how do cheerleaders even do that thing where they-“

“Whoa, hey, it’s fine,” Eddie jumps in before the girl – Robin Buckley, turns out – faints from lack of air. A yellow ribbon hangs limply off her wrist. Maybe it makes him a bad person but there is a sense of relief knowing he will not be the only ‘uncoordinated’ one on the team. Harrington is going to have an aneurysm for sure.

Robin blinks down at him, lips pulling down in a frown. “Oh, it’s you.”

Okay? Mean.

“Yes?” Whatever imaginary comradery Eddie hoped for seems off the table all of a sudden. Well, that’s a bummer. “Why the long face? Not happy to see a fellow nerd on the team?”

“You stepped on my sandwich last week.”

Ah. Well. That would do it, he supposes. The lunch break speeches… they sometimes get a little intense. Eddie gets a little intense, is what the rest of the Hellfire Club would probably say. Eddie’s shoes have known to slam face – sole? – first into the best of what the Hawkins High cafeteria had to offer; which is not saying much, to be completely honest.

“My humble apologies,” he tries a little bow and hopes it comes off as sincere. Buckley looks less than convinced. Tough crowd, what can he say.

“Alrighty, I think that’s all of us,” Harrington’s overly cheery voice thunders somewhere from above him and Eddie, like a moth drawn to a flame, has no other option but to look up. With his hands power-posed onto his sinfully slim waist and the sun positioned perfectly behind him, Steve Harrington seems to have taken it upon himself to alter Eddie’s brain chemistry, braincells leaving left and right, leaking right through his ears, never to be seen again.

“You’re drooling,” Robin’s monotone informs him from his right and he promptly slams his mouth shut, even though he knows the claim is wildly exaggerated. Buckley may be the best or the worst person he’s ever met – he needs to befriend her.    

“First up is the relay-race. We need four people. Anyone up?”

Harrington is met with painful silence and that does dim the cheery smile a little bit. Eddie wonders if that is where the King Steve comes out of the hiding, all scary, sharp teeth and disregard of basic human decency. He himself stills, for once not wanting to draw any attention to himself, feeling like a student who doesn’t know the correct answer which, not to brag, if you asked Higgins or any other teacher in Hawkins High, is something Eddie excels in. Curiosity, though, is a fickle thing and he’s fallen victim to it more times that he can count, and so when the uncomfortable silence drowns on, Eddie can’t help but take a look around to meet the Team Yellow, so to speak.

Fred Benson peers at him from his thick glasses. A group of scared freshman cower together. There’s a couple of band kids other than Robin Buckley who forgone glaring at the back of Eddie’s head in order to chew on her lip nervously and stare at the ground. Not a jock in sight.

Steve Harrington couldn’t have landed a worse team if he tried.

Surprisingly he doesn’t look like he’s about to piss himself over it.

Huh.

Probably will post the whole thing tomorrow ok bye