#this was all for you 🥹

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

PAIRING: Office! Ghost/Co-Worker! Ghost x F! Reader 

WARNINGS: smut || this is the fluffiest this blog is going to get and is not indicative of the vibe around these here parts (im on my period and need softness okay???) || 18+ only ||

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 of 4

***

You don’t play games with men.  

You swear you don’t — that’s not really you, you just want to fuck them—but there is something about Simon, no, Ghost, no, Simon that makes you want to.  

There’s something he’s done to the chemistry in your brain—him and his “mate” Ghost—that makes you feel like there’s fun to be had here, you just have to reach out and take it.  You don’t find his deception funny (far from it), but what would be funny is if you were to play along a bit.  Let him think he’s got you.  

But he had gotten you.  He’d gotten you good.  

After you’d left his office, his real office, you’d laid awake all night thinking about all the signs you’d missed.  The standoffish attitude, how none of your other coworkers engaged with him, how your boss barely engaged with him.  You weren’t sure if they knew he was Ghost, but everyone had enough self-preservation to stay away from the big, mean, tank of a man who didn’t care to participate in office small-talk.  Everyone but you, that is. Sure, you’d guessed he was some big-shot but fuck.

You’re still contemplating on how to get him back the next morning before work, when you see him walk towards you.  Shit .  With nowhere to run without him seeing, you quickly decide on your strategy—calm and collected.  You’re quite impressed by yourself, you even almost convince yourself that you can do it.

“Alright?” he murmurs, when he reaches you.  He’s tapping his pockets looking for a lighter when you open your mouth and “calm and collected” tumbles out of your mouth with all the grace of a lanky baby giraffe.

“Ghost couldn’t make me come.”  Like an aberrant whore, you almost shout the words at him.  Embarrassment unfurls inside you, deep in the pit of your stomach, and you have to bite your lip to prevent more words tumbling out and exposing you.

“Ghost couldn’t…make you come.” He repeats in a monotone.  When you look up into his eyes, they’re wider and darker than you’ve ever seen them, before he schools his expression back to normal.  "You tell him that?”

“Did I tell him?”  Shit.  “Well…no, of course I didn’t ‘ tell him,’ Simon, he’s…scary!”

“Scary.”  Simon repeats the word to you in a monotone again, and you’re left wondering if you’ve broken him. 

“Can you speak with your own words?” you ask with a nervous laugh, and his eyes snap to you and narrow slightly.  You know what’s happening, at that moment.  You both know what’s happening.

He knows you saw the file on his desk the previous night—he’d seen you gape at it and then (poorly) rearrange your face into neutrality before you’d practically sprinted out of the room.  He knows you’ve figured out that he’s “Ghost.”  

He knows that you know, he’s just trying to figure out if he should call your bluff.    

“Alright.  Alright, tell you what.”  Simon crosses his arms over his chest and you’ve never seen so animated about anything .   “Give it another go, yeah?  Let ‘im…let ‘im try again.”

“And you care because…?”  Your own eyes narrow as you try to figure out what he’s playing at.  If you’re being bested at your own game, again.      

“Well, if gets you to shu’up about him, I’m willin’ to play.”        

“You’re willing to play,” you whisper, and holy shit.  You watch as his eyes darken at your words.  There are no illusions between the two of you now.  What had started as you wanting to murder him was easily being turned around on you, and you weren’t sure who was punishing whom anymore.   “Fine,” you say, shrugging casually.  Though, with how decidedly not casual you feel, it probably looks like you’re having a muscle cramp.

“Fine.  Here.  Tonight.”

“Here?” you screech, then look around to make sure no one’s heard you.  “Simon, we can’t— Ghost can’t be here, if we got caught I could lose my job—”

“Shut up,” he murmurs.  “Go to work.  Be back here tonight.”

If you were more than a human puddle in that moment, you would have kicked him for his audacity.     

***

You used to find it comforting how little Simon spoke, one of the most non-verbal people you’d ever met, communicating with you mostly through eye contact with you from across the room.  If you had to wager, about eighty percent of his communication with you was eye rolls and grunting at you in irritation.  The rest of the twenty, you’re sure, spent laughing at and/or making fun of you.

But horny Simon is different.  Horny Simon is verbose as fuck .  “Mmpf, you taste so good , sweet girl.”  His voice is muffled, and a very satisfied smile makes its way to your face.  

“Mutton chops would kill you if he found out,” you breathe.  But you choke and almost squeal when his teeth graze you in warning.  

“Shh.”

“Fuck ,” you whimper.  The sound echoes in the dark room and you curse again.  “I swear to God, we’re gonna get caught.”

“Keep that pretty mouth shut for me, then, love.  Don’t want to get in trouble, do ya?”

 He’s spread you out on your own desk.  It is absurd beyond belief, and if the two of you get caught, the punishment’s going to be much worse for you than for Simon, who would just suffer death at the hands of his CO.  But even you can’t help but admit that the fact that he’s spread you out the way he has has got you thinking (already!) on when you can get him to do it next.

Your hand makes its way into lush blond strands, and you tug at him, whining quietly, and he gets the message.  He pushes himself up, and brings his face level with yours, looking deeply into your eyes, the scar on his lip pulling slightly with his smirk.  “Hi.”

“Hi,” you whisper back.  “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

His smile is small—barely a twist of his lips—but you know that if you let it out into the world, it would move mountains.  “D’y’know why I was on desk duty, love?”

You would answer him with a degree of coherence if he wasn’t kissing your neck wetly, fingers continuing to move in and out of you in a way that was going to drive you insane.   “Mm, no, lieutenant,” you moan.  “Why… oh!   Why were you on desk duty?”

He gets back on his knees again, lips never leaving your skin, just slowly making the journey down, hovering around your inner thigh.  His eyes stay fixed on his fingers moving inside you.  “Davis.  Heard him speakin’ about ya. Prick needed a reminder of his manners.”

You gasp and push him away from you in shock.  “What?”

“Wanted to fuckin’ kill him for speaking about you like that, y’know that?”

 “You—Davis ?”

“Don’t want to hear you say ‘nother man’s name right now, love,” he warns. 

You’re still processing what you’ve heard, when his expression changes slightly—fuck why is he so wickedly handsome?—and he brings his wet fingers up to you, rubbing them on your lips.  Your mind blanks before you lie back and your head thuds slightly against the desk.  “All this time, you wanted...”  

“All this time,” he confirms, and it seems he’s reached the end of his patience with the chatting.  “Asked Price to send me ‘ere if he was gonna punish me, so I could have a chance to ‘ave ya.”  You see him undo his belt and his hands move over your body gently before they settle on your hips.  “Do I have ya then, pet?”  

You push up on your elbows, and extend a hand towards him, fingers outstretched.  He pauses—looking nothing short of the god of corruption with his jeans undone and his hair dishevelled and his eyes wild with lust.  He holds your hand, fingers intertwined with yours.  When he bends forward to kiss you, you find yourself smiling into the kiss.       

“Depends.  Will you let me come tonight?”

His answering smile against your lips feels like he’s lit something inside—light and warm and alive inside you, little sparks crackling with energy—and you’re briefly rendered breathless at the depth of your attraction to him.  “Let ya?  Thought you said I couldn’t make you?”

Oh .  Oh, he’s so fucking sweet, this gorgeous, weird, weird man with his balaclava and his forearms and his teasing and his fucking tattoos, you briefly (in a moment of insanity) want to hold him close to you.  Just for a second, get him to put his head on your chest.

“Wanted y’to know who you were coming for, love.  Wanted t’hear you say my name.  Couldn’t let y’come if you didn’t, could I?”

And  then he’s pulling his cock out of his jeans, stroking himself once, then twice, and your mouth waters at the sight.  You want to keep watching him do it, reckon you could get off just watching him like that, but then he speaks.

“Y’want this?”  The words take you back to last night, he even says it in that stern baritone he reserves for when he’s under the mask, and your mouth becomes unreasonably dry.

“Yeah…yeah, I want this,” you whisper.  Before you’re overthinking or swooning at the sight of his cock, he’s pushing into you, stretching you out for him, bullying his cock into you.  You feel every single inch of him and the deliciousness of it—how you can feel yourself stretch to accommodate him—makes you groan.  

“Don’t you close your eyes, don’t you fuckin’ dare!  You fuckin stay with me, you hear me?”  The words are a desperate growl and your eyes snap open.  He’s looking at you intensely, eyes searching yours for something, you’re not sure what, and you stare right back at him.  You try to convey through your gaze how much you want this, how much you’ve ached for it.

You’re convinced the message is received when he lets out a gorgeous sound, the most filthy moan to ever leave a man, and flips you over with ease.  It doesn’t leave you with a single thought in your mind, the overstimulation of your environment—the ego boost of finally getting what you want, the way he’s making you feel right now, the movement of his hips against yours—and you feel like you’ll go insane if you don’t do something with the excess energy.  

And oh , he makes it so much better, like he hears your thoughts, knows your body, because he puts two fingers in your mouth while he continues to pound into you from behind.  The same two fingers that were inside you, so you can taste yourself on your tongue.  

He pauses for a moment to adjust and it makes you whine at the fact that he’s stopped, even for that one second, so much so that you take charge, fuck back into him and keep that momentum going, allowing his cock to hit that spot inside you.  Simon freezes for a second, body tense and you think you’ve done something wrong or worse, hurt him, but his hands tighten on your hips and he pulls you up to your knees using just fingers in your mouth, making you gasp.      

“I fuckin’ love how you give it t’me.  Been gagging for it, aren’t ya, love.”       

Yeah, horny Simon is verbose.  

“Fuck, Simon, fuck, you feel so good,” you whine and your eyes are blurry, you realise.  Every plunge of his cock feels like it hits deeper and deeper into you.  You collapse like a house of cards, your cheek hitting the blessed cold of the desk, and allow a shaky hand to find your clit. 

But Simon has very particular plans for you.  He bats your hand away with a huff-laugh in your ear, taking over the task himself.  “Gonna say my name when I make you come?”  You moan as he rubs your clit in exactly the way you need and he laughs again.  “Yeah , you will.”

When you come, it’s sudden and it takes you by surprise, making every muscle in your body seize up and contract.  It’s almost painful, a cramp that starts in your lower abdomen and spreads upwards, leaving you clamping on him, panting and breathless and absolutely spent, his name on your lips like you're chanting it.  Through it all, he continues to speak to you in your ear.  “That’s it, love, that’s it.  Good fuckin’ girl, you’re such a good fuckin’ girl for me.”

But the way Simon groans when he comes?  You want it burned in your memory, the sound bouncing around your brain long after he’s gone.  You want to hear it in your mind every time you touch yourself.  Better yet, you want to hear it from his mouth when he comes for you, in you.  The thought elevates you to a type of rapturous giddiness, an indescribably light feeling in your chest when you think about doing this with him again.      

For the moment, though, you’re completely boneless, a fact he perceives clearly because he smacks your ass as he pulls out of you, and chuckles at your greedy whine.  

“Now what?” you whisper a few moments later, whilst he’s in the middle of cleaning you both up and he freezes for  millisecond.

“What do y’want to happen?”

“Erm.  I haven’t…it’s not something I’ve thought about.”  You laugh at the absurdity for a second.  “I didn’t expect any of this.”

He sits on your chair (the same chair you’re going to have to sit on the next day while you work, pretending that he hadn’t just fucked you here) and he pulls you on to him so you’re straddling him.  It takes a second, what with him manspreading, and you having to find some space to jam your legs between his thighs and the arms of the chair.  He watches in amusement as you wriggle and get comfortable, and then uses a single finger to tip your chin up so he can look at you.  “Hello, love,” he whispers.

“Hi.”

“Stop thinkin’ ‘bout it.”

“But—”

“No.”

“Simon, I don’t—”

“Shut the fuck up.  Look at me.  Give us a kiss.”  You glare at him and he barks out a rare laugh, squeezing your cheeks together.  “Stop thinking so much.”

“We could get in trouble,” you try to say, but he still doesn’t move his hands away.

“Don’t care, pet.  I’ll tell the world myself.”

That shuts you up.  You touch his lips, elated and in awe at the intimacy of doing this with him, being with him like this.

“Wish you’d just told me,” you say quietly.  “We’d have had so much more time together.  You’ve only got a week of your punishment left.”  You roll your eyes.  “You’re a fool, Simon.”

“Maybe,” he concedes.  “Still got time though, love.  Night’s still young.”  

His eyes glow wickedly, gorgeously, when you ask if he wants to do it on Davis’ desk.  

(You do end up doing it on Davis’ desk.  As a bonus, you even end up blowing him while he leans against your boss’ desk.)

***

You wish you could say your life changes entirely and absolutely after that night, but it’s not quite like that.  You’re still a data analyst for the government.  You still work on a military base, surrounded by the fittest men and women you’ve ever seen.  You still see Ghost around the base with MacTavish, arms crossed around his chest, legs planted apart, looking like his only cares in the world are to a) stand behind the Scot like a beefy bodyguard and b) look deliciously sexy while he does it.  

There are some changes though.  Davis puts in for a transfer after lunch on his first day back.  You suspect that that cutie MacTavish has something to do with it (you made Simon promise not to interfere) but all parties deny involvement.  Simon still tries to meet you for your smoke breaks sometimes, and you update him on the office gossip.  He informs you that no one at your workplace drew the connection between Simon and Ghost, it was just his demeanour that kept them away.   You find this hilarious for about two seconds before you realise that you probably lack crucial self-preservation skills if his demeanour made you horny instead of scared. 

People in the office ask you about him sometimes, but you shrug it off good-naturedly, telling them that Simon’s a good friend, but it’s someone else you’re seeing.  And when they see you walking funny and also hand in hand with the masked freak on base?  Well.  They’re too scared to ask any more questions.  

***

A/N: Thank you so much for reading ♡ ♡

Taglist: @devcica || @kneelingshadowsalome || @tiredmetalenthusiast || @miyabilicious || @xintothewoodswegox || @almightywdm || @nrthple || @cassiecasluciluce || @glitterypirateduck || @ho3forghost || @ivymarquis

[ranilla-bean]

✨ The Mercy of Magpies 《喜鵲之恩》 ✨

3...2...1... takeoff! 🚀 @ash-and-starlight & @ranilla-bean here to launch our project for @zukkabigbang2024 🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛

Rating: M Fandom: Avatar the Last Airbender Pairing: Sokka/Zuko Chapters: 2/15 Beta: @faux-fires

Tags: Alternate Universe - Space, Space Opera, Depictions of Violence, Minor Character Death, Dilf Zukka, War, Han solarpunk, loosely inspired by Red Cliff (dir. John Woo), Decolonisation, Ghosts, the narrative is haunted, Getting Together, Slow Burn, eventual sexual content (i prommy), BBL Ozzy, thematically relevant magpies, interplanetary old man yaoi saves the galaxy

Summary:

In the XXXth span of the galactic war against the Phoenix King, the Avatar, Master of the Four Elements, summoned his trusted advisor to his side… Avatar Aang, prosecutor of the long war against the Fire Nation, tasks General Sokka with the recruitment of a secret friend hidden on his old home planet Emptiness II, razed a century ago. There, Sokka finds an impossible community, where peoples from all quadrants of the galaxy have taken root—headed by the Phoenix King’s own son Zuko. As he comes to trust them, Sokka becomes invested in the community. But war is barrelling towards them, and he must harness the spark between himself and Zuko to save Emptiness II… and the rest of the galaxy.

check out the rest of the chapter 1 art here!

[caseythebunnyboy]

i often see posts about soft and intimate aftercare towards subs, but ive always wanted to care for a dom after sex 🥹 wanna pull them closer to me, cup the side of their face and kiss their nose while reassuring them that i loved everything they did. wanna gently wipe away any tears that might form when they look at the marks they littered on my skin, all while making sure to tell them i think they look beautiful on me. wanna help them if dom drop ever happens, saying gentle affectionate praises to them and whispering sweet nothings if they wish for me to. wanna reassure them that i dont see them as a sexual object, that id still love them if they werent in the mood for sex, that theres so much more to love about them that isnt just them being my dom. wanna snuggle up with them under the covers once theyre feeling better and just fall asleep in each others arms, all while theres a little smile on my face knowing my dom trusts me to take care of them 🥹💜

(he/him, op is a gay man.)

[sanguineterrain]

"Wanna come over and nap together?"

The first time you suggest it, Jason's bewildered. Nap together? You want to be temporarily unconscious... with him??

Jason's not a nap guy. Never has been. He's always awake, always alert. Even when Bruce took him in, Jason didn't nap. He thought it was childish but even more than that, he never felt relaxed enough to sleep in the middle of the day.

You love naps. Can't get enough of them. You were born sleepy. Done with work/school? Nap. Worn out after getting up early? Nap! Stayed up too late last night? Yeah, it's naptime.

You're always down to sleep. You feel bad sometimes because it can result in sleeping instead of hanging out. But your body needs the extra rest some days.

Jason thinks it's cute that you're his sleepy sweetheart. He admires how you listen to your body and rest. (Working with Batman makes you internalize his motto: rest is for the weak.)

So one day, after Jason's on patrol for 4 days in a row, and you know he hasn't been sleeping, you call him up. "Come nap with me."

Jason warns you that he's never been a napper. "I can come over and wait for you to wake up. Or I can watch you sleep. In a nice, loving way. Not in a creepy way."

You convince him to give it a chance. Just lie down. If you fall asleep before him, he can go do something else.

So Jason obliges. Lays down and lets you curl into him. Snuggles into your warmth. Smells your scent on the sheet, basks in the quiet.

And, for the first time in his life, Jason Todd takes a nap. For 2 and a half hours.

You wake up around the same time. Jason is slow to awaken, and, for the first time, his body isn't in fight or flight mode. He wakes up gently. He wakes up to you.

"So," you say, sitting up. You're nervous because you've got a pretty guy that you really like in your bed, and you're a little worried you kicked him in your sleep or something. "What's the verdict?"

Jason smiles, really smiles, and tugs you back into his arms.

"I had no idea what I was missin'," he says, putting his face in your neck. "Can we do this again? Same time tomorrow?"

[seiwas]

you wear katsuki’s clothes to bed.

among all your cotton and silk pajamas, you prefer the thinning fabric of his faded tees. there are holes in some of them, just a few more seams away from their undoing as they fit far too large on you—but that’s why you love them.

they’re comfy and worn; lived in with love from the man that you love. when katsuki is gone for days or weeks at a time, you find his warmth intertwined within the threads of his t-shirts. when the fabric presses against your back, the bed doesn’t feel nearly as empty as it is.

(though it can never replace him. nothing can, you fear.)

“hoggin’ all my shirts,” he tuts, but you know it means nothing. the roll of white fabric is neatly folded unto itself, its crisp corners unfurling once handed over.

you giggle, shaking off its folds and fitting the hem right over your head. from the corner of your eye, you see katsuki’s gaze, watching you wrangle the fabric over you as the towel wrapped around your body slowly drops to the floor.

he turns away then, a little too quickly, a little too abruptly. if you look at him now, you’re sure you’ll find flushed cheeks and crimson eyes burning in shame for wanting you so inopportunely.

“guess you’ll just have to take me with it then.”

[eggdrawsthings]

☀️🐥

[konigsblog]

as my favorite könig smut writer you’re the only one i trust to do dbf!neighbor!könig x early 20s!reader with the dirtiest, sloppiest, most toe curling age gap smut 💗💗

dbf!neighbour!könig?! sign me the fuck up, i could write a whole series for that filthy man!

synopsis; your father's best friend, könig, has been struggling to get himself into a stable, loyal relationship lately. luckily for him, you offer him some sort of release.

tw/cw; age gap/difference, early 20s! reader x late forties!könig, weed use, blowjob, mutual masturbation, PinV, tell me if i missed anything. MDNI 18+ 🍃

photo credits; @ave661

You've had the hots for your father's best friend for quite a while.

He doesn't live very far from you at all. In fact, he lives next door and visits your father pretty often to smoke together and talk about whatever is bothering him, which usually includes topics like König's failed relationships and inability to hold a woman for longer than a week.

Aside from wanting to rant about his horrible, fucked-up love life and to smoke weed with your old man, he wants to see you as well—maybe even more than speak with your father.

When your father is busy doing something else, like washing the dishes or cleaning his car outside, König will excuse himself to the bathroom and will sneak into your bedroom to admire the place. You have plans to move out soon, but currently, you stay with your father inside of your childhood home. König's hand "mysteriously" sneaks into your clothing hamper and begins looking for a pair of panties.

It's alright, you won't notice surely...

And you can't deny your attraction to him. The sound of his familiar, accented voice leaves your knees weak and your panties damp and soaked with the thoughts running through your dirty mind at the moment. You smile at König and talk to him about your plans for college, watching as his eyes flicker from your chest to your eyes, your nipples turning into little stiff buds at the cold breeze in the living room.

Today was like any other saturday; your father was away down the road for some beers with his other friends in the afternoon while König had just arrived home from another fucked-up date, ending like the rest of his dates have. He looks dishevelled and in dire need of some sort of release. He's visibly and clearly pent up and exhausted, rolling himself a joint to relax, leaning against his porch and closing his eyes tightly. He's deep in thought and doesn't realise that you've sneaked up on him, practically jumping out of his skin at your sudden presence.

“Shit, Mäusi— I didn’t see you there... What’s wrong, dear?” He smiles forcefully. He doesn't want to bother you with his shitty life since you're probably all worked up from college and stressed out, but you insist that he tells you what's bothering him. It doesn't take a lot of convincing since it's hard to deny you, especially when you say that you can help him if he explains.

He invites you inside and offers you a joint, in which you gratefully accept and seat yourself beside him, ready to act as a therapist for him.

“Another fucked date with another woman who seems interested in me, but actually isn’t. It seems like I can’t please any women.” He admits through gritted teeth. At the sight of his frustration, you place your hand on his thigh teasingly. “Do you think there is anything I can do to help?” You ask quietly with a mischievous and playful smile plastered on your face. Your voice is seductive and sultry, eyes half-lidded and lustful. God, You really are a tease, huh?

“And what are you hinting at, Liebling?”

König always thought he'd be the one to initiate, but right now, he was struggling to keep his composure and quickly found himself falling for your acts of seduction. You lowered yourself onto your knees and began to unzip his jeans, cocking your head to the side at the sight of his aching cock springing out in your face. You giggled while König pulled his large hands into fists, throwing his head back at the wet sensation of your lips wrapped around his swollen, weeping cock. He'd been dreaming of this moment for months, Liebe.

The things you do to König fucked-up head, Good Lord. He couldn't help the sounds of pleasure running through his lips, his dick painful at your tight grip and pleasure.

His sounds came out pained and guttural, pleased but so on edge and anxious of what your father would think about him after being so touchy-feely with his best friend's daughter. He curses himself out for agreeing to this, feeling like such a pervert despite yearning for more of your addictive, sweet touch. “Feel good?” You question him, knowing he'll get frustrated and will force your head down onto his leaking boner. He huffs and puffs, gripping your hair in a tight fist and pushes your head down with a loud moan leaving his mouth, choking on his groans and grunts.

You coat König's lengthy shaft in your spit to get him slick enough, before seating yourself onto his big lap, your hand stroking and fisting his dick. He slides his fingers into your hole with his eyes wide at the sensation and texture of your gummy walls. He chokes on his pleased sounds as you tease his tip by rolling your soft thumb over his uncut, creamy tip and feel as your folds are stuffed with his thick digits. He pumps them into your soaking cunt and admires the sticky mess left between your fingers, curling his fingers deep inside your gummy cunt.

“C’mere, Taube—Kiss me, please.” He grumbles out, getting obsessive with the pleasure you offer him. He places his lips against yours, making out with you messily and sloppy, the effects of the marijuana leaving him relaxed and at ease with all his concerns and worries forgotten about. His tongue rolls over your bottom lip while you squeeze his dick, whimpering into the sweet kiss. König's fingers begin to pump into you even faster, pulling away to beg you to sit on his cock. You're on edge and shaking pathetically, nearing your orgasm but not quite fully there.

“Sit on it, dear. Don’t be so shy, not now you can’t.” The smell of nicotine sticks to his skin, your thighs shaking as you begin to ease down onto his weeping, veiny dick. König doesn't hold back the sounds of his arousal and euphoria as it burns through his large body, bucking his broad and sturdy hips into your body while cursing you out for being such a dirty tease. You leave König totally obsessed after finally receiving some action after so long.

You bounce on his lap while he fucks his bulbous cock deep into your drooling slit. You gasp and roll your eyes to the back of your head at the ache andd pleasure between your thighs, unable to stop letting out the most perverted and pleased noises. You can feel as König hits your cervix with each thrust and his heavy balls slap against your rear as he drives his hips against your tight rear. Your eyes fill with tears at the pain and stretch, his girthy dick leaving you breathless as you admire the state he leaves your pussy in; raw and sensitive.

König can't hold himself back when you begin to lose control. Sweet, pearly droplets of your sweet arousal run down his boner and coat his length, allowing him to fuck you even harder and deeper with ease as he uses your sweet juices as lube.

“That’s it, little one—God, look how well you’re taking’ me, princess. You’re a mess, such an addictive mess, huh? You’re gonna be an obsession of mine, that’s for sure.” König grits his teeth as he bucks his hips into you even harder, his eyes shut tightly as your walls clamp down around him one last time, filled with ropes of his white creaminess. You pant and heave at the stomach bulge caused by his loads and ropes of his hot release. You grip his jaw to make out with him, your body sweaty and hot with König's cheeks flushed a rosy pink.

You have to sneak back home before your father comes back and asks what you were doing over at his best friend's house. König would be slaughtered if he found out the truth.

You just have to act all innocent, as if König's milky and potent load is oozing out of your hole and dampening your panties at the dinner table.

[seeleybooth]

Season 1: Did we make it? vs Season 3: Yes we did

"I love you with everything I am, everything I've been, and everything I hope to be. I love you with my past, and I love you for my future. I love you for the children we will have and for the years we'll have together. I love you for every one of my smiles and even more, of every one of your smiles." Romancing Mister Bridgerton

bonus: babies having babies

[seashawnty]

Symbol of hope

[turtleblogatlast]

Was thinking about this again haha

Anyway I adore Hueso and Leo’s dynamic and wanted to include Hueso Jr in it because I like to think Leo can be shockingly good with kids

[jethrowest]

let me see you stripped down to the bone…

- stripped by depeche mode

congratulations! you’ve been hired as homelander’s entire glam squad! what an opportunity! now let’s try real hard not to let the fumes get to you, okay?

pairing : homelander/afab reader

word count : 5.6k

warnings : homelander in and of himself, toxic workplace environment, something akin to stockholm syndrome, fingering, smut. 18+, mdni

special thanks to @blindmagdalena @sehtoast @homeb0ys and @clockworkzeppelin for letting me scream at you about this!

writing tag

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Homelander is an asshole.

That doesn’t bother you much. You’ve dealt with plenty in this field, which means you’ve learned how to make life easier for all parties. That particular learning curve includes when to stand out and blend in, at times concurrently depending on what variety of asshole they happen to be.

As a whole, the makeup artists and hairstylists at Vought take care of The Seven and go where they’re needed. And as a cosmetologist, you were hired to provide both services for Homelander and Homelander only, which you consider to be one of the most prestigious stamps one could add to their professional passport.

Before you became official, you were colorfully threatened by a Ms. Ashley Barrett, who, after the fact, had no qualms throwing you into the lion’s den to figure your own shit out.

In no uncertain terms were you told that if you fucked any part of this up, your sparkling resume would look best as something to sit her smooth, bare ass on while getting fucked on top of her desk. No lube or protection. It would then be tossed exactly like her salad.

Not an image you could have ever predicted crossing your mind. Honestly, you should have stopped her right there and walked your happy little ass out of her office toward pastures that might have not been greener (you were being handsomely compensated), but certainly not as toxic. While the red flags were a color you couldn’t quite ignore, you were also curious about why they stood out so much more than they did regarding previous employers.

None of this is to say you live under a rock. Anyone who has access to the internet is ambushed daily by these Supes’ personal lives. Homelander’s track record as far as choice in partners went hadn’t been ideal, so you understand that made him less popular at the time. That of course has nothing to do with you or your capabilities.

You opt to wear gray-colored glasses, seeing everything with a neutral blend of black and white. As much as possible anyway.

Nevertheless, curiosity killed the cat. But hopefully not your career.

The first day was awkward to say the least. Immediately, you knew you weren’t going to like your coworkers.

Glints of sympathy changed how they perceived you. A target, whether they intended for this to happen or not, was nailed to your forehead, and it made them buzz around you like avid, greedy wasps keen on seeing how rapidly the honeybee will be brutalized. You didn’t much care for going cross-eyed while staring at that target whenever you crossed paths. They didn’t know you, yet because of who you were working under, deemed you helpless. They didn’t give you a chance to establish yourself before branding you a victim.

Why should you respect them?

Small talk wasn’t entertained either, as their judgment tarnished any future encounters. They ostracized you once you showed no interest in engaging with them. That didn’t disappoint you. You weren’t here to make friends.

You do wonder how those before you fared: if they were jaded when they arrived or if they couldn’t help but succumb to the pressures of being at the top rung of a very unstable albeit sought after ladder.

Ms. Barrett quickly introduced you to Homelander, her parting gift before leaving the two of you alone.

You weren’t completely nervous in his presence. He wasn’t any different to you than the other celebrities you’d worked on, except he could rip you in half like a piece of paper if he was so inclined. But he’s the hero of this country’s story, so really, you should have nothing to worry about.

His demeanor, you noted, suggested arrogance, annoyance, and boredom. All things you’re used to. So you offered your hand to shake, which he eyed with a slightly upturned nose before grabbing, told him it was a pleasure to meet him and got straight to business.

Looking back, he was clearly expecting more out of you. Maybe not a display as excessive as getting on your knees and professing your undying love, but close enough. Somewhere in the middle, perhaps.

Part of you believes he might have also counted on fear. To you, he’s not anything or anyone unknown. Another big name in a fancy suit with impossible demands.

You were given a routine to follow and products to use. You did as you were instructed and found the process to be simple and, as Homelander’s expression revealed, uninspiring.

While you were utilizing a face brush to apply powder, he must have decided he was done enduring your lack of enthusiasm, because he suddenly asked, “What are you wearing?”

You stopped for a split second, no longer than, and continued. “The name of my clothing designer, you mean?”

He scoffed, waving his gloved hand at you, almost knocking the applicator you held to the ground. “No, your perfume. What are the top notes?”

You laughed and that seemed to confuse him. “Why, you want a bottle?”

“I don’t like it.” He sniffed sharply and cleared his throat. “Smells like you should be on the corner selling your used body parts.”

Ding ding ding. Alarm bells and red flags galore. You enjoy a challenge, however, and are a bit of a masochist, so you persevere.

“Well, what doesn’t smell like a cheap hooker to you? I’ll start wearing that instead.”

He cocked a brow, studying you. Trying to figure out if you were being serious or mocking him.

“It’s your first day.” A warning. “Are you on your best behavior, or can you do better?” He leaned forward in his chair, forcing you backward. “You should be working harder to prove yourself. Prove your worth.” He sat back again and shrugged. “Or maybe you really are worth as much as that dumpster juice you doused yourself in.”

At this point, he more than likely envisioned your happy little ass getting offended and storming out of the room. Breaking down, sobbing. Questioning why he was being so rude. One of those or, better yet, a nifty combination.

You’ve heard worse, unfortunately for him. Not always directed at you, but that doesn’t matter. You can handle it.

“You’re absolutely right,” you stated calmly, folding your arms across your chest. He looked at you with pretentious, petulant intrigue. “It is my first day, and I want to make a good impression. Which is why I’m asking you what you would like me to wear so I can continue to keep that good impression intact and, as our professional relationship develops, stay on top of it.”

Homelander’s mouth twitched. He sighed deeply and slouched in his seat, staring at the wall to the left of him. Then he deigned to cast his gaze back at you, resting his cheek on his index and middle finger. He tapped the arm rest with his other hand.

“Ugh, fine. Whatever.” A pause followed that lasted longer than necessary. Were you meant to guess? “Just wear something, I dunno, less. If you would have done your homework like a good little peon, you’d know I have super senses. Highly developed. Can you even imagine what that entails?”

Finally, he freed the canvas you were nearly finished with, and you flicked the soft bristles across the bridge of his nose. You smiled, more to yourself than him.

Felt rather on the nose, as the saying goes.

He didn’t comment on your grin. You didn’t give him time to. But he did huff like you were being obtuse on purpose.

“I can try. And my imagination is giving me some less-than-ideal scenarios,” you replied. Another pause. At least he was letting you do your job again.

You don’t know what compelled you to keep going, but something about his lack of a real answer made you carry on. “Do you have a favorite flower or baked good? Maybe a spice?”

Homelander almost glared up at you. You say almost because, for whatever reason, it didn’t seem like he was directing that harshness at you, though former words and actions proved otherwise. Something inside, perhaps. Or outside of this enclosed space.

“I already told you what to wear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You took the hint and remained quiet the rest of your session. Soon, you were done.

As you were packing and tidying up your station, he took it upon himself to stand behind you. He lingered over your shoulder, watching the scene play out like he was director and star and you were barely an ant on the sidewalk he acknowledged before squashing.

The heat radiating off of him was impossible to dismiss, a wall of it barricading your backside. He clasped his fingers underneath his cape and inched closer. You thought he was as close to you as he could get without touching you. He was that warm.

When you glanced up, he was staring at you through the mirror. As absurd as it was, you managed to get chills. Goosebumps broke the surface of your skin.

“Fresh chocolate chip cookies. Straight out of the oven. Like mom used to make.” He flashed an unnerving smile before turning to exit.

From there on out, even after you bent to his will and found a gourmand scent that matched what he described, Homelander tested you. Your work ethic, clothing choice, eating habits, and most of all, patience.

Your parents would ask how you were liking your job, how it was working alongside the Supes- not to mention the most famous of all- and you’d lie through your teeth. You felt you had no choice, Ashley’s threat ringing in your ears.

Resume, bare ass, tossed salad...

Oh yeah, it’s going great! They’re all super flexible. I couldn’t be happier!

At least that pun made you feel a little better about hiding the shame of what you’ve allowed yourself to take on.

This was all in the first few weeks. It started to get a little easier after that, which is surprising considering more was added to your to-do list.

You should have moved on before starting. But, for whatever asinine reason, you didn’t.

Every time you go back to your apartment and assess your appearance in the bathroom mirror, you wonder who’s making who up here. He’s changing your looks more than you are his. You’re like his human doll.

You’ve put up with a lot over the years, but this takes the cake and shoves it in your face. As fucked as it is, the flavor is growing on you. Like a fungus. Growing, nonetheless.

You can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s innocent enough, you try convincing yourself. Making sure you have the right outfit laid out the night before, the right lunch (no onions or fish or anything “freaky”!), etc. He is your superior, after all. You shouldn’t be viewing him in any other light.

He’s the most frustrating aspect of your existence these days, but he’s also the one you’re around the most. His penchant for workplace gossip and how unintentionally funny he is tends to make him palatable, which has regrettably become an understatement.

Months go by. You’ve witnessed how alone he truly is. How he has nothing outside of performing his tricks on Vought’s all-encompassing stage. And when he begins asking for your input, starts doing things for you that are so blatant it’s perplexing, you find your stress and vexation melting into cumbersome fascination.

It’s embarrassing. You don’t have the courtesy of enough time to dwell on your feelings toward the situation either, from beginning to whatever end you might be met with. You suppose that could be beneficial in the long run.

It also hits you when you least expect it; when you really don’t want it to.

Your body doesn’t wait until you finally have a moment alone. It decides, while you’re helping Homelander with his skincare routine that he insisted upon because you know more than these vacuous corporate douche-bags, to heat up without warning and slither from your head to your heart until it grasps you unfairly between your legs.

You try not to step into momentary paralysis. You understand to what extent his powers reach. It’s not like he doesn’t go on and on about them. About himself.

Whatever he notices, it’s not right away. A palpable tension fills the air between the two of you eventually. But it takes a more significant amount of time than you would have anticipated to permeate the natural flow of things.

Fuck, you can’t even be safe inside here, where your thoughts, whatever they may be, are yours. You can’t even have yourself. He has every part of you, and you are willingly relinquishing that control.

Your evening, once you can have it, consists of combing over every decision you’ve made leading up to this strange, disorienting space you find yourself occupying. All it does is leave you exasperated in a much different way than before and with an unsettling observation (or hallucination):

Was that the tail end of the American flag outside your window?

You are unacceptably late.

Rushing around, you throw on the first top and bottoms you see from your closet and spritz some perfume on your neck and wrists. You don’t check your phone. You’re afraid of what will pop up on your screen. And, frankly, you don’t have the time.

Your only option for transportation is the subway, as you’re sure the special vehicle from Vought is long gone. Why would they wait for someone like you, even if you’re practically Homelander’s personal assistant? One of his only friends. You doubt he has more than Black Noir, and that isn’t as perfect as it appears to the casual viewer.

You dread what kind of explosion you’re without a doubt walking into once you show your miserable ass up. You’re going to smell like everyone on this train. He’s going to go ballistic.

The question remains: why are you continuing to put yourself through this? It’s not your circus, yet somehow, the monkeys have become your liability.

You know, deep down, what keeps you going back. It’s simply too ridiculous to admit aloud.

Making your way past security, hurriedly presenting your badge, you realize you forgot to brush your teeth, or at the very least, gargle some mouthwash. You thank your lucky stars when you open your purse to a pack of gum tucked away in one of the compartments.

It will have to do.

When you open the door to Homelander’s dressing room, you see a couple of employees standing near the counter where the bag of supplies has been opened and rifled through, looking like they might soil themselves, a frantic Ashley, and an extremely pissed off Homelander in the middle of it all.

Reflexively, you cringe. You attempt to wipe any trace from your features, but it’s too late. Ashley is glaring daggers at you and Homelander can hardly bring himself to look in your direction. The others don’t matter to you. They never did.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I know there’s no excuse-”

“You’re goddamned right, there’s no excuse! I don’t give a shit if god and his whole fucking choir of angels came down from heaven and divinely called you to give them a makeover! What were you thinking?!”

You’re about to answer, though you comprehend her query is more or less rhetorical. She interrupts your slightly open mouth while gesturing wildly, proving your point.

“Oh, that’s right! You weren’t thinking at all, were you?! But I do believe you’ve thought long and hard about what’s at stake here. And you know damn well we at Vought don’t tolerate this kind of sloppy behavior. Not to mention the way you’re dressed! It’s adding insult to injury!” Her hand swipes at the air, the length of your outfit, and you glance down, recognizing how comically mismatched you are. Her correct observation affects you more than it would have months prior, stinging your ego- one of the many things that’s been shelved in order to accommodate the person who won’t even grace you with a glance.

A dramatic groan cuts short any further commentary from the redhead, perpetually stretched thin between her absurd duties.

“Jesus Christ, Ashley, why are your big fucking horse gums still flapping?” Homelander’s booming voice slices through your mind like a jarring, dense migraine. He pinches his brow between middle finger and thumb, eyes closed. “I want you and Tweedledee and Tweedledum t’get the fuck out. Now.”

Ashley is plainly dumbfounded, struggling to see where she went wrong (a pattern when it comes to dealing with the volatile leader of The Seven), mouth agape. She shakes her head. “But sir, are you-?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about or doing. Clearly.”

Ms. Barrett turns a shade paler, staring at Homelander and blinking owlishly before snapping herself out of her stupor. She hurries her lackeys out of the room, shooing them along like a pair of misbehaving toddlers. She doesn’t give a final look, no further warning. She merely shuts the door behind her.

You also hear it lock.

What the hell does she think is going to happen?

You should have stopped this while you had the chance. You should have never taken this job. You should have stood up for yourself and walked out. You should have you should have you should-

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

His caustic tone sends shivers down your spine. It’s unlike anything you’ve heard come out of him. And you’ve heard enough.

Again, you open your mouth. It fills with blood, thick and metallic and more potent than the mint from your gum. You’re silenced by it.

He stalks toward you and grabs you hastily by the shoulders, swiveling you around so you’re face-to-face with the choices you’ve made. Your mirrored image is reflected back at you, exhausted and searching for any last shred of who you might be beneath his heavy palms.

“Look at yourself! Do you even recognize who’s staring back at you?” No.

“What kind of game are you playing, hmmm? Is this… humiliating spectacle you’re putting on for the money? Your pathetic career? Like it’s goddamned rocket science to pick up a can of hairspray and use it. Monkeys have hands.” He makes a noise that’s akin to a snorting horse, exhaling forcefully past his nostrils. “I mean, did you really think you could pull a fast one on me?” He clutches your jaw, squeezing it between middle and thumb. Every muscle in your body tenses, your heart picking up rhythm.

“Spit that fucking gum out. Don’t think I can’t hear you grinding it between your molars like a dumb animal. You aren’t a mama bird, are you? Y’don’t have cute little baby birds t’force-feed your regurgitated leftovers, do you? Eugh, gross.”

You take a deep breath and exhale through your nose. It presents you with a false sense of security. You do as you’re told, and it lands on the floor in front of your shoe, saliva dangling on a thread as withered as your sanity.

Suddenly fresh breath seems like the most insignificant issue, when Homelander himself once made it out to be something earth-shattering.

You’re such a fool.

He leans in and sniffs your throat. Your fingers lengthen and bend.

You’re so many things at once. Confused, angry, nervous, scared. And, to your dismay, warm. God you’re so fucking warm. He’s heating you up from the inside out. You clench your jaw, still held in place by a firm bind.

“Get rid of those ugly clothes. I don’t care what you have to do. I can’t stand the sight or smell of them.”

You shut your eyes. When you open them, all you see is red. The other emotions are smothered in favor of that brand of heat. What happens next is a blur. You temporarily leave yourself.

“Fine. Have it your way, Homelander. You always do.”

Breaking free of his fluctuating hold, you start tearing at what you’re wearing, tossing everything- including your bra and underwear- to the ground. Your shirt winds up with the gum sticking to its loose fabric. You even take your shoes and socks off, not paying any heed to where your belongings go. Just that they’re gone.

You don’t process the glaring fact that you made yourself naked in front of your boss. In front of the most powerful man this country, and possibly world, has known. You don’t care that things have escalated this far. That they shouldn’t have. They shouldn’t have. But guess what? They did. And these are the consequences you both have to deal with.

“You wanna know what game I’m playing?” You turn around, forcing him backward. “It’s funny, I thought you’d be able to answer that for me, considering all the hoops I’ve had to jump through to not only save my ass, but make sure you had someone to talk to at the end of the day! Who on your team can you say goes above and beyond like that for you?!” He blinks at you now, eyes wide. Features fall to the floor where your clothes reside. You have his full and undivided attention.

An impressively dangerous thing to have.

“What more do you want from me, Homelander? I practically live with you without any of the benefits that usually includes! You’re really going to stand here and berate me like I haven’t given you fucking everything you’ve ever asked me for? Because I made one mistake? I gave up my entire world, which I know doesn’t mean shit to you. But it does to me.”

You fold your arms over your chest. Nothing covers it. You have to know before you lose all dignity. So you ask once more, hoping it won’t get lost in this bizarre mess.

“What do you want from me?”

Nothing. He can’t stop staring at you. You aren’t aware enough to be ashamed, but you are aware enough to be upset.

His infuriating silence compels you to bend down and gather what was a barrier between the two of you. You are no longer needed if he can’t do what he does best, which is spout off, leaking bottled words everywhere like a broken faucet. It’s a pretty simple question, you think.

That’s when the glass behind you shatters.

You flinch, pause what you’re doing and slowly stand. Cautious in whatever your next approach will be.

Surveying the aftermath, you’re relieved to find that you’re far enough away from the mirror so no injuries were inflicted.

When you finally lock eyes with the source, you see red. The atmosphere surrounding you heaves like the distended belly of a rotting corpse; hisses like an overflowing tea kettle; pierces you like lightning.

Homelander’s expression is rigid. His jaw quivers. Irises are a bright, shining scarlet. If you try anything rash, you might be next. But, having been around him for so long, you’re more inclined to believe he’s having trouble processing his own emotions. And that might have been one of the only ways to release them.

You drop the top and pants you managed to reclaim. Your brain hasn’t fully recovered from the constant devastating hit it’s taken, so you don’t want to put a name to what’s pushing you forward. You don’t stop until you’re directly in his line of vision.

Swallowing, you carefully extend your hand. The ruby color begins to crumble and give way to the vast ocean you might have drowned in one too many times. You lost track, blocking what you could out. Too real and intimate to accept for a realm that thrives off of inauthenticity and misfortune.

Homelander inhales harshly and you retreat, pupils hooking themselves to his. Searching for any sign you shouldn’t be right where you are.

Of course there are several; unfortunately, you are currently blind to them. Blind to everything but him.

That’s how it’s been for awhile, hasn’t it?

He has a habit of not granting you the luxury of time.

Quickly, he snatches your wrist and brings your palm flat against his cheek. He exhales, eyelids fluttering, nuzzling into you.

It’s so simple, yet it disarms you in ways you aren’t accustomed to.

Homelander basks in this chaste display of affection, and so do you, in awe of how enraptured he appears. Soaking you inside of his pores.

In turn, your cognizance reappears. You nearly topple over, realization infiltrating every part of you.

You’re not wearing a stitch.

A knock at the door startles you both. You glance over in that general direction and hear from the other side, “You’re on in fifteen, Homelander, sir!”

Gazing back up at him, you witness that same fire expand at a rapid rate. You use your other hand to bring him back down to reality, to ground him. It rests against his chest, delving into and cracking his ribs, flaying him open.

What strikes you is how vigorously his heart is beating. How you can feel it through his uniform.

This is how much you affect him. (Can you fathom that you’re only privy to a fraction?) Having evidence of the tiniest reciprocation drains you of any unwanted discomfort.

His fury subsides. You breathe out. He does, too.

“Go sit in your chair. I came here to do my job, after all.” The tenderness with which you speak seems to ease him further, his shoulders deflating with each word.

That aside, you’re playing with a lit match. You’re unsure who’s going to set who ablaze, but you’re willing to go down with this entire building to find out.

He does as he’s told, watching you the whole way like a mutilated mixture of a snarling cornered animal and a man fervently in love. He almost trips into his seat, not an ounce of grace in his gait.

Sacrificing his entire image just to get a glimpse of you.

Whipping his cape to the side, he sinks into the cushion. You get things ready as you typically do, your movements a bit jittery from the adrenaline sending haphazard jolts to your limbs. Despite this, you’re focused. You are more focused than you remember ever being.

You work efficiently, keeping in mind the limit that’s been put on your time.

Homelander bores holes through you. He doesn’t need lasers for that. You’re exposed and vulnerable and he pries what he fostered apart until it’s distinguishable by no one else but him.

You relearn his perfectly manufactured features. Different lights shape shadows you either haven’t seen before or feigned ignorance of. You commit to memory how he looks, smells, feels, the side of your hand grazing his cheek and hanging on.

He’s invigorating, your excitement building to a crescendo you can’t neglect. The heat in your core disperses, most of it congregating low in your belly and behind your expanding rib cage. His pupils drink you in, urgently and violently.

Your arousal is heady. He licks his lips. A hint of a whine caresses your ears and it makes you dizzy.

How could you have ever denied yourself?

You decide to take further control, testing the waters to a greater extent.

It’s your turn to watch him the whole way down. You straddle him, easing yourself atop his taut thighs.

After a few moments of humoring yourself, of pretending to concentrate on your work, dusting his nose with powder, you straighten. Eye contact has not been severed.

You motion toward his hands, balled into tense, repressed fists at his sides.

“Take off your gloves.”

Initially, it feels like maybe you said the wrong thing, or said it the wrong way. He doesn’t budge. You’re patient, however, so you wait like you’ve always done, the warmth from your cunt mingling with the hardness beneath you. Your mouth waters.

At last, Homelander nods and removes his gloves, tugging on the index of each. He places them on the armrests and transfixes himself to you once more.

“Do you want to touch me?” you ask, voice and body staying impossibly still in spite of your nerves.

Immediately, he shakes his head, “Yes,” the first time he’s spoken since your outburst, and without hesitation, reaches for your chest. You close your eyes, falling into his snooping lifts and tugs and squeezes, giving yourself permission to become possessed by the inhibited imaginations of how selfish, how rapacious his touches might be. How smooth his bare hands are, how ardent each digit is.

Leaning into you, he sucks one nipple into his mouth and palms the other, moaning and vibrating against your flesh. He digs his fingers into the pliant softness of your hip, steadying you with disciplined pressure. You squirm, attuned to every minuscule shift.

The lit match is tilted toward you now, swift and stunning. Your fingers release the brush you’ve been holding. It aligns with the slit of the cushion, forgotten and purposeless.

You wrap your digits around the hand on your curves and guide him toward your throbbing center. He doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t stop your movements. Doesn’t scold or challenge you. Instead, he curls his fingers in a way that makes you unabashedly moan, cupping your folds and pinning his thumb to your clit, adapting to your anatomy.

Your wants.

It seems like breaking away from you is a daunting task, but he does for a moment, brow furrowed, more engrossed and invested than you’ve ever witnessed.

“Fuck.” The curse sounds downright edible, your new favorite flavor. Your name tumbles from his lips like he’s been practicing, a sweet, rich icing on top. You gasp, his tongue adhering to you again, swirling around your peak before lightly biting it.

Rocking your hips back and forth, side-to-side, you grind hard into his palm. He strokes you like he’s studied what pace you prefer, how much friction you crave. You’re so wet, even you’re thrown off by it.

Once he’s finished with your chest, he’s back against the seat, unable to peel his gaze from you. Your full, swollen, glistening breasts.

His mouth hangs open, obscene, desperate whimpers slipping from it. Pupils are like whirlpools that drive you under. Drive you mad.

Homelander adeptly slips two, three digits inside your sopping cunt, unrelenting in his intentions to make up for lost time. The voracity of his actions propels you forward, balancing against his chest. He grasps and pulls at your other hip, groaning loudly in your ear, confirming his approval of how close you are to him.

It’s still not enough.

Pulling you even tighter to his blinding sun of a body, he encloses his free arm around you and desperately bucks his waist. “I want… I want… I want…” he chants. Your nails drag up his neck and along his scalp, overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent, him. Your lips ghost the sliver of skin above his collar, making him growl.

You anticipate and dread and yearn for what’s been building for so long. You clench and release, clench and release, clench and release, body chanting with him.

You’re intuitively thankful for the chair’s sturdiness; however, if it would have collapsed, you’re honestly not sure you would have noticed. Or cared.

You hear him come first. Feel the temperature rise temporarily. It’s so sudden and all-consuming that you naturally follow, his name an instinct you can’t help but divulge. You haven’t come down from the turbulent emotions rushing through you earlier, and that combination catapults you over the edge.

Your orgasm draws more deliberate, vehement grunts and sighs of satisfaction from him, as if your pleasure is inexplicably the same or worth more than his.

You can’t crumple into a boneless heap like you want to. You just can’t. You have to look at him. Look at his bliss; the glazed, barren-yet-so-full-of-you expression, of what these months of working in close quarters have done to him.

What you uncover is not what you were picturing. There’s a mixture of that haze with something almost apologetic below the teeming surface. Clouds of red to skies of blue. Destructive in and of themselves.

Sliding his fingers from your wetness, he wraps his lips around each one that was inside of you and spreads them apart. Your slick sticks to his glossy skin and stretches between digits, a generous amount. You whimper at the loss- the emptying, hollow feeling- and watch, mesmerized and delirious as he savors you.

Swallowing you whole, Homelander sweeps his knuckles across the apple of your cheek and presses his lips hard against yours. He wastes no time inhaling your gasps and moans, licking your mouth and the faint taste of mint, stealing it from you. You ingest what you can of him as well, exploring what was open to you longer than you realized.

He then seizes your wrists. It’s a rough gesture that evaporates into gentle circles along your pulse points. Still, you know you’re going to bruise where he turned the key and locked you into place: wherever he is.

A visible sheen coats his lips.

“I want you to tell me I’m good. Great. The best.”

His breathing is labored. So is yours.

He kisses the inside of the wrist smeared with perfume, your fluids, his saliva; ends with your hand and rests his cheek against the slope of it.

“I want you to be mine. All mine. Mine alone.”

You’re shaking. He moves forward and pets your hair, twirls it; grabs your nape and holds his thumb to the front of your throat. Securing you. Keeping you there.

“You have to stay. Be mine and stay.”

You thrum with an ache he forced upon you. He’ll claim you were starving and he was the only one who could satiate.

You nod. You were never going to leave to begin with.

Homelander made you his. And you thanked him for it.

[fumifooms]

The world must know about french Chilchuck’s chuckles

[rainbow-sunshine-unicorn]

From the way Anthony has his head gently resting on the swell of Kate’s stomach as he softly looks up at her, you’d never be able to guess that he was actually begging her to let him eat her out here

[chuluoyi]

The ask abt satoru helping pregnant! Reader to get up bc she's too plump to get up on our own after sitting down is PRICELESS!

But I was like gurl, I want to guilt trip him so bad.

Imagine he's teasing her again but she's actually pretty frustrated and like upset for some reason and she just tears up on the floor!

Imagine this poor man's reaction 😭😭

this time, it’s after you have your bath. you’re stuck in the bathtub and can’t get up—it’s always this way lately but satoru is always standing by at your beck and call to help you.

unless this time, when you call him, he’s just giggling away like the shithead he is.

“satoru!!! i can’t get up! just help me already!”

“ahahahah you’re so cute being stuck though!”

and hot, he added internally. the way the water cascades around your taut belly somehow turns him on. he’ll fight anyone who says that they no longer find their wives attractive while pregnant, because in his eyes, you look heavenly.

meanwhile, now you’re getting real upset. you’re self-conscious that he has to see you all naked after bath almost every day, and you take his laughing the wrong way.

and doubled with your hormones, you finally tear up. “hic…”

oh and satoru’s laughter immediately dies down, turns into a panicked frown as he approaches you and gets a hold over your body. “hey, hey… sorry—let’s get you out of here, yeah?”

you’re still sniffling even after he picks you up and dries you off, but then you’re getting louder after he puts you in your pajamas.

“hey… don’t cry, i’m sorry—”

“huwaaa!!”

or it could also be you’re just prolonging your cries so you can guilt trip him 💁🏻‍♀️ anyway, he doesn’t know, all he knows is seeing you crying makes him uneasy.

“stop crying…” he pulls you in his arms, patting you in the back with a sad face. “sorry. i’m sorry, okay? i don’t mean to make fun of you. it’s not good for you and the baby if you’re upset… so please?”

you roll your watery eyes at him, suddenly running out of tears and pulling away. “you’re a shit.”

“—! yeah. okay…”

“you’re the shittiest.”

“mm-hmm, whatever you say, sweets.”

and that night, following ‘whatever you say’ rule, he’s sleeping on the couch.

[planetvries]

I ❤️ Balin 🥹

[paponela]

despite everything, it's still you