#white diamond's mind control

[fantasychica37]

“Oh, Lapis!” Greg called out, waving to the blue Gem sitting on a beach chair in front of the beach house and looking at her phone, as he came around the cliff. “Did you see Pearl get back from – wait, what happened to the roof?”

“Oh,” said Lapis, looking up, “Peridot and Amethyst were talking about Steven’s Diamond powers, and Peri wanted to test a hypothesis.”

“About whether Steven was strong enough to destroy his roof?”

“Oh, no. We all know he is already,” said Lapis matter-of-factly. “Peri’s been working on a way to free Pearls from their programming, and she’s been looking for a test subject for weeks.”

“Wait, she didn’t ask Pearl Pearl, did she? Pearl’s been free for thousands of years, right? I’ve never seen her take orders from any–” He stopped mid-sentence as the realization hit (cut off his words as he had seen Pearl do many times since Steven surrendered himself to Homeworld).

“Yup,” said Lapis. “Apparently Peridot in her genius had the idea of asking Steven to test whether Pink Diamond’s authority transferred to his gem, thus making Pearl a suitable test subject.”

“Yeesh,” said Greg. “Hold on, if there are two person shaped holes in the… did Pearl throw my son through the roof? Did Steven actually go along with this?”

“Oh, no, of course not,” said Lapis. “Peridot and I were over to visit when she brought this up to Steven and Amethyst, and Pearl came in right as Amethyst was suggesting possible – experiments.” She rolled her eyes. “Something about making Pearl recite an – egg man announcement?”

Greg stared.

“And as for me,” said Lapis, turning her attention back to her phone, “I’m just enjoying the show. And filming.”

“What sh—”

They were interrupted by Peridot running down the beach, screaming, Amethyst beside her, both being chased by Pearl, spear in hand, who was being chased by a very frantic Steven yelling, “Pearl please stop! I would never make you do that!”

Lapis waved to Peridot.

“LAZULI GET DOWN HERE AND HELP!” screeched Peridot.

“Gee, I’m sorry, P, we weren’t going to actually do it!” yelled Amethyst over her shoulder.

Garnet strolled up with a, “Sorry, I was busy,” and crossed her arms to watch as Pearl yelled after the fleeing duo, “AMETHYST YOU ARE A BITCH-ASS MOTHERFUCKER! YOU SHAPESHIFTED INTO MY FUCKING WIFE!”

“Is she gonna recite the whole thing?” Greg whispered to Garnet.

Garnet adjusted her visor. “‘I'm shapeshifting into White Diamond and pissing on the moon.’”

[lay-z]

Simon Riley signs his death sentence.

cw: cheating/infidelity; angst/hurt; cussing; open ending

♰ [back to black | masterlist]

Simon glances up when he hears the shrill doorbell, frowning a bit. He knows he’s not expecting anyone, never is. It’s a Monday evening, and he’s spent the day working on the broken bike in his garage, trying to drown his thoughts and feelings with working on machines.

His eyes travel to the clock on the wall, noting the late hour, and he sighs. It better not be some bloody salesman trying to sell some shite to him. He makes his way to the front door, pulling it open unceremoniously. What he sees makes his blood run cold.

“What are you doing here?” he asks brusquely, his gaze hard, expression closed off.

“I need to talk to you,” you answer curtly, yet there’s a hint of mystery to your words. “It’s important.”

You’re dead to me. To Tommy. Your words from months ago ring in his ears again.

He eyes you suspiciously for a moment, and then steps aside to make space, gesturing you inside with a wordless invitation. “Olright. Come in,” he mutters, closing the door behind you.

Clutching the black folder to your chest, you give a small nod of thanks as you walk past him, further inside his small flat—surroundings that used to be so warm and familiar to you.

Simon glances at you in passing, noting the tight grip you have on the folder in your arms. He motions to the sofa in the middle of the living room, gesturing for you to take a seat while he drops into the armchair across from you with a rough exhale.

He drums his calloused fingers restlessly on the armrest, tawny eyes drinking you in vigilantly as he waits for you to speak.

Taking a seat on the couch reluctantly, you force yourself not to let your eyes roam around his flat nor let it linger on him for too long. It took everything in you to find the courage to come here in the first place; to bottle up your emotions enough to keep a level head. Clearing your throat, you take out a pen from the inside pocket of your coat and open the folder before sliding the documents over to him on the coffee table.

“I’m getting married,” you announce eventually, right when the light catches on the delicate diamond ring on your finger.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut.

There’s a ringing sound in his ears, and the room seems to spin for a second, like he’s been thrown off an edge and is falling fast. He almost can’t breathe, and his knuckles go white as he clenches his grip on the armchair, trying to keep control of his body as he glares at the expensive looking engagement ring on your finger, the reality slowly sinking in. It’s mocking him.

“You’re gettin’ married,” he repeats hoarsely, his voice betraying the pain that’s churning inside him. He snorts humourlessly. “Congratulations.”

“Yes,” you answer slowly, ignoring the biting sarcasm in his words as you avoid his gaze; keeping your focus on the documents, on my future—rather than your painful past with him.

The room feels tense all of a sudden, and you force yourself to stay calm, to stay seated.

“So... these are–” You clear your throat again. “These are adoption papers for Tommy, but I need approval from his biological father before my–my future husband can adopt him officially.”

Simon looks at you for a long time, his expression hidden behind a stone-cold façade. He’s trying to hold it together, but every word you speak feels like a jab, hitting his gut and stabbing deep into his heart.

“You’re–” he repeats again, his voice almost a whisper, “you’re getting married.” His mind is racing, trying to wrap his head around the idea of you marrying another man, of another man being a father to his son.

You inhale a slow breath when he repeats it for a second time, and you can read the shock and desperation in his eyes despite him trying to hide it behind his cold façade. “Yes, Simon,” you repeat once more, feeling like you’re explaining something to your toddler son, who happens to be the spitting image of his father at nearly two years old.

“I’m getting married.”

His jaw clenches like he’s preventing himself from saying something—anything—and his body goes tense. He looks at the documents spread across the old coffee table, his eyes scanning the information on the pages. He understands what and why you’re asking, and he knows he has no right to refuse. He’s lost that right months ago, and now he's facing the cost of his own actions. Choices have consequences—his own bloody words that he foolishly refused to live by.

“And... and the bloke, the bloke you’re marrying. He’s... He wants to adopt Tommy?” he asks through gritted teeth.

You nod slowly but firmly, blinking slowly as you hold his gaze bravely.

“He’s been a great step dad to him for –” You stop yourself, kissing your teeth as if you almost spilled a secret before speaking up again: “He wants to marry me and he wants to adopt Tommy officially.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. The thought of another man, a bloody stranger, being a father to his son, taking his place in his family, is like a sledgehammer to his already shattered heart.

It feels like he can’t breathe as the reality of the situation fully sinks in, and the weight of it threatens to swallow him whole. His knuckles turn white as he clenches his hands, the effort of holding back the words—these feelings—almost physically hurts. He can feel the familiar anger rising up in his chest, blending effortlessly with all the pain and desperation and regret.

His eyes are glued to the diamond ring on your finger, the symbol glaring back at him, adding insult to injury. His emotions are like a storm raging inside him, tearing him apart, but he grits his crooked teeth and forces himself to look away, tearing his gaze from your hand.

“And... he’s a good lad, aye? Treats you right?” The words taste like acid on his tongue.

“He is a good man, Simon,” you answer truthfully, heaving a sigh as you bite back the harsher words on the tip of your tongue; telling him that it’s none of his business anymore.

“He’s good, and kind, and generous, and above all... he’s loyal.”

Simon goes quiet at that, the stinging comment hitting him hard. He knows he has no right to feel hurt, to feel betrayed. He has no right to feel anything at all. He was the one who screwed up, the one who caused this entire mess. He cheated on you, destroyed your trust, ripped your relationship apart, broke your heart, and left you alone when you’d sent him away instead of fighting to pick up the pieces. He messed up.

But knowing that you found someone better now, someone who’s going to take his place—it feels like someone is tearing his wretched heart out.

When he goes silent again, you push the documents towards him with more urgency.

“Please... don’t make this harder than it already is,” you whisper eventually, feeling your chest tighten as the bottled up emotions threaten to break free. “I just want Tommy to have a chance at a normal life... to have a father and for me to finally have some safety.”

He can sense the suppressed emotions radiating from you, and it breaks his heart even more. Simon picks up the documents slowly, his hands betraying the turmoil inside, the tremors he can’t control no matter how much he tries. His voice is barely a rough whisper when he speaks again, thick with emotion: “I... I know I don’t have a right to even say this, but–

Can I ask a favour?” he presses out, trying to keep up the mask of numbness but failing miserably. He’s crumbling.

“No, you can’t,” you reply gently yet firmly. It hurts. God, it hurts so much, but he did this. It’s his fault. He’s a bloody cheater.

The sharp, flat answer hits him like a bucket of ice water. It doesn’t surprise him though, but it still stings. He clenches his jaw, forces himself to keep his expression under control, knows he has no right to expect anything from you after what he did.

He stares at the documents in his hands for a moment longer, before nodding slowly. “Olright,” he says eventually, his voice rough and strained. “I’ll... I’ll sign the bloody papers.”

You expected him to rip the papers to shreds, but now you’re watching with bated breath as he puts his signature right above the necessary line with an uncharacteristic unsteady hand and your heart clenches suddenly, your vision going blurry.

He’s signing away his son’s life, and it’s tearing him apart on the spot while his face betrays nothing. He’s signing away the right to be Tommy’s father, the right to be in his life, to hold him, to watch him grow up, to be there for him. He’s signing away the future he’d secretly dreamed of, of a family with you, the only thing that ever really mattered to him.

It feels like he’s signing his own bloody death sentence.

He feels like he’s drowning in guilt and shame. All the while, his eyes stay trained on you, taking in every small movement, every blink, and every shaky breath.

“So... uhm... How’s–” You swallow thickly, bile rising in your throat as you wipe at your glossy eyes frantically to try and keep your composure. “How’s Emma?” you manage to ask, trying to change the subject, to remind yourself why this happened in the first place.

Just when he thought the knife couldn’t dig any deeper, you ask about her, and he’s hit with an even more intense wave of shame.

The memory of her—the way she looked, the way she felt, the way she tasted—flashes through his mind, and he has to swallow to keep himself from gagging.

He looks away, avoiding eye contact as he shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Fine.” He croaks, his voice betraying his discomfort.

“Oh.”  You nod slowly, processing his curt answer as you kiss your teeth again. “Good... that’s... good.” He's lying. You can tell that he’s lying, and yet you can’t stop. You’re too bitter.

“I’m glad to know that you–you found happiness with her. That you’re–” You exhale through your nose. “That you can–” You feel another wave of nauseous overcome you, and you’re forced to take another deep breath. “That you’re faithful to her.”

Your words hit him like a kick to the gut, and he’s left gasping as his heart constricts painfully. He can hear the pain in your voice, the bitterness in your tone, the pain that still runs deep.

The truth.

The truth is, he’s not happy. He’s not faithful.

If there’s one person he belongs with, it’s you—you, with your quiet bravery, your stubborn determination, your endless loyalty.

You, with the eyes he could lose himself in.

“I’m not,” he finally rasps, voice hoarse with emotion as he finally finds the courage to look you in the eye again. “I’m not happy.”

He takes a shaky breath, his voice cracking with raw honesty. “I’m not happy, and I’m not faithful. Not to her, because I–I think about you and I think about Tommy... every fuckin' day for the past seven months.”

His words are like a confession, a desperate plea for your understanding.

“I made a mistake,” he continues, “I made the wrong choice, and every day... every god damn day I’ve regretted it, baby.” He’s tearing up again, the guilt and shame and pain overcoming him, and his vision swims before he pushes his palms against his eyes harshly, exhaling a ragged breath.

“Simon,” you say firmly, hoping he truly listens this time. Your spine goes rigid with tension and restraint. You want to yell, to lash out, to curse him, but you won’t. Not again.

“You cheated on me twice... and I was stupid enough to give you another chance after the first time. We have a son together, but that didn’t stop you from fucking Emma. This is your own goddamn fault, so–”

“I know it’s my own goddamn fault!” he snaps, his emotions getting the better of him. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t see that every day?” His eyes are burning with unshed tears, his chest heaving with barely controlled fury.

“I know I screwed up, I know I... I destroyed us! I destroyed our family! I destroyed you! But–But you have no fuckin’ idea what I’d give to take it back, you have no bloody idea!”

“That may be, but there is no taking back,” you reply coolly, not even flinching at his outburst as you keep a level head.

Finally, you take the signed adoption papers from him and put them back into the black folder; snapping it shut with finality. “Just know that–” You let out another deep, shaky sigh, fighting tears. “Know that Tommy will be fine. He’ll be happy and very loved, and he’ll be a decent man someday–” Your voice cracks at the end, and you stand up from the couch at once, still trying your best not to fall apart in front of him.

His heart breaks all over again, and it’s like a combat knife twisting in his chest as he watches you put the documents back into the folder.

Simon stands up too; his body tense as he fights the urge to reach for you, to pull you close and hold you tightly. He doesn’t deserve to hold you. He doesn’t deserve to touch you. He should’ve never touched you in the first place.

He takes a step towards you, a last attempt, his gravelly voice barely a whisper: “I don’t know how to live without you.” The words spill out of him, raw and unfiltered, his voice shaking with emotion.

And he takes another slow, heavy step closer. “I tried, fuckin’ hell, I tried to forget you, but I can’t. I can’t move on. I can’t let go. You’re under my skin, you’re in my bloody head, you’re in my heart, you’re in every goddamn dream I have. And the idea of losing you, of not having you and Tommy in my life... it’s killing me–”

“Then why did you cheat on me?”

The question comes out involuntarily, spilling over your lips for the first time in nearly three years since it happened the first time.

“If you love me and Tommy so bloody much, then why the fuck did you cheat on me, Simon?” you ask, voice rising in volume and pitch, taking on an edge of desperation as you glare at him with the protective strength and fury only a mother can muster.

“Why?!”

He’s reeling, the memories of his betrayal slapping him with brutal force. His broad shoulders sag, defeated, as the weight of his actions crashes down on him. He can’t look at you, tawny eyes filled with shame like a little boy who’s been scolded, his gaze fixated on the floor as he tries to put his thoughts into words.

When he finally speaks, his voice sounds hollow, devoid of any emotion: “I can’t explain it,” he whispers, the words barely leaving his lips. “I wish I could, but I don’t even know my damn self.”

You allow yourself to look at him for another moment; deep down expecting more, expecting a better explanation, but nothing comes and your face twists into a pained grimace as you glance down at the folder in your hands. At a brighter future for you and your son.

“That’s not good enough, Simon,” you rasp out before forcing yourself to gather the last shred of strength you have left, straightening your shoulders.

“Take care.”

“You too.” He feels hollow, empty.

All the fight and anger drain out of him in a split second, leaving him feeling cold and lifeless.

He should grab you, hold you, and plead for forgiveness, but he stands rooted to the spot in his living room, unable to move, too damn scared to reach out for you.

As the door of his flat falls shut behind you, you clutch the folder to your chest with one hand as you rush down the staircase, slowly falling apart at the seams as you stumble forward.

Outside the apartment building, you swiftly seek out your fiancées sleek black Mercedes car in the parking lot, swallowing down a sob as you pull open the passenger seat before slipping inside and closing the door—mindful of your toddler son still napping in his car seat in the back.

“Everything okay, darling?” John glances over at you from the driver's seat as you clench your teeth, trying to keep it together. He can tell that it’s not okay, that something went wrong. The look on your face telling him all he needs to know.

“Are you... alright?” He asks as gently as his gruff voice allows, looking at you once again, concern filling his steel blue eyes.

“I–I think so,” you answer shakily, clutching the folder to your chest like a lifeline as you tremble in the leather seat. Then, you feel the heavy, warm weight of his hand come to rest on your thigh.

John Price.

Simon's captain and superior, who has been there for you even through your pregnancy after your first breakup with Simon.

John Price, who's swept you off your feet with ease, when you’d sent Simon away for cheating again barely seven months ago.

Glancing over at him, you cup your own icy hand over his on your thigh while your heart thuds painfully against your ribcage.

“Can you–Can you please take me home?”

Hiii and sorry about this :) Anyway—

[arminsumi]

more jealous sukuna please? and and sukuna smut too? your sukuna has been on my mind like a rotisserie chicken in microwave

LIKE YOU'RE MY QUEEN

“What would you prefer? Gojo spoiling you like a princess, or me spoiling you like a queen?”

4.9k

★ Featuring : boss!Sukuna, co-worker!Gojo

★ Synopsis : at a Christmas work party, your jealous boss Sukuna proves that he can treat you better than Gojo ever could.

★ Note : like a rotisserie chicken in a microwave?! 😂 best thing i ever heard

★ Warnings : 🔞 MDNI/18+, jealousy, possessiveness, rivalry between Gojo and Sukuna, reader x Gojo smut memories, bl*wjob + deepthroating, cunnilingus/facesitting, creampies, reader is on birth control, taking condom off (consensual), Gojo catching/listening thru door, +++

Sukuna steps out of a shower dripping wet.

He wraps a towel around his waist, and it hangs dangerously low on his hips, showing the definition of his V-line and his dark patch of hair. He wipes a clearing on the steamed-up mirror with his hand, then gets ready to shave – lines up all the products that he’s going to use. It’s funny; you wouldn’t expect him to have so many skin care products, yet he does.

Sukuna shaves his cheeks with a precise, beady eye on his reflection in the mirror. The razor makes small, sharp sounds when he drags it across his jawline, which he juts out a bit.

Why is he shaving so precisely? Well, Sukuna overheard you speaking once to a co-worker in the office, and you said something about being turned on by clean-shaven men.

After shaving, he puts on an Italian-branded moisturizer. He also dabs on a pea-sized amount of some special skin care product and using both his middle fingers he smooths it onto his skin in a sweepy pattern.

Apparently, you like it when men have a lingering moisturizer scent on their cheeks.

Sukuna spends a long time getting ready for the Christmas work party that he’s hosting tonight at his own penthouse. The whole office anticipates this end of year party from Sukuna, they’re very lavish.

You better notice his obvious efforts.

He knows you're an intelligent and well-versed woman. He likes that about you. And he likes your look, especially at the end-of-year work parties when you really glam yourself up for the occasion. But he likes your look even when you're scurrying around the office with messy hair and no make-up to conceal your imperfections, he still looks at you with the same lustfulness – like he needs to take you into his office and bend you over his desk for doing a good job.

Your boss distinctly remembers how you looked at the Christmas work party last year; your smile and glittering earrings like a treasured photograph in his mind.

He hopes you'll wear the thin-chained, diamond necklace that he gifted you. Whenever you wear it, he feels a bit delusional — he thinks you belong to him. But you’re just his employee.

Something your boss regrets is hiring a particular employee.

This employee is tall, sorely good-looking and charismatic to the point of making it hard for his co-workers (and Sukuna) catch your eye. Sukuna’s been battling to maintain his pride and not fire the man solely for charming you.

Sometimes you’ve noticed Sukuna clenching his jaw when catching you and this employee flirting by the water-cooler. He usually strides by and grumbles “Get back to work.” to disrupt the two of you.

Sukuna thinks this man has some audacity to get in your pants, considering the whole office knows that Sukuna has eyes on you.

When you first started out at this job, Sukuna was cruel and harsh on you even though you were clearly trying your best as a rookie – and what a cheeky move his employee made when he noticed this; he buttered you up after Sukuna yelled at you so that you’d take more of a liking to him than your boss.

One of the first things Gojo Satoru said to you was;

“Sweets, don’t listen too closely to the boss; you’re doing great for a rookie.”

And from that moment, you were enamoured by him. Your co-worker with white hair, standing at a big 6’3 frame, wearing an intoxicating Giorgio Armani cologne. You and him have a three year age gap, him being older and also a single dad… two things that turn you on.

Sukuna and Gojo may have the funniest boss/employee dynamic you’ve ever seen. They both act like they’re the boss.

Sometimes you follow orders from Gojo and say “Yes, sir.” and this makes Sukuna ball his hands into fists on his desk. He keeps a stoic, professional face. Gojo just laughs and usually replies with “Sweets, ‘m not the boss – he is. Right, Sukuna?” to which Sukuna quietly thinks of murder.

If Gojo wasn’t his best employee, you’re sure there would be a fight between them. It’s not the work ethic of Gojo that makes him a good employee, it’s the fact he brings in great business from around the world because he is just so incredibly charming and charismatic.

Sukuna appreciates and respects Gojo’s charm and charisma, yes. Until it’s used on you. Then he seethes.

At Christmas parties, Gojo’s always hot on you. But this year, Sukuna’s determined to make sure to corner you before Mister Blue Eyes does.

— ★

A dim-lit, lavish room big enough to accommodate the whole office of employees is decorated and filled to the brim. Servers sieve through the crowd. A glittering chandelier hangs from the tall ceiling. The work party is somehow even more lavish than last year’s, which you can’t comprehend.

Just like I said; Gojo is always hot on you at these parties. His eyes are on you (and blazing with lust) immediately after you appear. Tonight, you’re wearing a tight, glittery slip dress that you were gifted anonymously. And Gojo makes haste to compliment you as flirtatiously as possible.

“I think the chandelier is jealous.” He goofs, making you smile.

“Hey, Satoru.” You greet him.

“Hey.”

Sukuna watches from across the room as you two share a hug – and it’s a hug that tells a whole story.

You and Satoru have been clearly bonding as co-workers… especially this year, after you two went on that business trip together in Okinawa.

Well, now Sukuna regrets allowing you to accompany Gojo on that trip. Clearly the two of you spent the month steaming up the hotel’s shower and ruining the tightly tucked bedsheets.

And he’s right.

You and Satoru practically spent the whole business trip fucking like bunnies in as many positions as you could and in as many places as you could – both in the hotel room and around the resort you stayed at.

There had been a sexual tension between you and Satoru that built up during the work year since January, and it finally snapped during the trip in Okinawa when it was just you and him alone together. The first night? Gojo was so smooth it made you giggle uncontrollably, even while caged between his strong arms. He made sure to fuck your giggles out until they turned into screaming moans.

God he was skilled – really skilled. And you know what’s worse than a man who’s skilled in the bedroom? A man with a big, fat cock. Eight. A bit of a right-tending curve. Pale. Lots of veins – a prominent one running down the shaft. Pink tip. Taut balls, heavy with cum. No condoms as per your request after you saw it the first time. Creampies as per your demand since you had birth control. And be glad you had it, because Satoru’s cum was potent.

All you could babble as he fucked you each time was:

“God, your cock is so fucking big, Satoru!”

And he had a smug reply every time.

“I know, baby. But you love taking it, right?”

Satoru fucked you during that business trip like he was trying to burn the memory of how good he fucks into your mind. He nicknamed you his Sex Bunny because of how readily you hopped on his dick each time he flirted – and when the two of you were in the office again, he shortened it to just Bunny. It was like a little inside joke between the two of you, one that made you instantly giggle and feel hot in the face.

Neither of you counted how many times you two had sex in Okinawa, but tonight at the Christmas party you and Satoru reminisced about all the places you had sex in.

The hotel lobby with a remote-control vibe. The hotel bed. The hotel shower. Against the hotel window. Over a room-service cart. Standing by the hotel door – outside, not inside, at 3 am when no one was around but still it was risky. At the restaurant. At the other restaurant. At the beach. Twice. In the backseat of an expensive, rented car.

“… wish we could have ticked the plane off our list of locations.” Satoru smirks

“What are you two talking about?” your other co-worker, Nanami Kento, joins the conversation.

“Nothin’, just our trip to Okinawa last month. It was pretty fruitful.” Satoru holds back a laugh.

Kento nods, sipping his champagne. The three of you talk business for a while but then Kento leaves to go talk to Suguru who beckoned for him to come over to the other side of the room – introducing work people, you know.

“Satoru, you come here too. There’s someone I want you to meet.” Suguru calls for his best friend.

“Suguru, you’ll have to work harder than that if you want to tear me away from her.” Satoru jokes.

You feel your cheeks warm up. If it wasn’t for the professional setting of a work party, Satoru would be caressing your hips and kissing you as if you’re his to-be wife. Actually, Satoru seriously considers doing both of those things after hearing you laugh but then the two of you are interrupted by a familiar, strong-voiced man.

Sukuna seethes at Gojo’s audacity to stand so close to you. He purses his lips and tenses his abdomen muscles. He gets full-body fits of jealousy; his muscles tensing and lips pursing are common.

“Enjoying yourselves?” Sukuna asks stiffly.

“Of course – and you’re responsible for it.” Gojo cheeks.

There’s an underlying meaning to his response that Sukuna pieces together instantly – his jaw clenches but he maintains his composure.

You’re flitting your attention between the men.

Gojo is severely good-looking. Not just because he won the genetic lottery, but because he maintains his looks with high-end classy fashion and he refines himself to the point of looking ready for a model photoshoot.

Sukuna has a sensual, firm feeling to his looks. Jawline sharp enough to cut, and his voice cuts too – he’s sliced through the tension between you and Gojo. Cleaving Gojo is just something he enjoys doing. He’s a bit sadistic, he delights in Gojo’s downfall. You’re being charmed away by Sukuna with each word he speaks.

So Gojo flirts harder.

Then Sukuna flirts harder.

You feel a bit small with these two big, muscular men in suits clustering close to your tinier body. They’re like peacocks having a feather show-off competition to win you over.

Both men are trying to undress you with their eyes, their pupils peeling back the thin fabric cradling your breasts. Sukuna’s feasted on your cleavage many times when you’ve bent over in the office to pick something up. It irks him that Gojo has had the privilege of playing with your breasts and he hasn’t yet.

He’s pooling with jealousy; it’s spilling through his tone as he continues talking with you and Gojo.

Sukuna notes that you’re wearing the thin-chained, diamond necklace that he hoped you'd wear.

Your dress glitters.

Sukuna gets a little hard right then because he stares at you for too long. The dress hugs the shape of your body so that every kink and curve is unconcealed. It leaves little up to the imagination.

That's what he likes to see. His favorite employee wearing his necklace and his dress at his party.

The men talked business with you for a bit, but not for long.

"She looks like a goddess tonight, doesn’t she, Sukuna? I don't know how any man here is standing upright. Me personally, my knees are buckling."

Your cheeks burn, “Oh, Satoru, you’re laying it on thick, you flirty bastard.” You light-heartedly shove his chest.

Sukuna clenches his jaw.

Not only did your response to Gojo’s flirting irk Sukuna, but also the way you used his first name – you’re that close? And you touching Gojo was just the nail in the coffin.

“You talk a lot as usual, Gojo.” Sukuna’s professional tone slips for a second.

“I know, I know…” Gojo smirks cheekily, knowing he was chipping away at Sukuna. “But don’t you think that dress just fits her form so perfectly?” he emphasizes.

“Yes, it was made for her.” Sukuna replies. Gojo tilts his head in surprise. “I contacted a friend overseas and asked if he could have it made in time for Christmas. Good to see my efforts weren’t for nothing.”

Your cheeks burn as Sukuna reveals that he bought the dress for you. He’d gotten your measurements from your tailor.

"Oh! — oh my god, you really didn't have to do that for me, Sukuna." you reply humbly.

Sukuna smirks smugly after hearing his name from your lips.

"I absolutely had to. You deserved it after working so hard for me this year."

Gojo has goes quiet and purses his lips.

"Your efforts definitely weren't for nothing, Sukuna." Gojo chimes in smoothly.

"Ahah, Satoru you're really overdoing it. Thank you, though. Always nice to hear sweet things from your lips." you flirt a little.

You flirt a little.

Gojo flirts back.

Sukuna is teetering between being a boss of a company and being his old self who used to aspire to be a professional boxer.

Gojo is a man that gets everything he wants – you know, like he’s the chosen one and life was tailored to fit him. An excellent position at an excellent job, screwing his hot co-worker in Okinawa.

Just once, Sukuna wants to take everything away from Gojo.

Now your boss is itching to get alone with you. Gojo yaps, flirts, plays, never shuts up. Then finally, he readies leave.

“Alright, I’ll have to leave for a moment. Suguru has been wanting my attention since I got here and I’m such a bad friend that I’ve ignored him for your company instead.” He joked. “But I promise I’ll come back and spoil ya, ‘princess.”

No you won’t, Sukuna thinks.

And the split second that Gojo joins Suguru’s small group conversation, Sukuna steers you through the crowd and leads you up the stairs – holding your hand like a real gentleman, you thought. But Sukuna’s a gentleman with carnal, primal desires.

He looks at your neck, at the necklace, then his eyes trail down to your cleavage and he admires the dress as it shimmers in the dim light.

He decides that tonight he'll win you over.

Enough of this peacock war between Sukuna and Gojo. He's the boss, right?

— ★

You sit cross-legged on a lush, black sheet bed, giggling at the dirty jokes that your boss, Ryomen Sukuna, is muttering into your ear. He makes you wiggle your foot flirtatiously, your high heel slipping off a bit.

The party is still ongoing downstairs. Gojo Satoru wonders where you are but Geto Suguru is keeping him locked in a business conversation with Nanami Kento and Fushiguro Toji.

You act like Sukuna’s flirting is too hot and heavy for you to handle. A big grin is plastered on your face.

He leans in close to your ear. You catch a whiff of his intoxicating after-shave oil and his cologne; he smells spicy and expensive.

Then he asks you a question that ends the playful flirting and turns the atmosphere into a serious lust.

"What would you prefer? Gojo spoiling you like a princess, or me spoiling you like a queen?"

He sees your eyes light up and your body shift excitedly. His closeness makes your breath hitch.

"I-if I'm being honest? The latter."

“I think you’re lying.” He teases.

“Lying? Why do you think so?” you ask flirtatiously.

Sukuna’s lips graze yours.

“Because you’ve been flirting like a slutty little princess with him all night.”

You swallow. His cologne floods your head. You can’t think straight. You look down and see he’s got a bulge in his tight pants. It takes all your self-restraint not to reach out and squeeze his cock through his pants; it looks so delicious.

“Am I wrong?” he asks after you’ve gone silent for much too long. “Maybe you want both of us.”

“Of course I do.” You admit openly.

“Oh? You’re sluttier than I thought.” He smirks.

“Isn’t that why I’m your favorite employee?” you tease.

“Hmmm… I don’t know if you’re still my favorite employee after admitting you want both me and Gojo.” He replies.

“Aw… well, if I’m not your favorite employee anymore…”

Your fingertips reach out and touch the curve of his cock.

“… can I become your favorite slut?”

Those words go straight to his cock. It’s straining against his pants now. He’s so hard it’s getting jumpy, you can see it visibly twitching in his pants.

***

Pants unzipped, head tilted back, eyes shut in bliss, Sukuna palms your head up and down on his cock, making your lips slide up and down his cock.

You splutter when he hits the back of your throat, and gag when he starts to slide his big cock down your throat.

“Ghhhn.” You gargle and choke as his thick, bulbous cockhead stretches out your throat.

He tastes so addicting. That’s something Sukuna has in common with Satoru; tasting so damn good. Is it their lifestyles? Their diets? Who knows. You remember sucking Satoru dry in Okinawa because his cum just tasted so good.

Taking as much of your boss’ cock as you can, you let him keep you down on it for a few seconds before hastily pulling off for air.

He groans loudly.

“Fuck, maybe you will become my favorite slut after tonight.” He jokes. “Look how fucking sloppy you’ve made my cock.”

You wipe the saliva from your chin and lips, smiling happily at Sukuna’s slicked cock.

He changes positions. The bedsheets rustle as he lays on it, stretching his long legs out. His cock sways as he moves, you eye it out.

“Come here.” He commands with a beckoning finger.

You crawl over to him and straddle his lap. He rests his hands on your hips and looks at your glittering slip dress – it rises over the curve of your thigh. He squeezes the plush fat there, letting out a groan of satisfaction at the sensation of your flesh moulding to his hand.

“You’ve been a good slut to me, now tell me what you want first; do you want me to treat you like a slut or like my queen?”

“Like your queen.” you reply with sparkly eyes.

“Then come up here and sit on your throne, my queen.” He commands.

You look at him dumbstruck.

During the trip in Okinawa, Gojo wasn’t opposed to eating you out – if you asked him he would do it. But he wasn’t all too good at it, it was just for prep. You didn’t complain because he made up for it by luring multiple orgasms out of your pussy with his cock.

Your hips hover inches above your boss’ tattooed face. His eyes catch on the slick that’s dribbling out your hole and smearing across your inner thigh. He notices you hesitate to sit down on his face.

“Sit.” He commands again.

But before you lower your pussy onto his face, he does it himself – by grabbing your hips and bringing you down.

“Oh! Fuck! Mmm!” you gasp.

Sukuna wastes no time working his skilled tongue into your pussy.

At first he runs his tongue up and down the slit, not quite parting it yet. Teasing, light licking up to your clit, he grazes circles around it with his pointed tongue. You squirm your hips, so he holds them more firmly.

“Don’t you fucking squirm. Stay right here, my queen.”

Sukuna’s words and breath go right against your puffy clit. It’s buzzing and sensitive, needy for attention. You gasp loudly when you feel him kiss it. Then he kisses it again – sloppier, and starts making out with your clit as if it’s your lips.

“Oh, fuck! S-sir!” you breathe excitedly.

He hums against your clit, smug that you’re still calling him ‘Sir’.

Now he starts to suckle your clit gently, massaging his tongue into it while he does. His big hands caress up and down your shuddering thighs.

“Mmm!” you whine, pinching your eyes shut and feeling good on your boss’ face.

He pulls his lips away, murmuring “Bet that asshole never made you make these noises, hm?” he says proudly.

Sukuna’s tongue flattens out and swipes upwards, he starts lapping like a thirsty dog. You hear him breathing and lightly groaning. Sukuna’s using all his tricks on your pussy.

You place your hands on the headboard in front of you and gulp, pinching your eyes shut even tighter. He can’t see it, but he just knows your lips are forming that O shape right now. His tongue wiggles into your hole, and he starts tongue-fucking you hard and fast. His lips press against your squishy folds. He can feel your juices start running down his chin as he continues.

“Oh my god!” your moans quiver. Your body trembles a bit. “That’s so fucking good!”

Sukuna smirks into your pussy and keeps fucking you with his tongue. You clench tight.

Sukuna works his tongue against your clit. He builds up your first orgasm of the night. His tongue goes faster and faster against your puffy clit, lips latching on and suckling it. You feel your orgasm nearing and your mind goes fuzzy. You’re dumbing out on Sukuna’s tongue.

It feels too good, you can't help but hump your hips back and forth on Sukuna's face.

"That's it, fuck my face." he groans and switches from thrusting his tongue into your hole to suckling your clit again. He points his tongue at your bud and flicks it rapidly.

"Fuuuck! Oh my god that's so good that's s-so fucking good! Please don't stop! MHM! Oh my god I'm gonna — cummm!!"

You roll your eyes back and feel your orgasm working up in your pussy as Sukuna sucks your clit harder. You zone out on pleasure and focus on cumming.

Sukuna groans into your pussy, feeling you gush all over his face. He’s a mess, his cheek splattered with your watery cum as it dribbles out. He keeps licking you through your orgasm, making you shudder and scream.

Sukuna lets out a naughty, humming laugh that gets muffled onto your pussy. You cum all over his face and shake violently, feeling your pussy convulse and contract.

There's just one thing you have to say to Sukuna for him to toss you off his face.

"Need your cock, please!"

He licks your inner thighs to clean them up.

“Sure, queen.”

— ★

Gojo's still enjoying the party, but now it's been an hour since you disappeared and he wonders where you are until he realizes Sukuna is nowhere to be found, either. Hm,

You've got your legs pushed back as Sukuna eases his cock into your pussy. He slowly stretches you open, savoring the feeling of pushing past your entrance.

Then he groans while he starts to fuck his inches into you one by one. Big hands keep your legs pushed back into a mating press.

You let out quivering moans and roll your eyes back. Sukuna's jaw slacks and he tilts his head off to the side. His fat cockhead prods at your G-spot and that's when you squeal;

"Fuck! Right there!"

"Oh, right here?"

"Mhm! Fuck! Right theeere, Sukuna! Oh my god, S-Sukunaaa!"

"Ooh, you're gettin' loud for your boss’ cock, huh?" he grins as he starts thrusting hard, sweeping thrusts into your G-spot. “I like that. Let everyone hear who’s fucking your cunt so good.”

He stares down at the place where you and him connect. Your pussy feels sticky all over as he fucks your juices out. His cock works in and out of you at a mean pace and you moan louder and louder as he goes faster and faster, totally turning your brain to mush.

"Ooh fuck!" you gasp each time he reaches a new depth with his tip.

Sukuna thumbs skillfully at your clit while pushing his cock as deep as your pussy will let him go.

He doesn't know where to look, because your breasts are sluttily bouncing in your dress and your exposed lower tummy is shuddering with each thrust of his big cock.

His breathing gets ragged, and he grunts, positioning himself at a better angle so he can reach deeper.

At this angle his cock has you seeing stars. Your mouth makes an O shape and you go silent, unable to moan because of how good it feels. How funny, he thinks. He's fucked you so good you can’t even moan, your voice is gone.

But then it comes back louder than ever.

"S'kuna!! Fuckfuckfuck moreright there please FUCK ahhhh god fuck I loveyousomuch pleasedon'tstopfuckingme!!"

His ego inflates after catching that ‘I love you so much’.

"That’s it, love me – never him, understand?" he growls seriously, and suddenly stills inside you. “Say it. You love me and not him.”

You gasp, feeling his tip pressing against your cervix.

"Yes! I love you, not him!”

Sukuna grunts and keeps pressuring your cervix with his cock. He roughly squeezes your hips, your stomach, your breasts like a primal lover.

"Tell me I fuck you better than Gojo Satoru. Scream it.”

His rough, animalist thrusts start up again and your eyes roll back, mouth hung open and teeth bearing when it feels too good.

"Y-you fuck me better than Gojo Satoru!" you scream.

Sukuna keeps making you scream this over and over.

"Keep fucking saying it, I'm getting so close." he groans.

Then a feeling comes over him, like someone's outside the door. He smirks and gives a glance behind him at the closed door.

"Say it again." Sukuna commands you, eyes still on the door. He's pure evil.

"You fuck me so good, S'kuna!" you babble, "You fuck me better than Gojo!"

"That's a good fuckin' girl.” He growls nastily, “Now keep telling me how much better I am than him while you take this fucking cock." he growls and starts thrusting into you harder and faster until his sticky balls slap into you loudly.

Sukuna keeps fucking you until your body jiggles at the force of his thrusts. You shift up the bed and cling to the headboard, Sukuna sees your tiny hand grab it and he puts his hand over yours.

Hands off your body, he fucks you full of his cock and makes sure it's as loud as possible.

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum! Nnnh don't stop!" you gasp, feeling a G-spot stimulated orgasm building up in your pussy.

"Yeah, cum. Cum for me and only me." Sukuna growls and pounds into you.

"Fuck, S'kunaaa 'm cumming on your b-big cock!" you scream, unable to keep quiet at all with how his cock is fucking you.

You shake from head to toe and feel your pussy constrict tightly around his big cock. He watches your eyes roll back and your body tense up as you cum long and hard. Sukuna groans and feels your milking contractions and it gets him close to his own orgasm.

"Hear that?" he talks, but not to you. "This pussy’s all mine now. I’m gonna fuckin’ claim it.”

He leans down and asks you clearly; "Baby, do you want me to take the condom off and cum inside?" he asks.

"Yes! Yes please! Fuck me raw, cum inside!" you cry, feeling his cock continue to pound into you after your orgasm.

"Good girl. Taking my fucking dick so good." he slides out and pulls the condom off his cock with a little difficulty, his fingers slipping. He gets a grip on the end and peels it off his cock and tosses the condom onto the pillow next to your head.

Sukuna enters you again and gets right back to the same pace he was fucking you with earlier.

"Fuck!" you gasp, thrashing your legs around. "Fuck, oh my god!"

"I'm close..." he closes his eyes and tilts his head back.

You look behind you to see him, eyes catching on his tattoos and flexing muscles. He's sweating and grunting, pounding into you like he's proving a point. Because he is.

"Fuck. I'm cumming, take it all." he growls and holds your body almost suffocatingly tightly.

You roll your eyes back when you feel him push himself as deep as he can go. Hot ropes of his sticky cum spurt out of his cock, filling you up so much that you can really feel it. Your pussy milks him through his orgasm and he moans brokenly.

"Fuck..." he slaps your ass hard, and thrusts a little bit more inside you just so that sloppy sound fills the room.

"Listen to that creampied pussy. Sounds like it's all mine now, huh Gojo?"

You blink dumbly.

Gojo smirks behind the closed door and walks away, shaking his head, muttering curses under his breath at his boss.

Well, how unfortunate, Sukuna fucked his jealousy out into your pussy, but now Gojo is throbbing with jealousy as he walks away from the door, defined jaw clenching tight and cock rock hard in his tight pants.

© arminsumi

I do not permit the copying/reposting/translation/plagiarism of my works. Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

This is fictional work.

[snowsinterlude]

stuffed.

(coriolanus snow x f. reader)

summary: what better way to show your affection towards one than trapping them by your side forever? well, if there was one, president snow didn't knew about it.

c.w: forced breeding, baby trapping, president snow, cnc, slapping, forced creampie, possessiveness, stockholm syndrome at the end, fem. reader, reader is (was) a opera singer

singing like there was no tomorrow was something you did quite often, being a opera singer to the capitol was the best thing that could've happened to you before. especially since you were from the districts.

so now, knowing the president is your fan (something you didn't expected, not even in a thousand years), you were singing your heart out at his parties. every bouquet of white roses he gave you always hid something. pearls, diamonds, earrings of white colored jews. he seemed to like white very much- even though his suit was always the red ones.

then, there was money.

the motive for him to give so many things was revealed when he was pinning you on the wall, the posca he drank seemed to have took control over his brain. somehow, you didn't mind it. maybe because the idea of being the president's favorite girl was something quite appealing- something your stupid self seemed to like very much.

feeling so desired, feeling so loved was something adorable, lovely. especially when he woupd promise you so many things.

you didn't believe any of them. you always made sure to be on the pill, always made sure to put a condom on his dick, always made sure to tell him to pull out when you didn't had a condom.

he was tired of it. he wanted you to be pregnant for him, wanted to see your belly showing through your clothes and the fantasies you used when performing. he wanted you closed on his room with your legs open and your pussy wet- he wanted to kill all of those who were thirsting over you, over the way your corset hugged your body so nicely and made your boobs bounce.

with that in his mind, you noticed just how rude he was tonight.

"i want you to be my wife," he said, midfucking. he would always say things like that while pounding inside you. it was crystal clear to you that he didn’t really wanted it, or so you thought, because his intention ever since he saw you was to fuck his babies into you and make you bear all of them.

"c-cory, let's talk about it later- oh, fuck!" you moaned, fucking yourself on him as his dick entered you so nicely, hitting all the right spots. as always.

you recieved a slap on your ass, accompanied by a thick, strong grab. "not later," he pounded inside you, hand on your waist, grabbing you so tightly you felt like you'd simply die at his touch. maybe it was a good thing. "now. 'wanna talk about it now."

you mewled as he thrusted inside your cunt again, his dick hitting all the right spots, from your cervix to your sweet g spot. "n-no, later, mm, truly."

he slapped your clit. it was getting rough now. you could notice from how hard he bit your nipple, it's not that you don't like it- it's just because you weren't ready for it.

"i'm serious, dove. i want you to be my wife." you didn't listen, too caught up in the pleasure, in the painful bites on your nipple, on the angry soft slaps on your swollen clit.

"s-stop it, you know i can't- i'm a performer, i-"

"i don't fucking care," he grunted, his nails buried into your skin "you're mine. from the moment i layed my eyes on you you were mine." he said, looking at your mewling melted state. "you're so wet, so tight on me, and yet you claim you don't want to be my wife?"

he laughed, as if telling a joke to himself, as if that was the biggest joke on the world. each two thrusts made you squirm, you already came some minutes ago. there were two condoms filled to the brim with his seed by your side on the bed of his guest room.

trying your best not to cum again, he took himself out of you, taking the condom of your side into his hands. he hated the texture. if it depended on him he would fuck you raw everytime. and yet there he was, obediently following your rules just to fuck you senseless.

"w-wait, what are you doing? stop. stop it! ah, fuck!" you squirmed at the hot feeling of his cum entering you, being poured inside of you, it felt so good you couldn't help but want more, for your own surprise. "p-president snow-"

"now is president? until some seconds ago it was coryo." he said, fingering his own cum inside you, making sure nothing would spill.

"p-please stop, i can't be pregnant-"

"you can." he stuffed you with it again, spilled all the cum of he other condom inside you "you will. i'll make sure of that"

taking the condom out of his dick again, the blonde introduced his dick into you again, smiling at the sight and the feeling of your wet cunt.

"fuck- look at you. so wet and still trying to say you don't want it." he smiled, nibbling on your nipple.

"n-no- i dont want to be pregnant, i can't- i have to sing!" you moaned, your hips meeting his with every thrust. you bucked your hips on him, did your best not to like it, but you couldn't lie to yourself, it was wonderful.

"if you don't want this then why are you fucking yourself on me?" his answer was a long moan you gave him, your nails scratching his back, burying themselves deep inside him. "god, you're a whore."

"p-pills. i-i need to find my pills!" you squirmed, your cunt tightening around him so deliciously god that you had to bite your bottom lip as to not let anything out- not to let him know you liked it, from his dick inside you to his cum stuffed into you.

"you wont find them," he smiled. "threw them away"

"oh fuck- pull out, p-pull out!!" you squirmed, but it was too leste already, you were cumming on his dick and he was laughing at you while pinching your clit.

"you said you didn't want that"

"i-i don't. i can't, i sing. my entire life revolves around singing"

"not anymore" he came inside you, dick throbbing into your cunt as you squirmed. "just for nome months, you'll be a caged bird."

the idea he pictured to you was terrible. a wife, always in white, drained out from taking care of two babies. even if the feeling of his cum inside you was terribly good, the thought of being a mother was your worse nightmare.

he proposed to you again the next night. and of course you had to accept. being a single mother is never good to a girl who were originally from the districts. a lot of the capitol's people were running their mouth already, saying you seduced him, manipulated him, or whatever it was.

it was the contrary.

but of course they wouldn't know that, not with your wings clipped together for you to not sing your way out.

not with your round belly showing up. not with the two babies on his arm and his. both looked like you both. your nose, his eyes. his mouth, your hair. you loved them.

maybe it wasn't so bad.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

exhibitionism

part V

Pairing: SugarDaddy!Ben x Fem!Reader

Summary: You weren’t just taken out—you were put on display. Ben let them look, let them want, but he never let them touch. He made sure you felt it. The weight of their stares, the slow burn of humiliation mixing with something darker, deeper. You are starting to realise how much that drink really cost.

Warnings: 18+!, Ben once again being his own warning, age gap, language, misogyny, drug consumption, smut (kissing, biting, marking, slapping, dirty talk, clitoral stimulation, overstim, forced orgasms, fingering, handjob, cunnilingus/oral, p in v, cum on face, throttling, rough sex, semi-public sex, somnophilia, sexsomnia, dub-con, orgasm control/denial), mind games, manipulation, degradation, power imbalance, I may have missed some. (There's a bunch in this one, agh!)

Word Count: 6,239

A/N: AHHHH!! I'm not sure I've proofread this properly because my brain feels like it's full of bees. I've had too much caffeine today and after doing so many tattoos at work, I genuinely think the vibration of my machine has done something to my body. Lmao. More of The Boys characters making an appearance, lmk what you thought of that, please. I lowkey (highkey, always highkey) loves writing John. The smarmy piece of shit. We are starting to see what really gets Ben going... and it's a lil bit dangerous, besties. <3 As always, please let me know what ya'll thought, I loved the desperation in this one. I felt it so bad while I was writing it so I hope that's translated across to y'all. You know what's up: if the warnings listed above aren't evident yet? They will be. Until the next one, bbys. All the love.

Without further ado: EXHIBITIONISM

Power is not taken. It is given.

A glance across the bar. A drink set down without a word. A hand at the small of your back, guiding you somewhere you don’t belong.

It starts small—a single indulgence, a breathless yes.

Then, suddenly, you are on display. Draped over his lap, diamonds at your throat, whiskey on your lips. A possession. A prize. A thing to be seen.

Because men like him do not love. They own.

Butcher barely threw the car into park before he jerked his chin toward the door.

"Go on, then. He said to send you straight up." He waved a hand, settling into his seat like he had no intention of moving. "Keepin' the car warm 'til you're ready."

You blinked. "We're leaving as soon as I'm ready?"

"That’s what I just said, innit?"

Your stomach flipped. Of course, Ben had a plan. Of course, he hadn’t told you what it was.

"Thanks again," you murmured before stepping out. Butcher just let out a gruff exhale, shaking his head like you were something both amusing and mildly exhausting.

The building loomed above you, sleek and modern, towering over the street like it owned the entire city. You swallowed, adjusting your bag on your shoulder before stepping inside, the quiet hum of wealth pressing down on you the second you crossed the threshold. The elevator ride was smooth, too smooth, and before you knew it, you were knocking on his penthouse door.

It swung open a second later, and there he was.

Ben.

Looking like every single one of your worst fucking weaknesses wrapped up in dark dress pants and an off-white button-down.

He was mid-motion, rolling his shoulders, adjusting the cuffs, thick forearms flexing as he straightened the fabric over his arms. The way he stood, the way he filled the doorway, exuding heat and control, had your stomach plummeting and your brain short-circuiting all at once.

You didn’t even try to hide the way you gawped. Couldn’t.

His smirk stretched slow, knowing. "Gonna stand there makin’ heart-eyes all night, or are you comin’ in?"

Heat flooded up your neck. You scowled, stepping inside, and Ben huffed a low, indulgent laugh.

"Got your dress ready," he added, shutting the door behind you, towering close as he reached past you to lock it.

You glanced up. "Oh? We’re going out-out?"

His response was a hand on your throat, fingers curling firm against your pulse as he yanked you in, crashing his mouth over yours.

It was messy, all heat and possession, your back hitting the door as he crowded into you, swallowing the tiny noise you made. He kissed you like he was making a fucking point, like he wanted to leave his taste in your mouth, his fingerprints against your skin. By the time he pulled back, his breath was ragged against your lips, and yours was completely fucking wrecked.

Then he grinned. "Yeah, that’s what I thought."

You scowled, breathless, and he laughed, mocking. "Fuckin’ look at you," he murmured, thumb dragging over your jaw. "Gettin’ all shy again. Jesus."

You glared, shoving weakly at his chest, but he only caught your wrist, pressing it flat against the solid heat of him before finally letting go.

"Go shower," he said, still smirking. "Get cleaned up."

You didn’t argue. Just turned on your heel and disappeared into the bathroom, heart still slamming against your ribs.

By the time you emerged, showered, dried, and painted into the deep green dress he’d picked for you, you barely recognised yourself.

The satin draped smooth over your curves, the cowl neckline dipping just enough to tease, the slinky hem skimming high over your thighs. Strappy black heels clicked softly against the floor as you turned in front of the mirror, taking yourself in.

You looked—

Like a fucking fraud. Like someone playing dress-up in a world they didn’t belong to, wrapped in luxury that wasn’t meant for them.

A thick swallow worked down your throat. You curled your hands into fists at your sides, blinking at your own reflection like you could force yourself to believe it.

And then he stepped into the room. You felt it before you saw it—the shift in the air, the weight of his presence sinking deep into your spine. When you turned, he was in the doorway, leaning, watching.

His lips parted slightly, his head tilting, slow and predatory as his gaze dragged over every inch of you.

The heat in his eyes, the slow curl of his lip, the sharp clench of his jaw—

Fuck.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, almost to himself, teeth sinking into his bottom lip like he was already picturing the ways he was gonna ruin you later.

Your breath caught. His stare was unapologetic. Unfiltered. Fucking lethal. Then he pushed off the doorframe, stepping toward you, big hands curling around your waist as he came to stand behind you in the mirror.

"You look good," he murmured, voice low against your ear, grip tightening. "Really fuckin’ good."

A shiver rolled through you. You met his eyes in the reflection, stomach flipping violently. "You think so?"

"Mhm." He hummed, dragging his thumbs over your hipbones before pressing something into your palm.

You blinked. Looked down.

A tiny, ridiculously expensive gift bag.

Your brows furrowed as you peered up at him. "What’s this?"

Ben smirked, reaching into the bag to pull out a velvet case, flipping it open with a casual flick of his wrist. A diamond necklace glittered inside.

Small, delicate, but obviously stupidly fucking expensive.

Your breath hitched, chest tightening as you stared.

"Ben, I—"

"Uh-uh," he cut in, already reaching to take it from the case. "I don’t wanna hear it."

You blinked up at him, lips parting, head shaking slightly. "I can’t—"

He laughed. Actually laughed. Then reached down, gripped your chin, and forced you to look him in the eye.

"You can," he murmured, tone all slow, deep amusement, "and you will."

Your stomach flipped violently. Your pulse slammed.

He stepped behind you again, dragging the delicate chain around your throat, fingers brushing the sides of your neck as he clasped it shut.

When he was done, he met your gaze in the mirror again.

"There," he murmured, hands settling firm on your waist, lips ghosting over your ear. "Now you look like you belong to me."

You couldn't stop staring.

The two of you in the mirror—towering and tiny, dark and delicate, predator and prize.

Ben stood behind you, impossibly broad, impeccably dressed, the stark stretch of white against dark, muscles taut beneath expensive fabric. He filled the frame, wrapped around you, making you look even smaller in comparison. His hands on your waist, large and heavy, branding through the satin of your dress.

You were perfectly put together. Painted, dressed, adorned—

His pretty little doll.

And as if he could hear the exact thought crawling through your head, he hummed, low and knowing, dipping his lips to your ear.

"Look at you." His voice was deep, indulgent, fingers flexing against your ribs. "Look at how well you fit right here."

A shiver rolled through you, sharp and unavoidable, your breathing uneven as he brushed his lips down the side of your throat, slow, teasing. The mirror trapped you in the image, forced you to watch—the way his mouth brushed your skin, the way his teeth grazed, nipped, soothed with heat.

Your pulse stuttered, but you couldn’t look away.

Ben smirked against your jaw. "You like that, huh?" His lips ghosted over your throat, warm, deliberate, possessive. "Like seein' what’s yours?"

Yours. The word shouldn’t have made your stomach flip the way it did.

You swallowed, nails curling into your palms, struggling to catch your breath. Ben didn’t let up. He pressed closer, a slow, consuming thing, his hand splaying flat over your stomach as he let his teeth sink into the side of your neck.

A quiet gasp escaped you. He dragged his tongue over the mark, holding your gaze through the mirror, daring you to break it.

"If we don’t leave now," he murmured, low and dangerous, "we never will." His fingers curled against your hip, slow and threatening. "’Cause I’m gonna rip this pretty fuckin' dress off you."

Your pulse hammered. You nodded. Just once.

His smirk stretched. "Smart girl."

The elevator ride was silent, save for the heavy press of his hand against your back, the occasional flex of his fingers against your waist like he was reminding himself to behave.

By the time you stepped outside, the car was still idling at the curb. Butcher barely looked up as you climbed in, but Ben pulled you in tight the second you hit the seat. One arm curled around your waist, yanking you flush against him, his grip unshakable.

You barely had time to process it before the city started moving past you in a blur of neon and darkness.

Ben was calm, comfortable. One hand on your thigh, the other resting on the door, completely at ease like he was taking you out for a casual drink. Like he hadn’t just spent ten minutes devouring your throat in the mirror.

Your breathing was still uneven, your body too hot, skin too aware of him. He knew it, too. You could feel the way his thumb stroked over your bare thigh, lazy, amused.

You turned your head to look at him, brow furrowing slightly. "Where are we going?"

Ben’s lips quirked. "You’ll see."

You swallowed. Something about the way he said it—something about the anticipation dripping from his voice—made your stomach twist.

You knew the place was exclusive before the car even rolled to a stop.

It loomed ahead of you—dark, sleek, pulsing with bass even from the outside. The kind of place that didn’t have a name on the front, didn’t need one. People at the entrance weren’t waiting. They were being let in, personally.

And as Butcher pulled up, the staff was already waiting.

Ben let out a quiet hum, lips twitching as he nodded toward the door. "Showtime."

The second you stepped out, the world shifted.

The inside was low-lit, throbbing with music, heady with smoke and perfume and expensive liquor. Lush, velvet booths lined the perimeter, sleek gold-lined tables filled with whiskey and cigars, women draped across men like fucking ornaments.

Everything was rich. Everything was power. And the second Ben stepped inside, people noticed. Men, women, staff, patrons—eyes followed. Not just him. You.

Your skin prickled. The barely-there dress suddenly felt like nothing at all, every inch of your exposed skin hypersensitive, aware of the stares, the weight of being seen.

Ben’s grip on your waist tightened.

Your pulse slammed. You swallowed, gaze darting through the dim glow of chandeliers, the soft flicker of candlelight illuminating powerful men surrounded by pretty things.

Ben was one of them.

And you—

Were you one of them too?

Your breath stuttered.

Ben’s fingers flexed against your ribs, warm, grounding. When you looked up at him, he was already watching, already smirking.

Smug. So fucking smug.

His brow ticked up in something almost playful, like he was reading your exact fucking thoughts and confirming them without a word.

Yeah. They’re looking at us.

A slow curl of something hot and unfamiliar twisted deep in your stomach.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a trapped bird trying desperately to escape its confinement within your chest.

The booth Ben led you to was different. Bigger. Elevated. The kind of place that overlooked everything, but just as easily put everything on display.

And as he tugged you forward, your stomach twisted, because this wasn’t just a seat. It was a stage. The men already inside barely reacted to Ben’s arrival. They didn’t have to.

The first was blonde, striking, arrogant as fuck. He lounged back with two stunning girls draped over him, one curled against his side, the other on her knees beside him, stroking a hand over his thigh. He barely looked at them. The second was quieter, confident, composed. He sat with a woman across his lap, her body soft and relaxed against him, eyes half-lidded like she was lost somewhere far away.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them had to.

Ben wasted no time in pleasantries. Instead, he pulled you forward—hard, fast, claiming. Your breath hitched, a startled squeal slipping out as you landed in his lap, gripping the hem of your dress in some desperate attempt at modesty.

Your cheeks burned. The other men watched.

Ben didn’t care. His hand curled firm over your thigh, fingers pressing into the satin, securing you in place.

"John. Earving," Ben said smoothly, nodding once. "This is—"

"It's about time you showed up," the blonde—John—cut in. But his eyes weren’t really on Ben.

They were on you. Flicking, darting, lingering in a way that made your skin crawl. Not subtle. Not polite.

Ben just smirked. Pulled you in closer, like he was reminding John exactly who you belonged to. The pressure of his grip made your pulse stutter, breath catching as he let his fingers flex against your skin. You didn’t know what to do with yourself. Didn’t know where to put your hands, your legs, your fucking eyes.

John leaned back, exhaling slowly through his nose, still watching. Still smirking.

Earving remained silent, only nodding once in your direction—not dismissive, not interested, just acknowledging.

Ben? Ben was comfortable. Completely fucking at ease. "Got caught up," he said casually, voice smug, heavy with knowing.

John’s lips twitched. "Yeah?" His gaze flicked to you, then back to Ben. "Looks like it."

Ben hummed, dragging his palm higher on your thigh, lazy, deliberate.

The conversation flowed from there—smooth, rich with arrogance, an unspoken pissing contest that Ben won without even trying. John had this restless energy, the kind that made him lean in when he spoke, like he was always in the middle of some game, some unspoken chess-match, some performance.

But Ben just fucking was. Effortless. Smirking. Sitting like a king with you draped over him, completely unmoved by John’s little one-upmanship.

Earving only spoke when necessary, his voice low, even, unbothered. He didn’t need to prove anything.

John, however, thrived on it. The back-and-forth between him and Ben was sharp, competitive, smug as hell.

You weren’t really listening. Not properly. Because even though Ben was talking, his hand hadn’t left your thigh. Even though his attention was elsewhere, he was still holding you down, still keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

And the worst part?

You were hyper-aware of it.

Of the way the fabric of your dress rode higher. Of the way his fingers curled, flexed, pressed deep into muscle.

It was too much. Too tight, too possessive, too on display.

John murmured something low, something you didn’t catch, but it made Ben chuckle. He smoothed his palm over your leg, let it linger.

"Not this one," Ben said.

John raised a brow, sending a quick glance toward the dance floor before looking back. "Shame."

You blinked, stomach flipping in something sharp, unfamiliar. John had sent his girls away. Earving had, too. But Ben hadn’t let you go.

John’s smirk deepened. He leaned back, exhaling slow. "You always were possessive, Benny."

Ben just laughed. Not a real one. Not a full one. Just a low, indulgent exhale as he squeezed your thigh, pulling you even closer.

And all you could do was sit there—stuck, displayed, knowing you were being fucking ogled and not sure if you hated it, liked it, or couldn’t even tell the difference anymore.

You barely heard the conversation.

Ben’s grip on your thigh hadn’t loosened, hadn’t eased—not even when the conversation between him and John turned easy, almost entertaining. It was a game between them, an unspoken back-and-forth, a competition Ben didn’t even have to try to win.

But he wasn’t just talking.

His free hand, the one that wasn’t still curled possessively around your thigh, drifted up, slow and absent, fingers ghosting over your shoulder. Tugging. Adjusting. Moving your hair aside until the side of your neck was bare, open, exposed.

And then—

His lips. They brushed, barely there, over the curve of your throat. A slow, deliberate pressure, not really a kiss, not really not.

You inhaled sharply.

Ben exhaled warm against your skin, humming low in acknowledgment to something John said, like this was nothing, like he wasn’t doing anything at all.

Like he wasn’t dragging you under, deeper, deeper.

His mouth brushed again, then pressed firmer, lingering. Then—teeth. A slow graze, a teasing nip, just enough to make your breath falter, to send a sharp twist of heat straight to your stomach.

Like you weren’t even there. Like this was just a habit, a mindless touch, something he didn’t even have to think about.

You swallowed hard, body tight, tense, curling in on itself even as your thighs pressed together.

He wasn’t listening to you. He wasn’t even acknowledging you. But at the same time, he was. A kiss, a nip, the briefest scrape of teeth before he soothed the mark with his tongue. Your fingers curled into your lap. You could barely sit still.

And then John spoke, and you realised he was actually talking to you.

"Lucky girl."

You blinked, awareness snapping back into sharp focus, stomach twisting when you found John watching you.

The way he was watching you.

Ben’s mouth didn’t stop. Another slow, open-mouthed drag against your neck, the faintest scrape of teeth before his tongue flicked soft against the spot he’d just nipped.

You cleared your throat, or tried to, heat pressing up, up, up.

"I—" You swallowed, steadied yourself. "I do consider myself lucky."

John hummed, slow and mocking. His gaze dragged over you in a way that made your skin prickle, crawl, burn.

Overt. Obvious.

Like he was peeling you apart, layer by layer, undressing you right there.

Your stomach lurched.

"And what is it you do, sweetheart?" He asked, voice all faux charm.

You hesitated. Ben squeezed your thigh.

"College student," you murmured.

The second the words left your mouth, John’s entire expression shifted. His eyes flicked to Ben, grinning wide, mockingly delighted, as he clapped his hands together in faux celebration.

"Ohhh, Benjamin’s got himself a little college pet!" He cooed, voice dripping with amusement.

Your stomach dropped.

Ben’s mouth stilled against your neck. His fingers flexed tight into your thigh. Then he bit. Sharp, sudden, full teeth sinking in just enough to make you jolt, make you gasp.

John just laughed. "Ah, come on. Don’t give me that look! You’re the one parading her around like this."

Ben lifted his head just slightly, lazily, unbothered. He exhaled slow against your neck, then smirked as he turned to John. "She’s not my pet," he muttered against your skin, lips warm, hands tightening against your thigh.

John just laughed, leaning back into the booth, shaking his head. "Oh, you could’ve fooled me, Ben. You’re about ready to fuck into her right here in front of everyone, aren’t you?"

The breath in your lungs turned sharp.

Ben laughed. Loud. "Yeah," he admitted easily, almost shamelessly, before grinning against your throat.

Your breath caught. Heat roiled deep in your gut.

"But it’s her fault," Ben continued, voice low, indulgent. His fingers curled against your hip, gripping tight. "Such a perfect little doll."

Your pulse faltered.

John hummed, taking another slow sip of his drink, waiting, watching.

Ben pressed his mouth against your neck one last time, lips trailing up to your jaw, barely ghosting against your skin as he spoke.

"I mean, fuckin’ look at her," he muttered, almost to himself, almost like he forgot anyone else was in the room.

His grip on you tightened. His voice turned ragged, something low and heated and uncontrollable slipping through the cracks.

"Goddamn it," he exhaled. "Of course I’m ready to fuck into her right now."

Your stomach twisted. Mortified. Objectified. Completely on display. And yet—the way Ben held you, the way he spoke about you like you were something he owned, something he could barely control himself around—

Your thighs clenched involuntarily, heat pooling deep, unbearable. You hated it. You loved it.

And Ben? Ben knew.

John scoffed, shaking his head, his smirk curling sharp, cruel, his gaze sliding over you like something oily, invasive, lingering too long in places he had no business looking. "You’re really not gonna share?"

The words slithered between you like something sickly, decadent, wrong. A test. A provocation. A taunt that was only half a joke.

Ben’s body went rigid.

He growled.

Low, guttural, animalistic. It rumbled through his chest, vibrated beneath your spine where you sat curled against him, the sound dragging over your skin like a brand, like a warning. Primal. Possessive. Final.

Your breath caught.

John’s eyes lit up, going wide and gleeful, something almost manic in the way he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, watching Ben like he’d just discovered a new favourite toy. Delighted. Dangerous. Unhinged.

"Jesus, Benny," he laughed, his smirk stretching, voice laced with a sick sort of amusement. Hungry. "Did you just fucking growl at me?"

Ben didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His fingers flexed against your thigh, his grip going tight, unyielding, and then his voice dropped, rough and rasped at the edges, a single word.

"Mine."

Your stomach flipped. A slow, dizzying spiral, plunging straight down.

John exhaled hard through his nose, shaking his head, laughing, his tongue running along his teeth before he leaned back again, stretching lazily. "Christ, you’re no fun anymore," he tsked, waving a dismissive hand. "Didn’t think you got this territorial."

Your head spun. Your breath hitched.

Ben had always been possessive, yes, but this? This was different. This was dangerous. A claim being laid with teeth and hands and the weight of his body caging you in, forcing you to feel the gravity of it. Of him.

And before you could fully process it, before your lungs could catch up with your racing pulse, his fingers drifted higher.

Your entire body went stiff, your breath choking short in your throat, your hands flying to his wrist, weak and useless, a pitiful attempt to stop him.

Ben barely reacted. Just gripped you harder.

"Be a fuckin’ good girl," he murmured, voice silken, razor-edged, dragging the words through your skin, through your bones, making them settle low, thick, intoxicating.

Your pulse pounded. Your legs clenched. Your vision swam.

Ben hummed low in his throat, pleased, his thumb pressing, dragging, toying.

John watched. All amusement, all smirk, all entertained indulgence.

"That’s the Benjamin I remember," he muttered, shaking his head. "Fucking insatiable."

Heat crawled up your throat, something searing and unbearable pressing against your ribcage, tangling into something hot and needy at the pit of your stomach. Shame and want warring, devouring each other in real time.

"Not gettin’ her cunt out," Ben muttered, his thumb circling slow, lazy, menacing. "Just touchin’ what’s mine."

Your stomach plummeted.

John chuckled, his fingers tapping against his knee, entirely unbothered, entirely too fucking entertained.

Ben’s voice dipped even lower, his grip tightening, his lips ghosting against the shell of your ear.

"Don’t give a fuck who’s watchin’."

Your world tilted. Your body was hot and tight and drowning, sinking, suffocating under the weight of it all.

And Ben was dragging you under.

The pressure built too fast.

Ben’s fingers moved slow, measured, knowing exactly where to press, exactly how much pressure to give, exactly how to unravel you in the palm of his hand. Casual and cruel all at once.

Your breath stuttered, hips shifting involuntarily, the sensation too much, too tight, too overwhelming. It hit you like a storm breaking open over your skin, rolling over you in thick, suffocating waves.

And Ben knew. Of course he knew.

His smirk stretched against the shell of your ear, pleased, smug, like he could feel the way you were starting to tremble, like he could hear every sharp inhale, every hitched breath, every tiny, humiliating little sound your body made for him.

You felt the exact moment he figured it out—the second his thumb pressed just right, just deep enough, and your stomach clenched, your pulse hammering, your body tightening as you neared the edge too fast.

Then he stopped. Completely. Pulled his hand away like he was done, like he was fucking bored.

You nearly whined. Nearly.

A rush of relief and frustration collided in your chest, mortified at how close you’d been, how he’d wound you up and let you dangle, hanging in that unbearable space between ruin and relief.

Your thighs squeezed together instinctively, an attempt to hold onto something, to chase what he’d taken away.

Ben just chuckled under his breath. Like he knew exactly what you were doing. His hand stayed on you, just resting against your thigh now, possessive in a way that said you don’t get to move unless I tell you to.

Then, like nothing had happened, he raised a lazy hand to flag down a passing staff member.

"Whiskey," he muttered, a single flick of his fingers. "Two bottles."

The server nodded, quick and efficient, disappearing back into the dark.

Your chest heaved, the absence of his touch almost worse than its presence, your nerves still alight, still aching.

Ben said nothing at first, just let the silence stretch, let you sit in it, simmer in it.

Then the server was back, placing two deep amber bottles onto the low table beside you. Ben grabbed one, popped the top, and poured you a glass first, an ice cube clinking softly against the crystal.

He held it out, fingers wrapped around the rim, eyes heavy-lidded, watching you. Waiting.

"Drink up," he murmured.

You took it without thinking, lifting the glass to your lips, letting the burn hit your tongue, your throat, trailing heat all the way down to the pit of your stomach.

And fuck—

Your entire body sighed. The tension inside you loosened, just slightly, enough for you to exhale, to let your head drop back against his shoulder in something blissful, unguarded.

Ben let out a low groan. His hand slid up, fingers threading into your hair, his breath fanning hot over your temple as he inhaled, deep and slow.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, his voice thick, gritted with something molten. "It’s so fuckin’ hot that you drink whiskey like that."

A slow ripple of something dangerous rolled down your spine.

He smirked, dragging his nose against your hair before reaching for his own glass, knocking back his whiskey in one smooth motion. No hesitation. No reaction. Just heat and control and power.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he poured another for himself, and another for you.

You took it without a word. Let the burn settle deep in your stomach. Let the moment wrap around you like a second skin, thick and golden and suffocating.

John exhaled a laugh, breaking the silence. "You are..." he started, smirking, tongue flicking out over his lower lip, head tilting slightly as he watched you. "Very interesting."

Your pulse skipped.

Ben’s fingers flexed against your hip. Hard.

John grinned, leaning forward slightly, tipping his glass in your direction before knocking it back. "Don’t see Benny like this with his girls."

Ben went still.

Then—

"Shut the fuck up, John."

The words were low, sharp, dangerous.

John just laughed, shaking his head, waving a dismissive hand, but his eyes were still locked on you, still watching. Still pushing.

"Oh, come on," he drawled, smirking. "What, am I not allowed to be a little curious?"

Ben’s fingers dug in harder.

John leaned in, his eyes flashing, something electric dancing beneath his smirk. "She’s different."

Your breath hitched. Ben’s hand tightened at your waist, keeping you anchored, grounded, owned.

John grinned. "You don’t like that I noticed, huh?"

Ben’s jaw flexed, something dark flickering through his expression.

John only laughed again, shaking his head. Still pushing.

"Didn’t peg you for the sentimental type, Benjamin. Thought you kept them at arm’s length. You know, fuck them, leave them, let them float away."

Ben smirked, slow and dangerous. Teeth bared, but not a hint of humour in his eyes.

"Not this one."

Your stomach flipped.

John hummed, tilting his head. "Oh? And what makes her so special?"

Ben didn’t answer right away. Just knocked back his whiskey. Then leaned in, lips ghosting against your ear.

"You feel it, don’t you?" He murmured, voice low, private, meant for you and you alone. "What we are."

Your pulse slammed.

John kept smirking. Waiting. Watching.

And you? You just sat there, head spinning, whiskey burning in your stomach, Ben’s hands branding you into his lap, knowing, without a doubt, that something had shifted.

Something irreversible. And there was no coming back from it now.

Time blurred.

John needled at Ben a little longer, smug and relentless, but eventually, the dynamic shifted. The girls came back, slipping into their places, curling against laps, draping over broad shoulders like living adornments. Earving’s remained quiet, content, while John’s giggled and whispered, feeding his ego as they sank back into his orbit.

Ben kept one bottle of whiskey for the two of you and lazily slid the other across the table to the other men. A wordless gesture. A statement.

He let you drink two more glasses—two more slow burns down your throat, spreading warmth in your stomach, making you soft, languid.

Then, just as you reached for a third, his hand caught yours, steady, firm.

"That’s enough," he muttered, voice low against your ear.

You blinked up at him, lips parting, a protest forming—but he was already shaking his head, smirking.

"I know you can handle your liquor, sweetheart," he murmured, thumb stroking the inside of your wrist, deliberate, knowing. "But I got plans for you when we get home."

You shivered. Not just at his touch, not just at his voice, but at the way he said it.

Home.

Like his penthouse was yours, too. Your stomach dipped.

Ben felt it. Of course he did. His smirk stretched just slightly before he let your wrist go, returning to his drink like nothing had happened.

And then he started on his earlier torture again. His hand drifted under the table, casual, absent, curling around your thigh, stroking smooth against the satin. A tease. A promise.

And then he pushed higher. Pressed. Moved.

A sharp inhale caught in your throat as he touched you exactly where you needed him, exactly how you needed him. Heat bloomed, sharp and unbearable, and your hips shifted, desperate for more.

Ben felt it. And then, just when you were about to shatter—he stopped. Again.

Your breath stuttered, frustration burning hot in your chest, a humiliating twist of need curling low in your stomach.

Ben just smirked. He kept you like that. On edge, wanting, hovering at the precipice but never letting you fall. Again and again, he built you up—featherlight strokes, pressure in all the right places, letting you drown in the sensation until you were trembling.

And then? Gone. Every time, just before the crest, just before relief, he ripped it away, left you raw, left you aching.

Your head was spinning. Your breath came uneven, your hands gripping his thigh, your entire body coiled so tight you thought you might snap.

Then, finally—finally—he leaned in, lips ghosting against your ear, his voice low, guttural, wicked.

"Gotta get you home," he muttered, gravel and heat, dragging slow against your skin. "Need you fuckin' stuffed. Startin' to hurt over here."

Your stomach plummeted.

You barely registered the moment he called it a night, barely lifted your head to nod your farewell to John, Earving, and their companions before Ben was pulling you up, dragging you out of the booth, guiding you through the club with a hand firm on your waist.

The second the door shut behind you, the second you were outside, his grip tightened.

You barely had time to breathe before he hauled you straight into the backseat of his car, hands groping, gripping, pulling you into his lap like he didn’t give a single fuck about anything else.

"Ben—" you started, shifting, squirming, embarrassed.

"Stop bein' a fuckin’ pussy," he muttered, low and sharp, before shoving his tongue into your mouth.

You gasped, but the sound was swallowed immediately, overtaken by the press of his lips, the dominance of his grip, the heat radiating off of him in waves.

His hands were everywhere—gripping your ass, fisting your dress, dragging you forward until there was nothing between you, just friction and heat and the thick, hard line of his cock against your thigh.

Your body reacted before your brain could keep up. A slow, shattering surrender. Butcher cleared his throat from the driver’s seat. Ben barely acknowledged him.

Butcher exhaled a gruff, amused huff. "Get a room, would ya?"

Ben broke the kiss only long enough to glare over your shoulder. "Shut the fuck up and do your job."

Butcher chuckled. "Real fuckin’ romantic, mate."

Ben growled, his grip tightening at your waist. "Keep talkin’, see what fuckin' happens."

Butcher just laughed again, shaking his head as he pulled into the city, weaving through traffic like this was the most normal night in the world.

Your mind was a blur. Ben didn’t stop touching you. Didn’t stop gripping, squeezing, dragging his hands over you like he was barely holding himself back.

And then the car slowed. The building loomed. Before you could register it, Ben had the door open, lifting you with ease, hoisting you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

"Ben—!" You gasped, squirming as he clamped a hand on the back of your thigh, keeping you still.

"Shut up," he muttered, completely unbothered, completely in control.

Butcher rolled his eyes, shouting out the window, as he threw the car into park. "I ain’t comin' up there to help if you fuck her unconscious, mate. Just so we’re clear."

Ben smirked, stepping inside the building, heading straight for the elevator. "Don’t worry, pal. I fuckin' got her."

Your stomach twisted, heat pooling thick and unbearable, nerves coiling tight.

Because you knew. You knew. You weren’t walking out of that penthouse in the same condition you came in.

The elevator doors had barely started to slide open before Ben was moving. A force of nature, a storm breaking open, hands and heat and unrelenting hunger. He stumbled out backwards, dragging you with him, his grip unyielding, his mouth already back on your throat, biting, licking, sucking, marking.

And then—

He shoved you into the wall. Hard. The impact sent a shockwave through your bones, a sharp gasp tearing from your lips as your spine hit the cold surface, your head tilting back—

And something crashed to the floor beside you.

Art. Priceless. Elegant.

Shattered.

Ben didn’t even fucking notice. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t care.

His mouth was everywhere—jaw, throat, collarbone, sinking in, taking, devouring. His teeth broke skin, sharp and unrelenting, and you whimpered, body arching into him, head spinning, your nails digging into the fabric at his shoulders, the scent of whiskey, musk, sweat, desire thick between you.

You barely had time to process the pain before he was gripping your hair, yanking your head to the side, tugging at your dress, your panties, his fingers tearing, dragging, ruining everything in his path.

Another impact. Another thud. Another piece of art sent crashing to the ground.

The hallway was just that—a hallway, leading only to his penthouse suite. No neighbours. No audience. Just you and him and the destruction in his wake.

And then the door. Ben barely got it open before he was stumbling inside, dragging you with him, the door slamming shut so hard it rattled in its frame.

You barely caught a glimpse of the dim lighting, the scattered remnants of whatever chaos he’d left behind earlier before he tripped. An empty bottle. A careless misstep. His body tilted, his grip tightened, and suddenly the world flipped.

You landed on top of him, his back hitting the ground with a solid, air-knocking thud, his hands still gripping your waist, his chest rising hard and fast beneath you.

"Ben—" you gasped, immediately bracing your hands on his chest. Worried. "Are you—"

He cut you off with a sharp tug to your hair, yanking you down until your lips crashed over his, swallowing whatever concern you might have had.

"Not a fuckin’ pussy," he muttered against your mouth, before sucking your tongue into his own, biting it, tasting it, claiming it.

You whimpered, hips shifting over him, needing, desperate, gone.

His hands were already moving. A rough yank—seam tearing, fabric giving, your panties ruined in his grip. Another shift—his belt unbuckling, his pants shoved down just enough, all harsh movement, all impatience, all fucking need.

And then—

He rutted up against you, hard, frantic, desperate, panting.

Not inside. Not yet. Just dragging against you, pressing against where you were already soaked, already aching.

You moaned. Loud. Unfiltered. Gone.

He growled, gripping your hips, dragging you against him, fucking up into you with no rhythm, no thought, no control.

Just desperation.

Ben didn’t waste a single second. Didn’t pause, didn’t give you time to adjust—just grabbed your hips, slammed you down onto him, and fucked up into you so hard it made your vision white out.

You were already too far gone, too strung out, too desperate. Hours—hours—of build-up, denial, his hands on you, keeping you teetering on the edge just to shove you back down.

Now? He wasn’t stopping.

His pace was blistering, brutal, relentless. Each thrust punching sharp little noises from your throat, your hands splaying against his chest, your nails digging deep, useless at slowing him down.

"Fuckin’ liked showin' you off," he growled, voice raw, shredded at the edges. Possessive. Mean.

Your breath caught.

Ben’s grip tightened, his fingers branding, his rhythm punishing.

"Made those cocksuckers jealous. Lookin’ at you. Wantin' you."

Your head spun, your stomach twisting at his words, at the way he said them—gritted, wrecked, adoring. You gasped, clenching around him, and Ben felt it.

His teeth flashed, baring, snarling. "Yeah. You like that, huh? Like knowin' they fuckin' wanted you?"

His thumb dragged down, pressed against your clit, started circling, teasing.

You screamed.

Ben groaned, wrecked and hungry and full of need. "Fuckin’ perfect," he muttered, almost to himself, his eyes glued to your face, watching you, devouring you.

Then, his lips curled—sharp, filthy, taunting.

"So fuckin’ good for me. Lettin' me show you off. Lettin' me own you in front of them." His thumb pressed harder, his pace somehow rougher, deeper, faster. "Good fuckin’ girl."

Your nails scraped, raked, dug in. Your body trembled, locking up, curling in on itself.

"That’s it," he murmured, voice thick, sinful, reverent. "That’s my fuckin’ girl. Look at you. Fuck. So good. So wet. So fuckin’ perfect."

It was too much.

The tension snapped. Your orgasm hit fast, overwhelming, shattering, tearing a raw sob from your throat as you came apart around him.

Ben groaned, deep and guttural, his hands dragging you down, holding you there, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

"That’s it, doll," he murmured through gritted teeth, his jaw tight, his pupils blown wide, ravenous.

And then—

"Shit—fuck—can’t hold out, sorry, baby—"

A rough yank. A sharp thrust. Ben dragged you down, buried himself deep, and spilled inside you with a growl that rattled the fucking floor.

His body shook, his hands gripping you so tight you knew you’d have bruises. He was panting, wrecked, shaking, staring up at you like you were the only fucking thing that existed. And then his lips curled into a sneer, his voice dropping, wrecked and ruined and filthy.

"Fuck. Made for me. So fuckin’ tight." He exhaled sharp through his nose, eyes still locked onto yours. "Jesus Christ, baby, I think I just saw God."

You barely had time to breathe before he grabbed your jaw, pulled you down, and crashed his lips over yours again.

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah. @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @kayleighwinchester @lyarr24 @imtheworst123 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @ohgodimgoungtodie @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads <3

[twiniverse]

Extended Alternate Twiniverse!

Many years ago now I was a tiny au artist I had the idea "Hey, what if my AU but OTHER AUs?" It started with Bad Prediction Nora, since that was a pretty logical step! And obviously I had to do the White Diamond Nora using Earl instead of CGPearl, I mean, how could I not? Duh, right?

I always loved those designs, I don't know why. But they stuck with me. And some years later it happened again. I don't know why but I saw the Walk the Line comic and its sad old wet paper bag of a Steven and I just had to give him a Nora, too. And so Faerie of the Monster Line was created and the Alternate Twiniverse was officially born. It had gone from just a couple fun sketches to something recognisable. And the important thing to know about Walk the Line is... there's more lines. I was invested at this point... and with the backing of a very rabid fan named Nova I kept going.

So then came the idea... I already had Druid's Nora. I was halfway there. Next we needed Sven's Nora, named Noma Moss Universe. A daughter of not a Pearl, but a Spinel! And let me be frank, her design was fire. They all were. But none so much as the fifth entry into the Alternate Twiniverse...

Fate. A fusion of Faerie and Noma named Nova Universe after that megafan because I wouldn't have gotten there without him and it just made sense. I LOVE Fate's design. I can't tell you how much I love her design. She has some sort of control/cosmic entwinement with the mind butterflies in SU. Nugget and I both imagined her being able to move in a butterfly cloud like in Mindful Education where a bunch of the butterflies turn into one BIG butterfly. She can also use them like the canon Gem communicators.

So then there were five. Five Noras- well, three Noras, a Noma, and a Nova. And I adore them, I love them so much, they are so special to me. But something was missing...

A final piece...

So this piece is introducing the latest entry into the Extended Alternate Twiniverse: The Nora from Nova's own Astra AU. In this unfathomably far future she exists as an entity within a necklace that this Steven wears. Is she alive? Can she communicate? Is the spirit within it truly Nora or only a small piece of her? Only Astra knows.

I extend eternal gratitude to @nugatorysheep @thechekhov @jigokuhana & @wilted3sunflowers and @novantinuum for bringing their amazing worlds to our fandom and for inspiring me to grow Twiniverse every day.

Beneath the cut I'll include the reference sheets from the ones that have them. Astra's doesn't because... that's all there is of her, and Noma has 2 (ignore Star, Moss is the correct name). Enjoy!

[picturejasper20]

Steven Universe as a character is someone who has been mischaracterized and flanderized over the years, to the point people who aren't into the fandom or haven't watched the show believe that mischaracterization to be a fact rather that a product that comes from memes and jokes

The truth is that Steven often fights in the series when it is needed, usually by fusing with someone else like Connie or Amethyst since he is still developing his powers in the original series. He doesn't cry when he has to fight back or defend himself, with exception if the person attacking is someone he considers a friend. Because, yes, for a 14-15 old teenager it isn't fun having to do something like that and it can be traumatic.

He also doesn't start to cry the moment someone refuses to change their mind or is being mean. He often isn't afraid to be sarcastic or call that person out. He didn't cry when Aquamarine mocked him in ¨Stuck Together¨ nor when Jasper didn't apologize for poofing Amethyst in ¨Crack the Whip¨

However, what we see is sometimes him blaming himself for not being able to help people that, more often than not, have been hurt by Rose Quartz, his mother, in some way. After Season 3, Steven fears a lot that he is going to become like Rose and he is going to hurt people the way like she did.

In general Steven deals with an Atlas complex in the show. He feels like he has to fix his mother mistakes and deal with ¨what she left behind¨ even when Rose wanted for him to be his own person as seen in the tape she left for him as it was revealed in the episode ¨Lion 4: The Alternate Ending¨.

Steven also defines his identity a lot for being to help other people and fix their problems. He believes that he has to be ¨useful¨ for others. So when he believes that he failed to help someone, that may lead him to think that he isn't living up to his ¨purpose¨ or that he is a failure as a person.

In reality, he isn't that much different from other hero protagonists from other animated shows. Those who are kind and emphatic and willing to listen to other people and give them a second chance if the person changes their ways. You probably like an animated show that has a protagonist like this. (Who was probably taken inspiration from Steven if the series came out after SU).

The main difference, i think, is that Steven goes a bit more than those protagonists do when it comes to listening to other people, understand their motivations and give them another chance if they regret their actions. A lot has to do with how he is aware that his enemies (usually gems) act the way the do because of the system they were born into rather ¨they are evil just because¨. He gets that their motivations come from the system that hurt them or lead them to believe that their actions are justified.

Another common mischaracterization is that Steven becomes super buddies with every person he helps...when this isn't always the case. There are some occasions that Steven shows discomfort around people who he has given a second chance. Just because he gives them a second chance doesn't mean that he immediately considers them close friends, maybe allies at best.

A good example of this is the gif above of Steven's interactions with White Diamond in ¨Homeworld Bound¨. White Diamond touches Steven very close to where his gem is- which makes Steven distressed since in his battle again White, she ripped his gem out to prove that Pink was still ¨alive¨. In most of the episode Steven shows to be very uncomfortable around the Diamonds and Spinel, to some extent. They bring him bad memories, which is the main reason he has been doing everything to avoid going to them to ask for their help until this point in Steven Universe Future. He even almost accidentally hurts White's gem by smashing her head against a pillar when she lets him control her to talk to himself. This being result of a intrusive ¨vengeful¨ thought.

I wouldn't say that Steven hates the Diamonds,but- he doesn't want to be their friend neither and wants to avoid in general because he feels nervous and bad around them. It's something like ¨I'm glad that you are changing but i don't want to be associated with you. Please, i would appreciate if you kept your distance from me.¨ dynamic.

On last point, Steven is someone who usually pushes his feelings down in certain situations and buries them down, which has led him to have strong emotional outbursts in bad moments. He usually prefers to ignore his own problems and take priority on others. Again, this comes a lot from his desire to be useful and be needed, making him trying to ignore how he feels about certain people and pretend that he is doing fine.

This explains why we don't see him lash out that much to others in the original series, and, why he feels so frustrated and angry in Future, since all that anger and negative feelings can't no longer be ignored as they used to and they are having a negative impact in Steven's mental health. This, of course, isn't meant to be seen is a healthy coping mechanism. It is in fact potrayed as something pretty self-destructive for Steven, as a huge flaw of his, that over time he comes to learn that it isn't the best way for him to deal with his problems.

These are some of the most common misconceptions i have seen about Steven's character online. I could go in more depth with some of them but i think the points should be clear enough. This could be considered a general analysis of how Steven is as a character and how he operates, leaving aside more specific things that can be covered in other posts.

[noirsdoll]

inspired by this anon ask!!

-> pretty please? part two

all aboard! | the dinner party | room for three | nothing even matters

pairing: curly x wife!reader

words: 3.0k

tags: dubcon, referenced rape, baby trapping, semi-public sexual stuff, mentions of jimmy’s abuse towards anya, anya gets an abortion, reader is the worst person alive, there’s an actual smut scene this time, no crash au

notes: wasn’t planning on writing a second part but the brainrot got sooo bad uh reader gets even worse imo… writing the anya part caused me physical pain IM SORRY also i need to walk all over curly he’s so…

read it on ao3

Mrs. Grant Curly.

It sounds just as good as it feels. When Pony Express became fully automated, you lost your job just like everybody else. You were lucky that, when the dust settled, you’d made your mark on Curly.

Walking down the cargo ramp, displaying your fresh baby bump, courtesy of him, you've never felt more secure. Sure, Curly proposed to you more out of necessity than want and you got married at the courthouse, but you don’t care. That white picket fence dream you’d been chasing is now a reality.

Of course, you’re the one that cooks and cleans around the house— you didn’t expect anything less, you were sure that Curly had a housewife fantasy rolling around somewhere in that empty head of his. It’s nice, it keeps your hands busy and your mind free, because while he might be the one ordering you around, you’ve never felt more in control in your entire life.

You’re having the former crew over for dinner at your shared house, tonight. Fortunately, Jimmy got locked up for what he did to Anya quickly after the Tulpar’s touchdown, so you won't be seeing him for half a year, at least. The attendees are you, Anya, Daisuke, Swansea, and your lovely husband, Curly.

You cling to Curly’s arm, beckoning everyone in. Your guests crowd around you, admiring the ring Curly wrapped around your finger. A glittering diamond, so heavy it weighs down your hand. Curly smiles awkwardly.

“Wow, it’s gorgeous!” Anya says, with a clear hint of jealousy. You got a ring out of that trip and she gets an abortion.

“Damn, the Captain must be loaded!” Daisuke exclaims, tugging your hand closer for a better inspection.

Swansea nods. “It’s a good investment. You seem like a hard worker.”

“The hardest,” you say with a grin and a coy glance at Curly. “Dinner’s on the table. Pot roast.”

Everyone tucks in, one of the few non-synthetic meals they’ve had since their return to Earth, except for Daisuke, of course. You wonder how much his mom earns and how much it differs from Curly. For all you know, he could be a basement dweller for the rest of his life with no worries.

Curly sits beside you, eating quietly. With your free hand, you trail it up his thigh. You’ve touched him so many times before, but he still freezes up a little. Fortunately, you’ve done it enough that he knows better than to say anything, continuing to eat, albeit stiffer.

Your hand passes over his cock, right over the fabric of his nice suit. He looks so good in dinner formal— that tailored suit hugs his waist and somehow contains his tits. You’re glad you married him.

You hold a conversation with Swansea– something about gas prices and advice about your future kid— all with your hand gently running along the line of Curly’s dick. You honestly don’t care if they see, your cooking is good enough of a distraction.

You turn to look at the side opposite Curly and see Daisuke staring. Not at you, but at your hand— the one on Curly’s cock.

The both of you lock eyes and he looks away, his tan skin flushed rouge. You watch him for a moment, intrigued, slowly pulling away.

Nothing else happens for the rest of dinner, everyone migrates to the living room afterwards. Swansea’s showing Curly something in the garage and Anya’s in the washroom, so that just leaves you and Daisuke.

You lean back on the couch beside Daisuke. “So… what’re you doing now that the Tulpar’s done for?”

He rubs the back of his neck, wearing a suit— an expensive, designer one. “I dunno, Swansea’s having me join his freelancing business— and I think he’s great and all but like, I’m nowhere on his level.”

“I think you’re pretty capable, Daisuke,” you smile. “If not, I’m sure my husband can network you somewhere.”

Daisuke glances down at your pregnant stomach and back up. “So, you and the captain, you’re really like, married and all that?”

“Yeah, why?”

“No, nothing, it’s just— it seems kinda out of nowhere.” He shrugs, looking away. “You really spooked us when you announced it on the ship.”

“We’d been together for a while, it’s only natural that something would happen,” you laugh. You expected it to— you’d have poked holes in his condoms if he had them.

Daisuke swallows. “How long have you been together?”

You think for a moment. “Since maybe about… halfway through the trip? We just couldn’t keep our hands off of each other, really.”

“Oh, wow, that long?” He looks at you with a furrowed brow, contemplating.

“Yeah… is something wrong?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “I just feel stupid for not noticing.

“You’re not stupid, Daisuke. I said you were capable, remember?” You grin. “He just likes to keep things private, you know?”

“Private? But you two were…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Is he talking about what he saw at the dinner table?

Daisuke glances past you and you hear footsteps, it must be Curly and Swansea returning from the garage.

You decide to play a game.

“... so then I figured I’d return to my roots. Go back to being a car mechanic,” Swansea says, halfway buried in a cardboard box.

“Right…” Curly holds the box steady for him, watching Swansea root through his spare tools like a raccoon.

Swansea springs up with a new wrench in hand— one that looks exactly like all the others he’s found laying around in Curly’s garage. “The missus wants me back to work already. Can you believe her?”

“It’ll be good for your joints,” Curly says, setting the box down.

Swansea tosses the newfound wrench into the pile of all the other hammers and pliers and wires. It thunks against the dull metal. Curly pats the dust off his suit, Swansea doesn’t seem to be worried about the condition of his own.

“Nah, she just wants to nag. She’s good at nagging.” Swansea laughs, patting Curly on the back and knocking the wind out of his lungs. “Get used to that, huh? You keep telling yourself it’ll end eventually and it never does.”

Curly takes a moment to regain his breath. “Thank you, but she doesn’t nag.” You do something far worse than nag.

“Yeah? Well, it’ll be something or another. It always is with women.” He pops his back, groaning. Swansea gestures to his pile of knick-knacks with his head. “I’ll have these all back to you by the end of the month.”

Curly nods. “Thanks, Swansea.” He’s never seeing those tools again.

After hauling it all to Swansea’s rusty pickup, they head to the living room. That’s where Curly sees you and Daisuke. He hears you too, and he wishes he couldn’t.

“Oh, you’re talking about me feeling him up during dinner? Yeah, Curly’s into being humiliated. He always has me do stuff like that when we’re in public.” You shrug. “I think it’s nasty, but you know, gotta keep the husband happy.”

Curly stops dead in his tracks, unsure of what to do or say. It’s like a car crash, all he can do is watch, powerless to stop the careening vehicle.

“So… you do stuff like that all the time?” Daisuke’s voice is shaky, breathless.

“Yeah, most couples roleplay.” You look so at ease. Curly feels sick. “Have you ever tried anything like that, Daisuke?”

“What?! I, uh, no, I haven’t.”

“That’s a shame. I’m sure if I talked to him, you and I could work something out—”

“Honey?” By some force of God, he’s compelled to speak, walking forward to the both of you.

You turn to him, your eyes lighting up. Curly would be flattered if he didn’t know your true intentions. Time with you has told him one thing— you’re constantly scheming. This is your newest one. But why drag Daisuke into this? Just to spite him?

Maybe you’re switching targets. That could be a good thing, but Curly can’t bring himself to feel that way– especially when it’d just be another person getting hurt in his stead.

He was never hurt. You’re a pretty girl, of course he’s wanted it, he was just confused. That’s why he never pushed you off, that’s what makes it all okay.

“Ah, there’s the man of the hour,” you smile, “we were just talking about you, nothing important.”

Curly glances from you to Daisuke, whose eyes are so wide they swallow up his whole face. “Yeah, had a feeling you were. Why don’t you go check on Anya? Swansea and I have some business stuff to talk to Daisuke about and I doubt you want to be around for that.”

“Of course,” you beam, getting on your tiptoes to kiss him. You leave with a flurry of your dress around the corner.

At least Curly can say you aren’t bad to look at.

“Fuck, fuck, where did I put it?”

Anya rifles through her tiny purse, sorting through makeup and pills and her phone, searching for the one thing she really needs right now. She feels frantic, lamenting not wearing a dress with pockets. Eventually she finds it, pulling out a wrinkled period liner that was shoved to the bottom of her bag.

Getting her period is a reminder of Jimmy, a reminder of the fact that she’s not pregnant anymore, that she’s safe from him now. Anya never knew her period could be so comforting.

Just as she grabs a hold of the pad, she hears a knock on the bathroom door. “Who is it?” Anya shoves the pad back into her void of a bag, trying to disguise the crinkles with her voice.

“Can I come in?” It’s you. One of the few friends she has.

“Yes, of course.”

You enter, baby bump first, and Anya has to look away, wringing her hands. She doesn’t mean for the gesture to appear so rude, but she can’t help it.

“Is everything okay?” You ask, moving your head till it meets her gaze.

Anya nods on instinct. “Yes, I’m fine. Just… parties make me exhausted sometimes.”

“I get it, totally.” You sit on the edge of the tub, with Anya leaning against the counter. Everything in this bathroom is so blindingly white— it reminds Anya of the room where she got her abortion— operation.

“Um, congratulations on you and Curly’s marriage, if I didn’t say it already.”

You smile, “Aww, thank you, Anya. Truly, I’ve never been happier.”

“That’s good,” she purses her lips, debating if she should ask the question. “On the Tulpar, you told me that Curly made you do things. Is everything okay with you and him?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Sometimes people make mistakes, confuse a situation for something it’s not, you know?”

“Ah, really?”

“Oh, all the time.” You say it like it’s obvious. Something winds in Anya’s stomach. “I figured, it was just all in my head, really. You just wanna feel special sometimes. I talked to Grant and apologized for saying a thing like that and now it’s all better.” You gently pet a hand over your stomach. “Plus I get this little guy as a reward for all my hard work.”

Anya swallows. “Right, yeah.” It feels like she’s being crushed from above. She can’t breathe, blurting out each word. “Do you have a pad, by any chance? I only have one and I don’t think it’ll be enough.”

Slowly, you shake your head. “Sorry, I don’t get those anymore. I’m pregnant, remember?” You chuckle. “Will you be okay without an extra?”

She nods. “Yes, I might have to leave early, though.”

“Alright, well, come get me when you want to leave so I can show you out.” You pat her shoulder, smile a warm smile, and leave the way you came.

Anya collapses in a heap once the door closes.

Like all good things, the party eventually comes to an end. You stand at the door with Curly’s hand on your waist, the perfect picture of a couple as you see your guests off.

Once the door shuts and the porch lights click off, Curly reaches for his tie’s knot, loosening it with a sigh. “Did you have fun?”

“So much fun.” You lock the door, heading down the hall to the bedroom. “How was your business talk?”

Curly trails after you, undoing his suit jacket. “It’s boring. It always is.”

You reach the bedroom, standing by the foot of it as you unzip your dress and step out of it. Curly looks like he wants to say something, so you stay silent. Poor thing, it’s like speaking his mind hurts.

He’s halfway down unbuttoning his dress shirt when he strings the words together. “Am I not enough for you?”

“What makes you say that?” You know exactly what he’s talking about. You just like seeing the way he questions himself when you question him.

You unclasp your bra, your tits drooping. You hate the way you look pregnant, you have to avoid seeing your reflection like a fucking vampire. It’s a means to an end, that’s the only thing that’s reassured you.

“That whole thing with Daisuke— you can’t just say stuff like that in front of other people.” He’s gaining a bit of a backbone, it surprises you. “I want this to work.”

“Then we both need to step up, right?” You move closer. “I cleaned the whole house and cooked dinner just for you to spend most of the time hiding in the garage.”

“We were working, it wasn’t like it was on purpose—,”

“No, it was on purpose. You’re being a bad husband, Grant.” You gesture to your belly, the final nail in the coffin. “You can’t act like this when I’m pregnant with your baby, okay? You have to be a father to your child.”

You stand there, fuming and for a moment you actually feel angry. Your performance is so convincing even you believe it.

“Hey, don’t be mad, please.” It’s the best argument he’s got, especially when he tips your grumbling face up to meet his baby blues. “I fucked up today and I’m sorry, okay? I’ll do better, promise.”

Fuck, he’s so perfect. He caves like clockwork, hearing him admit it’s his fault gets you soaked every time. You kiss him, soft and slow. “Could you help me take off my heels, then? My feet are killing me.”

You sit on the edge of the bed and Curly takes a knee, the same way he did in your crew quarters, promising to buy you a ring the second he landed. And he always keeps his promises.

He undoes your heels and you watch on with an easy grin as he peppers kisses along your ankles and the top of your feet. You expected him to do that, Curly’s so predictable. He keeps his eyes on yours, searching for your praise. He kneads your feet a little too, massaging out all the aches and pains.

His mouth trails higher and higher until it reaches its end destination— your shaven pussy. You can never get a good look with the baby bump in the way, so you make him shave it. It’s one of his favourite tasks– like a sensory toy for a toddler.

Curly’s tongue laves over your slit and he eats you out, thick eyelashes fluttering closed as he takes his time with you.

Your orgasm makes up for the fake anger you lobbied at him— it swallows you up and spits you back on the bed with a limp spine. You deserve it, honestly, all this acting really takes a toll on you.

Your favourite part is when he gets on the bed with you, big burly arms caging you in. It feels like the entire world’s been closed out and it’s just you and him. Nothing but his warm body pressed so tightly to yours. Two puzzle pieces that fit.

Curly fumbles a little in the dark, but eventually his fat cock is splitting you open, that same perfect cock that knocked you up all those months ago. It feels just as good as it did the first time and all those subsequent times after.

His eyelids fall to half mast as he looks at you, and that’s how you know you have him. So easily ensnared, what’s the point of an argument when you can just spread your legs and he comes willingly? You’ll have to try it next time, see if your pussy does a better job of speaking for you.

The mattress creaks with every slow movement. Unhurried and hard is the rhythm he always chooses, constantly searching your expression to make sure he isn’t hurting you. Not that you’d mind.

It would just remind you of that night in his quarters, when he’d snapped and he was no longer the Curly you’d grown obsessed with, when you were half sure he might kill you. Since then, you made sure never to push him that far again, to only play games you were certain you’d win.

And Curly filling you up after a long day is a sure bet.

He cums quicker than you’d like, but you’re too tired to berate him. He’s done enough today. Crowded up against his chest, you play with the hair there, winding the short strands around your fingers.

Too fucked out for malice, you both talk for a while. On baby names, on family, on being better. You only care about one of those. You’ve been set on the baby names ever since you scratched them onto the metal wall of your quarters back on the Tulpar— right above the heart with both yours and Curly’s names.

You just tell him you haven’t decided yet.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

dorm leader riddle vs cater

adfiblafyofayfa OKAY, before the first of the book 7 Heartslabyul updates comes out... I wanted to take a look at Cater's new SSR and compare it to Riddle's Dorm Uniform SSR (since many fans are speculating that Cater's card + dream will involve him being dorm leader).

Let's look at the initial card art for our two contenders! You can tell right away that the shots are framed very differently:

The camera is looking UP at Riddle (ie a worm's eye view), which conveys the subject with tons of power and presence. Riddle in a mainly white outfit adopts a very action-oriented pose too, stepping up on a platform (which makes him more intimidating + makes up for his short stature), granting his full attention, and pointing his scepter at you, as if delivering a verdict. You can see that he's being an active participant in the trial; Riddle has stepped down from his perch on high to make a big announcement.

The lighting is similar to a spotlight, casting Riddle as the “main character”. This is further supported by him being the ONLY character in the artwork. Even the rose petals scattered around just serve to indicate that Riddle commands this scene and the courtroom. Bro’s dominating every second you’re looking at the card.

Finally, as I'm sure many of you can recall, Riddle's Dorm Uniform SSR is known to be a very strong attacking card with three powerful fire spells. It suits his fiery personality and temper... how flames can quickly spiral out of control, taking down everything in its path along with it.

Cater, by comparison, is almost Riddle’s complete opposite. We look at Cater from above, which places him at a bird's eye view. It makes him appear demure and passive--and even his pose is relaxed, legs propped up on the judge's bench. Cater doesn't seem to be paying attention to the ongoing trial either. He has tooons of distractions around: his skateboard, his phone, and not to mention the full pizza, a soda, and a bottle of hot sauce out. Truly, living in excess… Notably, the pizza seems to be over up documents/a book which... um??? You think he might need to look up the rules and render a fair verdict?? But again, he's not really paying it any mind. It all definitely gives the impression that Cater is a way laxer leader than Riddle is. He has power, yes--but is he truly present and in the moment? Cater isn't even looking at the mob student, doesn't have the gavel in hand for a verdict.

The lighting in Cater's card is concentrated on one side of him. It's actually much darker overall in his composition than Riddle's, at least from a glance. I can't help but think that's intentional... especially considering that Cater himself isn't even fully lit, which fits in with how he has that cheery persona (the part exposed to the light/the public) while the more depressed persona (the part shrouded in the shadows/kept private) is hidden away. Gone are the rose petals too, even though those flowers are so synonymous with Heartslabyul itself. It's almost like the flowers don't want to (metaphorically) bloom for Cater, the false dorm leader. (You'd think someone as Magicam-oriented as him would want to aesthetically jazz up the courtroom, no?)

Cater’s outfit is also interestingly predominantly black instead of Riddle’s white (the latter of which is closer to the original Heartslabyul dorm uniform color). Riddle is following tradition laid out by his predecessors whereas Cater is setting a new standard with his black, which makes him really stand out from his peers. This denotes the “black and white”, “guilty and innocent” nature of the law, but could also represent how polar opposites his and Riddle’s ruling styles are. I think it’s also telling that Cater’s card has way more students in it yet Cater is the one who always feels alone as the Spectator of Diamonds. He may be “king” now, but in reality he is no different than one of the many mobs in the dark, waiting in the wings.

Now, Cater's spells are very interesting. His M1 and M2 are both water. Cooling, calming water--the opposite of Riddle, much like how Cater is the relaxed one whereas Riddle is very strict and stern. But then his M3 spell is cosmic/null. Why? I think it's because that water he puts up is his "front" (especially considering that water and emotions are associated with his star sign, Aquarius), and the cosmic/null represents how Cater truly is... that part of himself he doesn't share with anyone.

... Anyway, this analysis will all be very embarrassing if it turns out that Cater ISN'T the dorm leader in his dream :DD We shall see when the update drops!

[radiance1]

Danny was having a good night, laying down on his side and purring contentedly while his tail swayed lazily. He was living a good life nowadays, freed from his responsibilities as the eternal prince of the Infinite Realms and taking on the mantle of the head of a Familia.

Perhaps, one of these days, he should try and find the wizard who turned him into a cat and thank them for it. What would a wizard even like anyway?

He pondered on that for a moment, perhaps a magical artifact or another could suffice? He stretched. Oh well, it didn't matter right now, he wasn't going to do it so soon anyways.

He opened his mouth, a yawn escaping him as he finished his stretch, tongue peeking out to lick his lips. He changed his position to something more comfortable, sinking into the lavishly soft pillows and reminding himself to get Catwoman something once again for giving him this high-quality cat bed.

Custom made too, multiple times bigger than him, the softest pillows he's ever felt and smelling extremely good. Even when multiple others forced themselves into his bed, even though they had their own as a gift from her as well.

Perhaps another diamond is in order?

His ears perked up as the sound a crash echoed throughout the warehouse, and he lazily peeked an eye open as the sound of paws running towards his direction made themselves known.

His nose twitched, the familiar scent of iron controlling the air as he sighed.

Kevin.

"Graaaaaaaaaaaamps!" A cat of what was once white fur, now stained with blood, skidded to a stop in front of him. Danny sighed once more, other eye opening as he looked at his first, and what others call his second-in-command. "I'm not that old, 150 is still quite young Kevin." He spoke calmly, no real heat in his voice and instead, amusement.

Kevin, predictably, ignored him. "You won't believe what happened tonight." Kevin then turned cheeky, stepping forwards towards his bed, and Danny had half a mind to try and prevent him from staining his bed, before discarding that thought just as quickly. "Guess!"

Danny's stare turned flat, and he had an urge to facepaw. Instead, he sighed, staring at the blood staining the other's fur before resting his head back on his bed. "You died again, didn't you?"

"Yep!" Kevin stepped onto the bed, both face and reply cheerful as the sun. "But that's not it!" Kevin bounced his way over to the elder cat, bloody pawprints marking his path on the previously clean bed.

Danny sniffed, a faint unknown tickling his nose before Kevin flopped on top of him, the blood stains on the smaller cat rubbing off on him, causing Danny to shift position, one that would support the younger better. "Oh, really?" He inquired, reaching out to grasp a glass shard from Kevin's side and placing it onto the bed.

"Yea! I fought spark, the spark!" Kevin purred, tail swishing behind him. "Can you believe it!?"

Danny hummed, picking another shard of glass from his first's skin.

"She was suuuuuper strong! Not stronger than you obviously, but she was really tough, I almost couldn't keep up with her!" Danny used a paw to silently request for Kevin to turn, and he did, with Danny plucking another shard from his skin. "She went all woosh, and boom! And then I went swish, and whish and she could barely touch me!"

"Mhm." Danny shifted, gently lowering the other, younger cat from off of him and instead to his side onto his stomach, reaching over to pick the shards from his back. "Then, then she used her power and then I was going fwoosh! Then I crashed into a nearby window and then we had to scatter because the human inside was mad about it." Kevin chirped, easily moving through his story despite the biggest pieces of glass being currently taken out of his back. "Then I ran all the way here because I wanted to tell you about it!"

"That's nice Kevin," Once he was done, Danny reached forward to lick the other on his head, his tail moving forward-the fur turning from black to glowing white- and flinging the shards of glass up through the air and into the rafters. "However." Danny's speech turned from that of a cat to one of a more humane-like tongue, his eyes narrowing at the form of one of those vigilantes running around the city- this one seems to be the Robin, based on his description of the hero- took the thrown shards of glass as a sign to drop down onto the ground.

"It seems you've managed to have drawn one of the humans into our territory in your excitement." Danny rubbed his chin against Kevin's head, uncaring for the blood soaking into his fur. "I don't blame you, that strain of human is known to be quite sneaky when they want to be."

Robin stood up, cape shrouding his form from ankle to shoulders. He narrowed his eyes at the scene, and Danny, in turn, narrowed his own as the rest of his fur turned glowing white, toxic green eyes staring at the lone human in a den of cats.

A silent threat.

"Care to explain, human known as Robin?"

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Bat out of hell

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 5

Prompt: Winter Sports

Rated: M

Tags: Sports AU; Winter Olympics; Figure skating; Figure skater Eddie; Figure skater Nancy; Coach Steve; Past Stancy; Getting together; Sexual Tension; Making out; Angry kissing; Nudity; Fade to black sex

Notes: This bitch knows nothing about Olympic figure skating. Changing your song last minute probably isn't even allowed. Bear with me, suspend your disbelief. 😅

“Steve, you made it!” 

Nancy throws herself at him the second he sets foot into the athlete's area, getting purple glitter all over his training suit. It's enough to tell him she's nervous. Nancy hardly ever shows physical affection like this. It's one of the many reasons things didn't work out between them. 

“Sorry, the press conference went forever,” he says, patting her back and glancing over at the flashing cameras, making sure his hands stay in non-compromittal territory. 

The newspages have been exploding ever since the opening of the Winter Olympics, speculating about a love revival between them. Steve must admit it would make a good story. Nancy, set to finally win that figure skating gold she's had her sights on for eight years. Himself, three gold medals under his belt, returned to the coaching team after the injury that marked the end of his career. It's the stuff that goes down into Olympic lore. 

It's also never gonna happen. 

“I thought you'd be done already,” he frowns, casting a glance at his watch. Nancy shrugs. 

“We started half an hour late, some problems with the music. The men are just about done, there's only Eddie left.” 

She has hardly said it when the hall goes dark, bar for a single spotlight illuminating the center of the rink. Right in its middle is a figure, dressed in black from head to toe, dark curls pulled into a messy braid.

The music starts. 

The fans in the stands go wild. 

Steve's jaw drops. 

“Nonono, wait,” he squawks, surging forward and white-knuckling the banister while, out on the ice, Eddie flies into movement. “That's the stupid Bat from Hell song. Eddie? Eddie, stop it right now!” 

But it's too late. 

The song swells, guitars and basses filling the hall, and Eddie flies into his first jump, a black blur with bits of ice spraying all around him like a glittering cloud of diamonds. 

It's a once-in-a-lifetime performance, Steve can see as much even after the first few seconds. Eddie skates with an erratic energy and single-minded focus. Each of his movements is calculated and controlled, raw passion and force funneled into leaps and jumps and pirouettes. 

He's skating like the blades are an extension of his body. He's skating like he was born on the ice. 

He's skating to the exact song Steve told him not to skate to. 

“He's unbelievable,” Nancy mutters somewhere by his ear. “He's going to win gold for this, he has to.” 

“I know,” Steve groans. His eyebrow is twitching. “And he's never gonna shut up about it.”

*

The rest of the evening passes in a blur. By the time Eddie has accepted his gold medal, Steve is still seething. He doesn’t have any time to act on it though, because then it's time for Nancy to enter the rink and deliver another mind-blowing show. Between the award ceremony, the fans clamoring for autographs, and the press dragging him off for approximately twenty different interviews, he doesn't catch Eddie alone for hours. When he finally manages to tear himself away, staff tell him that Mr. Munson has already left for the hotel. 

*

Eddie’s smile goes wide and toothy as he opens the door to find Steve looming outside. He's fresh out of the shower, dressed only in a towel slung around his stupid, tiny waist. His hair is loose and wet, cascading around his face in dark, chaotic ringlets. There's still black glitter smudged in the corners of his eyes. 

“Big boy,” he cheers. “I've been waiting for you to show up! Two gold medals in your first year of coaching, you must be-” 

“Cut the crap,” Steve sneers. Eddie’s smile doesn't slip as he brackets him between his arms and the doorframe, but his towel does, a little. “I specifically told you not to use that song. The judges are a bunch of conservative assholes, it could've cost you everything.” 

“But it didn't,” Eddie shrugs. “You gotta learn how to relax, coach.” 

Steve growls. “Maybe I'd be more relaxed if you weren't trying to push every single one of my buttons all the damn time.” 

Eddie sways forward, lifting his chin defiantly, the same stubborn fire smoldering in those dark eyes that has been driving Steve insane for weeks.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to push your buttons so much if you'd stop being such a fucking coward and just admitted what you want.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Steve says, and surges in. 

It's not so much a kiss as a violent clash of lips - all of the pent-up nerves and adrenaline and rage of the past few weeks finally breaking themselves way. Eddie growls against Steve’s mouth, biting down on his bottom lip and grabbing the lapels of his jacket to bodily haul him into the room. Steve has just enough time to kick the door shut behind them before he's shoved into the nearest wall, Eddie’s arms around his shoulders, Eddie’s legs around his waist, Eddie’s tongue in his mouth. The towel hits the ground with a soft thud.

“You want me to shut up, Stevie?” Eddie purrs, nipping and sucking at his neck, grinning against his skin when he's rewarded with a gasp. “How about you make me?” 

“What?” Steve laughs around a hoarse moan, cupping Eddie’s ass so he can carry him over to the bed. “You actually doing what I tell you to? That would be a first.” 

“Well, aren't we both lucky?” Eddie says, pausing his kisses just long enough to let himself be lowered onto the bed, pulling Steve after him with greedy hands. “Looks like it's gonna be a night of triumphs for both of us.” 

More holiday drabbles

[eternallyordinary]

“He Belongs to You” - Part 9

*:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧✧・ﾟ: *✧・ﾟ:* ˚₊· *:✧*: *:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧

Series Masterlist <3

Summary: You push Homelander to the brink, and yet… you’re the only one who can save him.

Warnings: violence, smut, yandere, control, age gap relationship, self harm, cutting, knifes, guns, aggressive behavior, harassment, foul language (let me know if i forgot any<3)

*:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧✧・ﾟ: *✧・ﾟ:* ˚₊· *:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧✧・ﾟ:

Vaught had given you barely twenty-four hours to breathe before forcing you in front of the cameras.

You had to remind yourself you weren’t doing it for them, you were doing it for the people.

For Mrs. Lieberman, even if her husband was a piece of shit.

Was he even a piece of shit?

While you may be one of the good supes, you are a diamond in the rough. You’ve heard stories of supes hurting others, taking and never giving.

Maybe he was right in what he said.

Maybe he had every right to puncture you so deeply, and you’re not even referring to the stab wound.

Vought on the other hand had its own agenda, and it didn’t include your feelings.

“He was a piece of shit,” Homelander reminds you. “He deserved to die.”

You snap out of your trance.

Does he fucking read minds too?

He gives you a “tsk tsk” look, coming up behind you and grabbing your waist.

He can’t read minds, he just already knows you so well.

Homelander insisted on taking you up to your bed the night you were discharged.

You guys settled in and watched another dumb reality show.

While yes, the shows are dumb, it’s nice to watch normal people being normal and doing normal things.

He watched as you fell asleep, stroking your hair and taking in your scent.

The next morning, you could tell he didn’t sleep at all, again.

While you understood he didn’t really need sleep to function, you couldn’t help but feel bad.

You felt bad he was so restless, and you were the reason why.

Your makeup was sprawled out on the counter.

One thing that hasn’t changed about you since taking compound V is your lack of organization, your messy side.

Sometimes putting stuff away neatly feels to overwhelming.

Homelander looked at the mess on the counter and couldn’t help but laugh.

Moments like these he was reminded of your age, the youth in you that still exists.

“Why don’t you just have them do your makeup?” He asks.

“I like doing it,” you respond. “Sue me.”

You sit on the bathroom counter, your feet in the sink.

You slowly put on your makeup, as if slowing down would help you avoid this god forsaken interview.

You examine your neck. A faint raised scar sit on top of it.

You were still not used to the way your body healed so quickly.

When you first were injected, you wanted to try everything, testing yourself to the brink.

You slit your wrists so deep you swore it was the end, but marvelously, you lived.

You never told anyone this.

You have kept a lot of things to yourself over the years.

Maybe one day you could tell him.

If anyone, he’d understand.

—

Homelander sat next to you in the sterile, white-lit CNN studio, his presence towering even in stillness.

The host, Mark Davidson, was the perfect embodiment of corporate news.

Polished, rehearsed, the kind of man who probably voted against the Equal Rights Amendment but smiled on camera and called female colleagues “kiddo.”

You could tell this was true just based on his appearance, but his demeanor was another story.

He addressed Homelander immediately, kissing his ass as if they were longtime pals.

Does he know who he’s trying to impress?

Like Homelander gives a fuck.

Mark eyes you up and down, sizing you up and taking in every inch of your curves.

Looking at the way your suit squeezes your ass. Maybe you should’ve got longer shorts like Homelander suggested.

You find yourself pulling them down.

Homelander doesn’t miss a beat, he notices this exchange and his face falls.

Here we go.

The segment started smoothly, fake smiles and empty pleasantries.

“First off,” Mark began, leaning slightly toward Homelander, “let me just say—what a remarkable display of heroism from you yesterday. The way you handled the shooter, the way you neutralized the threat—truly, an inspiration,” Mark gestures to you, “This one is lucky to be able to shadow you the way she did yesterday. Not a lot of supes, especially women supes can say they’ve had that experience. Truly once in a lifetime, kiddo.”

Ew.

Homelander’s face didn’t change at first. A slow blink. A subtle shift in energy, but you felt it.

That coiled thing of his beneath the surface.

The interviewer kept going, oblivious.

“The people of New York—and the country—owe you their thanks. It’s moments like these that remind us why you’re America’s greatest hero, Homelander.”

Ashley, standing just off-camera, was already rubbing her temples.

And then—

“I wasn’t going to do shit.”

A silence so thick it seemed to suck the air from the studio.

Mark Davidson blinked. “…I’m sorry?”

Homelander leaned forward, his voice deceptively smooth.

“Come on Marky Mark. You’re not that old… you have a toupee but your hearing is still intact, right? I said, I. wasn’t. going. to. do. shit.”

The words were sharp, like the edge of a blade being slowly pressed to someone’s throat. He gestured toward you.

“I’d like you to apologize for treating her like an idiot. Because she’s the one who ran through the crowd. She’s the one who stopped bullets with her hands. I was simply enjoying the show. I got to say, watching my girl in action like that really made my cock hard.”

Homelander grabs his junk, and then gives an evil, smile.

Your eyes widen.

You’re praying to God your dad isn’t watching this on TV.

Mark opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“And what’d she get for all the work she did?”

Homelander’s voice darkened, the weight of it pressing into the room.

“Some incel with a tiny dick shooting her in the chest. And then an ungrateful prick stabbing her in the fucking neck. And then, you, an old geezer with balls that probably hang down to the floor as soon as your pants drop, treating her like nothing. God bless America, am I right?!”

The camera operator hesitated, looking toward the producers.

Ashley, off to the side, looked like she was about to vomit.

“Cut it! Cut the fucking cameras!” She pleads.

Mark forced a chuckle, shifting slightly in his seat. “Well, of course, we—”

“Oh yeah,” Homelander continued, flashing that too-perfect smile, “I killed him too. Both of them. Didn’t I, baby?”

Homelander puts a possessive hand on your leg.

“And I’d do it again.”

Ashley squeezed her eyes shut.

The host paled. “Right, but—”

“Say you’re sorry.”

A second of pure, suffocating silence.

“Did I fucking stutter? I said, say you’re sorry.”

“I-I’m sorry.”

“Now say it like you mean it. And I want you to look into the camera while you say it. So the viewers at home, the wonderful citizens of America know how fucking sorry you are.”

“I….. I’m sorry. I am really sorry.” Mark says.

Ashley frantically gestured to the control room.

Cut it. Cut it now.

The segment’s lead producer hesitated—Vought wouldn’t like this, but ratings…

The feed stayed live.

Mark cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable.

You exhaled, keeping your posture poised, but the moment was spiraling.

You needed to smooth this over before Homelander decided to go completely off the rails.

So you leaned in slightly, brushing your fingers against Homelander’s wrist—a tiny touch, barely noticeable, but he felt it.

His muscles twitched, but the edge of his rage dulled just a little. You knew he’d appreciate it.

“Look,” you said, keeping your voice calm, even. “At the end of the day, we’re here to protect people. That’s the priority.”

You glanced at Mark. “And I think what Homelander is saying—passionately—is that it’s easy to put people like us on a pedestal. But we’re still…” You hesitated for half a second, choosing your words carefully.

“We’re still people. We have families and friends and people who love us. Some of us didn’t even choose to be this way. And yet, we continue to fight for all of you.”

Homelander’s lip twitched, amusement flickering through his irritation. How did you pull that out of your ass? Nice save.

Mark forced a tight smile. “Of course. And on that note, let’s take a quick break.”

—

The second the cameras cut, Ashley grabbed onto her assistant, also Ashley.

“Oh my God,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “Does he ever stop talking?”

Homelander grinned, hearing her.

“I don’t appreciate the way he spoke to her.”

Ashley closed her eyes briefly, muttering something that sounded a lot like “fucking kill me” before inhaling sharply.

She approaches the two of you with panicked strides.

“Okay. Fine. Whatever. We have another sit-down with Cameron Coleman, and—”

“No.”

Ashley blinked.

“No?”

Homelander smiled. “We’re done.”

She opened her mouth—then shut it. Not worth it.

She turned to you instead. “Can you at least—”

“I’d like to take a day to recover after being stabbed in the neck,” you said simply. “If that’s okay with you, Ashley.”

Ashley groaned, throwing her hands up.

“Great. Perfect. Fantastic. I hope you two are very happy together.”

—

The second you stepped out into the crisp New York air, Homelander turned to you with a smirk.

“Dinner tonight?”

The shift was so abrupt you almost laughed.

You raised a brow.

“We’re just ignoring all of that?”

“What’s there to ignore?” he said smoothly. “I defended my girl on national television. Very romantic, if you ask me.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t protest.

“And you… you liked it.” Homelander said.

It’s true.

Yesterday, you would’ve torn him a part for claiming you on national television.

But this time?

It was hot the way he defended you, the way he treated you as an equal and made sure the man said sorry.

It turned you on, to be honest.

You give an innocent little smile and decide not to say a word.

He knows that look— a naughty girl, trying to hide how naughty she really is.

—

Dinner felt… normal.

Or at least, as normal as things could be.

You both traded in your suits for something more relaxed.

Homelander wasn’t good at wearing “normal clothes”.

To be honest, he didn’t really own any. Never had a reason to wear them.

While you had the fancy designer clothing he bought you, you didn’t love dressing up. You preferred comfort.

You threw on a baggy pair of low rise jeans, a cashmere sweater, and some loafers. Hopefully this would be good enough for wherever you two were headed.

You had a feeling he would appreciate more skin, but that’s just not who you were.

This confused him, as during the photoshoot, you had no problem wearing a bikini, sexualizing yourself. But that was different. That was you taking your power back. Right now, you just wanted to be cozy.

The restaurant was intimate, warm candlelight flickering against polished wood.

Paparazzi lurked outside, but neither of you cared.

For the first time in days, you let yourself relax.

You figured you’d get home to thousands of tweets criticizing the fact you two went on a date after a mass shooting. Fuck ‘em.

For a moment, you felt like you could finally breathe, catching yourself laughing at something stupid he said.

The bill came, but you both wanted to basque in the normalcy a little longer.

“Let’s get another drink,” you mused.

Homelander smirked. “Is that a request or a command?”

You grinned. “Neither. It’s just a suggestion.”

“Then I suggest we do it.”

—

The bar was dim, humming with quiet conversation.

He ordered an old fashioned, you ordered a dirty martini.

His fingers drum against his glass, slow and methodical, as he watches the amber liquid swirl inside.

You sip your martini, savoring the briny bite of it as you glance around the bar.

The low hum of conversation, the clink of ice in glasses, the faint melody of jazz drifting through the air—it all feels normal.

Comforting, even.

For the first time in a long time, you feel at ease.

The tension in your shoulders loosens, the ever-present hum of anxiety in the back of your mind dulls.

You’re not waiting for something to go wrong. Not looking for a fight.

But then, like clockwork… the universe delivers.

“Homelander, oh my god, it’s really you!”

Two girls your age swarm him like he’s some kind of messiah.

They’re draped in tight dresses, teetering on sky-high heels, cleavage spilling out, tits on display.

“Hi, ladies,” Homelander greets them, his voice dripping with amusement.

He won’t deny it— forty-eight hours ago, he would’ve dragged one of them into the bathroom.

Fucked her raw, left Ashley to clean up the PR mess.

Now, he actually tries to feel something—lust, arousal, that primal hunger that used to come so naturally. But it’s gone.

Replaced with the obsession of you.

That doesn’t mean he can’t have a little fun, though—just enough to get under your skin.

One of the girls clings to his arm, eyes wide with curiosity.

“Where’s your suit?” she asks in that unmistakable Kardashian-esque drawl.

Homelander places a hand on her lower back.

You fume.

Electricity crackles through your veins, invisible to the naked eye.

Jealousy.

Fantastic.

“Well, you see, this one here is a little too humble—made me come out in Tom Ford,” he smirks.

You swirl the olives in your martini, forcing a smirk of your own as you glance up at the group.

You don’t want him to know this is getting to you, though he doesn’t need to hear your heartbeat twice to figure that out.

And he fucking loves that sound.

“Well, this is pretty hot too. I won’t lie.” The girl giggles, flipping her hair.

Homelander humors her with a charming smile, pretending to give a shit.

“Isn’t it?” you chime in, standing from your chair. “Told you it would turn you into a looker! I was right.”

You turn to the bartender, raising a finger.

“Hey, when you get a minute, how about a round of shots for everyone in the bar? On Homelander. America’s hero!”

The girls cheer, mistaking your pettiness for generosity.

Homelander’s smirk falters.

He started this to make you jealous, to get you hot and bothered.

But in true stubborn fashion—you had to take it a step further. Didn’t you?

“Can you take a picture of us?!” the ringleader chirps, holding out her phone.

“Oh my gosh. Of course! I would love to.”

You take the phone, pretending to snap a hundred pictures.

In reality, you’ve just wiped it clean with a factory reset, just to make her life difficult.

I mean, hey. It’s better than what you really want to do for her.

“Y’all have so much fun,” you say sweetly, handing it back.

“I’m gonna see if one of those Columbia boys over there wants to fuck me.”

You can’t believe those words just came out of your mouth.

The glass in Homelander’s hand shatters. One of the girls shrieks.

“We’re leaving,” he growls, grabbing your arm in a vice grip.

That’ll leave a bruise.

—

He drags you outside, around the corner, into the shadows.

He towers over you, chest heaving, eyes searing into yours.

His hand twitches, moving toward your throat—but then he remembers your voice from the other night.

“You choked me,” you had whispered, wide-eyed and fragile.

He clenches his jaw, then slams his fist into the brick beside your head, cracking it.

He can’t hurt you. He’s trying so hard not to.

But he has to release the monster somehow…

Why did you have to pull it out of him?

“What the fuck was that?” he demands.

You tilt your head, lips curling. “Me playing your game. Duh.”

His nostrils flare. “You want to be fucked by some young college kid? Someone your age? They won’t know how to touch you. They won’t know how to make you feel the way I do. How many times do I have to tell you that you’re mine?”

“Oh, come on.” You huffed, crossing your arms. “I was just trying to piss you off.”

Your breath was unsteady, anger simmering just beneath the surface. You knew exactly what he was doing—flirting with those girls right in front of you, smirking when he caught you watching.

Baiting you. Testing you.

“You knew what you were doing,” you snapped, your voice sharp, cutting. “Flirting like that. In front of me.”

Your hands clenched at your sides, heat rising in your chest.

“I thought tonight was supposed to be normal,” you muttered, shaking your head. “Just me and you. But there’s always going to be a game, isn’t there?”

Your voice wavered, but you pushed through, eyes burning as you glared up at him.

“Always some fucking twist,” you spat, frustrated, exhausted, raw.

“Because you don’t know how to just be a good, normal, fucking person.”

His fists loosen against the brick, his gaze softening—just a fraction.

“You’re jealous,” he murmurs.

“No, I’m not. I just think it’s really fucking immature to—”

“You’re jealous. Just admit it.”

“I’m not fucking jealous!” you snap, shoving him with more force than you knew you had.

Blame it on the martini.

A low growl rumbles in his chest. His cock throbs.

Oh, how he wants to take you—hard, rough, make you feel it.

He thought you were too fragile…

Maybe you’re not.

You stare at each other, the tension thick enough to snap, and then—you collide.

Mouths crash, hands claw, bodies tangle.

Your legs wrap around him as he lifts you effortlessly, lips dragging over your throat, nipping, teasing.

“My sweet, jealous girl,” he taunts against your skin, voice dark and dripping with intent.

“Daddy has to punish you now.”

Before you can react, you’re airborne, the wind rushing past you.

Minutes later, you crash through his balcony doors, swallowed by the dim glow of the room.

“Turn around,” he orders, rough, commanding.

“Hands and knees.”

You obey without hesitation.

Fabric tears.

“I told you I had to punish you,” he murmurs, kneeling behind you. His palm comes down—hard. A sharp gasp escapes you, your body jerking forward at the sting.

It hurts. It burns.

But fuck, it feels so good.

Then he stills.

His hands remain on you, warm and trembling. His breath is ragged, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven movements.

And that’s when it hits him.

You’re innocent.

His sweet girl. His delicate thing.

He had forgotten.

Again.

Fuck.

A violent war rages inside him.

The instinct to take, to claim, to devour you whole—it burns like an inferno.

But you—you aren’t meant for that.

You’re trusting him with something no one else ever has.

And that trust?

It’s both his salvation and his undoing.

His hands, once gripping your hips like a vice, loosen.

He exhales sharply, like he’s forcing himself back into his body. Back into control.

Then, gently—so gently—he turns you over, onto your back, caging you beneath him.

His forehead presses to yours, his fingers trembling as they trace your lips.

His touch is different now.

Not punishing.

Not possessive.

Just… reverent.

“I—” He stops himself, shaking his head, struggling for air.

He needs a second to reel himself in.

Your hands slide up his arms, fingers curling at his shoulders.

Your pulse is fast, but not with fear.

With something else.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “I can’t.”

You reach up, brushing his hair back from his face, grounding him.

“You won’t,” you whisper.

He wants to believe you, but God help him.

He knows himself too well.

“You don’t know that,” he grits out, still hovering over you like he’s afraid to lay his full weight down, afraid to lose himself in you completely.

“You don’t know what I’m capable of. What I’ve done.”

Your fingers skim his jaw, tilting his face toward yours.

“I know you. The rest doesn’t matter.”

That stops him cold.

You should be afraid. You should run.

Hell, he wants you to. It would make this easier.

But you don’t. And you won’t.

“Let me have you,” you whisper, voice shaky but sure.

His breath stutters.

His eyes—those impossibly blue, piercing eyes—search yours, looking for hesitation, for uncertainty.

But there’s none.

“Please stop…” he exhales, shaking his head like he’s still trying to fight it.

“You won’t hurt me,” you say, firmer now, fingers tightening in his hair.

A low, pained groan rumbles in his throat.

His forehead drops to your shoulder, his grip on you ironclad as he breathes through the chaos in his mind.

Then—finally—he lets go.

He kisses you slow, deep, like he’s surrendering to something greater than himself.

His hands map out your body, skimming your waist, your thighs, treating you like something precious, something he’s never deserved.

And for the first time in his life… he’s careful.

His lips linger on yours, moving with aching slowness, memorizing the taste of you.

His touch softens, no longer gripping, no longer taking.

Because this isn’t about him.

It’s about you.

His forehead presses to yours again as he exhales, trying to settle the wildfire raging inside him.

He should be the one in control—he always is.

But now? You’re the one keeping him steady.

Your fingers skim up his back, tracing the hard lines of muscle. “I trust you,” you whisper.

“I promise.”

His hands still. His breathing stops. He wants to say you shouldn’t. He wants to say he doesn’t deserve it.

But he can’t.

Because he needs to believe you.

His lips brush against your temple, his hands skimming lower, resting on your thighs. He spreads them slowly, carefully, settling between them.

“Tell me you still want this,” he murmurs, voice rough, unsteady.

You nod, but he shakes his head. “No. Say it. Tell me.”

“I want this,” you breathe, cheeks flushed.

“I want you.”

His restraint nearly snaps in half.

A strangled groan escapes his throat, his fingers digging into the sheets instead of your skin. He drops his forehead to your stomach, inhaling sharply before pressing a lingering kiss there.

“You have no fucking idea what you’re doing to me.”

Homelander drags his lips back up your body, trailing slow, soft kisses along your skin.

Taking his time.

Worshipping you.

Letting this be more than just a claim.

His hands frame your face again, his thumbs stroking over your cheeks as he leans in.

“I’ll go slow,” he murmurs against your lips.

You nod, exhaling shakily as he positions himself at your entrance, teasing, just barely pushing inside.

Your body tenses instinctively, nerves curling tight in your stomach.

But instead of pushing further, he stops. Waits.

His lips ghost over yours. “Relax,” he whispers, voice warm, steady. “I’ve got you, baby.”

You let out a slow breath, willing your body to trust him the way your heart somehow does.

And when he feels you loosen beneath him, he pushes in just a little more, watching your face, searching for any flicker of discomfort.

The stretch is overwhelming.

The heat. The way he’s everywhere all at once.

He stills, barely halfway in.

“So fucking tight,” he breathes, gripping the sheets beside your head.

You shift slightly, adjusting, and a strangled moan leaves his throat.

His hands fly to your hips, holding you still.

“Don’t move,” he grits out.

You bite your lip, looking up at him. His pupils are blown wide, his expression wrecked, desperate.

You lift a hand to his face, brushing your fingers over his cheek, grounding him.

“It’s okay. Go deeper,” you whisper.

His breath shudders.

And then, with one slow, deliberate motion, he finally pushes in completely.

A gasp rips from your lips, your fingers clutching at his shoulders, your body stretching to take him.

He stills again, pressing kisses to your throat.

“Are you okay?” His voice tight, strained.

You nod, swallowing hard as you breathe through the sensation, letting yourself adjust.

Then, after a moment, you shift—a silent invitation.

“Fuck,” he moans. “You were made for me.”

And then, slowly, carefully, he starts to move.

And for the first time in his life, he doesn’t take.

He gives.

His movements are slow at first—achingly slow—like he’s still holding onto the last thread of his control, afraid to push too hard, afraid to lose himself completely in the heat of you.

His hands grip your hips, not to claim, not to take. To anchor himself, to keep from unraveling.

He watches your face, his eyes searching—always searching—for any flicker of discomfort.

But all he sees is you.

Lips parted, cheeks flushed. Your breath coming in soft, uneven pants.

And fuck, you’re so beautiful like this.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs, his voice still strained, wrecked. “I don’t deserve this.”

You whimper softly, shifting beneath him, testing the way he fits. The way your body stretches around him.

The sensation is foreign, it’s intense. It’s overwhelming in the best way possible.

It aches, but not in a way that makes you want to stop. If anything, it makes you want more.

Your appetite for him is overwhelming.

You reach up, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer. “You can go harder baby,” you whisper, breathless. “Just take me. Please?”

His body shudders against yours, and for a moment, he just looks at you—like he’s trying to burn this into his memory.

Like he knows he’ll never feel anything as real as this again.

He prays to God he doesn’t mess it up.

His hips roll forward, slow but deep, pushing in just a little further, dragging a soft, breathy moan from your lips.

He groans, his grip tightening on your hips as he starts to move, a steady rhythm that sends warmth curling deep in your stomach.

“My princess,” he breathes, dropping his head to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re so—so wet for daddy.”

Your fingers dig into his back, nails dragging over the hard lines of muscle as you arch into him, inviting him deeper. He obliges, sinking into you fully, groaning at the way you squeeze around him.

“You’re taking me so well,” he murmurs, lips on your throat, breathing you in.

“Didn’t think I’d be able to do this—be gentle—but fuck—”

He cuts himself off with another roll of his hips, just enough to make you gasp.

You grip his shoulders, gasping softly, overwhelmed by the sheer size of him, the way he stretches you open, fills you completely.

“Are you sure this is okay?” he rasps, his voice edged with restraint, but there’s something else beneath it—something almost soft. Something loving.

You nod, swallowing hard, your chest heaving.

“Yes,” you whisper. “I—I just… I didn’t know it would feel like this.”

His lips curl into something like a smirk, but there’s no arrogance behind it, only warmth.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, rolling his hips again, slower this time, dragging out the friction. “How does it feel, baby?”

You don’t have the words. All you can do is whimper, gasping as pleasure starts to curl through you.

His smirk falters, his breath catching at the sound.

“Such a good girl,” he mutters, but he’s barely holding on.

“Look at you—taking me so fucking perfectly. Such a good girl, waiting for me for so long.”

You shudder, back arching, heat coiling tight in your stomach.

You don’t know if it’s his words or the way he’s moving inside you, but it’s building, growing stronge. A pleasure so intense you don’t know what to do with it.

He feels it. Sees it.

The way your body trembles beneath him, the way your fingers tighten in his hair.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low, coaxing. “Let me feel it. Cum for me baby.”

The pleasure crashes over you like a wave, white-hot and blinding.

You cry out, clutching at him as your body clenches around him, pulling him deeper, drowning him into you.

He groans, burying his face in your neck, his rhythm faltering as he chases his own release.

His hips snap forward, thrusts turning erratic, desperate, until finally, with a rough, shuddering breath, he breaks.

His body goes taut as he spills into you. He holds you even tighter, as if letting go would shatter him completely.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then, slowly, he lifts his head. His fingers tracing lazy circles your stomach.

His eyes find yours, something unreadable flickering in their depths. He swallows hard, his jaw tightening.

“Perfection,” he murmurs, taking in every last detail of you.

You smile sleepily, still dazed.

His lips press against yours, grounding himself in the feeling of you.

He had always seen himself as a god—the god.

But there had to be something greater.

Because somehow, fate, destiny, or whatever cruel force ruled this world had brought you to him.

*:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧✧・ﾟ: *✧・ﾟ:* ˚₊· *:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧✧・ﾟ:

[spop-romanticizes-abuse]

i genuinely DO NOT understand people who hate steven universe for redeeming the diamonds, but are fans of characters like catra, lilith and bakugou.

like„ you do know that this is the exact same, right? especially with catra. she is no better than the diamonds. she has done everything that they have - abuse, attempted genocide, mind control, murder, just every crime under the sun.

and while i dislike all these characters equally, at least the show didn't force steven to forgive the diamonds. he had to reconcile with them for a greater cause, but he was still clearly averse to them, even going as far as attempting to kill white diamond.

meanwhile in spop, everyone is supposed to forgive catra after she destroyed countless kingdoms, attempted to end the world out of spite, and constantly abused etheria's hero. there is no question of what if someone doesn't want to forgive catra, they just have to.

anyway yeah, mini rant, it always amazes me how hypocritical some people can be. you can't call the diamonds “space n*zis!” then turn around and kiss catra's ass.

[baurbiediv]

silk press

rafe cameron x black!gf

content warning: smut (wrap b4 u tap) use of “mama” like twice, go read the rest, i don’t wanna spoil it pookie

authors update: yooo, this shit is NOT proofread, if you see any mistakes mind your businesssss!!! 😭😭 mdni!!

the sound of drake’s ‘cameras/good ones do interlude’ could be heard over the sounds of heavy panting, the smell of weed filling the air along with your soft whimpering, “r-rafe.. s-stop you’re gonna mess up my h-hair-“ you breathed out, hand faintly tapping on his lower stomach. but before another word could escape your lips, rafe grabbed your chin, shutting you up.

“move your hand away from my stomach or i’ll stop.” you quickly moved your hand as you gripped onto his arm for dear life. so now here you were, getting your shit pounded in cause someone couldn’t control himself, it amazed you how this man had you folded in half like a pretzel, your legs were almost pressed into your chest, knees shy of being able to touch your chest thanks to rafe’s big hands, his nails digging into the skin on your thighs. rafe pushed your dress further up your stomach, wanting nothing more than to be closer to you.

but what what more could this man have possibly wanted? he was balls deep inside of his beautiful girlfriend, watching her eyes threaten to roll to the back of her head, the small necklace he bought you with his initial ‘r’ studded in diamonds, placed perfectly on your chest, just the sight of that had his dick growing hard inside of you. rafe’s hand snakes down and pressed down onto your stomach, causing a loud moan to rip from your lips, rafe’s arm just seemingly wasn’t enough for you, he was quite literally fucking you dumb. his hips ramming into the plush of your ass. “you feel me right there?” he asked as he grabbed your hand, pressing your hand down on the bulge. thank god for this empty lot covered in trees or this would’ve been a real nasty sight to see. rafe’s blacked out jeep with the passenger door open, your feet sitting pretty on his shoulders, his hand holding the nape of your neck, a mix your cum and his from previous orgasm spilling out of you and creating a sticky white ring around the base of his dick.

rafe kept an arm extended around the nape of your neck, keeping your head upright. he loved when he had you like this, melting under his touch. “hey,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of your face. your eyes were threatening to close on him as you felt the tip of your orgasm on your tongue, “i need you to keep those pretty brown eyes on me mama, you hear me?” you nodded, as you did your best to keep your eyes open just like he asked you to, but of course he made that impossible, because you felt the calloused fingertips of his ring and middle finger rubbing on your swollen clit. your mouth fell open as he caught notice of this “shhh, i got you, i got you.” he whispered as he leaned in closer to you, opening your legs wider, allowing him to shove his dick deeper into you. his fingers sped up on the swollen bud, not letting up.

your moans progressively getting louder and louder, the only way of shutting you up was rafe lightly squeezing your neck, his lips ghosting yours, “if you make one loud fucking noise, you risk getting us caught, you don’t want that do you?” he asked, you shook your head almost instantly, you really did try your hardest to pay attention to what he was telling you, but you couldn’t. he looked so good, sweat covering his forehead, neck and chest. his gold chain resting nicely on his chest as it shined under the dim light of the car, along with that god forsaken black tank top, but you nodded along to his words not thinking anything of it, your legs started shaking, your stomach feeling funny.

rafe’s dick was hitting all the right places, he had your your toes curling, “s-shit rafe s-low downn!!” you squeaked out, his movements never halting, “i-i’m gonna c-cum!!” you arched your back off the seat, rafe smirking, “i got you, come on.” he said, rubbing your clit faster, applying more pressure. your hand flew to his stomach as your juices splurted over his fingers, his abs and lower stomach and dick. your body fell back against the seat, your thighs feeling sticky, “hey that was cute and all but i’m still not done.” rafe mutters before pulling out of you, you whine from the lost contact, and before you know it he’s pulling your legs further out of the car and flipping you over onto your stomach, “r-rafe baby there’s no room-“, you were cut off before rafe’s pushing his dick back into your sensitive pussy, his left hand pushed down on your back to deepen your arch as much as he could while his right hand made its way back to your hair, “i don’t care,” he moaned loudly pushing your head further down into the seat, the sound of your ass clapping against his stomach has rafe’s head going crazy.

you poorly attempted to cover your mouth, whines slipping out occasionally, this all he wanted. you placed your hand on the console for support. this was all he ever wanted, he was able to fuck his pretty girl, y/n, and he in fact he believed she was prettiest girl on kildare and he knew he wanted you the minute he spotted you at the country club with your family. and what happened? he got exactly what he wanted, he was a smooth talker and he talked his way right a relationship with you, and this was the outcome.

your hand of course made its way back to his stomach, this time removing his hand from your head and pinning your wrist down onto your back, your whimpers grew louder, “rafe, it’s t-too muchhhhh” you whined, “that’s okay, you can do it, i-i’m close..” he groaned loudly, hearing him panting behind you, his hips hitting harder and deeper, you felt the familiar feeling of your pussy squeezing around him. “where do you want me?” he breathed, squeezing the skin of your hips, your overstimulation pushing both you and rafe to the edge. “inside p-please,” you whimpered out feeling hot spurts of his cum shoot inside your pussy. rafe pulled out of you, your hips jerked and your legs shook a little. he pulled his boxers and nike sweats back up as he presses a kiss against your lips before smiling. he closed your car door before making his way to the passenger side. you slowly closed your legs as you sat up looking for your black thong, “first you fuck up my silk press then you steal my thong??” you huff.

“‘m sorry baby, i’ll pay for you to get your hair done again and who cares about that stupid thong, i’ll buy you 10 more, how does that sound?” he looked over at you, as he sat back in his seat. your arms were crossed but you couldn’t help the smile that was evident on your face.

he leaned over the console, “gimmie a kiss.”

he said, you obliged and leaned over and kissed his lips.

“i love you y/n.” “i love you more rafey.”

did you guys miss me?? 😏

[call-sign-shark]

Pairing: The Darkling x Heartrender!You || The Darkling x HeartrenderOC!Reader

Summary: Here comes the day of your demonstration at the King's Court. Here comes the day General Kirigan cannot take it anymore, his self-control snapping. Here comes the day that will seal your fate and change everything.

Words: 6k.

TW: Misogyny, unhealthy relationship, very deep codependency, extreme pinning, sexual undertone, mention of prostitution and abuse, fluff -- your heart won't handle it. || Happy Happy Valentine's Day to you ♥ (a bit too early but who cares?)

Part VIII - Blood and Honey

Previous || Masterlist || Next

If the Little Palace was extraordinary for a Ketterdam girl like you, it was nothing compared to the King’s place, which loomed large before you with its golden spires catching the late morning sun. You stepped out of the carriage behind General Kirigan, his gloved hand helping you with the step. 

You were barely out when two servants, both wearing a white kefta with gold embroidery just like Genya’s, walked toward you.

“What the hell do they want?” You growled, your wariness palpable.

Aleksander couldn’t help but let out a discreet snort at your disconcerting but truly irresistible lack of care for decorum. His hand gently squeezed yours – he had kept holding it – in order to ease the obvious tension that was creeping under your skin.

“I have to exchange a few words with the King before your encounter with him, so you must follow these two. They will lead you to a room, you’ll put on the outfit Genya made for you and then you’ll join me in the ballroom.” He explained with a graceful simplicity, his coal black eyes diving into your crystal irises, as they always did whenever he talked to you. 

As much as you disliked the idea of being left alone in that place with strangers, you agreed with a brief shrug, only because you didn’t want to come off ungrateful and cause a scene. Without complaint of any sort, you turned your heel to leave but Kirigan’s grip closed more firmly around you, causing you to look at him with surprise from above your shoulder. He slowly parted his lips to speak and his voice, though low and commanding, carried much more affection than what it seemed.

“Come back to me soon.”  The words left his lips like a vow, whispered in an almost urgent tone that sent shivers down your spine. It wasn’t just a request, it was a plea, as though the mere thought of you being out of his sight for too long was unbearable. You briefly nodded in reply, oddly shaken by his intensity, and followed the servants, feeling his scorching gaze burning on your back. Waiting, watching, wanting.

“Here. Just leave the room when you’re ready.” One of the two Grisha, with short hair and an adorable gap between her front teeth, said.

As the General had explained, you had been brought to a private chamber. It was a room bathed in the warm golden light of the sun coming through the silk curtains. In the corner, a full-length mirror stood, its surface gleaming like a quiet pool. Just like the rest of the Palace, the bedroom was richly decorated – certainly a bit too much to your liking.

Alright, you thought. You quickly took the heavy package Genya had given you earlier out of your bag and carefully unfolded the fabric that protected her creation. Once it was entirely revealed, lain across the mattress, your jaw dropped. 

The outfit consisted of a criss-cross top and a long straight skirt, both made of several layers of white sheer chiffon that seemed to catch the light and glow softly – as if Genya had sprinkled the fabric with diamond dust. Though simple, the two created a delicate, hypnotizing dress. However, it was admittedly a bit more revealing than what you had expected and it reminded you of the exotic gears Tante Heleen forced you to wear back then. You repressed a retch and kept your mind from spiraling by grazing the fabric. The delicate feeling of the garment when you ran your fingers over it even managed to make your lips curl in a faint smile. That was okay, you had worn much skimpier outfits for much shadier businesses. You slipped into it, your excitement sweeping bad memories off. 

The gown clung to your frame like a second skin, the translucent layers cascading around your hips like a waterfall of moonlight and bringing out your hourglass figure. Yet, it wasn’t the dress that was the most mesmerizing part of the outfit but what came with it.

A corset. Not a simple, leather corset but rather a masterpiece of gilded artistry. In fact, the frame was meticulously crafted in a ribcage shape made of gold. Each bone seemed to shimmer under the light, casting a warm and radiant glow against your diaphanous skin. You breathed an amazed “wow” at how it had turned the soft dress into an appealing and slightly eerie outfit tailored not for a human being, but for a Saint. For sure, the girl who had walked into that room was now gone, replaced by an ethereal creature who exuded both grace and power. The reflection that stared back at you in the middle, for once, didn’t seem foreign or broken. 

You slipped one of your long white locks of hair behind your ear and left the room, carefully closing the door behind you.

“Bring me to the King’s court, please.” You asked the servants and they obliged.

Chin up, dignity on, you repeated in your mind as a way to keep yourself quiet despite your heart hammering in your chest faster and faster at each step that brought you closer to the ballroom. You knew far too well that if you didn’t focus on something, you’d start to overthink and probably chicken out. Maybe that was why you passed through the heavy gates without giving it a second thought.

When you stepped into the King’s Court the room fell silent. 

Aleksander Kirigan stood in front of you, just at the end of the few steps that led to the throne. Imposing as always, he was dressed in his usual dark attire that created a stark contrast to the sea of vibrant colors around him. His ink-black eyes locked onto your frame when you entered and, for a heartbeat, the world came to a halt for him. A maelstrom of emotions washed over him at the sight, even though it manifested as a light, dreamy smile that curved his lips, as well as a flicker of genuine fascination that burnt bright in his irises. He had seen you in many forms – vulnerable as a kitten, fierce as a tiger, wary as a cornered wild animal, peaceful as a cat when you slept– but tonight, you were something else entirely and that new facet of you fanned the flames of his all-consuming desire. A surge of electricity ran through his body as he watched the way your dress seemed to float around you as you moved, while the unsettling gilded corset shone as a reflection of a strength even he couldn’t tame. Both beguiled and enamored, General Kirigan couldn’t look away for the life of his. The world could have crumbled all around him that he wouldn’t have noticed. Your ethereal beauty was everything he could pay attention to. You were a walking paradox, he thought, a living embodiment of light and shadow that only he could sublimate. That only he could own… 

One step after the other, Hev.

The grandeur of the hall was overwhelming – its vaulted ceiling adorned with crystal chandeliers refracting light into a thousand tiny rainbows. In that vast room, courtiers and other important figures of the Ravkan government were standing near the walls, their faces a blur of curiosity and awe at the sight of you: they might all live in the most disgusting luxury you had ever known, it still seemed pale in comparison with your spellbinding silhouette standing in the middle of them, fierce and unafraid. 

Your eyes were drawn to the dais where King Pyotr and his Queen sat, their presence commanding the room and yet, even their usually unimpressed faces seemed to turn into a curious but slightly fazed frown. But rather than focusing on them, you did the only thing you knew would keep you reassured: quickly surveying the room to find the General and keeping your attention on him and only him. 

Here.

Your breath hitched at the weight of his gaze, the intensity of it piercing through you. You held your head high, the ribcage corset lending you an air of defiance, but beneath the layers of chiffon and gold, your heart raced like a thousand horses. The faint sound of the crowd murmuring among themselves couldn’t reach you over the thunder in your tight chest. And to be fair, had your heart been quieter you still would have been only aware of Kirigan’s eyes – eyes which shone brighter as you approached him. The King and the Queen themselves exchanged a few glances, the tension between the General and you palpable, but you didn’t notice it for your focus solely remained on the man who had been your savior, your anchor, your haunting desire and, now, something you couldn’t yet name. Something deeper. An evidence, perhaps.

As you reached Kirigan’s side, the light of the chandeliers caught your long ivory mane, making it shimmer like starlight.

“You are…” Aleksander started, his onyx eyes falling onto your body and lingering there a bit too long to be devoid of lust. Then, his eyes bore into yours again, “Dazzling.” 

“Thank you, my General.” You replied with a tender smile, the softness in your irises betraying how delighted you were to be reunited with him again. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stand to be kept away for too long.

King Pyotr cleared his throat, growing bored of being ignored. Sitting at the far end of the hall, he was draped in a luxurious uniform, his crown gleaming on top of his thinning grey hair. Slouched down on his throne with his legs spread and his protuberant belly pressed down on his tight shirt, his eyes sparked with curiosity and skepticism as he appraised you. Beside him, the Queen wasn’t more welcoming. Surrounded by a few nobles who whispered, her gaze was undeniably sharp and judgmental. You couldn’t hear what they said but you were pretty sure they were laughing about you.

“General Kirigan,” The King interjected, his voice dripping with condescension, “You bring us a curious guest. Though I reckon she is… Interesting.”  

You didn’t know what he meant by interesting but the way he had said it didn’t please you. At all. 

Aleksander reluctantly turned to face the King before inclining his head to show respect, “Your Majesty, I present you Heaven Lavey. A newcomer in the Little Palace and a Grisha of unparalleled ability. I have come to petition for her freedom.” 

A murmur rippled through the court, eyes narrowing and mouths curling in derision. It was a strange sight to see the cold and terrifying Black General advocating for someone. Especially someone like…You.

“Freedom”, The King repeated as if he had just spat a bone out of his fish dish, then he leaned forward, “I’ve heard that she used to work on her back…” A little, cruel smirk played on his thin lips at the lascivious insinuation, “I didn’t know the unyielding General of the Second Army loved to partake in such… Hobbies. And I didn’t know he would get as far as introducing a whore to my Court.”

You bristled at the word, your pupils retracting into two black dots lost in the vastness of your frozen irises, but Aleksander’s hand gently brushed your back as if he had sensed your anger and wished to calm you. A subtle reminder that you must hold your composure, even through the hurt.

“What she had to do to survive in the hands of cruel masters does not define her, Majesty. You shall believe me when I say that she deserved to be free.” 

“And why, pray tell, would this… creature merit such consideration?” He raised a brow, clearly enjoying how his little jabs stirred a laugh from both the Queen and his Court just like a bunch of hyenas would do when circling their future meal.

“She’s no mere Grisha,” Kirigan said louder, his voice carrying the quiet force of a storm and a bitterness that were enough to cut the gigglings short, “Her powers are unlike anything we’ve seen, a gift to Ravka that deserves recognition and respect. Majesty, I’ve come here to introduce you to a Sankta. A Saint that can turn Ravka into the most powerful nation of the world. A saint that can tip the balance of any war. The cure and the bane to everything.”  He spoke, with passion and belief so strong it bordered fanaticism.

A Saint?

The King laughed, a sharp bark that resounded through the hall but, this time, he was the only one to do so, “ A Sankta, you say? Those are bold words, General. But I have yet to see proof of such claims. Demonstrate, or this is nothing but empty promises.” Punctuating his diatribe with a little hand gesture, King Pyotr slouched back on his throne, unimpressed and waiting to be entertained.

Fucker, Kirigan thought but rather than glaring at the King, he turned to you and frowned. His gaze, steady and unreadable, blazed with determination. If anything, he seemed even more infuriated than you by the King’s way of treating you,  “Show them.” He said softly, despite the anger, with a low but encouraging order. 

Now that you were here, the whole Court’s eyes set on you and the King’s expectation weighing heavy upon his shoulders, failing the Black General wasn’t an option.

You hesitated, the significance of the moment pressing down on you. How could you demonstrate anything breathtaking when months ago you were still running barefoot in the forest, unable to control the most basic abilities of your Heartrender nature? How could you prove that you were the Sankta Aleksander thought you were while all your life you had just been nothing more than a pretty yet random sex slave? Your palms went moist, tingling with the familiar hum of power, but doubt and anxiety gnawed at the edges of your resolve. What if you failed? What if you proved him wrong? What if–

“I…” You began, your haunting voice faltering. At that very moment, all you wanted was to run away from the Grand Palace and curl up in a ball small enough, somewhere in the woods nearby, to blend with the trees’ roots.

“You’ve got this,” Aleksander said to put a stop to your inner rambling that plagued you before stepping closer and sliding behind you, smoothly. When he stood behind, with his athletic body straight and unbreakable, his ungloved hands gently came to rest on the naked skin of your waist. The unexpected and firm touch made you jump a little, but it was oddly comforting. His thumbs gently pressed against your side to steady you as his fingers curled slightly in a possessive but not overbearing grip. A little sigh escaped your lips when the warmth of his palms seeped through your skin and melted your panic away. “I want you to take a long inhale and feel me,” He murmured into your ear only for you to hear. His lips brushed your flesh and sent shivers down your spine, “Feel me inside of you…” Fire burned in your stomach, “And let my strength guide yours.” 

And suddenly clarity came back to your mind, cleared from the thick fog of anxiety. All that remained was the familiar attraction that constantly pulled you toward him, more vivid than it had ever been. His own power buzzed, thrummed through your veins, and ignited you as he discreetly amplified your abilities like a rising tide. His touch wasn’t just calming, it was devastatingly ecstatic.  Transcendent. Cataclysmic. His force melded with your own, his soul merging with yours, and for an instant Aleksander and you seemed to be the very same person. Your racing thoughts froze as his amplifying power wrapped around you, making you feel complete.

In a life where you had always felt like some important piece of you was missing, felt like you had always been incomplete not to say empty, it was here, in the King’s Court, that you realized that what had always been missing all this time was him. The Darkling.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment and inhaled longly, bracing yourself for the demonstration. The hum within you grew stronger, feeling like a myriad of burning particles moving fastly through every fiber of you as the General’s shadowy power intertwined with yours. When you opened your eyes again, their ice had vanished – they weren’t the same anymore. In fact, their frozen blue was now of a greyish hue while your sclera had darkened to a deep, crimson red. A red so dark it almost looked black. Faint veins appeared around your eyes, like somber branches on fresh fallen snow.

Now. Kirigan’s voice resounded within you, in a low, sensual growl.

Moving instinctively, you raised your hand slowly, fingers trembling a few seconds before steadying for good. A subtle shift in the air caught the Court’s attention, all eyes set on you, waiting for a miracle in an almost religious silence. A loud exhale escaped your lips and, suddenly, your power burst like an invisible rogue wave. With one sole flick of your wrist, the dozen of guards who were flanking the royal couple stiffed, their bodies deprived of control and their movements no longer their own. At the very same time, they turned their rifles and aimed at each other with a horrified look on their face, their trembling fingers hardly a few inches from pulling the trigger. Their life was hanging by a thin thread, one movement away from a bloodbath. 

A chorus of gasps and cries erupted as the nobles scrambled backward in fear at such a display of power. Aleksander’s fingers dug deeper into your flesh in reply, enough to make your whole being aware of his possessive grip.

But you weren’t done with them, not yet. With a movement of your other hand, the entire assembly felt their knees trembling under an unseen weight. One by one, they began to bow, knee dropping on the marble ground in a sea of loud thuds. The crowd that had once been a mighty ocean, threatening to swallow you, was soon reduced to a puddle of shaking bodies bent all around you.  Even King Pyotr, with his smug grin wiped from his pig’s face now twisted with shock, found himself lowering onto the ground. His protests, though loud, got lost in the cacophony of panicked squeals and sobs. Because they knew. They knew that all it would take for you to end their pathetic little life would be a single little gesture.

Your chest heaved at the divine sensation of untamable, unstoppable power.

‘Enough,” Aleksander whispered in your ear in a soft, sultry voice that echoed in your skull. 

You released your hold at his command with a shuddering breath, arm dropping. The tension in the room dissipated almost as instantly. The guards lowered their weapons and the Court stood on their feet again, their bodies still shaking and their faces, formerly mocking, ashen. Simultaneously, your irises switched to their usual color. As for the dark veins around your eyes, they faded away as if they never were.

The King, who had quickly got back to his throne, was gawking at you, “Impossible…” He breathed.

Aleksander’s lips curved into a barely visible predatory smirk at the frightened reactions, exhilarated by them. He could smell the acrid fragrances of their fear lingering in the grandiose ballroom as they all observed you, wary of your every move. As the royal couple slowly regained their composure, you could feel Kirigan’s hands slip away from your waist, depriving you of his warmth. However, he remained nearby, protective. 

“You see now, Your Majesty, the extent of her powers. And this was just a foretaste of what she’s capable of, apart from her enhanced Heartrender’s abilities.” He raised a brow, trying his best not to sound arrogant despite the pride he felt booming in his chest, “ But you shall believe my word about that matter. After all, we wouldn’t want to turn this whole room into a slaughterhouse, would we?” 

The King said nothing to that. Instead, his gaze flicked between the white-haired doll and the cursed Black General, not knowing if he should be afraid or in awe. For sure you could be a great asset for Ravka, but he also couldn’t help but ponder what kind of monster you were.

You dared a glance at Kirigan, your icy eyes gleaming with a mixture of gratitude and anxiety.

“That was, indeed, impressive.” The King finally spoke after a long, tense silence, “We will… consider your request, General.” 

“I trust you will make a reasonable decision, Sir.” 

That was all he said. Without waiting for any kind of official dismissal, Aleksander inclined his head briefly and turned his heels, already leading you toward the exit. His long black kefta swept behind him as he walked, like shadows dancing in his grim sillage. 

Watching the General and his little white devil leaving, the King found himself almost hypnotized by the sight of these two. They were surely a drastic contrast, one of them all tall and clad in darkness while the short creature that followed him with light steps, looked like she was made of light with her pale skin and her long white hair swinging left and right at her hips’ discretion. She was so delicate compared to him, her full, rose-tinted lips against his slightly chapped ones, her eyes so blinding when compared to the blackness of his, and her features indescribably seraphic contrary to his sharp traits. Yes, she almost seemed out of place under his austere wing and yet, no one could deny that it was exactly where she should be. Where she belonged.

The weight of countless stares bore down on them, witnessing the work of fate under their terrified eyes. Fate. Exactly. That was fate that bound them, they could all see it in the way they moved – as if they were one, with their steps perfectly synchronized. Their unity was magnetic, speaking volumes about the bond that tied them together. A bond that had not been voiced nor rendered official but that was standing out a mile. As they reached the doors, the King caught a glimpse of the faintest motion: The General’s fingers gently brushed toward the Heartrender’s in an ever-tender gesture.

When he blinked they were already gone, leaving  in their trail only the ghost of their dreadful power and a visceral unease he couldn’t shake.

The door of the guest room closed behind you after the General had gently guided you inside with his hand on the small of your back. A habit he had taken whenever you’d walk together – as though he was unable to keep his hands off you. 

Now that the adrenaline of the moment started to gradually wear off, your body trembled a bit, still not over the intense bond it had just experienced under the tall darkness’ touch. You carefully beheld him as he locked the door, his face unfathomable behind the veil of his sternness but his square shoulders visibly tensed. The fear of disappointing crept under your skin again, unsettled by his silence. 

“How was I?” You dared to ask with an unsure tone, your voice breaking the silence. 

At the sound of it, Aleksander closed his eyes for a brief instant and relished its soft lilt all the while remaining silent. “Was that enough?” You pressed, unaware that your voice sounded like an enchanting melody to his ears. 

Letting out a long exhale through his nostrils, General Kirigan finally headed back to you with his cat-like gait and stopped in front of you. Your considerable height difference struck out as he towered you. The shadow of his tall, athletic figure cast its darkness upon you, while the two black holes of his eyes seemed to study your face with great attention as if looking for something hidden in your angel traits. His expression slowly shifted, considerably softening at the sight of your irresistible pout — how could such a lethal and cold creature like you look so nymphet at the same time? 

Aleksander raised his hand and, tenderly, his fingers reached for your cheek.

“More than enough.” His sultry, powerful voice said quietly but despite the low volume, it echoed in your skull. However, doubts flashed briefly on your face.

“But you’re the one who did it, right?” You said carefully.

“No, I only gave you a little push. You’ll soon be able to do that by yourself with more training. Trust me, Heaven… You were… Perfect.”  The weight of his somber gaze, as somber as a starless night, held you captive. For the very first time since you met, there was no darkness in it now, no calculated intent. There only was a hurricane of howling emotions. After centuries of mastering restraints, manipulation, and cold elegance, he finally stood before you, stripped of all. 

His warm fingers brushed along your cheek with an unbearable gentleness, tracing the curve of your face as if memorizing it, fearing you were nothing but a dream that might disappear at any moment. A mirage in the desert of his loneliness. The calloused pad of his fingers shook slightly, betraying the devastating power of what he was feeling. Boom. Boom. Boom. The faint but rapid drums of his pulse reached your ears — for a brief instant you thought it was yours that pounced in your ribcage but soon realized that no, it was the General’s heart. He exhaled, a shuddering breath, and suddenly he almost looked fragile. About to crumble under your touch. 

“Where were you?” His voice was hoarse. Thick with a tone perilously close to grief. His thumb smoothed over your pale cheekbone as his eyes burned into yours, “Where were you all this time, Heaven?” Where were you when the shadow devoured me? When both pain and madness ran through my veins like shards of broken glass?

Your lips parted to say something but your voice got caught in your throat for there was something absolutely heart-shattering in the way he said your name, like a prayer filled with pleas, ache, and hope.

“No… Where were you?” The words escaped you before you realized it, your very soul speaking before your mind. 

His onyx eyes, usually two voids swallowing everything whole, now brimmed with something dangerously close to unshed tears. The pain of centuries pressed between you — all these empty years, all the longing that had never been met, all the sleepless nights of crying and hating… All came to an end today.

He leaned over you to bring his face closer.

Your breath hitched, your body tightening in response to the insufferable, suffocating pull that kept bringing you back to him. A pull that felt like barbwires wrapped around you: the further you were from him, the tighter the barbwires, as if their metallic knots were ripping your skin apart. And contrariwise, the physically closer, the more the barbwires loosened and the pain vanished. 

“This —“ He whispered, hesitating. The aftermath of what had happened in the ballroom still crackled in the air, the memory of your powers melting into each other. Now that he had tasted what it was to become one with you and be complete, the idea of being apart from you felt unendurable. And, frankly, it was. You felt it too: the impossibility of going back to the restraint that had defined these past months. The agony of pretending that what burned between you could be ignored, “This is unbearable. I can’t take it anymore.”

“So make it end, Aleksander.” 

Aleksander. 

His name fell from your lips, confidently. 

Aleksander. Your voice echoed in the shadows, each syllable melting as you claimed their ownership. A muscle twitched in his jaw at the sound of his name in your sinful mouth. It made something snap inside of him. His hand slid down to your throat, fingertips ghosting along the beat of your rapid pulse.

The Darkling gently pressed his forehead against yours and a quiet, breathless laugh fell from his lips — one that held no amusement, only disbelief. 

“My name. Say it again.” He murmured.

You exhaled sharply as the distance between your bodies faded away with every fleeting minute. Your hands lifted without a second thought, drawn to him just like the tide is pulled to the shore. One hand rested on his chest against the fine fabric of his back kefta, just where the fast, erratic thrum of his heart lied beneath. The other reached for his face, your thin fingers grazing the sharp line of his jaw the same sensual way his own hand had so reverently did to you moments ago. The scratch of his beard under your skin made your shiver.

Aleksander’s breath quickened and fanned against your mouth before mingling with yours. Neither of you moved away. Neither of you could. Neither of you wanted to. There was no escape anymore. 

And, finally, the dam broke.

“Aleksander.”  You repeated, and the Black General, that monster everyone feared, suppressed the last inches that separated you. 

His lips came to crash into yours, capturing your mouth with passion. You answered his kiss immediately — a kiss that was desperate and searing. As the wildfire of your desire unleashed, Aleksander slightly parted his lips, the tip of his tongue seeking yours. They bumped into each other timidly at first before they started to dance together in an infernal waltz.

You tasted like blood and honey.

He tasted like smoke and sadness.

Devouring each other like starving wolves, your bodies ignited with love and lust. The Darkling left hand lost itself in your long white mane, tugging at it a little to make your head tilt and deepen the kiss furthermore, while his other hand pressed firmly against the small of your back to pull you flush against him. At each friction, each fervent movement, your knees weakened. Hadn’t he been embracing you so tightly you would have collapsed. Embracing you so tightly you could feel the slightest details of what was hidden behind his clothes: His strong chest against your small, perky breasts, his lean stomach against yours, and his leg slightly pressing between your thighs, right on the thin lace thong that barely hid the wet petals of your slit. The sensation made you gasp into his mouth – Aleksander fed on the sound hungrily. 

His grip tightened even more around you, his love for you so maddening he almost wished he could tear you apart to sink further into your skin. He kissed you like no other man ever did, and the world disappeared — there was no court, no king, no war and no Tante Heleen anymore. There was only him. Only you.

Aleksander broke the kiss, leaving you almost gasping for air. His mouth trailed lower, and brushed against your jaw,  warm lips grazing your neck as breathless words slipped from them, “Do you have any idea,” He whispered against your skin with a hoarse voice, your flesh buzzing beneath his mouth, “what you do to me?” 

”I don’t,” You breathed and tilted your head to grant him full access to your throat, your crystal eyes half closed as his fingers clutched on your waist, “but I think you quite like it.” You purred with a rich and siren-like voice, laced with a quiet teasing tone. Your wild spirit had him stilled for a fraction of a second, his breath rasping before his lips curved against your neck in a dangerous smirk. 

“Perhaps I do.” He admitted in a low, seductive growl. 

Fuck, you thought. Your own fingers tightened in his coal-black hair and pulled it back just enough to meet his gaze — those endless black eyes that had always pierced through your soul and made you feel naked. Black eyes that were entirely, overwhelmingly, fixed on you. Devoted to you.

You leaned in again, your plump and saccharine lips just a breath away from his but you didn’t kiss him a second time yet despite Aleksander’s silently begging you for it. Instead, you let the moment stretch, drowning in his intoxicating perfume and letting him feel the unbearable anticipation he had inflicted upon you that night in the map room, “Then let’s fall together, General.” 

Your lips collapsed with his again but sloppier this time. It started as a little peck. Then a second, before turning into a soft and moist kiss, tongues gently stroking each other, like the warm rain of a hot summer night. Aleksander leaned into the kiss, his dark eyes shut close and his hands pawing at your waist hungrily to keep you trapped against his tall, lean figure. As your mouths explored the other, your bodies moved in a very slow rhythm, gently grinding together – your clothes were definitely more of a burden than anything else now.

Starting to feel needier, Kirigan trapped the juicy flesh of your lower lip between his pearly white teeth and tugged at it. He wanted you. He needed you. Now and always.

But a sharp knock at the door shattered the moment.

“General Kirigan,” a voice called through the wooden door of the guest room, “The King wishes to talk to you. He has reached his decision.” 

Silence hovered above the room for a brief instant even though the electricity of the moment still lingered and turned the air thick. Aleksander didn’t move, not quite willing to let reality intrude just yet. Nevertheless, he knew that his duties as a general had to come first, at least for the sake of your freedom. Crossing the King now would be the worst timing ever.

Aleksander exhaled slowly as he gently rested his forehead against yours and remained like this for a moment. His breath was still shallow and his heartbeat thumping. It was after what seemed to be an eternity for the man calling him behind the door, that he finally but oh-so-reluctantly stepped back and walked to the door. Before opening it, his strong hand froze on the knob and, despite the emergency of the situation, the General waited a bit more. He couldn’t help but glance at you one last time. His black eyes lingered on you, dark and unreadable again, though the unmistakable fire of love burned in them quietly.

“Come back to me soon.” You said calmly, but your soul screamed within you, unwilling to let her twin flame go.

Aleksander smirked when he heard you use the exact same words he used earlier. Cunning little Devil, he thought. Then turned and left the room, leaving you standing there alone with your body humming from his touch and your lips still tingling from his kisses. As his footsteps faded in the corridor, the echo of his shadows resounded in your heart and whispered a fierce truth:

It wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

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[sunnytotherescue]

Obey me boys with chubby! Reader w/ the most thickest fat ass who is definitely a power bottom

(My English is not my first language)

Ouh lawd anon save me from the sweltering pits of hell I'm going to start BARKING..

cw: dom!bot mc

nnngrhhmgngfjfh

Thinking about Lucifer desperately thrusting up into the air and gaining nothing from it. Lucifer who loves getting suffocated and crushed as he eats you out, swollen cock twitching with every slow grind against his tongue. The feeling of losing all control of the situation for once makes him painfully hard. His mind is already a haze, drooling mouth trying to keep up with you whenever you move but he's grown sluggish with the lack of oxygen. Of course, he wouldn't have it any other way, obnoxious slurping filling up the room while the lucky demon silently begs for you to stay there forever.

Thinking about Mammon who's quickly turned into your very own dog. He'd lick the sweat off your chest, squeeze and grope every inch you allowed him access to, decorate you in jewels and treasures only he could snatch. Put that mutt on a leash and have him fuck you, desperate pleads spilling from his mouth the second he slams in. Let him drool over how every golden chain and shiny diamond he's decorated you with jingles with every thrust. Tug on pup's collar hard enough and he'll cum from that alone, sobbing when he spills deep inside your hole. But even then he won't stop, not until you let him, not until you've had your fill and he's passing out! But how could such a greedy demon be ungrateful when every ripple of skin and shiny glint of gold is just for him?

Thinking about Leviathan who has trouble just approaching you because of the threatening (in his words) aura you give off. You're so scary he knows you'll bully him- you gave him a look at lunch he's never going to recover- he's rocking back in forth in his tub bed to try and forget how much you must hate him- he gets out his laptop to watch his favorites to help the process- he's never jerked off to that much porn in his life. ..It's not long after he gets the real thing. Or, at least, as much as he's allowed. Levi sits at the end of your bed, panting feverishly while one hand massages your ass and the other fists his dick like his life depends on it. It a mess, milky white cum already staining your skin, but he just can't stop. Not when he's so good at imagining how you'd use him like a toy.. but don't actually!! he doesn't deserve it...yet.

Thinking of Satan who's on the verge of sobbing. His poor sensitive cock so overstimulated it almost hurts, but he's taking it like a good boy. The night started out in a fight and ended with you bouncing on his dick like an animal, taking all you could want while he curls sharp claws into the sheets, trying desperately to muffle his sounds. He's usually so clever, but underneath of you? He turns into such a dumb little kitty. Moans get punched from his mouth with every harsh slam of your hips, a sticky slick mess squelching with every movement. He can't feel anything else besides burning, painful pleasure. Not like he would want to anyway.

Thinking of Asmodeus who begs you to let him play dress-up. He has so many ideas that he's never gotten to try out because none of the outfits look right on him. but you? they look perfect. By the end of it, you're dressed in a silky-smooth robe, the color matching your eyes almost exactly. it's perfect, drapes over your curves just right and has Asmo at your knees with a drunk look in his eyes. He kisses the inside of your thighs like you're the finest diamond in all of Devildom. Asmodeus, the prized and loved avatar of lust, at your feet and pulling every trick in the book to try n seduce you. Telling you how pretty you look, how good he'll make you feel, how he well he can worship you.

Thinking about Beelzebub who can't help but look at you and get hungry. It absolutely sinful and he feels guilty about it, but who else could satisfy him? He fucks into you like a bull, lips wrapped firmly around you chest and sucking like you'd actually be able to produce milk.. he's so hungry :( Poor starving Beel has no idea how fucked out you are, choking out praises while your eyes roll back into your head. He plays with your chest in a way that should be embarrassing, but you'll let him believe it's just like a pair of tits if he keeps fucking you like this.

Thinking of Belphegor who uses your ass n thighs like pillows every chance he gets. Sitting on the couch? He's there. Late for breakfast and sitting alone? He's under the table with his head on your lap. Settling down in bed for the night? Idiot's whining until you let him climb under your sheets and sleep between your thighs. But don't worry, he repays you kindly. Jerking you off in the dead of knight, humping the curve of your ass while using his own spit to slick up ur cock.. he promises not to cum. to put your pleasure above his own, edging himself until your thick spend is soaking his fist and he can't take it anymore. Too bad he always passes out right after... hopefully he'll make up for it in the morning..

_

hiiiiiii I hate how this turned out ok baiiiii