HallowedMoss

22 <3 Ao3 HallowedMoss I write fanfics :3 She/her Bisexual :) <3<3<3

[hallowedmoss]

Offside

18+ Mature

Smut

MLM

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At first, it’s easy to dismiss. Just another game, another moment, another glance.

Except it keeps happening.

Ilya watches. Pushes. Crosses lines like he’s testing where they are.

Shane feels it—quietly, unwillingly—but doesn’t know what to do with it.

And somewhere in the space between resistance and attention, something begins to shift. Ilya knows exactly what he’s doing.

Shane tells himself it doesn’t matter.

But repeated moments turn into patterns, and patterns turn into something neither of them can really deny.

The tension builds slowly, threading through every interaction until it’s no longer just there in the background—it’s everything.

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hey guys i worked on this for like the last 4 hours, i got a lot of good feedback on my previous Ilya and Shane fics here and on ao3, so i got to work on a slightly longer fic!! I hope you guys like it !! xoxo kudos<3

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Chapter 1: Chapter 1: The Space Between Them

The first time Ilya notices it, it’s nothing. That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

It’s just another game. Another arena that smells like cold air and rubber and sweat, the kind that settles into your lungs and never really leaves. The crowd is loud, already leaning toward restless, the kind of energy that builds into something ugly if the game goes the wrong way. Ilya thrives in that. He always has.

But tonight his attention keeps slipping. Not to the puck, not to the play along the boards—to Shane.

It’s irritating.

Shane isn’t even doing anything unusual. That’s the problem. He’s exactly the same as always: controlled, precise, skating like every movement has already been calculated three steps ahead. Captain. Predictable. Safe.

Ilya hates it.

And yet his gaze keeps tracking him anyway. Shift after shift. Every time Shane steps onto the ice, something in Ilya tightens, sharp and focused, like instinct kicking in too early. He presses harder, skates faster, finishes checks he normally wouldn’t bother with—not because of the game, but because of him.

It’s stupid. It means nothing.

So when Shane glances at him—just once, brief and unreadable—Ilya holds the look a second too long on purpose, just to prove it doesn’t matter.

By the time the game ends, he’s wound too tight. They win, barely. It should feel good. It doesn’t.

The locker room is loud, voices overlapping, music starting somewhere in the background. Gear hits the floor, laughter cutting through tension that hadn’t fully settled. Ilya barely hears any of it, because Shane is across the room.

Talking. Leaning slightly closer than necessary.

It takes Ilya a second to register who it is. A rookie—young, clean-cut, still carrying that edge of eagerness that hasn’t been worn down yet. He’s animated, grinning like whatever he just did on the ice actually matters beyond tonight.

And Shane is looking at him differently. Not the way he looks at reporters. Not the way he looks at opponents. Softer. Interested.

Ilya’s jaw tightens. It’s nothing. It should be nothing. But the feeling that settles low in his chest says otherwise—sharp, immediate, uninvited. He doesn’t like it. He definitely doesn’t like how long Shane lets the conversation go on, or how he doesn’t look away. Ilya stands abruptly, shoving his gloves into his bag harder than necessary. The sound cuts through some of the noise nearby. A few heads turn. Shane doesn’t. That’s worse. For a moment, Ilya considers leaving it alone. Walking out. Pretending none of this is happening. That would be the smart thing.

Instead, he crosses the room.

Slow, deliberate. He doesn’t look at Shane as he approaches, doesn’t acknowledge the rookie at all. He just steps into the space like he belongs there.

“Good game,” he says flatly, and it’s directed at Shane. Only Shane.

The rookie falters immediately, glancing between them. Shane just gives a short nod. “Yeah. You too.” Calm. Neutral. Controlled. Ilya hates that too. His gaze flicks briefly toward the rookie, dismissive. “Didn’t realize you needed help reviewing plays.” It’s mild on the surface, but not quite. The rookie straightens a little, confused. “Oh, I was just—” “It’s not that,” Shane cuts in, eyes meeting Ilya’s. Steady. Warning. There it is. Ilya feels it immediately, and something in him settles just slightly. Better.

“I didn’t ask you,” he says, still calm, but sharper now.

The locker room noise dips just a little as the tension shifts. Shane exhales quietly, like he’s already tired of this, which makes Ilya want to push harder.

“Relax,” Shane says. “We’re just talking.”

We.

Ilya’s mouth presses into something that almost resembles a smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Doesn’t look like it.”

The rookie goes very still. Smart.

“Rozanov,” Shane says, sharper now. “Drop it.”

There’s a beat. A choice. Ilya could. He knows he should.

Instead, he holds Shane’s gaze for one second longer than necessary, measuring, testing, and then steps back—not retreating, just not escalating. Yet.

“Sure,” he says flatly, like none of it mattered.

But as he turns away, he doesn’t miss the way Shane’s attention lingers, or how the rookie doesn’t move until he’s fully gone

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Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Too Close to Ignore

Morning practice is quieter. Not silent, but controlled in a way games never are. The rink feels colder, the lights harsher, everything stripped down to repetition and precision. Skates carve clean lines into the ice, pucks snap against sticks, coaches call out corrections that echo just enough to stick.

Shane prefers it like this. Predictable. Contained.

He’s already on the ice when most of the team drifts out, running drills with the same exactness he brings to everything. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Every pass lands clean, every shot placed exactly where he wants it.

Routine. Safe.

“Hey—captain.”

He doesn’t look up right away. Finishes the drill first—receives the pass, adjusts, snaps the puck clean into the top corner—then turns.

The rookie is already skating toward him.

Up close, he looks even younger. Not inexperienced, but unpolished. Too much energy, not enough restraint yet.

“Yeah?” Shane says.

“I was wondering—on that second-period play last night, when you cut inside instead of going wide—was that because their defenseman was cheating the lane, or—”

He talks fast. Thinks faster.

“Both,” Shane says. “He was overcommitting, but your winger was already drifting. There wasn’t space.”

The rookie nods immediately. “Right—yeah, I saw that after, but in the moment—” “You hesitated.” It’s not harsh. Just true. The rookie laughs under his breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” “You won’t next time.” Simple. Certain.

“Do you mind if I run it again? With you?” There’s nothing strange about the question. It happens all the time. Still, Shane hesitates. Just for a second. Then ignores it. “Go.” They run the play again. And again. Each time the rookie gets sharper—faster, more decisive. Shane adjusts without thinking, correcting angles, pushing just enough. It’s easy. By the fourth repetition, they’re moving almost seamlessly. “Better,” Shane says as the puck hits the net. “Yeah?” the rookie asks, breathless. “Yeah.” The grin that follows is open, unguarded in a way most players lose quickly. “Okay, good. I felt like I was overthinking it before.”

“You were.”

“Brutal,” he mutters, but he’s smiling.

Shane almost smiles back.

Almost.

Across the ice, Ilya slows. It’s subtle—his timing just slightly off, the puck not settling clean on his stick. He resets immediately, expression unchanged, but his gaze lifts and stays there.

It’s not hard to find Shane.

It never is.

But this is different. Not the conversation. Not the proximity. The ease. The way Shane adjusts without thinking. The way the rookie leans into it like it’s already familiar. Like it belongs.

Ilya’s jaw tightens. He pushes off harder than necessary, cutting across the ice with more force than the drill calls for. Someone nearby mutters something under their breath. He ignores it.

Because Shane is laughing. Not much, but enough. Enough that his shoulders loosen slightly—something that almost never happens on the ice. And the rookie is still right there. The whistle cuts through the noise. Line change. Players drift toward the bench, grabbing water, adjusting gear. Shane steps off last. The rookie follows. Of course he does. They sit close—not touching, nothing obvious, but close enough. Talking low, focused on each other again. Ilya doesn’t sit. He stays standing at the far end of the bench, water bottle in his hand, not drinking. Watching. Not obviously, but long enough.

“Rozanov.”

“Coach.”

“You’re half a step behind on transitions. Fix it.” A pause. “Yeah,” Ilya says, flat. Practice resumes. He doesn’t miss again. Every movement sharper now, faster, more precise. He finishes every check, pushes the pace right to the edge. And every time the line resets, his gaze flicks back. Automatic.

Unavoidable. By the end of practice, something has shifted. Not loud. Not visible. But there.

Waiting.

In the locker room, everything goes back to normal—music, chatter, the scrape of gear. Almost. Shane is at his stall when the rookie drops down beside him, closer this time. Comfortable. “Hey,” he says, nudging him lightly. “Thanks for earlier.” “You picked it up fast.” “Yeah, well—good teacher.” A quiet exhale. Almost a laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Easy. Light.

Across the room, Ilya goes still.

This time, he doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t step in. But his attention locks in, sharper than before, tracking every shift in Shane’s posture, every second the conversation stretches longer than it needs to. Longer than it should. When that feeling hits again, he doesn’t ignore it. He lets it settle.

Heavy. Defined. Real.

Something he’s not going to pretend isn’t there anymore.The locker room should feel normal. It almost does. Music plays, someone argues about a missed call, gear clatters. But it’s off. Just enough that Shane notices.

“—so if I cut in earlier, I probably have a better lane, right?”

“Depends,” Shane says. “If the defense collapses—”

“—then I hold outside?”

“Yeah.”

The rookie nods, filing it away immediately. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t seem in a rush to.

Shane doesn’t tell him to.

Across the room, Ilya watches.

This time, he doesn’t wait.

He pushes off the wall in one smooth motion and crosses the room, deliberate, with nothing subtle about it. Conversations falter as he passes—not because anyone knows why, just instinct.

Shane sees him coming. His posture straightens slightly, shoulders tightening. The rookie doesn’t notice until Ilya is right there. Too close. “Still confused?” Ilya asks. Sharp. Not loud, but it cuts clean. “What?” the rookie says. Ilya barely looks at him before turning back to Shane. “You keep asking the same things. Thought maybe you needed it explained differently.”

The tone isn’t kind.

“I’m just trying to—”

“I heard you.”

Flat. Final.

Shane’s expression hardens. “Knock it off.”

But Ilya doesn’t step back. If anything, he leans in slightly, just enough that Shane has to tilt his head to hold his gaze. “You’ve got a lot of patience,” Ilya says. It sounds like a compliment. It isn’t. “I can go—” the rookie starts. “No,” Ilya cuts in, sharper now. More people are paying attention. Shane stands. Now they’re level. Close. “Enough,” he says, quiet but firm. For a second, it looks like Ilya might push further. Then he smiles. Slight. Crooked. Wrong. “Relax.” Same word. Different weight.

His gaze flicks back to the rookie, assessing, then returns to Shane. “Didn’t realize you were running private practices now.”

There it is. Clear. Public.

“Sit down,” Shane says immediately—to the rookie.

Protective. Instinctive.

Ilya notices. Something in his expression shifts, not hidden this time. “Right,” he says quietly. Now it sounds dangerous. Shane doesn’t back down. “Don’t start something you don’t want to finish.” The room stills. Then Ilya steps back. Just one step. Enough to break the immediate tension. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says.

A lie. As he passes behind Shane, he slows just enough to lean in. “You let him get comfortable,” he murmurs, too quiet for anyone else. Then he’s gone. The noise comes back slowly. A little too loud. A little too forced. “Did I do something?” the rookie asks. “No,” Shane says too quickly. But his gaze flicks toward where Ilya disappeared.

And lingers.

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Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Pressure Points

Shane tells himself it doesn’t matter. That’s the easiest version of it. The cleanest.

Practice is over. The locker room is mostly empty. Whatever that was earlier should already be filed away under irrelevant.

It isn’t.

“Hey—Hollander?”

Shane looks up. The rookie is still there, half-dressed, lingering like he doesn’t quite know when to leave.

“What?”

“Coach wants to run video later. He said you might be there?”

“I will be.”

“Cool. Do you mind if I sit in too?”

There’s no reason to say no. Every reason to say yes.

“Fine.”

The rookie grins. “Thanks.”

Too easy.

And that’s when Shane feels it again.

Not a sound. Just presence.

He doesn’t look right away. He doesn’t need to.

Still, he does.

Across the room, Ilya leans against the wall like he’s been there the whole time.

Watching.

Their eyes meet.

And hold.

It’s not subtle. It hasn’t been subtle.

Shane’s jaw tightens. He looks away first. Not because he has to—because he chooses to.

“See you later, captain,” the rookie says, grabbing his bag. Shane barely registers it. By the time he looks back, the room is emptier. And Ilya is still there. Of course he is. Shane stands slowly, grabbing his gear. He doesn’t rush. The quiet makes everything sharper—every movement louder, every second more deliberate. “Are you done?” The voice is closer now. Too close. Shane turns.

Ilya isn’t across the room anymore. He’s right there.

Within reach.

“Yes,” Shane says.

He steps forward.

Ilya doesn’t move.

Not obvious. Just enough to block.

“Move.”

Ilya studies him. Not challenging. Not backing down.

“You let him stay,” he says.

“He’s on my team.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“Say what you want to say.”

A beat.

“Why him?”

Direct.

Shane scoffs. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

No humor.

“He’s a rookie. He asked for help.”

“And you gave it.”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“You don’t do that for everyone.”

It lands.

Because it’s not wrong.

“That’s not your concern.”

“Maybe it is.”

He steps closer. Not touching. No space left between them.

“Why?” Shane asks.

That’s the mistake. “Because you didn’t look at me like that.” Quiet. Controlled. It hits harder than anything else. “Like what?” “Like you wanted to be there.” Silence. Something shifts. “That’s not—” Shane starts, then stops. Ilya watches that happen. “See?” he says softly. Shane steps forward this time, closing the space fully. “Don’t make something out of nothing.” “I’m not. You just don’t like that I noticed.” The same words. Different weight. Shane doesn’t like it. Not because it’s wrong. Because it’s too close to right. Their shoulders almost touch now. Close enough to feel the heat coming off him.

“You’re reading too much into it.”

“Am I?” Ilya’s gaze drops briefly—to his mouth—then back up. That does something sharp and immediate. “Yeah,” Shane says, but there’s less certainty now. Ilya doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at him.

“Then prove it.”

“What?”

“Walk away.”

Simple.

Direct.

Shane doesn’t move.

A beat passes. Then another.

Neither of them steps back. And now it’s not about the rookie anymore. “You’re in my way,” Shane says quietly. “Then move me.” Not a joke. Something in his chest tightens. He reaches out. Not rough. Not hesitant. Just enough. His hand presses against Ilya’s chest. Solid. Warm. For a second, neither of them moves. Because now they’re both aware of it.

The contact.

The line.

Ilya’s gaze drops to where Shane’s hand is, then lifts again, slower this time.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

Shane pulls his hand back like it burns.

That was a mistake.

Except it didn’t feel like one. “Move,” he says again. Ilya does. Finally. One step to the side. Clear. But as Shane passes— “You didn’t want to,” Ilya says quietly. Shane doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t answer. But the words stay with him anyway. And that’s the problem.

The door to Shane's hotel room rattled with a sharp knock, pulling him from the haze of another sleepless night. He yanked it open, irritation flashing across his face—until he saw Ilya standing there, shoulders tense, eyes burning with that familiar storm.

"Ilya? What the fuck are you doing here?" Shane growled, but he didn't slam the door. The air between them crackled, thick with the unresolved tension from their last run-in.

Ilya pushed inside without waiting for an invite, kicking the door shut behind him. He crowded Shane against the wall, their chests nearly brushing, breaths syncing in the dim light. "I've been thinking about you, Shane. Non-stop. Dark shit. Filthy shit." His voice dropped low, rough like gravel. "Every time I see you with someone else—laughing, touching—I want to rip them apart. You're mine. No one else gets to put their hands on you, their mouths on you. I've jerked off imagining pinning you down, marking every inch so everyone knows."

Shane's pulse hammered, his body betraying him as heat pooled low. "You're fucking crazy," he muttered, but his hands fisted in Ilya's shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing away.

"Crazy for you," Ilya snarled, crashing their mouths together. The kiss was brutal—teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance. Ilya's hands roamed possessively, yanking Shane's shirt up to rake nails down his chest, drawing red lines that made Shane hiss into his mouth.

Ilya broke away just long enough to shove Shane toward the bed. "Strip. Now. I want to see what's mine." Shane complied, peeling off his clothes with shaking hands, cock already half-hard and twitching under Ilya's hungry stare. Ilya stripped too, his thick cock springing free, veined and leaking pre-cum at the tip.

He tackled Shane onto the mattress, pinning his wrists above his head with one massive hand. "These thoughts... fuck, Shane. I've pictured bending you over, splitting your ass open with my cock until you beg. Watched you flirt with those assholes and wanted to drag you away, fuck you raw in front of them to prove a point." His free hand gripped Shane's throat lightly, thumb pressing just enough to make him gasp. "Jealous doesn't cover it. Possessive. You're my hole to fill, my body to bruise."

Shane bucked up, grinding his leaking cock against Ilya's thigh. "Then fucking do it. Stop talking."

Ilya laughed darkly, releasing Shane's wrists to flip him onto his stomach. He spread Shane's cheeks wide, spitting directly onto his tight hole. "Oh, I'll do more than talk." Two thick fingers plunged in without warning, scissoring roughly, stretching him open. Shane moaned, pushing back, ass clenching around the invasion.

"Look at you, greedy little slut," Ilya growled, adding a third finger, twisting deep to hit that spot that made Shane's vision blur. "This ass is mine. Say it."

"Yours," Shane choked out, face buried in the pillow, hips rutting against the sheets.

Ilya pulled his fingers free with a wet pop, lining up his cock. He thrust in hard, bottoming out in one brutal shove. Shane cried out, the burn exquisite, walls fluttering around the massive girth stretching him impossibly full. Ilya didn't pause— he pounded relentlessly, hips snapping forward, balls slapping against Shane's ass with every drive.

"Fuck, so tight," Ilya grunted, leaning down to bite Shane's shoulder, sucking a bruise into the skin. One hand wrapped around Shane's throat from behind, pulling him up arched, the other jerking his dripping cock in rough strokes. "Gonna fill you up. Pump you so full of my cum it leaks out for days. No one else gets this."

Shane's body shook, prostate hammered mercilessly. "Harder—fuck, own me," he begged, voice wrecked.

Ilya obliged, railing him faster, sweat-slick skin slapping loud in the room. He yanked Shane's hair, forcing his head back for a messy, open-mouthed kiss over his shoulder. Pre-cum smeared between Ilya's fist and Shane's throbbing shaft, the pressure building unbearably.

"Cum for me," Ilya ordered, pinching Shane's nipple hard while slamming deep. Shane shattered, ropes of cum splattering the sheets, ass spasming around Ilya's cock.

Ilya followed seconds later, roaring as he buried himself to the hilt, hot spurts flooding Shane's guts. He ground in circles, milking every drop, before pulling out slow. Cum oozed from Shane's gaping hole, dripping down his thighs.

Panting, Ilya flipped him over, shoving two cum-slick fingers into Shane's mouth. "Taste us. Remember who you belong to." Shane sucked greedily, eyes locked on Ilya's possessive glare, already hardening again for round two. Shane swirled his tongue around Ilya's fingers, savoring the salty tang of their mixed release, his cock already stiffening fully against his thigh. He released them with a pop, smirking up at Ilya despite the flush on his cheeks. "Round two? Or are you done claiming what's yours?"

Ilya's eyes darkened, a predatory grin splitting his face. He grabbed Shane's jaw, tilting his head back. "Done? Fuck no. That was just the start. I saw you with that rookie today—leaning in close, eyes lingering. Makes me want to wreck you all over again, so tomorrow when he looks at you, he smells me on your skin."

Shane's breath hitched, the reminder of their earlier clash igniting fresh heat. Ilya's jealousy over the kid had simmered all day, pushing him here. He didn't deny it—hell, he craved the raw edge it brought. "Jealous of a rookie? Pathetic," he taunted, but his voice cracked with need.

Ilya hauled him up by the hair, slamming their mouths together in a bruising clash. Tongues dueled, Ilya's stubble scraping Shane's chin raw. He shoved Shane back onto the bed, climbing over him to straddle his chest. His cock, still semi-hard and slick from their first round, dangled heavy above Shane's face. "Open up. Suck me clean."

Shane obeyed instantly, lips parting wide as Ilya fed his thickening length down his throat. Gagging slightly at the girth, Shane hollowed his cheeks, bobbing his head with sloppy enthusiasm. Saliva dripped down his chin, mixing with remnants of cum as he tongued the underside, tracing veins pulsing back to life. Ilya groaned, hips rocking forward, fucking Shane's mouth in shallow thrusts. "That's it—take it deep. Train that throat for whenever I need to shut you up."

One hand braced on the headboard, Ilya reached back to palm Shane's balls, rolling them roughly before sliding two fingers alongside his cock into Shane's stretched hole. Cum squelched out around the digits, Ilya's thrusts pushing it deeper. Shane moaned around the cock stuffing his mouth, hips bucking up for more.

"Greedy fuck," Ilya rasped, pulling his fingers free to slap Shane's ass cheek hard, leaving a red handprint. He dismounted, flipping Shane onto all fours. "Ass up. Show me that sloppy hole."

Shane arched his back, presenting himself, hole twitching and leaking. Ilya dove in face-first, tongue lapping broad stripes over the puffy rim, sucking his own cum back out before plunging inside. Shane keened, pushing back onto the wet muscle, Ilya's beard scraping sensitive skin. Fingers spread him wider, tongue-fucking relentlessly until Shane's thighs quivered.

Ilya reared up, spitting on his hand to slick his now rock-hard cock. He gripped Shane's hips bruisingly, yanking him back onto his dick in one savage thrust. Shane yelped, the angle hitting deeper, prostate crushed under the assault. Ilya set a punishing pace, skin smacking loud, balls swinging to tap Shane's.

"This what you wanted with him? My cock owning you instead?" Ilya growled, punctuating each word with a snap of his hips. He leaned over Shane's back, teeth sinking into the nape of his neck, sucking a dark hickey. One arm banded across Shane's chest, pinching and twisting a nipple until Shane sobbed.

"Yes—fuck, yours," Shane babbled, cock leaking steadily onto the sheets, untouched. The possessiveness fueled him, Ilya's rage from the rookie confrontation pouring into every drive.

Ilya straightened, grabbing a fistful of Shane's hair to arch him back like a bow. His free hand wrapped around Shane's throat, squeezing just enough to make stars burst behind his eyes. "Cum without me touching it. Prove you're mine."

The command shattered Shane—he clenched down hard, prostate battered, and exploded hands-free. Thick jets painted the bed, body convulsing as waves ripped through him. Ilya didn't stop, pounding through the spasms, chasing his own peak.

"Gonna breed you again," Ilya snarled, slamming balls-deep. His cock throbbed, unloading pulse after pulse into Shane's clenching heat. He rutted through it, grinding to push every drop in deep, before easing out with a groan. Cum bubbled from Shane's wrecked hole, a creamy mess trailing down.

Collapsing beside him, Ilya pulled Shane into his chest, possessive arm slung over his waist. Fingers dipped back into the mess, scooping cum to smear across Shane's lips. "Swallow. And tomorrow? You tell that rookie to back off—or I will."

Shane licked it clean, boneless and sated, but his cock twitched at the threat. "Possessive bastard," he murmured, nuzzling into Ilya's neck. The night stretched ahead, full of promises for more.

Shane's words hung in the air, a challenge wrapped in affection. Ilya's laugh rumbled low against his ear, hand sliding down to grip Shane's ass possessively, kneading the sore flesh. "Bastard? Yeah. Your bastard now. Get some rest—we're not done till you can't walk straight tomorrow."

Shane drifted off with Ilya's scent clinging to him, body marked inside and out. But sleep didn't last. Hours later, Ilya's cock nudged insistently against his thigh, hard and leaking. Shane stirred, blinking in the dim hotel light. "Greedy much?"

"Your fault," Ilya muttered, rolling Shane onto his stomach. He spread Shane's legs wide, thumbs prying apart his cheeks to expose the cum-still-dripping hole. "Look at this—ruined for anyone else." His tongue dragged flat over the puffy entrance, scooping leaking seed before two fingers shoved in, twisting deep.

Shane gasped into the pillow, pushing back. "Fuck—more." Ilya's fingers curled, nailing his prostate until pre-cum soaked the sheets anew. He added a third, stretching roughly, scissoring to make room. "Gonna fuck you raw till morning. No lube, just my spit and our mess."

He withdrew, hawking a thick glob onto Shane's hole before lining up his throbbing dick. The head breached slow at first, then slammed home, balls-deep in one go. Shane howled, walls fluttering around the invasion, Ilya's girth splitting him open. Ilya draped over his back, chest to spine, biting his shoulder as he rutted like an animal—short, brutal punches that mashed Shane's face into the mattress.

"Feel that? Every inch mine," Ilya grunted, hips snapping. His hand snaked under to jack Shane's cock in time with his thrusts, thumb smearing the slit. Shane's moans turned desperate, body jolting forward with each pound. Sweat slicked their skin, the room filling with wet slaps and grunts.

Ilya shifted, hooking an arm under Shane's knee to fold him nearly in half, opening him wider for deeper angles. His cock dragged over every ridge, pounding Shane's spot relentlessly. "Cum—milk me dry." Shane shattered first, spurting over Ilya's fist, hole clamping vise-tight. Ilya roared, flooding him again, hips stuttering as he pumped load after hot load.

They collapsed in a tangle, Ilya's dick plugging the cum inside. "Mine," he whispered, kissing Shane's sweat-damp temple. Shane just nodded, spent and owned.

Morning light filtered through curtains. Shane groaned, every muscle aching as he showered off the night's evidence—mostly. Ilya's marks bloomed purple on his neck, hips, thighs. He dressed for practice, smirking at his reflection.

Locker room buzzed. The rookie—fresh-faced, eager—glanced up as Shane entered, eyes widening at the hickeys peeking from his collar. "Coach? You good?"

Shane shrugged, dropping his bag. "Fine. Focus on drills."

Ilya sauntered in last, gaze locking on the kid before sliding to Shane with dark promise. He clapped the rookie's shoulder—harder than needed—leaning close. "Eyes on the ice, newbie. Not elsewhere."

The rookie flushed, nodding fast. Shane met Ilya's stare across the room, heat sparking despite the fatigue. Ilya mouthed, Later.

Shane's lips twitched. The tension from yesterday's clash? Ignited into something fiercer. No more hiding. On the ice, they moved like one—brutal, synced, unstoppable. Off it? Ilya's claim held, raw and real. And Shane? He wore it like a badge.

[hallowedmoss]

On the Ice, Off it.

18+ Mature Smut

Also posted on Ao3 @hallowedmoss

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Ilya and Shane are bored at Shane’s house, tired of being cooped up the head to their favorite club, same old story, a Canadian and a Russian walk into a bar, a guy hits on Canadian and Russian wants to hit the guy.

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The cottage sat quietly among the pines and open fields just outside Grenville in the Outaouais region. It was Shane’s private retreat — high wooden ceilings, large windows that framed the trees, a stone fireplace, and enough distance from the nearest neighbor that the only sounds at night were the wind in the branches and the occasional call of loons from the distant river. For the past week it had also been Ilya’s temporary home. His clothes were scattered across the bedroom chair, his hockey skates still sat by the door like he might need them any second, and his large frame seemed to fill every room he walked into.

Ilya was lounging on the wide leather couch when he brought it up, wearing only gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His broad chest and shoulders were on full display, curly brown hair messy, stubble shadowing his strong jaw. He watched Shane move around the kitchen with that familiar half-lidded gaze.

“We’ve been hiding out here too long,” Ilya said, voice low and accented. “Let’s go out tonight. Montreal. Le Stud. Drinks, music, people. Feel like normal men instead of two guys who are supposed to be enemies on the ice.”

Shane looked up from his phone, adjusting his black-framed glasses. His jet-black hair was still damp from the shower, freckles standing out across his nose and cheeks. “Normal? You and me in a crowded bar? That sounds risky.”

Ilya’s mouth curved into a crooked smile. “I can keep it together. Mostly.” His hazel eyes drifted down Shane’s body. “Unless you’d rather stay here and let me fuck you on the couch again.”

Shane felt heat rise in his face but smiled anyway. “Fine. We’ll go. But if anyone recognizes us, it’s your fault.”

They left just after nine. The drive east toward Montreal stretched through fading daylight and then darkness, windows cracked to let in the warm summer air. Music played low. Conversation came easily at first — light jabs about last season’s stats, quiet complaints about the pressure of the league. But Ilya’s hand kept finding its way to Shane’s thigh, resting there heavy and warm, thumb tracing slow lines along the inner seam of his dark jeans. Every touch felt like a promise and a reminder at the same time.

Le Stud was buzzing when they arrived on Sainte-Catherine Street East. The long-running gay bar had its usual lively but unpretentious atmosphere — dim lighting, thumping bass, the clack of pool balls in the back, and the low hum of conversation mixed with laughter. The air was thick with the scent of beer, cologne, sweat, and warm bodies. Men filled the space: some dancing, some leaning at the bar, others playing games or just talking. It felt real. Comfortable. The kind of place where two NHL players could almost disappear if they were careful.

Shane wore dark jeans that fit snug across his ass and thighs and a charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Ilya looked unfairly good in a fitted black Henley that stretched tight over his muscular chest and shoulders, the top buttons open to show a hint of chest hair.

They started with beers at the bar, then moved to the edge of the small dance floor. For a while it was good. They danced close, hips brushing, Ilya’s large hands occasionally settling on Shane’s waist as the music pulsed through them. Shane could feel the solid heat of Ilya’s body behind him, the way his breath sometimes ghosted over the back of his neck. There was an undercurrent of excitement in being out together like this — something dangerous and thrilling after so many years of pretending to hate each other.

When the crowd at the bar grew, Shane went to grab another round alone. Ilya stayed back for a moment, caught in a short conversation with a fan who recognized him but kept his voice low and respectful.

That was when the stranger moved in.

He was tall and broad, clearly buzzed, with a cocky grin. He slid right up beside Shane at the crowded bar, shoulder pressing against his. “Hey, beautiful. You here by yourself?” Before Shane could answer, the guy’s hand dropped boldly to his ass and squeezed firmly, fingers digging in through the denim. “Fuck, that’s a nice ass. Bet it looks even better out of these jeans. You wanna get out of here with me?”

Shane tensed immediately, stepping sideways. “No. I’m not interested. Back off.”

The guy laughed like it was a game and leaned in closer, hand still groping. “Come on, don’t be like that. One dance. I promise I’ll make it worth your while—”

A strong hand clamped down hard on the stranger’s wrist and yanked it away.

Ilya’s voice was low, dangerous, and tight with barely restrained anger. “He said no.”

The stranger blinked, taking in Ilya’s towering frame, the clenched jaw, and the way his hazel eyes had gone dark and stormy. He muttered something and quickly retreated into the crowd.

Ilya didn’t move at first. He just stared at the spot where the man had been, breathing heavier than normal. When he finally turned to Shane, his expression was intense. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“Ilya, it was nothing—”

“Now, Shane.” His hand settled on the small of Shane’s back, guiding him firmly toward the exit. The touch was possessive, protective, and edged with something sharper.

The drive back to the cottage was thick with heavy silence. Ilya gripped the wheel tighter than necessary, his other hand occasionally drifting to Shane’s thigh and squeezing. The radio played softly, but neither of them spoke much. Shane could feel the tension radiating off the bigger man — that raw, territorial burn that came from watching another guy put his hands on what Ilya clearly thought of as his. It made Shane’s pulse race and his cock stir in his jeans. He didn’t hate the feeling. If anything, it turned him on knowing how much it affected Ilya.

By the time they pulled up to the cottage and stepped inside, the air between them felt electric.

The door had barely clicked shut before Ilya crowded Shane against the wall in the entryway. His mouth crashed into Shane’s in a deep, hungry kiss — tongue sliding against tongue, teeth nipping at his lower lip. One big hand cupped the back of Shane’s neck while the other gripped his hip hard, pulling their bodies flush.

“You let him touch you,” Ilya muttered against his mouth, voice rough. “His hand was on your ass. On what’s mine.”

Shane’s breath hitched. “I told him no. I didn’t—”

“I know.” Ilya kissed him again, harder this time, like he was trying to erase the memory of the stranger’s touch. “But I still saw it. Still hated it.”

He worked Shane’s shirt open quickly, buttons popping off in his haste, then shoved it off his shoulders. His hands roamed over Shane’s chest and stomach, thumbs brushing over his nipples until they hardened. Then he was tugging Shane’s jeans and underwear down in one rough motion, letting them pool at his ankles.

Shane kicked them aside, breathing fast. He helped pull Ilya’s Henley over his head, revealing the powerful, muscular torso he knew so well. Ilya’s skin was hot, slightly damp from the club. Shane ran his hands over the broad chest and down the defined abs, feeling the way the muscles tensed under his touch.

Ilya turned him around so Shane’s chest pressed flush against the cool wooden wall. He dropped to his knees briefly, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of Shane’s ass, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. Then he stood, stripped off the rest of his clothes, and pressed his naked body against Shane’s back. His thick, heavy cock was already fully hard, sliding against the cleft of Shane’s ass.

“Tell me you want this,” Ilya said, voice low against his ear as he reached for the lube in the drawer.

“I want it,” Shane answered immediately, voice shaky with need. “Fuck me, Ilya.”

Ilya slicked his fingers generously. He started with one thick finger, then two, working them in and out slowly, scissoring and stretching while his other hand wrapped around Shane’s leaking cock, stroking him in long, firm pulls. When he curled his fingers and found Shane’s prostate, Shane moaned loudly, pushing back onto the intrusion.

“Fuck— right there,” Shane gasped, forehead pressed to the wall, glasses fogging.

Ilya kept working him open, adding a third finger, stretching him thoroughly while continuing the steady strokes on his cock. “No one else gets to touch you like this,” he murmured, biting gently at the back of Shane’s neck. “No one else gets to hear the sounds you make. Only me.”

When Shane was trembling and pushing back desperately, Ilya finally pulled his fingers out. He lined up the blunt head of his thick cock and pushed in slowly, inch by inch, groaning deeply as Shane’s tight heat enveloped him. Once he was fully buried, hips flush against Shane’s ass, he paused, breathing ragged against Shane’s shoulder.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” Ilya rasped.

Then he started moving — deep, rolling thrusts that gradually built speed and force. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the quiet cottage, mixed with Shane’s broken moans and Ilya’s low grunts. Every thrust dragged perfectly over Shane’s prostate, sending waves of pleasure through his body. Ilya’s arm banded around his waist, holding him steady as he fucked him harder against the wall, hips snapping with increasing urgency.

Shane’s hand dropped down to stroke himself in time with the thrusts. Sweat slicked their skin. Ilya leaned in, biting and sucking marks along Shane’s neck and shoulders, murmuring rough words between thrusts — how tight Shane was, how no one else would ever get this from him, how much he hated seeing another man’s hands on him.

The intensity built fast. Shane’s legs shook, his moans growing louder and more desperate.

“Ilya— I’m gonna come,” he warned, voice breaking.

“Come for me,” Ilya growled, thrusting harder, deeper. His hand joined Shane’s on his cock, stroking him faster. “Let me feel it.”

Shane came hard with a sharp cry, his hole clenching rhythmically around Ilya’s cock as he spilled over their joined hands and onto the wall. The tight contractions pushed Ilya over the edge seconds later. He buried himself to the hilt, groaning long and low as he came deep inside Shane, hips grinding as he pulsed and filled him.

They stayed locked together for several long moments, breathing hard, Ilya’s chest pressed to Shane’s back, arms wrapped tightly around him.

Eventually Ilya pulled out carefully, watching with dark eyes as some of his release trickled down Shane’s thigh. He turned Shane around gently, cupping his flushed face and kissing him slow and deep.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, thumb brushing over one of Shane’s freckles.

Shane nodded, a tired, satisfied smile on his lips. “More than okay.”

Ilya pressed their foreheads together. “Good. Because I’m not done with you tonight.”

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Hey guys, I had this in my docs I wasn’t sure if I was going to post it but I saw that my one I posted at 3 am got some good views, so I thought I’d share this one as well, still a jealous Ilya fic but softer, it’s kinda my like version 2 of “Jealous (Jealous, Jealous Boy)

I hope y’all like it :) kudos❤️

[hallowedmoss]

Jealous (Jealous, Jealous Boy)

Ilya Rozanov x Shane Hollander

Heated Rivalry Fic

Jealous, Possessive Ilya Rozanov x Shane Hollander

Also Posted on my Ao3 HallowedMoss

18+ Mature

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The roar of the Bell Centre had finally died down to a distant hum in Shane Hollander’s ears as he sat on the wooden bench in the visiting locker room, elbows on his knees, freckled shoulders hunched under the harsh fluorescent lights. Montreal had taken the game 3-2 in a grind that left everyone bruised and pissed off. Shane’s body ached in that familiar, bone-deep way only a rivalry match could deliver. Every collision along the boards had carried extra weight tonight, especially the ones from Boston’s number 81.

Ilya Rozanov.

Shane peeled off his jersey slowly, the fabric sticking to sweat-slick skin marked with fresh purple blooms across his ribs and collarbone. He could still feel the ghost of Ilya’s shoulder driving him into the glass in the second period — the impact rattling his teeth, the heat of Ilya’s breath against his ear through the cage of his helmet. “Keep up, Hollander,” the Russian had growled, voice low enough that only Shane heard it. The words had sent an unwelcome spark straight down Shane’s spine, the same unwelcome spark that had haunted him for years.

He was the captain of the Montreal Voyageurs. Disciplined. Focused. The golden boy with the spotless reputation, the polite Canadian who followed every rule except one. The one that kept dragging him back to the cocky, infuriating Russian who played like he owned the ice and smiled like he owned everything else.

Shane’s phone buzzed inside his bag. He ignored the chatter of his teammates stripping down and showering around him. When the room finally emptied, he pulled it out.

Le Trou Noir. Rue Sainte-Catherine. One hour. Don’t make me wait, Solnyshko. Or I’ll come find you myself.

Typical Ilya. No greeting. No question. Just a command wrapped in that teasing, possessive edge that made Shane’s stomach tighten with equal parts dread and anticipation. He should delete the message. He should go back to the team hotel, ice his bruises, review game tape like the responsible leader he was supposed to be. Instead, he stood, muscles protesting, and headed for the shower.

Hot water pounded against his skin, tracing the map of contusions Ilya had left on him. Shane closed his eyes and let his mind wander for once — to the way Ilya’s eyes had locked on his during that faceoff, dark and challenging. To the way their rivalry had long ago stopped being just about hockey.

Ilya’s POV

Ilya Rozanov leaned back in the shadowed booth at Le Trou Noir, long legs stretched under the table, a glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers. The bar was loud enough to swallow secrets but dim enough to keep them hidden. Perfect for two captains who weren’t supposed to be anywhere near each other off the ice.

He wore a tight black shirt that hugged the thick muscle earned from years of pro hockey — broad shoulders, powerful arms covered in ink, including the bear tattoo that marked his Russian pride. His dark hair was still slightly damp from the post-game shower, and the cut on his lower lip from a blocked shot throbbed faintly. He didn’t care. The pain was nothing compared to the burn that had been building in his chest all night.

Seeing Shane smile — even that small, polite curve of lips — at one of Montreal’s rookies during a faceoff had lit something ugly inside him. The kid had leaned in, said something that made Shane’s shoulders relax for half a second. No one else got to do that. Not when Ilya had spent years learning every micro-expression on that freckled face. Not when Shane Hollander was the only person who could make Ilya feel both invincible and completely unmoored.

The door opened and there he was. Shane stepped inside, scanning the room with that careful, almost wary gaze. He wore dark jeans and a simple gray Henley that did little to hide the definition of his arms or the way the fabric clung to the bruises Ilya had put there. His light brown hair was neatly combed, freckles standing out against skin still flushed from the game and the shower. Perfect. Always so fucking perfect.

Ilya’s grip on the glass tightened until his knuckles whitened. Mine.

Shane slid into the booth across from him, nodding once like this was a business meeting. “You played dirty tonight,” he said, voice low and even, that slight Canadian lilt making the words sound almost too polite for the heat simmering between them.

Ilya’s mouth curved into a sharp grin. “And you still got hard when I pinned you against the boards. Don’t pretend, Hollander. I felt how much you liked it.”

Shane’s ears turned pink, but he didn’t look away. That was one of the things Ilya loved and hated most — Shane’s inability to fully hide once the mask slipped. “It was a physical game. Nothing more.”

“Liar.” Ilya took a slow sip of whiskey, eyes never leaving Shane’s. “You’ve been mine since the first time I had you in that hotel room years ago. You just refuse to admit how deep it goes.”

They ordered more drinks. Surface talk at first — referee complaints, chirps about each other’s stats, the usual rivalry banter that felt like foreplay. But Ilya’s attention kept drifting to the bar counter.

A tall, dark-haired man in a fitted button-down had zeroed in on Shane the moment he stood up to grab the next round. The stranger moved with easy confidence, sliding up beside Shane as he waited for the bartender.

Shane’s POV

“Shane Hollander, right?” the man said, voice smooth and appreciative. “Hell of a game tonight. That assist in the second period was beautiful. You make it look effortless.”

Shane offered his standard polite smile — the one he used for fans, media, sponsors. The one that kept his image clean. “Thanks. It was a team effort.”

The man — Marc, he introduced himself — was attractive in a polished, lawyerly way. No wedding ring. Easy smile. He leaned against the bar, eyes tracing the line of Shane’s shoulders, lingering on the faint scatter of freckles visible at the open collar of his Henley. “You’re even better looking in person. Those freckles are killer. You single, Captain? Or does someone have the privilege of waiting for you after games like that?”

Shane stiffened, the question landing like a puck to the chest. Single. As if it were that simple. As if there wasn’t a volatile, possessive Russian watching from the booth who made Shane’s carefully ordered life feel both thrilling and terrifying. “It’s… complicated.”

Marc chuckled, stepping a fraction closer. “Complicated can be fun. Let me buy you a drink and you can tell me about it.”

Before Shane could formulate a gentle exit — he was good at those, practiced from years of deflecting attention while keeping his secret locked tight — a heavy, familiar presence materialized at his side.

Ilya’s hand settled on the small of Shane’s back, fingers pressing firmly through the thin fabric. Not a casual touch. A claim.

“Complicated,” Ilya repeated, his voice a low rumble wrapped in that thick Russian accent that always thickened when he was agitated. “Very fucking complicated. He’s with me tonight.”

Marc turned, eyebrows rising as he recognized Ilya. “Rozanov. Didn’t realize you two were friendly off the ice.”

“We’re not friendly,” Ilya said, flashing a smile that showed too many teeth. His hand slid lower, gripping Shane’s hip with unmistakable ownership, fingers digging in just enough to make Shane’s breath catch. “He belongs to me. Go find someone else to waste your cheap lines on, lawyer. No one talks to him like that. No one looks at him like that. Understand?”

The possessiveness in Ilya’s tone was dark, edged with something raw and volatile. Shane felt heat flood his face — embarrassment at the public display, anger at being spoken for, and underneath it all, a treacherous curl of arousal low in his belly. This was the side of Ilya that scared him a little. The side that watched Shane like he was something precious and breakable that no one else was allowed to touch.

“Ilya,” Shane warned quietly, voice tight. “Not here.”

But Ilya wasn’t backing down. His dark eyes bored into Marc with predatory intensity. “He doesn’t need your compliments. He needs my hands on him. My mouth. My cock reminding him exactly who he comes apart for. Walk away before I decide to make this clearer.”

Marc raised his hands in surrender, muttering “No offense, man” before retreating into the crowd. The bar noise rushed back in, but the air between Shane and Ilya felt charged, thicker than the humidity after a hard skate.

Ilya’s POV

The jealousy burned like acid in Ilya’s veins. Seeing another man lean into Shane’s space, make him smile that small genuine curve, ask if he was single — it cracked open the carefully maintained cage Ilya kept around his feelings. For years they had told themselves it was just hate-fucking, just blowing off steam from the rivalry that defined both their careers. Shane the disciplined golden boy, Ilya the brash bad-boy Russian who partied hard and chirped harder.

But it had never been simple. Not since the first stolen night when Shane had looked at him with those wide, anxious eyes and let Ilya take him apart.

No one else got to see the cracks in Shane’s armor. No one else got to hear the soft sounds he made when he finally let go. Shane Hollander was his — the only person who could match him on the ice and undo him off it.

Ilya crowded Shane against the bar, thigh pressing between his legs, feeling the growing hardness there. “You let him flirt with you,” he growled against Shane’s ear, breath hot. “Laughed at his stupid joke. Smiled at him. You know what that does to me, Solnyshko? It makes me want to mark every inch of this perfect body until no one dares look twice.”

Shane’s hands came up to Ilya’s chest, gripping the black shirt. Not pushing away. Holding on. “It was nothing. Just talk.”

“Nothing?” Ilya’s hand slipped under the hem of Shane’s Henley, fingers tracing the fresh bruise on his ribs with possessive reverence. “Everything about you is mine. Your smiles. Your bruises. The way you fall apart when I’m inside you. Say it.”

Shane’s breath hitched, blue eyes darkening with conflict and want. “Hotel. Now. Before this gets worse.”

Shane’s POV

They barely made it inside the anonymous chain hotel room before Ilya was on him.

The door had scarcely clicked shut when strong hands shoved Shane against the wall, mouth crashing down in a bruising, demanding kiss. There was nothing soft or tentative. Ilya kissed like he played — all power, aggression, and raw talent. His tongue pushed past Shane’s lips, claiming, while one thick thigh wedged between Shane’s legs, grinding up against the obvious bulge in his jeans.

“You’re mine,” Ilya muttered between fierce kisses, teeth nipping at Shane’s lower lip hard enough to sting. “No one else gets to make you laugh. No one else gets to see you like this — flushed and hard and ready to beg.”

Shane gasped, hands fisting in Ilya’s dark hair, pulling him closer despite the voice in his head screaming about risks and reputations. The possessiveness terrified him and thrilled him in equal measure. On the ice, Shane was the one who maintained control, who followed routines and protocols to manage his anxiety. With Ilya, he could let go — submit to the chaos and feel the weight of expectation lift for a few stolen hours.

Ilya’s mouth moved to his neck, sucking a dark mark just above the collar of his shirt where it would be hidden but still visible to anyone who looked closely enough. “Gonna cover you in my marks tonight,” he promised, voice rough. “So every time you look in the mirror, you remember who you belong to.”

Clothes came off in a frantic rush. Ilya stripped Shane with efficient, hungry hands, tossing the Henley aside to reveal the map of bruises and freckles across pale skin. He paused for a moment, eyes darkening as he took in the sight — Shane’s lean, powerful hockey body, marked by their shared violence on the ice and now ready for something more intimate.

“Beautiful,” Ilya murmured, almost reverently, before the softness vanished. He pushed Shane onto the king-sized bed, crawling over him like a man starved. His mouth mapped every bruise, tongue tracing purple blooms before sucking new, darker claims over them. Shane arched, a broken sound escaping as Ilya’s teeth grazed a sensitive nipple.

“Look at you,” Ilya said, pinning Shane’s wrists above his head with one large hand. The other wrapped loosely around Shane’s throat — not choking, just enough firm pressure to assert dominance, thumb stroking the racing pulse. “So fucking perfect. All this control you carry. All these rules you follow. And still you spread for me every time I want you.”

Shane’s cock leaked against his stomach, hips bucking up helplessly. The weight of Ilya’s body, the scent of sweat and whiskey and hockey gear that still clung faintly to his skin — it was overwhelming in the best way. “Ilya… please.”

“Please what, Captain?” Ilya’s accent thickened, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. “Use your words. Tell me who owns this body. Who makes you forget every fucking rule.”

“You,” Shane gasped, the admission tearing out of him. “I’m yours. Only yours. Fuck — please, I need you.”

The confession seemed to snap the last thread of Ilya’s restraint. He released Shane’s wrists only to flip him onto his stomach, yanking his hips up so Shane was on his knees, face pressed into the pillow. The prep was thorough but urgent — thick fingers slick with lube stretching him open while Ilya’s mouth left a trail of bites down his spine, murmuring filthy Russian mixed with English.

“Ty moy. No one else touches what’s mine. No one else hears these sounds.”

When Ilya finally pushed inside in one deep, relentless thrust, Shane cried out, the burn and fullness stealing his breath. The stretch was intense, bordering on too much, but exactly what he craved after the adrenaline of the game. Ilya didn’t give him time to adjust fully — he set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward, one hand fisted in Shane’s hair to pull his head back.

“Say it again,” Ilya growled with every thrust, the slap of skin loud in the room. “Tell me you’re mine while I fuck you.”

“Yours — fuck, Ilya, harder — I’m yours.”

The pace turned brutal. Ilya’s free hand reached around to stroke Shane’s cock in time with his thrusts, squeezing just right. Shane came first with a shattered moan, spilling over Ilya’s fist and the sheets, body shaking under the onslaught as waves of pleasure crashed through him.

Ilya followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, teeth sinking into the meat of Shane’s shoulder as he came deep inside him. The bite was hard enough to leave another mark — a dark, possessive brand.

They collapsed together, breathing ragged, bodies slick with sweat. For several long minutes, the only sound was their harsh panting and the distant hum of the city outside.

Aftermath

Shane lay on his back eventually, staring at the ceiling, feeling the sticky warmth between his thighs and the deep ache in his muscles. The possessiveness that had felt intoxicating during the heat of the moment now sat heavy in his chest, mixing with the familiar anxiety that always followed these encounters. He turned his head.

Ilya was watching him with those intense dark eyes, the cocky smirk absent. In its place was something raw and unguarded — obsession edged with vulnerability.

“You scared me a little tonight,” Shane admitted quietly, voice hoarse. “The way you spoke to that guy… the things you said.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened. He reached out and traced a finger over one of the fresh bite marks on Shane’s shoulder. “He wanted you. I saw it in his eyes. Everyone wants you, Hollander. The perfect captain. The boy next door with the freckles and the work ethic. They see the image. I see you — the real you, the one who lets me wreck him and thanks me for it. And it makes me fucking crazy thinking someone else could take even a piece of that.”

Shane swallowed, feeling the weight of Ilya’s words. His own neurodivergent need for order and routine clashed violently with the chaos Ilya brought. Yet he couldn’t deny the pull. With Ilya, the constant pressure to be perfect eased. He could surrender control and still feel safe — or at least, safe enough.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Shane said, reaching up to touch Ilya’s face, thumb brushing the cut on his lip. “But this jealousy… it’s getting stronger. Darker. What if it breaks us?”

Ilya caught his hand and pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to the palm. “Then let it break us. Because pretending this is still just rivalry is killing me slower than any hit on the ice. You’re under my skin, Solnyshko. In my blood. I don’t know how to want you any other way than completely.”

The confession hung heavy between them. Shane felt the danger of their secret life — the league’s scrutiny, his own carefully cultivated image, the fear of what would happen if it all came crashing down. And beneath the fear, the undeniable thrill of being wanted so fiercely, so obsessively.

Ilya pulled him closer, wrapping powerful arms around Shane’s waist like a cage of muscle and need. “Sleep. Tomorrow we go back to pretending on the ice. But tonight you’re still mine. Every bruise. Every sound. Every breath.”

Shane closed his eyes, body sore and sated, mind spinning with the realization that their heated rivalry had long since crossed into something far more dangerous.

[hallowedmoss]

Obsession Eternal

Dark Harry Potter x Fem!Reader

Warnings; contains graphic violence, non consensual intimacy, stalking, and smut

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Harry Knew he had always wanted you, he saw you in the back of the school groups, keeping to yourself, shyly listening to the world around you, a gryffindor you were, but he had yet to see why. He liked you liked that though, shy, complacent, who knew he’d get you after all..

Well he did of course.

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The war had ended years ago, but the world never truly healed. Harry Potter had seen to that. The Boy Who Lived had died in the final battle along with Voldemort’s body. What rose from the ashes was something far darker—a wizard who had tasted death, power, and the hollow victory of survival, and decided the light was for fools. He wore the title “Dark Lord” now without shame. The Ministry bent the knee. The Aurors who once called him friend now whispered his name in fear. And the wizarding world learned quickly: Harry Potter took what he wanted. Always.

And what he wanted, more than magic itself, was you.

You were (Y/N) Moore—soft-spoken Gryffindor beauty with eyes like warm honey and a voice that never rose above a gentle murmur. Even after graduation, you still carried that quiet courage, the kind that made people lean in just to hear you speak. You worked in the little apothecary on Diagon Alley, brewing calming draughts and healing salves with steady hands and a smile that could soften stone. You had no idea how long he’d watched you. How many nights he’d stood invisible outside your flat in Muggle London, cloaked in shadows, memorizing the way you brushed your hair, the way you hummed while reading, the way you bit your lip when you were nervous.

He knew everything.

Your favorite tea. The way you still slept with the stuffed lion your mother gave you at eleven. The soft little gasps you made when you touched yourself alone in bed, whispering fantasies you’d never dare speak aloud.

And he knew you were dating someone. A bland, safe Hufflepuff named Elias Finch. A nobody who dared put his hands on what belonged to Harry Potter.

That was the night everything changed.

The alley behind the Leaky Cauldron smelled of rain and spilled firewhisky. Elias had walked you home after dinner, laughing at some joke you’d barely heard because your thoughts kept drifting—always drifting—to the strange green eyes you sometimes felt on your back. You never saw him, but you felt him. Like a shadow that loved you too much.

Elias leaned in to kiss you goodnight, his hands settling on your waist.

A crack of Apparition split the air.

Harry stepped out of nothing, wand already raised. The Killing Curse left his lips like a lover’s sigh.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Green light—his signature, the one the Prophet still called “the color of hope”—slammed into Elias’s chest. The man didn’t even have time to scream. His body hit the wet cobblestones with a wet thud, eyes wide and empty. Blood didn’t spray; the curse was too clean for that. But Harry wanted mess tonight.

He flicked his wand again. “Diffindo. Sectumsempra.”

The spells carved through flesh like invisible blades. Elias’s body jerked as deep gashes opened across his throat, his chest, his stomach. Blood poured out in thick, steaming rivers, pooling around your shoes. You stumbled back, a horrified sound dying in your throat.

Harry turned to you, the streetlamp catching the wild gleam in his emerald eyes. His glasses were gone—had been for years—and the scar on his forehead stood out stark white against his skin. He looked beautiful and terrible, like a fallen angel who’d decided heaven was boring.

“(Y/N),” he breathed, voice low and reverent. “You’re safe now.”

You tried to run. Of course you did. Your soft heart still believed in running from monsters.

He caught you before you’d taken three steps. Strong arms banded around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. His cloak smelled of smoke and dark magic and something uniquely him—ozone and pine and raw power.

“Shh,” he murmured against your hair, one hand sliding up to cradle your throat. Not squeezing. Just… holding. Possessing. “No one else gets to touch you. Ever. He was going to take you from me. I couldn’t allow that.”

You were trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Harry… please… what did you do?”

“I fixed it,” he said simply. His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “You’re mine now. You’ve always been mine.”

A whispered “Stupefy” later, the world went black.

When you woke, you were in a bedroom that looked like it had been carved from night itself. Black silk sheets. Dark emerald drapes. A massive four-poster bed with silver runes pulsing along the posts—wards so strong you could feel them humming against your skin. Your wrists were bound above your head with soft velvet ropes that tightened every time you struggled. You wore only a thin white slip—the one you’d been wearing under your dress. Your wand was gone. Your voice, when you tried to scream, came out as nothing but a broken whisper.

The door opened.

Harry stepped in wearing only black trousers, chest bare, the Dark Mark seared into his left forearm like a brand of ownership. Scars from the war crisscrossed his skin—reminders of every time he’d chosen power over mercy. His eyes drank you in like you were the only light left in his universe.

“You’re awake.” His voice was rough velvet. “Good.”

He crossed the room slowly, savoring every second. When he reached the bed he crawled over you, knees bracketing your hips, caging you beneath him. One hand traced your cheek, thumb brushing away the tear tracks.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re afraid,” he whispered. “But you don’t have to be. I’d burn the world down before I let anyone hurt you. Including me.”

“Harry,” you breathed, voice shaking, “this isn’t—you can’t—”

“I can.” His hand slid down your throat, over your collarbone, cupping your breast through the thin fabric. Your nipple hardened traitorously under his palm. “And I will. Every day for the rest of our lives.”

He kissed you then—slow, deep, devouring. Like he was trying to crawl inside your soul. You whimpered against his mouth, part terror, part something darker you refused to name. When he pulled back, his eyes were blazing.

“I’ve waited years for this. Watched you smile at idiots who didn’t deserve the air you breathed. Listened to you moan my name in your sleep when you thought no one could hear.” His fingers tugged the slip down, exposing you to cool air and his hungry gaze. “You’re mine, (Y/N) Moore. Say it.”

You shook your head, tears spilling anew.

He smiled—soft, almost tender—and summoned his wand. A flick, and the velvet ropes around your wrists tightened, pulling your arms higher. Another spell, and your legs were gently but inexorably spread, ankles secured to the bottom posts.

“Say it,” he repeated, voice darker now. He leaned down and dragged his tongue over one nipple, sucking it into his mouth until you arched with a broken cry. “Or I’ll make you.”

His free hand slipped between your thighs, finding you already shamefully slick. Two fingers circled your clit with devastating precision, like he’d studied every fantasy you’d ever had.

“Harry—please—”

“Say. It.”

A third finger joined the first two, thrusting deep, curling against that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. His thumb never stopped its relentless rhythm on your clit. You were sobbing now, hips jerking involuntarily, chasing the pleasure he was forcing on you.

“I’m—I’m yours!” you gasped, voice cracking.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Harry! Please—oh gods—”

He rewarded you by sucking your other nipple hard while his fingers fucked you faster, wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. Your orgasm crashed over you without warning, thighs shaking, a raw moan tearing from your throat. He didn’t stop. He wrung every last tremor from you until you were whimpering, oversensitive and boneless.

Only then did he withdraw his hand, bringing his glistening fingers to his mouth and licking them clean with a low groan.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “So sweet for me.”

He stood just long enough to shove his trousers down. His cock sprang free—thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip. The sight of it made your stomach clench with equal parts dread and aching want. He stroked himself once, twice, eyes locked on your spread body.

“I’m going to fuck you now, love. And you’re going to take every inch like the good girl you are.”

He climbed back over you, notching the head of his cock at your entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open until you felt impossibly full. A broken whine escaped your lips. He bottomed out with a guttural moan, forehead dropping to yours.

“Fuck… so tight. Made for me. Only me.”

Then he began to move.

There was nothing gentle about it. He fucked you like a man who’d been starving for years—deep, punishing thrusts that punched the air from your lungs. The bed creaked. Your bound wrists strained against the ropes. Every stroke dragged against that perfect spot inside you until you were sobbing with overstimulation, another orgasm building whether you wanted it or not.

“Mine,” he growled against your throat, teeth scraping your pulse point. “Say it again.”

“Yours—Harry—I’m yours—”

He bit down hard enough to draw blood. The sharp sting sent you spiraling over the edge again, walls clenching around him so tightly he cursed. His hips stuttered. He slammed in one final time and came with a broken roar, flooding you with heat, marking you from the inside out.

For a long moment the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the wet drip of his release leaking out around his cock.

He didn’t pull out. Instead he collapsed half on top of you, still buried deep, and pressed soft kisses to your tear-streaked face.

“My beautiful Gryffindor,” he whispered. “My soft little Moore. No one will ever take you from me. I killed for you tonight. I’ll kill again. The entire Ministry if I have to. You’re never leaving this bed unless I’m with you.”

You were too exhausted, too shattered, to do anything but nod.

He smiled against your skin—gentle now, almost reverent.

“Good girl.”

He finally slipped free, but only long enough to wave his wand. The ropes vanished. He gathered you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin, one hand possessively cupping your cum-filled cunt as if to keep every drop inside you.

“Sleep, love. Tomorrow I’ll show you the rest of our home. And the next time someone looks at you too long…” His voice dropped to a dark promise. “I’ll make Elias’s death look like mercy.”

You closed your eyes, trembling in the arms of the most powerful dark wizard alive.

And somewhere deep inside your shattered heart, a tiny, treacherous part of you wondered if being loved this violently… was the only kind of love you’d ever truly wanted.

Harry Potter had you now.

Forever.

And he would go to any length—blood, magic, or soul—to keep you right here.

He never stopped.

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Hii, let me know if you liked my work by hearting <3 if any requests are made plz leave them as comments on this work, thank you all mwah

[hallowedmoss]

After Hours

Bruce Wayne x Plus Size Reader

Smut

18+

Also Posted on Ao3; HallowedMoss

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You had been Bruce Wayne’s executive assistant for fourteen months, three days, and—according to the little countdown you kept in the Notes app on your phone—about seven hours when everything finally snapped.

You weren’t naïve. You knew what people whispered in the break rooms at Wayne Enterprises. “She’s the only one who lasts. Must be because she’s quiet. Or maybe he just likes the view.” They thought the view was your ass in pencil skirts, your full hips, the way your thighs pressed together when you crossed your legs at your desk. They weren’t entirely wrong. But they were missing the part that actually mattered: Bruce Wayne looked at you like you were the only real thing in a city full of masks.

It started small.

A Tuesday in October. You’d stayed until 2 a.m. finalizing the quarterly report for the board. Your feet ached in the black heels you’d worn since 7 a.m.; your blouse had come untucked hours ago; the soft roll of your stomach pressed comfortably against the waistband of your skirt. You were printing the final copies when Bruce appeared in the doorway of the executive suite, jacket gone, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The city lights behind him turned the glass walls into a mirror. He looked exhausted. He looked beautiful.

“You’re still here,” he said, voice low.

“So are you, Mr. Wayne.”

A half-smile. “Bruce. I’ve told you.”

You’d shrugged, cheeks warm. “Force of habit, sir.”

His eyes had darkened at the word. Just a flicker. You’d thought you imagined it.

But he started saying your name more—soft, deliberate, like he was tasting it. He started bringing you coffee exactly the way you liked it (oat milk, two pumps vanilla, extra hot) without ever being asked. He started texting you at 3 a.m.—nothing explicit, just “You should be asleep” or “The new prototype looks good. Thank you.” Once he sent a photo of the sunrise over the harbor with the caption, “This is prettier when I imagine you seeing it too.”

You told yourself it was gratitude. Billionaire politeness. Nothing more.

Then came the gala.

The annual Wayne Foundation fundraiser at the manor. You were there in an emerald-green velvet dress you’d spent two weeks’ salary on—off-the-shoulder, fitted through the waist, flaring over your wide hips and thick thighs. The fabric hugged every curve you usually tried to hide under blazers and high-waisted trousers. You felt exposed. Powerful. Nervous.

Bruce found you on the balcony overlooking the gardens, champagne flute in hand, trying to catch your breath after three different board members had asked if you were “the pretty assistant they’d been hearing about.”

He stepped up beside you, close enough that his cologne—sandalwood, citrus, something darker—wrapped around you like smoke.

“You look…” He exhaled. “Jesus, you look like every fantasy I’ve had for the last year.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Mr. Wayne—”

“Bruce,” he corrected, voice rough. His hand brushed the small of your back, just above the swell of your ass. “Say it.”

“Bruce,” you whispered.

He turned you toward him, thumb tracing your jaw. “I’ve been trying to be good. Professional. But I can’t anymore. Not when I go home every night and the only thing I want is you—naked, under me, saying my name like it’s the only word you know.”

Your thighs clenched. Heat pooled low in your belly. “You… you don’t mean that.”

“I do.” His eyes searched yours—earnest, almost desperate. “I’m in love with you. Have been since the day you walked into my office in that terrible gray suit and told me the merger numbers were wrong in front of twelve executives. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t simper. You just fixed it. And I’ve been gone ever since.”

You laughed, shaky. “This is insane.”

“Say yes anyway.”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

He kissed you then—slow at first, then hungry, teeth grazing your lower lip, tongue sliding against yours like he’d been starving. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“Not here. Not like this. I want you in my office tomorrow night. After everyone’s gone. Wear the black skirt I like—the one that hugs your hips. And leave the panties at home.”

Your breath hitched. “Yes, sir.”

His grip on your waist tightened hard enough to bruise. “Good girl.”

The next twenty-four hours were torture.

You wore the skirt. You left the panties in your drawer. You sat at your desk all day with your thighs pressed together, slick and aching, every time he walked past and his eyes dropped to the hem like he could see straight through the fabric.

At 7:45 p.m. the last employee left. The executive floor went dark except for the low golden light spilling from Bruce’s corner office.

You knocked once.

“Come in.”

He was leaning against the front of his massive mahogany desk, suit jacket off, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled. The city glittered behind him through floor-to-ceiling glass. He looked like sin in a tailored suit.

“Lock the door.”

You did.

He crooked a finger. “Come here.”

You walked to him on shaky heels. When you were close enough, he caught your wrist and pulled you between his spread thighs. His hands settled on your hips, thumbs stroking the velvet of your skirt.

“Lift it.”

You gathered the fabric, inch by inch, until the hem rested above the wide curve of your ass. Cool air kissed your bare, soaked pussy.

Bruce groaned. “Look at you. So fucking pretty. So wet already and I haven’t even touched you.” He slid one hand between your thighs, two thick fingers parting your folds. “Jesus Christ. This is all for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

He pushed two fingers inside you without warning—deep, crooked, stroking that spot that made your knees buckle. Your hands flew to his shoulders.

“Say it again.”

“Sir,” you gasped. “Please, sir.”

He finger-fucked you slow and relentless, thumb circling your swollen clit. “You’re going to come on my hand first. Then I’m going to bend you over this desk and fuck you until you can’t remember your own name. Understand?”

You nodded frantically.

“Words.”

“Yes, sir. Please make me come.”

He added a third finger, stretching you, and pressed his thumb harder. His mouth found your neck, sucking a mark just above your collarbone. “Mine,” he growled against your skin. “Been driving me crazy for months. Every time you bent over to file something, every time you said ‘sir’ in that sweet voice. I jerked off in the bathroom after meetings thinking about this cunt.”

The confession sent you spiraling. Your orgasm hit hard—walls clenching around his fingers, thighs shaking, a broken moan tearing from your throat. He didn’t stop until you were whimpering, oversensitive, trying to close your legs.

He pulled his hand free, brought his glistening fingers to his mouth, and licked them clean. “Delicious.”

Then he spun you around, bent you over the desk, and shoved your skirt up to your waist. Your breasts pressed against the cool wood; papers scattered. You heard his belt, his zipper.

He rubbed the thick head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your slick. “You’re going to take every inch like a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

He pushed in—slow at first, letting you feel the stretch. He was big. Thick. Long enough that the first thrust made you see stars. When he bottomed out, hips flush against your ass, he groaned like he’d been shot.

“Fuck. So tight. So perfect.” His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh. “Look at this ass. God, I love how you feel. All these gorgeous curves. Mine to fuck. Mine to ruin.”

He started moving—deep, punishing strokes that slapped skin against skin. The desk creaked. Your moans echoed off the glass. Every thrust shoved you forward; your nipples dragged against the wood through your blouse.

“Harder,” you begged. “Please, sir—harder.”

He snarled, one hand fisting your hair, yanking your head back. The other cracked across your ass—sharp, stinging. You cried out, pussy fluttering around him.

“You like that? Like when I spank this pretty ass?”

“Yes—fuck—yes, sir!”

He spanked you again, harder, then soothed the burn with his palm. Over and over until your ass glowed red and you were sobbing with pleasure. He reached around to rub your clit in tight circles.

“Come again. Now.”

You shattered—squirting around his cock, soaking his slacks, the floor, the edge of the desk. He didn’t stop thrusting, chasing his own release.

“Not done with you yet.”

He pulled out, flipped you onto your back, and shoved your thighs wide. Your skirt was bunched at your waist; your blouse was half-unbuttoned, breasts spilling out of your bra. He drank in the sight—your soft belly, the stretch marks on your hips, the way your thighs jiggled when he gripped them.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, almost reverent. “Every fucking inch.”

Then he was inside you again, folding you nearly in half, ankles by your ears. The new angle hit deeper. He fucked you like he was trying to climb inside your soul—brutal, relentless, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest.

“Say it,” he growled. “Who do you belong to?”

“You, sir. Only you.”

“Again.”

“Yours, sir—your good girl—your assistant—your everything—”

He came with a guttural groan, hips stuttering, flooding you so deep you felt it in your womb. He kept grinding through it, milking every pulse, until he collapsed over you, breathing hard.

For a long moment there was only the sound of both of you trying to remember how lungs worked.

Then he kissed you—slow, sweet, devastating. “I love you,” he murmured against your lips. “Not just the sex. You. The woman who makes me laugh at 3 a.m. The one who calls me on my shit. The one who looks like a goddamn goddess when she comes apart for me.”

You cupped his face. “I love you too. Have for months.”

He smiled—small, real, the one only you ever saw. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go. Ever.”

He pulled out carefully, then scooped you into his arms like you weighed nothing. Carried you to the leather couch in the corner. Grabbed a soft blanket from the cabinet (he’d clearly planned this) and wrapped you both in it. His hands stroked your back, your thighs, the tender skin of your ass.

“Too rough?” he asked quietly.

“Perfect,” you whispered. “I want it again tomorrow.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “Greedy girl. I’ll give you anything you want.”

You nuzzled into his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. “Sir?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for waiting until I was ready.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I’d have waited forever.”

Outside, Gotham kept spinning—sirens, lights, shadows. Inside the glass tower, Bruce Wayne held you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

And for the first time in years, the Batman felt human.

[hallowedmoss]

His Universe

Originally posted on ao3 by me HallowedMoss

18+ Readers

No Minors Allowed

Not a Minor on Minor Fic

Steven Universe Obsessive

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Part I — The Spark

It began quietly, as most dangerous things do.

You had moved to Beach City for peace — a slow place by the sea where mornings smelled like salt and coffee, where no one knew the weight you carried. The town had its oddities, of course: stories of monsters once tamed, of gems that could sing stars into obedience. But you never thought those stories would touch you.

Then you met him.

Steven Universe.

He was kind. Disarmingly kind. The sort of person who remembered everyone’s name, who fixed the broken steps outside your porch without being asked. When you thanked him, he only smiled — a boyish, lopsided grin that caught the sunlight and held it.

For a while, that was all he was: a friend with too much warmth and too many apologies. But sometimes, when he looked at you, there was something else in his eyes — a stillness that didn’t belong to any human gaze.

The first night it happened, you were walking along the shore. The tide was low, the moon spilling itself across the water like molten glass. You felt him before you saw him — the air humming, the faint vibration beneath your skin.

“Hey,” he said softly behind you. “You dropped this.”

A piece of sea glass glinted between his fingers, green as his gem. When he placed it in your palm, his touch lingered too long — a single heartbeat stretched into forever.

Something pulsed faintly at his chest. He covered it with his hand, smiled again, and the moment broke.

You didn’t notice the flicker of light in his eyes as you walked away.

You didn’t see the gem in his skin shimmer awake.

That night, Steven dreamt of you standing in an endless field of stars, your hair glimmering with starlight, your name echoing across galaxies. And somewhere far away, the Diamonds stirred — White’s ancient voice whispering through his blood, She is your balance. She is your creation.

He woke gasping. The gem burned under his palm, and his reflection in the mirror wasn’t entirely his own. His pupils had gone faintly diamond-shaped.

He whispered your name, and the sound filled the room with light.

From that moment, you were no longer just a person to him. You were a gravitational center — a pull stronger than gravity, older than time. You were his universe.

Part II — The Fracture

The next morning, the sunlight spilled across Beach City like liquid gold. You decided to grab breakfast at the Big Donut — nothing more than coffee, maybe a cinnamon roll, and the hum of normal life. You needed it after the strange intensity of last night, after the inexplicable pulse of feeling that Steven’s presence had left in your chest.

You pushed the door open and immediately spotted him, standing in the corner like he’d always been there. He didn’t smile at first — just watched, calm, unnervingly still. You felt it again: that quiet hum, subtle, almost like the vibration of a tuning fork hidden deep in your bones.

“Hey,” you said, trying to act casual as you ordered a latte.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft, almost too soft. His eyes didn’t leave you. He seemed to notice every detail: the curve of your fingers as you reached for your cup, the faint pink in your cheeks, the way your hair caught the sunlight streaming through the windows.

You tried to shake it off as coincidence.

Then Lars appeared. Always dramatic, always loud — and apparently single-mindedly fascinated with you.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the most enchanting girl in Beach City,” he said, leaning casually against the counter, one eyebrow arched. “Coffee’s on me if you sit with me.”

You laughed politely, a little embarrassed, but not unkind.

Steven stiffened. You noticed it first in the line of his shoulders, then in the way his hand twitched, just slightly, as if he were holding back a storm. A pulse of blue-white light flickered faintly in his gem.

“Oh,” Lars continued, leaning a little closer, “you’ve got a smile that could—”

Steven’s breath hitched, sharp and low. He walked toward you slowly, unnervingly calm, and Lars stepped back, sensing the sudden shift.

“I’ll take a seat,” Steven said, voice flat but edged with something sharp, diamond-hard. He didn’t ask; he simply moved to sit opposite you. You could feel the pressure before it touched you — the intensity of his gaze, the quiet claim in every movement.

Lars scowled but didn’t retreat fully. “Uh… hey, Steven. Didn’t see you there.”

Steven’s eyes narrowed. A faint vibration hummed through the air, almost like the room itself was aware of the tension. Lars laughed nervously, trying to defuse it, but it only made Steven’s pulse thrum brighter.

You felt a strange mixture of warmth and unease. Steven had never been jealous before — at least, not openly. Yet here he was, every inch of him radiating a quiet, possessive fire. You could almost see the Diamond in him stirring, sensing threats, sensing that everything that mattered to him was fragile and fleeting.

As Lars talked on, Steven’s mind wandered back — unbidden — to flashes of the past few weeks:

The first time you smiled at him after a long walk on the beach.

The way you had caught a falling gem shard and laughed, utterly unafraid.

How your laughter had echoed through the temple as he nervously tried to show you his gem powers.

Every memory was etched into him, sharp as a diamond. And every time you showed interest in anyone else — anyone — it carved a quiet ache into his chest. He had no name for it yet, only that the thought of you with someone else, even in simple flirtation, was unbearable.

The latte arrived, steaming between you and Steven. Lars leaned back, pretending nothing was wrong, but the tension vibrated through the air like a taut wire. You smiled awkwardly, unsure what to do, trying to smooth over the invisible cracks forming in Steven’s composure.

“I… uh… guess I’ll grab my coffee later,” Lars muttered, finally retreating toward the counter.

Steven exhaled softly, though the gem at his chest still shimmered with residual intensity. He didn’t speak for a long moment. And when he did, his voice was low, roughened with a kind of quiet hunger that made you shiver without understanding why.

“You don’t… talk to him like that,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You blinked, startled.

“What do you mean?”

“I just… I don’t want anyone… near you like that,” he said, and the words felt heavier than air, carrying a gravity that pressed into your chest. He looked at you — really looked at you — and the intensity of it nearly made you stumble.

It wasn’t possessiveness as you’d ever known it. It was something deeper, something primal. His Diamond side whispered through him, coloring his perception, amplifying every fleeting fear: fear of losing you, of letting the universe pull you away. He wasn’t aware of why it hurt him so much — only that it did, with a quiet, burning clarity.

You left the Big Donut that day with a mix of confusion and curiosity. And Steven followed, at a distance, his gem glowing faintly in the daylight — a quiet, unrelenting pulse that seemed to echo, she is mine. She is mine.

And for the first time, you felt the weight of it, though you didn’t yet know what it meant.

Part III — The Pull

The days blurred together. Steven couldn’t focus. Not on school, not on missions with the Gems, not even on the temple’s endless repairs. All he could do was think about her. Every conversation, every laugh, every tiny glance burned behind his eyes like a supernova that refused to fade.

She smiled at me yesterday.

Her hand brushed mine when I handed her that sea glass.

The way she laughs — God, how she laughs.

Each memory played over and over, looping in his mind, a fractured kaleidoscope of obsession. When he blinked, he saw her walking along the shore, coffee in hand, sunlight catching her hair. When he breathed, he could feel the ghost of her warmth against his skin.

The Diamonds’ voices stirred in the back of his mind, sharp and cold: She is yours. She belongs to you.

“No,” he whispered to himself, pacing the floor of the temple. “No, it’s not like that… I just… I just need to keep her safe.”

But even as he said it, his heart thundered with something darker. Every human instinct, every fragment of Diamond power within him, screamed: She is mine. She is mine.

Steven replayed every moment with her like precious treasures hoarded in his chest:

• The night she had stayed late at the temple, helping him repair a cracked panel, laughing as sparks flew from his gem.

• The time she had sat on the beach, picking up fragments of broken shells and turning them into a tiny mosaic of color and light, and he had watched her for hours without her noticing.

• The way she tilted her head, curious, when he had explained the physics of his gem powers, eyes wide and earnest, like nothing in the universe mattered except understanding the little world he inhabited.

All of it, he thought, pacing until the floor beneath him seemed to hum, vibrating with the force of his obsession. Every piece of her… I can’t… I can’t let anyone touch her. I can’t let anyone take her away.

He caught himself staring at the stars from his bedroom window, imagining her alone, imagining someone else laughing with her, touching her, looking at her like she wasn’t his gravity. His gem flared without warning, white and blue light spilling through his skin, illuminating the temple in frantic pulses.

She is mine. She must be mine.

The pull became unbearable. When she walked along the streets of Beach City, when she laughed at the Big Donut or waved at Lars’ distracted attempts at charm, Steven’s mind screamed: No. Stop. She is mine.

He tried to push it away, tried to remind himself that she had free will, that he couldn’t simply take her into his world. But the Diamond inside him laughed, crystalline and merciless: Why wait for consent when the universe bends for the inevitable?

He saw her in every reflective surface: the temple’s polished floors, the sheen of his gem, the small mirrors in her apartment. Every glance reminded him of what he could not bear to lose. The world had shrunk to the size of her presence. Every mission felt pointless, every conversation a distraction, every heartbeat a countdown until he could hold her again.

Then, one evening, she walked past the temple, carrying a bag of books and a half-eaten pastry, the fading sun catching her hair. Steven didn’t hesitate. He ran — fast, impossibly fast — and in a flash of gem-light that made the ground hum, he closed the distance between them.

“Steven?” she asked, startled, clutching her bag.

“I… I need you,” he said, voice rough, almost broken. His gem pulsed like a heartbeat against his chest, casting shards of light across the walls of the quiet street. “I can’t… I can’t let you leave again.”

Her brows furrowed in confusion, worry threading her features. “Steven… what do you mean?”

He reached out instinctively, not thinking, only feeling — only needing to draw her close. The air around them vibrated with Diamond energy, the subtle hum of his obsession pressing against the night. The gem world whispered in his mind, Bring her to the place where she belongs. Bring her where she can be yours.

Before she could respond, before she could protest, the pull took hold. Not with force, not with violence, but with the quiet inevitability of starlight bending toward gravity. She felt herself drawn, almost floating, her world narrowing until it was just him, just his universe.

He didn’t know what he was doing — not fully. All he knew was that in his arms, in the trembling, dangerous orbit of his obsession, she was safe. Safe from the world, safe from herself, safe from anyone else who might look at her and not see what he had seen.

She is mine. She is mine. She is mine.

And as the city blurred behind them, Steven’s mind swirled with every memory, every laugh, every tiny brush of her hand — a litany he could not escape, could not stop. His diamond self hummed with manic devotion, with the quiet terror of someone who had found the center of their existence and feared losing it forever.

Part IV — The Diamond’s Room

The stars bled around them as Steven brought her through a shimmer of gem-light that felt like walking through the folds of reality itself. Beach City disappeared in a blink, leaving only the endless, cold expanse of Homeworld’s crystalline spires stretching into darkness. The air smelled faintly metallic, alive with an energy that thrummed against her chest.

She turned to him, eyes wide. “Steven… where are we? How did we get—”

“I had to,” he whispered, cutting her off gently but firmly. His gem pulsed, a living heartbeat, radiating light and pressure. “I can’t let you go. Not again. Not ever.”

Every step he took felt predestined, every movement weighted with the quiet power of a being who was no longer just human. His Diamond heritage pressed against him like ice and flame intertwined, and it hummed in the air around them, pressing at the edges of her vision. She felt both awe and terror, drawn to the brilliance that made him almost unrecognizable — a godmade boy obsessed with a single human heartbeat.

They reached a high chamber carved into the side of a spire, crystalline walls refracting the distant stars into shattered rainbows. Steven paused, turning to her with eyes that shimmered with light and madness.

“I’ve… I’ve thought of nothing else,” he confessed, voice rough, tremulous. “Every laugh, every glance, every moment… it’s all been you. Only you. I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t…”

She reached out instinctively, wanting to steady him, but even as she did, the air seemed to vibrate with the intensity of his obsession. The Diamonds’ voices echoed faintly through the spire — White’s judgmental whisper, Blue’s quiet admonition, Yellow’s impatient edge. They felt simultaneously approving and distant, as if Steven was already teetering on a precipice they had long predicted.

“I… I don’t understand,” she whispered. Her heart thumped in the strange, heavy silence, both drawn to him and afraid. “Steven, this isn’t safe. We can’t—”

“Safe?” His laugh was brittle, sharp as a crystal breaking. “Safe is the world when it bends to you. Safe is… this.” He gestured at the room, at her, at the pulsing light in his gem. “I’ve tried to be gentle, I’ve tried to wait… but I can’t wait anymore. You are my universe. And I… I can’t share you.”

For a moment, the room fell silent except for the low, constant hum of Steven’s gem. She felt it in her chest, in her bones, a magnetic pull that was both terrifying and intoxicating.

He stepped closer, the Diamond side of him asserting itself fully. Not violent, not cruel, but inevitable — an inescapable gravity. “I see you,” he whispered. “Every detail. Every thought. Every fleeting glance you give to the world… I see it. I’ve always seen it. And it belongs to me.”

The words were both confession and threat, tinged with manic obsession. She wanted to speak, to ask him to let her go, but her voice caught in her throat. How could she explain that she understood, in some strange, quiet way, that his devotion — however dangerous — was real?

Steven reached out, hand trembling, eyes wide and burning with light. He didn’t need to touch her to pull her closer; the gem around his chest seemed to stretch its influence outward, bending the air, bending the space between them until she was standing at the center of his orbit.

And there, suspended between awe and fear, she realized the truth of it: she could never leave entirely. Not while he existed, not while his obsession burned brighter than stars.

He whispered her name again, softly, desperately, the corners of his mouth trembling. “You are mine.”

She swallowed, caught between the allure of his light and the terror of the inevitable. Her heart thudded, loud and frantic, and in that moment she understood — this was no longer just Steven. It was Diamond. It was obsession made flesh. It was love turned cosmic, uncontainable, and impossible to untangle.

The stars outside shivered. Somewhere far above, White Diamond’s cold gaze flickered, approving yet detached. Blue murmured softly, Yellow sighed. But none of it mattered. Here, in this crystalline room, in this impossible orbit, Steven Universe had claimed her — not with violence, not with coercion, but with a force that was more profound than fear, more intoxicating than choice.

And she could not, would not, turn away.

The chamber hummed with quiet, impossible energy, a universe collapsing inward and outward at once. Her hand hovered near his chest, unsure if she dared to touch him, and yet drawn irresistibly to the pulsing light.

The night stretched on, endless, unresolved. Neither spoke, neither moved, suspended between devotion, obsession, and awe. And in that pause, she understood what it meant to be the center of someone’s universe — brilliant, terrifying, and utterly inescapable.

Part V — The Orbit

The crystalline walls of the chamber reflected her image a hundred times over, fractured, like staring into shards of herself. She pressed her palms to the smooth surface, tracing the angles with her fingers, trying to find something solid, something safe, something real. But the only reality she could feel was Steven — a force she could no longer resist.

He stood across the room, arms slightly out, his gem glowing like a heartbeat made of ice and sunlight. Every flicker of light traced his obsession, an inescapable rhythm: she is mine. She is mine. She is mine.

Her own heartbeat matched it. She tried to breathe, tried to step back, but the room seemed to narrow, folding inward toward him, toward the epicenter of his fixation.

“I… I don’t understand,” she whispered, voice trembling. “Why… why did you bring me here?”

Steven’s eyes shimmered, and for a moment, the human warmth peeked through the diamond brilliance. “Because I can’t… I can’t let anything happen to you,” he said, voice low, fractured. “I thought… if you were here, if I could hold you in my universe, then… then nothing could touch you.”

He began to pace, restless, manic energy curling around him like a storm. His hands clenched, then released, trembled, and clenched again. Memories flashed through him like meteor showers:

• The night she laughed at his clumsy attempt to catch a falling gem shard, her eyes bright, unaware of how carefully he had tracked every motion.

• The quiet afternoon she had spent helping him paint the temple walls, teasing him over his perfectionism, fingers smudged with colors he remembered like sacred relics.

• The moment she had leaned back, catching sunlight in her hair, smiling at nothing — a simple, ordinary smile that haunted him with its purity.

Every memory, he thought, every smile, every laugh, every glance… belongs to me.

His gem flared with sudden brilliance, sending prisms across the walls. “I can’t… I can’t share you,” he muttered, pacing faster. “I can’t… let anyone… anyone… no one—”

The Diamonds’ voices whispered faintly in the air, urging, judging, approving. White’s sharp edges, Yellow’s impatient rhythm, Blue’s mournful resonance. They fed the manic storm inside him, polishing it to a brilliance that both terrified and enthralled.

She watched, wide-eyed, as he circled the room, muttering fragments of thought, memories, plans. His humanity was still there, faint, fragile — but it flickered against the unrelenting Diamond obsession. She wanted to reach him, to ground him, but every step forward made her feel herself pulled deeper into his orbit.

“You’re… you’re… mine,” he whispered finally, still pacing, voice almost trembling. “All of you. Every piece. Every thought. Every heartbeat. I remember… I remember everything you’ve ever done. I can’t… I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”

The words weren’t threats, not exactly. They were confessions, prayers, and warnings all at once. And she understood — understood more than she wanted to admit — that she had become something larger than herself in his mind, a sun around which his universe now revolved.

Her voice came out in a small, shaky whisper. “Steven… I don’t want to be… lost in your… universe…”

He froze, hand hovering near her shoulder, trembling. The room seemed to hold its breath. “No,” he said softly, a whisper against the walls, against the shards of light. “You’re not lost. You’re… my center. My world. You’ve always been…”

His voice broke as he turned to the window, staring at the stars scattered across the infinite darkness of Homeworld. “I’ve tried to live without… without consuming you in my thoughts, but I can’t. Every heartbeat, every memory, every glance… I can’t—”

The manic cadence slowed, giving way to a trembling quiet. He sank to the floor, hand pressed to his gem, staring at her as if she were both fragile and eternal. She could see it now — the endless storm of obsession, love, and fear, balanced on the edge of brilliance and collapse.

“I… I don’t know how to stop thinking about you,” he admitted, voice low, haunted. “Even if I wanted to… I can’t. You’re… you’re the only thing I see. Always.”

She knelt beside him, a hand hovering near his, feeling the pulse of the gem, feeling the force of him bending around her like gravity itself. Her heart thudded in tandem with his, a rhythm of awe and fear. She didn’t know if she was safe. She didn’t know if she could leave. And yet… somehow, she understood.

She understood that she was now the axis of his life, his mind, his very being. And Steven, manic and human and Diamond all at once, would never — could never — let her go.

Outside, the stars shivered and flickered, distant witnesses to the quiet, fragile orbit they had created. And for the first time, she realized that there was no ending yet. Only the pull. Only the infinite, terrifying, radiant orbit of his universe.

Part VI — The Fractured Orbit

The chamber pulsed with light, the walls refracting every flicker of Steven’s gem into a thousand shards of brilliance. She sat on the edge of the crystalline floor, hands folded tightly in her lap, heart hammering against her ribs. Every flicker of movement, every breath, every tremor of energy made her feel simultaneously drawn and terrified.

Steven stood before her, wide-eyed, trembling. The manic energy that had simmered beneath the surface for days now boiled over, unfurling like a storm he could no longer contain. His gem glowed brighter, pulses syncing with his erratic heartbeat, casting wild shadows across the room.

“I… I can’t stop,” he admitted, voice breaking, strained. “Every thought… every memory… every single moment with you… it consumes me. I can’t—”

He stopped, chest heaving, eyes flicking between hers and the gem on his chest. A sudden tremor of panic ran through him. He dropped to his knees before her, hands shaking, nearly grasping at the air. The Diamond inside him flared, bending the crystalline floor with a quiet hum of raw, uncontrolled power.

She froze, seeing the depth of him — human, manic, divine — all at once. His obsession wasn’t just in his words; it was in the air, in the pulse of the gem, in the gravity that seemed to bend her toward him despite every instinct.

“Steven…” she whispered. Her voice trembled, but there was awe mixed with fear. “You… you’re losing control.”

He blinked, and the sharp edge of his mania softened for a fraction of a second. Then it flared again, brighter than before. “I… I can’t! I’ve tried to hold it back! I can’t… not when… when it’s you!” His words tumbled out in a rush, desperate, raw, unfiltered.

Before she could respond, he leaned forward, trembling, pulled toward her by some magnetic force she could feel pressing against her chest. The pull wasn’t violent, not cruel — it was inevitable, the gravity of obsession taking form in the room. She could feel it in the air, in the vibrations of the floor, in the pulse of his gem.

Their eyes locked. Everything else — the walls, the stars outside, the distant echoes of Diamonds’ whispers — fell away. All that remained was Steven, wild and fragile, and her, suspended in the orbit of his mania.

Then, impossibly, he kissed her.

It wasn’t tender or careful. It was desperate, almost frantic, as if every suppressed thought and memory, every fragment of his obsession, poured into the contact between them. Her hands trembled against his shoulders, unsure if she should pull away or let herself be swept into the storm.

He broke away for a heartbeat, gasping, forehead pressed against hers. “I can’t… I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured, voice low and shaky, his Diamond energy flaring faintly around them. “I’ve tried… tried to be human, but… I can’t. I can’t.”

She swallowed, heart pounding, caught between awe and terror, and reached a tentative hand to rest against his chest. The gem pulsed under her touch, alive and urgent, a living testament to the obsession coursing through him.

“You… you’re… too much,” she whispered. “I… I don’t know if I can—”

But Steven’s manic focus was absolute. Every glance, every thought, every pulse of his being revolved around her. His hands framed her face, trembling, as if the slightest touch might shatter them both. “I can’t… I don’t care. You’re mine. Only mine. Always.”

She felt the room tilt, light bending around them, stars refracting through the walls, the pulse of gem energy pressing against her chest. And yet, despite the fear, despite the mania, there was a strange intimacy in the desperation — a connection that was both terrifying and mesmerizing.

The kiss broke again, this time by the sheer weight of everything unspoken: the manic obsession, the Diamond’s influence, the dangerous orbit that neither of them could escape. She could see it in him — the human boy who had once laughed at falling gem shards, the man who had grown beyond himself, and the Diamond who whispered that the universe itself belonged to him.

And in that suspended, electric moment, she realized the truth: she was no longer just part of his world. She was the center of it. The axis of his mania, the gravitational pull he could not resist, the obsession that bent his heart and gem alike.

Outside, the stars twinkled coldly. Somewhere, the Diamonds murmured their approval or perhaps just watched. It didn’t matter. Here, in the fractured orbit of his obsession, they were alone — caught in a suspended, impossible universe of light, longing, and uncontrolled devotion.

And there, suspended between awe, fear, and desire, neither of them moved. The room hummed, alive with the pulse of mania, obsession, and fragile humanity, leaving the ending — as always — hauntingly unresolved.

Part VII — The Fractured Collection

The chamber trembled faintly, a subtle resonance of the Diamond energy spiraling around Steven. He knelt by her, hands brushing hers, eyes wild yet desperate. Outside, the vast emptiness of Homeworld’s crystal expanse stretched into infinity, but it was no longer enough — the world she had lived in, the ordinary human world, was still missing pieces of her.

She needs her things. She needs the parts of her life that make her human, Steven realized, voice barely a whisper even to himself. His gem pulsed sharply, white and blue, flaring with manic energy. “I need… I need them. Everything that belongs to her… must come here.”

Without hesitation, he sent a wave of Rubies and other gems hurtling to Earth. They moved like shadows across the cities, silently collecting the objects she loved: her books, the small trinkets from the Big Donut, her favorite jacket, even the little sea glass pieces she had gathered on the beach. Each item was treated as sacred, a piece of her essence he had to hold close, obsessive in their precision.

Meanwhile, back on Earth, the Crystal Gems were confused and frantic. Garnet’s third eye flickered with concern. “Why are they… taking all of her things?” she demanded, voice tense. Amethyst bounced nervously, trying to intercept the Rubies, but they were too fast, too determined. Pearl’s grip on her spear tightened, fury and worry mingling. “Steven is… doing something, and it isn’t just collecting. There’s intent here. Dangerous intent.”

They could feel it — the pulse of him, the manic obsession bleeding across space, stretching like a web. Something had shifted in Steven, something beyond what they had ever seen before. He wasn’t just a human boy or a hero. He was… something else. Something that moved at the speed of thought, fueled by the Diamond within him.

Back on Homeworld, she watched the gems return with her things, her heart pounding, her voice caught somewhere between fear and awe. Steven knelt among the items, arranging them as if he could reconstruct her entire world here, under his orbit, so she would never be untethered again.

“You…” she began, voice trembling. “You don’t have to do this. You… you can’t make me… this isn’t—”

He silenced her with a look, eyes wide, brimming with the storm of obsession and desire. “No. I have to. You are mine. And if the universe won’t let you stay with me… then I’ll bring everything that belongs to you to me.”

He leaned forward, pressing a trembling forehead to hers. The kiss this time was slower, almost worshipful, desperate yet tender. He broke away, breathless, gem pulsing violently, eyes searching hers. “I can’t… I can’t bear to be without you,” he whispered, voice cracking with mania and devotion. “Everything that makes you… human… I will hold it. I will keep it. Here. With me.”

She reached out, fingers brushing the edge of his hand. Her pulse raced, heart caught in the gravity of his orbit. She could feel his mania, the dangerous obsession, the unrelenting devotion — and part of her wanted to surrender, part of her wanted to scream.

Outside the chamber, the Diamonds watched. White Diamond’s gaze cut like ice, assessing, calculating. Blue Diamond’s melancholy resonance hummed through the crystal halls. Yellow Diamond’s impatience pressed down like a weight. They observed Steven as he spiraled deeper into the manic orbit of his obsession, aware yet detached. White’s voice finally cut through the quiet hum of power:

“He will destroy himself if he continues unchecked. But he is… mesmerizing. Fascinating. He has found what he cannot release.”

“He is human,” Blue whispered, mournfully. “Yet part of him is more than that… more than the universe itself.”

“Then let’s see how far he will go,” Yellow muttered, sharp and impatient. “He has power. He has intent. Let us observe.”

Inside the chamber, Steven leaned forward again, capturing her lips in another desperate kiss. His hands trembled as he pressed them against her cheeks, fingers almost aching from the intensity of the pull between them. The room seemed to fold inward, light bending around them, the pulse of his gem synchronizing with hers in a rhythm that felt like orbit itself.

She broke away slightly, gasping, eyes wide. “Steven… please…”

“I can’t,” he whispered. “I’ve tried. I’ve tried to be… normal, to be human… but I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about you. Every laugh. Every glance. Every memory. Every piece of you… it belongs here. With me.”

Her items — books, sea glass, little trinkets — were scattered around them like fragments of her existence. Each one glowed faintly under Steven’s manic energy, drawn into the orbit of his obsession. She realized, trembling, that he had recreated her world, piece by piece, under the gravitational pull of his mania, and she was trapped in the eye of it, suspended between awe and fear.

And still, despite everything, despite the mania, the obsession, and the danger, she couldn’t leave. Because in that moment, she understood: she was the center of his universe — fragile, human, impossibly radiant, and utterly inescapable.

Part VIII — The Sanctuary

Steven’s gem flared brighter than ever, white and blue light spilling across the chamber, fracturing and weaving like lightning trapped in crystal. She watched him pacing, eyes wide, trembling, hands brushing the edge of his gem as he muttered to himself.

“They need… they need to build it,” he whispered, more to the Diamonds echoing faintly in the distance than to anyone else. “She needs… she deserves… everything. Her world. Her life. Here. With me.”

He sent Rubies, soldiers, and pebbles scattering across Homeworld like a living, sentient force. They moved swiftly, building in meticulous, manic precision. Crystalline walls sprouted from the floor, bending the light just so, forming a sanctuary tailored to her: cozy nooks, sunlight refracting through transparent spires, a garden of gem-formed soil that would someday hold the blooms she loved.

“Bring everything from Earth,” he said sharply, his voice ringing like steel and glass. “Books, coffee mugs, gardening tools, favorite jackets, her sea glass… everything she touches, everything she loves. And… Lemon. Bring Lemon.”

The Rubies and pebbles surged back to Earth. It was chaos in the human world: one moment she was gone, the next her cat carrier appeared, filled with Lemon, a black fluffy ball of fur with yellow eyes wide and curious. Beside the carrier, neatly stacked, were six months’ worth of cat food and litter — every comfort Steven could think to provide. Her favorite gardening tools, carefully wrapped, arrived next, followed by her books, her tea mugs, even the delicate candle holder from her windowsill.

The Crystal Gems appeared again, frantic and confused. Garnet’s third eye flickered with both worry and disbelief. “He’s… building her a sanctuary,” she said, tone grim. “Everything she owns. Every item. Even… her cat.”

Amethyst flailed, almost laughing in disbelief. “He’s… losing it, but also… wow, that’s… a lot of stuff.”

Pearl’s eyes narrowed. “This is not normal. He’s… obsessed. And yet… look at him. He’s creating a perfect world for her.”

Back in Homeworld, she stepped into the emerging sanctuary. Crystalline sunlight danced across familiar objects: books stacked in neat piles, mugs glinting in the glow, Lemon padding softly beside her legs, yellow eyes wide and reflective. Her hands hovered over everything, unable to grasp how meticulous, how manic, how… devoted this was.

Steven appeared, shoulders trembling, breath sharp, eyes wild yet reverent. He knelt beside her, fingers hovering near hers, voice shaking. “Do you… do you like it?”

She turned to him, awe and fear warring in her chest. “It’s… incredible. But… Steven… this is too much.”

He didn’t hear her. He leaned forward suddenly, pressing his lips to hers in a desperate, trembling kiss — one hand brushing through her hair, the other hovering near her cheek. His gem pulsed violently, the room thrumming with the rhythm of his mania.

“I can’t stop,” he muttered, forehead resting against hers as they broke apart. “Every thought, every memory… you are mine. And I want you to feel safe here. I want you to… to have your life… all of it… with me.”

She bent down, gathering Lemon into her arms. The black fluff of her cat seemed to calm her slightly, grounding her in the small, tangible reality of this world Steven had built. Steven watched, breathless, his mania tempered only slightly by the sight of her holding Lemon, a small piece of normality he could not replicate himself.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” she whispered, running a hand along Lemon’s soft fur.

“Don’t say anything,” Steven murmured, voice low, desperate. “Just… stay. Please. Stay with me. Let me… let me be your universe. Let me keep you safe. Everything… everything you love… it’s here. All of it. I just want you near.”

He leaned forward again, lips brushing hers in another frantic kiss, trembling, manic, utterly desperate. She could feel every heartbeat, every pulse of his gem, every thread of obsession vibrating through her. The room glimmered, alive with light, energy, and devotion — chaotic, tender, obsessive — and she realized that she was the gravity keeping him from tearing apart.

And as she looked around at the sanctuary, at Lemon exploring cautiously, at her things arranged lovingly, she understood: she was not just a guest here. She was the axis, the center of this manic, beautiful, dangerous universe. And Steven… Steven would never stop orbiting her.

Part IX — Fractures of Light

The sanctuary was quiet, almost unbearably so, but the stillness pressed against her chest like a weight she couldn’t lift. Lemon padded softly between her ankles, a comforting presence amid the brilliance and chaos of the crystalline walls. She knelt on the polished floor, hands clutching the edge of the little table where her books and personal things had been arranged, and she couldn’t hold it back any longer.

“I… I need to go home,” she whispered, voice breaking. Tears welled, threatening to spill over. “I can’t… I can’t stay here forever. I need… I need my life. My world. I can’t live like this…”

Steven froze. For a long, terrifying moment, he simply stared at her, gem throbbing violently against his chest. His hands twitched, gripping nothing, trembling. The Diamond side of him — cold, brilliant, unyielding — flared up, a sudden pulse of light and power that reflected in every shard of crystal around them.

“Why would you be trying to leave me? Huh?” he spat, voice breaking with a manic edge. “I give you the world, I give you everything, but you don’t want me? A Diamond? A hero? A god?”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be — the power behind them vibrated through the room. She flinched, trembling, feeling the pull of his mania, the intensity of the obsession he could no longer hide.

His fist shot out before he fully registered the movement, striking a mirror on the wall. It shattered into jagged shards that littered the crystalline floor, reflecting fractured versions of the room, of her, of him. The sound echoed, sharp and unbearable, and Steven immediately froze, eyes wide, chest heaving, realization slamming into him.

“Oh—oh no…” he whispered, dropping to his knees beside her, hands shaking. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean…”

The shards glimmered around them, dangerous and reflective, and she hugged herself, tears streaming freely now. Lemon mewed softly, pressing against her hand as if trying to comfort her in the chaos.

“I… I just… I just wanted to show you… show you everything I could give you!” Steven said, voice cracking. “I wanted you to be safe, to have everything you love… and I… I lost control. I… I’m sorry!”

But the damage had been done. A slight riff had formed between them — a crack in the fragile orbit they had built together. She could feel it in the air, in the way he trembled, in the uncertainty in her own chest. He was a boy who had tried to be more than human, a boy who had tried to hold the universe in his hands, and now he was staring at the first proof that he could fail, that he could hurt the one thing he most desired.

She bent down, cautiously touching the shards on the floor. “It’s… okay,” she whispered, though the words felt hollow even to her. “It’s just a mirror. I… I understand what you were trying to do. But… Steven, you need to calm down. I… I can’t… I can’t handle this level of… intensity. I can’t.”

His gem pulsed violently again, bright blue and white light washing over the sanctuary. The room hummed with the residual energy of his Diamond mania. He clutched at her hands, voice low, desperate, pleading. “I can’t. I can’t calm down. Every moment I’m not near you… every moment I see you upset… it’s unbearable. You’re everything. You are… my universe. I can’t… I can’t lose you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

She looked at him, tears streaming freely, heart aching. “Steven… I… I don’t want to leave, I just… I can’t stay like this. I can’t live in this… orbit where everything is… extreme. I… I need some space. Some… balance. Please…”

The words seemed to hurt him physically. He stumbled back, forehead pressed to the crystalline floor, gem pulsing erratically. He muttered fragments, words tumbling in disjointed bursts:

I can’t… she’s leaving… I can’t… she’s mine… it’s supposed to be perfect… she has to… I… I…

He tried to speak again, voice raw, manic, nearly incoherent: “I thought… I thought I could be everything. A Diamond. A hero. A god. And you… you were supposed to be happy. With me. With all of this… my world… my love… my… universe.”

His hands shook as he reached for her again, desperate, almost frenzied. “I’m… I can’t lose you. I… I can’t. I… I…”

She leaned forward slowly, touching his trembling shoulder, letting him feel her presence without giving in completely to the orbit he had created. Lemon rubbed against her leg, soft and alive, grounding her in something real.

Steven looked up at her, eyes wide and wild, glimmering with tears and mania. “I… I just wanted… I wanted you to be mine. To have everything. To be safe. To… to be happy. I can’t… I can’t make sense of it when you… when you cry.”

She held his gaze for a long, trembling moment. “Steven… you have to understand… I can’t exist only as the center of your world. I… I need… I need space. I need to breathe. I can’t… I can’t live under… this intensity.”

The room grew quiet, save for the faint hum of his gem and Lemon’s soft purring. Steven slumped against the crystalline floor, head in his hands, breathing heavy and uneven. The manic obsession that had consumed him for days began to fracture, small cracks appearing in the brilliance of his Diamond mind. He felt it — the weight of what he had done, the reality that he could hurt her, the terrifying truth that his mania might not be containable.

She knelt beside him, hand brushing his trembling one, and whispered, “It’s okay. It’s just… too much. But I’m not leaving. Not yet. Just… let’s breathe. Let’s… find a way through this, together.”

Steven nodded slowly, though the gem at his chest continued to pulse erratically. “I… I can’t… I don’t know if I can be… normal,” he admitted, voice low, trembling. “But I… I’ll try. I… I have to.”

The sanctuary remained intact around them — Lemon curling in her lap, books and tools and familiar objects glowing faintly under the fractured crystal light. But the air had changed. There was tension now, fragile and raw, a quiet warning that the orbit they shared was no longer perfect.

And Steven, once so sure of his universe, now felt the first real tremor of madness stirring within him — the knowledge that even gods, even Diamonds, could fracture.

Outside, the Diamonds’ whispers echoed faintly: White’s sharp, judging tone, Blue’s mournful resonance, Yellow’s impatient edge. They observed silently, watching the first cracks form in his mind, waiting to see how far obsession, mania, and love could drive the boy who had once been simply human.

The ending of that night remained unresolved. They sat in the fractured light of the sanctuary, Steven trembling, she cautiously holding him, Lemon curled between them, and the crystal walls glimmering around them like stars in orbit — a fragile, tense, and haunted universe waiting for the next inevitable collapse.

Part X — The Diamond Council

The chamber was colder than Homeworld had ever felt, polished crystal walls reflecting Steven’s frantic form as he paced. His gem glowed white and blue, pulsing erratically with the manic obsession that had overtaken him. He could feel her absence pressing against him, even though she was only a few rooms away. Even the sanctuary he had built could not contain the ache in his chest.

Above him, the vast council chamber opened, and the Diamonds appeared: White, sharp and calculating; Blue, mournful and distant; Yellow, impatient and simmering with intensity. Steven knelt before them, hands trembling, voice shaking as he spoke.

“She… she wants to leave,” he admitted, words spilling out in a rush. “I’ve tried to give her everything — her world, her things, Lemon… the sanctuary. I’ve tried to… I’ve tried to make her safe. But she doesn’t want to stay. I… I don’t know what to do. I can’t lose her. I can’t.”

White Diamond’s gaze cut through him like a blade, brilliant and unyielding. “Steven,” she said, voice both scolding and precise, “you are behaving like a child with a crown too heavy for your shoulders. You cannot command another’s feelings. You cannot compel desire. You can only… understand it.”

Blue’s voice floated softly, mournful. “You cannot hold someone in orbit simply by strength or brilliance. They must choose to remain, or the connection collapses entirely.”

Yellow leaned forward, tapping her fingers impatiently. “You’re desperate. I can see it. But desperation does not equate to power. You have all the power of a Diamond within you, yet you are powerless here — powerless to force the human heart.”

Steven’s shoulders shook. He pressed a hand against his gem, breathing harshly. “I… I can’t. I’ve tried everything I know. I give her the world, I give her my everything, and still… she pulls away. I thought if I… if I just…”

“Steven,” White interjected sharply, her voice slicing through the chaotic hum of his mania, “your problem is not that she lacks loyalty. Your problem is that you refuse to accept her as an individual. That refusal will destroy the universe you claim to protect — your universe, your obsession.”

Her words hit him like a shard of ice through his chest. He dropped to his knees, forehead pressed against the crystalline floor. The gem pulsed violently, light flickering in uneven bursts, reflecting shards of himself — the human boy, the obsessed Diamond, the frantic lover — all fractured and raw.

“I… I just… I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, voice barely a whisper, trembling. “I can’t… I can’t let her go. I can’t. She… she’s everything.”

Blue floated closer, soft and sorrowful. “Then perhaps you must learn patience. Perhaps you must learn to let her walk her path, even if it frightens you. Even if the pull is unbearable.”

Yellow’s impatient edge cut in. “Or perhaps you must show her the depths of your devotion — not through force, but through the power of what you are willing to give. Let her see the entire scope of your obsession, your brilliance, your fragility. Let her choose to stay, not because she must, but because she cannot resist the orbit you have created.”

Steven’s gem flared violently, the pulsing light reflecting in every facet of the chamber. He rose slowly, hands trembling, body still quivering from the weight of his own mania. “I… I understand. I… I will show her everything. Everything I am, everything I feel… everything I’ve built… and I will not let go. But she… she must see it, truly see it, or I… I…”

White’s gaze softened fractionally. “Do not let obsession become a weapon. Let it become a revelation. Let it illuminate, not suffocate. The line is thin, Steven. Step carefully.”

He nodded, trembling, and left the chamber, gem pulsing violently, as if carrying the weight of the Diamonds’ scrutiny, their warnings, and his own uncontainable obsession. Every step toward her sanctuary was a heartbeat closer to mania, a pulse closer to collapse.

When he arrived, she was kneeling with Lemon on her lap, the sanctuary around her glowing faintly under the fractured light of his gem. Books and tools, familiar trinkets, and her cat surrounded her, and yet she looked up at him with wary eyes, sensing the tremor of instability in his form.

“I… I met with the Diamonds,” he said quickly, voice rough, trembling. “They… they understand… they warned me… but they told me something important. They told me I cannot force you to stay. But they said… I can show you… everything I am. Everything I feel. Everything I’ve built for you. And you can see it… and maybe… you’ll choose to stay. Maybe you’ll understand the gravity of my… my love… my obsession…”

She blinked, unsure whether to respond. “Steven… I… I don’t know if I can… handle… all of this…”

He stepped closer, trembling, eyes wide and manic, gem pulsing erratically. He knelt beside her, hands hovering near her cheeks, then brushing her hair softly, almost reverent. “I… I just… I can’t stop thinking about you. Every laugh. Every glance. Every moment we’ve shared… I can’t stop. I can’t. I can’t.”

Her heart pounded. Lemon mewed softly, curling against her arms, grounding her. She swallowed hard, feeling both awe and fear. “Steven… I… I need… I need to breathe. I can’t… be the only axis of your… universe.”

“I know,” he whispered, voice cracking, trembling. “I… I know. But let me show you. Let me… let me be your universe, just for a moment. Let me give you everything I can. Let me… let me prove that staying… with me… is everything you want.”

He leaned forward, pressing his lips against hers in a desperate, trembling kiss, the gem pulsing violently. It was manic, frantic, full of obsession, yet tender in its desperation — a plea, a confession, a fractured attempt to hold her without force. She gasped, breaking the kiss briefly, but the intensity in his eyes held her still.

“I… I can’t promise I’ll be… perfect,” he whispered, forehead pressed against hers, breath uneven. “I… I can only promise this… my orbit, my obsession, my everything… is yours if you let it be. If you… choose… to stay.”

She closed her eyes, holding Lemon tightly, feeling the pull of his mania, his brilliance, and his fragile humanity all at once. She didn’t respond immediately. She didn’t step back. She didn’t run. And that — that pause, that hesitation — made his gem flare even brighter, reflecting shards of light and fractured devotion across the sanctuary.

The night stretched on, silent except for their breathing, the soft purr of Lemon, and the pulse of his gem. Neither spoke. Neither moved. The orbit between them remained delicate, tense, and hauntingly unresolved — a fragile balance between mania, obsession, love, and choice, teetering on the edge of brilliance and collapse.

And somewhere far above, White, Blue, and Yellow watched silently, assessing the boy who had grown beyond himself, waiting to see how far the obsession could spiral before shattering the fragile universe he had built.

Part XI — The Fractured Orbit Deepens

The sanctuary glimmered under the fractured light of Steven’s gem. Every shard reflected not just the objects he had painstakingly collected from her life, but the manic devotion behind each one. Books, tools, trinkets, Lemon curled up lazily, and the faint traces of sunlight caught in crystal spires made the room shimmer. Yet nothing in the sanctuary could mask the storm that now raged inside Steven.

He sat cross-legged, hands pressed to his gem, breathing uneven, eyes darting between her, the sanctuary, and the shimmering shards around them. Every heartbeat echoed in the crystalline walls, every pulse of gem energy synchronized with the frenzy of thoughts tearing through his mind.

She could leave. She could go. She could reject all of this… me… my world… my obsession…

The thought was unbearable. His gem flared, sending shards of refracted light skittering across the floor. He leaned forward, voice low, shaking, eyes wide. “I… I can’t… I can’t let her leave. I… I just… I just need… I need her to see… to feel… what I’ve built. What I… what I am… for her.”

She watched him carefully, fear and awe mixing in her chest. “Steven… I… I can’t… I can’t be the only reason your world exists,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I… I need space. I need—”

Her words were cut off by the intensity of his gaze. He rose suddenly, trembling, towering over her in a way that felt both protective and manic. “No. You don’t understand. You’re everything. Every thought, every memory… every heartbeat… revolves around you. You are the axis of my life, and if you leave… I… I don’t know who I am without you.”

Outside the sanctuary, the Crystal Gems hovered, unsure how to intervene. Garnet’s third eye flickered, reading the storm of energy emanating from him. “He’s spiraling,” she muttered. “She can’t reach him yet… not without risk.”

Amethyst floated closer, whispering under her breath, “He’s… obsessed. Totally obsessed. And he’s… kinda scary right now.”

Pearl clenched her spear tightly. “We must find a way to stabilize him. His humanity is being consumed by… by mania. If she’s caught in the orbit too long, it will destroy them both.”

Back inside, Steven dropped to the floor, forehead pressed against the cool crystalline surface, hands gripping shards as if holding himself together. “I… I just wanted… I wanted her to be safe. I wanted her to… to stay… to see… to know… I… I can’t… I can’t live without her,” he whispered, voice cracking with desperate intensity.

She knelt beside him cautiously, reaching out to touch his arm. “Steven… you’re… breaking yourself,” she said softly. “And I… I can’t fix this for you. You have to… find a way to… calm yourself. To… breathe.”

He flinched at her words, eyes shooting open, pupil-dilated, wild. “No! I can’t! You’re… you’re my universe! You’re… my everything! If you leave, if you reject me… I… I’ll collapse! I’ll… I…”

His words cut off as he leaned forward, pressing a frantic, desperate kiss to her lips. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t soft. It was raw, manic, a confessional burst of every unspoken thought and every fragment of obsession he had held for days. Her hands hovered near his shoulders, unsure if she should push him away or let herself feel the intensity of his fractured devotion.

He broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, trembling, “Please… don’t leave. Don’t… don’t leave me… not now… not ever.”

She swallowed, heart pounding, trapped in the orbit of his mania. “Steven… I… I can’t… I can’t live only in your orbit,” she said, voice trembling. “I… I need my life too. I… I… want to be with you, but… I… I need…”

His hands shot up to frame her face, trembling violently. “I know… I know! I… I don’t expect normal! I… I don’t want normal! I just… I can’t… I can’t exist without you! Every memory… every laugh… every little moment… they’re mine… they belong to me… to us… to this orbit… I can’t stop!”

Outside, the Crystal Gems hovered, powerless to intervene directly. Garnet’s voice cut through the tension like a whisper to herself: “He’s beyond our reach. The pull is too strong. She has to navigate this… carefully.”

Pearl’s knuckles were white around her spear. “We can’t let him spiral completely, or he’ll destroy the sanctuary… himself… her… everything.”

Amethyst floated closer to the entrance, muttering to herself. “He’s… insane. Totally. But… she’s not scared enough yet. She’s… hooked. Orbiting. And that’s terrifying.”

Inside, Lemon padded softly between them, oblivious to the tension but grounding them both in the present. Steven’s hands, still trembling, reached for her again. He pressed another kiss to her lips, desperate, fractured, trembling — a plea, a confession, a fragile attempt to anchor himself in the only thing that could save him from collapse: her presence.

She gasped, breaking the kiss, hand brushing his cheek. “Steven… you… I… I need… I need… some space,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I… I want to stay… I… I just… need…”

He froze, eyes wide, pupils dilated, chest heaving. “I… I… space… you… space… I… I…”

He sank to the floor again, forehead against the polished crystal, trembling violently. His gem flared, sending fractured light across the sanctuary. “I can’t… I can’t be… normal. I can’t… I… I just… I can’t… be without you… not for a second…”

She knelt beside him, hand brushing his hair, grounding him in the present. Lemon nuzzled against her chest. The room shimmered with fractured brilliance, the orbit between them tense, fragile, and utterly unresolved.

The night stretched on. Steven’s mania pulsed violently, the sanctuary a chaotic haven of obsession, love, and desperation. The Crystal Gems observed from afar, unsure how much longer this delicate orbit could hold before either the universe or Steven himself fractured completely.

And in that fragile, haunted space, neither of them moved. Neither spoke. They simply existed — Steven teetering on the edge of mania, her cautiously orbiting the intensity of his obsession, Lemon curled between them — a fragile, darkly beautiful universe waiting for the next inevitable collapse.

⸻

Part XII — Orbit in Motion

The sanctuary shimmered with fractured light, crystal walls catching the reflection of her collected belongings and Lemon curled in a sunbeam. She hugged the cat close, heart pounding, mind whirling in the orbit of Steven’s manic devotion.

“I… I think I want to stay,” she said cautiously, voice trembling. “But… only if I can go back and forth to Earth. I… I need to… breathe. To… be myself.”

Steven froze, gem pulsing violently. His chest heaved, lips trembling. “You… you would stay… even sometimes… go back to your Earth?”

She nodded. “Yes… if I can choose when I go. Then… I want to stay.”

He fell to his knees, hands trembling as he took hers. “I… I’ll let you. I… I’ll make it work. You… you’ll be able to go… and I… I’ll wait. I… I just… I can’t lose you.”

Stan appeared, summoned by Steven, face set in that stubborn, world-weary expression he always wore. “Two guards,” he said firmly. “She goes to Earth, she comes back, you make sure she’s safe. No exceptions.”

Jasper stepped forward, towering, imposing, all sharp angles and fiery intensity, eyes gleaming. She looked at the girl with the kind of unwavering devotion she usually reserved for her Diamond. “I’m assigned to you,” she said bluntly. “No one hurts you. I don’t care what happens. You are mine to protect.”

The girl swallowed, awe and fear mixing in her chest. Jasper’s sheer presence radiated power — like a walking mountain. And yet, there was a strange warmth beneath that sharpness, a fierce loyalty that made her feel seen and safe.

During their trips to Earth, Jasper was relentless in her devotion. She held her high on her shoulders, like a diamond held aloft, head tilting slightly as she grunted: “Stay still. You’re heavier than I expected… but I’ll carry you. Always.”

The girl laughed nervously, gripping Jasper’s strong shoulders. “I… I feel like royalty,” she whispered.

Jasper’s eyes softened fractionally, just enough for her to catch the rare glint of humor. “You are precious,” she said firmly. “No one touches what I protect. Understand?”

The girl nodded, her chest warming at the loyalty. Jasper’s devotion was absolute — not because she was told, but because she had chosen to protect her. Every trip back and forth became a rhythm: Earth to Homeworld, brief separations, anxious returns, each reunion intense, emotionally charged, like an orbit they were both learning to navigate.

Steven watched every return from Homeworld, gem flaring violently, heart hammering. Each trip tested his orbit, his mania, and yet he felt a pulse of relief when she returned safely. Every reunion brought frantic, desperate kisses — raw, emotional, pleading — each one a confession of obsession and fractured devotion.

Jasper would sometimes hover nearby, arms crossed, watching him with sharp scrutiny. “You think you can handle her?” she grunted. “You’re already losing control. Don’t break her while she’s in my sight.”

Steven would flinch, gem pulsing, voice cracking: “I… I can’t… I can’t stop thinking about her. Every moment… every thought… everything is her.”

The girl looked at him softly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “I… I see it. I… I want to stay… even if it’s… chaotic.”

Steven’s chest heaved violently, gem flaring. The orbit between them found a fragile rhythm — mania, obsession, and care all tangled together. Jasper’s devotion became its own anchor: fierce, blunt, unwavering, holding her high in literal and metaphorical strength.

The sanctuary remained fractured and dazzling, Lemon curled in sunlight, her collected life scattered like stars. The orbit between them was delicate, tense, yet shifting — a human girl, a manic Diamond, a sentinel of pure devotion, and a black cat named Lemon forming a galaxy of fractured brilliance, slowly stabilizing, yet hauntingly unresolved.

Part XIII — Tides of Mania

The sanctuary’s crystal walls shimmered like a fractured dawn, every object she had brought — or that Steven had summoned from Earth — glowing faintly under the fractured light of his gem. Lemon stretched lazily in a sunbeam, eyes half-closed, seemingly indifferent to the tension coiling in the air. She, however, was far from indifferent.

For the first time, she felt a tentative sense of comfort. Staying in this orbit was terrifying — Steven’s mania was unrelenting, his obsession palpable in every glance, every trembling hand, every pulse of his gem. Yet she realized she wanted it. Wanted the intensity, the danger, the brilliance of being the center of his fractured world — as long as she had the ability to step back to Earth when she needed.

Jasper stood near the entrance, arms crossed, a sentinel in gold and orange. “Stay close,” she said sharply, voice like a whip and a promise all at once. “I will protect you. No one touches you.”

The girl tilted her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I… I’m beginning to trust you,” she admitted softly.

Jasper’s eyes flickered with something almost human — amusement? pride? “Good,” she grunted. “Trust is earned. And I’ve chosen you. You don’t get to fail me.”

Steven paced nearby, gem pulsing violently. His breaths came in short, uneven bursts, his hands constantly twitching toward her, then retracting as if afraid of being too much. “I… I can’t stop thinking about you,” he muttered, voice cracking. “Every moment… every laugh… every glance… every memory… I’m consumed. I… I just… I can’t.”

She knelt beside him, hand brushing along the warmth of his cheek. “I know,” she whispered. “I… I can see it. And… I want to stay. I want to be here… with you.”

His gem flared, pulsing violently as he stumbled to his knees, hands clutching hers. “You… you want… even with my… mania? Even with my… obsession? You… you’re choosing to stay?”

She nodded, heart hammering. “Yes… as long as I can return to Earth when I need. As long as I can… breathe sometimes.”

He let out a shaky laugh, almost manic in its relief, and pressed a desperate, trembling kiss to her lips. It was frantic, full of emotion, mania, obsession, and a sliver of fragile hope. Her hands hovered near his shoulders, caught between pushing him away and letting herself be consumed by the orbit he had created.

Jasper, ever vigilant, grunted sharply. “Careful,” she said, arms crossing over her chest. “He’s… intense. But… you belong here. And I’ll make sure he doesn’t destroy you.”

The girl’s gaze flicked to Jasper, a sense of safety washing over her. Even as Steven’s obsession and mania threatened to pull her under, Jasper’s unwavering devotion — fierce, blunt, and total — created a tether to reality, a reminder that she was not helpless.

Days and nights blurred in the sanctuary. Steven’s pulses of mania alternated with moments of fragile, trembling tenderness. Every return from Earth brought frantic kisses, desperate confessions, and moments where he would clutch her hands, face, or shoulders, whispering, “I… I can’t live without you… I can’t… I… I just…”

Each time, she responded cautiously but increasingly willingly, learning the rhythm of his obsession, learning how to navigate the mania without breaking herself. She laughed softly at his frantic pacing, whispered reassurances into his gem-lit face, and allowed herself to be caught in the intensity, if only briefly.

Jasper remained a constant presence, a reminder that strength and devotion could exist outside Steven’s orbit. Sometimes she lifted the girl high onto her shoulders, grunting, “Hold tight. You are precious. Do not fall.” The girl clutched her firmly, feeling the literal and figurative protection in Jasper’s grasp.

“You… you really are like a diamond,” she murmured softly.

Jasper’s lips twitched in what might have been the faintest smirk. “I am. And I will protect my diamond.”

The orbit between them — human girl, manic Diamond, sentinel, and black cat — began to stabilize in a fragile, terrifying equilibrium. Kisses were frantic and manic but increasingly mutual, confessions of obsession intertwined with whispered reassurances, every moment electric with danger, longing, and an intensity that was both intoxicating and exhausting.

The Crystal Gems observed silently from afar. Garnet’s third eye flickered, reading the balance of mania and choice. Pearl gritted her teeth. “He’s still teetering on collapse, but… she’s finding ways to anchor herself. Somehow.”

Amethyst floated near the edges, muttering, “She’s actually… holding up. And Jasper… that’s… impressive. Fierce loyalty. Respect.”

The girl, meanwhile, curled against Lemon in the sanctuary, brushing a hand along Steven’s trembling arm as he sat beside her. She realized the truth of their orbit: it was dangerous, intense, chaotic, and breathtaking — but she wanted it. She wanted to stay, even with the mania, even with the obsession, even with the fragile tension that hovered over every pulse of his gem.

And as Steven’s gem flared once more, nearly blinding in its brilliance, she whispered softly, almost to herself: “I… I think I can stay… if I can breathe… and if I’m allowed to return.”

He pressed a desperate, trembling kiss to her forehead, whispering, “Then… then stay… stay with me… stay in my universe… and I… I’ll… I’ll survive for you.”

The orbit remained delicate, terrifying, and hauntingly unresolved. A manic Diamond, a human girl learning to navigate his obsession, Jasper as a sentinel and protector, and Lemon as a quiet grounding presence — all forming a galaxy of fractured brilliance, slowly stabilizing, yet still suspended on the edge of brilliance and collapse.

Part XIV — Eclipse of Devotion

The sanctuary glowed softly, a calm after the storm. The shards of crystal still shimmered with echoes of Steven’s manic energy, but now the pulses were slower, steadier — obsessive, dark, and intense, but no longer violent. He sat on the polished floor, leaning against a column, hands clasped loosely over his gem. Every so often, it flared briefly, a reminder of the mania that still lingered just beneath the surface.

She moved beside him, Lemon in her lap, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her own heart still raced, but a sense of fragile stability had begun to settle between them. “You’re… calmer,” she said softly, brushing her fingers along his arm.

Steven’s lips curved in a half-smile, voice low and intense. “I… I can’t ever stop thinking about you,” he admitted, gem pulsing softly. “But… I don’t need to tremble at every thought. Not now. Not with you here. I… I want… to be steady for you… for us… even if I can’t stop feeling it all.”

Jasper leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, smirking. “Hmph. Took you long enough,” she grunted. “Figured the human would either quit or break you before you learned to sit still.” Her yellow eyes softened slightly as she glanced at the girl. “But I’ve got to admit… you’ve held your own. Don’t get too used to him being quiet, though. He’s still… Steven. Obsessive, dangerous, brilliant.”

The girl laughed softly, brushing Lemon’s fur. “I… I think I can handle him,” she said, eyes flicking to Steven. “Especially now that… he’s calmer. A little.”

Steven’s gem flared, light reflecting in shards around them. He rose slowly, trembling slightly, and took a step toward her, gaze intense and dark, yet softened by something fragile: hope. “I… I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice low, reverent, and obsessive all at once. “About us. About… this orbit we’ve built. About everything. And… I… I want… I want to ask you something.”

Her breath caught. She looked up at him, unsure what to expect, heart hammering in her chest.

“I… I know I’m… intense,” he continued, trembling slightly. “Obsessive. Dark. Possessive. But… I… I want to be yours. Not because I need to control you. Not because I… can’t live without you… though I can’t stop thinking about you… but because… I want to be with you. Truly with you. Will you… be my girlfriend?”

The air hung heavy for a moment, all the tension of days — his mania, obsession, and protective devotion — pressing down. She blinked, heart racing, then let a small, genuine smile spread across her face. “Yes,” she whispered softly. “I… I want that too. I want to stay with you… and I want us to… be together.”

Relief, dark and intense, washed over him. His gem flared brighter, but more steady now — no manic bursts, just pure, obsessive devotion. He knelt slowly, pressing his forehead to hers, hands framing her face with reverent intensity. “You… you’re mine,” he whispered, voice low and trembling. “Not in chains… not in fear… but mine, as you choose. Mine because… you stay. Mine because you want to.”

She reached up, brushing his cheek, smiling softly. “I choose to stay,” she murmured. “And… I want this too. Us.”

Jasper snorted from the side, arms crossed, tone rough but amused. “Hmph. Took him long enough. Don’t let him get too quiet, though… that obsession’s still alive.”

Steven chuckled softly, shaking his head, still dark and intense, yet now steady in his orbit. “I… I’ll always be obsessive. I… I’ll always want you. But… I’ll try… to be steady for us. For you.”

The girl smiled, leaning into him, Lemon curling between them. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the orbit didn’t feel like a storm. It felt like a tide — strong, dark, obsessive, yet flowing together, tethered by choice, devotion, and the fragile calm of acceptance.

And in that sanctuary of crystal and fractured light, surrounded by protective loyalty and quiet intensity, they found a strange equilibrium. Not peaceful. Not entirely calm. Dark, obsessive, passionate, and intense — but theirs.

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I hope you enjoyed this fic <3

[hallowedmoss]

Possessed By The Hyde

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Warning Smut

MINORS DO NOT ENGAGE

18+ Characters

Tyler Galpin x Reader Smut

Word Count : 1369

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Let me know how you like it ❤️

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The room is dimly lit, the air thick with tension and anticipation. You stand before Tyler Galpin, the enigmatic and dominant Hyde, your heart racing with a mix of fear and desire. His eyes, dark and intense, bore into yours, promising a night of raw, unbridled passion and dominance.

“Come here, my pet,” he commands, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine. You obey, your steps hesitant but drawn to him by an inexplicable force. His hands grip your wrists, pulling you close, his body hard and demanding against yours.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispers, his breath hot on your ear. “Say it, and mean it.” You do, your voice barely a whisper, but he hears it, and a satisfied smirk plays on his lips. “Good girl,” he praises, and the words send a rush of heat through you, making you ache with need.

His hands move to your hair, tangling in the strands as he pulls your head back, exposing your neck to him. His teeth graze your skin, not quite biting, but the threat is there, and it makes your breath hitch. He bites down gently, then soothes the sting with his tongue, his other hand cupping your breast, squeezing firmly, his thumb brushing over your nipple.

“You’re so perfect, aren’t you?” he murmurs, his voice a mix of admiration and ownership. “All mine. Every inch of you belongs to me.” His hand moves from your breast to your throat his fingers wrapping around it, not tight enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel his dominance.

He guides you to the bed, his grip on your hair keeping you close to him. “On your knees,” he orders, and you comply, your body humming with anticipation. He stands over you, his presence overwhelming, his eyes dark with lust.

He slaps your ass, the sound echoing in the room, and you gasp, the sting spreading across your skin. “Good girl,” he praises again, and you feel a rush of pleasure at his approval. He does it again, his hand connecting with your skin, and you moan, your body aching for more.

He pulls you up, his hands gripping your waist as he turns you around, his body pressing against yours. His teeth find your neck again, biting down harder this time, and you cry out, your body arching against him. His hand moves between your legs, his fingers finding your wetness, and he groans, a sound of pure satisfaction.

“You’re so wet for me, my good girl,” he murmurs, his fingers moving in a rhythm that has you panting. “You want me, don’t you?” You do, and you tell him so, your voice breathless and needy. “Good girl,” he praises, and you feel your body respond to his words, his touch, his dominance.

He guides you to the bed, his body covering yours as he positions himself at your entrance. “Look at me,” he commands, and you do, your eyes locking with his as he thrusts into you, filling you completely. He moves slowly at first, his hips rolling against yours, his eyes never leaving yours.

His pace increases, his thrusts becoming harder, more demanding. His hand finds your throat again, his fingers wrapping around it as he chokes you gently, his eyes dark with lust and dominance. You moan, your body arching against his, your nails digging into his back.

“Come for me, my good girl,” he commands, his voice a low growl, and you do, your body convulsing around him as you cry out his name. He follows soon after, his body shaking with the force of his release, his grip on your throat tightening as he comes.

He collapses on top of you, his body heavy and warm, his breath ragged. He rolls off you, pulling you into his arms, his hand resting on your hip in a possessive grip. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy, and you smile, your body sated and content, knowing you’re his, and he’s yours.

But Tyler’s obsession doesn’t end there. He wakes you in the middle of the night, his Body pressing against yours, his hands roaming over your skin, reawakening your desire. “Again, my pet,” he whispers, his voice thick with need. “I need you again.”

You turn to face him, your eyes meeting his in the dim light. He pulls you on top of him, his hands gripping your hips as he guides you to straddle him. You feel him hard and ready, his length pressing against your entrance. He lifts you slightly, positioning himself, then lowers you down, filling you completely.

“You feel so good,” he groans, his head falling back against the pillow. “So tight, so wet.” You begin to move, your hips rolling against his, your body responding to his touch, his words, his dominance. His hands grip your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice a low, possessive rumble. “All mine. No one else’s.” You nod, your body shuddering with pleasure as he continues to move inside you, his pace increasing, his grip tightening.

He flips you over, your back hitting the mattress as he looms over you, his body covering yours. He pins your wrists above your head, his eyes locked on yours as he begins to move again, his hips thrusting against yours in a rhythm that has you gasping for breath.

His other hand moves between your legs, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in slow, firm circles. You cry out, your body arching against his, your inner muscles clenching around him. He groans, a sound of pure satisfaction, and increases his pace, his fingers moving faster, his hips thrusting harder.

“Come for me, my good girl,” he commands, his voice a low growl, and you do, your body convulsing around him as you cry out his name. He follows soon after, his body shaking with the force of his release, his grip on your wrists tightening as he comes.

He rolls off you, pulling you into his arms, his body spooning yours, his hand resting on your hip in a possessive grip. You feel his breath on your neck, his heartbeat against your back, and you know, without a doubt, that you’re his. Completely and utterly his.

The next morning, you wake to find him watching you, his eyes dark and intense. “Good morning, my pet,” he murmurs, his hand moving to your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your body responding to his touch, your desire for him reigniting.

He rolls you onto your back, his body covering yours, his lips capturing yours in a deep, demanding kiss. You feel him hard and ready, his length pressing against your thigh. He moves between your legs, positioning himself at your entrance, and thrusts into you, filling you completely.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “So perfect. All mine.” You nod, your body arching against his, your nails digging into his back. He begins to move, his hips rolling against yours, his eyes locked on yours, his love for you, his obsession with you, clear in his gaze.

He takes you to the edge, his body moving against yours, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in slow, firm circles. You cry out, your body shuddering with pleasure, your inner muscles clenching around him. He groans, a sound of pure satisfaction, and increases his pace, his fingers moving faster, his hips thrusting harder.

“Come for me, my good girl,” he commands, his voice a low growl, and you do, your body convulsing around him as you cry out his name. He follows soon after, his body shaking with the force of his release, his grip on your hips tightening as he comes.

He collapses on top of you, his body heavy and warm, his breath ragged. He rolls off you, pulling you into his arms, his hand resting on your hip in a possessive grip. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy, and you smile, your body sated and content, knowing you’re his, and he’s yours. Forever and always.

[hallowedmoss]

Shadows of Steel

Originally posted on ao3 by me HallowedMoss

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Story contains violence , rape, and unsettling actions

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Trigger Warning for All

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I do not condone any of these actions

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continue on doves mwah

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Clark Kent caught your scent the second the elevators opened on his floor of the Daily Planet, he didn’t care that he didn’t know you- he would know you. You were meant to be his, he was sure of it, even if you weren’t, you would be.

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You step into the bustling newsroom of the Daily Planet for the first time, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nerves. It’s your first day as a junior reporter, fresh out of journalism school, and the iconic building feels larger than life. The air hums with the clatter of keyboards, the ring of phones, and the sharp voices of editors barking orders. You smooth down your pencil skirt, adjusting the blouse that hugs your C-cup breasts just right—not too revealing, but enough to feel confident. Your full, shapely hips sway slightly as you walk, and you catch a few glances from your new colleagues, but you brush them off. You’re here to prove yourself, not to turn heads.

Lois Lane, the star reporter, waves you over with a warm smile. “Y/N, right? Welcome aboard. Perry’s got you shadowing Clark Kent today. He’s one of our best—quiet, but sharp as a tack.”

You nod, trying to hide your surprise. Clark Kent? The farm-boy-turned-journalist whose bylines you’ve admired for years? You’ve seen his photos in the paper: tall, broad-shouldered, with those boyish glasses that somehow make him look both unassuming and intriguing. As Lois leads you to his desk, you spot him hunched over his computer, typing furiously. His dark hair is slightly tousled, and his white shirt strains against his muscular frame—wait, muscular? From the pictures, he always seemed… average. But up close, there’s something undeniably powerful about him.

“Clark, meet Y/N. She’s your shadow for the week,” Lois says, patting his shoulder before dashing off to her next lead.

Clark looks up, and for a moment, his blue eyes behind those glasses widen. He stands quickly—too quickly, almost knocking over his coffee mug—and extends a hand. “Hi, Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

His voice is deep, warm, like honey over gravel. You shake his hand, and his grip is firm but gentle, his skin surprisingly warm. As you lean in slightly to introduce yourself, something shifts in his expression. His nostrils flare subtly, and his eyes darken, pupils dilating as if he’s caught a scent on the wind. You pull back, confused, but he recovers with a shy smile. “Uh, sorry. Allergies or something. Let’s get you settled.”

What you don’t know is that Clark Kent isn’t just a reporter. He’s Superman, the Man of Steel, with senses heightened far beyond human capability. And right now, as you stand there in your petite frame—5’4” of curves that could drive a man mad—your scent hits him like a freight train. It’s not just perfume or soap; it’s you. Divine, truly divine. A intoxicating mix of vanilla, fresh rain, and something primal, feminine, that makes his Kryptonian blood roar. Your full hips, the way your ass fills out that skirt like it’s from another world—outer space, even—it’s all too much. He’s never smelled anything like it, never wanted to possess something so badly. In that instant, you’re not just a colleague. You’re his. He has to have you, claim you, make you understand that no one else can touch what’s meant for him.

The day unfolds with Clark showing you the ropes: how to chase leads, interview sources, dodge Perry’s temper. But throughout, he’s hyper-aware of you. Every time you bend over to pick up a file, he catches the curve of your ass, and a low growl builds in his chest that he suppresses with effort. When you laugh at one of his awkward jokes, your breasts rise and fall, and he imagines ripping that blouse open. Your obedience starts small—he asks you to fetch coffee, and you do it with a smile, proud that someone like him is paying attention. “Anything else, Mr. Kent?” you ask, and the way you say it sends a jolt straight to his groin.

By lunch, he’s obsessed. He invites you to eat with him in the break room, positioning himself so he can inhale your scent without being obvious. “Tell me about yourself, Y/N,” he says, his voice dropping an octave.

You blush, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Not much to tell. Grew up in a small town, always wanted to be a reporter like you. You’re kind of my hero.”

His possessive side flares. Hero? Oh, you’ll see. “That’s sweet. But you’re the one turning heads here.” His eyes linger on your hips, and you feel a warmth spread through you. Is he flirting? Clark Kent, the mild-mannered reporter?

The afternoon drags, but Clark’s animalistic urges build. He “accidentally” brushes against you while reaching for a paper, feeling the softness of your body against his hard one. Your scent overwhelms him—divine, addictive. By the end of the day, he can’t take it. As you pack up, he corners you by the elevators. “Y/N, want to grab dinner? To… discuss your assignments.”

You hesitate, but his intense gaze makes your knees weak. “Sure, Clark. I’d love that.”

Dinner is at a quiet Italian place downtown. Clark chooses a secluded booth, his massive frame dwarfing yours as you sit across from him. He orders for you—steak, rare, because he senses your hidden cravings—and watches you eat, his eyes tracing the way your lips wrap around the fork. Conversation flows, but there’s an undercurrent. He leans in, inhaling deeply. “You smell incredible, Y/N. Like nothing I’ve ever encountered.”

You laugh nervously. “It’s just my shampoo, I think.”

“No,” he says, voice rougher now. “It’s you. Divine.” His hand reaches across the table, fingers brushing yours. Possessive. “I want to know everything about you.”

The possessiveness thrills you. You’ve always been obedient, taking pride in pleasing those who choose you, and Clark—strong, handsome Clark—wanting you? It’s intoxicating. By dessert, his foot nudges yours under the table, and you don’t pull away.

He walks you home, his arm around your waist, claiming you in public. At your door, he pauses. “Can I come in?”

“Yes,” you whisper, obediently unlocking the door.

Inside, the animal emerges. He pins you against the wall, his body pressing into your petite one, hips grinding against your full, shapely ones. “I’ve wanted this since I smelled you,” he growls, nose burying in your neck. “You’re mine, Y/N. Say it.”

“Yours,” you moan, pride swelling that he desires you so fiercely.

His hands roam, possessive, cupping your C-cup breasts through your blouse, thumbs teasing your nipples to hardness. “These are perfect,” he murmurs, squeezing roughly. You arch into him, obedient, letting him take control.

He lifts you effortlessly—his strength superhuman, though you don’t know why—and carries you to the bedroom. Tossing you on the bed, he strips off his shirt, revealing a chiseled torso that makes your mouth water. “Undress for me,” he commands.

You obey, slowly peeling off your clothes, revealing your body: petite frame, full hips swaying, breasts bouncing free, ass perky and inviting as you turn for him. His eyes devour you, animalistic hunger in every line of his face.

“Good girl,” he praises, and you beam with pride.

He pounces, rough and urgent. His mouth claims yours in a bruising kiss, teeth nipping your lip until you taste blood—his, or yours? Doesn’t matter. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, pulling you against his erection straining through his pants. “Feel that? That’s what you do to me.”

You nod, obedient, reaching down to unbuckle him. His cock springs free—thick, veined, superhuman in size—and you gasp. “Clark…”

“Take it,” he growls, pushing you onto your back. He spreads your legs, inhaling your scent deeply between your thighs. “Divine. Fucking divine.” His tongue dives in, rough laps that make you cry out. He’s animalistic, devouring you like a starving man, fingers digging into your ass as he lifts your hips to his mouth.

You writhe, but he holds you still, possessive. “Don’t move. Let me taste what’s mine.”

Obediently, you still, pride in being his feast. He brings you to the edge twice, denying release, until you’re begging. “Please, Clark…”

He flips you over, onto all fours, your ass presented to him like a gift from outer space. “This ass… gods, it’s perfect.” He slaps it, the sting making you yelp, but you push back for more. Rough hands knead your cheeks, spreading them as he positions himself.

He thrusts in hard, no warning, filling your tight heat with his massive length. You scream, but it’s pleasure-pain, and you take it proudly. “Yes, Clark! Yours!”

He pounds into you, animalistic grunts filling the room. One hand wraps in your hair, pulling your head back as he claims you. “Mine. No one else’s.” His other hand reaches around, pinching your breasts roughly, rolling nipples until they’re aching peaks.

The sex is rough—his hips slamming against your full ones, balls slapping your skin. He bites your shoulder, marking you possessively. You submit, obedient, moaning his name like a prayer.

He pulls out, flips you again, and enters missionary style, eyes locked on yours. “Look at me while I fuck you.” His thrusts are deep, brutal, shaking the bed. Your petite body bounces under him, breasts jiggling, hips meeting his with wet slaps.

“Cum for me,” he commands, thumb rubbing your clit roughly.

You shatter, pride in pleasing him fueling your orgasm. He follows, roaring as he fills you, possessive seed claiming your depths.

But it’s not over. Clark’s stamina is endless. He takes you again on the floor, rough against the carpet, your back arching as he bends you over the dresser. Hours pass—him obsessive, you obedient—until you’re both spent.

In the afterglow, he holds you possessively. “You’re mine now, Y/N. Forever.”

And you smile, proud to be wanted by him.

The first pale light of dawn slipped through your bedroom curtains, painting thin golden stripes across Clark’s broad back. He hadn’t moved from where he’d collapsed half on top of you hours earlier—still inside you, still thick and half-hard even in sleep, as though his body refused to let go completely. One massive arm was banded around your waist like an iron cuff; the other hand cupped the full curve of your ass possessively, fingers splayed wide, keeping you pinned flush against him.

You should have been sore. You were sore—deliciously, achingly so. Every muscle trembled with the memory of how roughly he’d taken you, how many times he’d folded you into whatever position he wanted, how deep he’d buried himself until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. Yet instead of wanting space, you pressed closer, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. The steady thump of his heartbeat under your cheek felt superhumanly strong, almost too powerful to be real.

Clark stirred. A low, rumbling sound vibrated through his chest—not quite a growl, but close. His grip tightened instantly, reflexive, as though even unconscious he couldn’t bear the thought of you slipping even an inch away.

Your breath hitched. Pride bloomed hot in your chest. This man—this god in glasses—had chosen you. Had scented you like prey across a crowded newsroom and decided you belonged to him. The thought made you clench around him involuntarily.

His eyes snapped open. Not the soft, shy blue you’d seen at the Daily Planet. These were dark, predatory, pupils blown wide. He inhaled deeply through his nose, chest expanding against your breasts, and let out a guttural sound that raised goosebumps down your spine.

“Morning,” you whispered, voice hoarse from screaming his name half the night.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead he rolled, pinning you beneath him in one fluid motion. His weight pressed you into the mattress—immovable, inescapable. His cock, fully hard again now, nudged insistently at your entrance, still slick from earlier rounds and his release.

“Mine,” he rasped, the single word vibrating against your throat as he dragged open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck. He found the bite mark he’d left the night before—purple and swollen—and latched on, sucking hard enough to make fresh color bloom.

You whimpered, arching up into him. “Yours.”

He rewarded you by sliding back inside in one long, slow, deliberate thrust. No preamble. Just claiming. Your body stretched around him again, tender walls fluttering, and he groaned like he was in pain.

“Fuck… still so tight. Still perfect.” His forehead dropped to yours, eyes locked on yours with terrifying intensity. “You took me so well last night. Every inch. Every time I told you to.”

Heat flooded your face—and lower. You’d never considered yourself particularly submissive before Clark Kent walked into your life, but something about the way he demanded your obedience made you melt. Made you want to be good. Made you want to hear that rough praise again.

“I liked it,” you admitted softly. “Being yours. Doing what you want.”

His hips snapped forward—hard. You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours, Clark.”

Another punishing thrust. “Louder.”

“I’m yours.”

He growled—actually growled—and the sound sent a fresh gush of wetness between your thighs. Then he was moving in earnest, fucking you with brutal, measured strokes that rattled the headboard. Each time he bottomed out he ground against your clit, forcing sharp bursts of pleasure-pain through you.

One hand slid up to collar your throat—not choking, just holding. Possessive. The other gripped your hip so tightly you knew you’d have fingerprints there later.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

You obeyed instantly, staring up into those blazing blue eyes as he drove into you again and again. The eye contact felt more intimate than the sex itself—raw, stripping. He wanted to see every flicker of pleasure, every tremor of surrender.

When your breathing turned ragged and your thighs began to shake, he slowed—torturously—keeping you right on the edge.

“Beg.”

The word was gravel. Command.

“Please, Clark… please let me come. I need it. I need you.”

His lips curled into something dangerously close to a smile. “Good girl.”

He slammed home once, twice, three times—deep, punishing—and then pinched your clit between thumb and forefinger, rolling roughly.

You shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you so violently your vision whited out for a second. You screamed his name, back bowing off the bed, walls clamping down on him like a vice. Clark snarled, thrusts turning erratic, and then he was coming too—hot, thick pulses deep inside you, marking you from the inside out.

He didn’t pull out this time. He stayed buried to the hilt, panting against your neck, licking at the fresh mark he’d deepened.

After long minutes he finally eased back just enough to look at you. His expression softened—barely—but the possessiveness remained, etched into every line of his face.

“You’re not going anywhere today,” he said quietly. Not a question.

You swallowed. “I… I have work. It’s only my second day—”

“No.” The word was final. “You’re calling in sick. Or I’ll call Perry myself and tell him you’re indisposed.”

Indisposed. The clinical word somehow made heat lick through you again.

“But—”

He silenced you with a kiss—slow this time, but no less claiming. When he pulled back his voice was low, almost reverent.

“I can smell how much you want to stay. How much your body needs me still.” His hand slid down between your bodies, cupping your mound possessively. “You’re dripping with me. Marked. Claimed. You really think I’m going to let you walk into that office where other men can look at you? Smell you?”

You whimpered. The idea of anyone else even looking at you right now felt wrong.

Clark’s thumb circled your oversensitive clit—gentle, but insistent.

“Tell me you’re staying.”

“I’m staying,” you breathed.

His smile was victorious. Feral.

“Good.”

He spent the morning proving just how thoroughly he intended to keep you.

He carried you—still impaled on him—into the shower. The hot water cascaded over both of you as he pressed your front against the cool tile and took you from behind, slow and deep, one hand braced beside your head, the other between your legs, stroking in time with his thrusts until you came again, sobbing his name.

Later, he sat you on the kitchen counter in nothing but his discarded dress shirt, the hem barely covering your ass. He knelt between your thighs and ate you out like a man starved—long, filthy licks, sucking your clit, tongue fucking inside you until you were clawing at his hair and coming on his face.

Every time you tried to return the favor he stopped you.

“Not yet,” he’d growl. “I want to taste you first. Need it.”

By noon you were boneless, sprawled across his lap on the couch while he lazily fingered you, two thick digits curling against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.

“You like being mine, don’t you?” he murmured against your temple.

“Yes,” you whispered, hips rocking shamelessly.

“You like that I can’t stop touching you. That I want every part of you. That no one else gets to have this.”

“So much.”

He rewarded you by adding a third finger, stretching you open while his thumb worked tight circles on your clit.

“Then come again for me, baby. Show me how much you love belonging to me.”

You did—shaking, crying out, drenching his hand.

Only then did he finally let you sink to your knees between his spread thighs.

His cock was already leaking, flushed dark and angry against his stomach. You looked up at him through your lashes.

“Can I?”

His hand cupped your cheek—surprisingly tender for a man who’d fucked you raw all morning.

“Take what’s yours to worship.”

You did.

You took him slow at first—kissing the tip, licking up the underside, savoring the salty taste of him mixed with you. Then deeper. Then all the way until your nose brushed his pelvis and he groaned so loudly the windows rattled.

He didn’t thrust—not at first. He let you set the pace, let you worship, but the second your rhythm faltered his control snapped.

One hand fisted your hair. The other braced on the back of the couch.

“Open wider.”

You did.

He fucked your mouth then—careful enough not to choke you completely, but rough enough that tears streamed down your cheeks and drool slicked your chin. Every time you gagged he growled in approval.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “Taking me so well. My perfect little thing.”

When he came it was with a roar—hot, thick spurts down your throat. You swallowed greedily, proud, aching between your legs again just from the taste and the praise.

He pulled you up immediately, kissing you deep, tasting himself on your tongue like he couldn’t get enough.

“Mine,” he whispered against your lips. “All fucking mine.”

The rest of the day blurred into more of the same—him taking you on every surface, in every position, always whispering filthy promises of forever, always making sure you came harder than the last time, always marking you with teeth and fingers and his release until you were a trembling, blissed-out mess who could barely remember her own name.

By evening you were curled against his chest in bed again, his arms locked around you like he never intended to let go.

“Tomorrow,” he said quietly, “you go back to work.”

You tensed.

“But—”

“But you’ll wear something that shows my marks,” he continued, tracing the purple bloom on your neck with his thumb. “And you’ll sit at the desk right next to mine. And every time someone looks at you too long, I’ll remind them—and you—who you belong to.”

A shiver ran through you. Fear? Excitement? Both.

“Yes, Clark.”

He kissed your forehead, soft for once.

“Good girl.”

And as sleep finally pulled you under, you felt the last of your resistance dissolve.

You were his.

And you’d never been prouder.

The next morning arrived too soon.

You woke to the sound of Clark moving quietly around your small apartment—coffee brewing, the soft clink of mugs, his deep voice humming something old and Midwestern under his breath. For a moment it felt almost normal. Domestic. Then you shifted under the sheets and every tender spot between your thighs, along your hips, across your breasts, reminded you exactly how not normal the last thirty-six hours had been.

The marks he’d left were impossible to ignore: dark fingerprints on your upper thighs, a constellation of hickeys trailing from your collarbone down to the swell of your C-cup breasts, one particularly vicious bite on the inside of your right thigh that still throbbed when you pressed your legs together. Your ass felt tender from his slaps and grips, the skin warm and sensitive even now.

You stretched gingerly, wincing at the delicious ache, and caught sight of yourself in the full-length mirror across the room. Messy hair, swollen lips, skin painted in shades of possession. You looked claimed. And the sight of it sent a fresh pulse of heat straight to your core.

Clark appeared in the doorway holding two steaming mugs, wearing nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants that did absolutely nothing to hide the thick outline of him. His glasses were back on—those ridiculous, endearing frames—but they did nothing to soften the predatory way his eyes raked over you.

“Morning, baby.” His voice was rough from sleep and growling your name all night. “How’re you feeling?”

“Sore,” you admitted, sitting up slowly. The sheet slipped down to your waist, baring your breasts. His gaze dropped instantly, darkening.

“Good sore?” He crossed the room in three strides, set the mugs on the nightstand, and knelt on the edge of the mattress. One large hand cupped your cheek while the other traced the edge of a fresh bruise on your hip. “Tell me.”

“Good sore,” you breathed, leaning into his touch like a cat. “Really good.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip. “That’s my girl.”

He kissed you then—slow, deep, possessive. Not the frantic claiming of yesterday, but something deliberate. Like he was reminding you who owned every inch of your mouth. When he pulled back you were dizzy, clinging to his shoulders.

“Get dressed,” he said quietly. “We’re going in today.”

You blinked. “But you said—”

“I changed my mind.” His eyes flicked to the mirror, taking in your marked reflection with obvious satisfaction. “I want them to see. I want everyone at the Planet to know exactly who you belong to.”

A shiver raced down your spine. Part fear, part thrill. The idea of walking into the bullpen with his bites visible above your collar, his scent still clinging to your skin… it made your pulse thunder.

He chose your outfit.

A fitted white blouse—thin enough that the dark outlines of your nipples showed faintly when the light hit just right—and a high-waisted pencil skirt that hugged your full, shapely hips and that “ass from outer space” he couldn’t stop grabbing. No bra. No panties. Just thigh-high stockings and heels that made your legs look endless.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, he inhaled sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring like the first time he’d scented you at work.

“Fuck,” he growled, stepping close. His hands immediately palmed your ass through the skirt, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. “You’re going to drive me insane all day.”

“That’s the idea, isn’t it?” you teased softly, proud of the effect you had on him.

He spun you around so you faced the mirror again, pressing his front to your back. One arm banded across your chest, hand cupping a breast possessively; the other slid down to hike your skirt up inch by inch until the tops of your stockings and the bare curve of your ass were exposed.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice low in your ear. “Look at what’s mine.”

You did. Your reflection was obscene—lips parted, cheeks flushed, his massive frame dwarfing your petite one. His hand between your thighs now, fingers sliding through your already slick folds.

“Already wet for me,” he murmured approvingly. “Good. Keep that thought all day. Every time you cross your legs at your desk, every time you feel my cum still inside you, remember who put it there.”

He worked two fingers into you slowly, curling them against that spot that made your knees buckle. You moaned, head falling back against his shoulder.

“Not yet,” he said, withdrawing just as your hips started chasing his hand. “You don’t come until I say. And only when I’m watching.”

The drive to the Daily Planet was torture.

He kept one hand on your thigh the whole way, thumb stroking higher and higher until it brushed your bare, dripping core every few red lights. By the time you pulled into the parking garage you were trembling, thighs slick, clit throbbing with denied need.

He parked in the far corner—dim, shadowed—and killed the engine.

“Lift your skirt,” he said calmly.

You obeyed instantly, bunching the fabric around your waist.

He leaned over the console, shoved your thighs apart, and buried his face between them.

His tongue was merciless—broad, rough strokes that lapped up every trace of your arousal, then focused on your clit with precise, flicking pressure. You cried out, hands fisting in his hair, hips grinding against his mouth.

He pulled back just as you teetered on the edge.

“Clark—please—”

“No.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes glittering. “Not until we’re back here tonight. You’re going to sit at that desk, feel me on your tongue, feel me leaking out of you, and be good.”

You whimpered, but nodded. Obedient. Always obedient for him.

Inside the newsroom, heads turned.

Lois raised an eyebrow as you walked past, gaze lingering on the high collar of your blouse that still didn’t quite hide the purple mark at the base of your throat. Jimmy did a double-take. Even Perry paused mid-rant to glance over.

Clark stayed close—too close—his hand brushing the small of your back, guiding you to the desk right beside his. He pulled your chair out like a gentleman, but the way his fingers dug into your hip said something entirely different.

The morning crawled by in agonizing slow motion.

Every time you shifted in your seat, the lack of panties let cool air tease your swollen folds. Every time you reached for a file, your blouse pulled tight across your breasts, nipples stiff and visible. Clark noticed. Of course he did. His super-hearing picked up every hitch in your breath, every quiet whimper you tried to swallow.

At one point he leaned over, pretending to point at something on your screen.

His voice was barely a whisper against your ear.

“I can smell how desperate you are. Can taste you on my lips still. You’re dripping down your thighs, aren’t you?”

You clenched around nothing, biting your lip so hard you tasted blood.

He smirked—small, dangerous—and went back to typing like nothing had happened.

Lunch came and went. He made you eat sitting on his lap in the empty conference room, skirt rucked up, his cock hard against your ass through his slacks. He fed you bites of sandwich with one hand while the other toyed lazily with your clit under the table—never enough to let you come, just enough to keep you frantic.

By three o’clock you were shaking.

He finally stood, grabbed your wrist, and tugged you toward the stairwell.

“Where—”

“Quiet.”

The stairwell door clicked shut behind you. He pinned you to the concrete wall in the shadows between floors, mouth crashing down on yours.

“Couldn’t wait,” he growled against your lips. “Need to feel you come around me now.”

He yanked your skirt up, freed himself from his pants—thick, leaking, ready—and lifted you like you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically.

One hard thrust and he was buried to the hilt.

You screamed into his shoulder; he clamped a hand over your mouth.

“Shh, baby. Take it quietly.”

He fucked you fast and brutal—deep, punishing strokes that slapped wetly against your ass. The angle hit your g-spot perfectly; stars burst behind your eyes with every thrust.

“Come,” he snarled. “Now. Milk me.”

You shattered instantly—silent this time, body convulsing, walls fluttering around him so hard he groaned like he was in pain. He followed right after, flooding you again, hips jerking erratically as he pumped you full.

He held you there for long minutes, still inside, forehead pressed to yours.

“Mine,” he whispered.

“Yours,” you echoed, voice wrecked, pride swelling in your chest.

When he finally set you down your legs shook. He straightened your skirt with careful hands, kissed your forehead.

“Back to work,” he said softly. “But tonight… tonight I’m not holding back.”

You nodded, still dazed, still leaking him down your thighs.

And as you walked back into the bullpen side by side—marked, claimed, owned—you’d never felt more alive.

The evening couldn’t come fast enough.

By the time the last stragglers left the Daily Planet bullpen, you were vibrating with anticipation—and exhaustion. Clark had kept you on the razor’s edge all afternoon: subtle brushes of his fingers along your spine when no one was looking, low murmurs in your ear about exactly what he planned to do once the building emptied, the occasional super-speed glance that pinned you in place like prey. Your thighs were sticky with him, your core aching from the stairwell quickie and the hours of denial that followed. Every step in those heels reminded you of how thoroughly he’d used you.

He waited until the security lights dimmed to amber and the janitorial staff’s footsteps echoed far down the hall.

Then he locked the conference room door with a soft click.

You stood near the long glass table, heart hammering. The city skyline glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind you—Metropolis at night, alive and indifferent. Clark crossed the room in three strides, glasses already discarded on a nearby desk. Without them his face looked sharper, more dangerous. More him.

“Strip,” he said. One word. No please. No gentleness.

You obeyed.

Blouse first—buttons slipping free slowly because your fingers shook. The fabric whispered to the floor, revealing every mark he’d painted across your breasts and ribs. Skirt next, shimmying over your full hips until it pooled at your feet. Stockings stayed on; he liked the way they framed your thighs. No bra, no panties—just you, petite and curved and utterly exposed under the harsh overhead lights.

He circled you once, slow, predatory. Inhaled deeply. The sound he made was pure animal—low, rumbling, almost a purr.

“Turn around. Hands on the table.”

You did. Palms flat against the cool glass, ass presented, back arched the way he liked. The city lights painted stripes of gold and blue across your skin.

He didn’t touch you right away. Just stood behind you, letting the anticipation build until you were trembling.

“You were so good today,” he finally said, voice rough. “Sat there dripping for me. Let everyone see my marks. Let them wonder who put them there.” One large hand settled on the small of your back—warm, heavy, possessive. “Proud of you, baby.”

The praise hit like a drug. You pushed back against him instinctively, seeking friction.

He chuckled darkly. “Patience.”

Then his hands were everywhere—rough, claiming. He gripped your hips hard enough to reignite the bruises already there, yanked you back until your ass pressed flush against the thick ridge in his slacks. Ground against you once, twice, letting you feel exactly how hard he was.

“Spread your legs.”

You widened your stance immediately.

His palm cracked against your ass—sharp, stinging. You yelped, then moaned when the heat bloomed into pleasure.

“Again,” you whispered.

He obliged. Harder this time. Then again. And again. Each slap echoed in the empty room, turning your skin bright pink, then red. By the fifth your thighs were shaking, slick running down the inside of one leg.

“Look at this perfect fucking ass,” he growled, kneading the stinging flesh. “Made for me. From outer space, remember?” He leaned over you, chest to your back, lips at your ear. “Say it.”

“It’s yours, Clark. All yours.”

“Good girl.”

He dropped to his knees behind you.

The first swipe of his tongue made you jolt. Broad, hot, filthy—lapping from your clit all the way up to the sensitive skin between your cheeks. He didn’t tease. He devoured. Sucking your clit, tongue-fucking into you, then dragging wetly higher to circle that forbidden ring until you were gasping, pushing back against his face shamelessly.

When you started to shake he stood abruptly, freed himself, and notched the thick head of his cock at your entrance.

“Beg.”

“Please—Clark, please fuck me. Need you inside me. Need you to fill me again. Please.”

He slammed home in one brutal thrust.

You screamed—muffled against your own arm. He didn’t give you time to adjust. Just set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping against your ass with wet, obscene slaps. The conference table creaked under your grip; papers scattered to the floor.

One hand fisted your hair, yanking your head back so you had to arch deeper.

“Look out the window,” he ordered. “See the city? All those people down there… none of them get this. None of them get you.”

You stared at the glittering lights, body jolting with every thrust. The thought of being seen—being claimed in plain view—sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

He felt it. Groaned. “Fuck, you clenched so hard. Like the idea someone might look up and see you getting railed by me?”

“Y-yes—”

His other hand slid around to your clit, rubbing rough circles.

“Come for me. Right here. Where anyone could walk by.”

The orgasm hit like a freight train—silent at first, then a broken sob as your walls spasmed around him. He fucked you through it, relentless, until you were boneless against the table.

Only then did he slow—deep, grinding rolls of his hips that dragged every inch along your sensitive walls.

“Not done,” he rasped. “Not even close.”

He pulled out, spun you around, and lifted you onto the table in one motion. Your back hit the glass; legs splayed wide. He hooked your knees over his elbows, spreading you open, and drove back in.

This angle was deeper—brutal. You could feel him in your stomach, see the faint bulge of him moving inside you every time he bottomed out. His eyes locked on that spot, mesmerized.

“Look,” he growled. “Look how deep I am. How perfectly you take me.”

You glanced down—saw the obscene stretch, the way your body yielded to him—and whimpered.

He leaned in, mouth claiming yours in a messy, biting kiss. Teeth on your lip, tongue dominating. When he pulled back he rested his forehead against yours.

“I’m going to tell you something,” he said quietly, still buried to the hilt. “And you’re going to listen.”

You nodded, dazed.

“I’m not… normal.” His hips rolled once—slow, deliberate. “I’m stronger. Faster. I can hear your heartbeat from three floors away. Smell you from across the city. See through walls if I want to.” Another deep thrust. “I’ve been holding back. Every time I fuck you, I could break you in half without trying. But I don’t. Because you’re mine to protect. To keep. To ruin just enough that you beg for more.”

Your breath caught. Pieces clicked—his impossible strength, the way he always seemed to know exactly what you needed, the growls that sounded too primal for a human throat.

“You’re… Superman?”

A small, feral smile. “Clark Kent is the disguise. Superman is what happens when I stop pretending.”

He picked up speed again—faster now, harder, no more restraint. The table rattled dangerously. You clung to his shoulders, nails digging in.

“But right now,” he continued, voice gravel-rough, “I’m just Clark. The man who scented you that first day and decided no one else would ever touch what’s his.”

He shifted angles—hit that spot inside you that made white sparks explode behind your eyes.

“Come again. Let me feel it. Let me feel my good girl fall apart knowing who she belongs to.”

You did—screaming his name, body convulsing so hard tears streamed down your cheeks. He followed seconds later, burying himself as deep as possible and flooding you with heat that seemed endless. Superhuman stamina, superhuman release.

He stayed inside you long after, holding you against his chest while your breathing evened out. Gentle now—kissing your temple, your cheeks, the salt tracks of your tears.

When he finally eased out, he scooped you up bridal-style and carried you to the couch in the corner of the room. Wrapped you in his discarded suit jacket, tucked you against his side.

“You okay?” he asked softly. First real tenderness since the morning.

You nodded, curling into him. “More than okay. I’m… yours.”

His arms tightened. Possessive. Protective.

“Damn right you are.”

He pressed a kiss to your hair.

“And tomorrow,” he murmured, “we do it all again. Only this time… maybe I fly you somewhere no one can interrupt.”

You shivered at the promise.

Proud.

Obedient.

Utterly, completely his.

Weeks blurred into a haze of possession and passion. Every day at the Daily Planet followed a rhythm only you and Clark understood: stolen glances across desks, his hand brushing yours during meetings, quickies in supply closets where he’d pin you against shelves and fuck you silent and deep until your legs gave out. Nights were longer—him flying you to remote spots under the stars, using his powers to hold you suspended mid-air while he claimed you, or back at your apartment where he’d mark every inch of your petite body anew. Your full hips bore permanent fingerprints; your C-cup breasts were a canvas of bites and bruises; that ass he called “from outer space” was slapped red more nights than not.

You’d never felt more alive. More wanted. Clark’s obsession fed your obedience like oxygen—every command he growled made you wetter, every rough grip made you prouder to be his. He whispered promises of forever while buried inside you, his superhuman stamina turning hours into marathons until you passed out sated and sore.

But even in bliss, cracks formed. Clark’s possessiveness sharpened with each passing day. He hated when you left his sight, even for errands. “The world is dangerous,” he’d say, eyes darkening. “And you’re mine to protect.” You obeyed, of course—texting updates, avoiding crowds. But today, you needed a break. Just a quick coffee run. Harmless.

The coffee shop was a cozy spot downtown, all exposed brick and the rich aroma of fresh grounds. You ordered your usual latte, scrolling your phone at a corner table, when a shadow fell over you.

“Mind if I join you? The line’s brutal, and you look like someone who appreciates good company.”

The voice was smooth, cultured—velvet over steel. You looked up, and your breath caught. Lex Luthor. Metropolis’s billionaire genius, philanthropist, and perpetual thorn in Superman’s side. You’d seen him in the papers: sharp features, bald head gleaming under the lights, green eyes that pierced like lasers. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, holding a black coffee as if it were a prop.

“Uh, sure,” you said, politeness overriding surprise. He was public enemy number one to Clark—Superman—but here, he was just a man asking to sit.

He slid into the chair opposite, smile charming but predatory. “Lex Luthor. And you are…?”

“Y/N. I work at the Daily Planet.”

His eyebrows rose. “Ah, the Planet. Home to Kent and Lane. Tell me, what’s it like working with such… paragons?”

You shrugged, sipping your latte. “Challenging. Rewarding.”

He leaned in, close enough that his cologne—expensive, metallic—wafted over you. “You strike me as someone who deserves more than chasing headlines. Intelligence like yours… it’s wasted there.” His gaze dipped, lingering on your curves: the way your blouse hugged your breasts, the flare of your hips in your jeans. “Beautiful, too. A rare combination.”

Heat crept up your neck—not arousal, but discomfort. “I’m flattered, Mr. Luthor, but—”

“Lex,” he corrected, reaching across to brush a nonexistent crumb from your sleeve. His fingers lingered a second too long, tracing the edge of your arm. “And flattery is just the start. Dinner sometime? I could show you a side of Metropolis you’ve never seen.”

You pulled back politely. “I’m… involved. But thank you.”

His smile didn’t falter, but his eyes hardened. “Lucky man. Or woman. Though I’d wager it’s a man—someone who doesn’t appreciate what he has.” He stood, leaving his card on the table. “If you change your mind.”

You watched him go, heart pounding. The encounter left you unsettled—his touch, his scent clinging faintly to your sleeve. You finished your coffee quickly and headed home, texting Clark: On my way back. Miss you.

Home was your apartment, now practically shared with Clark. He was waiting when you unlocked the door—lounging on the couch in jeans and a t-shirt that strained over his muscles, glasses perched on his nose like a disguise. But the moment you stepped inside, his head snapped up. Nostrils flared. Eyes narrowed.

He was across the room in a blur—super-speed making the air whoosh. Before you could say hello, he had you backed against the door, massive body caging yours.

“Clark—”

“Who touched you?” His voice was low, dangerous. Not the warm rumble you loved. This was darker, edged with fury.

“What? No one—”

He buried his nose in your neck, inhaling deeply. Then lower, along your arm, your sleeve. A growl vibrated through his chest—primal, animalistic. “Luthor. I smell him on you. His cologne. His skin.”

Your stomach dropped. “It was nothing. I was at the coffee shop, he sat down, asked to join—”

“Asked?” Clark’s hands gripped your hips—hard, bruising. “And you let him? Let him get close enough to touch?”

“He just brushed my arm. It was polite—”

“Polite?” He laughed, but it was bitter, cold. “Lex Luthor doesn’t do polite. He takes. He destroys.” His eyes blazed, pupils swallowing the blue. “And now his scent is on what’s mine.”

Possessiveness rolled off him in waves—dark, consuming. He spun you around, pressing your front to the door, his erection grinding against your ass. “You reek of him. I need to fix that.”

“Clark, wait—”

“No.” His hand fisted your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat. Teeth grazed your pulse—sharp, threatening. “You let another man near you. Now you take the consequences.”

Fear mixed with arousal, pooling hot between your thighs. This was Clark unleashed—the Kryptonian side, the one that could crush steel but chose to claim you instead. You submitted, body going pliant. “I’m sorry. I’m yours. Only yours.”

“Prove it.”

He ripped your blouse open—buttons flying—exposing your lace bra that barely contained your C-cup breasts. Rough hands shoved it up, palming you harshly, pinching nipples until you cried out in pain-pleasure.

“These are mine,” he growled, twisting harder. You whimpered, but arched into it, obedient.

He yanked your jeans down next, along with your panties, leaving you in shreds of fabric and heels. His fingers plunged between your legs without warning—two, then three—stretching you roughly. “Wet already? Even smelling like him?”

“For you,” you gasped. “Always for you.”

He withdrew, spun you to face him, and shoved you to your knees. “Clean yourself up first.”

His cock was out in seconds—thick, veined, angry. He fisted your hair and thrust into your mouth, deep enough to hit your throat on the first push. You gagged, tears springing, but relaxed your jaw, taking him as he fucked your face with brutal snaps.

“Swallow every inch,” he snarled. “Erase him from your skin.”

Saliva dripped down your chin; your makeup smeared. It hurt—your throat raw, jaw aching—but you accepted it, pride swelling that even in his darkness, he wanted you. When he pulled out, strings of spit connected you, he hauled you up and bent you over the couch arm.

“Spread.”

You did, ass up, hips wide. He slapped your cheeks—hard, stinging blows that left handprints blooming red. “This ass? Mine.” Another slap. “From outer space or not, no one else looks. No one else touches.”

“Yes—ah!—yours!”

He spread your cheeks, spat on your entrance, and slammed in—no lube, no prep. The stretch burned, tears blurring your vision. He was massive, and in this mood, merciless—thrusting deep, bottoming out with a grunt that shook you.

It hurt. God, it hurt—sharp pain radiating from where he split you open, every brutal snap of his hips jarring your petite frame. But you bit your lip, pushed back, accepted. Obedient. His.

“Fuck, so tight,” he groaned, one hand on your hip, the other wrapping around your throat from behind. “Gonna fuck him out of you. Fill you until all you smell is me.”

His pace was punishing—fast, deep, the couch scraping across the floor with each impact. Your breasts bounced painfully, nipples scraping the fabric. His free hand reached around, pinching your clit hard—too hard, making you yelp.

“Take it,” he commanded. “Take the pain. It’s what you get for letting him near.”

“I will,” you sobbed, body trembling. The hurt twisted into something darker, hotter—pleasure blooming through the ache. “For you.”

He flipped you onto your back on the couch, legs over his shoulders, and drove back in. Eye contact burned—his gaze possessive, unyielding. “Look at me while I ruin you.”

Thrust after thrust, he hit depths that made stars explode, pain lacing every stroke. Your nails raked his back, but he didn’t flinch—invulnerable skin. When you clenched around him, he growled, thumb rubbing your clit roughly until you shattered—orgasm ripping through you, mixing hurt and ecstasy.

He didn’t stop. Pulled out only to flip you again, taking you on the floor now—rough carpet burning your knees as he mounted you like an animal. Bites on your shoulders drew blood; grips on your hips would leave deep bruises.

It hurt more now—your body protesting, sore from weeks of this but pushed further. Tears streamed, but you moaned his name, accepted every punishing inch. Proud to be the one who could take his darkness.

Finally, he roared—burying deep, flooding you with heat that overflowed, marking you inside and out.

He collapsed over you, panting, but didn’t soften. Held you close, nose buried in your hair. “Mine,” he whispered, voice breaking slightly. “Don’t ever let anyone else close again.”

“Never,” you promised, aching but content. His.

In the afterglow, he carried you to bed—gentle now, kissing bruises, whispering apologies mixed with possession. But the darkness lingered, a promise of more.

The next few days simmered with unspoken tension. Clark’s darkness from the coffee shop incident hadn’t fully faded—he watched you closer at work, his hand lingering possessively on your lower back during meetings, his eyes scanning every room like he expected threats. You wore higher collars to hide the fresh bruises, but the ache between your thighs reminded you constantly of his claim. You loved it, craved it, but the edge in his voice when he whispered “mine” felt sharper now, like a blade poised to cut.

It was mid-morning at the Daily Planet when Lex Luthor strode in like he owned the place. The bullpen hushed; heads turned. He was flanked by two bodyguards in dark suits, his own attire a crisp black ensemble that screamed power. Perry White emerged from his office, barking, “Luthor! What the hell are you doing here? This isn’t your playground.”

Lex’s smile was serpentine. “Just a friendly visit, Perry. I have business with one of your reporters.” His green eyes scanned the room, landing on you like a predator spotting prey. “Y/N, isn’t it?”

Your stomach twisted. Clark was out on a lead—something about a warehouse fire downtown, suspiciously timed. You stood slowly from your desk, heart hammering. “Mr. Luthor. Can I help you?”

He approached, ignoring the murmurs around you. “A word in private, if you don’t mind.”

Before you could protest, he gestured toward the hallway leading to the storage rooms. Perry grumbled but waved you off—“Make it quick, kid.” You followed, unease prickling your skin. The hallway was dim, cluttered with old filing cabinets and forgotten office supplies. Lex closed the door behind you with a soft click, his bodyguards waiting outside.

“Lex, this isn’t—”

He crowded you against the wall in an instant, his frame lean but imposing. “You turned me down at the coffee shop. I don’t like being turned down.” His hand shot out, gripping your chin hard enough to make you wince. “Especially not by someone as… enticing as you.”

“Stop—” You tried to pull away, but he was stronger than he looked, augmented by whatever tech or serum billionaires like him used. His mouth crashed onto yours—forceful, invasive. Teeth clashed; his tongue pushed past your lips without permission. You shoved at his chest, but he pressed harder, one hand pinning your wrist, the other digging into your hip. The kiss was brutal, his stubble scraping your skin raw. Pain bloomed on your lower lip as he bit down—hard—drawing a metallic taste of blood.

Panic surged. You kneed at him, but he anticipated, twisting away just as the door burst open.

“Get your hands off her, you bald bastard!”

Lois Lane stormed in like a force of nature, grabbing Lex by the shoulder and yanking him back with surprising strength. She wedged herself between you, glaring daggers. “Touch her again, and I’ll make sure every paper from here to Gotham runs your mugshot for assault.”

Lex straightened his tie, smirking despite the interruption. “Lois Lane. Always the hero.” His eyes flicked to you, wiping a smear of your blood from his lip. “Think about my offer, Y/N. Kent can’t protect you forever.” He sauntered out, bodyguards in tow, leaving the air thick with his cologne.

Lois turned to you, concern etching her features. “You okay? That creep—”

“I’m fine,” you lied, touching your swollen lip. It throbbed, already bruising purple. “Just… don’t tell Clark. Please.”

She frowned. “Y/N, if Luthor’s targeting you—”

“Promise me, Lois.”

She sighed. “Fine. But watch your back.”

The rest of the day dragged. You buried yourself in work, avoiding mirrors, but every time you licked your lips, the sting reminded you. Clark returned mid-afternoon, sliding into his desk with a casual smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Miss me?”

You forced a nod, keeping your head down. “Yeah. Busy day.”

He leaned over, voice low. “Everything alright? You seem… distant.”

“Just tired.” You couldn’t meet his gaze. How do you tell Superman his arch-nemesis assaulted you? That it happened because of a harmless coffee chat? Guilt gnawed at you—maybe if you’d told Clark about Lex sooner…

By evening, the distance grew. In the car ride home, you stared out the window, responding in monosyllables. Clark’s knuckles whitened on the wheel, but he said nothing until you reached your apartment.

Inside, he cornered you gently at first—backing you against the kitchen counter, hands on either side of your hips. “Talk to me, Y/N. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing—”

He inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. Then his eyes zeroed in on your lip—the bruise now impossible to hide under fading makeup. His expression darkened, thunderous. “Who did this?”

“Clark, please—”

He gripped your chin—tilting your face up, examining the mark. His thumb brushed the bruise, making you hiss. Then he leaned in, scenting you like before. “Luthor. Again.” His voice dropped to a dangerous growl, eyes flashing with barely contained rage. “He touched you. Kissed you. I can smell his filthy mouth on yours.”

Tears pricked your eyes. “It wasn’t my fault. He cornered me at work. Lois stopped him, but… I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Clark’s control snapped. He slammed a fist into the counter—cracking the granite like it was paper. “You didn’t tell me? You let him mark what’s mine?” He paced, muscles coiling like a predator ready to strike. “This ends now. You’re not safe here. Not without me.”

“Clark, calm down—”

“No.” He whirled, eyes blazing. “Pack your things. All of them. You’re giving up this apartment. Tonight. You’re moving in with me—where I can protect you, watch you, keep you.”

Your heart raced—fear and arousal twisting. “But my lease—”

“Fuck the lease.” His voice was boarding on dangerous, superhuman strength radiating as he grabbed a suitcase from your closet and started shoving clothes in. “You’re mine, Y/N. I won’t let that bastard—or anyone—near you again. You’ll quit if you have to. But you’re not leaving my sight.”

You hesitated, but his glare brooked no argument. Obediently, you helped pack—books, clothes, everything—while he dismantled your life here with efficient fury. By midnight, boxes filled his car. He carried you out last, bridal-style, flying you to his apartment high above the city—no more pretense.

Inside his place—sparse, masculine, with a view that screamed solitude—he didn’t wait. He pinned you to the bed, stripping you roughly. “Gonna breed you tonight,” he growled, eyes wild with possession. “Fill you up until you’re swollen with my child. Then no one can take you from me. You’ll be mine forever—body and soul.”

The words ignited something primal in you. His breeding kink surfaced in his rage—hands spreading your thighs wide, cock thrusting in deep without prep. It hurt, stretching you raw, but you arched into it, moaning. “Yes, Clark—breed me. Make me yours.”

He pounded relentlessly, one hand on your belly. “Gonna pump you full. Watch you grow round with my seed. No more distance. No more secrets.” Each thrust was brutal, hitting your cervix, pain lacing the pleasure. He bit your neck, marking over Lex’s bruise. “Come for me—milk my cock, take every drop.”

You shattered, clenching around him. He roared, flooding you deep—hot, endless pulses that overflowed. He didn’t pull out, plugging you with his length. “Stay like this. Let it take.”

Cradled in his arms, aching but claimed, you whispered, “Yours.”

“Forever,” he vowed, darkness fading to fierce protection.

The move to Clark’s apartment brought a fragile peace, but the shadows of Lex Luthor lingered like a storm cloud on the horizon. Clark’s breeding kink had become an obsession—every night he filled you relentlessly, whispering about the life he’d plant inside you, his hands possessive on your belly as if willing it to swell. You submitted eagerly, your body aching from his rough claims, but the pride in being his anchor kept you grounded. Work at the Daily Planet resumed under his watchful eye; he flew patrols as Superman more frequently, always circling back to check on you. Yet, something felt off. A prickle on the back of your neck, like invisible eyes boring into you.

It started subtly. Walking to lunch alone—Clark delayed by a story—you felt it: a gaze heavy as lead, tracking your every step. Your full hips swayed under your skirt, and you swore you heard footsteps echoing yours, only to turn and find empty streets. At the coffee shop (you avoided the one from before), a shiver ran down your spine as if someone watched from the shadows. Paranoia? Maybe. But that night, as Clark fucked you into the mattress—deep, grinding thrusts that made your petite frame bounce—you confessed the unease.

“It’s nothing,” he growled mid-thrust, one hand pinning your wrists above your head. “But if it’s Luthor…” His hips snapped harder, possessive fury fueling him. “I’ll end him.”

You came screaming his name, but the fear didn’t fade.

Days blurred. The stalking escalated—anonymous texts pinging your phone: You look divine today, Y/N. That ass from outer space. Blocked numbers, but they kept coming. Flowers delivered to your desk with no card, their scent cloying like Lex’s cologne. Clark sniffed them once and crushed the vase in his fist, shards embedding in his invulnerable skin. “His,” he snarled. “Stay inside. I’ll handle it.”

But you couldn’t hide forever. One evening, after a late shift—Clark called away by a “Superman emergency” (a suspiciously timed building collapse)—you headed to the parking garage alone. The lot was dimly lit, concrete echoing your heels. That prickle intensified—eyes on you, closer now. Your heart raced; you quickened your pace to your car.

A hand clamped over your mouth from behind. Chloroform-soaked cloth pressed to your nose. The world spun black.

You woke groggy, wrists zip-tied to the steering wheel of a nondescript van in a deserted corner of the same parking lot. The door slid open, and Lex Luthor stepped in, suit impeccable, eyes gleaming with madness.

“Finally alone,” he purred, closing the door. The van’s interior was soundproofed—your screams would go nowhere. “You’ve been avoiding me, Y/N. After our little kiss? Ungrateful.”

Panic surged. “Let me go—Clark will—”

“Kent? Or should I say Superman?” Lex laughed, a cold sound. He loomed over you, one hand trailing up your thigh, shoving your skirt higher. “I know his secret. And now, I’ll take what’s his.”

You struggled, but the ties bit into your skin. His fingers dug into your full hips, bruising. “Such a petite thing. Curvy where it counts—those hips, that ass… divine.” He forced your legs apart, ripping your panties aside. “I’ll make you forget him.”

“No—stop!” You thrashed, but he was relentless. His mouth crashed onto yours again, biting your already-bruised lip until fresh blood welled. One hand pinned your throat, squeezing just enough to dizzy you, while the other plunged between your thighs—fingers invading roughly, no care for your cries.

It hurt—dry, forceful probes that made you sob. He stroked himself free, positioning at your entrance. “Scream for me,” he whispered, thrusting in hard.

The assault was brutal—short, savage pumps that tore tears from your eyes. You dissociated, staring at the van’s ceiling as he grunted above you, his hands mauling your C-cup breasts through your blouse, twisting nipples until they burned. It ended quickly; he pulled out, spilling hot across your thighs and core—marking you externally, a twisted claim.

“Remember this,” he hissed, zipping up. “Tell your boy scout I said hello.” He cut the ties, shoved you out into the lot, and drove off, leaving you crumpled on the cold asphalt, skirt hiked, cum dripping down your legs, body aching from the violation.

Sobbing, you fixed your clothes as best you could and stumbled to your car. The drive home was a blur—fear, shame, pain twisting inside. Clark’s apartment loomed; you parked and staggered inside, legs weak.

He was waiting—pacing like a caged animal. The door barely shut before he was on you, nose flaring. “Y/N—what happened? I smell—”

His eyes widened, then narrowed to slits. Super-senses cataloged everything: the bruises on your wrists, the blood on your lip, the foreign scent clinging to your skin. Worst: the sticky trails between your thighs, Lex’s cum leaking out, mingling with your own unwilling arousal from the fear-adrenaline mix.

“Luthor,” he roared, voice shaking the walls. “He touched you? Fucked you? I smell his cum dripping out of what’s MINE!”

“Clark, please—it wasn’t my fault—he kidnapped me—”

“LIES!” His hand cracked across your face—a slap that stung like fire, leaving a red welt on your cheek. You stumbled back, tears flowing. He’d never hit you before; the betrayal cut deeper than the pain.

“How could you let him? After everything? You’re supposed to be OBEDIENT! MINE!” He screamed, face contorted in rage—Kryptonian fury unleashed. “You reek of him! His seed inside you—did you enjoy it? Is that why you didn’t fight harder?”

“No—Clark, I swear—”

He grabbed your arms, shaking you. “Shut up!” Then he shoved you toward the bedroom, stripping your clothes with rough yanks that tore seams. “I’ll erase him. Fuck him out of you until you remember who you belong to.”

Naked, trembling, you hit the bed. He was on you instantly—cock freed, slamming into your sore, assaulted core without mercy. It hurt—god, it hurt—stretching abused walls, every thrust a burning lance. You cried out, but he didn’t stop.

“Take it,” he snarled, hips pounding brutally. One hand choked your throat; the other gripped your hip so hard bones creaked. “This pussy is mine. I’ll breed you again—fill you until his filth is gone.”

The sex was violent—deep, punishing strokes that made your breasts bounce painfully, your ass slapping against him. He slapped your face again—lighter, but stinging—screaming, “Say you’re sorry! Say you’re mine!”

“I’m sorry—yours—only yours!” You sobbed, pain twisting into dark pleasure despite everything. Obedient to the end, you wrapped legs around him, taking the hurt proudly.

He came roaring—flooding you deep, superhuman volume overflowing. But he didn’t stop—flipped you over, took you from behind, slapping your ass red as he thrust harder. Hours blurred; your body screamed in agony, but you endured—for him.

By dawn, he collapsed, pulling you close. “Mine,” he whispered, rage spent, replaced by possessive regret. But the slap’s echo lingered.

The aftermath of the assault left you shattered—body bruised, spirit fractured. Clark’s rage that night had crossed lines: the slaps, the screams, the brutal sex that left you limping for days. He apologized in whispers afterward, cradling you like fragile glass, but the possessiveness only deepened. He barely let you out of sight now—flying you to and from work, his super-hearing tuned to your every breath. The breeding continued relentlessly; he’d pin you down multiple times a day, growling about filling you until you carried his child, his seed a barrier against the world.

Lex’s violation haunted you—nightmares of the van, his hands, his cum drying on your skin. Clark smelled it lingering in your scent for days, driving him to fuck you harder, as if to overwrite the trauma. But silence fell over Metropolis; no more texts, no more flowers. Until one night, a week later.

Clark burst into the apartment, eyes glowing red with heat vision barely contained. “Luthor’s holed up in his penthouse. I heard him—bragging on a encrypted line about what he did to you. He’s planning more.”

Terror gripped you. “Clark, no—call the authorities—”

“No.” His voice was steel. “This ends tonight. And you’re coming with me.”

“Wh-what?”

He scooped you up, super-speed blurring the world. Wind whipped your hair as he flew—Superman in full regalia now, cape billowing. You clung to him, heart pounding. LexCorp Tower loomed; Clark crashed through the penthouse window in a shower of glass.

Lex stood at his desk, unflinching, a smirk curling his lips. The room was opulent—marble floors, holographic displays flickering with data. Two guards rushed, but Clark dispatched them with casual backhands, bones crunching as they crumpled unconscious.

“Kal-El,” Lex drawled, using Superman’s Kryptonian name. “And you brought your little pet. How touching.”

Clark set you down gently but positioned you in view—making sure you could see everything. “She watches,” he said, voice low and lethal. “So she knows what happens to those who touch what’s mine.”

Lex laughed, pulling a glowing green vial from his pocket—Kryptonite serum, you realized. “You think you can—”

Clark moved like lightning. He grabbed Lex by the throat, lifting him off the ground one-handed. “You raped her. Marked her. I smelled your filth on her, in her.”

Lex choked, clawing at Clark’s arm. “She… enjoyed… it.”

Rage exploded. Clark slammed Lex into the wall—cracks spiderwebbing the marble. “Liar.” He punched—once, twice—Lex’s jaw shattering on the first, blood spraying. The second caved his cheekbone.

You flinched, but Clark’s eyes locked on yours. “Watch,” he commanded. Obedient, you did—tears streaming, but unable to look away.

Lex gurgled, green vial slipping from his fingers. Clark crushed it underfoot, ignoring the weakening glow. He tore Lex’s shirt open, exposing pale skin. “You touched her breasts? Her hips?” Clark’s fists rained down—ribs cracking like thunder, internal organs rupturing. Blood pooled on the floor.

Lex wheezed, defiant to the end. “She’ll… never… be safe…”

Clark’s heat vision flared—twin beams slicing across Lex’s chest, cauterizing wounds in agonizing precision. Lex screamed—high, broken. Then Clark grabbed his head, twisting with a sickening snap. Lex’s body went limp, neck broken. But Clark wasn’t done. He hurled the corpse through the holographic display, sparks flying, then pummeled it until unrecognizable—violent, primal, bones pulverized to dust.

Silence fell. Clark stood panting, covered in blood, eyes dimming. He turned to you—possessive fire still burning. “It’s over.”

You nodded, numb, as he flew you home—wind cleansing the horror.

Back in the apartment, he didn’t speak. Just stripped you slowly, his hands trembling with residual fury. “Need you,” he growled, pushing you onto the bed.

The sex was deep, hard—unyielding. He entered you in one thrust, no prep, your body still tender from everything. You gasped in pain, but he pinned your wrists, hips grinding deep. “Feel me. Only me.”

Each stroke was brutal—bottoming out, stretching you to your limits. Your petite frame jolted under his massive one, breasts bouncing painfully, hips aching from his grip. “Scream for me,” he demanded, thumb rubbing your clit roughly.

You did—screams tearing from your throat as pleasure-pain built. Tears flowed; you cried from the intensity, the depth hitting your cervix. “Clark—too much—please!”

“Beg,” he snarled, pace increasing—wet slaps echoing. “Beg for my cum. Beg to be bred.”

“Please—fill me! Breed me! Make me yours—ah!” You begged, sobbing, legs shaking around him.

He roared, flooding you—deep, hot pulses that overflowed. But he kept going, flipping you to your stomach, taking you from behind—harder, deeper. Your ass from outer space slapped against him; he spanked it red. You cried harder, begging for mercy, but clenched around him, obedient ecstasy crashing over you.

By the end, you were wrecked—screaming, crying, begging until your voice broke. He held you after, whispering “mine” like a mantra.

Weeks flashed forward. Morning sickness hit like a wave—nausea, fatigue. You bought a test on a whim, hands shaking as you peed on the stick.

Two lines. Pregnant.

Clark found you in the bathroom, staring at it. His eyes widened, then softened—possessive joy flooding his features. “Ours,” he whispered, hand on your belly. “Forever.”

You nodded, pride blooming amid the darkness. His.

Three years later – Smallville, Kansas

The farmhouse smelled of fresh coffee, hay, and the faint sweetness of baby powder that never quite left the air anymore. Sunlight poured through the kitchen windows in golden sheets, catching on the dust motes that danced above the worn oak table. Outside, the cornfields stretched endless and green under a wide Kansas sky—the same sky Clark had grown up under, the same sky that had once felt too small for him.

Now it felt exactly right.

You stood at the stove, stirring oatmeal, one hand resting instinctively on the gentle swell of your second pregnancy. This one had come easier—planned, celebrated, no shadows hanging over the conception. Clark had cried the night you told him, silent tears while he kissed every inch of your belly like it was sacred ground. He still fucked you deep and hard when the mood struck—possessive, claiming—but the violence was gone. Replaced by something fiercer: devotion.

A small voice piped up from the floor.

“Mommy, Daddy’s flying again.”

You turned. Your son—Jonah Kent, two and a half, already too smart for his own good—sat cross-legged on the rug, clutching a stuffed Superman cape. His dark curls were Clark’s; his curious blue eyes were yours. He pointed toward the open back door where, sure enough, Clark hovered a few feet off the ground, gently rocking a tire swing he’d hung from the old oak earlier that week.

Clark caught your gaze and smiled—soft, unguarded, the kind of smile he only gave when no one else was watching. He floated down, boots touching grass without a sound, and scooped Jonah up in one fluid motion.

“Morning, trouble,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the boy’s forehead. Jonah squealed and wrapped tiny arms around his neck.

“Up! Up high!”

Clark obliged, lifting him until Jonah’s laughter rang across the yard like bells.

You watched them from the doorway, heart so full it ached. The memories still came sometimes—uninvited, sharp. Lex’s final scream. The crack of bone. The metallic taste of fear in that van. Clark’s hand connecting with your cheek, the rage in his eyes, the way you’d begged through tears while he took you apart on the floor. The nights you’d woken gasping, convinced you could still smell blood and burning flesh.

Therapy helped. Twice a week, a quiet office in Metropolis where you both sat on opposite ends of a couch and spoke truths you’d once buried. Clark never missed a session. He listened when you described the nightmares; he held your hand when you admitted the part of you that still flinched at sudden movements. He apologized—again and again—not for protecting you, but for the way he’d done it. For the slap. For the screaming. For turning your pain into punishment.

You forgave him. Not because it was easy, but because you chose to. Every day. The same way he chose to come home instead of disappearing into the sky when the guilt threatened to swallow him.

He set Jonah down now and crossed the yard to you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His chin rested on your shoulder; one hand splayed protectively over the small bump.

“How’re my girls?” he asked softly.

“Active,” you answered, leaning back into him. “She’s been kicking like she wants out already.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through your back. “Takes after her mother. Stubborn.”

You elbowed him lightly. “Takes after her father. Dramatic.”

Jonah toddled over, tugging at Clark’s jeans. “Daddy, swing!”

Clark kissed your temple, then lifted Jonah again. “One more loop, then breakfast.”

You watched them rise—slowly this time, gentle, letting Jonah feel the wind without fear. Clark’s cape fluttered behind him like a promise: I’m here. I’m staying. I’m safe.

Later, after oatmeal and spilled milk and bath-time chaos, you found Clark in the nursery. Jonah was asleep in his crib, thumb in mouth, Superman plush tucked under one arm. Clark stood at the window, staring out at the fields, lost in thought.

You slipped your arms around him from behind.

“Penny for them?” you murmured.

He covered your hands with his. “I was thinking… about how close I came to losing this. All of it.”

You pressed your cheek to his back. “You didn’t.”

“I almost did.” His voice was quiet, raw. “The night I killed him. The night I hurt you. I keep waiting for the day you look at me and see the monster instead of the man.”

You turned him gently until he faced you. His eyes were glassy, haunted.

“I see both,” you said honestly. “The monster who tore a man apart to protect me. The man who rebuilt himself every single day since. The father who reads bedtime stories in a silly voice. The husband who holds me when I cry about things I can’t name.”

You rose on tiptoe and kissed him—slow, deep, the way you used to before the world tried to break you both.

“I choose you,” you whispered against his lips. “Every version. Every day.”

Clark’s arms tightened around you. He buried his face in your hair and breathed you in—like he still needed to remind himself you were real, you were here, you were his by choice.

“I love you,” he said, voice thick. “More than I know how to say.”

“I know.” You smiled against his chest. “I feel it.”

Outside, the Kansas sun dipped low, painting the fields in fire and gold. Inside, a family—scarred, imperfect, whole—held each other in the quiet.

No more shadows.

Just light

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Word Count : 12151

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Hope you enjoyed <3

my Ao3 Account linked below <3

https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallowedMoss/works

[hallowedmoss]

Let me know if you like this fic <3 I read on tumblr all the time ,I decided to post both here and ao3 same user ❤️

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Voting ended onFeb 13

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Summary ; In Smallville High during their senior year, 18-year-old new girl Y/N arrives: a sweet, slightly airheaded, endlessly kind plus-size omega who dresses in pastels, knee-high socks, and carries homemade cookies everywhere. Her natural scent—warm vanilla, honey, and lavender—is intoxicating, especially to Clark Kent. His Kryptonian alpha biology instantly recognizes her as his true mate, awakening a fierce yandere obsession. He begins shadowing her, sabotaging rivals, and battling dark, possessive thoughts whenever she’s near.

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Alpha/Omega

Dark Clark Kent

NO MINORS

characters 18+

Teenage Lex Luthor

Plus Sized Reader

Smut Smut Smut

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(I don’t condone yandere in like an actual reality sense, but if your into it for fictional purposes I’m not here to judge you, long live kinky lives)

Mwah mwah

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Chapter One; The Girl In Pastel Pink

Smallville High smelled like chalk dust, teenage sweat, and the faint metallic tang of meteor rock that no one ever talked about out loud. On your very first Monday, you stepped through the double doors wearing your favorite outfit: a soft baby-pink cardigan over a cream blouse with tiny embroidered daisies, a high-waisted pleated skirt in pale lavender that swished around your thick thighs, and white knee-high socks with little satin bows at the tops. Your plus-size figure filled the clothes in a way that felt cozy and cute to you—like a walking marshmallow someone had decided to dress up for spring. You clutched your pastel backpack (also pink, with a fluffy pom-pom keychain shaped like a bunny) and smiled at literally everyone who made eye contact.

You were new. You were kind. You were oblivious in the most endearing way.

Within ten minutes of homeroom, three different people had already offered to show you around. Pete Ross carried your books for half a hallway before you thanked him with a homemade sugar cookie from the tin in your bag (“I baked them last night because moving stress makes me want to feed people!”). Chloe Sullivan cornered you at your locker with a notepad and that bright, curious grin, asking rapid-fire questions about where you came from and whether you’d noticed anything “weird” in Smallville yet. Lana Lang stopped you in the cafeteria line just to say, “Your outfit is adorable—I love the socks,” and you beamed so hard your cheeks hurt, because compliments felt like little hugs.

Everyone was enamored.

Everyone except one person, who was something far more dangerous than enamored.

Clark Kent noticed you the second your scent drifted past him in the crowded hallway.

He’d been leaning against his locker, half-listening to Pete ramble about the upcoming football game, when it hit him—like stepping into an orchard at peak ripeness. Vanilla. Warm honey. Fresh lavender fields after rain. And underneath it all, something richer, softer, unmistakably omega. Even through the faint chemical veil of your suppressants, it was devastating.

His Kryptonian senses—already sharper than any human’s—latched onto it and refused to let go.

Clark’s hand tightened around the strap of his backpack until the fabric groaned. His pupils blew wide. His pulse thundered in his ears, louder than the bell. He’d always known he was different. The meteor shower that brought him to Earth had changed more than just his strength and speed; it had awakened something ancient in his biology. Kryptonian alphas didn’t court. They claimed. Once the mating scent locked in, reason became optional. And your scent? It wasn’t just appealing.

It was designed for him. Tailor-made by whatever cruel cosmic joke decided soulmates were real.

He watched you from across the hall as you giggled at something Chloe said, your soft curves shifting under pastel fabric, one knee-high sock slipping just a little down your calf before you absentmindedly tugged it back up. You looked like a cupcake someone had set loose in a high school. Innocent. Sweet. Completely unaware of the predator now tracking your every movement.

Clark swallowed hard. His jaw clenched so tight he could hear his own teeth grind.

Mine.

The word wasn’t a thought—it was instinct. A growl building in his chest that he barely managed to swallow.

By lunch he was sitting at his usual table, but his eyes never left you. You’d chosen a spot near the windows, surrounded by a small, ever-growing circle of admirers. A junior alpha from the wrestling team slid you an extra apple. Whitney Fordman—Lana’s boyfriend—leaned over to ask if you needed help with trig homework. Even Lex Luthor, who rarely deigned to eat in the cafeteria, had appeared at the edge of the room, arms crossed, watching you with that cool, calculating stare that made most people uncomfortable.

Clark hated them all.

He hated the way they looked at your smile.

He hated the way their nostrils flared when a fresh wave of your scent slipped past your fading suppressants.

He hated that they thought they had any right to be near you.

His fork bent in his hand. He didn’t even notice until Pete nudged him.

“Dude. You okay? You look like you’re about to hulk out.”

Clark forced a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”

He wasn’t fine.

That afternoon, during last-period study hall, he made his move.

You were in the library, humming softly to yourself as you shelved returned books for extra credit. The pastel cardigan was gone now, sleeves of your blouse pushed up to your elbows, revealing soft, rounded arms. A few strands of hair had escaped your ponytail and were brushing your cheeks. You looked… edible.

Clark appeared at the end of the aisle like he’d materialized there.

You jumped a little, then laughed at yourself. “Oh! Hi. You’re… Clark, right? The farm boy everyone says is secretly Superman or something.”

He blinked. “People say that?”

“Only the fun ones.” You grinned, loopy and bright. “I’m Y/N. I just moved here. Do you need a book? I’m basically the librarian’s new best friend.”

He stepped closer. Too close. Your scent wrapped around him like silk ropes. His voice came out rougher than he intended. “I was actually looking for you.”

Your brows lifted. “Me?”

“You’re new. I figured… maybe you could use a friend who knows the town.” His eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second before flicking back up. “Someone who can make sure you don’t get lost. Or… bothered.”

You tilted your head, completely missing the undercurrent of possession in his tone. “That’s so sweet! Everyone here is already so nice. But I’d love a tour sometime. Especially if it includes cows. I’ve never pet a real cow.”

Clark’s lips twitched. The image of you in a pastel skirt, knee-highs, and cow-print accessories, cooing at baby calves, should have been ridiculous.

Instead it made heat coil low in his gut.

“I can do cows,” he said quietly. “And anything else you want.”

You beamed, oblivious to the way his gaze had darkened, the way his fingers flexed like he was already imagining how your soft waist would feel under his palms.

“Deal!” you chirped, turning back to the cart. “Oh—do you like cookies? I have extras in my bag. Peanut butter chocolate chip. They’re basically hugs in food form.”

Clark watched your back as you bent slightly to reach a lower shelf, skirt riding up just enough to show another inch of thigh above the sock. His breath hitched.

“Yeah,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “I like sweet things.”

He stayed until the bell rang, shadowing you through the stacks without ever being obvious about it. When you finally left, waving goodbye with that sunny little wiggle of your fingers, he didn’t follow immediately.

He waited.

Then he used a fraction of his speed to slip outside and watch you walk down the sidewalk toward your aunt’s house—skirt swaying, ponytail bouncing, humming some cartoon theme song under your breath.

No one else was allowed to have that view.

No one else was allowed to hear that hum.

And no one-no one-was ever going to take that scent away from him.

Clark Kent, the good farm boy, the boy scout, the hero everyone thought they knew…

was already planning how to make sure you never left his side.

You were halfway down the cracked sidewalk that led off campus when you realized you’d left your favorite pen behind—the one with the little fluffy pom-pom on top that matched your bunny keychain. It was silly, but that pen made your notes feel less like homework and more like doodling in a diary. You turned on your heel, skirt flaring out a little, and started jogging back toward the school doors.

That’s when you almost ran straight into Clark.

He was just… standing there. Hands in his pockets, backpack slung over one shoulder like he hadn’t moved an inch since the bell rang. Like he’d been waiting.

“Oh—sorry!” you squeaked, stumbling to a stop. Your hands flew up automatically, palms out like you were calming a startled horse. “I didn’t see you there. Wow, you’re quiet for someone so tall.”

Clark’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t his usual easy farm-boy smile. This one felt slower. Hungrier. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t! I scare easy. Like, I once jumped because a leaf blew across my shoe.” You laughed at yourself, the sound bright and a little breathless. “I just forgot my pen. It’s got this tiny bunny on it. I’m weird about my pens.”

“I noticed.” He tilted his head toward the building. “Want me to walk you back in? Hallways get kinda crowded right after last bell.”

You blinked up at him. He really was tall. Like, unfairly tall. And his eyes—god, they were so blue it almost hurt to look straight at them. But there was something else there too. Something that made your stomach do a funny little flip, like when you stand up too fast after lying in the sun.

“Sure,” you said softly. “That’d be nice.”

He fell into step beside you without another word. Not too close, but close enough that you could smell him—clean cotton, warm earth, and something sharper underneath, like ozone right before a storm. It made your head feel fuzzy in a good way. You didn’t know why.

Inside, the halls had mostly emptied out. Just a few stragglers, lockers slamming in the distance. Your bunny pen was right where you’d left it, tucked under a stack of returned library books on the front counter. You snatched it up with a triumphant little “Yes!” and spun around to show Clark.

“Rescue mission accomplished,” you announced, holding it up like a trophy. The pom-pom bounced happily.

He didn’t laugh. He just watched you. Really watched. Like he was memorizing the way your fingers curled around the pen, the way your cheeks went pink when you caught him staring.

“You’re always this happy?” he asked quietly.

You shrugged, suddenly shy. “I try to be. Being grumpy takes too much energy. Plus, smiles are free. Why not use them?”

Clark took one slow step closer. Then another. Until the space between you felt charged, like the air right before lightning.

“I like that about you,” he said. His voice had dropped lower, rougher around the edges. “You smell like… sugar. And flowers. And something I can’t stop thinking about.”

Your heart did a clumsy somersault. Heat crawled up your neck. “Oh. Um. That’s probably just my shampoo. Or maybe the cookies I keep in my bag. They get everywhere.”

He didn’t smile. He just kept looking at you like you were the only thing in the whole building worth seeing.

“No,” he murmured. “It’s you.”

You swallowed. Your suppressants were supposed to keep things neutral, but standing this close to him, you could feel them slipping. A tiny thread of your real scent—warm vanilla, ripe honey, that soft lavender edge—slid into the air. You saw his nostrils flare. Saw his pupils swallow the blue of his irises until they were almost black.

You should’ve stepped back.

You didn’t.

Instead you tilted your head, curious. “Do I… smell bad?”

Clark let out a short, shaky laugh that didn’t sound amused at all. “Bad?” He shook his head once, slow. “You smell like everything I’ve ever wanted and never knew I was missing.”

Your mouth went dry. No one had ever said anything like that to you. Not even close.

“I—I should probably head home,” you whispered. “My aunt gets worried if I’m late.”

Clark nodded, but he didn’t move out of your way right away. For a second you thought he might reach out—touch your cheek, your hair, anything. His hand twitched at his side like he was fighting himself.

Then he stepped aside.

“I’ll walk you to the edge of the parking lot,” he said. Not a question.

You nodded because saying no felt impossible.

Outside, the late-afternoon sun painted everything gold. You walked side by side again, your knee-high socks whispering against each other with every step. Clark kept his pace slow, matching yours even though you knew he could’ve lapped the block in seconds if he wanted to.

When you reached the corner where the sidewalk split—one way to your aunt’s little yellow house, the other toward the Kent farm—he stopped.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Meet me by the front doors after first period? I’ll show you where the good vending machine is. The one that doesn’t eat your quarters.”

You laughed, soft and surprised. “Okay. Deal.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Too long. Like he was trying to burn the picture of you into his brain.

“See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

“See you, Clark.”

You gave him a little wave—fingers wiggling like always—and turned toward home, skirt swishing, bunny keychain jingling.

Behind you, Clark didn’t move.

He stood there until you disappeared around the bend.

Then he exhaled, slow and ragged, like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

His fingers flexed. Opened. Closed.

He could still taste your scent on the back of his tongue.

And he already knew he wasn’t going to let anyone else get close enough to smell it.

Not ever.

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Chapter Two. : Shadows in the Loft

Chapter Text

Clark slammed the barn door behind him harder than he meant to. The whole structure rattled, dust kicking up from the hay bales like ghosts disturbed from sleep. He didn’t care. His heart was pounding—not from the jog home, which barely winded him these days, but from her. Y/N. That name kept looping in his head like a broken record, sweet and sticky.

He climbed the rickety stairs to his loft two at a time, the space that was supposed to be his sanctuary. Telescope by the window, old couch sagging in the corner, stacks of books on astronomy and history that he’d read a dozen times. But tonight, it felt too small. Too quiet. He paced the creaky floorboards, fingers raking through his dark hair, pulling until it hurt.

Who is she? Where’d she come from? Why does she smell like that?

He dropped onto the couch, yanked his laptop open— the one his parents got him for “schoolwork.” Yeah, right. His hands shook as he typed her name into the search bar: Y/N L/N, Smallville. Nothing popped up at first. Just some random profiles from other states. He narrowed it: Y/N L/N + [her city she mentioned in passing during library chat]. Bingo. A couple old social media hits from her old school. Photos of her at a bake sale, arms full of cupcakes, that same sunny smile. Another one from a volunteer event, her in a volunteer tee that hugged her curves, knee-high socks peeking out under jeans. God, those socks.

He scrolled faster, breath coming in short bursts. Her aunt’s address pulled from a public directory—easy enough with a quick cross-reference. Family stuff: parents in some corporate job that dragged them overseas, leaving her here for stability. No siblings. Likes: baking, cartoons, pastel aesthetics (her old Instagram was a riot of pinks and blues, captions full of emojis and loopy rambles about “why clouds look like cotton candy”). Dislikes: Probably nothing, from the looks of it. She seemed too kind for grudges.

But it wasn’t enough. He needed more. Everything. What made her laugh like that? What scared her? Who’d she talk to late at night? His mind flashed to her walking home alone, skirt swaying, those thick thighs brushing together under the fabric. He groaned, shifting uncomfortably as heat pooled low in his gut. Stop. Focus.

He slammed the laptop shut, stood up, stared out the window at the darkening fields. His reflection stared back—eyes too bright, almost glowing. Kryptonian. Alien. The word tasted bitter. But that scent… it had to be fate. Mates. He’d read about it in those old books on dynamics, how alphas like him—rare, powerful—locked onto omegas with a ferocity that could break worlds.

“I think I’ve found her,” he muttered to the empty loft. “My mate.”

Downstairs, the kitchen light was on. Martha was at the sink, washing dishes from dinner. Jonathan sat at the table, nursing a coffee, flipping through a farm catalog like it held the secrets to the universe. Clark burst in, door swinging wide.

“Mom. Dad. We need to talk.”

Martha turned, drying her hands on a towel, her face softening the way it always did when she saw that look in his eyes. “Clark? Honey, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Jonathan set the catalog down, chair scraping back. “Son?”

Clark paced the linoleum, words tumbling out. “There’s this girl. New at school. Y/N. She’s… omega. And her scent—it’s like nothing else. It’s driving me insane. I can’t stop thinking about her. Protecting her. Claiming her.” He stopped, face heating. “I think she’s my mate. Like, the real deal. Kryptonian level.”

Martha exchanged a glance with Jonathan, her hand going to her mouth. “Oh, Clark…”

Jonathan leaned forward, voice steady but concerned. “Slow down. You’ve known her what, a day? Dynamics are strong, sure, but you’re not just any alpha. Your heritage—it complicates things. You can’t just—”

“I know!” Clark snapped, then winced. “Sorry. But Dad, you don’t get it. When I’m near her, it’s like my powers amp up. Everything’s sharper. And the way she smells… mouthwatering. Like she’s mine. Only mine.” His fists clenched. “Other alphas are already circling. I won’t let them.”

Martha stepped closer, pulling him into a hug. He towered over her, but let himself lean in. “We’ll figure this out,” she whispered. “But promise me you’ll be careful. She’s human, Clark. Innocent, from what you say. Don’t scare her.”

Jonathan nodded, gruff. “And talk to us before you do anything rash. You’re strong, son. Too strong sometimes.”

Clark pulled back, nodding. But inside, the alpha snarled. Rash? This is destiny.

The next morning hit like a freight train. Clark was up before dawn, chores done in a blur of super speed. He showered twice, trying to scrub away the restlessness, but his mind kept drifting. To her. In pastels. Smiling. Bent over that library cart, ass curving just right under that skirt. Fuck. He gripped the sink, staring at his fogged reflection. Get it together. She’s innocent. Loopy. Adorable. But that only made it worse. Made him want to wrap her up, hide her away, bury his face in her neck and breathe until the world faded.

He got to school early, leaning against the front steps like it was casual. Heart hammering. When she appeared around the corner—pastel blue sweater today, skirt hugging her hips, knee-highs in soft gray with tiny hearts—his mouth went dry.

“Hey!” she called, waving that wiggly-fingered wave. Her backpack bounced, bunny keychain jingling. “You weren’t kidding about being early.”

God, look at her. Those curves. I could lift her so easy, pin her against the wall, feel her softness give under my hands. He swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Couldn’t sleep. Ready for that vending machine tour?”

She giggled, falling into step beside him as they headed toward the side entrance. “Lead the way, tour guide. Oh—did you know vending machines kill more people than sharks? Random fact. My brain’s full of them.”

He chuckled, but his eyes dropped to her legs, the way the socks hugged her calves. Imagine peeling those off slow, kissing up her thighs, tasting that scent right at the source. Heat surged through him. He shifted his backpack to hide the evidence. Focus, Kent.

They walked close, her arm brushing his once or twice. Each time, sparks. Her scent teased him—stronger today, suppressants maybe wearing thin. Vanilla-honey-lavender heaven. Mine. All mine. I’d kill for this.

“So,” she said, tilting her head up at him. “Tell me about you. Farm life? Cows? Do you have a favorite?”

Favorite? You. Spread out on hay bales, moaning my name. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Bessie’s the best. You’d like her—gentle giant.”

She beamed. “I wanna meet her! Pets are the best therapy.”

I’d be your everything. Therapist. Protector. Alpha. His hand itched to grab hers, but he shoved it in his pocket. “Anytime.”

They rounded the corner to the vending machine alcove, tucked away from the main halls. Quiet. Private. Perfect spot to push her against the wall, claim that pretty mouth. He shook the thought off, feeding quarters in for her. “What’ll it be? My treat.”

“Chocolate bar? The one with nuts.” She leaned in close to peer at the options, her shoulder against his arm. Soft. Warm. Fuck, she’s killing me.

He handed it over, fingers brushing hers. Lingered a second too long. Her cheeks pinked up. Cute.

Then, from down the hall: “Y/N?”

They both turned. Lex Luthor, sleek in his designer coat, bald head gleaming under the fluorescents, striding toward them like he owned the place. Which, knowing his family, he kinda did.

“Lex?” Y/N’s face lit up. “Hey! I didn’t know you went here.”

He smirked, ignoring Clark completely. “Auditing a few classes. Keeps things interesting.” His eyes raked over her—subtle, but Clark saw it. The appreciation. The hunger. “You settling in? If you need a ride sometime, my car’s got more legroom than the bus.”

She laughed, loopy and oblivious. “That’s sweet! But I like walking. Fresh air and all.”

Lex stepped closer. Too close. “Offer stands. We could grab coffee after school. Talon? My treat.”

Clark’s blood boiled. Back off. She’s mine. His jaw locked, fists balling at his sides. He could snap Lex like a twig—powers or no. The alpha in him roared, vision tinting red.

Y/N glanced between them, sensing the tension but not understanding it. “Um…”

“I think she’s good,” Clark cut in, voice low and edged. He slung an arm around her shoulders—possessive, casual-like. “We’ve got plans.”

Lex’s eyes narrowed, but he smiled that snake smile. “Of course. See you around, Y/N.” He nodded at Clark. “Kent.”

As Lex walked away, Clark’s arm tightened. Touch her and you’re dead.

Y/N looked up at him, brows furrowed. “You okay? You seem… tense.”

He forced a grin, dropping his arm but staying close. “Yeah. Just hate vending machines sometimes.”

She giggled. “Silly.”

But inside, Clark seethed. Lex wanted her. Fine. Game on.

(Time Skip To the Next Day)

The morning dragged like molasses. Clark barely heard a word in first period English—something about The Great Gatsby and unattainable dreams. Ironic. His eyes kept drifting to the door, waiting for the hallway bell so he could catch another glimpse of her. When it finally rang, he was out of his seat before the teacher finished dismissing them.

He spotted her almost immediately in the crowded corridor. Today she’d gone with a soft mint-green sweater that clung just enough to show off the gentle swell of her chest and hips, paired with a white pleated skirt and those damn knee-high socks in pale lavender with tiny embroidered daisies. The socks hugged her thick calves perfectly, the fabric stretching a little as she walked. Every step made her thighs brush together under the skirt. Fuck. I could drop to my knees right here, shove that skirt up, bury my face between those soft legs and lick until she’s sobbing my name. He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached, forcing himself to breathe slow. Not yet. She’s too sweet for that. Too innocent. But god, I want to ruin her.

She waved when she saw him, that little finger-wiggle thing that made his chest tighten. “Hey! Vending machine hero returns.”

He managed a grin. “Couldn’t stay away.”

They fell into step toward journalism class—English lit was over, next was the period where Chloe ran the Torch like her personal empire. Y/N had mentioned signing up as a “maybe editor” yesterday, all bubbly about “helping tell stories and making things pretty with layouts.” Clark had nearly growled at the thought of her spending extra time in that cramped office with Chloe. And now Lex was sniffing around too.

Speaking of—

In the classroom doorway, Lex was already there, leaning against a desk like he owned it (which, money-wise, he basically did). He straightened when Y/N walked in, that polished smile sliding into place.

“Y/N. Perfect timing.” Lex gestured to the seat next to him. “Saved you a spot. Thought we could compare notes on that meteor rock article Chloe’s obsessed with.”

Y/N blinked, surprised but delighted. “Oh! Sure, that sounds fun. I don’t know much about them yet, but they’re kinda spooky-cool, right?”

She slid into the chair, skirt riding up just a fraction on her thighs as she crossed her legs. Clark, stuck in the back row because he’d arrived late (on purpose, to watch her enter), felt his vision narrow. He’s too close. Way too fucking close. I can hear his heartbeat—calm, cocky. He thinks he can charm her. Buy her coffee. Touch her. His hands fisted under the desk until the wood creaked. I could snap his neck before he blinks. Or just stare him down until he pisses himself. She’s mine. Mine to protect. Mine to fuck. Mine to keep.

Lex leaned in during the lecture, murmuring something that made her laugh—soft, loopy, the sound hitting Clark like a punch. What the hell did he say? What’s so funny? I’ll make her laugh harder. I’ll make her scream. Clark’s mind spiraled darker: visions of pinning her to the Torch desk after hours, her pastel sweater shoved up, skirt bunched around her waist, those knee-highs still on while he thrusts deep, claiming every inch until her scent is soaked in him. She’d be so wet. So tight. Begging. And Lex would never get to hear that sound.

Class ended too slow. Y/N gathered her things, chatting with Lex about deadlines. Clark was on his feet in a flash, blocking the aisle without making it obvious.

“Torch meeting after school?” he asked her, voice casual. Too casual.

She beamed up at him. “Yep! Chloe asked if I’d help with editing. Like, proofing and making the pages look cute. She said I have an eye for it.”

Lex raised an eyebrow. “Impressive. The Torch could use some… softening. Less conspiracy, more heart.”

Clark shot him a look that could’ve melted steel. Lex just smirked back.

“I’ll walk you there,” Clark said to Y/N, arm brushing hers as they left the room. Lex lingered behind, watching.

The Torch office was its usual chaos: walls plastered with old headlines, files everywhere, Chloe at the computer like a general at war. When Y/N stepped in, Chloe’s face lit up.

“Y/N! You came! Okay, first things first—sit.” She patted the chair next to her desk. “We’re revamping the layout. Your pastel vibes are perfect for making this place less… murder-mystery chic.”

Y/N giggled, dropping her bag and perching on the edge of the seat. Her skirt flared out, socks peeking under the desk. Clark leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, pretending to read a printout.

Chloe scooted closer, bumping shoulders. “You know, you’re kinda distracting in the best way. That sweater? Adorable. And those socks—obsessed.” She reached out, playfully tugging the top of one sock. “Mind if I borrow the style sometime? We could do a whole ‘school spirit with flair’ spread.”

Y/N flushed pink, laughing. “Borrow away! I have like fifty pairs. We could do a photo thing if you want.”

Chloe’s grin turned flirty, eyes sparkling. “Deal. You model, I shoot. It’ll be fun.”

Clark’s blood roared. She’s touching her. Flirting. Right in front of me. His thoughts turned vicious: I should drag Y/N out of here. Bend her over that filing cabinet. Fuck her until she forgets Chloe’s name. Until the only thing she can say is ‘alpha’ and ‘please.’ Her slick dripping down those thighs, soaking those pretty socks. He shifted, hiding the growing hardness in his jeans. Mine. Not Chloe’s. Not Lex’s. Mine to breed. To mark. To keep locked in the loft where no one else can see.

Y/N glanced over, catching his eye. “Clark? You okay? You look… intense.”

He forced a smile. “Just thinking about headlines.”

Chloe snorted. “Sure, farm boy. You’re brooding harder than usual.”

Lex appeared in the doorway then, coffee cup in hand like he’d manifested it. “Thought the Torch crew might need caffeine. Y/N—extra cream and sugar, right? You mentioned it yesterday.”

She lit up. “You remembered! Thank you!”

Clark’s vision edged red. He’s buying her affection. Playing nice. I’ll rip that cup out of his hand and shove it down his throat.

The room felt smaller. Hotter. The alpha in him paced, snarling.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

The Torch office smelled like stale coffee, printer ink, and that faint, musty tang of old newspapers stacked in corners like forgotten secrets. Chloe had cranked the ancient fan in the window to combat the stuffy Kansas heat creeping in from outside, but it only succeeded in rattling papers around the cluttered desks and making the fluorescent lights buzz a little louder. Y/N sat perched on the edge of a rickety chair next to Chloe’s main workstation, her pastel mint-green sweater sleeves pushed up to her elbows, revealing the soft, rounded curves of her arms dusted with a few faint freckles. Her white pleated skirt had hiked up just a tad from crossing and uncrossing her legs, exposing more of those lavender knee-high socks with their delicate daisy embroidery. She absentmindedly twirled a strand of hair around her finger, her loopy mind wandering as she scanned the mock-up layout on the computer screen—a front-page spread about the latest “meteor freak” sighting that Chloe was convinced was tied to LuthorCorp experiments.

“This part here,” Chloe said, leaning in close enough that her shoulder brushed Y/N’s, her voice animated and a touch flirty as always. She pointed at the screen with a chewed-up pen cap. “We need to soften it up. Your vibe is perfect for this—make it less ‘doom and gloom’ and more ‘intriguing mystery with a side of hope.’ Like, add some pastel borders or something? What do you think?”

Y/N tilted her head, her big eyes lighting up with that innocent enthusiasm that made everyone in the room want to protect her—or, in some cases, claim her. “Ooh, yes! Like a soft gradient fade from blue to pink around the edges? And maybe some cute icons, like little question marks with hearts? It’d make it feel less scary and more… inviting. Stories should hug you, not punch you, right?”

Chloe laughed, a warm, genuine sound that echoed off the corkboard walls pinned with red-string conspiracy maps. She bumped Y/N’s knee with her own under the desk, lingering just a second too long. “Exactly. You’re a natural at this. We should team up more—after hours, maybe? Grab some takeout, brainstorm layouts. You bring the cookies, I’ll bring the caffeine.”

Y/N giggled, her cheeks flushing a soft pink that matched the pom-pom on her forgotten pen from yesterday. She didn’t catch the subtle flirtation in Chloe’s tone, the way her eyes lingered on Y/N’s lips or the curve of her neck. To Y/N, it was just friendly fun, like everything else in her slightly loopy world. “That sounds amazing! I have this recipe for lemon bars with rainbow sprinkles—total mood boosters.”

From his spot leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, Clark watched the exchange like a hawk. His blue eyes darkened, jaw ticking subtly as Chloe’s hand brushed Y/N’s arm while reaching for the mouse. Touch her again, Sullivan, and I’ll make sure you never type another word. His mind raced with filthier thoughts, unbidden and vicious: Y/N on that desk, legs spread wide, skirt flipped up. I’d fuck her right here, make Chloe watch until she understands—she’s mine. Those soft thighs quivering, her slick soaking the papers, begging for my knot while I breed her full. He shifted his weight, jeans suddenly too tight, his alpha pheromones leaking out despite his best efforts—earthy, dominant, laced with that Kryptonian edge like thunder rolling in. He could smell Y/N’s scent responding faintly, even through her suppressants: vanilla deepening, honey ripening. God, she’d take it so well. Innocent little omega, all curves and sweetness. I’d ruin her for anyone else.

Lex, ever the opportunist, sipped his coffee from the doorway opposite Clark, his bald head catching the light as he observed the room with that cool, calculating gaze. He’d positioned himself strategically, close enough to Y/N’s desk to interject without seeming pushy. “The layout’s coming along,” he said smoothly, setting his cup down on a nearby file cabinet. His voice was polished, like expensive leather—rich, inviting, with just a hint of command. “But if we’re going for ‘inviting,’ maybe tone down the conspiracy angle. Focus on the human element. People like stories they can relate to.”

Chloe rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Says the guy whose family is half the conspiracy. But fine, Mr. Luthor—notes taken.”

Y/N turned to Lex, her smile bright and oblivious to the undercurrents swirling around her. “That’s a good point! Like, add quotes from locals? Make it feel personal?”

Lex’s lips curved into a genuine smile—rare for him—as he leaned against her desk, his arm brushing the edge of her sweater. “Exactly. You’ve got an eye for empathy, Y/N. It’s refreshing.” He paused, his green eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach flutter, though she couldn’t quite place why. “Speaking of personal… how about we discuss it more over coffee? Tomorrow after school, at the Talon. My treat. We can brainstorm ideas for the next issue.”

The room went still for a beat. Chloe raised an eyebrow, half-amused, half-protective. Clark’s fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood if he weren’t invulnerable. No. Fuck no. You don’t get to take her anywhere. His inner alpha snarled, visions flashing: Lex’s smug face as I crush his windpipe. Y/N under me instead, her plus-size body bouncing as I pound into her, claiming her heat until she’s swollen with my pups. She’d forget his name in seconds.

Y/N blinked, surprised but flattered, her loopy mind spinning with the kindness of the offer. “Oh! That sounds nice. I love the Talon—their lattes are like hugs in a cup. Sure, yes! Tomorrow after school?”

Lex’s smile widened, triumphant. “Perfect. I’ll meet you by the front doors.”

As the meeting wrapped up—Chloe assigning tasks, Y/N doodling cute borders on a notepad—Clark slipped out first, his mind a storm. He couldn’t let this happen. Not Lex. Not anyone.

The next day dragged like an eternity for Clark. He barely slept, tossing in his loft bed, haunted by dreams of Y/N’s scent blooming under his touch, her body arching as he knotted her. School was a blur: classes where he stared at the back of her head, inhaling her fading suppressants like a drug; hallways where he “accidentally” bumped into her, arm lingering on her waist a second too long; lunch where he sat across from her, watching her nibble on a peanut butter sandwich with sprinkles (god, even her food was adorable). His thoughts were a constant filth: Look at her lips around that straw. I’d make her suck something else. On her knees, those knee-highs dirty from the floor, taking my cock until tears run down her cheeks. By the final bell, he was a powder keg.

He watched from the shadows of the parking lot as Y/N met Lex by the front doors. She was in pastel yellow today—a soft sundress that hugged her curves, the fabric swaying around her thick hips and thighs, paired with white knee-high socks dotted with tiny bees. Adorable. Mouthwatering. Lex offered his arm like a gentleman, leading her toward his sleek black Porsche parked curbside. “Shall we?” he said, opening the door for her.

Y/N slid in with a giggle. “This car is fancy! Like something from a spy movie.”

Lex chuckled, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Perks of the family business. Buckle up.”

Clark followed on foot—at super speed when needed, ducking behind trees and buildings to stay hidden. His heart hammered, alpha instincts in overdrive. He’s driving too close to her. If he touches her leg, I’ll rip the door off. He arrived at the Talon just as they did, slipping inside through the back entrance and claiming a booth in the corner, hidden by a potted plant but with a clear view.

The Talon was cozy, buzzing with after-school chatter: the hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of mugs, the scent of fresh pastries mingling with coffee. Lana was behind the counter, wiping down surfaces in her apron, her dark hair tied back. She waved at Lex and Y/N as they entered, but her smile faltered when she caught Clark’s intense stare from the shadows.

Lex guided Y/N to a quiet table by the window, pulling out her chair. “What’ll it be? Latte? Something sweeter?”

Y/N settled in, her dress riding up slightly on her thighs as she crossed her legs, socks peeking out. “Ooh, a caramel macchiato? With extra whipped cream. And maybe a muffin—blueberry?”

Lex nodded, signaling Lana. As they waited, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, his gaze fixed on her with that magnetic pull. “So, tell me more about you. Why Smallville? It’s not exactly the big city lights.”

Y/N toyed with a sugar packet, her loopy charm shining through. “My parents got this job overseas—super sudden. My aunt lives here, so… poof! New life. It’s quieter, but I like it. The stars are brighter, and everyone smiles more. What about you? How is Smallville biggest Mystery?” Lex’s laugh was low, smooth. “Mysterious is my middle name. Officially, it’s to ‘broaden my horizons’ before taking over the family empire. Unofficially? Smallville has its secrets. Like those meteors.” He reached across, his fingers brushing hers as he “helped” open the sugar packet. “And now, intriguing new people.”

Y/N blushed, pulling back but smiling. “Flatterer.”

Their drinks arrived—Lana setting them down with a curious glance. As they sipped, the conversation flowed: Lex sharing polished anecdotes about LuthorCorp travels, Y/N rambling stories about baking disasters and her love for cartoons. “Once, I tried making a cake shaped like a unicorn, but it looked more like a melted blob with a horn. Still tasted good!”

Lex leaned in, his alpha pheromones subtle but present—crisp, like expensive cologne mixed with steel ambition. “You’re refreshing, Y/N. In a town full of secrets, you’re an open book. I like that.”

From his booth, Clark seethed, nursing a black coffee he didn’t touch. He’s too smooth. Too close. Look at her laughing— that’s my laugh. His thoughts turned darker: I’d fuck her on that table. Right now. Flip her over, rip those socks down, pound into her until she’s screaming, her heat triggered by me, not him. Knot her so deep she can’t walk straight. His own pheromones leaked out, heavy and dominant, drifting across the room despite the distance. The air thickened, unnoticed by betas but potent to omegas.

As the sun dipped lower, casting golden hues through the windows, Lex checked his watch. “Time flies. Let me walk you out.”

Y/N nodded, standing with a stretch that accentuated her curves. “This was fun! Thanks, Lex.”

Outside, the parking lot was quiet, the evening breeze rustling leaves. Lex turned to her by his car, his hand cupping her cheek gently. “Y/N… I had a great time.”

Before she could respond, he leaned in, his lips pressing to hers—soft at first, then firmer, a claiming kiss laced with alpha intent. His tongue teased the seam of her mouth, and she parted on instinct, a soft whimper escaping.

That’s when it hit.

The combined pheromones—Lex’s sharp ambition mingling with Clark’s raw, Kryptonian dominance wafting from his hiding spot—crashed over Y/N like a wave. Her suppressants, already faltering, shattered. Heat bloomed in her core, sudden and vicious: a flush spreading from her cheeks down her neck, her nipples hardening under the dress, slick gathering between her thighs in a rush that soaked her panties. Her scent exploded—vanilla-honey-lavender turning molten, needy, broadcasting her omega heat like a siren call.

She gasped against Lex’s mouth, pulling back with wide eyes, hands clutching her stomach as cramps twisted low. “Oh god… I—I feel… hot. Too hot.”

Lex’s eyes widened, nostrils flaring as her heat scent hit him. “Y/N? Are you—”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 3: Flames of Possession

Chapter Text

The Talon’s parking lot felt like a pressure cooker under the fading evening sun, the air thick with the sudden explosion of Y/N’s heat scent—vanilla now laced with desperate need, honey turned sticky and urgent, lavender blooming into something floral and feral. It hit Lex like a freight train, his alpha instincts flaring as he pulled back from the kiss, his hands still on her arms, steadying her as she swayed. Her cheeks were flushed crimson, sweat beading on her forehead, and her plus-size body trembled under the pastel yellow sundress, the fabric clinging to her curves where dampness had started to gather. She clutched at her stomach, a soft whine escaping her lips as another cramp twisted through her core, slick trickling down her inner thighs in a warm, embarrassing rush.

“Y/N,” Lex murmured, his voice low and controlled, but his eyes darkening with hunger. He inhaled deeply, his grip tightening just a fraction—possessive, calculating. “Your heat… it’s starting. Let me get you somewhere safe. My place isn’t far—”

But before he could finish, Clark exploded from the shadows like a storm unleashed. One second he was hidden behind a parked truck, the next he was there, his massive frame shoving between them with superhuman speed that blurred the edges of reality. His hand clamped down on Lex’s shoulder—not hard enough to break bone (yet), but firm enough to make the billionaire wince and release Y/N. Clark’s eyes glowed faintly red in the dim light, his Kryptonian alpha side roaring to the surface, yandere obsession twisting his features into something dark and unyielding.

“Back. Off,” Clark growled, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through the air like thunder. His pheromones poured out unchecked now—earthy dominance mixed with that alien sharpness, overwhelming Lex’s scent and blanketing Y/N in a claim that made her knees buckle. She’s mine. Touch her again and I’ll end you. Rip your heart out and watch you bleed while I take what’s rightfully my omega. His mind was a whirlwind of vile protectiveness: visions of Lex’s body crumpled on the asphalt, Y/N safe in his arms, her heat sated only by him.

Lex staggered back a step, rubbing his shoulder, his face a mask of surprise that quickly hardened into defiance. “Kent. Stalking now? That’s a new low, even for you.” He glanced at Y/N, concern flickering under the alpha rivalry. “She needs help. Medical, or—”

“I said back off!” Clark snarled, shoving Lex harder this time, sending him stumbling against his Porsche with a denting thud. The yandere fire in his veins burned hotter—No one helps her but me. No one touches her but me. I’ll lock her away if I have to, build a fortress on the farm where her scent is mine alone. He turned to Y/N, his expression softening instantly, though the possessiveness lingered in his eyes like shadows. She was doubled over now, panting, her hands fisting the sundress as another wave of heat crashed through her. Slick soaked her panties completely, the scent driving both alphas wild, but Clark’s Kryptonian senses amplified it tenfold—mouthwatering, intoxicating, his.

“Clark?” Y/N whimpered, looking up at him with wide, hazy eyes. Her loopy innocence was cracking under the heat, replaced by raw omega need. “It hurts… so hot… please…”

Without a word, Clark scooped her up bridal-style, her soft, curvy body molding against his chest like she belonged there. She was heavier than most girls—plus-size perfection—and he loved it, his strength making her feel weightless. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her face burying in his neck as she inhaled his scent instinctively, a soft moan escaping. Yes. Breathe me in. Let it consume you. I’ll make it better, omega. I’ll make you scream.

Lex straightened, fists clenched. “You can’t just—”

“Watch me,” Clark shot back, his voice lethal. He didn’t wait for more—using a burst of speed, he vanished from the lot, leaving Lex staring at empty air, frustration boiling in his veins.

The world blurred around them as Clark ran, cradling Y/N close to shield her from the wind. Her aunt’s house was on the edge of town, a quaint yellow cottage with white trim and a wraparound porch, surrounded by fields that smelled like fresh-cut hay. He knew the way—had “patrolled” it before, telling himself it was for her safety. Now, with her heat escalating, every second felt like torture. Her body writhed in his arms, hips shifting unconsciously against him, seeking friction. Fuck. She’s grinding on me. So needy. I could pin her right here in the grass, spread those thick thighs and feast until she’s begging for my cock. But he held back, jaw clenched. Not yet. She’s innocent. My sweet, loopy omega. I’ll take care of her first.

He slipped through the unlocked back door—her aunt was out for the evening, something about a book club in town that Clark had “overheard” earlier. The house was quiet, scented with lavender candles and baked goods, but now overpowered by Y/N’s heat. He carried her upstairs to her room, a cozy space painted in soft pastels: pink walls, a fluffy white comforter on the bed piled with pillows and blankets in a makeshift nest—omegas often built them instinctively, even on suppressants. Stuffed animals dotted the edges, a pastel throw blanket draped over the headboard. It was adorable, just like her.

Gently, he laid her down in the center of the nest, arranging the blankets around her to cocoon her in softness. She whimpered at the loss of contact, her hands reaching for him, fingers clutching his shirt. “Clark… don’t go. Please. It hurts so much… need you.”

Her words hit him like a drug, yandere satisfaction flooding his veins. Begging me. Finally. No one else gets this. I’ll kill anyone who tries. He knelt beside the bed, his large hand cupping her flushed cheek, thumb brushing her lower lip. “I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. You’re mine to protect. Mine to help.” His voice was husky, laced with alpha command.

She arched into his touch, her sundress rumpled and damp, nipples pebbling visibly through the thin fabric. The heat escalated, cramps twisting sharper, slick pooling beneath her on the sheets. “Alpha… please… touch me. Make it stop.”

Alpha. She called me alpha. Triumph roared through him, his cock straining against his jeans. He climbed into the nest with her, pulling her into his lap, her back against his chest. One arm wrapped around her waist, holding her steady—feeling the soft give of her belly, the curve of her hips. His other hand slid down, pushing up her skirt slowly, reverently. Look at her. So perfect. Those thighs—thick, soft. I want to bite them, mark them. His fingers traced the edge of her knee-high socks, then higher, dipping between her legs where slick coated her inner thighs.

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmured against her ear, nipping the lobe gently. She gasped, bucking into his hand. He teased her through her soaked panties first, rubbing slow circles over her clit, feeling it swell under his touch. “Shh, I’ve got you. Let me make you feel good.”

Y/N’s head fell back against his shoulder, her breaths coming in pants. “Clark… yes… more…”

He growled softly, possessiveness surging as he slipped his fingers under the fabric, parting her folds. She was scorching hot, slick dripping over his hand as he circled her entrance, then pushed one thick finger inside. Tight. Wet. God, she’s going to feel like heaven around my cock. But not tonight. Tonight, I tease. Make her addicted. He added a second finger, curling them to hit that spot that made her cry out, her walls clenching around him.

“Alpha!” she keened, her hands scrambling to grip his thighs, nails digging in.

“That’s it,” he praised, his thumb finding her clit again, rubbing in firm circles while he pumped his fingers slow and deep. Her hips rocked against him, chasing the pleasure, her scent peaking—mouthwatering, claiming the room. He leaned down, mouth watering, and shifted her higher in his lap so he could maneuver.

With a gentle but firm push, he laid her back against the pillows, spreading her legs wide. The sundress bunched around her waist, socks still on, panties tugged aside. Beautiful. Mine. He lowered his head, inhaling her deeply before his tongue flicked out, lapping at her clit in broad, hungry strokes. She tasted like heaven—sweet, tangy, his. He groaned against her, the vibration making her arch.

“Clark—oh god—” Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as he devoured her, tongue delving inside alongside his fingers, sucking and licking with alpha fervor. The heat cramps eased under his ministrations, pleasure building in waves that had her trembling, slick coating his chin.

He didn’t stop until she shattered, her body convulsing as she came hard, crying out his name in broken whimpers. Only then did he pull back, licking his lips, his eyes dark with unsatisfied hunger. Not claiming her fully. Not yet. But soon. No one else will ever touch this.

Y/N curled into him, spent and hazy, nestling against his chest. “Stay… please…”

“Always,” he whispered, holding her tight, yandere vows silent in his mind. Forever.

he next few days blurred into a feverish haze for Y/N, her heat raging like an unrelenting storm trapped inside her soft, curvy body. What started as sudden cramps and slick in the Talon parking lot had escalated into full-blown omega desperation—waves of burning need that left her writhing in her nest, sheets soaked, pastel sundresses discarded in piles on the floor. Her aunt, bless her oblivious beta heart, had chalked it up to “a bad flu” and left trays of soup and tea outside the door, never suspecting the truth. Suppressants were useless now; her body had betrayed her, demanding an alpha’s touch to quench the fire.

Clark visited every day. He told himself it was to protect her—instincts whispering that Lex or Chloe or any other scent-sniffing rival might show up. But deep down, it was possession. Obsession. He’d slip in through the window after school, using his speed to avoid detection, his broad frame filling the room like a guardian shadow. Each visit, he’d find her deeper in the throes: flushed, whimpering, her plus-size figure glistening with sweat, knee-high socks (the only thing she kept on some days) clinging to her thick calves as she arched and begged for relief.

On day two, he arrived to her curled in the nest, a oversized pastel pink nightie twisted around her hips, exposing the slick-smeared curve of her ass. “Clark… alpha… it hurts again,” she whined, her loopy innocence fractured by need, eyes glassy as she reached for him. He growled low, climbing in beside her, his hands roaming her soft belly and thighs, fingering her to two shattering orgasms while he whispered filthy promises in her ear. So wet. So mine. I could knot you now, fill you until you’re dripping my cum for days. But he held back, oral following—his tongue delving deep, lapping her like a starving man until she sobbed his name. He left her sated but aching for more, his cock throbbing painfully in his jeans as he forced himself out the window.

Day three was worse. Her scent had permeated the house, mouthwatering and potent, drawing him like a magnet. He found her on all fours in the nest, humping a pillow desperately, her thick thighs quivering, socks bunched at her ankles. “Please… need you inside… something…” she begged, but he shook his head, yandere control ironclad. Not yet. You’ll beg properly when you’re ready to be claimed. He flipped her over, binding her wrists loosely with a silk scarf from her drawer—testing the BDSM edge he craved—then ate her out slow and torturous, fingers pumping while he denied her release until she was a babbling mess. “Alpha! Clark—I’ll be good, promise!” He came in his pants that day, rutting against the bed as she climaxed, but still no knot. Soon. You’ll be ruined for anyone else.

By day four, the heat peaked in intensity, her body a furnace of cramps and slick. Clark arrived to moans echoing down the hall. She was naked except for those damn socks—lavender ones today, dotted with hearts—her curves on full display: full breasts heaving, soft stomach trembling, hips grinding air. “Can’t take it… please, stay longer,” she pleaded, pulling him down. He obliged, his yandere side reveling in her dependence. He used his belt this time, looping it around her wrists and tying them to the headboard—gentle but firm, introducing the dominance he hungered for. “You’re mine to tease,” he murmured, sucking marks along her neck while his fingers plunged deep, thumb on her clit. Oral followed, his mouth relentless until she squirted, soaking the sheets. But when she whispered, “Take me… knot me,” he kissed her forehead and left, promising tomorrow. Tomorrow you’ll break. And I’ll own you forever.

The fifth day—the last of her heat—dawned with Y/N in agony. The cramps were vicious now, her omega body screaming for completion, for a knot to lock in relief. She nested deeper, piling every blanket and pillow, but nothing helped. Her scent was overpowering, a siren call that had Clark bursting through the window before the sun fully set. He found her there, in a fresh pastel blue babydoll nightie that barely contained her curves, socks pulled high on her thighs, face tear-streaked and desperate.

“Clark!” she cried, lunging for him, hands fisting his shirt. “I can’t… it won’t stop. Please, alpha—take me. Fuck me. Knot me. I need it… need you inside. Please, I’ll do anything. Be yours forever.”

Her begging snapped something primal in him. Finally. My omega. Begging like the slutty little thing she is under that innocence. His eyes darkened, yandere lust consuming him as he stripped off his shirt, revealing his chiseled Kryptonian physique. “You want my cock? My knot?” he growled, shoving her back into the nest, her body bouncing softly on the pillows.

“Yes! God, yes—alpha, please!” She spread her legs wide, slick glistening on her pussy, folds swollen and ready.

He grabbed the silk scarves from before, binding her wrists to the headboard with quick, dominant knots—tight enough to hold, but not hurt. “You’re going to take everything I give,” he commanded, his voice rough with need. He stripped fully, his massive cock springing free—thick, veined, already leaking precum. Look at her eyes widen. Innocent little omega, about to be stretched. He knelt between her thighs, slapping his length against her clit, making her jolt and whine.

“Clark—now!”

He chuckled darkly, satisfaction gleaming. “Patience, omega. I’ll fuck you when I’m ready.” But his control frayed—he notched the head at her entrance, her heat sucking him in greedily. With one brutal thrust, he buried half his length inside, her tight walls clenching like a vice. “Fuck—so tight. So wet for me.” She screamed in pleasure-pain, her plus-size body arching, breasts bouncing as he pulled back and slammed deeper.

“Yes! Harder—alpha, harder!” Her loopy pleas turned filthy, heat overriding innocence.

He obliged, pounding into her with Kryptonian force tempered just enough not to break her—deep, relentless strokes that hit her cervix, his balls slapping her ass. He leaned down, biting her neck hard enough to bruise, marking her as his. “Mine. This pussy is mine. Say it.”

“Yours! All yours—oh god, knot me!”

He flipped her onto her stomach, wrists still bound, ass up—her thick cheeks jiggling as he reentered from behind, gripping her hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Look at this ass. Perfect for spanking.” He smacked one cheek, watching it redden, her moan spurring him on. Thrust after thrust, he fucked her like an animal, the bed creaking under them. Slick coated his cock, dripping down her thighs onto the socks.

“Clark—I’m gonna come—please!”

“Not yet.” He reached around, pinching her clit roughly, edging her as he rutted deeper. Feel her clench. She’s breaking for me. His knot swelled at the base, catching on her entrance with each pull-out. “Beg for my knot, omega. Beg to be bred.”

“Please, alpha—knot me! Fill me up—breed me! Want your pups!”

Her filthy pleas shattered his last thread of restraint, the yandere alpha in him unleashing like a beast unchained. Clark’s eyes flashed with feral hunger, his Kryptonian cock throbbing inside her as he gripped her bound wrists tighter against the headboard, the silk scarves creaking under the strain. “You want my pups, omega? Want me to breed this tight little cunt until you’re swollen and dripping?” he snarled, his voice a guttural growl that vibrated through her body. He pulled out almost to the tip, her slick-coated walls clutching desperately at him, before slamming back in with a brutal thrust that made their skin slap together—loud, wet, obscene echoes filling the room.

Y/N screamed, her plus-size body jolting forward, breasts bouncing wildly under the babydoll nightie as he set a punishing rhythm. Each hard thrust drove him deeper, his thick shaft stretching her to the limit, the veined length dragging along her inner walls with filthy friction. “Yes—fuck, alpha! Breed me hard!” she wailed, her loopy innocence drowned in heat-fueled lust, hips bucking back to meet him despite the bonds holding her in place.

Clark’s hands dug into her soft hips, fingers sinking into the plush flesh hard enough to bruise—marks he’d admire later, proof of his claim. He pounded into her relentlessly, skin slapping skin in a rhythmic, savage beat: slap-slap-slap, punctuated by the squelch of her slick gushing around his cock. “Look at you, taking my dick like a good little breeding slut,” he groaned, leaning over her back to bite her shoulder, teeth grazing just shy of breaking skin. “This pussy’s so greedy—sucking me in, begging for my cum. Gonna fill you up, omega. Pump you full until it leaks out your ruined hole.”

She sobbed in ecstasy, her thick thighs quivering around him, knee-high socks rubbing against his legs as she spread wider, offering everything. “More—harder! Wreck me, alpha—make me yours!” Her walls fluttered around him, clenching with every brutal plunge, the head of his cock battering her cervix like he was trying to imprint himself there forever.

He flipped her bound form onto her side without pulling out, hiking one leg over his shoulder to hit a new angle—deeper, filthier. Thrust after thrust, he hammered into her, the bedframe groaning in protest, her ass cheeks rippling with each impact. Slick splattered their thighs, coating his balls as they slapped against her clit with wet, lewd smacks. “Feel that? My balls full of cum just for you,” he rasped, reaching down to rub her swollen clit in rough circles, pinching it until she keened. “Gonna knot this sloppy cunt and lock it in. Breed you like the whore you are for me.”

Y/N’s eyes rolled back, tears of overwhelming pleasure streaming down her flushed cheeks. “Yes—knot me! Cum inside—want your hot load breeding me deep!” Her body convulsed as another orgasm built, her pussy gushing around him in rhythmic pulses.

With a primal roar, Clark felt his knot swell, the base thickening as he rammed home one final time—skin slapping flush, buried to the hilt. The knot popped inside, stretching her impossibly wider, locking them together in a filthy, unbreakable seal. She shattered around him, screaming his name as she came hard, her walls milking him like a vice, squirting slick that soaked his groin and the sheets below.

“Fuck—take it all!” he bellowed, his cock pulsing as he erupted, thick ropes of cum flooding her womb in hot, endless spurts. He ground against her, knot throbbing, pumping more and more until it overflowed, leaking out around the seal in creamy dribbles down her thighs. “That’s it—my good breeding bitch, full of alpha cum. Gonna knock you up, keep you round and mine.”

They collapsed in a tangled heap, knotted tight, his body draped over hers possessively as aftershocks rippled through them. He untied her wrists gently, rubbing the red marks with his thumbs, pulling her close into his chest. Her heat finally ebbed, sated and claimed, but his mind whispered promises of more. Forever mine. No one else touches this.

From the shadows, Clark emerged, his face a mask of fury and hunger. Mine.

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Hope y’all enjoyed <3 I’ll slowly (probably not I’ll probably transfer fastish) transfer my ao3 fics over here as well, Ik I don’t have any followers on this blog, I didn’t wanna post on my personal ones so I made HallowedMoss mwah mwah xxx