#dinner is served

[toyastales]

Roast pork

[celestial-dew-drop]

(solomon smut? solomon smut. 18+)

‘is this guy bothering you?’ a demon approaches you in earnest as you and solomon are sat at a table together in a busy bar in devildom. your face is flushed red and there’s a slight glow in your skin from how warm you’ve gotten in the past 10 minutes.

you nod and smile at the kind demon who is hovering above the two of you, reassuring him that you are in fact very much alright. he walks away, satisfied with your answer. everybody knows who this recognisable turtlenecked mage is in devildom. solomon turns his piercing gaze from the demon back to you, as you look anywhere but at that damn smug white haired sorcerer beside you.

he told you earlier in the day that he was working on some new spells that he thought you’d really like, and he’d show you at the bar tonight. you thought to yourself that it’d be some sort of miscellaneous magic that changes the colour of drinks, or makes sweet things taste sour. he often enjoys playing around with silly spells like this and relishes the smile he gets from you when he does. but tonight, he’s relishing something entirely different.

‘y’know, i could put up a veil charm, temporarily obscuring us from view… but i’m enjoying this right now…’ he teases, knowing full well how hard you’re trying to hold in how good he’s making you feel as he examines your flushed, subtle smile now looking at him through pleading eyes.

you practically can’t move. nothing is visible to the eye, but he has summoned what feels like warm, thick tendrils under the table that are laced up your legs, gently pressing you down to your seat, legs pushed slightly apart, the ends of the tendrils are softly rubbing in circles at your now soaking warmth. he knows exactly which buttons are to be pressed with you.

at the same time, coming from behind, the same warm thick tendrils wrap behind you and slip underneath your shirt, ending in what feels like a projection of a solomon’s hands massaging and playing with your chest, in the same recognisable movements and patterns you’re usually used to from your magic teacher turned boyfriend. nothing is moving from the outside, nobody would suspect a thing. your cute outfit hasn’t been disrupted in any way, but you just feel everything so, so much. your stomach feels like it’s doing backflips.

solomon sits proudly beside you, as if you’re just another normal couple on a date at the bar. he leans on his arm, gazing at you as he analyses your expression, he can tell you’re enjoying it, albeit bashful.

he leans over slowly and places a soft, lingering kiss on your lips as you’re still wrapped up in the height of his conjured up stimulation and completely unravelling in front of him. pulling away gently, he smiles at you with a glint in his eye that tells you he’s also struggling.

he’s put you through enough, so he finishes his drink and he holds out his slender hand for you to take, signalling a ‘let’s get out of here’. the moment you take his hand in yours, all magic once enveloped around you suddenly evaporates and you no longer feel anything but the warm remnants as a result of the last 15 minutes.

solomon stands up in a composed manner, but pulling his cloak around his side in an odd fashion, covering up the now-very-obvious growing warmth in his own trousers as the two of you walk hand in hand out the bar together. his pace picking up as he starts desperately yearning to be alone with you. he thought he would last longer than this, but he failed.

[brandiincalifornia]

Dinner is served

[weeping-treee]

Make Up Sex

MDNI | cw: !smut!; sexual content; fluff; dominance; rough sex; throat fucking; finger fucking; S&M; creampie; slight dubcon; spanking; hair pulling; biting; marking; choking; light praise; heavy degrading; icky icky icky

(Take this since I'm stuck on A Desperate Man. lmk if you wanna be taglisted for Soldier Boy)

He's so pretty though, imma bust

You fucked up.

Big time.

Butcher and Hughie aren’t even trying to save you from this one—and truthfully, there’s nothing to save you from.

Ben’s silent. That cocky, smart-mouthed supe hasn’t said a word since the argument. But you feel the anger rolling off him in waves. Cold, calculated, brooding. He’s mad—everyone knows it—but he won’t acknowledge you. Not until the day’s over.

What did you do? You undermined him. Simple as that.

It was a minor disagreement—how to go after the TNT Twins. Your plan was better. Cleaner. He didn’t like that. You pushed, he postured, and you didn’t stop yourself when the venom came.

“You’re just a cocky fucking asshole compensating for the two-inch power tower between your legs. No wonder you only please old, wrinkly cunts.”

It hit hard. And now, here you are—frozen out.

He would've slapped Hughie silly for saying half of that. But you’re not Hughie. He won’t hit you. He won’t even yell.

He’s going to teach you.

Because you're the one person who's ever tried to understand him since Butcher brought him back—and he’s not about to lose that. Your outburst pissed him off, sure. But it also turned him on.

He had to walk away before he fucked you against the nearest tree.

Now, he’s enjoying your squirming. The way you sigh, bite your lip, stare at the ground like it’ll give you answers. You hate being ignored—and he knows it.

When they vote to leave you behind—no Temp V, no backup—you don’t argue. You sit like a kid in time out. Watching smoke rise from the ruins, heart in your throat.

Then you see Homelander fly off.

Your stomach drops.

You sprint toward the wreckage, leaping over bodies, debris, anything that dares to slow you down. You find them—Butcher, Hughie, Ben—sprawled across the rubble. Heart pounding, knees hitting the ground, you grab Ben’s face like you could somehow check for injuries that’d matter.

“Ben? Are you okay? What happened?”

He stares at you for a beat—then his hand fists in your hair and his mouth crashes against yours.

Your eyes widen for a moment, before you melt into it... just before he pulls away and leaves you breathless. He's on his feet before you can even process it.

"You're not off the hook."

You, Hughie, and Butcher all glance at one another as Ben walks off, unreadable.

“Good luck with that one, love,” Butcher mutters with a chuckle before walking away.

You hand Hughie the bag of clothes and trail after them—after him—like a lost puppy.

By nightfall, you finally find out what he meant.

The second you step into his room, he doesn’t even look at you.

“Kneel.” He points to the floor in front of him.

Your throat tightens. You shut the door behind you and step forward slowly.

“Ben—”

“I said kneel.”

You drop to your knees.

“You think you can disrespect me and get away with it?” he mutters, slowly unbuckling his belt.

“Ben, I’m sorry—”

“I didn’t say you could speak.”

He shoves his pants and boxers down, cock springing free—definitely not two inches.

“Open.”

Not a request. A command.

You obey. Mouth open, eyes wide, and he wastes no time. He thrusts into your throat with no warning, one hand tangled in your hair as you gag around him. A broken moan rips from your throat, tears brimming instantly. He holds your head there, shallowly fucking your throat with slow, bruising strokes that burn.

“Look at you. Taking it like a champ. What a filthy little slut.”

He only pulls back when the tears ruin your mascara, yanking you up by the throat.

“Gonna make sure you never talk to me like that again.”

You barely breathe before he tosses you onto the bed. Flips you. Yanks your jeans down with no finesse. You gasp, but it doesn’t matter—he shoves two fingers inside you, rough and deep, fucking you with them like you’re nothing but a toy.

You’re whining, desperate—and just as you’re about to come, he pulls away and slaps your ass, hard enough to sting.

Then he’s inside you in a single, brutal thrust.

No warning. No pause. Just pain and pleasure colliding as he grabs the back of your head and slams into you over and over.

“You disrespect me again, and I’ll fuck you harder. And I won’t let you cum. You got that, you little shit?”

“Y-Yes—fuck, Ben, please—”

“Tsk. No begging. You asked for this.”

He hauls you up by your hair, one hand still around your throat, holding you to him as he pounds into you. Relentless. Vicious.

Your mascara’s ruined. Your legs are shaking. Your face is soaked with tears.

“Who do you belong to?” he growls, breath hot against your ear. “Say it. Say it and maybe I’ll let you cum on my cock like the little cumslut you are.”

“You. I belong to you, Ben,” you sob, barely able to speak.

“Fuck. You’re lucky you beg pretty, you little bitch.”

His lips and teeth find the hollow of your throat. Leaving bite marks, hickeys, and filthy kisses on your skin. Marking you as his.

He thrusts harder. Deeper. Until you shatter around him, crying out his name. He doesn’t stop. He keeps going until he’s emptying inside you, filling you until it drips down your thighs.

He doesn’t let you fall.

He keeps you pressed against him, his grip loosening on your throat just enough to breathe. He turns your tear-streaked face toward him—and kisses you softly.

“Don’t disrespect me like that again. Got it?”

You nod weakly.

He kisses your temple.

“I love your annoying ass, you know that. Now come on… let’s get you cleaned up.”

[yutamayo]

Every. Time.

[rhetthammersmithhorror]

Spooks | 1931 — a Flip the Frog cartoon

[starsoupstiles]

The people have spoken and the people want CONNOR

I serve you pencil and alcohol marker base Connor, colorful pen Connor, digital Conor and five star Connor, bon appetit

[stilt-stall]

Hello haunted hotel community I’ve arrived and I have food for you all