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It starts in the chapel. When Alina has the Darkling in her hands, dark, tumultuous shadows spilling across the floor as she wrenches his power from him one pained, broken cry at a time. His hair is soft beneath her fingers, his breath hot across her cheeks, and he collapses against her, shaking, the press of his body warm atop her own. Small, desperate moans pour from his lips. And she wants.
Everybody’s watching.
Mal is watching.
The Darkling whines against the shell of her ear, and her breath hitches - her grasp on his power slipping. She can feel him in her mind, wanton and aching. His hands fumble at her shirt, the hard line of his cock suddenly thrusting up against her as he gasps with need, and she finds herself responding before she can stop herself. Pushing back against him, fingers fisting in his hair, tearing his power from him in one vicious pull until it floods through her, rapturous, and his cries mix with her own, sounding too much like pleasure instead of pain.
His legs buckle, and they both collapse to their knees.
She can’t hear anything over his lewd moans, can’t see anything beyond the billowing shadows that surround them. Can barely think for the way he writhes against her, thrusting up into her, mind a mix of pleasure and fear and blank, desperate desire.
His passion consumes her. The feel of his shadows coursing through her blood is intoxicating. She can taste them on her tongue - can smell his weakness in the air. She wants to break him into pieces. Wants him flush and desperate and leaking across the floor like so much spilled ink.
He lets out a stuttering gasp, sobbing against her. “Yes,” he whines, inside her head, shaking apart beneath her fingers, the pale, vulnerable line of his neck arched and taut. “Yes, yes. Alina-” he chokes it out, thrusting up against her, rubbing against her clit, and the phantom touch through her pants is enough to have her clutching him tight again, tugging at his power in a way that has him answering with every greedy pull. “Alina. Alina. Alina. Alina.”
She meets his thrusts with her own, moaning at the rough slide of him against her swollen lips, then tilts his head further and sinks her teeth into his cool skin. Feels the way his mind splits open, powers spilling from him with wild abandon. She barely has to take them from him anymore, he's so loose now, but she does so regardless. Pulls and pulls and pulls them from within until she can feel him unraveling beneath her.
His thrusts grow more fervent - guttural, punched out moans filling the air. And she realizes she can hear talking in the background, Mal’s presence nearby, all of her friends gathered at the chapel entrance, speaking. The Darkling squirms in her grasp, wet and leaking, heedless to it all. Want, want, want. He keens, high and reedy.
His shadows spill from him, a wall of dancing monsters that climb higher and higher to rip the ceiling apart. He mewls into her ear, tears soaked through her skin, cock rubbing against her, sending arcs of pure pleasure through her body.
You’re distracting him, she reminds herself, gripping his hair tighter with one hand, the dark strands feathery and light. She lets the other sink lower until she has him cupped in her palm.
Distract him. She rubs at the wetness there, lapping up his neck with her tongue and biting down again, drinking in the delicious spill of his shadows with reckless abandon.
Distract him. Distract him. She moans at the feel of him, and his hitching cry soon follows.
He’s boneless against her, mind wide open. She spreads his legs with her knees and reaches inside his pants, feeling the hard length of his cock beneath her fingers. He jolts, a wretched sound escaping his throat, and she tightens her grip on his scalp, holding him in place, spreading him wider until he can no longer kneel on his own. Pulls his cock from his pants to stroke him from base to tip.
The sound he makes when she does so is obscene, and the rest of his strength leaves him in a rush. He falls into her, little gasps filling the air, skin quivering. She licks up the taut line of his neck, nipping at the rough underside of his jaw, nudging his head back to admire the cut of it.
She fondles his cock for a moment, feeling the weight of it in her palm. It’s so heavy, and she can barely think about how this is happening now, here, the image of his mouth stretched wide with pleasure and those piercing gray eyes fluttering shut. His body bows as she teases his slit, then strokes him again, again and again, all of that perfectly controlled power unraveled into mindless want. His breath rasps across the air like sandpaper, body responding to her every touch, and she realizes she wants everybody to see him like this. Hers.
Hers.
Hers.
Hers.
She tilts his head further back with an iron grip, foregoing devouring it just to see it arched so prettily on display. The fine line of his jaw is bruised and flushed red now, throat vibrating with his every rasping breath. His hands are still formed into useless fists in her shirt, and she thinks of how he could be touching her right now. Returning the favor. But she wants. And she wants him on his knees, bending for her, coming undone until his seed is dripping across the chapel floor, white stained across his black trousers, ruining those perfectly tailored lines. Marked up and on display and hers.
She wants him to walk out of here like that, she realizes. She wants him to leave here alive, his skin burned red with her fingerprints.
My monster.
She strokes him again, admiring the way the pleasure shivers through his body, an aborted thrust when he tries to find the leverage to push against her. Her fingers tighten around his length. She strokes faster next time, harder, breath racing with the ruined cry she drags from his pretty pink lips. They’re wet with saliva, his chin and cheeks soaked, and she happily palms his weeping slit, repeating the motion again and again, stroking faster. Watching his breath leave him in short, heated bursts.
His pleasure sets a fire in her mind, and she knows she’s wet and swollen inside her own pants. She grits her teeth around a moan, watching him bow further and further with every stroke, muscles tight like a live wire. Watches him cry out in the middle of the chapel floor - her monster - fully exposed to everyone but bowing to her. Her. Her. Her.
Precum coats the floor where his shadows have spilled and coalesced, dripping from the flushed red tip of his cock, squelching along his skin as she gathers it in her palm and works him over. Over and over and over, feeling that current of satisfaction every time he twitches in her hands, jerks and whimpers, lashes fluttering. Teeth clacking together, mouth opening again, chest heaving, heaving, more-more-more.
Then he grunts, cries silenced as he chokes on a gasp. Tries again to thrust up into her slick grasp, mind on fire and muscles quaking. She kicks his knees out further, speeding up her thrusts until he finally shudders, eyes rolling, and long ropes of cum are spurting from his cock across the chapel floor, staining his pants in white streaks as she strokes him through his release.
She plays his trembling body like she’s inside it, like she knows it, like she can hear every song inside his head and he’s singing. A high, keening pitch in their mind that has her own pussy throbbing in response to the need-need-relief that courses through him as he lets out a final cry, chest heaving with a sob as she wrings one last string of cum from his weeping slit.
His body shakes, a wet hiccough escaping his lips, and he collapses against her once more.
She catches him easily, releasing his softening cock to cradle him against her, and they both kneel there for a long moment, panting as the shadows slowly descend to the floor. His power still mixes with her own, heady and intoxicating. She can taste him in her mind, if that is at all possible, and wonders if he feels the same.
Mine, she thinks, carding her fingers through his hair as she tucks him back into his pants. Mine.
His mind is still blissfully blank, but she can already hear those wicked cogs within starting to turn. She hums, scratching his scalp lightly and pulling him further into her. Mal’s voice is in her ears, but she can’t think beyond here, now, the Darkling's body curled so perfectly against her own.
My monster.
My powers.
Mine.