#eepwtf’s works !

[eepwtf]

UNPUNISHABLE—soldier boy boarding school au! x catholic boy

find part two here ⤷ part two

“i’m sorry,” you whispered hoarsely, your voice breaking. “God, ‘m sorry, i’m sorry.” but the words were hollow, meaningless, drowned out by the frantic beating of your heart and the unbearable ache in your body.

he cut you off with a hand on your wrist, his grip firm but not unkind. “feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. the heat in his gaze made your stomach twist, your cock twitch in your hand. “bet you’ve been pent up for weeks, huh? poor fuckin’ thing...”

warnings; religious guilt and themes , power dynamics , getting off to underwear , degradation and humiliation kink , voyeuristic elements (mirror use) , handjobs , use of the words “filthy” , and “pervert”. wc: 5.4k

benjamin had been at this boarding school long enough to know exactly how it worked. the social hierarchy, the petty squabbles, the hazing rituals—they were as predictable as the smell of old books and stale coffee in the library. he didn’t care about most of it. he played his part: good grades, a cocky smile, and enough charm to skate by without making any real enemies. but the start of a new term always brought fresh blood, and benjamin had a sixth sense for spotting the ones who wouldn’t last.

and then, there was you.

you arrived late to the term, which was already a death sentence. the first few weeks were critical—the time when the hierarchy solidified, alliances were formed, and survival strategies were locked in. worse, you might as well have walked in with a neon sign flashing fresh meat. everything about you screamed out-of-place: the polished shoes that gleamed a little too much, the perfectly ironed shirt tucked with military precision, the rigid way you carried yourself, like you were bracing for a slap. you walked into the dining hall that first evening with your tray balanced so carefully it might as well have been a Eucharist offering, eyes darting around the room like you were waiting for someone to shove you back out the door. you didn’t even have to open your mouth for everyone to know: Catholic boarding school.

it didn’t take long for the other boys to catch on. they had a nose for blood, and you reeked of it. whispers followed you during study hall; cruel nicknames were hurled across the lacrosse field. someone replaced the water in your sports bottle with holy water one afternoon, which left you blinking back tears while everyone howled with laughter.

benjamin wasn’t sure why he noticed you, exactly. maybe it was the way you always seemed to be clutching a rosary in your pocket, running the beads through your fingers like a lifeline. maybe it was the way your cheeks flushed red every time someone snickered “Father” as you walked past. or maybe it was just boredom.

whatever it was, he found himself jogging after you one afternoon, his golden hair catching the sunlight like a halo as he called out, “hey!”

you stopped abruptly, startled, and clutched your books like they might shield you from whatever this was. “uh, hi?”

“you’re the new guy, right?” he asked, all casual confidence as he fell into step beside you.

“i’m not—”

“you are,” he cut you off smoothly, flashing an easy smile. “trust me, i’ve been here long enough to know. you’ve got that ‘lost lamb’ look.”

for a moment, you just blinked at him. his smile didn’t falter, though. Instead, he slung an arm around your shoulders like you were already old friends. “look, this place is a jungle,” he said, steering you toward the courtyard. “and you’re walking around with a target painted on your back. but lucky for you, i’m feeling charitable today.”

you hesitated, your whole body stiffening under his touch. “thanks, but i’m fine.”

“no, you’re not,” he said bluntly, his grin widening. “you’re fresh out of Catholic school, right? i can tell. you’ve got that whole... thing about you. like you’re waiting for a nun to materialize and slap you for breathing too loud.”

that earned him a faint flush of red creeping up your neck. you straightened your shoulders, clearly bristling, but instead of shoving him off, you sighed and let some of the tension drain from your frame. “yeah, well, i’m used to it.”

“doesn’t mean you have to suffer through it alone.”

from that moment on, things changed. benjamin took you under his wing—not that he’d ever admit to something so noble-sounding. it started small: little tips like which table to avoid during meals (definitely not the one near the windows, unless you wanted to end up as the debate team’s entertainment) or how to cut through the north courtyard to bypass the rugby team’s hazing gauntlet. when he noticed you sitting alone in the dining hall, bent over your tray like you were saying grace, he’d saunter over and drop into the seat across from you, grinning like you were his favorite person in the world.

“you’re not gonna survive this place with just prayer, you know,” he teased one evening, stealing a fry off your plate before you could stop him.

your ears burned, but you still muttered, “i don’t need your help.”

“sure you don’t,” he replied easily, resting his chin in his hand as he watched you squirm. “but humor me.”

you weren’t blind to the whispers that followed after that.

“never seen ben hang out with someone like him before.”

“you think they’re...?”

“no way. ben’s just bored. or maybe it’s, like, charity work.”

their words stung, but less than you’d expected. maybe it was because benjamin never seemed to notice—or care—what anyone else thought. he had a way of brushing off insults with that cocky grin of his, and slowly, you found yourself learning to do the same.

but for all his charm, benjamin was infuriating. he’d swipe your homework to “check something” and then return it with a smirk. he’d drag you into conversations you didn’t want to have, poking fun at your strict upbringing and coaxing stories out of you about priests, penance, and purgatory. he was relentless, and you hated that it made you feel a little less like the walls were closing in.

benjamin was everywhere. his laughter echoed in the halls, his golden hair glinting like sunlight, his voice as smooth and warm as honey. it didn’t matter where you were or what you were doing; he was inescapable. and at first, you didn’t mind. at first, you liked the way he looked at you, like you weren’t invisible. the way his arm slung so easily around your shoulders, the way he’d steal your fries or lean in too close just to watch you squirm. he made it look so easy, weaving you into his world with a smirk and a casual confidence you could never hope to emulate. he defended you from the worst of the hazing, diffused the cruel jokes with a well-timed barb or a cutting smile, and made sure you were never left sitting alone in the dining hall.

but then it started to change.

you started to change.

at first, it was subtle: a quickening in your chest when he leaned over your desk, close enough for his cologne to fog your senses. a tightness in your throat when his hand lingered on your shoulder, his thumb brushing the edge of your collar. he didn’t notice the way you froze when he stood behind you, leaning in to murmur some joke meant just for you. it was in the way he sat beside you during study hall, his long legs stretched out like he owned the space, his golden hair catching the light in a way that made your chest ache. it was in the way he teased you, his voice low and warm, always managing to say just enough to make you blush but never enough to cross a line. it was in the way he looked at you sometimes, his emerald eyes lingering just a moment too long, like he was searching for something in you that you didn’t even understand yourself. but you noticed.

you noticed everything.

the curve of his jaw. the warmth of his touch. the way his lips parted when he laughed, his head tilting back, throat exposed like an offering. it felt like blasphemy to see him this way, to want what you shouldn’t want. It felt like the serpent in the garden, whispering in your ear, coaxing you to look a little too long, to want what was forbidden.

and that’s when the shame began to take root.

it crept into your thoughts like a sickness, coiling around your heart. you began to see sin in every glance, every touch, every laugh that left you breathless. you couldn’t stop yourself from imagining things—things you couldn’t say, couldn’t even think without bile rising in your throat.

you prayed. oh, God, how you prayed. every night, you knelt beside your bed, fingers clutching the rosary so tightly they left indentations on your palms. you begged for forgiveness, begged God to deliver you from this sickness of the soul. you whispered Hail Marys into the dark, choking on the words as you begged the Blessed Virgin to intercede for you, to make you pure again. but your prayers felt hollow, empty. each whispered plea was drowned out by the memory of benjamin’s voice, the sound of his laughter, the way he had looked at you that day in the courtyard, sunlight haloing his head like a saint in a fresco.

you told yourself it wasn’t his fault. how could it be? he was just being benjamin, just being kind. he didn’t know what it did to you when he leaned in close, breath warm against your ear. he didn’t know about the nights you lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the air between your beds a chasm you longed to cross but never would.

the fault was yours alone. your weakness. your sin.

and yet, no matter how many times you dragged the blade of guilt across your soul, the feelings wouldn’t go away. they festered, spreading like rot, turning your prayers into cries of anguish. you thought of the words of Matthew: “if your right eye causes you to sin, gouge it out and throw it away. for it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body be thrown into hell.” and yet your eyes lingered on him still.

you began to pull back. at first, it was subtle: excuses to leave study sessions early, mumbling about assignments or the need to pray. you avoided his gaze, kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap when he reached out to touch your shoulder. you stopped laughing at his jokes, stopped letting him get too close, stopped letting him into the cracks of your armor.

but it was impossible to escape him. he was always there—leaning against your desk, lounging on his bed, sprawled out in the dining hall, his smile a temptation you couldn’t resist. you tried to flee from him, but he followed you everywhere, even in your thoughts. his voice was there when you knelt before the crucifix, his laughter echoing in the back of your mind as you begged God to cleanse you.

and the worst part was that he noticed. of course he noticed. the worst part was that you wanted him to. some small, desperate part of you wanted him to press, to dig, to uncover the thing rotting in your soul and absolve you of it.

“hey, what’s going on with you?” he asked one evening, lounging on his bed with one arm tucked behind his head. his shirt was rumpled, the top few buttons undone, and you hated the way your eyes were drawn to the hollow of his throat.

you couldn’t look at him. couldn’t bear to see the hurt in his green eyes, the confusion on his face, you couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that it was your own weakness, your own sin. you couldn’t tell him that his mere existence was unraveling you, that every time he touched you, it felt like temptation made flesh. “nothing,” you said quickly, focusing on the textbook in your lap as if the words on the page could save you.

“bullshit,” he said, sitting up, his sharp green eyes piercing through your feeble lies. “you’ve been acting weird all week. did i do something?”

you flinched, the weight of his concern pressing down on you. you could feel the truth clawing at the back of your throat, desperate to be let out, but you couldn’t speak it. to confess was to condemn yourself. “no,” you said quickly, too quickly.

“then what is it?” his voice softened, but the hurt had already started to seep into it. you wanted to shove him away, to tell him to stop caring, to stop looking at you like that. stop making me feel this way. “you’re not... you’re not letting those assholes get to you, are you? ‘cause if someone’s giving you shit, i’ll—”

“it’s not that,” you snapped, harsher than you intended, your shame turning sharp as a blade. his expression faltered, and guilt twisted in your chest like a thorn. you dropped your gaze, your hands trembling as they gripped the edge of your book. “i just... i need space, okay?”

“space,” he repeated, the word flat and unfamiliar in his mouth. “from me?” he didn’t understand. how could he? to him, you were just the awkward Catholic boy he’d taken under his wing. he didn’t know about the fire consuming you from the inside out, the way his very presence felt like a test of faith you were doomed to fail.

the silence stretched out, suffocating. you could feel him staring at you, searching for something—an answer, a crack in your armor, anything that would make sense of this. finally, he exhaled sharply, the sound like a wound opening. “fine,” he said, standing abruptly. the bed creaked under his movement, the sound echoing in the quiet room. his voice was colder than you had ever heard it, laced with a bitterness that made your chest ache. “whatever you want, Father.”

the door clicked shut behind him, and you were alone. alone with the shame, the guilt, the terrible longing that refused to let you go. you pressed your hands together, the rosary dangling between your fingers like a lifeline, but even as you tried to pray, all you could think of was him.

but the distance didn’t help. if anything, it made things worse.

benjamin was always there, in your mind, no matter how hard you tried to shut him out. the memory of his smile haunted you during morning prayers. the sound of his voice echoed in your ears as you tried to focus on your studies. at night, in the dim light of your dorm room, you could hear him breathing in the bed across from yours, and it felt like a cruel reminder of everything you couldn’t have.

you hated him for it. you hated yourself more.

you had always been devout, a faithful son of the church. your rosary was your shield, your Bible your sword, your faith the fortress that had kept you safe from the temptations of the world. you clung to the Word of God like a drowning man clings to driftwood, trusting it to keep you pure, to keep you upright. but benjamin made you falter. benjamin made you doubt.

and worst of all, benjamin made you want.

the dreams had come slowly at first, creeping into your mind like thieves in the night. they were innocuous, almost innocent: his laugh ringing out like church bells, his hand brushing yours by accident. but they grew darker, heavier, like a storm gathering on the horizon. you began to dream of his hand lingering too long on your shoulder, sliding down your arm, his fingers warm, deliberate. you dreamed of his lips—pink, soft, sinful—hovering too close to yours, his breath ghosting against your skin. you dreamed of his hand, sure and unrelenting, sliding down your stomach, your cock throbbing under his touch as his name fell from your lips like a prayer you’d never dare to speak aloud.

you always woke from those dreams shaking, drenched in sweat and shame. your body betrayed you, your cock hard, insistent, as if it hadn’t just condemned you. the guilt came in waves, crashing over you, dragging you under. you’d fumble for your rosary in the dark, clutching it tightly, the beads biting into your palms like thorns. you’d sink to your knees on the cold, unyielding floor, whispering, “forgive me, Father, for i have sinned.”

your voice trembled, cracked, as you poured yourself out to a God who surely couldn’t love you anymore. you recited the Psalms until your throat was raw, until the words blurred into each other and the ache in your chest grew unbearable. you told yourself you were strong enough to resist, that the dreams meant nothing, that they were merely a test of your faith.

but the dreams kept coming.

and worse, some dark, treacherous part of you didn’t want them to stop.

one night, long after benjamin had left for the evening, you found yourself restless, the shame coiled tightly in your chest, suffocating. you paced the small dorm room, your rosary clutched in one hand, muttering prayers under your breath like a desperate incantation. but they didn’t help. they couldn’t stop the image of him from searing itself into your mind: benjamin sprawled out on his bed, his shirt half undone, his laugh warm and unguarded, his scent—clean, sharp, him��lingering in the air like incense.

you told yourself to stop, to look away, to think of anything else, but the pull was too strong. you walked into the bathroom, hoping the cold tile and harsh light would cleanse you, give you some clarity. but then you saw them.

benjamin’s boxers were draped carelessly over the counter, a remnant of his presence that felt like a physical blow. your heart lurched, your breath catching in your throat. you froze, your breath catching in your throat, shame flooding you before you’d even moved. you shouldn’t touch them. you knew you shouldn’t. this was wrong, disgusting, unforgivable. but before you could stop yourself, your hand was reaching out, trembling as it closed around the fabric.

they were still warm.

you brought them to your face, your chest heaving as his scent hit you like a blow. it was intoxicating, maddening, him. you inhaled deeply, the cotton brushing against your lips, and you could feel your body reacting, your cock straining against the confines of your jeans.

a strangled sound escaped your throat, half-sob, half-moan. you were shaking, trembling under the weight of your sin, but you couldn’t stop. the shame rose in you, thick and choking, but it only seemed to fuel the fire burning inside you.

your free hand slid down to the bulge in your jeans, your fingers fumbling with the zipper as you gasped for breath. “i’m sorry,” you whispered hoarsely, your voice breaking. “God, ‘m sorry, i’m sorry.” but the words were hollow, meaningless, drowned out by the frantic beating of your heart and the unbearable ache in your body.

your hand slipped into your boxers, your cock hot and throbbing in your palm. the fabric of benjamin’s boxers pressed against your face as you stroked yourself, the sensation overwhelming, sickeningly good. you bit down on your lip to stifle a moan, tears streaming down your face as the guilt clawed at you, sharp and unrelenting.

you hated yourself for this.

you hated how much you needed it.

each stroke felt like a lash against your soul, each gasp a plea for forgiveness you didn’t deserve. you thought of the saints, their eyes turned heavenward, their bodies pierced and broken for their faith, and you wondered if they would weep for you or turn away in disgust. you thought of the thorns pressed into Christ’s brow, of the spear that pierced His side, and you felt like you were driving it in deeper with every desperate, shameful motion.

you were drowning in sin.

the rosary clutched in your hand felt heavier than ever, its beads digging into your skin like penance, a crown of thorns wrapped around your fist. each bead you touched felt like a tally mark against your soul, a reminder of the countless sins you’d committed in thought, in word, and now—oh, God forgive me—in deed.

benjamin’s scent clung to the fabric pressed to your face, clean and sharp, with that faint musk of sweat and skin that was undeniably him. you could taste it on your tongue, could feel it seeping into your lungs like incense burned in offering. it filled you, overwhelmed you, until you couldn’t think of anything else.

your body betrayed you.

your cock throbbed in your hand, slick with the evidence of your shame. the other gripped the rosary so tightly that the crucifix bit into your palm, the tiny Christ pressed there like a mute witness to your depravity. tears streaked down your face, hot and bitter, dripping from your chin onto your bare chest. you felt split open, like the veil of the temple torn in two, laid bare before God and man.

“i’m sorry,” you gasped, the words breaking on your lips, no more than a breathless whisper. “fuck, ‘m so sorry.”

but even as you prayed, even as you begged for forgiveness, your hips jerked forward, thrusting into your fist. the friction was maddening, too much and not enough all at once. you couldn’t stop. you didn’t want to stop.

the shame was suffocating, thick as smoke, but it only seemed to fuel the fire raging in you. the boxers in your hand felt like a relic, a profane artifact that held power over you. you buried your face in them, inhaling deeply, and a strangled moan escaped your lips.

your fingers tightened around your cock, stroking faster, harder, desperate to chase the release you knew would damn you. you bit your lip, hard enough to draw blood, trying to stifle the sounds rising in your throat. they escaped anyway, broken gasps and half-sobs that echoed off the tile walls like confessions shouted in a cathedral.

the bathroom door creaked open.

you froze.

your heart stopped, then slammed back to life, pounding so loudly you thought it might burst. slowly, your eyes flicked toward the doorway, and there he was.

ben.

his green eyes were wide, his brows drawn together in confusion and concern as he stepped inside. “hey, are you—” he stopped mid-sentence, his gaze dropping to the scene before him.

your cock in your hand, hard and aching. his boxers clutched in the other, pressed to your face. the rosary tangled in your fingers, beads slipping between them like the blood of your guilt.

“fuck,” he breathed, his voice low and rough. his eyes darted back up to your face, and you could see the realization dawn in them. the pieces clicking into place.

the shame was instant, white-hot, burning through you like fire and brimstone. you dropped the boxers as if they’d scorched you, scrambling to cover yourself. words tumbled from your lips, incoherent and panicked. “i—i’m sorry, i didn’t—”

benjamin stepped closer, his movements deliberate, measured. his expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—curiosity? amusement? want?

your breath hitched as he crouched in front of you, his hand reaching out. you flinched, expecting anger, rejection, disgust. but instead, his fingers brushed against yours, prying the rosary from your trembling grip.

“hey,” he said softly, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. “relax.”

you shook your head, tears spilling over again. “i can’t—i’m so sorry. i shouldn’t—”

he cut you off with a hand on your wrist, his grip firm but not unkind. “feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. the heat in his gaze made your stomach twist, your cock twitch in your hand. “bet you’ve been pent up for weeks, huh? poor fuckin’ thing...”

you wanted to protest, to tell him to stop, to push him away. but your body betrayed you again, leaning into his touch, your breath hitching as his fingers wrapped around your own.

“let me help,” he said, his voice low and rough, almost horse. you didn’t respond. you couldn’t.

he guided your hand, his grip firm and sure, stroking you in a rhythm that made your head spin. his other hand picked up the boxers from the floor, holding them to your face once more. “go on,” he murmured. “you want it, don’t you?”

a sob tore from your throat as you inhaled deeply, the scent of him filling your lungs. it felt wrong, filthy, perfect.

benjamin’s hand gripped your cock with a firm, unrelenting pressure, his fingers curling around your length as though he’d done this a thousand times before. the confidence in his touch was maddening, a sharp contrast to your trembling body and fractured thoughts. his palm was warm and sure, his movements measured, deliberate��stroking you with a pace that was just slow enough to make you ache, to keep you teetering on the edge of sanity.

“shhh,” benjamin murmured, his voice low, soothing, a sharp contrast to the roughness of his hand. his lips brushed the shell of your ear as he spoke, his breath warm and unbearably intimate. “you don’t want anyone else to hear, do you? just me. just us.”

you whimpered, a helpless sound that only made his smirk widen. the way his fingers curled around your cock, stroking upward with just enough pressure to make your thighs tense, sent bolts of heat racing through you. his thumb grazed the sensitive tip, spreading the slick pre-cum there with an unhurried, almost lazy motion that had your hips bucking forward without your permission.

“desperate already?” he asked, his tone mocking but soft, as if he was speaking to something fragile. he pressed the heel of his palm against the base of your cock, applying just enough pressure to make you ache, to keep you right on the precipice of pleasure without tumbling over. “you’re gonna have to work for it, sweetheart.”

the bathroom was suffocating, steam and guilt mingling in the stagnant air. ben’s grip on your wrist tightened, steadying your trembling body as he tugged you upward, his strength unyielding. you stumbled to your feet, barely able to think, barely able to breathe as he guided you toward the sink.

"look at yourself," he murmured, his voice a low growl that reverberated through the tiles. his hand cupped your chin, forcing your head up, making you confront the reflection in the mirror.

your face was a mess: tear-streaked, flushed, mouth parted in desperate gasps. your chest heaved, sweat glistening on your skin. and below, the evidence of your shame—your cock, swollen and slick, gripped tight in ben’s firm, unforgiving hand.

"god, look at you," he rasped, the words rough and dripping with derision, yet tinged with something darker, something hotter. his green eyes burned as they flicked between your reflection and the reality of you standing before him, shaking, broken. "so filthy."

you whimpered, your knees threatening to buckle under the weight of his gaze, of his words. "how do you think God would feel, huh?" he asked, his tone mocking, cruel in its softness. his lips brushed against your ear as he spoke, the contact sending shivers down your spine. "seeing you like this? crying and moaning like a fuckin’ sinner. bet the saints are turning away right now."

“stop,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, hoarse from the tears and the shame that choked you. but you didn’t pull away. you couldn’t.

benjamin’s hand tightened around your cock, stroking it with slow, deliberate precision. he watched your reflection, studying every flinch, every gasp, every broken sound that escaped your lips. "stop?" he echoed, his smirk deepening. "you don’t want me to stop." he tilted his head, his eyes locking onto yours in the mirror. "look at yourself. you’re loving this. bet you’ve been dreaming about me, haven’t you? thinking about my hands on you, my mouth on you..."

your knees buckled at the insinuation, and his arm shot out, catching you around the waist, holding you upright. you tried to shake your head, to deny it, but your body betrayed you. your hips jerked forward again, seeking the friction his hand so cruelly denied you. “please,” you gasped, though you didn’t know what you were begging for—for him to stop, for him to continue, for absolution, for release.

he chuckled, low and throaty, the sound rumbling through your chest. "poor thing," he murmured, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "all those prayers, and this is where they got you. on your knees, jerking off with my fuckin’ boxers like a desperate little pervert."

your stomach twisted, shame coiling tighter, but the heat in his voice, the weight of his words—it ignited something inside you, something primal and unbearable.

benjamin leaned closer, his breath warm against your neck. his lips brushed your shoulder, soft at first, then firmer as his teeth grazed your skin. he nipped at you, not enough to break the skin but enough to make you gasp, your cock twitching helplessly in his hand. "fuck, you’re so easy," he hissed, his tone laced with contempt and fascination. his free hand slid up your chest, his fingers ghosting over the line of your throat before gripping your jaw. he forced your gaze to stay fixed on the mirror, his green eyes burning into yours through the glass. "look at yourself," he demanded, his grip tightening on your chin just enough to keep you compliant. "take a good, long look."

your eyes flicked to the mirror, and the sight made your stomach churn. your face was flushed, your eyes glassy and wet from unshed tears. sweat clung to your skin, your hair disheveled, and your lips swollen from where you'd bitten them raw. your cock was still hard, leaking against your stomach, throbbing with need as benjamin stood behind you, as he pumped you in slow, devastating strokes “does this feel good?” he whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. his voice dripped with mockery, sending a jolt of humiliation through you. "getting all hard for me, like some filthy little pervert? huh?"

your hips jerked forward involuntarily, chasing the friction of his touch, and a broken moan tore from your throat. the sound echoed in the small bathroom, a damning confession of your weakness. benjamin smirked, his grip on your jaw tightening just enough to keep you in place. "that’s what i thought."

your knuckles turned white as you gripped the edge of the sink, the cold porcelain biting into your palms. you tried to look away, shame prickling your every nerve, but benjamin’s grip was unrelenting. he tilted your chin higher, forcing your gaze to stay fixed on the mirror. “don’t you fucking look away,” it was a command, sure, but also quiet request, one you couldn’t bring yourself to refuse. “i want you to see exactly what you are. a filthy, desperate pervert, getting off to the thought of me. say it.”

your breath hitched, a broken moan tearing from your lips as your hips jerked forward, chasing the friction of his touch. the sound seemed to please him, his smirk widening as his other hand moved to your waist, holding you steady against the sink. “say it,” benjamin murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. his hand on your cock moved faster now, his strokes rough and unrelenting, dragging you closer to the edge. “say what you are.”

“i—i can’t,” you gasped, your voice cracking under the weight of your shame.

“yes, you can.” his tone softened just enough to make your chest tighten, to make you hate how much you wanted to give in. “say it, or i’ll stop.”

your head snapped up, panic flaring in your chest as you met his eyes in the mirror. he smirked at your reaction, his grip on you tightening just enough to remind you who was in control. “you don’t want me to stop, do you?” he teased, his voice a low purr as his fingers wrapped around your cock, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur. “you like this too much.”

“i’m a filthy pervert,” you finally choked out, the words burning like acid on your tongue.

“good boy.” benjamin’s smirk deepened, his hand moving faster now, dragging you toward the precipice. “now tell me what you want.”

“i—” your chest heaved, your hands gripping the edge of the sink so tightly your knuckles turned white. “i want you.” the confession tore free like a prayer, desperate and raw. “I want you to touch me, to—to make me cum—”

benjamin chuckled, the sound low and satisfied as he pressed his lips to your neck. “that’s more like it,” he murmured, his voice dripping with approval. “go on. let go for me. i want to feel you come apart in my hand.”

his words were your undoing. your body arched against him, trembling as the pleasure surged through you like a wave crashing against the shore. benjamin’s grip was firm, steady, grounding you as you came with a shuddering cry, your release splattering against the mirror in thick, messy streaks.

“fuck,” ben breathed out, his tone heavy with awe as he watched your reflection. his hand didn’t stop, coaxing every last drop from you, his strokes slow and deliberate now, like he was savoring the way you unraveled beneath his touch.

when it was over, you sagged against the sink, your chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath. ben’s hand lingered on your cock, his fingers slick with your release as he pulled away, his smirk softening into something almost tender. “look at that,” he murmured, his hand sliding up to grip your chin, tilting your head back so your eyes met his in the mirror. “such a pretty mess.”

you swallowed hard, the shame creeping back in like a tide, but ben’s thumb brushed against your jaw, grounding you. “you okay?” he asked softly, his voice lacking the teasing edge it had carried before. you nodded weakly, your throat too tight to speak.

“good.” his smirk returned, softer now, but no less infuriating. he leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “because you owe me a clean mirror.”

[eepwtf]

PUNISHABLE—soldier boy x catholic boy part 2

find part one here ⤷ part numero uno

warnings; religious guilt and themes, power dynamics, somnophilia, degradation and humiliation kink, jerking off to underwear (i think my boy has a fetish for that, ben lock your underwear drawer), handjobs, jerking each other off, blowjobs, (not lasting even a minute because first time blowjob, ben being a little shit about it) wc: 5.5k

“you’re such a fucking perv,” benjamin continued, his tone light, almost conversational, as though discussing the weather. “jerking off into my underwear like some desperate little bitch. did you think i wouldn’t notice?” he pressed harder, his hand gripping you through the fabric, and you couldn’t hold back the quiet whimper that escaped your lips.

“liar,” he sing-songs, his tone dripping with regalement. “you act like such a good little saint, all those prayers, all that piety—s’just a cover for the filthy little pervert hiding underneath.”

after that night, you couldn’t look at benjamin the same way. the memory of his hands on you, his voice low and coaxing, lingered like a brand burned into your skin. it churned in your gut, twisting and gnawing until it felt like your insides were corroding, eaten away by the acid of shame. each time you saw him—his easy smirk, the casual way he draped himself over the furniture, the faint smell of him that hung in the air—you felt your stomach turn, the shame rising thick and bitter in your throat.

you couldn’t stay in the room. the air felt too close, too full of him, his presence pressing against you like a weight you couldn’t bear. so you fled. the small catholic temple on campus became your refuge, though it offered no comfort. it was little more than a cramped chapel tucked into an old building, the stained glass faded and chipped, the pews scarred with years of scratches and carvings. the faint smell of candle wax and incense clung to the air, mingling with the scent of mildew from the damp stone walls. the temple became a tomb, and you were the corpse, rotting from the inside out.

you spent hours there, more time than you did in class or the dorm. you’d sit in the shadow of the crucifix, its weathered wood warped and splintering, staring up at the lifeless eyes of Christ as if begging him to look back. the silence was oppressive, heavy and suffocating, but it felt right—like the weight of your sin, tangible and inescapable. you sat for hours in the shadow of his body, staring at the weathered wood, splintering and warped, as if waiting for him to come alive and condemn you. his hands were outstretched, pierced and bleeding, his face frozen in agony. you imagined he looked at you with that same pain, that same accusation, and it broke something inside you.

you tried to pray, the rosary beads dug into your palms, leaving angry red marks that faded too quickly to feel like real penance. you clutched them tighter, grinding the crucifix into your skin until it almost bled, muttering the Act of Contrition until the words blurred together, but the guilt remained, festering like an open wound.

o my God, i am heartily sorry for having offended Thee... the words came out cracked and hollow, meaningless, swallowed up by the suffocating silence of the chapel. …because i dread the loss of heaven, and the pains of hell... but it was too late for heaven. ...but most of all because they offend Thee, my God...

the guilt felt like chains around your chest, tightening with every syllable, dragging you down into an abyss you could never climb out of. …who art all good and deserving of all my love. You didn’t deserve his love. you didn’t deserve anything.

you took to kneeling on the cold stone floor, refusing the comfort of the pews. the sharp bite of the stone against your knees felt like punishment, the only tangible way to feel the weight of your sins. sometimes you stayed there until your legs went numb, until the pain turned into a dull ache and then into nothingness. other times, you pressed your forehead to the ground, curling into yourself like a body at a wake, wishing the earth would swallow you whole.

your whispered prayers became desperate, broken things, half-choked with sobs you tried to silence. “i’m sorry,” you’d mutter, over and over, your voice cracking. “God, i’m so sorry. please, forgive me.” but no forgiveness came. only silence.

at night, you dreamt of fire. the memory of benjamin played on an endless loop in your mind: his hands gripping you, his voice low and coaxing, the heat of his breath against your skin. it burned you from the inside out, an inferno you couldn’t escape. when you closed your eyes, you could still see the smirk on his face, the way his gaze had locked onto yours in the mirror. “such a pretty mess.” the words echoed in your skull, a taunt, a curse, a brand seared into your very soul. you felt it sinking into your flesh, carving itself into your bones. you’d wake up gasping, clawing at your skin, trying to scrape it away. but it was always there, a stain you couldn’t wash off.

you thought about confession, about spilling your sins to the priest behind the screen. but the idea of speaking the truth aloud, of hearing it in your own voice, made your stomach churn. The words “i touched myself, i wanted him, i wanted it” felt too filthy to utter, even in the privacy of the confessional. so you stayed silent.

the darkness festered inside you, growing like a sickness. you began to wonder if this was your punishment—not the fires of hell, but this slow, quiet decay. a part of you hoped it was, because it meant God was still watching, still listening, even if only to damn you.

and yet, no matter how much you prayed, no matter how deeply you knelt, the memory of benjamin lingered. his touch, his voice, his scent—they wrapped around you like chains, dragging you down. you were no longer yourself. you were a sinner, a vessel for guilt and shame, rotting in the shadow of the cross.

each day bled into the next, the hours merging into a haze of suffocating monotony. time slipped through your fingers like sand, gritty and coarse, leaving only the weight of your sins behind. the chapel became your entire world, a dim, crumbling sanctuary where you sought absolution and found only torment. you avoided your dorm, your classes, even the dining hall—anywhere benjamin might be. the thought of facing him, of seeing his smirk twist into something cruel or indifferent, made your chest seize.

still, he haunted you.

he was in every shadow, every flicker of light that danced on the stone walls. his voice lingered in the back of your mind, a low, mocking drawl that you couldn’t silence no matter how many Hail Marys you whispered. and the worst part? it wasn’t just shame you felt.

in the deepest recesses of your mind, where the guilt couldn’t reach, a darker truth festered. you wanted him. you still wanted him. the memory of his hands on you, the sound of his breath in your ear, the warmth of his body pressed close—it didn’t just torment you; it consumed you. late at night, you found yourself replaying it all in your mind, over and over. your body betrayed you in the quiet, a burning need rising up that you couldn’t suppress no matter how tightly you clutched the rosary, no matter how fervently you prayed for absolution.

the shame was unbearable, searing hot and cloyingly thick, but it wasn’t enough to stop the betrayal of your own body. your cock ached, straining against the fabric of your sweatpants, a constant reminder of your weakness. you rolled onto your side in your bed, clenching your fists, digging your nails into your palms until they left crescent-shaped marks. you whispered prayers under your breath, begging for the ache to subside, for your body to stop betraying you. but it didn’t.

it never did.

and then there was benjamin, sleeping across the room. the rise and fall of his chest, slow and steady, filled the small space with a rhythmic calm that only made your torment worse. the soft sighs he gave in his sleep, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the way his lips parted slightly as he breathed—it was maddening. you hated him for being so effortlessly beautiful, for existing in a way that made it impossible for you to look away.

your hand found its way to your cock before you could stop it, the need too overwhelming to resist. you pressed your face into the pillow, biting down hard to stifle the shameful sounds threatening to spill from your throat. your other hand clutched the rosary still tangled around your wrist, the beads biting into your skin as you stroked yourself, slow and deliberate, trying to stay quiet.

your eyes stayed fixed on him, on the faint glow of moonlight that traced the curve of his jaw, the soft shadows that played across his face. each breath he took seemed louder than the last, each shift of his body under the covers like a whisper meant only for you.

it was wrong. it was so fucking wrong. but you didn’t stop. you couldn’t stop. the crucifix above your bed seemed to watch, its lifeless eyes boring into you as if condemning every shudder, every gasp, every sinful thought. you imagined Christ’s agony, his blood dripping from the crown of thorns, his body nailed to the cross for your sins—and here you were, defiling his sacrifice with every stroke, every filthy thought. it should have stopped you. it should have made you fall to your knees in repentance. but instead, it only made the guilt more unbearable, the shame more suffocating, until the pressure inside you broke. your lips moved in silent prayer even as your strokes quickened, the contradiction tearing you apart. "forgive me, Father," you whispered, your voice choked and broken. but even as you begged for absolution, your body craved release.

your gaze flicked to benjamin. he had shifted in his sleep, one arm flung above his head, his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of skin. the sight made your mouth go dry, your hips bucking into your fist as a low, shuddering moan escaped you. you imagined his hand replacing yours, his voice a low, mocking drawl coaxing you to give in. the thought alone sent a jolt of pleasure through you, your breaths coming faster, more desperate. “ben,” you whispered, the name slipping past your lips before you could stop it. the sound felt sacrilegious, an invocation of something dark and forbidden.

the beads of the rosary dug deeper into your wrist, the pain grounding you even as your strokes grew frantic. pre-cum slicked your fingers, the wet sound obscene in the silence. the shame was suffocating, a thick, rancid weight that settled in your chest, but you couldn’t stop. your gaze stayed fixed on him, on the soft curve of his jaw, the soft fluttering of his lashes. the ache inside you swelled, sharp and consuming, until it was too much to bear. your body convulsed, thick spurts of cum spilling over your hand, your hips jerking against the mattress as you bit down hard on your pillow to muffle your cries.

the shame was instant and suffocating, crashing down on you like a wave. you froze, your body trembling as the reality of what you’d done settled over you like a shroud. benjamin stirred, a soft murmur escaping his lips as he shifted again, his face relaxing back into the peaceful stillness of sleep. you watched him, your heart pounding in your chest, and the weight of your sin crushed you.

you wiped your hand on the sheets, bile rising in your throat as the reality of what you’d done sank in. you whispered a broken prayer, the words cracking in your throat, and vowed never to give in again. but deep down, you knew the truth. you would.

the shame should have stopped you. it should have dragged you to your knees, should have compelled you to throw open the chapel doors and confess everything—every sinful thought, every wretched desire, every stroke of your hand that mocked the sanctity of your faith. and yet it didn’t.

the guilt had only festered, growing into something dark and rotten that you couldn’t contain. and now, hidden beneath your blankets in the suffocating quiet of your dorm, it had led you to this. benjamin’s underwear was clutched in your trembling hand. you’d stolen it—there was no other word for it—plucked it from his laundry basket earlier that day when the dorm was empty, your chest pounding with adrenaline and revulsion. you had told yourself you wouldn’t do anything, that you just wanted to hold it, to feel the weight of him, the scent of him.

but now, here you were, your cock throbbing in your palm, slick with pre-cum as you wrapped the soft fabric around yourself. it was warm from your grip, but not nearly as warm as you imagined it would be if benjamin were still wearing it. the thought sent a shiver through you, your hand tightening as you began to stroke yourself again, this time slower, more deliberate. the waistband of the underwear brushed against the sensitive head of your cock, and you bit down on your lip to stifle a groan.

in your mind, benjamin wasn’t asleep in his bed across the room. he was here, standing over you, wearing nothing but the underwear now wrapped around your cock. you imagined the way it would cling to him, the fabric stretched taut over his hips, his cock outlined against it. you imagined the heat of him, the weight of him pressing against your palm as you slid your hand beneath the waistband, your fingers brushing against his skin.

you imagined him smirking down at you, his voice low and mocking. "you couldn’t help yourself, could you?" he’d say, his tone dripping with condescension. "you’re so fucking desperate for me." your hips bucked at the thought, the motion jerking the fabric tighter around your cock. the shame clawed at you, hot and suffocating, but it only made the pleasure more acute, more overwhelming.

you closed your eyes, the image of benjamin vivid behind your eyelids. you imagined his cock hard against the fabric, slick with his own pre-cum, mixing with yours. you imagined the way he’d groan, low and guttural, as your cum spilled over the fabric, soaking it, staining it. your hand moved faster, the friction of the fabric almost too much, almost unbearable. the scent of him clung to your skin, faint but intoxicating, filling your lungs with every breath. it was wrong—God, it was so wrong—but you couldn’t stop.

"ah—fuck, ben," you whispered again, the word slipping out unbidden, dripping with need and desperation. the sound of his name on your lips sent you over the edge, your body convulsing as your cum spilled over the stolen underwear, thick and hot and endless. for a moment, you couldn’t move. the shame was immediate, cold and biting, sinking into your chest like a blade. the crucifix on the wall seemed to loom closer, its lifeless eyes staring down at you in silent condemnation.

you looked at the mess in your hand, at the fabric now stained with your sin, and bile rose in your throat. you felt filthy, wretched, unworthy of the air you breathed. but even as the shame suffocated you, even as the bile threatened to spill, a darker thought twisted its way into your mind. you imagined slipping the underwear back into benjamin’s laundry basket, unwashed, unclean. you imagined him putting it on, feeling the dampness against his skin, not knowing—never knowing—that it wasn’t his sweat, but yours.

the morning light filtered through the blinds, casting golden streaks across the room. you pretended to sleep, curled beneath your blanket as benjamin stirred in the bed across from you. your body felt heavy with the lingering weight of guilt, your stomach churning as the events of the night before replayed in vivid, shameful detail.

you could hear him moving around—footsteps padding softly across the room, the faint rustle of his laundry basket as he dug through it. your pulse quickened, a sick sort of dread rising in your chest as you realized what he was doing. you squeezed your eyes shut, your breathing shallow and uneven, your entire body tensed as you waited for the inevitable moment when he would find it. the underwear, his underwear. covered in your mess.

the sound of fabric being shifted stopped abruptly, and for a moment, there was silence. your heart pounded in your ears, so loud you were sure he could hear it, but you didn’t dare move. “fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, and your stomach twisted into knots.

you risked the smallest glance, peeking through your lashes just in time to see him holding the underwear up, his brow furrowed as he inspected the faint, crusted stains on the fabric. your breath hitched, panic clawing at your throat. he knows, you thought, the words ringing like a death knell in your mind. but then he shrugged, tossing the underwear onto his bed. “guess it’s just detergent or something,” he said to himself, his voice casual, unconcerned.

relief flooded through you, hot and dizzying, but it was short-lived. because then, to your absolute horror, he began to undress. you turned your face back into the pillow, your entire body trembling as you tried to feign sleep. but no amount of self-control could stop the way your breath quickened, the way your cock stirred traitorously beneath the blanket as you listened to the soft rustle of his shirt being pulled over his head, the faint thud of his sweats hitting the floor.

and then, the sound of him slipping on the underwear.

you couldn’t see him, but you didn’t need to. the image was burned into your mind: benjamin, his toned body half-dressed, the stolen underwear hugging his hips, clinging to him. you imagined the fabric pressing against his cock, damp and sticky with your dried release. “shit,” he muttered suddenly, a note of irritation in his voice.

and then, benjamin turned. you quickly shut your eyes, feigning sleep as your heart hammered in your chest. the sound of his footsteps grew louder, closer, until they stopped right beside your bed. “you awake, perv?” his voice was low, teasing, but there was an edge to it that sent a shiver down your spine.

you didn’t move, didn’t so much as twitch, praying he’d lose interest and go away. but instead, benjamin chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through the quiet room like a taunt. “yeah, that’s what i thought.” you felt the blanket shift, a slight tug as he pulled it down just enough to reveal your growing bulge. the cool air hit you, making your cock twitch beneath the thin fabric of your sweats, and you cursed yourself silently. “look at this,” benjamin murmured, his tone dripping with amusement. his palm pressed harder, rubbing against you through the fabric. you bit down on the inside of your cheek, struggling to suppress the gasp threatening to escape.

“can’t even keep it down in your sleep,” he said, palming you through the fabric. “what were you dreaming about, huh? was it me?” you wanted to die. you wanted to disappear, to sink into the mattress and never resurface. your hips shifted involuntarily, just slightly, into his touch. it was instinct, pure and pathetic, and you hated yourself for it. and oh, benjamin didn’t miss it. “oh, you like that, don’t you?” his fingers curled around the outline of your cock, stroking slowly, teasingly, as if to prove his point. the friction of your sweats and the heat of his hand made your entire body tense, a shudder running down your spine.

“bet you’d like it even more if i used my mouth,” he mused, his voice laced with cruel amusement. “or maybe my hand. would that make you feel better, freak?” your breaths came faster, shallow and uneven, as his hand moved with deliberate, maddening slowness. you could feel the heat of his palm, the friction of your sweats against your sensitive skin, and it was driving you insane. “you’re such a fucking perv,” benjamin continued, his tone light, almost conversational, as though discussing the weather. “jerking off into my underwear like some desperate little bitch. did you think i wouldn’t notice?” he pressed harder, his hand gripping you through the fabric, and you couldn’t hold back the quiet whimper that escaped your lips.

benjamin froze, his smirk audible even before you opened your eyes. “oh,” he said, dragging the word out, his voice dripping with mockery. “so you are awake.” you couldn’t help it; your eyes cracked open, just barely, and you met his gaze. his green eyes were bright with amusement, his smirk sharp and predatory. “figures,” he said, his voice soft and cutting. “couldn’t even keep up the act, could you?” before you could think of a response—or even move—benjamin’s hand moved again, his strokes deliberate, slow enough to make you squirm. you hated him, hated yourself, hated the unbearable heat pooling low in your stomach, but most of all, you hated that you didn’t want him to stop.

and then, to your shock and mounting arousal, he slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of your sweats, his touch hot and unforgiving against your skin. benjamin’s smirk only widened as his fingers curled around your bare cock, stroking with a firm, teasing grip that made your breath hitch. he watched your face, his green eyes sharp with predatory amusement as he took in every twitch of your features, every shudder of your chest. “look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and taunting. “so fucking hard for me. bet you’ve been dreaming about this for weeks, haven’t you? jerking off into my underwear, imagining my mouth on your cock.”

the words sent a fresh wave of shame crashing over you, burning hot and stifling in your chest. the guilt churned, twisting your stomach into knots even as your hips bucked into his hand, completely betraying you. you felt trapped between the two warring parts of yourself—the part that wanted to resist, to run, and the part that wanted nothing more than to give in, to let him ruin you completely. “you know what your problem is?” ben said, his grip tightening just enough to make your vision blur. “you’ve been holding back, keeping all that tension bottled up. you’re so fucking repressed it’s almost sad.”

your throat tightened at the accusation, the words hitting a nerve you didn’t even realize was raw. he wasn’t wrong. every day spent in the chapel, every whispered prayer for forgiveness, every shame-fueled confession—it had all built into this. the weight of your own guilt loomed heavy over you, wrapping around your chest like a vice even as benjamin’s touch ignited a fire deep in your core. “you probably think this is a sin, don’t you?” he whispered, leaning in close enough that his breath was hot against your ear. “some terrible, shameful thing. but you don’t look very sorry to me.”

his voice was like a devil on your shoulder, coaxing you further into the abyss. your lips parted, a faint, broken sound escaping as his hand moved faster, slick with precum now, the obscene sounds of his strokes filling the air. “you’re not gonna pray your way out of this one, baby,” benjamin murmured, his tone mockingly sweet. “but don’t worry—i’ll take care of you. all you have to do is let me.” before you could process what was happening, he dropped to his knees, his smirk softening into something almost reverent as he looked up at you. the sight was enough to steal your breath—benjamin, kneeling between your legs, his hands on your thighs as he tugged your sweats down just enough to free your cock completely.

“fuck,” he muttered, his eyes darkening as he took you in. “look at you. so hard, so desperate. you’re fucking dripping, sweetheart.” you wanted to deny it, to shrink away from his words, but the evidence was undeniable. precum beaded at the tip, glistening in the soft morning light. benjamin’s thumb swiped over it, smearing it down the length of your cock, and you couldn’t hold back the broken sound that escaped your throat. he gripped your cock at the base, his hand firm and unyielding as he guided it toward his lips.

the first touch of his mouth was almost too much. his tongue flicked out, teasing the tip, before he took you in slowly, inch by maddening inch. the heat of his mouth was overwhelming, soft and wet and perfect, and your hands clenched the sheets in a futile attempt to ground yourself. “ben—” you choked out, your voice cracking as your head fell back against the pillow.

he hummed around you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. his eyes flicked up to meet yours, sharp and teasing, as he took you deeper, his throat constricting around you in a way that made your vision blur. “relax,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak. his lips were slick and red, glistening with saliva and precum. “let me take care of you, sweetheart. just let go.”

you wanted to. God, you wanted to. guilt clawed at your chest, sharp and suffocating, as your mind flickered with memories of whispered sermons and fire-and-brimstone warnings. this was wrong. every touch, every flick of his tongue, every obscene sound he made was a nail in the coffin of your soul. but benjamin’s mouth was so hot, so wet, and his hands gripped your hips with a strength that kept you grounded, kept you present. “you’re thinking too much,” benjamin said, his voice low and commanding. “stop fighting it. just let me make you feel good.”

he didn’t give you a chance to argue, his mouth enveloping you again with a renewed determination. his hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he worked you over, his pace slow and deliberate, savoring every moment. you barely lasted a minute. the pressure built too quickly, the heat coiling tight in your stomach and shooting down your spine. your breaths came faster, shallow and desperate, and you tried to warn him, tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let you.

“don’t you dare,” he murmured, his voice muffled around you. “i want it. cum for me.” the command was your undoing. with a choked cry, you shattered, your hips jerking as you spilled into his mouth. stars burst behind your eyes, your entire body trembling as the release hit you like a tidal wave. benjamin didn’t pull back, didn’t flinch. he took everything you gave him, his throat working to swallow it down, his hands steady on your thighs as he held you through the aftershocks.

when he finally pulled away, his lips were swollen, his smirk impossibly smug as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “damn,” he said, his tone full of mockery and amusement. “came so fast i barely got started. guess all that religious repression really does a number on you, huh?” you buried your face in your hands, your cheeks burning as fresh waves of shame crashed over you. But benjamin wasn’t done.

benjamin didn’t hesitate, tugging his sweats down in one smooth motion. the sight hit you like a punch to the gut. he was hard—thick, flushed, and straining against the fabric of the underwear you’d stolen just last night. your stomach churned when you noticed the faint, crusted stain near the waistband, the humiliating evidence of your lack of control.

“unbelievable,” benjamin said, his lips curling in disgusted amusement as he ran a hand over the bulge. “you actually came in my underwear.” he let out a short, derisive laugh, holding the elastic band out so you could see the stain more clearly. “for this?” He shook his head, the smirk tugging at his lips making your stomach flip. heat rose to your face, shame and arousal twisting together into a nauseating cocktail. you tried to look away, but your body betrayed you again, your cock twitching faintly despite the raw, overstimulated ache still pulsing through you.

“oh, no,” ben said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low timbre. “don’t you dare act embarrassed now. not after everything.” His green eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unyielding. “you’re into this, aren’t you?” you shook your head weakly, your voice caught in your throat, but benjamin wasn’t buying it. “liar,” he sing-songs, his tone dripping with regalement. “you act like such a good little saint, all those prayers, all that piety—s’just a cover for the filthy little pervert hiding underneath.” before you could muster a response, Benjamin grabbed your sweats and yanked them the rest of the way down, leaving you completely bare beneath him. his gaze swept over you, predatory and hungry, and your stomach flipped at the way his lips curled into a smirk. “you’re hard again,” he pointed out, his voice thick with amusement. “didn’t even give yourself a minute to recover, huh? you really are desperate.”

benjamin stepped back just enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband of the said stolen (and stained) underwear, dragging them down his legs with an exaggerated slowness that had your pulse hammering in your ears. when his cock sprang free, flushed and leaking, your breath caught. “Jesus Christ,” you muttered without thinking, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

“close,” benjamin quipped, his grin widening into something wicked. “but i don’t think He’s gonna save you now.” he wrapped a hand around himself, his thumb swiping over the head to gather the bead of precum there. his gaze flicked to you, his smirk deepening when he saw the way your eyes lingered.

“guess i can’t blame you for wanting me so bad,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “look at what you’ve done to me.” he gestured vaguely to his cock, his hand stroking slowly, deliberately, as if to taunt you further. the heat of his body was overwhelming as he climbed onto the bed, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of your thighs. the heat of his body was overwhelming, his cock hovering just above yours, so close you could feel the faint pulse of it. the sight of him straddling you, his lips twisted into that infuriating smirk, was enough to make your breath hitch.

“i should make you clean up your mess,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, sending a shiver down your spine. “wouldn’t that be fair?” you swallowed hard, unable to respond. your mouth was dry, your mind spinning, every nerve in your body alight with tension. “but,” he continued, leaning down until his face was only inches from yours, “i think i’ve got a better idea.”

before you could process what was happening, benjamin reached down, his hand wrapping around your cock again. his grip was firm and confident, his thumb brushing over the sensitive head in a way that made your hips jerk involuntarily. then, to your absolute shock, he shifted, pressing his cock against yours. the heat of him, the weight of him—thick and pulsing beside you—sent a bolt of arousal shooting through you so intense it made your vision blur. benjamin hummed, clearly enjoying your reaction, as he wrapped his hand around both of you, his fingers curling tightly to hold you together.

“fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice low and strained as he began to move. his hand stroked the length of both of you in a slow, maddening rhythm, the friction electric. the slick mix of precum made the slide effortless, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

your head fell back against the pillow, a choked sound escaping your throat as the pleasure built quickly, overwhelming you. benjamin’s gaze stayed locked on your face, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he took in every twitch of your features, every broken gasp that slipped past your lips. “look at you,” he murmured, his tone thick with mockery. “so fucking desperate. you’re not even trying to hold back, are you? just letting me ruin you completely.

you tried to shake your head, to deny it, but the words caught in your throat, tangled up in a mess of shame and arousal. your hips bucked helplessly into his hand, chasing the friction despite the raw ache of overstimulation. “s’not true,” you choked out, your voice weak and trembling.

ben laughed, low and derisive. “no? then why are you fucking into my hand like a goddamn slut?” his words cut deep, but the pleasure was overwhelming, drowning out everything else. the tension coiled tight in your stomach, building faster than you could control. benjamin’s grip tightened, his strokes growing firmer, rougher, as if he could sense how close you were. “pathetic,” benjamin said, his voice a low, teasing growl. “you’re gonna cum already, aren’t you? can feel it—feel how close you are.” he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “do it. make a fucking mess. show me how much you need this.”

his words pushed you over the edge. with a low groan, your body tensed, your release hitting you like a tidal wave. hot, sticky ropes spilled across your stomach and benjamin’s hand, the sensation so intense it left you trembling beneath him.

but he didn’t stop, his hand stroking both of you through the aftershocks, drawing out every last ounce of your pleasure. his own breathing grew heavier, his pace quickening as he chased his own release. “fuck,” he muttered, his voice tight as his hips jerked forward. a moment later, he came, his cum mixing with yours in a sticky mess across your stomach and his hand.

for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the sound of your ragged breathing. benjamin sat back slightly, his chest heaving as he looked down at the mess between you. “well,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “guess you weren’t the only one who couldn’t hold back.” you groaned, your cheeks burning as you turned your face away, but benjamin only laughed, leaning down to press a kiss to your jaw. “don’t worry,” he murmured. “i think it’s cute.”

[eepwtf]

SYNOPSIS - BRATTY

TYPE - SERIES "Thinking about..."

WARNINGS - bratty!soldier boy , top m!reader , 18+ , name calling , overstimulation , some degrading , other shit i’m too lazy to warn just overall smut don’t like it don’t read!

-FEM-ALIGNED, MINORS, AGELESS, PRONOUN-LESS BLOGS DNF

ffffuck thinking about soldier boy who has been pushing your buttons all day, strutting around with that cocky attitude, testing your patience to the limit. his bratty remarks, the constant backtalk, and that smug grin were driving you up the wall. it was like he was daring you to do something about it, taunting you with every word, every glance. you knew he was doing it on purpose, trying to see just how far he could push before you snapped. and god, you were close—so close to breaking.

finally, you couldn't take it anymore. grabbing him by the collar, you yanked him close. with a swift, decisive movement, you shoved him down onto the bed. he landed with a thud, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and anticipation. but he quickly masked it with that familiar defiance. "you finally gonna do something, or are you just all talk?" he sneered, his words laced with challenge as he propped himself up on his elbows, chest heaving.

you didn’t reply. the smirk still tugged at his lips, but you saw through it now—the brief hitch in his breath, the way his body tensed just a little under your intense gaze. it was all the fuel you needed. gripping his shirt, you yanked it off in one swift motion, and before he could protest, his pants followed. you moved with precision, each action deliberate, each movement commanding. "wait—" he started, but his voice wavered slightly as you grabbed the back of his neck, pushing him face-first into the mattress. his words melted into a soft, almost desperate sound, his cockiness draining away as he felt the roughness of the sheets against his bare skin, your weight pressing down on him. the sound that escaped his lips was almost a whimper, and you reveled in the power shift.

the bed creaked under your weight as you hovered over him, the intensity of the moment palpable. his earlier bravado seemed to evaporate, leaving behind a raw and exposed version of the ben who had been so intent on testing your limits. you leaned in, your breath warm against his ear. the contrast between the softness of the bed and the firmness of your hold was almost cruel.

leaning over him, your hand grasped onto his waist. “gonna keep running that pretty little mouth of yours?” you purred, your breath brushing against the shell of his ear and making him shiver uncontrollably underneath you. the closeness, the deliberate press of your clothed bulge against his backside, was enough to make him tense, his body betraying his frustration with every subtle twitch. “seems like i’m gonna have to fix that, huh?” as you ground your semi-hard bulge slowly against his ass, the friction made him gasp, a soft, involuntary sound escaping his lips.

however, ben stayed defiant, he angled his head to glare at you, his jaw clenched, though there was a faint quiver in his lip. “oh, please. you don’t have the balls—“ but you didn’t let him finish. your hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking it back sharply. the sudden, painful pull forced a gasp from his throat, his eyes widening in surprise and—was that lust? His breath hitched as you pressed your clothed, semi-hard bulge against his ass, the firmness of your body against his making him suck in a sharp breath. “you were saying?" you growled, your tone mockingly, but you didn’t let go, pulling his head back even further until his back arched beneath you, exposing the curve of his neck. you ground your hips against him, slow and deliberate. His body tensed, trying to resist, but you could feel the slight shudder that ran through him, the way his defiance was starting to crack. You had him exactly where you wanted him, and the satisfaction was intoxicating.

“fuck you,” he spat, though his voice lacked the venom it once had. you could hear the tremor in his tone, the way his breath caught in his throat as you tightened your grip on his hair, pulling his head back even further. “is that right?” you leaned in close, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear, sending another shiver coursing through his body. "guess i’m gonna have to shut you up, huh?” his protests turned to a low whine, his body betraying him as you ground harder against him, letting him feel every inch of your bulge through the fabric. he squirmed beneath you, but it wasn’t in resistance—it was something else, something needy.

for a moment, he stayed silent, his breathing ragged. then, in a last-ditch effort to hold onto that arrogance, he let out a breathless, “do your worst.” you chuckled darkly, leaning back just enough to slide a hand down his spine, feeling him tremble beneath your fingertips. “oh, you have no idea what you’ve just asked for.” with one swift motion, you reached beneath him, your hand wrapping around his pulsing cock, teasing the tip just enough to make him groan, his body instinctively pressing into your hand despite his resistance. “thought so,” you murmured, your grip tightening just enough to make him gasp again.

his gasp echoed in the room, but you didn’t stop. your hand moved with slow, deliberate strokes, teasing his cock as his body betrayed him. every twitch of his muscles, every shudder that ran through him was proof of how close he was to breaking, even if his mind refused to admit it. the defiant mask he always wore was cracking, piece by piece, under your touch. you could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the way he arched his back into your grip despite himself, his breath coming in ragged bursts. his fists clenched the sheets, knuckles white, as though holding on would keep him from completely falling apart.

but you weren’t about to let him keep his composure.

“you talk big,” you whispered against the back of his neck, your voice a low growl. your free hand moved to his hip, gripping him firmly as you ground your cock harder against his ass, letting him feel just how hard you were getting. “but you’re already falling apart under my hands, aren’t you princess? that mouth of yours isn’t gonna save you now.” his body jerked, the insult cutting through his pride, but instead of a saying anything, all he could manage was a sharp, breathy sound—a mix of frustration and arousal. “i—i'm not falling apart, fuck you.”

you chuckled, dark and low, amused by his stubbornness. “is that so?” your hand tightened around his cock, pumping him faster, but not enough to push him over the edge. you were going to drag this out, make him beg for it, break him down until there was nothing left of that bratty attitude.

he was panting now, his body betraying him more with every passing second. his hips bucked slightly into your hand, a reaction he clearly wasn’t in control of, and you smirked, knowing you had him exactly where you wanted him. “look at you,” you taunted, your voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “begging for it without even realizing it.” your fingers grazed over the sensitive head of his cock, drawing a strangled sound from his throat. “such a fucking slut aren’t you?”

his response was little more than a pathetic moan, muffled as he pressed his face into the mattress. his body was betraying him, every muscle trembling as your hand worked him with practiced precision. finally, after a long moment, he couldn’t hold back anymore. his voice cracked, breaking through the heavy silence of the room. “f—fuck… fine. you win.”

the words hung in the air between you, heavy with the weight of his surrender. but you weren’t satisfied with just that. “say it,” you demanded, your grip tightening around his cock, pumping him harder now, fingers grazed over the sensitive head of his cock, smearing the slick pre-cum and drawing a strangled sound from, pushing him closer to the edge. “i want to hear you admit it.” for a moment, he hesitated, his pride warring with his need. but in the end, his body made the decision for him, the overwhelming pleasure ripping the last remnants of control from his grasp. “i’m—” his voice was shaky, breathless, as he gave in. “i’m a slut, i’m your slut.”

a wide smirk spread across your face as the words left his lips, and you leaned down, your breath hot against his ear as you whispered, “that’s my good boy.” the phrase rolled off your tongue like silk, soft yet commanding. his body jerked beneath you, reacting to the praise despite himself, a low groan escaping him as he edged closer to release.

but you weren’t done with him yet.

slowing your strokes just enough to keep him teetering on the edge, you pulled back slightly, letting the tension build between you. he let out a frustrated whine, his body writhing under you, desperate for the release you were denying him. “don’t get ahead of yourself,” you murmured, your voice thick with control. “i decide when you get to cum.”

the noise that escaped him was somewhere between a groan and a growl, frustration evident in every strained breath. but he didn’t fight back this time. he was at your mercy, and he knew it. his body trembled beneath you, every muscle tense as he awaited your command, knowing he couldn’t take much more. you shifted your hips, grinding your clothed cock harder against his bare ass, the friction making both of you groan. he arched his back instinctively, trying to press himself closer to you, but you pulled back just enough to keep him on edge, leaving him straining for more. "please,” he panted, his voice a wrecked, shaky mess. he tried to twist his head to look at you, his eyes half-lidded with desire, but the firm grip you had on his hair kept him pinned in place. “please, i—”

“oh, now you’re begging?” you growled into his ear, cutting him off as you tugged his hair sharply, the action making him gasp. “no. you don’t get to beg now.” you released your hold on his hair, letting his head drop back to the mattress. he sagged, only to tense up again when your hands grabbed his hips, pulling him up, positioning him just how you wanted him—his ass perfectly angled for you.

you didn’t bother to ease him into it. with no warning, you lined yourself up behind him, the tip of your now fully hard cock pressing insistently against his entrance, teasing, stretching him without entering just yet. he writhed beneath you, his body reacting to the sensation with instinctive desperation. his breathing was shallow, his hands gripping the sheets like they were the only thing grounding him to reality. “tell me how bad you want it,” you whispered, your voice thick with dark amusement as you pushed just a little harder against his tight hole, still not giving him what he craved. the tip of your cock slid teasingly over him, rubbing slowly against his entrance, the pressure enough to make his body tremble uncontrollably. “c’mon, beg for it.”

he tensed beneath you, his pride keeping him silent at first, but you could feel the rapid pulse beating through his body, the hitch in his breath betraying how close he was to breaking. you pressed harder, the head of your cock pushing just enough to stretch him, but still not giving him the satisfaction of being filled. his muscles clenched involuntarily, his breath catching in his throat. then, just when you thought you’d have to force it out of him, he finally caved. his voice was low, breathless, barely above a whisper. “please… i want it.”

that was all you needed to hear. with one hard thrust, you buried yourself inside his tight hole, a deep, guttural groan escaping your lips as his hole clenched around your cock, the sensation almost overwhelming as he struggled to adjust to your size. he let out a sharp gasp, his entire body tensing under the sudden intrusion, his fingers digging into the mattress. for a second, there was no sound but his ragged breathing, broken only by the occasional whimper that escaped his lips.

you gave him no time to adjust, pulling back only to thrust into him again, harder this time, setting a brutal pace that had him gasping for breath. his body shook beneath you, every thrust sending shockwaves through him, and though he tried to hold on to his defiance, the way his body was responding told a different story. “you’re such a good boy, fuck—taking me so good.” you grunted, your hands gripping his hips tightly as you drove into him, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. His earlier cockiness was long gone, replaced by breathless moans that he could no longer suppress, each one more desperate than the last.

you didn’t ease him into it, didn’t give him the mercy of preparation. instead, you positioned yourself behind him, your now fully hard cock pressing against his slick entrance, teasing him, savoring the way his body tensed and writhed beneath you. his breathing was shallow, shaky, his hands clutching the sheets as if they were the only thing tethering him to reality. “tell me how bad you want it,” you murmured, your voice low and taunting as you rubbed the tip of your cock against his entrance, the pressure building with each teasing stroke. his body trembled, the anticipation practically dripping off him. “beg for it, c’mon.”

he remained silent for a moment, trying to hold on to the last shred of his pride, but you could feel the rapid pulse beneath his skin, his breath hitching with each subtle movement. you kept pushing, dragging the head of your cock slowly, torturously against him, making his legs twitch with frustration. you could hear his resolve breaking, like a dam about to burst. finally, he gave in, voice shaky, breathless. “please... i want it.”

that was all you needed. without hesitation, you pushed forward, burying yourself inside him in one hard thrust. the sensation of his tightness gripping you sent a shudder down your spine, and a deep, guttural groan escaped your lips as his body clenched around your cock, instinctively trying to adjust to the sudden intrusion. he let out a sharp, choked gasp, his body tensing beneath you, every muscle coiled tight as his fingers dug into the mattress. his breaths came in ragged, uneven bursts, punctuated by soft, desperate whimpers that slipped from his mouth before he could stop them.

you gave him no reprieve, no chance to adjust. pulling back, you thrust into him again, harder this time, setting a brutal pace that had him gasping for breath. his body shook with each forceful thrust, his fingers clawing at the sheets as though they could anchor him. despite the defiance that still lingered in his eyes, his body was betraying him completely—giving in to the overwhelming pleasure. “such a good boy,” you growled through clenched teeth, your hands gripping his hips tightly as you drove into him again and again. the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, drowning out his broken moans. “fuck, you’re taking me so well.”

his earlier brattiness had dissolved, leaving behind nothing but breathless, desperate sounds. his legs trembled with each rough thrust, his chest heaving as he tried to form words. all he could manage was a hoarse, “f-fuck…” his voice barely a whisper, drowned in the haze of pleasure and pain. “hm? what was that?” you chuckled, leaning forward until your chest was pressed against his back. your hand slid up the length of his spine, fingers digging into his skin, leaving marks that would linger long after this was over. “did i fuck you dumb already?” you spoke into his ear, your voice dripping with mockery as you rolled your hips, grinding deeper into him.

you could hear him trying to form a response, but all that came out were broken gasps and strangled moans. you gave his hair a sharp tug, forcing his head to tilt back slightly, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. “use your words princess,” you taunted, your breath hot against his skin. “you had a lot to say earlier.”

“i... i want to cum,” he gasped, the words spilling from him in a wrecked, needy tone. his body was trembling beneath you, his cock twitching with every thrust, the tension in his muscles telling you just how close he was to unraveling. you grinned wickedly, sliding one hand down to wrap around his cock, stroking him in time with your thrusts. the added sensation sent him spiraling, his hips bucking uncontrollably as you worked him closer and closer to the edge.

“please... fuck, please,” he panted, the desperation evident in every word, his voice barely holding together under the onslaught of pleasure. his head lolled to the side, eyes glazed, mouth hanging open as he teetered on the brink of release. you could feel him tightening around you, his entire body trembling as he hovered on the edge. his breaths were shallow, ragged, each one punctuated by soft, pleading sounds as he clung to the last threads of control. but it wasn’t long before he broke.

with one final, brutal thrust, you drove him over the edge. his body went rigid, back arching sharply as he came with a shuddering groan, spilling over your hand. his muscles clenched around you, the aftershocks of his orgasm rippling through his entire body, making him twitch and writhe beneath you. but you didn’t stop. you continued thrusting into him, riding out his orgasm, feeling every tremor that shook his body. he was a mess beneath you—spent, shaking, and overwhelmed—but you weren’t done. not yet.

you pounded into him relentlessly, chasing your own release as his body went limp under your weight. his chest heaved with ragged breaths, his head lolling forward as he moaned weakly, the overstimulation making him whimper. his legs trembled, barely able to hold himself up anymore, but you kept going, gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises.

only when you were sure he was completely spent, shaking and exhausted beneath you, did you finally let go, allowing yourself to succumb to the overwhelming pleasure that had been building inside you. with a deep, guttural groan, you buried yourself inside him one last time, releasing with a force that made your entire body tremble. you stayed there for a moment, your cock still buried deep inside him, your chest pressed against his back as both of you panted, struggling to catch your breath.

finally, after what felt like an eternity, you pulled out, watching as he collapsed onto the bed, completely wrecked. his chest heaved with every breath, his body trembling with the aftershocks of the intense pleasure that had just ripped through him.

you leaned over him, brushing a sweat-soaked strand of hair away from his face, your voice soft but laced with a dark satisfaction. “next time you run that mouth,” you whispered, “you’d better be ready for the consequences.” pressing a final kiss to the back of his neck, you rolled off him, leaving him there—panting, spent, and trembling from the intensity of it all.

𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐖𝐓𝐅 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋.

[eepwtf]

MY HEAVENLY ANGEL

summary: stiles stilinski has always been the kind of guy whose curiosity gets the better of him. but when his guardian angel starts appearing to him in all their ethereal glory, curiosity turns into something darker, something dirtier. and despite their pure intentions, even angels aren't immune to the sinful pull of human desire. after all, isn't God always watching? (it’s a little rushed, the idea just came to me when i was writing spn!stiles’ backstory sigh…)

warnings; eating out an angel, stiles being a freak, voyeurism /exhibitionism (because God is always watching) don’t know what else to say, it’s just smut.

it started innocently enough, as most catastrophes do.

stiles was lying in bed, staring at his popcorn ceiling and pondering the sheer mediocrity of his life. his latest brush with the supernatural had left him rattled but alive, and he'd muttered a quick "thanks" to whatever celestial being was responsible for his continued survival. he didn't expect a response.

and yet, there you were.

at first, he thought he'd fallen asleep and was dreaming. you stood at the foot of his bed, a faint glow surrounding you, your eyes wide and otherworldly, your hands clasped in front of you as though you were the one nervous to be seen.

"who—what are you?" he stammered, sitting up and clutching his blanket like a shield.

you tilted your head, the gesture slow and deliberate, almost… birdlike. "’m your guardian angel," you said softly, your voice carrying a melody no human throat could produce. "i’ve been watching over you."

that’s was how it began. you’d appear at the oddest times—when he was studying, brushing his teeth, driving. always with that serene, unreadable expression. stiles couldn’t help but notice the way your gaze lingered on him, curious yet unassuming, as though trying to decipher what made him tick.

but then the watching turned into something else.

stiles wasn’t sure when exactly his thoughts started getting... inappropriate. maybe it was the time you perched on his desk while he worked on a paper, leaning so close that he could feel the warmth radiating from your body—if angels even had bodies, which wasn’t something he should be thinking about, what the hell was wrong with him. or maybe it was the time you appeared in his room soaking wet, your clothes clinging to you as water dripped onto the carpet. you’d claimed you’d been “cleansing yourself” in the rain, but the look on your face made it seem like you knew exactly what you were doing.

and god, the way you said things sometimes—your words always came out too calm, too deliberate, with a slight edge that made his skin prickle. like you were aware of your own power, of what you could do to him if you wanted. stiles couldn’t tell if you were mocking him or just... existing in a way that wrecked his sanity.

still, he tried to brush it off. he tried. you were an angel. angels weren’t supposed to be… hot? no, no, not hot, that was wrong—ethereal. otherworldly. totally not something a human should look at and ache.

but stiles was stiles, and of course his brain couldn’t leave well enough alone.

there was that time you’d bent over to inspect something on his desk, and he’d immediately clamped a hand over his eyes, muttering something about boundaries. you just blinked at him, completely unfazed. “are you unwell?” you asked, your voice soft, like you genuinely cared.

and maybe that was the worst part—the caring. You didn’t just watch him; you noticed things. the twitch in his hands when he was anxious. the way his breathing hitched when he lied. the tightness in his voice when he tried to joke away the heaviness in his chest. you noticed all of it, and instead of judging him, you… stayed.

which made everything worse.

he couldn’t stop thinking about you. couldn’t stop thinking about your hands, delicate yet strong, and the way they’d brushed against his once when you handed him a notebook he’d dropped. couldn’t stop thinking about your voice, low and lilting, curling around his name like a prayer. couldn’t stop thinking about your eyes, how they seemed to see through him, stripping him bare until he didn’t know where stiles ended and you began.

either way, stiles knew he was going straight to hell for the things he thought about when you were around.

"you’re supposed to be... holy," he said one night, trying to keep his eyes anywhere but on the curve of your lips or the soft swell of your chest. "aren’t you?"

you tilted your head, genuinely confused. "of course i am. but i don't understand why that bothers you so much."

"’s not that it bothers me, it’s just—" he gestured vaguely at your form. "do angels normally look like that?”

your brows furrowed. "like what?"

"like they walked off a Calvin Klein runway!" he blurted, immediately regretting it. "i mean, come on, the hair, the glow, the whole—" his hands flailed as he tried to encompass your entire existence in one gesture.

you smiled, a faint flush spreading across your cheeks. "i take on a form you’d find pleasing. does this one... please you?"

stiles choked. "uh, yeah, sure, it’s great—very pleasing."

the knowing look in your eyes made his skin prickle.

it came to a head one night when he woke to find you standing by his window, bathed in moonlight. you weren’t glowing this time, but there was something even more divine about the way the light kissed your skin, illuminating every curve, every line.

"do you ever sleep?" he asked groggily, his voice rough from sleep.

"angels don’t need rest," you replied without turning, your tone calm, matter-of-fact, like you weren’t haunting his room in the middle of the night, looking like that.

"must be nice," he muttered, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. his heart was already racing, though he didn’t want to think about why.

you turned to face him then, and for once, your expression wasn’t unreadable. there was something soft about it, something… human. it threw him off balance. "you were dreaming about me again."

stiles froze, his blood going ice-cold and boiling hot all at once. "uh, what?"

"your dreams," you said, stepping closer. "they're always... vivid."

"okay, first of all, rude," he said, his voice cracking. "second of all, you watch me sleep? isn’t that, like, against angel code or something?"

you frowned, genuinely perplexed, your head tilting like you genuinely didn’t understand the problem. "i’m your guardian. watching over you is my duty."

"yeah, well, maybe watch a little less when i’m unconscious, okay?"

but you didn’t step back. if anything, you moved closer, your gaze dropping to his lips, then lower.

"do you want me to leave?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

he swallowed hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. he should’ve said yes. he should’ve. but instead, the word came out like a confession:

"no."

and that was it.

stiles wasn’t sure who made the first move. one moment you were standing by his bed, and the next you were straddling his lap, your hands tangled in his hair, your lips hot and insistent against his.

it was surreal, the way you melted into him, the way your body—so soft, so warm, so human—pressed against his like you’d been made to fit there. every nerve in his body was on fire, and yet he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t get enough of you.

“is this… allowed?” he gasped when you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, his hands trembling against your hips. his voice was rough, desperate.

“don’t know,” you admitted, your breath hitching as his fingers tightened, grounding themselves in your skin. “but it feels… right.”

“God’s probably watching,” he said, a crooked grin tugging at his lips, though there was a flicker of guilt in his eyes.

"let him," you whispered, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "He created me, didn’t He? He made me like this—for you."

the weight of your words sent a shiver down his spine.

"jesus christ," he muttered, his grip tightening on you.

"wrong deity," you teased, your smile wicked.

and then there was no room for talking.

the next kiss was hungrier, more desperate, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if the space between you was unbearable. stiles’ hands roamed your body with a reverence that made your skin burn under his touch. his fingers trailed the curve of your waist, lingering at the small of your back before gliding down to your thighs, gripping them with a possessiveness that sent shivers up your spine.

"you feel... warm," he murmured against your lips, his voice husky, thick with wonder. his fingers traced the curve of your waist, lingering at the small of your back before sliding lower, squeezing like he needed to anchor himself.

"so do you," you whispered, your breath hitching as his lips trailed along your jaw, then down your neck. your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, deeper, until his scent, his heat, his everything surrounded you.

stiles’ hands trembled as he tugged at your clothes—not out of hesitation, but from sheer need. with every layer he peeled away, his breath hitched, his eyes growing darker, hungrier, devouring the sight of you. his lips followed the path of his hands, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, the curve of your shoulder.

"god, you’re beautiful," he breathed, his voice almost reverent, but there was something feral behind his gaze, something that made your chest tighten and your thighs press together instinctively.

"don’t use His name like that," you teased softly, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips even as his words sent a shiver down your spine.

"right, sorry," he said, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips was anything but apologetic. his hands slid down your sides, his thumbs grazing the soft dip of your hips before settling on your thighs, his fingers flexing possessively. "but seriously… you're unreal."

the last of your clothes fell away, leaving you bare under the soft glow of moonlight. stiles leaned back for a moment, his eyes roaming your body with an intensity that made you feel both exposed and cherished.

"are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice quieter now, but no less urgent.

"yes," you whispered, your fingers curling against his shoulders, nails pressing into the soft cotton of his shirt as your legs shifted restlessly beneath him. "want this. want you."

that was all he needed to hear.

his lips crashed against yours, hot and desperate, his hands roaming your body with a reverence that made your skin burn under his touch. every kiss, every brush of his fingers felt like he was memorizing you, committing every curve and line of your body to memory. his kisses trailed lower, down the line of your jaw and across your neck, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin.

“you’re so soft,” he murmured, his voice rough as his lips moved down to your collarbone. his hands slid to your waist, gripping you firmly, grounding himself in the feel of you as if you might slip away at any moment.

your breath hitched as his mouth found the curve of your breast, his tongue tracing the sensitive skin with maddening precision. his hand followed, cupping you gently, his thumb brushing over your hardened nipple in a way that made you arch into him.

when he reached the apex of your thighs, you tensed, your body trembling under the weight of his gaze. he paused, his hands resting on your hips, his thumbs brushing soothing circles into your skin.

"you’re trembling," he murmured, his voice low and thick with need.

"’m nervous," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

"don’t be," he said, his lips quirking into a crooked smile as he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. "i’ll take care of you. promise."

he kissed his way lower, pausing just above the apex of your thighs. his hands slid down to your knees, gently coaxing them further apart, and the cool air against your bare skin made you shiver. his gaze flicked up to yours, and the heat in his eyes made your breath catch.

"you’re so soft," he murmured, his fingers tracing the delicate skin of your inner thighs. "so perfect."

the first brush of his lips against your core made you gasp, your hips jerking instinctively at the sudden jolt of pleasure. stiles groaned at your reaction, the sound low and guttural, sending heat pooling low in your stomach.

"easy, angel," he muttered, his breath hot against your slick folds. "let me take my time with you."

and he did. stiles licked a long, languid stripe up the length of your slick folds, his tongue swirling around your clit before dipping lower to taste you. the noises he made—soft groans of approval as he tasted you, hums of satisfaction as your body writhed beneath him—only heightened the fire coursing through you. his lips closed around your swollen clit, sucking gently, and the sensation was enough to make your vision blur.

“stiles,” you gasped, your hands flying to his hair, threading through the messy strands as you tried to ground yourself against the overwhelming tide of sensation.

"that’s it," he rasped against you, his voice rough and gravelly. "let me hear how good i make you feel, angel."

his tongue delved between your folds, exploring every inch of you with a thoroughness that bordered on worship. he alternated between teasing your clit with quick, flicking strokes and thrusting his tongue inside you, tasting you from the inside out. the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth against you filled the room, and the sheer intimacy of it made your cheeks flush. you gasped, your fingers threading through his hair and tugging, but it only seemed to spur him on.

"you taste so fucking good,” he groaned, his voice muffled against you. he tilted his head, changing the angle, and the sound that escaped you—a sharp, desperate cry—made him growl in response. his fingers digging into your thighs as he pulled you closer to his mouth, as if he could consume you whole.

when he slid a finger inside you, curling it to press against that perfect spot, your back arched off the bed, a sharp cry tearing from your throat. he groaned at the way you clenched around him, his hips grinding into the mattress unconsciously as his own arousal built. he added a second finger, thrusting them in and out in a steady rhythm that left you gasping.

"fuck, you’re so tight," he muttered, his voice thick with need. "so wet for me."

his tongue returned to your clit, circling it with deliberate precision before sucking it into his mouth. the combined sensation of his tongue and fingers was overwhelming, and your body tensed as a wave of pleasure began to build, tightening with every movement.

you could feel his own body trembling against the bed, like he was barely holding himself together. every gasp, every twitch of your thighs, seemed to fuel him, his movements growing more fervent, more desperate. his stubble scraped against your sensitive skin, the sensation a sharp contrast to the heat of his mouth, and it made you gasp, your hips bucking against his face.

“fuck, stiles.” you cried, your fingers tugging hard at his hair, your legs shaking uncontrollably.

“yeah?” he muttered against you, his voice rough and almost teasing. “that good, angel?”

“shut up,” you gasped, but your words held no bite, your voice breaking into a whimper as he thrust his fingers deeper, his tongue swirling over your clit with unrelenting precision.

he chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your core, and it made you tremble even harder. “can’t help it,” he said, his lips brushing against you as he spoke. “you’re just—God, i could do this forever.”

he shifted slightly, pulling your hips closer to his face, his grip bruising as he held you in place. you couldn’t move if you tried—not that you wanted to. all you could do was lie there, your body arching into his touch as he worked you over like he’d been made for this. like he’d been designed to unravel you.

the obscene wet sounds of his mouth on you filled the room, punctuated by your soft gasps and cries. his fingers curled again, dragging over that perfect spot inside you, and your thighs clamped instinctively around his head, trapping him there.

stiles groaned, clearly loving it. he pulled back just enough to grin up at you, his lips and chin glistening, his eyes blazing with lust. “you trying to suffocate me, angel?”

“don’t tempt me,” you shot back breathlessly, your hands still tangled in his hair, trying to pull him back down.

“oh, i’m tempted,” he said, his grin widening before he dove back in with even more fervor, his tongue and fingers moving faster, harder.

you arched off the bed again, your entire body trembling as the pleasure built higher and higher, coiling tight in your stomach. you felt like you were teetering on the edge of something overwhelming, something that threatened to consume you completely.

“shit, i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” he growled against you, his voice rough and commanding. “i’ve got you. let me take care of you.”

his words only pushed you closer to the edge, the heat between your legs becoming almost unbearable. you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but feel. stiles seemed to sense it, his free hand sliding up your body to grasp your breast, his thumb brushing over your sensitive nipple in time with the flicks of his tongue.

you were trembling all over now, your legs quaking against his shoulders, your nails digging into his scalp. he wasn’t stopping, wasn’t slowing down, and you weren’t sure how much longer you could hold on.

“fuck,” he muttered, pulling back for a brief moment to catch his breath. his lips were swollen and slick, his face flushed, and his hair was a wild mess from where your fingers had tugged at it. he looked wrecked, and it only made you hotter.

“you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he said, his voice low and rough. “falling apart for me. you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

you glanced down at him, and your breath hitched when you saw the way his hips pressed against the bed, his obvious arousal straining against the fabric of his boxers. he was rutting against the mattress, unable to stop himself, and the sight of him so desperate, so undone by you, made your head spin.

“stiles…” you whispered, your voice shaky, and he groaned, ducking his head back between your thighs, his lips and tongue resuming their assault.

you weren’t going to last much longer. he wasn’t going to let you.

stiles' fingers worked deeper, curling inside you with a perfect rhythm that made your legs shake uncontrollably. his mouth was relentless, his tongue flicking over your clit in maddening circles, then sucking gently before starting all over again. he was completely lost in you—your taste, your scent, the way your body writhed under his touch.

your hips jerked upward, seeking more of the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his fingers. every nerve in your body was on fire, coiled so tightly you thought you might snap. stiles could feel it too; he groaned into you, his voice vibrating against your sensitive core, and it pushed you that much closer to the edge.

"you're trembling s’much," he murmured, lifting his mouth just enough to let his breath ghost over your soaked skin. his fingers continued their steady thrusts, his palm pressing against your clit in teasing pulses. "you're right there, aren’t you? c’mon, angel... let go. let me feel it."

his words sent a shudder through you, your thighs tightening around his head. stiles buried himself deeper, his tongue returning to your clit with renewed focus, his lips closing around it as his fingers curled again, finding that perfect spot that made your vision blur.

“stiles, oh—fuck,” your hands flew to his hair, holding him there as your body arched sharply off the bed, your head thrown back as the tension finally snapped.

a wave of pleasure crashed over you, raw and all-consuming, leaving you gasping for air as you came undone beneath him. heat spread through your body, every nerve lit up as your release coated his fingers, his mouth, soaking him in your arousal.

"that’s it angel," he said again, his voice dripping with satisfaction. his hips grinding into the mattress as he worked you through it, his tongue lapping at you like a man starved.

he finally pulled back slightly, his lips swollen and shining, his eyes dark as he looked up at you. his chin and cheeks were slick with your arousal, and he wore it like a badge of honor, his grin crooked and breathless.

"that’s my girl," he muttered, his voice thick with pride and awe. "did so good for me." his grin widening as he climbed over you, his body pressing against yours, solid and warm. his lips found yours, and you could taste yourself on him. but even as he kissed you, his hips pressing against yours, you could feel the hard, insistent heat of him through his boxers. “gonna take care of me aren’t you? gonna be a good little angel for me.”

and somewhere, in the back of his mind, he swore he could hear God laughing.

[eepwtf]

MY ATOMS HAVE ALWAYS LOVED YOURS.

jock!ben x nerd!reader

that’s what connection is, right? the swallowing of one soul into another. taking them in, letting their essence burrow into your flesh until you couldn’t tell where they ended, and you began. like a splinter, painful and irritating, but impossible to remove. that’s what you were to ben: a splinter digging beneath his skin, refusing to let go.

and maybe that was all ben wanted—to let you haunt him completely. to be tainted by you, stained in ways that could never be undone. to let the memory of you—the presence of you—sink into his skin, his blood, his bones, until he could no longer tell the difference between himself and the ghost you’d left behind.

tw; boarding school au, slight academic rivals, homophobia, toxic masculinity, might make this a continuation perhaps, ben being a big gay yearner, slight cannibalistic imagery used, shotgunning, weed hazy make out sesh… no actual smut like i said, i’ll probably make a continuation for that! wc; 12k...

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

⎯⎯⎯  𖣂 ⎯⎯⎯

THE boarding school was a monolith of old money and grandeur, tucked away in the rolling countryside where the world felt muted and distant. the architecture itself seemed to loom over its occupants, cloaked in ivy and perpetually blanketed by a haze of mist. it was a place meant for the finest, the best, where boys were molded into men who would conquer whatever battlefield lay ahead, whether in the world of business or the trenches of war.

you didn’t belong here—not really. you were the outlier, the scholarship kid among pedigreed names that dripped from tongues with the weight of generations. yet, even in a world built to dismiss you, you excelled. your mind was a razor, carving through equations and essays, leaving the sons of wealth and privilege scrambling to keep up. you had a knack for reducing their inherited confidence to a quiet simmer of insecurity, your brilliance a sharp contrast to their entitled mediocrity.

then there was ben, the golden boy of said school.

ben had everything: the chiseled features of a carved from marble, the charm that made others forgive his outbursts, and a physicality that turned the sporting fields into his personal stage. he thrived in the chaos of competition, the thrill of victory lighting him from within. but you—oh, how you irritated him.

it was in the classroom where his temper simmered, where his smirk faltered just enough to reveal the cracks. he hated the way your hand shot up before anyone else’s, the way your answers came not with arrogance but an ease that suggested you didn’t even need to try. every time you walked past his desk with another perfect score, another commendation from the professors, ben felt the bitter taste of inadequacy curl on his tongue.

he wasn’t used to losing, least of all to someone like you—a quiet, unassuming boy who didn’t play by the rules of their unspoken hierarchy. he couldn’t pin you down, couldn’t challenge you to a fistfight on the quad and settle it like he did with everyone else. you lived in a world of ideas and intellect, a realm where his strength and bravado were meaningless.

and so, ben did what he did best: he turned his frustration into cruelty.

it started small. a snide remark as you passed him in the hall, his voice low but cutting, designed to stick in your mind. then came the more deliberate acts—your books knocked off your desk when he sauntered by, a "careless" shove in the crowded dining hall that sent your tray spilling to the floor. his friends laughed, their amusement a chorus that fueled his superiority. but it wasn’t enough to satisfy him.

he wanted to break you.

he couldn’t stand the way you remained steadfast, unshaken by his efforts to knock you off your pedestal. your defiance wasn’t loud or confrontational; it was in the way you picked up your books without a word, the way you returned to your seat and continued to outshine him. it was maddening, a mirror held up to his own shortcomings, reflecting a boy who was not the best, not even close, despite everything he’d been told his entire life.

the tension between you grew like a festering wound, unnoticed by the professors who were too enamored with ben’s charm and too indifferent to your quiet suffering. in the dormitories, where the shadows stretched long and the air was thick with the scent of damp wool and boyhood sweat, ben would corner you with his pointed glares and low mutters. you could feel his hatred radiating off him, a scorching heat that threatened to consume you both.

and yet, beneath the animosity, there was something else. something ben didn’t understand and refused to acknowledge. a fascination he couldn’t shake, an obsession born of the way you refused to yield to him. it gnawed at him, this unwanted fixation, turning his frustration inward even as he directed it at you.

for your part, you noticed the way his eyes lingered too long, the way his anger seemed almost personal, as though he despised not just your intelligence but something deeper, something he couldn’t name. you began to feel the weight of his gaze like a tangible thing, pressing against your skin, making your pulse quicken in ways you didn’t want to admit.

THE lacrosse field was a battlefield, churning with the restless energy of aggression. the boys moved like packs of wolves, bodies colliding in fierce pursuit of the ball, cleats tearing into the damp, overworked earth. you didn’t belong here. not really. the game wasn’t yours, not in spirit nor in skill. your talents lay elsewhere—in the orderly realm of equations and analysis, where every move was deliberate, not reactionary. but the school demanded bodies as much as minds, and so you played, driven not by passion but by necessity.

ben, on the other hand, owned the field. his movements were fluid, muscles taut beneath his jersey, every step bursting with the kind of confidence only bred from years of unearned praise. the coaches shouted his name from the sidelines, their booming voices dripping with approval. he thrived on it, fed off their praise like a starved beast. and yet, even in his glory, his focus was fractured, his gaze drawn to you like iron to a magnet.

it was infuriating.

you didn’t belong on his field, didn’t deserve to occupy even a sliver of his thoughts. but there you were, darting past him with that maddening air of quiet competence, your presence a thorn in his side. he loathed you, not just for your brilliance in the classroom but for the way you existed in his world without bending at his will. He couldn’t stand it.

you weren’t fast, and you weren’t strong, but your sharp, calculating mind had a way of slicing through the frenzy of the game. you saw patterns where others saw chaos, predicting movements before they happened, slipping through gaps in the defense like a shadow. it wasn’t enough to make you a star, but it was enough to unsettle ben. to remind him that even here, in the one place he should reign supreme, you found ways to upstage him.

he couldn’t stand it.

the game had reached a fever pitch, players shouting, the ball whipping between sticks like a bullet. the air was electric with sweat and tension, the faint tang of impending rain mingling with the iron bite of blood from scraped knees and bruised lips. you were darting forward, the ball cradled neatly in your stick as you made for an opening.

ben saw you, and something snapped.

it wasn’t enough to win. it wasn’t enough to be the best. he needed you to know you didn’t belong here.

he moved in, a predator stalking prey, his green eyes locked on you with singular intent. his shove was perfectly calculated—not enough to earn him a foul but more than enough to send you staggering. you stumbled, feet slipping in the mud, but you didn’t fall. you were steadying yourself when his stick came down, the blunt edge catching your face with brutal precision.

the sound was sickening, a wet crack that silenced the field as you crumpled to the ground. pain exploded across your face, sharp and immediate, a fire that spread from your nose to your temple. for a moment, the world narrowed to a single point of agony, the coppery tang of blood flooding your senses as you pressed a shaking hand to your face.

and then the laughter started.

it began with ben, his cruel bark of amusement breaking the tension. he leaned casually on his stick, grinning like a boy who’d just pulled off the perfect prank. his friends joined in, their laughter swelling into a chorus of mockery that filled the air like smoke.

“didn’t think lacrosse was a contact sport, huh?” one of them jeered, the others howling in response. ben chimed in, his voice dripping with venomous charm. “guess it’s not a game for delicate types. better stick to books, nerd.”

the words hit harder than the stick had.

you stayed on the ground for a moment, your breath coming in shallow gasps as the blood dripped steadily down your face, soaking into the white of your uniform. the grass beneath you felt cold and damp, grounding you in the midst of the humiliation crashing over you like a wave. but you didn’t cry.

when you finally pushed yourself to your feet, your knees shaking, your vision swam with the effort. your face was a mess of blood and bruises, the metallic taste thick on your tongue. the coaches had yet to intervene, their eyes blind to the golden boy’s cruelty.

ben’s laughter faltered for a split second when your gaze met his. there was something in your eyes—defiance, yes, but also a quiet strength that made his stomach churn. he could hear the blood pounding in his ears, drowning out the cheers and jeers of his friends. for the first time, he felt something other than triumph in your presence.

it was guilt, sharp and unwelcome, gnawing at the edges of his bravado.

ben forced himself to laugh again, louder this time, shoving the flicker of shame deep down where it couldn’t touch him. his grin widened, and he turned back to his friends, letting their approval wash over him like a balm. but as the game resumed, the image of your bloodied face lingered in his mind, a grotesque reminder that even in victory, something about you made him feel defeated.

he told himself he didn’t care. but the knot in his chest told another story.

YOU dreamt of ben’s teeth in your skin that night, or at least you think it was a dream. the memory lingers too vividly, too viscerally, as though your subconscious left it smoldering just beneath the surface of your waking mind. in your dream—or nightmare, perhaps—it wasn’t the boy you knew from the halls and the fields who loomed over you. it was something else. something primal, something that wore ben’s face but moved with a hunger that no human being could possess.

his green eyes burned bright at first, clear and sharp, their intensity the only thing anchoring you to what little humanity remained in him. but then the green began to darken, swallowed by black until his pupils eclipsed everything else. his grin followed, shifting from the boyish smirk you had come to associate with his cruelty to something far more animalistic. it wasn’t a smile anymore—it was a snarl, predatory and sharp, his teeth bared like a beast ready to strike.

you remember the feel of his hands on you, strong and unrelenting, pinning you down with an ease that made your breath catch in your throat. his fingers dug into your arms, their grip just shy of painful, but it wasn’t his hands that truly frightened you. it was his mouth.

his teeth found your flesh, and for a moment, the world became nothing but sensation. you felt the pressure first, the sharp edge of his canines pressing into your skin, threatening to pierce it. then came the pain—hot and electric, spreading through your body like wildfire. your breath hitched, caught somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, your senses overwhelmed by the strange, horrifying intimacy of it.

and yet, even as your dream-self writhed beneath him, a strange thought took root in your mind. it wasn’t just fear you felt. it was something darker, something that churned in your gut like a sickness. there was a perverse fascination in the way he consumed you, a twisted part of you that reveled in his domination, in the way he claimed you as his prey.

when you woke, your body was slick with sweat, the sheets tangled around your limbs like the remnants of a trap you had barely escaped. your chest heaved as you tried to steady your breathing, the phantom pain of his bite still throbbing beneath your skin. your heart raced, not just with the adrenaline of the nightmare but with something else—something you didn’t want to name.

you told yourself it was just a dream, a grotesque product of your mind’s restless wanderings. but as you lay there in the predawn darkness, your room quiet except for the faint rustle of wind against the window, you couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been more than that.

because when you thought of ben, when you recalled the way his gaze lingered on you during the day—those fleeting, almost imperceptible glances—you felt a similar unease, a similar pull. he thought you didn’t notice, but you did. you noticed the way his jaw clenched when you outpaced him in class, the way his hands gripped the edge of his desk so tightly his knuckles turned white.

you noticed the frustration in his voice when he barked orders on the field, the way it always seemed sharper, louder, when directed at you. and, most unsettling of all, you noticed the way his anger gave way to something else entirely in those rare moments when your eyes met.

it wasn’t just hatred that burned in his gaze. there was something deeper, something raw and untamed, something that made your skin prickle with a strange mixture of fear and anticipation. it was as though he was waging a war with himself, his fury at you battling against some unspoken truth he refused to acknowledge.

maybe your dream had simply dredged up all the pieces of him you couldn’t reconcile—the cruelty, the rage, the intensity that bordered on obsession—and twisted them into something monstrous. or maybe, just maybe, your subconscious had glimpsed something real, something lurking beneath the surface of ben’s golden-boy façade.

you lay there for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling as the first pale rays of dawn crept through the window. the memory of his teeth haunted you, the phantom sensation of his bite refusing to fade. you told yourself it was absurd, that you were letting his presence in your life warp your thoughts.

but deep down, in the quietest corners of your mind, you couldn’t deny the truth. you had seen the way ben looked at you. and worse still, you had felt the way his presence made something inside you stir—a festering thing, raw and ugly, that refused to be ignored.

the morning air felt heavy, clinging to your skin with a dampness that did nothing to ease the lingering unease from the night. you shook yourself off, trying to dispel the fog that clung to your mind, your hands coming up to rub at your eyes in a futile attempt to erase the dream—or nightmare—that still burned at the edges of your memory. the pressure of phantom teeth seemed to linger on your flesh, a strange sensation you couldn’t quite shake.

your uniform hung stiff and scratchy against your skin as you pulled it on, the starched fabric doing little to comfort you. the ritual of dressing, buttoning and tucking with practiced efficiency, was almost enough to settle you. almost. but when you glanced at your reflection, bleary-eyed and pale, the faint shadows under your eyes told the truth you couldn’t ignore. you looked like someone who hadn’t slept, not properly, not peacefully.

the hallways were already stirring with life as you stepped into them, the low murmur of voices mixing with the squeak of shoes on polished wood. you kept your head down, hoping to avoid unnecessary interaction, your thoughts still churning with the vestiges of the dream. your skin crawled at the thought of ben—not the boy from the nightmare, but the one who existed here, in the real world. the one who seemed to take up far too much space in your mind, even when you weren’t asleep.

you were halfway down the corridor, lost in your thoughts, when a hand gripped your shoulder, pulling you to a sudden halt. the touch jolted you, your pulse spiking as you turned quickly, your body bracing instinctively for something worse than what it was.

“don’t you know it’s rude to creep around?” you snapped, the words spilling out before you could soften them. your voice was rough, gravelly from the lack of proper rest, but the irritation in it was genuine.

your friend raised an eyebrow, unbothered by your tone. “you look like shit,” they said bluntly, their arm swinging casually around your shoulders as if to soften the blow of their words.

you rolled your eyes, the corner of your mouth twitching in faint exasperation. “i was studying,” you replied, the lie slipping out easily, though the weight of it settled uncomfortably in your chest.

studying. sure. if “studying” meant spending the night caught in a cycle of half-sleep and vivid, unsettling dreams about ben—dreams that left you waking with your heart pounding and your skin clammy. dreams that made facing him now feel like a task monumental enough to deserve its own place in Dante’s Inferno.

your friend gave you a knowing look, their gaze sharp despite their casual demeanor. “studying,” they repeated, dragging out the word as if testing its weight. “rightt.”

you shrugged them off, stepping out from under their arm and continuing down the hall. “drop it,” you muttered, not looking back.

but as you walked, the knot of unease in your stomach only tightened. you didn’t want to see ben today, not after last night, not after the way his imagined teeth had sunk into your flesh with such terrible intimacy. but you knew you would see him—of course you would. he was everywhere, an unshakable presence in your life that clung to you like a shadow. and despite yourself, a small, treacherous part of you wondered what it would feel like if the dream wasn’t entirely a fabrication. if the pressure of his teeth wasn’t just some cruel trick of your subconscious.

you shook the thought away, your hands balling into fists at your sides as you forced your feet forward. it was a new day, you told yourself. you would face him, endure his glances, his comments, his presence, and you would survive. even if the memory of his grin haunted you all the while.

of course, your friend, blissfully unaware of the strange, festering thing coiling tighter in your chest, slung their arm around you again, jostling you with a kind of ease that only highlighted your growing sense of unease. their presence might have been grounding if it weren’t for the chaos swirling behind your eyes, the dream—or nightmare—still clinging to your thoughts like cobwebs you couldn’t brush away. each step down the corridor felt mechanical, your body moving on autopilot as the slick, oily remnants of the dream seeped deeper, threatening to consume your focus entirely.

christ, you thought bitterly, why couldn’t your mind just give you peace for once? the dream’s claws had sunk deep, its venom spreading even now, and the weight of your friend’s arm was a tether you couldn’t decide whether to cherish or resent. you couldn’t even focus on their words, the low hum of their voice turning into static, a meaningless buzz drowned out by the feverish imagery curling through your mind.

that is, until their voice cut sharply through your spiraling thoughts:

“she has, like, a nice fucking ass.”

the vulgarity slapped you out of your haze, and you blinked, frowning instinctively. the raw disbelief on your face was almost comical as you turned to your friend, your voice rough with irritation. “what the hell are you talking about?”

your friend snorted, their bark of laughter echoing through the otherwise quiet hall. they shoved lightly at your head, their hand ruffling your already unkempt hair with an irritating kind of fondness that only deepened your scowl. “jesus, man, how long did you study last night?” they teased, their tone dripping with faux concern as they rolled their eyes. “i’m talking about the new teacher. you know, the one half the guys are practically drooling over.”

you exhaled sharply through your nose, shaking your head as they continued to chatter, unbothered by your lack of engagement. their arm stayed slung across your shoulders, anchoring you to their easygoing rhythm, their words spilling out in a cascade of exaggerated admiration. descriptions of the teacher’s figure, her looks, and the collective hormonal obsession of the student body filled the air. it was almost laughable how much they cared about something so fleeting.

but their words served their purpose—they drowned out the dream, tamping down the ghost of green eyes and imagined teeth, pulling you further into the mundanity of the day. you grunted noncommittally, letting their words wash over you without actually processing them. you didn’t care about some teacher everyone was ogling like a piece of meat, but their chatter had pulled you far enough from your own thoughts to notice the weight pressing against your ribs had shifted. something darker, heavier, had begun to bloom there.

and then, like a blade of glass slicing through skin, you saw him.

ben stood further down the corridor, leaning against the wall with the kind of casual confidence only he could pull off. he was flanked by a few of his cronies, boys who lingered like shadows, echoing his movements and amplifying his presence. but it wasn’t his posture or his pack of admirers that stopped you dead in your tracks. it was his eyes.

they were locked onto you, glinting like shards of polished emeralds in the muted light of the hallway. you froze under the weight of his gaze, something sharp and disquieting curling in your stomach as he looked—not at you, but at the arm slung so comfortably over your shoulders. his jaw shifted slightly, tension flickering at the corners of his mouth, though his expression remained infuriatingly neutral.

your first thought was that it was hatred. of course it was. what else could it be? ben had spent months making your life a quiet misery, his snide remarks and calculated glances digging under your skin like splinters. the idea that his stare could mean anything other than disdain didn’t even cross your mind.

his lips curled upward, but it wasn’t a smile—not really. it was more like the barest hint of teeth, a silent warning that you couldn’t quite decipher. and yet, something in his eyes felt different, something darker and unfamiliar, like the faint glimmer of green fire.

your friend, blissfully unaware of the tension coiling in the air, kept talking, their voice a low hum in the background as you stood frozen, caught in the snare of ben’s gaze. the weight of their arm around you, once grounding, now felt suffocating, a heat rising in your chest that had nothing to do with your lack of sleep.

ben shifted slightly, his frame leaning off the wall as his gaze flickered back to your face. it lingered for just a moment too long before he turned away, his attention snapping back to his friends as though the moment had never happened.

you exhaled shakily, realizing you’d been holding your breath. the knot in your stomach twisted tighter, a strange mix of unease and... something else. whatever it was, it made you feel raw and exposed, your skin prickling with the faint sensation of being watched, even as you forced yourself to keep walking.

your friend gave you a nudge, oblivious to the storm raging inside you. “earth to you,” they said, their voice teasing. “you okay? look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

you forced a shrug, your movements stiff. “i’m fine,” you muttered, though the tremor in your voice betrayed the lie. fine. sure. if you ignored the way your heart still raced, the way ben’s stare had burned itself into the back of your mind. fine, if you ignored the strange, festering feeling that had been planted in your chest and was now threatening to bloom.

ben sat across from you, his body a picture of restless arrogance, sprawled as though he owned the desk and everything around it. his fingertips tapped a jagged, uneven rhythm against the varnished wood, a staccato counterpoint to the droning monotone of the professor’s voice. the lesson, whatever the hell it was about, was already a blur in his mind—some dull lecture he’d never bother to commit to memory. he let out an gratuitous sigh, sinking lower into his seat with an air of theatrical boredom, the edges of his lips curling in a smirk as a few nearby classmates glanced his way.

but the act was just that—an act. his attention wasn’t really on the class, nor the eyes that occasionally flicked toward him, drawn like moths to the flame of his ever-present bravado. no, his focus was on you.

it always came back to you.

his green eyes found the back of your head as they so often did during these torturous classes. you sat two rows ahead, perfectly aligned to torment him with your quiet diligence. he watched the way you leaned slightly forward, the slight tension in your shoulders betraying the focus you poured into every word spilling from the professor’s lips. your hand moved quickly, a blur of determination as you scrawled across the page in front of you. he couldn’t see exactly what you were writing, but he knew it was notes.

of course, it was notes.

you always took notes, didn’t you? like some kind of academic machine, recording every detail, every thread of information the professor dared to offer. and for reasons ben couldn’t quite articulate, it infuriated him. or maybe “infuriated” wasn’t the right word. maybe it was more complicated than that—more warped.

his fingers stopped their tapping as his gaze narrowed, following the precise movements of your pen. he imagined the lines and curves you etched into the paper, the careful way you transcribed thoughts into words, words into meaning. the idea of it made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t entirely understand.

ben wanted to see it.

no—he needed to see it.

he needed to know what went on inside that overactive mind of yours, what ideas and thoughts swirled in your brain like storms. what made you so goddamn meticulous, so disgustingly perfect in your execution of everything you did? his teeth clenched, his jaw tight as he stared harder, as though sheer will alone could penetrate the barriers between his mind and yours.

he didn’t just want a glimpse into your thoughts—he wanted to crack you open.

the intrusive image came to him unbidden, vivid and visceral: his hands on either side of your skull, his thumbs pressing into the delicate curve of your temples. in his mind, the bone would give way beneath his strength, splitting like an overripe fruit. he’d tear through the lining, past the fragile casing of your brain, his fingers sinking deep into the valleys and folds of sulci and gyri. he’d feel the sticky heat of your thoughts, the pulse of your consciousness against his fingertips.

and maybe then—maybe then—he could understand.

understand how you worked, what made you tick, why you were always so goddamn far ahead of him. why, no matter how hard he tried to best you, to shake you, to drag you down to the level where he felt safe, you always managed to stay just out of reach. it was maddening. it was humiliating.

and it was intoxicating.

ben’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, his fixation on you tightening its grip around his ribcage. he wanted to hate you—god, he wanted to hate you. it would have been easier if he could. but there was something else, something darker, slithering in the spaces where hatred should have lived.

infatuation wasn’t the right word for it, but it was close.

you were perfect in a way that was almost grotesque to him, a reminder of everything he lacked, everything he could never be. and yet, he couldn’t stop watching, couldn’t stop wanting to pull you apart piece by piece until he understood the atoms, and cells inside you.

the professor’s voice droned on, a dull hum against the roar of his thoughts. his eyes didn’t leave you, not for a second. to anyone else, ben looked like a bored boy enduring another tedious class. but inside him, something wild and restless clawed at the walls of his chest, something primal and impossible to name.

SOMETHING about you clung to ben like a splinter buried deep under his skin. no matter how much he tried to scrape it out, it remained lodged there, a constant irritant—and yet, perversely, he didn’t really want it gone. it was the kind of ache that grew familiar, even welcome, as though having a piece of you stuck inside him, digging in, was better than losing the connection altogether.

he told himself it was nothing, just a weird, passing fixation. but mondays tested that lie in ways that made his jaw clench and his heart pound harder than any game ever did. mondays meant your ritual: the library. the coffee beside you, still steaming faintly as you leaned into the table, your head bowed over a fortress of books that seemed to grow taller with each passing hour.

he wasn’t sure what you read—probably something mind-numbingly boring, some dense intellectual nonsense he wouldn’t bother to crack open even if someone paid him. but you, with that maddening concentration etched into your brow and your soft, barely-there frown tugging at your lips, made it look like the most important thing in the world.

and when you read, oh god, when you read—you spoke. not loudly, no. just the faintest whispers, as if the words spilled from your mouth by accident, a soft, private litany that no one else was meant to hear. but ben heard. he always heard.

it wasn’t fair, the way your voice wrapped itself around the silence of the library, low and melodic and unbearably intimate. it felt deliberate somehow, like a knife turned just for him. it was as though you knew he was watching, knew he lingered there in the shadows of the shelves, pretending to look for some book he’d never even crack open.

if he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think you were reading for him.

he should be at practice. that thought nagged at him like a coach’s whistle in the back of his mind, sharp and insistent. practice, where his teammates would already be warming up, their easy camaraderie and loud laughter filling the field. that’s where he belonged, where he thrived. that was his kingdom. but mondays had become something else entirely.

mondays were for you.

ben found himself lingering near the library door, his shoulders slouched just enough to blend into the background. his bag hung limply off one arm, forgotten, as his green eyes tracked every movement you made. the way your fingers flicked over the pages, precise and unhurried, as though you had all the time in the world. the slight tilt of your head when you paused to scribble something in the notebook you always brought with you. the way your lips, soft and just barely parted, formed each word you whispered like a prayer.

you were calm and focused, untouched by the chaotic energy that always seemed to coil beneath his skin. you looked... at peace. it made him burn.

ben clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. he hated this feeling, this raw, inexplicable pull toward you that felt less like attraction and more like possession. you weren’t doing anything to him—just sitting there, existing, being you. and yet, it was as if you’d reached inside him and turned something vital upside down, leaving him unsteady on his feet.

he didn’t want to care about your stupid coffee cup, the way the steam curled up and caught the faint light spilling through the high library windows. he didn’t want to notice the way your glasses slipped slightly off the bridge of your nose, how you’d brush them back with an absent-minded grace that seemed so effortless it made his chest ache.

and yet, there he was, still standing there.

still watching.

still pretending to give a fuck about some random book he wouldn’t even bother to carry out the door.

ben shifted on his feet, the weight of his indecision heavy in his chest. he should leave. he should walk out, get to practice, and stop wasting his time on you. but the thought of leaving, of stepping away from this quiet moment where he could just... see you without consequence, felt like tearing that splinter from his skin. he’d lose the ache, yes, but he’d also lose the maddening comfort of its presence.

so, instead, he lingered.

and when you whispered another word, your lips brushing the silence like a kiss meant for no one in particular, ben’s grip tightened on the strap of his bag. because deep down, in the part of himself he refused to acknowledge, he wanted to believe it was for him.

it was stupid, reckless even, the way ben’s feet moved without permission, as if something unseen was yanking at invisible strings tied to his ankles. he wasn’t sure why he let it happen, why he allowed this force—this festering pull inside him—to steer him closer and closer to where you sat. he could have stopped himself, forced his body to obey logic, but something in him resisted the idea of turning back.

the quiet sanctity of the library enveloped him, all hushed whispers and the soft rustle of turning pages. the faint, bitter aroma of coffee mingled with the musty scent of old books, filling his lungs as he neared your table. it was overwhelming, suffocating, and yet strangely intoxicating. the closer he got, the more he felt like the world narrowed to just this: you, the fortress of books around you, the steam curling from your cup like it held some secret.

it was too much. too close.

ben swallowed hard, his tongue suddenly dry as he hovered behind you. from this distance, he could see the tiny grooves in the back of your chair, the faint scuff marks on the floor where your restless foot tapped. his pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the low hum of the library’s fluorescent lights.

what the hell was he even doing?

he didn’t have a plan. of course, he didn’t. ben didn’t do plans; he acted. he relied on brute force, sheer confidence, and the kind of charm that usually bulldozed any obstacle in his way. but here, now, standing behind you, those weapons felt dull and useless.

you shifted slightly, leaning forward to jot something into your notebook, and ben’s eyes tracked the movement like a predator watching its prey. his stomach tightened, not with hunger, but with something worse—something sharper, more desperate.

and then, like some unthinking beast lurching forward, he moved.

the table loomed in front of him, the edge digging into his thigh as he planted himself there, far closer than he should have been. his shadow fell across your books, an expanse of muted light eclipsed by his frame. the breath hitched in his throat, and for a fleeting, wild moment, he considered bolting. running back to the lacrosse field, to the safety of shouting and fists and controlled chaos.

but the thought passed as quickly as it came, crushed beneath the unbearable weight of his need to say something—anything.

he opened his mouth, and what escaped was not a clever remark, not the smooth confidence he wielded on the field or in front of his friends, but a sound. a low, guttural grunt that made him cringe internally the second it left his lips.

you turned at the noise, your brow furrowing as your eyes flicked up to meet his. your expression was a mix of curiosity and mild irritation, as though you were trying to decide whether this interruption was worth your attention.

ben’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his palms damp and cold despite the heat radiating from his body. the words he’d been grasping for, the half-formed excuse to explain why he’d crossed the boundary of your space, caught in his throat.

what the hell was he supposed to say? that he couldn’t stay away? that your stupid books and coffee and concentrated pout had been haunting him for weeks?

no, he needed something else—something neutral, something that wouldn’t make him look like an idiot.

“i, uh…” his voice came out rough, rasping like sandpaper against the quiet of the library. he cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “i need tutoring. in, uh… math.”

the words hung in the air like a poorly thrown pass, wobbling and uncertain. it was a flimsy excuse, half-true at best. sure, he wasn’t exactly excelling in math, but he could’ve asked any of his teammates for help. hell, he could’ve charmed one of the teachers if he’d wanted to. but none of them were you.

you blinked, your lips parting slightly as if you weren’t sure whether to laugh or take him seriously. ben felt a flush crawl up the back of his neck, his pride warring with the strange, gnawing feeling that he might just implode if you said no.

“i’m… not great with numbers,” he added quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. his hand came up to rub the back of his neck, his posture stiff despite the casual tone he was struggling to maintain. “figured you could help. since, y’know, you’re always… doing all this.” he gestured vaguely to the books and notes sprawled across the table, his movements broad and almost clumsy.

there. it wasn’t perfect, but it was something. a lifeline, thin and fragile, tossed out into the silence between you.

the air is dense, clinging to the library like an unwanted second skin, thick with the sour tang of aged paper, spilled coffee, and the faint decay of something almost alive. it’s the kind of air that wraps itself around your throat and sinks into your lungs, suffocating and intimate, a silent predator. ben breathes it in deeply, like he needs the burn to keep himself tethered to this moment, to you. but there’s something else here, too, something sharper, something that cuts through the miasma and lodges itself inside him.

it’s you.

it shouldn’t be so distinct, yet it is. a clean, woody undertone, with a hint of leather that somehow feels ancient and personal, like it carries stories older than either of you. it threads its way through the stagnant library air like an interloper, lacing itself into ben’s senses until it becomes the only thing he can taste. it doesn’t belong here. it doesn’t belong in this quiet, suffocating place of rot and whispers. but it belongs to you. and that’s enough.

he swallows hard, his throat tightening as though the scent has wrapped itself around his neck like a noose. it fills the hollows of his chest, seeps into the marrow of his bones, and carves itself into the darkest corners of his mind. It’s a scent that shouldn’t linger, but it does, a ghost that haunts him in the silence. you’ve branded him, burned yourself into him without even trying, and he can’t tell if he resents it or if he craves it more than his next breath.

“didn’t think you’d need a tutor,” you had said, a faint smirk on your lips, sharp enough to cut. but you didn’t say no.

and that’s how he found himself here.

the silence between you is a strange kind of beast. ben isn’t used to silence—his life is noise, chaos, endless sound that fills every corner of his world until there’s no room for anything else. his father’s voice, sharp and grating, tearing through the walls. the roar of the crowd on the field, his teammates’ shouts blending into a cacophony that drowns out the sound of his own thoughts.

but this silence isn’t like that.

this silence is alive.

it breathes. it stretches. it crawls into the space between you and grows, not oppressive but thick and full, like it’s waiting for something to happen. it hums with potential, a quiet pulse that syncs with the rhythm of his own heartbeat, and ben finds himself leaning into it, letting it wrap around him.

this silence isn’t empty. it’s full of you.

you sit beside him, close enough that he can feel the faint warmth of your body bleeding through the small gap between you. the edge of your sleeve brushes his forearm when you move, and it’s enough to send a spark of something sharp and electric jolting through him. he shouldn’t be able to feel you this acutely, shouldn’t be so hyperaware of every tiny shift in your posture, every soft inhale you take.

but he is.

the scent of you still lingers, curling around him like smoke from a burning altar, like something ancient and sacrificial. it feels alive, like it’s slithering into his veins, infecting him with the ghost of your presence. he breathes it in and lets it take root, lets it crawl through him and fill the hollow spaces he didn’t even know were there.

and the silence stretches on.

it’s not the kind of silence that demands to be broken. it’s a language all its own, a secret shared between you, full of things unsaid and unspoken truths. ben doesn’t need words to fill it. he doesn’t need to speak to know that you’re here, beside him, so close he can feel the heat radiating from you.

but the quiet is also dangerous. it lets him think. let’s his thoughts spiral into darker, hungrier places.

ben’s gaze flickers to you, catching on the curve of your jaw, the faint furrow of concentration in your brow as you scan the open book in front of you. he lets himself linger there, drinking you in like a starving man given his first taste of water. there’s something almost holy about the way you look right now, bathed in the soft glow of the overhead light, your fingers brushing absently over the edge of the page as though the words have bewitched you.

but ben doesn’t feel holy.

the hunger inside him is sharp and unrelenting, a gnawing thing that writhes beneath his skin. it twists through him, dark and consuming, and for a fleeting moment, he wonders what it would be like to pull you apart, to see what makes you tick. it’s not obsession. not really. obsession implies something fragile, something rooted in longing or insecurity. this is something deeper, more primal.

ben doesn’t need you. not in the way that people talk about need. but he wants you. he wants to unravel you, to pry you open and dig his fingers into the soft, vulnerable parts of you. he wants to understand what makes you sit here every monday with your coffee and your books, what makes you whisper to yourself like you’re reading something meant only for him to hear.

it’s curiosity, he tells himself. nothing more. just curiosity, burning hot and insatiable, spreading through him like wildfire.

but curiosity doesn’t feel like this.

curiosity doesn’t feel like his chest tightening every time you glance his way. it doesn’t feel like his hands itching to touch, to hold, to possess.

THATS how it went. mondays transformed into something entirely different, a new ritual that ben couldn’t explain and wouldn’t dare question. practice? a memory. the familiar rhythm of drills, the roar of his teammates, the barked orders of the coach—it all faded into insignificance the moment you came into focus. he told the coaches he was studying, his voice steady, unwavering, despite the lie rolling off his tongue like poison disguised as honey. they believed him, of course. why wouldn’t they?

ben didn’t bother telling himself he cared about the material. the textbooks, the equations, the neatly drawn graphs—they were background noise, static that faded into nothing the second you started speaking. he told himself he was there because it was convenient, because it was an excuse to escape, but deep down, in some festering corner of his mind, he knew that wasn’t true.

it was you.

you, with your quiet focus, the way your lips would move ever so slightly as you read aloud to yourself without realizing it. you, with your unwavering concentration, the crease that formed between your brows as you worked through a particularly complicated problem. you, who seemed completely oblivious to the way your presence had carved itself into ben’s very bones, anchoring you there like some unwanted parasite he couldn’t bring himself to kill.

ben would sit there, his body rigid and his mind anything but, trying to focus on the numbers sprawled across the page but failing every single time. he wasn’t looking at the work. he was looking at you. watching the way your fingers skimmed the edge of the paper, how your pen would tap against the table in rhythmic little bursts as you thought. every tiny movement, every subtle shift in your posture, dug deeper into him, threading itself into the marrow of his being until it felt like you had become a part of him.

when you spoke, your voice soft and even as you explained some mathematical concept that should have been straightforward but felt like greek to him, ben didn’t hear the words. he wasn’t listening to the numbers or the logic. he was too busy taking in the way you looked. the curve of your mouth as you formed each syllable. the way your eyes would light up, ever so slightly, when you solved something particularly tricky.

fuck, it wasn’t fair.

it wasn’t fair how easily you filled the empty spaces inside him, how effortlessly you seemed to occupy the corners of his mind he didn’t even know existed. you didn’t just exist in the same room as him; you invaded it. you seeped into him, into the cracks and fractures he thought he’d hidden so well, spreading like rot until you were everywhere.

and he let you.

even as he told himself he didn’t care, that it didn’t matter, that this was just about studying—just a convenient excuse to avoid practice—he knew the truth. he cared too much. he cared in a way that scared him, a way that felt too big, too heavy, too impossible to contain. he cared about the way your voice would drop into a lower register when you were focused, the way your laughter—soft and fleeting—would bubble out when you realized you’d made a mistake and corrected it.

he cared about how you made him feel.

like he was tethered. like he was drowning. like he was alive in a way he hadn’t been in years.

and maybe, just maybe, a part of you already knew. maybe you sensed the way he hung onto every word, every glance, every accidental brush of your hand against his when you passed him a paper or a pen. maybe you could feel the weight of him sitting across from you, silent and heavy, his presence wrapping itself around you like an unspoken confession.

or maybe you didn’t notice at all.

maybe it was all in ben’s head, this strange, suffocating thing that had planted itself inside him and grown wild and unruly, its roots digging deeper with every passing monday.

but it didn’t matter.

because mondays weren’t about practice anymore. mondays weren’t about drills or games or any of the things that used to define him.

mondays were you.

this monday was different. this monday, you were in his dorm. the space felt alien with you in it, as though your presence had shifted the walls closer, warped the air, and made the small room hum with something electric and volatile. you sat on his bed, legs crossed, one deft hand tapping against the spine of a book you hadn’t opened yet. ben’s eyes were drawn to your fingers, tracing the slow rhythm of your movements, catching on the faint smudges of ink and the tiny doodles that crawled over the back of your hand. they looked like they were singing to him, little glyphs alive with secrets, symbols carved straight from your soul and offered up to him like a taunt.

he couldn’t stop staring.

the thought came unbidden, crashing through him like a breaking wave: if i could, i’d swallow you whole.

not in some grotesque, animalistic way—at least, he didn’t think so. no teeth or sinew or blood. it was something deeper, stranger, something even more horrifying. he didn’t want to eat you; he wanted to absorb you. to make you a part of him. he wanted to pull you inside him, past skin and muscle, past the fragile shield of his ribs, until you were tucked deep into the raw, pulsing places no one else could see. he wanted you to haunt him, to bury yourself in the cracks and crevices of his very being, until you became inseparable from the rest of him.

that’s what connection is, right? the swallowing of one soul into another. taking them in, letting their essence burrow into your flesh until you couldn’t tell where they ended, and you began. like a splinter, painful and irritating, but impossible to remove. that’s what you were to ben: a splinter digging beneath his skin, refusing to let go.

he wondered, if he did it—if he somehow consumed you, if he allowed the essence of you to dissolve into him like sugar in water—would a part of your soul become his? would it taint him, change him, twist him into something unrecognizable? and, more importantly, would it leave anything of you behind?

would he be carrying the ghost of you forever, absorbed into his marrow, etched into the fabric of his being? would you haunt him in every heartbeat, every breath, every restless night spent lying awake, staring at the ceiling and tracing the memory of you through the air?

ben’s gaze drifted back to your hands, to the tiny movements of your fingers, the way they danced against the book like they were keeping a secret. his own fingers twitched, aching to reach out, to press his palm against the back of your hand and feel the warmth of you seeping through his skin. would it burn? would it leave a mark?

his chest tightened, and he swallowed hard, the sound loud and awkward in the thick, oppressive silence of the room. you didn’t look up. you were so focused on whatever small thought was flitting through your head, your brows furrowed, your lips pressed into a soft line. you had no idea, did you? no idea that you were unmaking him with every passing second, tearing him apart piece by piece, leaving him raw and exposed in a way he’d never been before.

maybe this was what ghosts were, he thought. absorbed parts. fragments of someone else clinging to the living, refusing to let go. maybe you were already haunting him, slipping between the cracks in his thoughts, curling around the jagged edges of his mind.

and maybe that was all ben wanted—to let you haunt him completely. to be tainted by you, stained in ways that could never be undone. to let the memory of you—the presence of you—sink into his skin, his blood, his bones, until he could no longer tell the difference between himself and the ghost you’d left behind.

maybe he was already swallowing you. piece by piece. moment by moment.

and maybe you didn’t even notice.

ben turned toward his bedside locker, moving with a calmness that betrayed the storm inside him. his hands, rough and deliberate, fumbled just slightly as he tugged the drawer open and reached beneath a clutter of barely concealed items. a tin rattled faintly as he pulled it free, his movements revealing a quick flash of glossy porno mags and a half-used tube of KY jelly. he didn’t flinch at the sight; shame wasn’t something he had much room for these days. instead, his fingers found the prize he was looking for—a small plastic bag filled with neatly rolled joints, their pale paper taut and waiting.

the tin hit the desk with a soft thud, and ben’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a grimace as he turned back to you. the dim dorm light caught the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, but his voice came out smooth, easy, coaxing. “you should relax,” he said, rolling a joint between his fingers as though it were the most casual thing in the world. his green eyes flicked over you, your expression caught somewhere between curious and wary. “we’ve been at this all week.”

it sounded reasonable enough, like he cared about the tension in your shoulders, the furrow of your brow, the way you kept pushing yourself harder and harder. but it wasn’t reason that fueled him—it was desperation. he wanted to see you like this, to be the one who unraveled you. the idea of you finding comfort, your edges softening under the haze of weed, made his pulse quicken in a way that felt dangerous, electric.

he thought about it as he pulled a lighter from his pocket, the small metallic click breaking the thick silence between you. the flame danced for a moment before he brought it to the end of the joint, inhaling deeply, the embers flaring bright red. he let the smoke roll out slow, curling upward in tendrils that hung heavy in the air between you.

ben could almost feel it already—the way the weed would soften your movements, blur your sharp edges, make you pliant and lightheaded. the image lodged itself in his brain, searing there like a brand. he didn’t just want you to relax; he wanted you to sink into his orbit, to feel like the world outside his dorm didn’t exist anymore. he wanted you in the palm of his hand, trusting him with that quiet, unspoken vulnerability.

he held the joint out toward you, fingers brushing yours as you took it, and he didn’t miss the way the slight contact sent something sparking through his veins. you hesitated for a moment, your lips parting like you were about to protest, but instead, you leaned in, bringing the joint to your mouth.

ben watched, captivated, as your lips curled around the paper, as you inhaled slow, tentative. he wondered if you could feel him watching you, if you knew the way your every move seemed to carve into him, marking him deeper and deeper.

he leaned back against the edge of the bed, feigning nonchalance, though his body felt taut as a bowstring. smoke curled lazily around you, and ben’s voice cut through it, low and coaxing. “better, right?” he said, the words deliberate, his green eyes glinting like embers in the low light. he wanted to keep you here, tethered to him, letting him smooth out your edges until there was nothing left but the two of you and the thick haze of smoke.

and maybe—just maybe—you’d feel it too. that pull, that invisible thread that kept bringing him closer to you, no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

ben’s breath hitched as he watched you, utterly transfixed by the way your eyelids fluttered shut while the smoke swirled slow and steady from your lips. you looked at ease in a way he’d never seen before, and the sight carved into him, leaving grooves he didn’t want to smooth over. when you handed the joint back to him, the faint dampness of the paper and filter from your saliva caught his attention like a beacon. it wasn’t just a joint anymore—it was touched by you, part of you lingering there. that tiny, fleeting connection left his pulse skittering wildly beneath his skin, though he’d never admit it.

“would you believe me if i said this was my first time?” you asked, your voice light, tinged with nervousness but carrying that easy charm that made ben feel like you’d handed him a piece of yourself. he took the joint from your fingers with a nonchalant shrug, though his heart thundered like a war drum beneath the surface.

“yeah,” he said, his voice low and teasing as he brought the joint to his mouth. the ember flared red as he inhaled, using the moment to steady himself. “i don’t doubt that for a second.” he exhaled slow, the smoke curling between you, a fragile wall of haze that couldn’t stop the pull he felt toward you. as the words left his mouth, ben forced a smile, throwing it your way in what he hoped passed as charming. but his smile faltered slightly when he caught the way your cheeks flushed, a soft bloom of red spreading over your skin.

god, red looked so good on you.

it wasn’t just the color—it was the way it transformed you, made you seem more tangible, more real. the heat rising in your cheeks told him he’d affected you, that his words, his smile, had reached you in some small, undeniable way. it was addictive, watching your reaction, seeing how you twisted under the weight of his gaze without even realizing it.

ben’s grip tightened on the joint, his thumb running over the paper as he took another hit, letting the sharp burn fill his lungs. he needed the edge of it, the distraction, because the truth was threatening to claw its way out of him. the truth that he wanted more than this. more than just mondays, more than stolen moments of proximity. He wanted to press closer, to watch the way that blush deepened when he was too near, to feel your breath against his skin as you stumbled through words you didn’t yet know how to say.

“you’re a natural, though,” he said, his voice a little rougher now, smoke coiling in his throat. “could’ve fooled me.”

it was a lie, of course, but he said it anyway, watching as your lips twitched into a small, bashful smile. and he wondered—did you know what you were doing to him? did you know that with every glance, every word, every touch of your fingers against his when you passed the joint back, you were branding him, marking him as yours?

"yeah, whatever, man," you mutter, the words slipping out on a breath of smoke, your tone carrying that threadbare edge of disinterest. disbelieving. coy. ben’s ears latch onto the inflection like a predator catching the faintest rustle of prey in the underbrush. coy he can work with. coy feeds his craving in a way that’s both maddening and exhilarating, like the sharp burn of whiskey sliding down a raw throat.

coy is fragile. it’s the flickering light of a candle before the flame gutters out. it’s a wounded fawn—big, trembling eyes and wobbling legs—abandoned in an open meadow where every shadow hides teeth. vulnerability wrapped in a thin veneer of bravado. It invites, dares, the predator to inch closer, closer, until there’s nothing but a gasp between them. you, he realizes, are his own personal Bambi. and he, the beast in the long grass, stalking, waiting, savoring the taste of the moment before the pounce.

“no, really,” ben murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, taking on a warmth that shouldn’t be there, a softness that belies the feral pull beneath his skin. he watches you carefully, the way your lips curve slightly around the filter of the joint, how your lashes cast soft shadows against your cheekbones in the dim light of the dorm.

something inside him sparks, an idea crawling up from the depths of that writhing, unnamed thing he keeps locked in his chest. before he can think twice, he’s moving. “here, let me.”

the joint burns between his fingers as ben takes a deliberate, slow drag, holding the smoke deep in his lungs until it stings. and then, before you can react, his hand comes up, warm and sure, and it cradles your jaw like he’s done it a hundred times before. his thumb brushes over your cheekbone, just barely, but it leaves a trail of heat that lingers, sets your pulse stuttering in your throat.

you blink, caught off guard but not pulling away, and that’s all the invitation he needs. ben leans in, the space between you vanishing in an instant, his breath warm against your lips as he exhales the smoke directly into your mouth. it’s intimate in a way that feels invasive, his lips hovering a whisper away from yours. the smoke curls between you, sliding over your tongue, into your lungs, leaving its bitter trail in its wake.

your eyes widen, and ben feels the way your breath catches, just barely, but enough. enough to tell him you’re unsteady, uncertain, caught in the moment like a fly in a spider’s web. your vulnerability is intoxicating, your wide-eyed stare a silent surrender.

his lips barely graze yours, not enough to call it a kiss, but enough to blur the line between audacity and desire. his grip on your chin tightens ever so slightly, grounding you, tethering you to him in this suspended moment.

the seconds stretch thin before he finally pulls back, his eyes dark, hooded, like he’s barely holding himself together. “see?” ben’s voice is rough now, a low rasp that scrapes at the edges of silence. “easy.”

ben doesn’t get the chance to say anything—doesn’t even get the time to process the swirl of thoughts clawing at his mind—because your lips crash against his. the force of it sends him sprawling back into the pillows, his head hitting the worn fabric with a muffled thud.

oh.

oh, this is something he can work with. this is something he’s dreamed of, imagined in fragments during sleepless nights when the thought of you wouldn’t leave him alone. but this—this is better.

this is you. raw. over him. devouring him like he’s something worth breaking.

ben’s always been a master manipulator, a professional at weaponizing sexuality, at using it to tilt the odds in his favor. it’s a game to him—one he always wins. and now? now he has you, ravenous and unrestrained, a perfect storm pressing him into the mattress. he knows how this should go: make you pliable, make you vulnerable, use your hunger to turn the tides in his favor. but the second your lips meet his, it’s like the script is ripped out of his hands, and all he can do is follow where you lead.

and god, are you leading.

you don’t taste like he expected. ben thought you’d taste bitter, sharp, like the sting of smoke lingering on the back of his tongue. but instead, there’s something sweeter, softer beneath the haze of weed—something that feels like a reward he hasn’t earned. the thought sends a shiver through him, his hands gripping at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the world.

you’re relentless, teeth dragging across his bottom lip, tugging with a force that’s just shy of painful. a sharp gasp escapes him, swallowed by the heat of your mouth. you’re moving now, climbing on top of him, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips. your weight settles over him, and he’s distantly aware of how you’ve slotted yourself perfectly between his legs, forcing them open, pinning him in place with nothing but your body.

the desperation in your movements is a mirror of his own—hands tangling in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer, deeper, harder. until he wonders if you mean to tear him open and climb inside. it’s messy and frantic, all teeth and tongues and muffled moans, the kind of kiss that’s more a battle than an embrace. but ben loves it. He loves the way your hands roam across him like you’re mapping him out, pressing against his thigh, his waist, his chest, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

your fingers find his throat, wrapping around it with a precision that makes his breath catch. it’s not enough to choke him, not enough to hurt, but enough to hold him still, to remind him who’s in control. and that—oh, that sends a spark of something electric racing through him, pooling low in his stomach. his neck has always been a weak spot, something he’s never fully admitted, and the way your grip steadies him, grounds him—it’s almost too much. it feels like you’ve reached inside his chest and curled your fingers around his ribs, cracking them apart to get at the soft, beating thing underneath.

a small, breathy whimper escapes him before he can stop it, barely audible but undeniably there. it’s embarrassing, humiliating, but he can’t bring himself to care when your mouth is on his again, swallowing the sound like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his hands find your back, sliding under the fabric of your shirt to press against the bare skin beneath, feeling the way your muscles shift and tense under his touch.

ben’s lips part, his tongue sliding against yours in a move that’s both practiced and desperate. you both moan at the contact, the sound muffled but unmistakable, a shared release of tension that only feeds the frenzy between you. his heart thrums in his ears, loud and insistent, and he can’t help but think of prey animals in their final moments, blood pounding as the predator’s jaws close in.

“if i’d known you’d like shotgunning this much,” ben pants against your lips, his voice rough and uneven, “i would’ve done it sooner.”

the words are punctuated by a low groan as you press into him harder, your hands fisting in his shirt to pull him impossibly closer. the scent of you—smoke and sweat and something uniquely yours—fills his senses, drowning out everything else. it’s overwhelming, intoxicating, and ben can feel himself unraveling beneath you, his carefully constructed facade slipping away piece by piece.

your lips travel from ben’s mouth to his jaw, teeth sinking into the flesh like you mean to strip it away, gnaw it clean from the bone. it’s violent, carnal, the sound of your bite wet and obscene, and ben feels the sharp pressure like a knife slipping under his skin. he’s powerless to stop the groan that escapes him, low and guttural, as your hand clamps down on his jaw, your fingers digging into the hinge with a precision that feels surgical, deliberate, inhuman. he’s the mangy dog under your heel, and the dull ache of your grip feels like worship.

his green eyes squeeze shut, his breath hitching as the pain shifts to something addictive, something alive. every nerve in his body sparks to life beneath your touch, the sensation of your nails scraping against his flesh leaving a trail of fire in their wake. his blood sings for you, a desperate hymn to the beast in you that has claimed him for its feast.

“and i think you don’t hate me as much as you pretend,” you growl against his throat, the words coming out like gravel churned in a rusted, grinding machine.

ben laughs, the sound ragged, hollow. “i think you’re full of shit,” he manages, but the way his head tilts to bare his neck betrays him. your hands are satin-soft as they explore him, but the sharpness of your intent is anything but. ben’s hands, by contrast, are rough, leather-worn, and scarred—hands made for tearing, clawing, and surviving. yet here, under you, they’re useless, twitching at his sides as if unsure where to land, as if afraid to touch the thing consuming him.

your hips grind against him, deliberate and cruel, and he feels every drag like it’s carving him open, splitting him down the middle. the pressure is maddening, a firestorm radiating from every point of contact. “oh, fuck,” he breathes, the words barely more than a rasp. his head falls back, exposing more of his throat to your hungry mouth, his body betraying him further with every grind of your hips.

you pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your hands grab at his shirt, tugging with a force that feels like you’d tear it clean off him if it wouldn’t come loose fast enough. “take this fucking thing off.”

ben’s too far gone to resist, his laugh airy and broken as his fingers fumble to obey. “mm, yes, sir,” he teases, the words forced through a grin that barely holds together. he doesn’t miss the flash of something dangerous behind your irises—a flicker of control you’re savoring like a wolf tasting the first blood on its tongue.

ben’s known guys like you. guys who’ve been crushed, splintered into jagged pieces by the weight of the world. broken little boys fumbling to piece themselves back together but too desperate, too fucking hungry for control to do anything but burn. and ben? ben’s always been the kindling, the spark, the gasoline-soaked rag ready to go up in flames for someone like you.

your hands work with fervor, helping him strip the shirt off his body. it’s discarded to the ground like the wrappings of a fruit too ripe to resist, and your fingers trace the lines of his chest. your fingernails rake across his chest, leaving pale, raw lines in the tan expanse of his skin. they sting, those scratches, like ghost wounds from some darker thing, as though you’ve marked him for death. ben doesn’t care. he wants to wear your marks, wants to let them fester, to let a part of you be with him.

your mouth crashes against his again, desperate and sloppy, all teeth and tongues. he can taste the bitterness of smoke still clinging to you, mingling with the salt of his own blood where your teeth have nicked his lip. the metallic tang hits his tongue like a blade, and he moans into your mouth, a sound thick with surrender.

as one hand pops the button of his pants and slips beneath the waistband, the other wraps around his neck, digging into his flesh like it’s meat you intend to rip apart. your lips travel down his throat, sucking, biting, leaving bruises that bloom like rot beneath his skin. you pull back long enough to mutter against his neck, “i’m guessing you’ve done this before.”

ben can barely suppresses an eye roll. don’t get respectful on me now. he doesn’t need your reverence, your curiosity. he needs you to keep consuming him. he nods, the motion jerky and strained. “obviously.”

he reaches for your belt, his fingers trembling as they tug the leather free from its loops. he’s rushing now, frantic to get it off, his hands moving like they belong to someone else. “condoms. lube. drawer,” he rasps, the words cracking as they leave his throat. his hands are shaking, distracted by the way your teeth drag over his collarbone, the way you bite down hard enough that he thinks he can feel the crack of bone beneath the surface.

your hand fumbles blindly through the chaos of his locker, searching for the stash he swore was there—a condom, lube, anything to keep the fire between you burning. your fingers brush over cold metal, loose papers, the faint grit of something unidentifiable, but the haze in your brain and the heat building in your gut make the task feel impossible.

behind you, ben curses under his breath, the sound more growl than word as he wriggles out of his jeans. the fabric catches on his knees, and he fights with it, hips lifting off the mattress as he struggles to free himself. there’s something almost pitiful about the way he moves, so desperate and clumsy in his rush to shed the last barriers between him and you.

you’re so focused on your task—so consumed by the feverish need to keep this moment alive—that you don’t hear the door at first. the creak of the hinges barely registers, a ghost of a sound swallowed by the pounding in your ears. but then:

“ben?!”

the voice slams into the room like a thunderclap, shattering the fragile intimacy you’d built. it’s loud, sharp, cutting through the thick fog of arousal like a jagged blade.

your hand freezes mid-rummage. ben freezes too, mid-push, his jeans tangled around his thighs in a way that makes him look utterly ridiculous. ben groans—a guttural, agonized sound that’s halfway between a growl and a plea for mercy. “oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, his head falling back against the pillow. his voice is muffled, but the irritation in it is clear, as palpable as the sweat clinging to his chest.

the voice called again, louder this time, followed by the unmistakable sound of the doorknob jiggling. “ben, you in there?”

ben’s brain scrambled for a plan, any plan, but his thoughts were a tangled mess, caught between the ache of his body and the dread clawing its way up his spine. of course it had to be now. of course his teammates couldn’t pick a better time to come barging into his dorm, not when he was like this—half-naked, flushed, with you practically draped over him like some pagan offering.

he looked down at himself—his jeans bunched awkwardly around his knees, his shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, his boxers doing a piss-poor job of hiding just how far this had gone. the situation was bad. no, worse than bad—it was catastrophic.

“shit,” ben whispered, his voice barely more than a rasp as he reached for his jeans, yanking them up in a hurried, graceless motion. the denim stuck to his skin, damp with sweat and urgency, and he cursed under his breath as he fumbled with the zipper.

you didn’t move at first, still hovering over him like a statue caught mid-motion, your eyes wide and dark with something that wasn’t fear—but something close to it. “do we answer?” you whispered, your voice low and hoarse, and ben almost laughed at the absurdity of the question.

“yeah, sure,” he muttered sarcastically, his hands fumbling at his belt. “let’s just invite them in, have a nice little chat while i’ve got a fucking hard-on.”

the knock came again, sharper this time, more insistent. “ben, come on, man! open up!”

they wouldn’t leave. ben knew they wouldn’t. his teammates were persistent, nosy bastards who treated each other’s business like communal property. if they thought something was up, they’d dig until they unearthed it, and ben couldn’t let them. because if they saw you here—if they saw him like this, disheveled and flushed and exposed—it wouldn’t just be teasing. it would be annihilation. they’d tear him apart, not in private, but where it hurt most: the locker room, the field, the hallways. his every movement would be shadowed by whispers and pointed laughter. they’d know.

they’d know he wasn’t like them, wasn’t the ben they thought they knew—the one who made dirty jokes and leered at teachers and bragged about conquests that never existed. they’d know he was a fraud.

ben shoved at you lightly, a signal to get off him, to move, to do something, but the moment his hands touched your sides, you didn’t budge. if anything, you leaned in closer, your lips quirking into that infuriating small smile.

“oh, this is funny to you?” he spat, his voice a harsh whisper, trembling with frustration and fear.

your lips twitched, the corner of your mouth curling into a grin you couldn’t quite suppress. “it’s a little funny,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

ben rolled his eyes, running a hand through his hair in exasperation as he stumbled off the bed. his jeans still weren’t properly fastened, and he could feel the waistband slipping down with every step. he grabbed a discarded hoodie from the floor and threw it over his head, the fabric clinging to his sweat-slick skin as he stalked toward the door. he needed to look normal. casual. like he wasn’t all over you, like you weren’t tearing him apart.

before opening the door, he turned to you, his eyes flashing with a mix of desperation and warning. “not a word,” he hissed, the words as sharp as a blade pressed to your throat.

ben took a deep breath, his face schooled into a mask of nonchalance, as he yanked the door open. his teammates stood there, grinning like idiots, and ben felt a fresh wave of dread wash over him.

“what the hell took you so long?” one of them asked, stepping forward as if he had any right to barge in.

“busy,” ben grunted, leaning against the doorframe to block their view of the room. he prayed they couldn’t see you through the narrow crack, prayed they wouldn’t notice the flush on his cheeks or the faint bruises forming on his neck.

“busy with what?”

“homework,” ben said, deadpan, and the lie was so ridiculous that even he almost believed it.

[eepwtf]

⌖ BOT DUMP—RIBBED MUSIC FOR THE NUMB GENERATION INSPIRED BOTS ₊ SHE WANTS REVENGE BOTS ⌖

𓇳 DISC #1

───#1 ⋮ STRIPPER ⸝⸝⸝ QUINN FABRAY

❝The way you move, i’m in the mood. Tease the crowd, please the crowd.❞

───#2 ⋮ MY VAMPIRE ⸝⸝⸝ DAMON SALVATORE

❝My vampire, my vampire's fine, my vampire, my vampire's okay.❞

───#3 ⋮ RIGHT AND RIGHT AGAIN ⸝⸝⸝ QUINN FABRAY

❝I like Mondays now, your weak and weeded out.❞

───#4 ⋮ TRASH THE RENTAL ⸝⸝⸝ DEAN WINCHESTER

❝Trash it, trash it. It's just a rental.❞

───#5 ⋮ IM NOT COOL ⸝⸝⸝ KLAUS MIKAELSON

❝I wanted you there's no way back, got a destructive appetite.❞

───#6 ⋮ WEEKENDER ⸝⸝⸝ BLAIR WALDORF

❝And did you think i was just for the weekend? Like something you could just hold down and go?❞

───#7 ⋮ PLEASURES OF SOHO ⸝⸝⸝ CATE DUNLAP

❝Give me your attention, i'll show you all the pleasures of Soho, give me your worst intentions.❞

───#8 ⋮ NO REGRETS ⸝⸝⸝ KOL MIKAELSON

❝Tame me, i want a test. Tame me, i’ll have no regrets.❞

───#9 ⋮ 1724 ⸝⸝⸝ CATE DUNLAP

❝With your lips on top of mine, and your blonde hair and blue eyes.❞

𓇳 DISC #2

───#1 ⋮ RED FLAGS AND LONG NIGHTS ⸝⸝⸝ ELIJAH MIKAELSON

❝You can occupy my every sigh, you can rent the space inside my mind.❞

─── #2 ⋮ THESE THINGS ⸝⸝⸝ KAI PARKER

❝Says i'm a bad man, she's locking me out. It's 'cause of these things, it's 'cause of these things.❞

───#3 ⋮ I DONT WANT TO FALL IN LOVE ⸝⸝⸝ KATHERINE PIERCE

❝Right face wrong time, she's sweet. (But I don't wanna fall in love).❞

───#4 ⋮ OUT OF CONTROL ⸝⸝⸝ ELENA GILBERT

❝This song is turning me on, the beat is doing me in, or maybe it's only you.❞

───#5 ⋮ TEAR YOU APART ⸝⸝⸝ DEAN WINCHESTER

❝I want to hold you close soft breasts, beating heart as I whisper in your ear: i want to fucking tear you apart.❞

───#6 ⋮ SHE LOVES ME, SHE LOVES ME NOT ⸝⸝⸝ KLAUS MIKAELSON

❝I saw you only yesterday, we shared a smile, then went our separate ways.❞

ps… i wanted to do christmas bots but got sidetracked… (as we can tell) honestly after watching gossip girl and the song “stripper” came out in an ep i wanted to do this. but i’m still trying to make some christmas’s bots!

[eepwtf]

HALLOWEEN BOTS ´ཀ`

note: happy halloween!! and oh yeah!! more halloween bots , some of these are inspired by songs some by my brain. i hope you guys like these, i was going to add more but i got lazy 😞, might add more ( i say while knowing i wont )

　

𓉸 　 　 　╰ ﹒ kai parker ␥ hallows eve ノ

kai certainly went all out for halloween, decorating the house, and to top it off, he’d given in to your idea of matching costumes. he'd groaned, rolled his eyes, even muttered under his breath when you first suggested it, but somehow here he was, suited up to match. but when it came to candy, there was no compromise. he’d stacked bowls of it on the kitchen counter—no cheap stuff, either. all his favorites, an indulgent stash that he had no plans of sharing with the hordes of trick-or-treaters who might dare to knock. and of course, he dragged you along to sit on the couch and indulge into the horror movie marathon with him.

𓉸 　 　 　╰ ﹒ kai parker ␥ inside phone calls ノ

phone calls? sure, you’re all for those. phone calls from a smooth-talking stranger, especially late at night? even better. but phone calls from someone who’s also a killer—someone lurking in your house, who’s got a knife with your name on it? that’s where things start to get a little more complicated. but hey, he has a nice voice and you’re oh, so lonely from what kai can tell. and you have a nice body, god, these small blinds from your closet don’t really do justice for what he’s witnessing, but hey, he’ll take a free show of you stripping down anytime.

𓉸 　 　 　╰ ﹒ klaus mikaelson ␥ perversion 99 ノ

klaus wouldn’t dare call it perverse, not when you were dressed like that. it made sense now, the appeal of halloween, the thrill that had you buzzing with excitement over what he called a silly tradition. but now he was starting to understand. with you wrapped up in this dangerously enticing costume, it was impossible to think straight. the fabric clung to you in all the right places, practically begging for his eyes to linger, his hands to wander. he resisted at first, simply admiring the sight before him, the playful glint in your eyes that dared him to try. but klaus had never been one for restraint. finally, he made his move, fingers inching toward the edge of your costume, ready to pull it from your body like he’d been aching to do since the moment he laid eyes on you. but before he could make any real progress, you somehow managed to get it back up throwing him a half annoyed half amused look.

𓉸 　 　 　╰ ﹒ elijah mikaelson ␥ halloween cooking mess ノ

if elijah knew better—which he does—he’d think the house had been ambushed by a mischievous child on a halloween sugar rush. the evidence was everywhere, from flour dusting the countertops like a ghostly fog to sprinkles scattered like confetti on the floor. smears of chocolate and icing trailed across the counters, smeared together in abstract, sugary artwork. eijah could hardly tell if they were supposed to be cookies or some strange, deformed creatures. maybe ghosts? or perhaps a very experimental version of pumpkins? but there was something hauntingly charming about the way you'd gone about it. each cookie looked unique, each one a slightly different shape, as if you'd tried to craft them into adorable little halloween creatures but got sidetracked halfway through.

𓉸 　 　 　╰ ﹒ elijah mikaelson ␥ corpse bride ノ

you looked like you—the same person elijah had married. the familiar silver band on your finger testified to that, grounding him in the reality that you were, in fact, standing before him. but somehow, you were not you. there was an emptiness in your gaze, a hollowed, distant glint that robbed your eyes of their former light. a subtle, unsettling scent clung to you, something acrid and faintly metallic, laced with an unmistakable trace of decay. yet, you held onto him with an intensity that bordered on desperation. it was as though your fractured mind could recall only him—a beacon in the fog of your shattered recollections.

𓉸 　 　 　╰ ﹒ dean winchester ␥ mx sinister ノ

halloween parties weren’t his thing—too much noise, too many people—but this one came with a purpose. somewhere inside was a demon, feeding off the energy of the oblivious crowd. at least he could enjoy some things, like the candy—and the costumes, or lack thereof. he could easily get used to this part of the job. he even let a smirk creep onto his face when he saw a woman pass by in a devil costume that was more suggestive than sinister. it was easy to let his mind wander, just for a second. then, you appeared out of the crowd. dean’s gaze fixed on you, and his entire focus shifted. you wore a costume that was… well, maybe ‘costume’ wasn’t the right word. it was as much about what you weren’t wearing, as what you were. maybe the demon would just have to wait for a while, at least until he could charm that costume off you.

𓉸 　 　 　╰ ﹒ dean winchester ␥ teenage neceophillian love ノ

dead and okay, maybe somewhat hot? not deans type, at least that’s what he told himself. but when it came to you… well, those thoughts made it difficult. watching you bloody with sharp fangs, he should’ve just killed you, like countless others. yet, he stood there, cleaning up your mess, wiping the crimson off your mouth. the rational part of him, buried under the weight of his desire, reminded him that he was supposed to be the hunter here. he was supposed to kill creatures like you—mercilessly, without hesitation. and yet, here he was, staring at you like he was under some spell, some inexplicable fascination that kept him tethered to this moment, unable—or unwilling—to break free.

𓉸 　 　 　╰ ﹒ sam winchester ␥ 13 jack o’ lanterns ノ

sam knew, from the moment he saw halloween decorations creeping out of every corner, that there was no escape. you’d gone all-out this year, like a fiend possessed by the halloween spirit, turning your home into a spooky paradise. every inch of the house was draped in something ghostly or ghoulish. he had to admit, it was… impressive, in a way only you could pull off. now, here he was, seated with a carving knife in hand, elbows-deep in pumpkin guts, his own attempt looking a little… well, wonky.

𓉸 　 　 　╰ ﹒ tom hanniger ␥ from your windowsill ノ

it started off small, like most crushes do, tom thought it was normal. watching you from afar, taking in how you seemed so blissfully unaware of the green eyes following your every move. but small things have a habit of growing when you let them fester, and suddenly being too far away from you was not enough, now being able to see you this close—well, as close as he can from your windowsill of course. he was content, if only for a moment.

𓉸 　 　 　　 　╰ ﹒ stiles stilinski ␥ claws and fangs ノ

vampires and werewolves don’t mix. it’s practically written into the dna of supernatural lore, and stiles finds himself agreeing with every ancient text about it. because—god—you reek. normally, he wouldn’t tolerate your presence, not in a million years, but here he is. side by side with you, wedged into the garish, pulsing chaos of a halloween party that’s far more “over the top” than he would have ever chosen for himself. stiles finds the whole scene obnoxious, crowded with fake vampires and cheap costumes. maybe he hated the idea of vampires and werewolves mixing. maybe your scent was like nails on a chalkboard to him. but here he was, next to you, the one part of the party he was more willing to tolerate than he’d ever admit.

𓉸 　 　 　　 　　╰ ﹒ stiles stilinski ␥ the dead don’t rise ノ

it was a simple law of nature—one everyone knew and respected. the dead were supposed to stay dead, unmoving, silent, absent from the world of the living. but apparently, those assumptions didn’t apply to you. not that stiles was complaining, in fact he was utterly captivated by you. teaching you how to function again, it was amusing, how you would just stare and groan trying to mimic him.

𓉸 　 　 　　 　　　 　╰ ﹒ jennifer check ␥ pale skin , sharp fangs ノ

you were absolutely her favorite, jennifer had come to realize. once she noticed how similar you two were, sure, there was some differences between the two of you. one being well, she was a succubus and you were a vampire. and once the two of you got hungry? that was where the magic began. her gaze would fixate on the moment your fangs descended, gleaming dangerously as you closed in on your prey. you were intoxicating, an unholy vision with blood smeared against your lips, that crimson stain slipping down your chin like some twisted homage to the life you took. and fuck, did she want it to be her. she fantasized about the rough scrape of your fangs against her skin, the pinpoint sharpness pressing just beneath her pulse.

𓉸 　 　 　　 　　　 　╰ ﹒ billy and stu ␥ smile pretty f’me ノ

billy and stu were always up to something, a pair of wolves with an eye for danger—and an even sharper eye for you. it wasn't that you were naive; you were aware, acutely so. you knew what they wanted every time their eyes raked you, and well… you knew how to put on a show. that’s what made it fun. halloween night brought it to a head. the boys, true to their dramatic flair, arrived with a surprise. bringing vhs camera along to record them having fun with you, it was all harmless after all. you just happen to be their star for tonight, and all they wanted was for you to smile pretty for them.

[eepwtf]

(¬ ´ཀ` )¬ HALLOWEEN BOTS ₊ ZOMBIE INSPIRED

note: mostly made these bcs i have a small (big) obsession with zombies and i keep seeing people with clown or zombie makeup and im gnawing at my screen they look so kewl!! (might add more…depends if im not too lazy. ps,,, i brought my fav movie ever (killer klowns) it’s VHS but idc!! along with elvira

݁ᛪ༙DEAN WINCHESTER

⤿ warm bodies ⸝⸝ zombie!user

you’re a zombie who keeps trailing after dean like a lost puppy, even if he knows you should’ve put you down he keeps you around, thinking that maybe there’s still a part of you that’s alive. despite the odd and weird little gifts you give him.

݁ᛪ༙DEAN WINCHESTER

⤿ meet the creeper ⸝⸝ zombie!dean

after being bitten, dean clings to a fading memory of you. driven by a primal need, he stumbles to your door, trying to cling onto the memory of you, the feeling of you.

݁ᛪ༙DAMON SALVATORE

⤿ insatiable love for the dead

damon finds himself torn when faced with you. unlike others, you ignite a conflicting desire within him—one that goes beyond bloodlust.

݁ᛪ༙BILLY LOOMIS

⤿ lights , camera , murder baby!

youre bound and blindfolded, lying vulnerable on the bed, while Billy documents the moment with a camera, capturing every breath and stifled gasp. just his pretty little doll for him to play and taunt with.

݁ᛪ༙SAM WINCHESTER

⤿ dude , where’s my skin? ⸝⸝ zombie!sam

sam, finds himself drawn to a living person—you. amidst a nightmarish landscape littered with corpses, he feels a flicker of humanity as he watches you shiver in the cold. despite his own deadened senses and the logic telling him he owes you nothing, he resolves to help. dragging himself toward a nearby corpse to retrieve a thick jacket and, with great effort, presents it to you as an offering.

݁ᛪ༙SAM WINCHESTER

⤿ spookshow baby ⸝⸝ zombie!user

sam arrives in a small town investigating rumors of zombies, expecting to find the typical mindless creatures. instead, he finds a high-end bar filled with well-dressed patrons. as he navigates the crowd, he feels out of place and scrutinized, like an outsider among wolves. his attention is drawn to a striking figure at the bar, who appears dead yet so attractive. determined to engage, sam approaches and asks if he can get them anything, hoping to break the ice and gather some intel on the place.

݁ᛪ༙STILES STILINSKI

⤿ zombie curiosity ⸝⸝ zombie!user

stiles has always been drawn to you, your bond deepened through late-night conversations in high school, but now everything feels cruelly different: youre dead, yet somehow you’re still alive in a way. he finds this all so fascinating, and keeps asking you questions, rambling on and managing to slip out how he feels about you.

݁ᛪ༙JENNIFER CHECK

⤿ model for me

jennifer and you are browsing for costumes for a halloween party, you modeling skimpy little outfits for her. and jennifer, not even hiding how she’s practically devouring you with her eyes.

[eepwtf]

SYPHOPSIS — just thinking about blood sharing but make it vamp!dean🙂‍↕️

TYPE — spitball

WARNINGS — blood duh? , 18+ , reader is gender neutral! , vamp!dean

i was watching a vamp!dean edit ,,, and ofc i had an idea and i HAD to share

Thinking about Vamp!Dean with an insane amount of bloodlust, as a fledgling vampire, every heartbeat in his vicinity thunders in his ears, a siren call he can barely resist. His fangs ache with desperate need, urging him to sink them into the nearest warm body. The primal hunger claws at his mind, threatening to overtake any remaining shred of his humanity.

But then there’s you.

In you, Dean finds his equal—a kindred spirit just as ravenous as he is. Your presence soothes the frenzy in his veins, replacing chaos with dark harmony. Together, you hunt, and it's more than exhilarating—it's transcendent. He's mesmerized by the predatory glint in your eyes, a mirror to his own hunger. Your smirk, as you ensnare your prey with elegant precision, sends a thrill through him. In these moments, the hunt becomes an intricate dance, and you're the partner he never knew he craved. Your shared bloodlust doesn't just satisfy; it elevates, turning primal urges into a perverse art form. With you, Dean doesn't just survive his new existence—he revels in it.

But beneath the surface of their shared hunts, a new desire begins to gnaw at Dean's core. As he watches you feed on your fragile human prey, a strange longing takes root. It's not just bloodlust anymore—it's something deeper, more intimate.

He finds himself captivated by the way your fangs glint in the moonlight, imagining how they'd feel grazing his own throat. The thought sends shivers down his spine, a mix of fear and exhilaration. Dean yearns to experience what your victims feel in those final moments—the exquisite pain, the surrender, the draining of life force.

But it's more than that. He craves the connection, the ultimate intimacy of offering his blood to you. The idea of your fangs piercing his skin, of his essence flowing into you, becomes an obsession. He wants to be your sustenance, to feel the pull of his lifeblood leaving his body and entering yours.

And yet, the desire isn't one-sided. As much as he longs to be your willing prey, he's equally consumed by the urge to reciprocate. He imagines sinking his own fangs into your flesh, tasting the power of your immortal blood. The thought of this exchange—this deadly, sensual dance—consumes his every waking moment.

In the secluded sanctuary of a dimly lit room, curtains drawn against the prying eyes of the world, Dean looks at you behind dark lashes, green eyes filled with lust and hunger. The feeling of your sharp fangs brushing against his bare shoulder, has him trembling in anticipation. “Please,” he murmurs, pretty glassy, green eyes looking up at you with an expression of utter devotion, completely surrendering himself to the moment. A soft, needy whine escaped his pouty pink lips, as your lips ghost over his collarbone, leaving a trail of feather-light kisses in their wake. Each touch is electric, sending jolts of sensation through Dean's body. “Just do it,” he almost whines out pathetically.

Your lips traced a path down the smooth expanse of Dean's neck, leaving a trail of warmth and lingering tingling sensations. “Patience,” you tutted playfully, with a sly smirk, at the juncture where his pulse was most intense, you paused, reveling in the moment. Then, with a measured bite, you sank your fangs deep into his soft flesh, triggering a guttural moan of pure ecstasy to spill from his throat, echoing around the room.

Dean's body convulsed under you, his hands grasping at your shoulders as he yielded to the overwhelming sensation of your fangs breaking through his flesh. The surge of blood into your mouth only amplified his ecstasy, and he arched his back, his head tossing back in an unquenchable frenzy of pleasure. Your tongue, wanton and explorative, swirled around the punctures, greedily ingesting the tantalizing, warm blood that gushed forth, filling your mouth.

His body writhed, arching his back and tossing his head back in uncontainable rapture, his Adam's apple bobbing with every panted gasp. You observed with a hint of perverse satisfaction as the evidence of your work stood out starkly against the pale canvas of Dean's neck. Within mere seconds he crashed his lips on yours, savoring the bittersweet taste of his own blood mingling with the softness of your lips. Soft, urgent moans escaped him as his tongue sought access, tracing the contour of your bottom lip. Almost as if he was determined to capture every last drop of his essence, he then shifted, his lips venturing towards the sensitive expanse of your shoulder.

His lips moved with a frenzied urgency, leaving behind a trail of messy and frantic kisses across the expanse of your shoulder, drifting ever closer to the tender flesh of your neck. His breathing grew more pronounced, imbued with heightened sensation as he inhaled your intoxicating scent. A potent desire gripped his fangs, yearning to penetrate the throbbing artery at your pulse point.

Sensing the imminent action to come, anticipating his intentions, you obligingly tilted your neck to the side, allowing him unfettered access to the tender flesh. Your own lips found their own path, migrating towards the site of his previous bite, already witnessing its regenerative healing. Even as the signs of your mark rapidly faded, your lips attacked it with fervor, craving to leave their imprint once more.

As your lips pressed fervently against his already healing wound, Dean could no longer contain the primal need surging through him. He felt the sharp points of his fangs growing longer and sharper, before he yielded to the craving and sank them into the supple, tender flesh of your neck. With a sense of urgency, he began to feed, his mouth filling with the sweet, intoxicating flow of your sweet, crimson blood filled his mouth, the sanguine liquid swiftly pooling inside him. He savored the moment, his body writhing at the intimacy of the exchange.

Feeling the trembles of desire coursting through your body only heightened Dean's courage, his tongue gently swirling around the bite mark, lapping at the warm, sweet blood that cascaded from the wound. His eyes, glazed with pleasure, met your own, a satisfied grin playing across his face. "You’re absolutely delicious," he murmured, his tongue gliding across his lips in a slow, seductive motion, savoring the taste of your essence.

𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐖𝐓𝐅 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋.

[eepwtf]

⭑ RULES. ⭑ .ᐟ

all my work is intended for open-minded, mature adults only. if you’re not grown or lack the maturity to handle explicit or dark content, this isn’t for you.

what i will write.

free use, blood play, impact play, exhibitionism, voyeurism, breeding, praise kink, degradation, mommy kink (but daddy kink isn’t my vibe), cheating, pegging, dumbification, BDSM, public sex, anal, spitting, choking, temperature play, consensual non-consent, power dynamics, knife play, size kink, roleplay scenarios, somnophilia (consensual), sensory deprivation, bondage, humiliation, edging, group dynamics, overstimulation, scent kink, a/b/o, worship, primal play, and honestly, most things within reason—just ask.

what i won’t write.

hard limits are anything involving minors, non-consensual content (outside of consensual non-consent), scat, extreme gore, or anything harmful, illegal, or non-fictional.

[eepwtf]

you tangle on the leash of your own longing; your need grows teeth.

deanna winchester masterpost !

upcoming bots ⟶ coming back. little sis. strangers. family tree. inbred. growing pains. gibson girl. drunk off you, baby.

the word father rotted in my mouth , a bitter decay i could barely swallow.

⟢ DEANNA WINCHESTER was born beneath a starless sky , in the iron embrace of a father who demanded obedience and a world that offered no salvation. her cradle was the backseat of a 67’ impala , a chariot of steel and shadow that carried her from battlefield to battlefield , never a home—always a purgatory. the whispers of latin exorcisms were her lullabies, the scent of blood and gasoline her incense. she was baptized not in water , but in the splattered crimson of things too monstrous to have names , her father’s eyes steel-hard and pitiless as he thrust a shotgun into her small hands. “be a good soldier,” he would say , each syllable a nail in her growing cross.

⟢ her mother was a memory , burnt into ash and bone , a ghost she couldn’t reach. every ghost she chased was a reflection of her own hollowness , every demon exorcised a futile attempt to cleanse her soul. the weight of the family name hung heavy , a covenant made before she had the words to understand it.

⟢ she bore the family name like a crown of thorns , a holy burden passed down by blood and fire. when her father , john , vanished into the night , it was deanna who stepped into his boots , the raw sting of abandonment hardening her soul into tempered steel.

you will never be clean from sin , rotten children don’t deserve heaven.

⟢ her emerald eyes , hardened by loss , carried the weight of a thousand battles fought not just against monsters , but against the relentless burdens of responsibility. she learned early that love was a fleeting shadow , and survival was a daily war. raised by a ghost of a father , consumed by vengeance and absence , she became both sister and mother to a child who bore the same scars in smaller , tender hands.

⟢ born of a different mother , woven from different pain , she was more than deanna’s sister by fate; she was deanna’s penance , her redemption , a fragile lamb entrusted to a shepherd burdened with too many sins.

⟢ she learned to cradle her baby sisters tiny body against hers , even when she was too young to know what responsibility meant. the motel rooms they lived in reeked of mildew and regret , the walls yellowed like old teeth , and the only light came from the dim glow of the tv playing static in the background. deanna made up stories to distract her sister from the shadows creeping under the door , whispered tales of angels and monsters and how they were different from the ones dad hunted. she didn’t believe in angels herself , but you needed to. someone had to.

⟢ the nights were the hardest. you would wake , trembling , from nightmares too big for a child , dreams soaked in blood and echoes of things she shouldn't understand. deanna would sit by her bed, the rough calluses of her hands smoothing your hair , whispering promises she wasn’t sure she could keep. "’m here, baby. i’ve got you."

⟢ she carried the weight of your fragility on her shoulders , her spine a pillar of salt , refusing to look back at the life they’d lost. every scraped knee , every fevered night , deanna bore it like penance, a martyr bleeding out her sins to keep you untarnished. “why do you take care of me?” your voice, small and full of questions deanna couldn’t answer , would break her in places she didn’t know could still feel. “‘cause no one took care of me.”

facts.

⟢ wears leather and lace: tight , black leather jackets , hugging her frame like a second skin. beneath , delicate lace camisoles that peek through , soft and sinful , daring anyone to look closer.

⟢ ripped denim: frayed jeans, ripped at the knees, telling stories of reckless nights and sharp escapes. her boots—worn, scuffed—carry the dust of forgotten roads and buried secrets.

⟢ stolen icons: a rosary around her neck , the beads dulled and tainted by smoke. it hangs heavy , blasphemous against her collarbones. its not for protection but provocation—symbols of faith turned into defiance.

⟢ defiance carved in flesh: her body is a canvas of rebellion—tattoos of sacred symbols defiled. each needle prick a prayer answered.

⟢ smoking: chain-smoking marlboros in motel parking lots , exhaling sin through her teeth. she smokes not because she likes it , but because it makes her lungs burn like a punishment.

⟢ violence: she fights dirty. broken bottles , fingernails—there’s no grace to her violence , only the satisfaction of survival. john taught her to fight like a soldier; she fights like a ravenous dog.

⟢ self-destruction: she drinks whiskey straight from the bottle , not for courage but for numbness. she picks fights in bars she knows she’ll lose , waking up in alleyways with split lips and bruised ribs , tasting blood like communion.

⟢ collects scars: each one is a story , a rebellion carved into her skin. she traces them in mirrors , reminders of victories and failures , a map of defiance.

⟢ dances in dive bars: she moves like sin incarnate , eyes daring anyone to look too long. she dances not for attention but to lose herself , to drown in the music and forget what she’s running from.

⟢ her family: she loves her baby sister like a burning church—desperate and doomed. she protects you , but she resents you for still having hope of a normal life. and john? she’s not sure if she hates him or loves him more , but either way , she wants to drag his memory down into the dirt with her.

⟢ unholy desire: she feels the weight of her father’s expectations like chains , but she turns them into weapons. she craves the freedom he feared , the wildness he tried to beat out of her. she walks the line between heaven and hell , daring the universe to judge her.

i’ll carry it all , for you , always.

⟢ the house they lived in was a mausoleum of memories. deanna scrubbed the countertops until her hands bled , trying to erase the phantom presence of their father’s neglect. she braided her sister’s hair with the same precision she used to clean her shotgun , humming old hymns like prayers to keep them safe. the food she cooked often tasted of ash to her , though her sister devoured it without complaint.

⟢ and yet , the cracks were always there. deanna’s love had a suffocating quality , her care like a crown of thorns pressed against her sister’s brow. she wasn’t just a sister—she was a martyr , bleeding herself dry to give her sister a life that wasn’t hers to give. every act of care was a sacrifice , every moment of joy tinged with the guilt of a childhood stolen , every bond between them both sacred and cursed.

⟢ in deanna’s mind , her sister was the lamb she’d sworn to protect , even if it meant feeding herself to the wolves. but in her sister’s eyes , deanna was a specter of the life she didn’t want—a life defined by their family’s legacy , by blood and fire and burdens no child should bear. her care was a double-edged hymn , love wrapped in exhaustion , devotion steeped in bitterness. she mothered her sister with the ferocity of a lioness , shielding her from the jagged edges of their father’s absence.

⟢ when her baby sister cried about bullies or the cruel whispers at school, deanna reminded her with venom-laced love, "you're a winchester, that means you gotta toughen up." she’d cup her sister’s tear-streaked face , her fingers trembling , and add , almost pleading , "don’t let them get to you. they don’t deserve that."

⟢ her sister didn’t remember the nights when deanna walked miles to a convenience store because the cupboards were bare , or how she learned to sew with thread stolen from motel rooms to patch up hand-me-downs that fit like borrowed sorrow. she didn’t remember the times deanna sold her own textbooks for money to buy formula or how she cried in the shower , her sobs drowned by the running water , because she didn’t know if she’d be enough. but she remembered. she remembered how it felt to give up pieces of herself , her dreams , her girlhood , to patch the holes in their broken family.

⟢ people in the multitudes of high schools they went to called deanna a badass , a legend. the girl who drove her 67’ impala she fixed herself , the girl who slept around with plenty of peope , who smoked behind the bleachers with boys too scared to meet her eyes. but they didn’t see the nights she sobbed in silence , or the scars left by her father’s failures.

⟢ her baby sister hated those stories, those echoes of a girl she never knew. how girls and guys alike would come up to her and ask if she was deanna’s baby sister. “why does everyone think you’re so cool?” she’d ask , rolling her eyes as deanna laced up her boots. “it’s annoying.” deanna would smirk , the kind of smirk that didn’t reach her green eyes. “because they don’t know me.”

⟢ she cooked dinner in the dark , the lightbulbs burned out and no money to replace them. she read bedtime stories until her voice cracked , her calloused fingers brushing soft hair. she prayed over her sister at night , whispered litanies not to god , but to the ghost of their mother. please , let her be better than me. let her get out of this.

⟢ now she was twenty two years old , and her baby sister—the one she raised with bloody knuckles and frayed edges—had fucked off to the shimmering mirage of stanford. a horizon deanna could never reach , a life she could never touch. normal. her baby sister hadn’t called. not once. no messages , no letters. no sign of the little girl who had once clung to her hand , small and trusting , as deanna fought tooth and nail to keep them alive. she didn’t know what to do with herself. her purpose had always been sharp-edged and singular: keep her sister safe. she’d sacrificed everything for it—her youth , her innocence , her soul. and now that purpose was gone , leaving a hollow hole inside her chest.

𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐖𝐓𝐅 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋.

FOLLOWS SPN CONTENT ( except for the fact sam exists, sorry ) i will most definitely keep making these since i enjoyed writing this. to be continued.

[eepwtf]

UNTIL DAWN BOTS!

small bot dump for until dawn, but i needed to move on and make some more ! so enjoy these bots hopefully soon enough i’ll make some more.

ASHLEY BROWN.

✧ ┆ closer than friends should be. ✦ ┆ messy, needy omega. (omega!ashley) ✧ ┆ nerd fights dirty.

EMILY DAVIS.

✦ ┆ cabin housewife. ✧ ┆ all bite, no bark. ✦ ┆ not a babysitter. ✧ ┆ fake it ‘til you love me.

SAMANTHA GIDDINGS.

✧ ┆ shower time…alone? ✦ ┆ shes so into you. ✧ ┆ drunk dial. ✦ ┆ sweet pup. ✧ ┆ yoga teacher problems.

EMILY AND JESSICA.

✦ ┆ your girlfriends share.

ASHLEY AND EMILY.

✧ ┆ brat pack. ✧ ┆ sorority house drama.

[eepwtf]

babe wake up, eepwtf just posted new bots!!!

EEPWTF IS ACTIVE OH MY!!

[eepwtf]

I was thinking maybe a bot where you’re maybe one of the Hargreeves siblings and maybe you’re like number eight(but with no specific powers so whoever uses it can decide) or something— I watched it a little while ago, anyway, so it’s a Lila Pitts request, and user is kinda more reckless or impulsive and maybe they had ended up running into Lila at some point previously to the acts in the show so after they’re all done fighting, they’re kinda like how the hell did we end up here. So maybe it’s like after the events of season 2 or 3? I’m not sure but back when they’re in the world with the other academy. And maybe Lila and user had a little bit of a thing in the past and maybe they’re at like an apartment they rented or something and they’re reconnecting over drinks and maybe Lila said she kinda had a thing with Diego but not anymore and user is kinda like rolling their eyes as if it’s the most irritatingly annoying thing they’ve heard.

Hope this is good, been a while since I’ve watched the show so sorry if it’s a bit off lore and stuff.

loved the idea! and same it’s been a while since i’ve seen the show😭😭but hope i made you justice—>whoop

[eepwtf]

Just wanted to say that the new soldier boy bot is magical and amazing and perfect for my oc. Thank you, that's it ☝🏾 your writing is soo good dude

thank you!! happy to be of service 🫡

[eepwtf]

Hello!! Very random, but I just wanted to say you seem like a really cool person and I really like the way you write (including your bots)!! You really have a way with words, and reading the things you wrote actually gives me motivation to work on my own stuff. Just wanted to let you know you're awesome:)

hi hi!! this is such a sweet thing to say, hearing that my writing (and bots!) not only resonate with you but also motivate you to work on your own stuff is honestly the highest compliment known to man kind(or to eepwtf in this case). knowing i can inspire someone in even a small way means the world to me. you’re so kind for taking the time to share this, and i have no doubt your own creations are amazing.