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eepwtf · 4 days ago

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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—”

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’s works ! ( •)▄︻テحكـ━一💥#x male reader #x male smut #the boys smut #soldier boy smut #catholic guilt #top x bottom #soldier boy x male reader #soldier boy x you #was up and thinking about that one guy from hilda furacao when writing this #he’s such a loser #like what #hilda furacao #you’re invading my thoughts now

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blindmagdalena · 8 months ago

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Guilty Pleasures ( chapter four )

18+ 5.2k homelander x plus size f!reader. office romance, stalking, voyeurism, office sex, cunnilingus, cream pie, breast play, flight sex, lite overstim, riding. nebulously takes place post s1. part 4/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander takes what's his, and you get what's yours.

welcome to the final chapter! thanks so much for reading. i really enjoyed the dynamic between these two, and i hope you do, too. 🖤

Homelander doesn’t hold it against you that you take him up on his suggestion to be absent the following day. He leaves a little peace offering in your office to say as much: a mug for your collection that reads simply, You’ve Been Mugged. He adjusts it seven times on your desk before he finally leaves it alone, surveying your office a while before letting himself out.

The thugs he lasered down in the alley don’t garner much attention, but it’s enough to warrant a statement on the truth of what happened. With them dead, the truth becomes whatever he makes of it, and his truth is that two vagabonds were assaulting a cherished Vought employee before he put a stop to it.

It’s precisely the kind of hero story the public loves.

“I acted on instinct,” he tells the newscaster. He relives the moment as he tells it, recalls only to himself how fierce you had been. How determined you were that if you were going to die, you would die fighting. “They were going to hurt her. I like to believe any good citizen in my position would have done the same.”

Madelyn taught him that conviction without contrition would always read as arrogance, so he speaks firmly but with a furrow to his brow, and he closes his eyes when he inclines his head to accept praise. No matter how dead she is, her voice remains an echo in his mind: follow the script, and you’ll be fine.

They use his words to segue into a discussion of gun control, and Homelander’s mind drifts somewhere distant, hearing without listening to the petty squabbles of humans crying about their little toys and laws. He supposes this is how God feels when humans pray to Him over every minor inconvenience. Bored and painfully above it.

While it’s easy enough to keep himself distracted during business hours, Homelander’s life comes to an abrupt halt alongside the end of the working day. Like the equipment that broadcasts him, there’s little use for him once the cast and crew goes home. All around him the employees commiserate at the end of their work day and pass around invitations to the bar.

He receives none.

Not that he would accept them if he did.

Seeking both council and companionship, Homelander finds himself in Noir’s apartment, seated in the chair Noir keeps for him. It’s the only one the hero owns, what with his interior design being deeply steeped in westernized ninja nonsense. The place is half dojo, half living quarters.

He laments his situation to Noir, explaining his patience in courting you, the lengths he’s gone to endear himself to you on a personal level, and the bitter sting of your rejection.

“See her,” Noir writes in his sketchpad, sitting on the floor on the other side of the low table. “If glad to see her, good. If not–”

Homelander snorts at the series of knife sketches that follow. He has no doubt Noir would put an end to anyone for any reason Homelander gave. Simplicity has allowed Noir an unwavering loyalty to Vought, and as an extension, Homelander himself. Luckily for you, he has no interest in that happening. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Noir,” he muses, clapping his hands on his thighs before he stands up. “You’re right. I’ll go see her. Thanks, buddy.”

Noir offers two thumbs up. A true uproar of approval.

Under the cover of darkness, Homelander returns to your house, the flight path a familiar one now. He lands silently on your roof this time, cocking his head. He’s not confident he’ll be able to resist your siren pull if he approaches now. He folds his hands behind his back and peers through each layer between him and your bedroom, stopping when he can see you.

You’re nestled deep in the splay of your blankets, lips parted around shallow breaths. He bites his own bottom lip, remembering how badly he’d wanted to feel them. Taste them. He’s certain now that if he allowed himself to be close enough, he would. Denial, for as much as it stung in that moment, has only made him hungrier for you. Fuck, the way he’s craved you from the moment you first brushed him aside.

He watches you shift in your sleep and his eyes narrow, honing in on a familiar flash. His stomach flips–it’s his cape, the fabric pinned between your blanket and your body. You really are sleeping with it, the star spangled blue fabric tucked up under your chin. Do you smell him on it? Homelander groans softly. Like your underwear in his bedside drawer, you sleep with a trophy of your own.

“Fuck,” he says, aching. His heart, his mind, his cock–all of it at once a cacophony of vicious yearning and impatience. The urge to peel the roof like a sardine can and carve his way straight to you nearly knocks the wind out of him, has him preemptively reaching for the shingled surface.

Only the lingering wound to his ego gives him pause. He’s been bitten once, leaving him shy to instigate, but this revelation feels like progress. You’re aching for him as much as he is for you. He’s sure of that now. It’s time that he made you feel that ache. Feel his absence. Then you’ll realize the foolishness of your coy game.

Clenching his jaw defiantly, Homelander lifts up into the sky.

He’ll be benevolent when you come to your senses.

The next day, Homelander keeps himself scarce, preoccupied. Ashley is perkier than usual, thrilled–if not suspicious–with his easy participation in whatever inane business she brings to him. It helps distract him from the endless feeling of waiting that he’s enduring.

He sticks stubbornly to his schedule, fantasizing about the torment his avoidance has surely wrought. He’s tempted a time or two to break, but each time he remembers the mortified Oh! you uttered before he kissed you, he refocuses himself.

You’ll come.

Not before lunch, but that is the perfect opportunity for it. He makes himself more available then, tapping his fingers against the armrest of his chair.

No sign of you.

He gives you the benefit of the doubt. A meal to embolden you.

Then you’ll come.

He waits.

Lunch long since over.

He waits.

The day is winding down.

He’s fucking tired of waiting.

Where the hell are you? He’s given you the entirety of the day to seek him out, ample opportunity to come thank him for his gift, to address the aching thing ruminating between you. You’d be a fucking liar to say you don’t feel it, too. By midday, he’s seething with impatience and hurt. There’s no chance he’s going to let you stand him up.

It’s precisely the wrong time for Ashley to rear her head back up. “Okay! That’s that, now regarding the amnesty for–”

“Ashley!” He snaps, a harsh and throaty sound. “Would you shut the fuck up?”

She stops in her tracks, staring wide-eyed. Of course it was too good to be true.

Homelander all but leaps to his feet, pushing out of his chair so hard that it flips backwards and into the wall in a heavy clatter. She clutches her vPad to her chest and quickly back steps out of his way, watching in frightened bewilderment as he storms from the room, making a beeline towards your office.

He doesn’t bother knocking this time. Still, his restraint is undeniable when he pushes your door open. He barely catches himself from pushing the damn thing clean off the hinges.

Your head snaps up from your computer, eyes wide. He hears your heart jump and he savors the alarm that shoots through you. Payback for the awful misery you forced him to endure in the hours since he last saw you. Still, the sight of you disarms him. For all his seething anger, there is something small in him that retreats it when your eyes are on him.

There’s a heaviness to your gaze that his strength can do nothing to alleviate. No incredible feat of his can wrench away what it is he wants from you. What he needs. It’s something you have to give him willingly, and that alone is enough to temper his rage. The familiar fear that you won’t.

He marches to the front of your desk and levels an accusatory finger on you.

“You like me,” he hisses, bending to brace his opposite hand on your desk.

You blink owlishly, lips parted. That clearly wasn’t what you expected him to say. He’s not sure it’s what he meant to say. “Homelander–”

“No,” he says, voice pitched low, a warning. “No, no. No games, no workarounds. You like me. You do. And I like you. So,” he abandons his point to make a vague encompassing gesture, but he doesn’t know what to say next. He didn’t think this far ahead. All day he had practiced the calm benevolence he would show when you approached him, chastised and yearning. He has nothing to back up this frenzied play for.

You stand. Homelander rises to his full height with you, jutting his chin out. He watches you with all the wariness of a wounded predator as you circle around your desk, your hand gliding along the wood like you would flank a horse so as not to spook it.

He can’t determine the intent behind your gaze. He angles his body towards you, facing you head on. You look like yourself again, in your element and free from the fawn fear of the alley. He can’t entirely decide which way he prefers you. When you were in his arms, he was your hero. In your office, his position feels more precarious.

The silence stretches on for hours–or seconds, it’s impossible to say–before he can no longer stand it. Sucking in a breath, he–

You kiss him.

Homelander goes shock still, hyper aware of your lips pressed feather light to his, your breasts against his chest, your hand on his forearm. He doesn’t know when he closed his eyes, but he senses when you begin to pull away.

In a flash he cups your face in his hands and pulls you in deep, inhaling sharply, like he’s only just remembered how to breathe. He kisses you, kisses you, kisses you as if he can trap you in the cycle of it. You don’t resist, you don’t tense. Instead, you sigh an angel’s breath against his lips. Only then does he break to look at you.

“I don’t understand,” he says, bewildered, flushed.

“I do like you,” you say, eyes glassy.

His brows pinch. “But… That night–”

“Wasn’t right,” you interrupt. “I wanted to kiss you, but not like that. Not then. Not because you saved me, not because I was in shock, not because of…” you rock your head side to side. “Whatever other bullshit… You let me down that night.”

“Let you down?” Homelander echoes, taken aback. “By saving your life?” He asks, his temper a perpetual simmer ready to flare. He’s immediately tempered by your hands taking his wrists, squeezing. You hold his gaze and your expression is gentle, but there is a firmness in your stare that he finds intoxicating. Not an ounce of fear, even when his anger emerges.

Good. You shouldn’t be afraid of him. He saved you.

“I was shaken. Badly. My date was an entitled asshole, those men, they tried to…” You shake your head, holding his hands to your face. “I didn’t need you to be a man. I needed you to be a hero. I wasn’t ready.”

A light in Homelander’s eyes flicks on. You just weren’t ready. He’d been right after all. He fixates on that, choosing to forgive you for that, at least.

“Well, why didn’t… You could have said something,” he says, feeling like a deflated hot air balloon, all slack expansion and heat with no purpose.

“I would have,” you say, your cheeks soft and round in his hands, lips slightly puckered from his hold on your face. “But you ran away.”

“What? I–” He laughs incredulously. “I did not run away.”

“Flew away,” you say, pushing in to kiss him again. He screws his eyes shut. Fuck, fuck. Oh fuck. He’s been dreaming of this, aching for it. To feel you against him, wanting him as much as he wants you. “Pretty fast, too. Looked like you shot straight up to the moon,” you say, breath hot and sweet on his lips.

“I…” He swallows, hands slipping down to either side of your neck, thumbs tilting your chin up. “I’m sorry. I wanted you,” he says, trailing his parted lips along your jaw, kissing and breathing you in the way he’s craved to. He can feel your skin growing hot against his lips, hear the uptick of your pulse as your heart begins to race.

“Do you still want me?” You ask, voice lower now. It sends a delicious hot pang all the way through him.

“You have no fucking idea,” he murmurs, nipping at the lobe of your ear, desperate to test the give of you under his teeth, the feel of your soft and yielding flesh branded into his memory the moment his lips touched your skin.

A knock snaps his attention away from you, but it isn’t at the door. He looks down and sees that it’s you knocking on your desk. “So take me,” you say, voice laced with heat. His lips split into a wicked grin. He snatches the edge of your heavy wooden desk and effortlessly tips it backwards until everything slides off of it, clattering to the floor. He lifts you up, relishing your delighted little yelp, and places you down on the cleared surface like a doll, stepping in between your legs.

He kisses you again. Let me in, demands the press of his tongue. You yield to him, but it’s far from a surrender. Your tongue meets his eagerly, tasting him as much as he does you. Tasting you. That’s what he wants. He wants to map every inch of you with his tongue.

Homelander slips his hand between your legs, pushing your skirt up out of the way. He presses his fingers to the heat between your thighs, rubbing through the thin fabric of your panties. You sigh that same seraphic sound against his lips, slipping your hands up into his hair, already taking a handful of it to tug gently.

He breaks the kiss and takes his fingers from you after the barest tease of pleasure. The impatient sound you make goes straight to his cock, as does your flustered expression. He brings his fingers to his lips and drags his tongue over the leather of them, sliding them past his lips to give a quick suck. It’s not enough, too slight a hint of you. He needs more. You watch him with rapt attention, giving his hair a demanding little tug.

“You can pull as hard as you like,” he tells you with a smile, tilting his head against the grasp you have on his hair. “Tells me I’m doing a good job.”

“I’ll tell you when you’re doing a good job,” you rasp, giving his hair a sharp pull and then a downward push. That sends a shiver down his spine.

Fuck yes.

Homelander sinks down onto his knees, lifting each of your legs up over his shoulders. You give a little gasp when he yanks your ass to the edge of the desk, giddy with the way he manhandles you. He swallows, mouth dry, thirsty for the wet, heady smell of your pussy. He maneuvers his head under your skirt until he’s close enough to drag his tongue up the soft cotton of your panties. Your breath hitches and your grip in his hair tightens while you egg him on with sharp little rolls of your hips.

He closes his eyes, giving a rumbling moan for the taste of you, even through the fabric. He laps until the fabric is soaked, clinging to your skin, and he can feel your clit swollen and stiff on his tongue through your panties. He closes his mouth over it, sucking you through your underwear while you writhe above him, keeping yourself quiet.

That won’t do.

He wants to hear you.

He wants the whole fucking Tower to hear you.

Hooking the crotch of your panties with his finger, it only takes one sharp little tug to tear them, exposing you to him.

“Homelander,” you moan. The sound of it lances a spear of heat through him, leaves his cock throbbing needily in the rigid confines of his cup. He groans into you, rocking his hips against the empty air. The only proper answer is to dive in, to close his lips around your clit and finally suck the rich nectar of your cunt without the filter of fabric between you. You taste even better than you smell, like salt and sex and sweet ripe fruit. It overwhelms his senses immediately, his eyelids flickering.

The more he laps at you, the silkier your pussy becomes. Between circling your clit, he drives his tongue deep into you, drinking you down noisily and messily, a parched man gulping from an oasis. Your thick thighs are tight on either side of his head, your pulse pounding in his ears. He moans low and wicked for the taste and feel of you.

Your grip on his hair tightens sporadically, sharp little tugs that match the staccato cadence of your breaths. “F-fuck, your tongue feels-feels fucking unreal,” you moan, grinding down against it. The strength of it, the slight thrum of restrained power that courses through him, and the sheer relentlessness of his stamina is driving you wild against his mouth. “Fingers, use your fingers,” you tell him. He loves the rawness of your voice, the authority and desperation in your demand.

Removing one of his gloves, he moves his bare hand to the sweltering wetness of you, teasing his finger just below where his tongue is rubbing your clit. His index finger slips easily into the slick mess, and he savors the quiver of your velvet walls around it. He lets you ride his finger, stays all but still while you greedily bounce your hips, both hands fisted in his hair. You use him for your pleasure, and it makes him delirious with want.

Homelander's gaze flickers up. He peers through the layer of your skirt to catch a look at you, to watch you while you cannot watch him. You’re losing track of yourself, lips parted, eyes glazed with pleasure, shivering with each flick of his tongue and dive of his finger. Euphoria looks good on you.

Christ, he has been patient. He would chastise himself for waiting so long to touch you, to taste you, to feel you, but he can’t bring himself to. The wait gifted him with this exquisite hunger, and he proved something important; you both yearn for the other. You crave him. He can see it in your hazy eyes, taste it in the spill of your sweet cunt.

You belong to him. He needs only to take you.

One finger becomes two, and then three. Your heels dig into his shoulders and fuck yourself down on them, moaning recklessly now, not caring who hears you. It’s music to his ears.

“Fuck, Homelander, I-I’m coming, I’m-don’t stop, don’t stop,” you beg prettily. You don’t need to, but he enjoys the song anyway. He laps at your clit in quick upward pulls of his tongue, lips creating a seal around it. His brows furrow tightly, his own neglected arousal pounding through his body like a wardrum, but he doesn’t touch himself, too focused on you.

Your whole body locks up tight when you come, breath caught in your lungs, your clit fluttering delicately. He presses his tongue to it, savoring the taste of your euphoria, how it floods your system and changes the flavor of you. Your pleasure grows his hunger into something monstrous, something demanding, but there is satiation at least in bringing you this, in showing you all the things he will be for you.

You’ll never want for anyone–or anything– else ever again.

Homelander doesn’t stop. You begged him not to. He finger-fucks you through the aftershocks, lapping up every drop of your pleasure, stroking you inside and out while your cunt squeezes his fingers. He doesn’t stop until he feels you pushing him away, your sweet songbird moans sounding more like whimpers, oversensitized. He withdraws his fingers, giving one last noisy slurp before emerging from beneath your skirt. His face is shiny and wet with your slick, his pupils blown black. He's panting, looking every bit like a beast lifting its bloodied head from the belly of its kill.

Crawling up your body, still predator hungry, he rests his knee on the desk between your legs. He cups either side of your face, fingertips digging possessively into the back of your neck. He meets your eyes, pinning you with the intensity of his gaze, wordlessly drilling into your mind that this moment, this feeling, this tingling warmth in your body is him.

I did this to you, his expression reads. You’re on my lips, he says by pressing them to yours, kissing your own taste into your mouth, his body throbbing, desperate for an ounce of that same relief. You’re mine.

To his amazement, your eyes mirror his own savage hunger. You kiss him hard, shamelessly licking into his mouth, huffing shallow breaths from your nose. “Lie down,” you tell him, voice as sweet and coarse as raw sugar. “I’m going to ride you.”

Homelander doesn’t need to be told twice. Exhilarated, he rolls over, flipping you with him and steadying you above him in a fluid motion. The desk isn’t as long as he is tall, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already half suspended in the air with his own excitement, helping you with overly eager hands that fumble alongside yours with his belt, which falls to the ground with a distinct thud. He gives a little jump at the voracity you rip his zipper down with, grinning.

Together, you shuck his pants down to his thighs. You grip him through his red briefs, a fractured moan falling from his lips.

“Cute underwear,” you coo. His cheeks flush to almost the same shade. You flatten your palm over his cock and he bites back a whimper, teeth sinking into his tongue. You give a light squeeze, fingers curling around his cock through the fabric, and he lets out a rough breath. “You feel close,” you tell him, stroking him in a loose fist, your hand warm, the fabric soft.

He nods fervently, the friction and your voice already teetering him towards the edge. He makes a sound of both anguish and relief when you release him, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. You tug his underwear down, his cock bouncing free, engorged and dripping precome.

“Don’t move,” you tell him, bracing one hand on his chest and sliding forward, your other hand moving between your bodies to steady his cock against the rapturously hot press of your soaked cunt. His hands fly to your hips, fingertips biting into the softness of your body. You allow him that, focused entirely on the act of taking him into you. The fat head of his cock it slips inside, evoking a sweet little gasp from you, and Homelander fights not to slam in the rest of the way.

Both of your hands fall to his chest, your eyes meeting his. He holds your gaze, mouth twitching around silent sharp breaths. He watches you sink slowly down the length of him, engulfing him in such sublime rapture it’s a wonder he doesn’t come right then and there for the feel of you alone. His grip on your hips flexes and he gives a sharp little thrust up, forgetting himself to the divine feel of your pussy.

“I said don’t move,” you remind him breathlessly. God, you’re beautiful like this. The fluorescent light behind your head haloes you, giving you the look of a debauched angel he plucked from the heavens to have and keep as his own. He expects you to move, to bounce yourself on his cock like you did his mouth and his fingers. He wants to watch your tits bounce, see your face clearly when you come on his cock, but the only part of you that moves is your hand.

His gaze drops and quickly darkens, watching intently as you stroke your clit. The initial contact alone makes you jerk, makes your pussy spasm and squeeze him so good he almost chokes on it. Your only response is to sigh, tipping your head back and spreading your legs a little wider, taking him deeper. He wants so badly to fuck you, to slam you down and rail you until your desk cracks in half.

“Mmmm, fuck,” you moan, rubbing yourself in circles, the lewd noise of it loud and irresistible to his ears. “Fuck, fuck–ah, god,” you start to pant, head falling forward, brows tightly pinched. You’re so sensitive after the assault of his mouth, the flavor of you still fresh on his tongue. The faster your fingers move, the closer he feels you get, the clench around his cock steadily tightening. He wants to thrash, but you keep him pinned in place with your look of expectation and pleasure. You’re getting off on him as much as you are your own fingers, on the swell and throb of his cock inside you, on the sheer power you hold over a god.

You’re loud when you come, nails clawing into the chest of his suit. Homelander’s eyes roll back, lips parted on a soundless cry of his own. The spasming heat of your release is too much and he loses himself to it, eyes flaring up with crimson light as he comes with you, every shudder of your climax stroking and milking him of his own, flooding you with his own wet mess.

His restraint breaks with the dam and he sits up abruptly, startling a noise from you, which he swallows with a hard kiss, cupping the back of your head. He holds you still and he fucks you, lifting from the desk entirely so that he alone supports your weight, driving you deeper onto his cock. Your legs tighten on either side of him, shaking.

Out of his mind with pleasure, he tears your blouse open with his teeth, diving in close to lick, suck and bite at your chest. He buries his face between your breasts, holding you tightly as he fucks you both through your respective orgasms, the slap of flesh against flesh echoing obscenely in your office.

Hitching your legs properly around his waist, he bounces you on his cock until the pleasure borders on pain and a secondary shock rolls through him like another orgasm, stealing his breath. Only then does he finally slow, mouthing languidly at your chest until he sucks your nipple into his mouth. He moans against you, grinding to an eventual halt. You comb your fingers through his hair and goosebumps erupt across his body, which shivers in the euphoric aftermath.

He loses track of how long he stays suspended like that, lost to the overwhelm of sensation. Your legs go slack while his angles slightly upward, his face pressed to your chest, your head resting atop his. He nuzzles at you, bleary eyed and slack with pleasure. He kisses a trail up to your clavicle, your throat, your jaw, smiling in the loose, easy way that only a good fuck can never make him.

“Wow,” he says after a while, voice thoroughly frayed.

You giggle, groggily lifting your head. He adjusts until you can relax against his chest, fold your forearms across it and settling your chin atop them, admiring him. He touches your face with his ungloved hand, stroking your cheek with his thumb, then the curve of your bottom lip. His smile widens when you kiss the pad of his thumb.

“Wow indeed,” you say, swinging your legs lightly. “Can’t say I’ve ever been fucked mid-air.”

“One of the many benefits of dating me,” he purrs, caressing your cheek with his knuckles. He kisses you again, drifting slowly back down, unhurried.

Your brows lift lazily. “Who says we’re dating?” You ask, but your smile keeps his hackles from rising.

“Me,” he says, eyes crinkled at the corners. He lands gently on the desk, helping you to it. “You and I are officially going steady.”

You give a thoughtful hum, carefully untangling your limbs from his. You slide off of the desk while he puts himself back together, your knees trembling faintly. “Fairly sure asking someone out requires a question mark. You know. The asking part. You didn’t even buy me dinner.” You attempt to button up your shirt, but it’s obviously a lost cause.

He exhales a quiet laugh, pulling you back into his arms. “Well, I certainly ate.”

“God,” you laugh, rolling your eyes, but they don’t stray from him for long. There’s a sparkle to your gaze that he wants to capture in his palm and never set loose.

“Will you go out with me?” He asks, lips brushing yours.

“Mmmmmmmm….” You hum once more, drawing it out, feigning a great deliberation. “There’s something you should know first.”

He quirks a brow. “What’s that?”

“My guilty pleasure,” you say, nose bumping his.

Intrigued, he inclines his head to prompt you to continue. Can’t be worse than mine.

“Superheroes,” you say conspiratorially. “Can’t get enough of them. Loved them my whole life. Especially this one in particular…”

He breaks into a frayed, charmed laugh. “Let me guess, name starts with an H?”

You suck in a breath through your teeth, lips curved downward in a mock grimace, and nod subtly. “ Total fangirl. Embarrassing, right?”

Homelander shakes his head. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never felt guilty about pleasure. Where’s the harm in it?”

The harm inflicted on those thugs couldn’t count. They had it coming.

“Harm to my pride, my ego, my reputation,” you list, tapping his suit to punctuate each one. “I made a pretty big fuss about not liking you. I had myself convinced that my Homelander only existed in my fantasies, and you were just the guy who plays him.”

My Homelander. The words stir an unexpectedly sentimental surge of emotion that wells up from somewhere deep in his chest. He clears his throat lightly. “What’s the verdict now?”

You sweep him with an appraising gaze. “Still deliberating.”

He clicks his tongue, nodding. “I don’t suppose I could arrange a meeting with the jury?”

“They’re available for dinner tomorrow,” you say, the tilt of your lips sly.

“It’s a date,” he murmurs, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. You kiss him, pressing your smile to his. He doubts he’ll ever tire of the softness of your lips, or the easy way you melt against him. He wraps his arms around you, content to let this moment pass only because he knows there will be more to come. He’s determined to make every one of them better than the last.

All of the pleasure, none of the guilt.

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #my writing #x reader #yandere x reader

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hemipenal-system · 3 months ago

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rival dragon riders who can't stop getting in petty squabbles that eventually escalate to a bet: whichever one of them can turn on and successfully let their dragon fuck them is a better dragon rider and whoever chickens out first loses.

of course, they're both stubborn assholes, so this ends with them being pounded by their dragons to within an inch of their life, frantically grasping hands as they both get stretched by cocks that were significantly larger than they expected

#dragon

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revelboo · 1 month ago

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congrats on 1k! your writings is such a comfort space for me thank you for writting these wonderful characters 🥹🫶

Thank y’all for reading my nonsense!

True Romance Pt 4

Seeker Trine x Reader

• “Skywarp,” Thundercracker hisses, wings flaring and the edge in his brother’s voice is enough to make Starscream turn to see exactly what Skywarp is doing. And you shriek right then, the sharp sound making his own wings flick back. Making him almost rise from his desk without meaning to. Grimacing, he goes back to his report, but watches you and his brothers from the corner of an optic. Making sure you’re not actually in danger. Dangling upside down from Skywarp’s hand, you’re trying to curl forward and cling to his servos, your alarm apparent. “You’re going to break them,” Thundercracker says, his own hands cupped together, reaching for you as your face darkens. The fear on your face oddly unsettling when it shouldn’t matter at all to him.

• Managing to get a grip on one of Skywarp’s servos, you hang on, body curled forward. Praying he really doesn’t drop you, because you’ll likely break your neck from this height. Wanting to scream at him to put you down, but too scared to do anything but nearly hyperventilate. He’s the least predictable of the three, but he hasn’t hurt you so far. Scaring you senseless? That seems to amuse him to no end. But he can be gentle despite that, he’s toyed with your hair before with gentle servos as though fascinated.

• “We’re playing,” Skywarp growls back, shifting you to cradle to his chassis as he backs away from Thundercracker. Feeling the heels of your little feet drum against him as he pins you there, still upside down. Annoyed that Thundercracker assumes he’d hurt you. He likes the feel of your warmth in his servos, the frantic beat of your heart. And those startled little cries when he surprises you. Thundercracker still has his hands outstretched in demand, wanting to end his fun. “Don’t be a glitch.”

• Staring at Thundercracker from upside down, you feel Skywarp’s servos flex against you. Know what’s coming next. That the argument over you will escalate until Starscream gets involved and loses his temper with all of them. “I’m okay,” you say, voice unsteady. And Skywarp looks down at you as though surprised that you’re taking his side instead of trying to get away. But really, you just don’t want Starscream to start yelling, so you’d started playing peacekeeper whenever they fight over you. Because Starscream’s fury puts you on edge, and something about watching the wings on the other two droop is hard to watch. “I like this game,” you lie breathlessly, sure all the blood has already rushed to your head. And Starscream is staring right at you, optics narrowing like he knows you’re lying through your teeth.

• Hearing you put a stop to the argument is a surprise. And you’re looking right at him, before turning your attention on Thundercracker and offering him a shaky smile. You’re not okay at all, but you’re trying to keep them from fighting. And it works. Looking uncertain, Thundercracker vents and retreats to his berth to watch Skywarp. Already proving yourself worth keeping, saving him from dealing with petty squabbles. Rising slowly, he stalks over and Skywarp’s wings flick. Waiting for a rebuke, but Starscream only reaches out a servo to touch your hair.

#transformers x reader #starscream x reader #thundercracker x reader #skywarp x reader #idw starscream #idw skywarp #idw thundercracker

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chloe-skywalker · 6 months ago

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Inbetween - Klaus & Kol

Klaus x Fem!reader

Kol x Fem!reader

Warnings: none

Word count: 246

Summary: Getting in between Klaus and Kol when they are fighting. They're fighting because they both have feelings for you.

Masterlist

TVD Masterlist

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“What's going on?” Y/n asked standing on the balcony with Rebekah and Elijah. Looking down she sees Kol and Klaus arguing. So that’s what she heard from her room Y/n thought.

“Nik and Kol are fighting, again.” Rebekah told her watching her brothers scream at each other for the millionth time.

“What’s wrong this time?” Y/n rolled her eye’s at their behavior.

“It would seem they are fighting over a girl.” Elijah pointed out sighing, fed up and over the petty squabble.

“Who?” Y/n wondered who had caught their eye’s this time.

“We have no idea. A name has not been mentioned as of yet.” Elijah did have an idea of who it was about though.

“Why haven’t you tried to stop them?” Y/n questioned once noticing how heated the two were getting.

“The only person who could get in between those two when they're fighting and not die is you.” Rebekah scoffed but looked to Y/n with a knowing smirk.

“Gee thanks.” Y/n grumbled before walking down the stairs to get in between the two originals.

“Hey, Hey!” Y/n stood between them with one hand on each of their chest. “Enough! Now what’s going on?”

Before either could answer though Y/n cut in, but to be fair Klaus and Kol they didn’t want to tell her what they were fighting about anyway.

“You know what. I don’t care, just stop fighting. Your brothers, act like it.”

Taglist: @gruffle1 @padawancat97 @starkleila

#klaus mikaelson #kol mikaelson #elijah mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #klaus mikaelson imagine #klaus mikaaelson imagines #klaus mikaelson x reader #kol mikaelson imagine #kol mikaelson imagines #kol mikaelson x reader #tvd #the vampire diaries #the vampire diares imagine #the vampire diaries imagines #imagines #imagine #x reader #y/n

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maeed2103 · 5 months ago

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Listen, I love seeing soft, yearning, bakudeku.

BUT…..

Guys, they are not gonna be that gentle with each other all the time, they’ve been friends(?) since childhood, Midoryia isn’t afraid to talk back to Bakugo, the two bicker like an old married couple.

Enough of the wholesome cuddling in bed asleep art where everything is perfect— those two would FIGHT for the blankets, limbs are thrown everywhere, Midoryia squirms so much trying to get to sleep bc he can’t turn his brain off, which in turn keeps Bakugo awake. If they try cuddling, Bakugo gets too warm and sweaty, Midoryia steals all the sheets and they always wake up tangled and discombobulated.

I also love the idea of Midoryia realizing bakugo has a deviated septum because the guy snores like a fog horn. This then leads to Bakugo finding out that it’s actually not normal to stop being able to breathe when eating or drinking (does not take this well)

I want to see more petty arguments, arguing over produce prices in the grocery store, Bakugo sending Midoryia to the grocery store with a specific list and pictures or else he gets overwhelmed with all the options in front of him (and bakugo is picky)

I wanna see how big their All Might memorabilia collection would look like when they move in and the arguments that would ensue when it came to organizing it all.

(Midoryia wanted chronological order while Bakugo thought they should do coolest to still cool but not as cool order)

All this to say, they’re friends first before anything else. They know too much about the other, they’ve memorized the others quirks and faults, knowing the others mood just by how they pour their coffee in the morning. They’re too strong willed, stubborn characters that would squabble over silly things but be gentle and understanding when life gets serious.

#bkdk #bakudeku #I didn’t think this post would be as long as it is since I just starting understanding this ship….#mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bakugou katsuki #izuku midoriya

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elizabethemerald · 1 month ago

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The Future of the Pantheon of the Gods

@prehistoric-catgirl added onto @stealingyourbones 's post about Random DC characters interacting with DP characters. Her character was Cassie Sandsmark and she created a prompt where-in Cassie is assigned to become part of the new Pantheon and to seek out other members of the new Pantheon, including Danny Phantom who will be the new God of Death.

Masterpost

***

"Is this true?" Cassandra Sandsmark asked.

Cassie, Donna Troy and Diana Prince, stood before the gathered gods of Olympus. Cassie had been surprised to be summoned alongside the original Wonder Woman and the first Wonder Girl, her mentor and greatest inspiration respectively, to stand before the Olympians.

"Yes. Though we have tried to stop the decline, the truth is the gods are dying." Zeus rumbled, ozone and petrichor filling her nose as he spoke.

Cassie hadn't wanted to bring it up, but the gods around them did seem... older... weaker than they ever had been. They were still far over any mortal, but even with all the gathered Olympians the air was suffocated by their power like it had been even a few years before.

"Is there some way we can assist?" Donna asked, looking around them and no doubt cataloging the same changes Cassie had noticed.

Hera smiled at the trio of Wonder Women.

"Your noble spirit is why we have summoned you, but there is nothing that can be done to save us now." The words had a weight of surety to them. Everything had already been tried. The end of the Olympians was inevitable.

"The worship from the mortals has declined in recent centuries." The ground rumbled and shook under her feet as Poseidon spoke. "We are not as powerful now as we were a decade ago and in another decade more our infirmity will only grow."

Hades spoke next, his voice cracking with cold that stole Cassie's breath away. "There were some of us who felt we should just fade away, if the mortals no longer wished to worship us, then they can see how well they do without our influence over our domains."

"However, the rest of us wanted to ensure our domains remained to serve the humans even after our passing." Hera said, her words like a gavel. "The solution we have reached is to pass on our mantels to new, worthy successors. Those who have some skill with our domains, unshakable moral codes, and a deep love for their fellow mortals."

Cassie pondered the words of the Gods in the following silence. Then her eyes widened and her head whipped up to meet the eyes of Zeus who smiled at them as she gasped.

"Yes, we plan to pass on our duties to heroes such as yourselves." He declared, his arms open, magnanimously.

Cassie could see that Donna and Diana were as shocked as she was, though both of them kept their gasps silent. Diana gave a short bow.

"If there is no other way, than is a duty I can bare." She said.

"Not you Diana." Hades said, his empty eyes capturing them each in turn. "You have your own purpose among the new Pantheon, God-killer."

Diana stiffened and rose to face the Olympians once more, her shoulders set. Hera was the one to speak next.

"We decided those best to handle the weight of the cosmos would be those who are young enough to grow into their new roles. There are many such young heroes in your world who could train alongside us before our decline is complete."

"And if they should fall short of your standards, you expect me to serve as their executioner." Diana's disdain could have only been more clear if she had spat on the floor.

"Yes." Poseidon snapped like the crash of wave. "The power we have, that we are offering is too great to exist without some kind of check to prevent its abuse."

"Besides," spoke Athena for the first time, her eyes still filled with power despite her declining worship. "How many problems have been created for the mortals by the petty squabbles of those who sit on these thrones? We believe you, Diana, will be a worthy mentor for our successors, but you will not be among them. Always apart, always with your sword ready."

Diana's fury burned off her in waves, hating the idea that she would have to turn her blade against some of the junior heroes that she had helped raise, and seen grow up. Cassie swore she could hear her grinding her teeth and was afraid that Diana would decide to end the Pantheon right there.

"So! Who is it you have decided to be your successors?" Donna spoke up quickly, clearly thinking the same thing Cassie was.

"We have consulted the greatest oracles and soothsayers and each of us have chosen one who will suit." Hera said. "Zeus, why don't you go first."

Zeus held his hands out towards Donna. His eyes locked on hers. He stepped down from his dais as Donna stepped back, her eyes the size of dinner plates.

"Who else could take my place other than the sister of our dear Diana, who has proven her metal through lifetimes of strength and suffering. Donna Troy, you will be the next Queen of Olympus."

Donna looked like she might pass out, but shook the shock off and stood firm, earning her a proud smile from Zeus. Cassie patted her on the back, proud of her idol for everything she has accomplished.

"And you Cassandra, daughter of Zeus will take my place as the Goddess of War." Ares declared. "As you should."

Cassie carefully kept her snarl inside, her problems with her "brother" Ares was better left for when she was away from the rest of the Pantheon. At least if she were the Goddess of War, she wouldn't revel in the violence like he always did.

"We will not transfer our power now." Zeus spoke up again, returning to his throne. "Once the New Pantheon is assembled we will hand over our mantels, retaining only a fraction of our power to train our successors."

"Your responsibilities, and the reason we called you first, is so that you may notify those who will join you by your side." Hera said, settling to the details of their mission. "Diana, you will inform the mentors of these young heroes to prevent a panic. Diana, many of these are known to you, and you are known to them, so you will be the primary contact."

Hermes and Athena stepped forward to hand off scrolls to the two of them. Cassie fought to keep her emotions neutral. She would help no one by pouting at being redundant. Diana and Donna looked closely at the scrolls, their faces journeying through emotions as they considered the names.

"And you Cassandra," Cassie looked up in surprise at being addressed by Hades. "There are other heroes that you must reach out to who are not known to your organization, including my own successor."

"Secret would be a perfect-" Cassie started, quick to suggest her own teammate before Hades cut her off.

"No!" He snapped, the word stealing her breath away, forcing her to gasp and clutch her chest. "Your companion does have skills with regards to my domain, but there is another whose power and dominion of death is absolute. He is already a king in his own right, and his connection to life remains strong enough that he would be able to sympathize with the mortals. While he is unknown to your Justice League he is know and beloved to me."

Cassie nodded her head as another scroll, this one cold as ice was handed to her by Hermes. She couldn't help but be impressed by whoever this person is. She hadn't heard Hades call anything beloved other than Persephone in all the time she had known him. She looked at the names and coordinates on the scroll.

"Who on Earth is Phantom?"

#wonder woman #donna troy #cassie sandsmark #olympians #dp x dc #danny phantom #ok listen i said i was going to answer this prompt and only barely got through the intro #there could be like a dozen chapters of the different heroes finding out they are destined to be gods and training with their new gifts #New Pantheon #writing emerald #donna is trying her best not to start screaming as she looks at some of the people she has to reach out to #diana is about four minutes from putting her name and abilities to the test and leaving olympus empty #you thought cratos was bad #place your bets on who you think will replace which dieties!

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maybeiwasjustjade · 6 months ago

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Trying to churn out fics for HOTD when the writing continues to hit rock bottom, is slowly driving me insane. S2’s writing has been absolute garbage to the point I’m feeling extremely uncharitable towards Alicent, which is probably a good indication to stop writing for the day.

For one, why is TG written to act like the war is Aegon’s fault, when aside from Helaena, he’s so far been the least at fault??

Alicent and Otto were the ones that crowned Aegon against his will. Aegon was the one who had to be dragged to the pit kicking and screaming (literally) to claim a throne he never even wanted. Sure, there’s the argument that it’s his birthright en yada yada, but clearly the show forgot that little bit.

Aemond killed Lucerys. Criston was the one who sent Arryk after Rhaenyra, not Aegon. Otto was the one who ordered nobles killed for not supporting them.

So what exactly has Aegon actually done? And if the leaks are to be believed (and they’ve been accurate so far), what has he done to deserve his own brother maiming and trying to kill him? Because he was mean and cruel and petty in today’s episode???

So fucking what?????

Aegon isn’t nice. They’ve never gotten along, except for few moments where they stuck together for survival. This isn’t petty childhood squabbles, sibling bullying, or rivalries borne from being mom’s favorite vs the most unloved eldest son in westeros. Aegon’s son is dead, and Aemond is partially at fault.

It doesn’t matter that Aemond regrets killing Lucerys. It absolves no one. Luke’s still dead, so Jaehaerys is too.

Aegon is gonna be mean and hateful and angry and vengeful. Aemond did something incredibly stupid and now his infant nephew is dead. Today’s brothel scene will never justify what Aemond does next episode.

#hotd spoilers #hotd season 2 #aegon ii targaryen #team green #anti hotd #because the writing is absolute shit #hotd leaks

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daydreaming-nerd · 6 months ago

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Shadows and Sins (Ruhn Danaan x Reader)

Takes place pre HOFAS

My masterlist

A/N: I’ve been sitting on this for so long and guess what I GAVE HIM A BIKE HAHA biketok girls we ride at dawn.

Summary: All is fair in love and war… (enemies to lovers inspired by House of Balloons by The Weeknd)

Warnings: SA, intoxication, banter

Word count: 3981

Prince, starborn, bad boy, party animal, loose cannon and playboy, those were the words typically used to describe Ruhn Danaan.

Asshole, spoiled brat, antagonizing, vexing and unfortunately handsome…those were the words I used to describe my best friend's brother.

Ruhn came into my life about a year ago when I started working at the archives with his younger sister Bryce, who I became friends with almost instantly. He came in one day demanding to speak to Bryce and since I thought he was just some lovesick guy like all the others who came panting after the redhead I promptly told him off. It wasn’t until 30 minutes of fighting back and forth that Bryce returned from lunch with Hunt that I found out I was wrong, and the prince never let me live it down.

Since then, we were like oil and water, order and chaos, and love and war. Though I suppose all was fair when it came to that.

We fought whenever we saw one another, which was often since him and Bryce had become reacquainted. At first she hated our squabbling, but with Athalar’s calming presence in her life she had grown to use it as free entertainment. So when the bell over the door to archives rang and her laugh echoed subsequently I knew I was in for a fight…

“Brought your wallet,” called the voice I dreaded to hear. “You gotta stop leaving it at my place.”

“Thanks Ruhn,” Bryce chirped, confirming the worst.

Sure enough I turned around to find Ruhn Danaan waltzing in like he owned the place, which I sure he could if he wanted to, he was a prince after all not that you could ever tell. In all the fairytales I had read as a little girl the prince’s always wore fine tunics and rode on white horses. But Ruhn opted for a black t-shirt and a speed bike and unfortunately if he had been anyone but who he is I would’ve found that incredibly hot.

“I still don’t know why you insist upon hanging out with the rabble,” Ruhn said to Bryce leaning his forearms against the countertop.

Bryce shoots her brother a look that begs him to behave himself for once in his life, and part of me thought I should be the bigger person and not fight back. But I wasn’t a bigger person-I was a petty bitch, and I’ll be damned if I let Ruhn Danaan come into my place of employment and talk smack to me.

“It’s probably because she needs at least one acquaintance who doesn’t need someone to wipe his ass for him,” I said with a fake smile, continuing to polish the silver chalice in my hand.

Bryce snorts as she shoves her wallet into her purse. Both of us turn to her to find her trying to hide her giggle at my comment.

I cross my arms over my chest giving Ruhn a self satisfied look and as usual he won’t let me win that easily.

“Funny you should mention it. I've been looking for someone else who would wipe it for me. Interested? I’m sure you’d love the view,” he smirks that godsdammned lip ring making an appearance.

“One of these days I’m going to rip that ring right out of your lip,” I growl bracing my arms on the counter like I might do it right now.

“Oh the women of Crescent City would weep at the loss of my beloved lip ring, they do so love when it grazes their-”

“That’s enough!” Bryce shouts pushing Ruhn towards the door. “I do not want to hear about your bedroom activities!”

“Same here I just ate lunch!” I shout from behind the desk.

“Please, you're begging for more images of me to get off to!” Ruhn shouts from the threshold of the door as Bryce continues to push him.

“If I wanted to see mediocre fucking I’m sure there’s a website for it!” I holler as Bryce closes the door.

I smirk and waggle my fingers at him as he bangs on the door. Once again I got the last word and oh boy did it feel good.

Bryce didn’t walk away from the door until the revving of Ruhn’s bike could be heard taking off down the road. She turned to me with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face. My lip twitched up in amusement and her scorned look broke as both of us roared with laughter.

“Okay I have to admit the ass wiping bit was pretty good,” she chortled, coming around to help me polish again.

“You like that one? I’ve been saving it.” I laugh remembering the look on his face when his own sister laughed at him.

“I still hate that you two fight, but at least it’s like getting my own comedy show now,” she shakes her head.

We finish our polishing in peace, talking over last night's episode of Fangs and Bangs, and our raucous plans for tonight. It was friday, which meant girls night was happening at The White Raven. It was honestly my favorite day of the week, I looked forward to it more than I cared to admit. Society called us vicious party girls, but how bad were we really?

“So I’ll meet you there at 10?” Bryce asks, locking up the shop.

“Yeah what are you wearing though?” I ask rummaging through my bag for the key to the lock on my scooter.

“I was going to wear that red silk dress, you know the one Hunt tried to tear off me,” she smirks, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Ooo someones playing dirty trying to get laid tonight,” I muse, if Bryce did one thing well it was ruffle Hunt’s feathers everytime he had to pick her up after a girls night.

“Like I even have to try that hard anymore,” she laughs tucking the keys into her bag.

“Oh how I wish I had a man to carry me home from the bar and dick me down afterwards,” I sigh with fake longing, though we both know I was telling the truth.

“Prince Charming is out there and who knows you might meet him tonight,” she smiles as she begins to walk towards her apartment. “Wear the black and silver dress!” she calls back.

I shake my head and continue walking towards the other side of town. I hadn’t planned to wear the black and silver dress tonight but Bryce was never wrong about fashion, so black and silver it was.

The White Raven was alive and bouncing per usual. Couples coupling in dark corners, some drunk girls grinding on each other wearing bachelorette tiaras, men shouting at their friends to finish their beers. Among those rowdy men, Ruhn Danaan.

He had kindly greeted Bryce and unkindly greeted me when he first arrived. Bryce promptly shooed him off letting him know that it was girls night and he said he’d rather chew glass than stick around. While he was across the bar it didn’t help with the awareness that he was there.

Normally girls nights were carefree, Bryce and I might end up dancing on a bartop and of course they would call the Umbra Mortis to haul us over his shoulders. Sometimes we would kick Hunt out his own bed and force him to sleep on the couch so us girls could have a “sleep over”.

Tonight was different. The last thing I needed was to commit some atrocious behavior that Ruhn could put in his arsenal of insults. I could already hear him jesting about how I made out with a lion shifter or fell over on the dancefloor. So Bryce and I stuck to sitting at the bar, sipping our drinks and talking shit like sophisticated women.

Two drinks turned to four, and four turned to six. The colorful lights only made my head spin faster as I downed the rest of my drink. I looked to my right to find Bryce’s nearly untouched. Athalar had showed up about ten minutes ago after our bartender told him we were approaching being cut off. Of course the moment Bryce saw him all bet were off… she now stood with her tongue down his throat and he didn’t seem inclined to protest. Turns out she was right about that red dress.

I roll my eyes and grab her martini and down it slamming it back on the bartop, not like she was going to need it.

“Bryce I’m heading out,” I say, putting my hand on her shoulder.

She gave me a thumbs up as Hunt moved from her lips to her neck. I just shook my head and grabbed my purse. It wasn’t uncommon for me to go home alone, she had my location and we always kept tabs on one another.

The second I stood on my feet all the alcohol rushed to my head, and I had to close my eyes and take a deep breath to steady myself. I looked at my barstool and thought about sobering up, but the last thing I wanted to see was the mate makeout session, so I shook my head to try and clear my mind and sauntered out towards the door.

The night air did little to sober me up, and my stilettos didn’t help with the wobbling. I pulled out my phone to try and find a ride home, but when the rideshare app quoted me $100 to go two miles I shoved my phone back in my purse with a huff and started walking towards my apartment. Like hell I was paying that for two miles.

My heels clicked on the pavement, echoing off the alley walls. Suddenly another pair of shoes echoed off the walls as well, not light and feminine steps, big clunky shoes.

“Where are you going darling?” crooned a voice I didn’t recognize.

I tried my best to pick up the pace, but the nature of my delicate shoes did little to give me any sort of advantage. My hands fumble with my purse trying to pull out the pepper spray Hunt got me for my birthday last year but those last two drinks were starting to catch up with me and my world was spinning.

I feel a pair of hands grab my shoulders and slam me against the wall of the White Raven. My purse falls to the ground and I’m met with a pair of brown eyes. The guy had a backwards sunball hat and a blue shirt and he reeked of liquor.

“Come on baby it’s not safe for pretty things like you to be out here,” he slurred, his body pressing closer to me.

I cringe at the smell of his breath, “Get off of me creep!” I shout hoping that the alley isn’t that empty.

My hands try to push him off but my intoxicated nature doesn't allow for much dexterity on my part.

“Oh come on sweetheart don’t be that way,” he mumbled drunkenly, attaching his mouth to my neck.

I try to push him off once more but I wobble, uneasy on my shoes. His hands fall from the small of my waist to the hem of my dress and I feel my blood run ice cold.

“NO!” I shout scrumbling to get the sleeze off me.

A hand grabs the back of the males collar and the sound of a fit making contact with his jaw reverberates through the alley as the male hits the ground. I stand shocked with my hands over my mouth as Ruhn Danaan shakes out the hand that delivered the punch and kicks the limp male.

“You okay?” he asks nonchalantly, giving me a once over.

I stand there still too stunned to speak, my eyes wandering from the male on the ground to Ruhn standing there with that damned black t-shirt clinging to his torso.

He bends down to pick up my purse and shoves it into my arms. The gesture that finally breaks me out of shock.

“T-thank you,” I mutter, still a little slow.

“Where’s Bryce?” he asks looking around the alley, the sound of the club music inside still booming.

I push myself off the wall stumbling a bit, “Inside sucking face with Athalar,” I slurr.

“Thanks for the visual,” Ruhn purses his lips.

I straighten myself up and take a deep breath trying to act as sober as possible which probably was making me seem even more drunk, but I had to at least try.

“Well thank you for uh…that,” I say gesturing towards the man still unconscious on the pavement. “I’ll see you around I guess.”

I start wobbling down the alleyway once more, blinking my eyes rapidly to get my mind to clear and focus on walking home.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going princess?” he croons.

Princess. Gods that fucking nickname. Most people would use it as a compliment or a pet name, but Ruhn knew how it drove me insane. He claimed I was just a spoiled princess one time and when I freaked out and yelled at him about it he proceeded to make that his nickname for me.

“I’m going home,” I sneer, trying to walk as best I can.

“Like hell you’re walking home alone,” he growls, gripping my arm.

My eyes fly too the tattooed hand on my arm, and then up to those violet blue eyes that sparked with rage.

“I do it all the time I’m fine,” I growl trying to rip my arm out of his grasp but I only succeed in making myself stumble more.

He steadies me before speaking again, “Stop I’ll give you a ride,” he says motioning to his blacked out R1 parked in the alley.

“I am not getting on that death trap with you after you’ve been drinking,” I scoff.

“I’m not drunk, I don’t get drunk in public, it’s bad for appearances,” he says, irritation flitting across his unfairly handsome features.

“Then how do I know you’re not going to dump me into Istros?” I sneer and the muscle in his jaw ticks and I can tell it’s taking everything in him not to fire back at me.

“Because Bryce and I are finally on good terms and I’m pretty sure she would never forgive me if something happened to her best friend,” he explained, his words cold as ice.

Maybe I was stupid, maybe I was drunk, maybe I was just cold and wanted to go home, but I actually believed him.

“Fine, let's go,” I say, walking towards his bike.

I had to admit I always wanted to ride a motorcycle. Now riding on the back of Ruhn’s while I was drunk wasn’t exactly the time I wanted to do it, but I suppose beggars couldn’t be choosers. The bike was large and completely blacked out, if the moon hadn’t illuminated it just right I wouldn’t have been able to see it.

Ruhn approaches the bike and starts the engine, every movement is like second nature to him. He takes the helmet off the seat and goes to put it on himself but then stops, turns to me, and punks it down on my head. The darkness of the visor mixed with the late hour making it impossible to see. I huff and flip it up, giving him a pointed glare.

“I don’t have both helmets so this will have to do,” he says studying the way it fits me a little big.

Tattooed fingers brush under my chin, tilting it up so he can buckle the strap for me. I would protest and say I’m capable of doing it myself but in my drunken state I’m not so sure. When he clips the buckle it pinches my skin for a moment and I yip.

“Ouch you pinched me!” I yelp smacking him in the arm.

“Well if you stopped squirming I wouldn’t have pinched you,” he smirks, throwing his leg over the bike. “Now swing your leg over the bike and put your feet on these pegs,” he instructs me.

I do as I’m told, using his broad shoulders as support as standing on one leg, drunk, in stilettos was never a good idea. Once I’m seated I keep my hands on his shoulders lightly and my bum on the edge of the seat, putting as much distance away from each other as possible.

“You gotta hold on or you’ll fall off sweetheart,” he laughs, somehow finding humor in the precarious situation we’re in.

“Yeah fucking right, like I’m going to wrap my arms around you like a little lovesick puppy,” I huff. “Just drive.”

He shakes his head and revs the engine making the bike jerk forward. The momentum has my bum moving further into the seat and my arms instinctively wrapping around his middle, like I was afraid to fall off.

“There we go much better,” he smirks before revving the engine a couple of times. “Hold on tight princess.”

I’m not given another warning before he speeds out onto the streets. Thankfully there aren’t a lot of cars and people out this late at night, but it doesn’t stop the crown prince from weaving around traffic that is there. He goes so fast I feel compelled to hold onto him with a deathgrip.

By the time we pull up to my apartment my stomach is queasy. I swing my leg off the bike and nearly fall over until Ruhn catches my arms and hauls me up.

“Woah there princess, maybe we better keep the helmet on, you’re a walking liability.” he laughs clearly enjoying seeing me in a vulnerable moment.

“Take it off,” I grumble as I stand up straight again.

He repeats the motion from earlier, tilting up my chin to help me take the damned thing off instead this time he ruffles my hair when he’s done.

“You did pretty good for your first time as a backpack,” he smirks as I glare at him.

I go to walk up my front steps and slip on my damned heels again, the ones that were definitely going to the back of the closet after this outing. Arm wraps under my shoulders and I feel Ruhn helping me up the steps to my second floor apartment.

“You don’t have to do that, I can make it,” I grumble.

“Trying to stay in Bryce’s good graces remember,” he says as I fumble with my keys.

My apartment wasn’t the nicest. It wasn’t a dump by any means, I did my best to keep it homey and clean, but it also wasn’t as nice as Bryce’s. Well I suppose Bryce and Hunt’s apartment now. God she was definitely having a better night than me.

I walk inside and go to close the door but that damned tattooed hand stops me.

“Not going to invite me in? That’s not very friendly,” Ruhn tuts walking right past me.

I scoff at him, walking in like he owns the place. Part of me wants to drag him out by his ear, but the logical part of me bends over to get myself out of these death trap shoes. I throw them across the room as punishment for their crimes tonight.

When I walk further into my apartment I find Ruhn has completely made himself at home by grabbing a beer out of my refrigerator and cracking it open.

“Are you serious?” I scoff walking to the sink across from him and getting myself a glass of water.

“Consider it payment for the free ride home, I’ll take my thanks at any time you know?” he says smugly, taking another sip.

“Thank you for the ride,” I sigh. “Now will you please go?”

He furrows his brows, “And waste a freshly opened beer? I don’t think so.” he says.

I lean against the counter adjacent to him and sip my water. I can’t help but roll my eyes at the male. This was just like Ruhn, finding simple ways to get under my skin. I hated the fact that I liked the way he looked in my kitchen, black t-shirt in jeans, hair tied to the nape of his neck.

Ruhn’s eyes flicker with amusement and then he chuckles, “I really do get under that delicate skin of yours don’t I princess?” he croons.

“I told you. Don’t. Call. Me. Princess.” I snap at him, oh god if looks could kill.

He pushes himself off the counter, “Then stop fucking acting like one,” he says low prowling forward with every step.

The closer he gets the taller he looms. I know this little scare tactic, him trying to invade my space and make me feel small. It’s not like I have much of a choice either, not with the way my back is pressed into the counter.

I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or the expensive cologne pouring off him but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that is so damn arousing. A fucked up part of me wanted him to stick his tongue down my throat but I quickly threw that thought away.

He was mere inches away from me when I started to think he would do just that. My pulse raced and my thighs clenched. But when his arm reached up brushing the shell of my ear it just kept reaching until it came to the top shelf of my cabinets and plucked the bag of chips off the shelf.

My shoulders sag as I realize he was just reaching for a snack to go with his beer, and I mentally cursed myself for hoping it would be more.

He chuckles, opening the bag of chips and popping one into his mouth, not moving from where he stood just inches away from me. He clearly was loving this little power trip he was on.

“You look disappointed, princess,” he chuckles, fishing another chip from the bag.

I roll my eyes and look to the side, unable to meet the predatory gaze that almost had me throwing my moral code out the window just minutes ago.

His hand drifts under my chin pulling my gaze to his as he takes a step forward again.

“Did you think I was going to kiss you?” he asks low, his thumb and forefinger pinching my chin so I can’t look away.

I swallow the lump in my throat. My logic screams to shove him, my alcohol induced brain says to kiss him and my mouth can’t find the words to speak.

Ruhn smiles, lowering his head to me, “Maybe I should kiss you, it would be good to shut you up,” he laughs, voice gravely.

His lips are so close to mine I can feel the warmth of his breath, I swear the cool metal of that damn lip ring brushes my mouth. My body leans forward of its own accord but then he reaches his other hand up and pops another chip in his mouth thoroughly running the moment.

“No I don’t think I will kiss you, even though it’s clear that you want me to,” he smiles, that damn knee wobbling smile he gives every woman to bring them to their knees.

I stand in a state of shock as he back up to his side of the kitchen again, he plucks his keys off the counter and twirls them in his hand as he walks towards the front door.

“Have a good night, princess,” he says on the way out, putting an emphasis on the name that drives me crazy.

I’m left standing alone in my kitchen, glass of water long since forgotten and mouth agape. Ruhn Danaan almost just kissed me, and the fucked up part of it was I wanted him to.

part 2 coming... Lmk if you want to be on the taglist for this little mini series.

Permanent Taglist: @fides25, @dissociated-always @crystalferret202, @batboyrhyrhy , @kennedy-brooke , @sunshineangel-reads , @lilah-asteria , @evergreenlark, @cheneyq, @readingislife2006, @tincanhat, @shadowofazriel, @tumblgirlie0210, @panther-girl-124, @callsigns-haze

(if you are on my permanent taglist and you don't want to be just let me know! I'm not offended!)

#ruhn danaan smut #ruhn danaan x reader #ruhn danaan #ruhn crescent city #ruhn x reader #prince ruhn #ruhn danaan crown prince of the valbaran fae #ruhn danaan x you #Ruhn Danaan x reader smut

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wh0reforfantasy · 7 months ago

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Why is Jude Duarte the perfect morally grey character…

- Her parents were brutally slaughtered at a young age, and while hating Madoc, she also had a soft spot for her “father.” Since she was small, this man raised her and taught her everything she knew. Of course she had memories from her own parents, and could never forgive Madoc for what he did, but she also saw the fatherly side of him and appreciated it. Jude Duarte was created in a morally grey environment.

- Jude Duarte will do anything for her power/pride, even if it means risking everything and everyone she has. She could have easily brushed off petty insults and kept temper during her brutal bullying/harassment she was going through, like Taryn and the rest of her family insisted, but Jude never let it slide. Even if it was simple revenge that might earn her a dip into a creek, Jude always stood her ground. Later into the series, we see her completely and utterly invested with the little power she gains and how she uses it. There are considerable more risks with every power move she makes, especially everything concerned with the crown. Her family is usually an afterthought, and rarely an emotional case. Even with Oak, Jude is more concerned about the use of power and where she stands, then she is for his safe-being. Not to mention the time Jude almost killed Taryn in a squabble over Locke, which in its entirely mocked Jude and what control she had over someone close to Cardan. Jude loves her family, and will protect them, but not unless it suits her in some way.

- Everyone/anyone is her enemy… no matter how much she “trusts’ them. We see it with her relationship with Taryn, where Jude cares for her sister, but never really trusts her. Even with Cardan, while Jude was infatuated with him, she never once trusted him. All of her friends and family becomes pawns in her power game, and she will always back up herself first. This was taught to her by Madoc, who put battle/power first above his own important people and morals. Cardan was a known enemy to Jude, but he showed her a vulnerability/empathy that she showed no one else. Instead of being emotional and falling for him harder, Jude convinced herself it was an act and to use it to her advantage. Most people wouldn’t shackle a boy that was being beat by his own brother, trick him into having a crown he did NOT want to have, AND witnessed his whole family being slaughter in front of him… Jude didn’t care, she wanted the crown and her revenge.

Nonetheless, Jude has a side of her that is very protective and loves harder than the average person. Her strength and determination could be used for something more than her own gain, and she shows she is capable of that later into the series. We understand why Jude acts the way she does because we witness the pain of her character first hand. Who wouldn’t want revenge against the very people that hate her for her existence? Being human means your weak, can be controlled… a creature owned by the fae. Love was wired to be thought of as a weakness, something to make you lose the battle. In this series, we see her struggle with the choices of to love, or gain more power.

I think Holly Black made an AMAZING female lead that wasn’t written for love, but for feminine rage and power. Love didn’t stop her from gaining what she needed, what her goals were, and instead make her stronger. Jude fought most of her battles alone and failed, but got up regardless. Cardan wasn’t her knight in shining armor, it was quite the opposite. And let’s just say, the best series I’ve read so far.

#jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #the cruel prince #tcp #holly black #books and reading #morally grey characters #feminine rage #fantasy #tfota #the folk of the air #the stolen heir #the queen of nothing #the wicked king #character analysis #jude x cardan

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unadulteratedsoulsweets · 2 years ago

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A DC X DP IDEA #7 The Summons

Imagine dis…

It is always Danny being summoned by cultists, John Constantine, enemies…etc to the mortal plane that starts a beautiful meeting and adventure between the two fandoms. But what if Danny pulled an uno reverse this time, and shenanigans and misunderstandings ensue?

Danny is getting tired of all types of summoning around the Infinite realms, being King and immortal quickly gets boring after a few couple centuries. As well as the fact he is getting annoyed at the summoning that he kept getting himself into. The monologue is getting less creative and less creative by the day, he was sure that all villain monologues are either copyrighted or even ripped off from the same book and source, as they are either A. offering their world for his liking B. making him do something, or even C. kill a certain someone, and you wouldn’t believe the number of times he was summoned for the sole purpose of killing either Batman or Superman from the dubbed both liked and least liked dimension for Danny. Liked as they have real live aliens in that dimension as well so far begun the exciting one in this dimension, Least because the majority of the uncomfortable summoning's are from that dimension and the majority of the so-called heroes are either messing up the timeline which comes to the headache of both Danny and Clockwork as well kept jumping through the dimensions of their universe.

Today he sat on his throne with all of his eldritch glory when he felt that feeling of being summoned, now when being summoned is like a very annoying ring that you have on this phone on volume that kept on ringing until you answer it. Sighing at his current life, the number of times he summoned in that dimension to the point he can already feel and identify the same ringtone for that dimension. In a spur of a moment as well an ungodly amount of pettiness at that moment for all the times he has summoned as well the headache he and his mentor received he pulled an uno reverse on the heroes and prepared himself to get back at them.

…

Superman, Constantine, Batman, Red Hood, Nightwing, Red Robin, and Robin interfered with yet another cult dedicated to freeing the tyrant Pariah Dark. From what little information they have gathered through the relics and scrolls, Constantine stated that this Pariah Dark will make most of their world-ending fights look like a kid’s squabble due to the vast powers of the Pariah Dark stating that if he wishes though he can destroy this universe in a flick of his hand.

This cult, however, is on a large scale seeing that they were led in a wild goose chase while the other members prepare the runes, sigils, and sacrifices for the necessary ritual.

They managed to stop the cultists from killing their supposed sacrifices when the runes suddenly glowed green, blinding them completely.

The moment they gained consciousness they immediately knew that there is something wrong.

Looking around they noticed that they have been teleported to some sort of forest but looking up to determine the time of the day made them pause.

The sky is painted with endless toxic Lazarus green, and all of the heroes are now on high alert as they assess the situation. They either dimensioned hopped again or they have been dragged by the cultists and transported to wherever this Tyrant ruler is.

Constantine kept reassuring himself that it would be the former but the amount of death magic that flows through the air like oxygen made him think the worse.

Superman tried to fly upwards to have a better view around them but found out that he couldn’t use any of his powers.

As they were navigating this new and dangerous territory Batman kept grilling Constantine for information as every bit of information is now precious as they need to find their way home. Despite Batman drilling for any information that he knew, he knew nothing more other than the following facts.

Pariah Dark is a tyrant that ruled the Infinite realms. Using both fear and his unlimited power to control and dictate the Infinite Realms.

The Infinite Realms have also known as the Ghost zone, in all of the limitless universes and other histories. The Ghost Zone occurs at every feasible and non-feasible moment in time, which means that no matter where or when you are in the Ghost Zone, you are everywhere and every when because it all exists at the same time.

Without the Infinite Realms then there would be the end of their world and reality as they know it.

The residents here are told to be the most powerful ghosts in existence as Deadman could not even measure up to their strengths.

Suddenly the group heard a loud commotion and quickly hid by climbing up the trees for a better view.

There they see a group of large flaming black armored people that covered their entire body and face except for their glowing green eyes. Two of them caught their attention, the larger one has a purple flame surrounding his helmet, carrying a flaming sword as he rides a menacing black horse that has bat-like wings while the other one has a blue flame on top of his head pointing an electrified sword towards the cultists that were teleported differently from them.

From where they at, they were able to hear about the black armored knights that mortals are trespassing around the Infinite Realms. All of the cultists are now screaming and trying to fight off the knights that tried to restrain them, in the end, they were dragged and caged in a metal cage that is connected to a chariot of the skeleton of horses.

They were brought out of their stupor when they heard the continued screaming and begging’s of the cultist in a distant direction and when they heard a child’s giggle below them.

Looking down below them they saw a small child. The child could not be more than 6 with gravity-defying white hair, Lazarus green eyes wearing a simple white cuffed sleeve with brown pants and black shoes.

He pointed at them for being a mortal and looked at them with awe and proceeded to exaggerate the fact that mortals are in the Infinite Realms.

Nightwing being the friendliest face alongside Superman asked who and where they were. The child proceeded to introduce himself as Danny and tell them that they are in the Infinite Realms and that they are trespassing in the land of the dead, being without the High King’s order.

Danny kept gushing at the fact they are living heroes, as well as proceeded to act like a naïve child that will spill information with a few sweet words.

The kid kept asking Nightwing what it’s like to be alive and to eat food that doesn’t attack you.

Of course, that made the heroes grimace seeing that they were reminded that they were in fact in the land of the dead.

Danny next floated towards Superman and excitedly asked about his culture and language as a Kryptonian alien race.

As the ghost child kept asking Superman some questions nobody saw Constantine pale at the moment, they saw the child. As a dark magical user, he can sense the amount of death magic towards a thing or someone. The moment the child appeared in front of them the man Constantine tried to calm his nerves down seeing the abundant concentrated death magic that clings to the child like some parasite.

Batman tried to ask more relevant questions but Danny flew towards Red Hood and Robin exclaiming that they need a doctor, putting on a frown on his face. Batman’s questions kept growing when they heard a siren that seems to echo throughout the realms and the only thing the kid, Danny, said Oh no.

Looking in the direction where Danny looked, they saw a large army of flaming flying horses with black armored knights each of which look like a black sword as the largest one that they have seen before leads them towards their direction the moment they locked eyes on them.

Without thinking of the consequence Red Hood picked up the dead child and proceeded to retreat alongside the rest of the Bat clan, Superman and Constantine.

…

Danny was enjoying this, the soul-whore man was just a bonus. The fact that he owns this poor man’s soul just out of pettiness for tripling the amount of his paperwork for selling his soul to different deities. Once he dies, he is going to embarrass this man to the point he wished he was in hell.

His plan was simple, make them scared at the act of the High King being mad at them. Make them see the horrors of the Infinite Realms and send them home, simple right?

He was about to give them one last scare when he heard an alarm that blared throughout the realms. He just knew that Fright Knight had just pulled the alarm. For the spirit of Halloween, he is serious and zealous about his job. The fact he had forgotten to write a note might be on him.

He was just about to turn around when Red Hood picked him up and carried him like a sack of potatoes. Now in any political sense Red Hood is committing treason, he kept trying to wiggle out of the man’s arms, unable to phase out due to the man’s nature as one of his subjects.

He may be petty but he didn’t mean on making them commit treason, he can do that on his own to piss off the Observants, thank you very much.

Now Danny is panicking about how this prank had railed off course due to his luck.

…

The team of super mortals is now running away from the army approaching them. Using the forest where they have landed to conceal themselves as they think of a way to escape the army of the dead.

Suddenly a green swirling portal opened in front of them, they were about to change direction but Constantine exclaimed loudly that, that portal is the same one that brought them here. So, by that logic that portal will lead them back to their universe.

When they returned to the dark warehouse before they were transported only then they noticed the extra baggage that Red Hood may have brought with him. In fear, Constantine asked why would he bring a ghost child who has extremely protective ghost parents that will hunt them down the moment they realize that he is gone.

Jason argued that ever since Danny appeared the pits quieted down to the moment the ghost child appeared as if he was never been dunked on the Lazarus pits.

As they were arguing Red Robin noticed Danny that he looked worried and kept looking around as if to look for another portal.

…

Newsflash, he was looking for a way to escape the heroes undetected to create his portal.

…

Red Robin was about to ask what was bothering him when all of the heroes present suddenly saw a green outline of a crown and a cape coming from Danny.

Danny asked nervously why were they looking at him funny.

Constantine dropped his cigarette and paled several shades whiter in fear, to the point he was paper.

Batman is now on the verge of a breakdown as well. In a span of a few minutes, they traveled to the land of the dead and saw some ghostly knights and children, and Jason adopting strays in his way. Apparently in the argument the two have and the action, Jason had done in a matter of minutes, his son Jason decided to adopt a ghost child which in return Constantine replied that it is not possible seeing that ghost children in general have protective parents that may hunt us down now that ghost child has a highlight and outline of a crown and cape.

Seeing his look and reaction of Constantine when looked at Danny due to the green highlight outline, Batman demands Constantine's answers as to why and what could be worse news other than Danny’s ghostly parents hunting them down for unintentionally kidnapping their child.

Constantine replied in a small and shaky voice that they didn’t just kidnap an ordinary ghost child, they kidnapped the Crowned Prince of the Infinite Realms.

…

Danny was sure that the cat is out of the bag, but when the sad trench coat man whispered Crowned Prince instead of High King. He can turn this whole situation turn around in his favor, now if only the spandex-wearing men stop harassing him on his so-called “Father-King.”

…

PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so don’t forget to tag me though.

#dc x dp #dc x dp prompt #dc #dp #ghost king danny #Danny Phantom #danny fenton #batman #red hood #john constantine

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